One Scandalous Kiss (14 page)

“Of course.”

He moved forward to assist her, but she seemed a woman afflicted with impatience and was trying to climb down herself. She hadn’t engaged the latch and the staircase moved in its well-oiled track every time she did. Lucius flipped the lever to engage the braking mechanism.

“Just wait. I’ve got you.”

He reached up to lay a hand against her waist, and she turned toward him, placed one hand on each of his shoulders, and took a step down the ladder. He wasn’t truly taking her weight. There was no need to lift her, but he braced his other hand on her waist, encircling her as she took another tentative step down, her skirt dragging against his body as she moved.

Eyes locked on his, she stepped down one more level and they came face-to-face, her bodice pressed against his waistcoat. Her breath came in short, hot wisps against his face, and her mouth was far too close for him to think of anything but kissing her.

“Thank you, my lord.”

She took the last step quickly and pulled her hands from his shoulders. He released her with a bit more reluctance.

Then she bent in front of him and lifted a book from the floor. “I’m afraid I dropped this when I was fighting with your staircase.”

He lifted a hand out for her to give him the volume, but she shook her head. “I can replace it, my lord.” Then she looked up, well above the height of the staircase. “Though I’m afraid it goes up there.”

Lucius had the distinct notion she didn’t wish him to see which book she’d selected, which made him all the more determined to do so.

“May I see it? I’m happy to replace it for you.”

She hesitated, then nodded, as if coming to a decision, and handed him the slim folio.

“It was my mother’s.” He stroked the aged brown leather, running his finger along the red Morocco spine. “I’m not surprised you would wish to read Mary Wollstonecraft, but I must say I’m impressed you found it among all of the other books, and on one of the highest shelves.”

Jessamin narrowed her eyes, as if uncertain whether he meant to compliment or challenge her.

Lucius started toward the staircase, then turned back. “Are you sure you do not wish to take it to your room? You may borrow any book you like while you’re here.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I’ve read it. I was simply curious about that edition and dropped it before I could replace it. I hope it’s not damaged.”

“It looks well enough to me.”

He ascended the wooden staircase and replaced the volume in the gap where it had rested since the days when his mother lived at Hartwell. He noticed the books around it were disturbed and set about righting them, matching their depth, making certain they were perfectly vertical and in line with the books nearby. He lost track of how long he fussed over the shelf until he sensed the press of Miss Wright’s gaze on him.

He looked down to find her gazing up at him with an expression of interest, without artifice or coquetry. Just a woman intrigued with a man, and it warmed him as if he’d just settled in before a glowing fire. Had he looked up at her with that same expression? As if she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever seen. Yes, of course he had.

“You like everything to be just so.”

“Are you saying I’m overly fastidious, Miss Wright?” Lucius knew he was. He didn’t think he’d always been, but the need for order, for precision, to regulate as many aspects of his existence and surroundings as he was able—that compulsion had grown worse over the years. Perhaps his desire for control had grown parallel, measure for measure, with his father’s loss of it.

“I don’t know you well enough to say anything of the sort, my lord. But I do see that you appreciate organization. There’s nothing quite as comforting as imposing order where none previously existed, or at least that’s what my mother used to say.”

From anyone else, he’d consider the comment suspect, a jibe or backhanded manner of calling him a persnickety fool. But Miss Wright’s mouth curved in a warm grin. And he could detect nothing of derision in her tone.

“Did she?”

“Mmm, right before she’d accuse Father and me of creating chaos.”

He descended the stairs and took two steps to stand before her, close enough to see the flecks of amber in her eyes. Close enough to smell traces of her violet scent. Proximity to her made him long for what he could not have and, worst of all, it cost him her grin.

“Are you a chaos maker, Miss Wright?”

Of course she was, if one considered the fuss she’d caused in Mayfair and the way she’d unsettled his mind from the moment he’d met her.

She turned her eyes down, her mouth settling into an uncertain line.

“My father and I tended to like a bit of clutter, especially if it involved books or newspapers or anything worth reading. Mother was forever tidying up after us. When we lost her, that duty fell to me. But I was never quite as fond of neatness as she was.”

Lucius heard the wistfulness in her tone when she mentioned her mother, and he felt an echo of it in his chest, a twinge just above his first waistcoat button.

“Excellent mothers leave us with a great deal to live up to, don’t they?”

Her head snapped up, gaze clashing with his, and an earnest expression lit her face. But there was a hint of sadness in her eyes, and he lifted his hand, no longer able to resist the urge to touch her.

She stepped back, one step and then another. Turning her head, she studied the book-covered library walls.

“I am sorry, my lord. This evening I was . . . I said too much at dinner.”

Lucius loathed the way she twisted her hands and ducked her head as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

“
In vino veritas.
We all speak freely when we’re in our cups.” That didn’t help. A crimson blush rushed up her neck and stained her cheeks. Lucius shuffled his feet, placed his hands on his hips, and tried again. “You only said what was true, Miss Wright. And I always suspected someone put you up to that business in the gallery. A prank, I take it. You said they paid quite a sum.” He dared not mention that he considered their exceptional kiss worth every penny, however much she’d been paid. “I suppose you can’t tell me who arranged it. Sworn to secrecy, I suspect.”

He enjoyed shocking her, if only because she opened her eyes wider, allowing him to see the green shade he’d had such difficulty identifying that first night.

“You’re truly not angry?”

Of all the emotions she stoked in him, anger didn’t even hold rank. He’d touched her, caressed her, come very close to kissing her senseless in her sitting room tonight. But the wine had already dulled her senses, and if they were to kiss again the way they had in the art gallery, it would be because both of them chose it, wanted it in equal measure. After his behavior this evening, how could she think him anything but enthralled with her?

And he was. It was impossible to deny, though he’d try again in the morning, when he woke with thoughts of duty and responsibility, what should be done, what must be done. But here, tonight, with Jessamin gazing at him with an openness that made his body ache, he couldn’t deny it.

“You must have heard that I’m quite the grim, ill-humored villain, Miss Wright.”

She smiled, a flash of white in the gaslight. Good God, what had she heard about him?

“Nothing quite as dire as that.”

Then, as if just remembering who he was, who she was: “My lord.”

He shouldn’t find pleasure in the fact she’d forgotten, but he did.

“Do you have a favorite? One book you prefer above all others?”

“My goodness, that’s an awful question.”

Momentarily abashed, Lucius looked away. Would he never learn a measure of the social finesse Wellesley oozed so effortlessly? Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her smiling and his blood turned to warm treacle in his veins, a sense of relief flooding him.

“Shall I try another?”

“No, there are moments in life when we must choose. Though I pray I’ll never have to do with just one book.” She chewed her bottom lip a moment, squinting at the carpet below their feet and then scanning the shelves around them. “All right. I’ve chosen a favorite. Is there a section devoted to fiction? Let’s see if you have it.”

“That wall there.” Lucius pointed to the western wall of the library and watched as she started her perusal, lifting a finger to trace the spines without quite touching them.

“You do have it.” She slid out a volume and lifted it to him.

“
Oliver Twist.
It is a fine tale. I approve.”

She beamed at him, and it lit up her face, revealing a dimple, just one, a tiny shadow in her left cheek. His heart stuttered to a stop a moment before thudding wildly to catch up.

“It’s not just because Oliver’s an orphan. I loved the story long before my father died.”

She spoke of her father’s death without fully allowing the pleasant expression to fall from her face. It was a fact she’d accepted, clearly, but Lucius still yearned to offer her words of sympathy. To comfort her, if he could. But he held back.

“Why is it your favorite?”

“Because of Oliver, I think. In spite of his burdens, he remains true to himself, good and sweet-natured. He never gives in to bitterness or despair.”

Lucius tried not to take the words as an indictment. She had no way of knowing the bitterness he’d harbored for years toward his father, nor the despair in which he’d allowed himself to wallow upon first learning the earldom would come to him one day.

“Are you an admirer of Mr. Dickens’s novels, my lord?”

“I am, indeed. Though he’s not the author of my favorite book.”

She lifted her hands to her hips. “Well, come now. You must tell me yours.”

He loved her insistent tone. With her hands emphasizing the curve of her waist, her mouth tipped in a teasing smirk, and her toe tapping impatiently as she watched him, he’d be inclined to give her anything she asked of him.

“It’s an author whose surname also starts with a D.”

“You want me to guess?”

“If you can.”

She liked that. Smiling, she tilted her head and arched one eyebrow to signal she’d accepted the challenge.

“You have it here in the library? Is it a novel?”

He nodded.

She approached the shelves she’d searched to find Dickens, and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Defoe?”

“No. The author’s not an Englishman.”

As she turned back to the shelves, he gave in to the urge to move forward, to stand close to her. He heard her breathing hitch and forced himself to stay his hands, resisting the urge to reach for her.

She didn’t look back at him when she whispered, “Dante?”

“No. Not an Italian either.” Dipping his head a fraction, he matched her whispered tone. “He’s French.”

Turning her head, she met his gaze a moment before looking away again. “Dumas, then. But which one?”

She lifted her hand, hovering over a few spines, very near his favorite book.

He reached up, clasped her hand lightly in his, and pointed to the title.

“
The Count of Monte Cristo
. A man who is exiled and then returns as someone else,” she whispered.

Lucius stepped back, unsettled by her words. Miss Wright spoke them lightly, unaware how close she came to describing his life. Though he’d been sent to live with caring relatives in Scotland after his mother’s death, as a nine-year-old child he’d only understood that his father couldn’t bear the sight of him and had sent him away. And now, wasn’t he an impostor stepping into Julian’s shoes? His older brother had been groomed for the earldom from birth, and Lucius wasn’t certain he’d ever feel he had the right to his father’s titles.

The clock in the library chimed to indicate the midnight hour.

“I should return to my room, my lord. I’ll bid you good night.”

He longed to hear her speak his name—not his title—in her low, resonant voice, but he held back, some sliver of propriety restraining him. Yet here, in the quiet of the small hours of the night, as they stood near enough to reach out and touch each other, he sensed propriety losing its power.

“Do you know my name?”

He drew close to her again, tentatively, fearful he’d startle her if he moved too quickly.

“Your name, my lord? Viscount Grimsby?” She said it as a question, as if he was quizzing her and she worried over giving the right answer.

One more step and her skirt would brush the legs of his trousers. He took that step.

“My given name. Yours is Jessamin.” How intimate it was to speak her name with his body inches from hers. “And do you know my given name?”

Her lips parted, and his heart slowed, thick thuds against his ribs, as he waited to hear her say it. But she only nodded her head, setting an auburn wave dancing at her shoulder.

He reached up, easing his hand onto her cheek, barely touching her, yet close enough to sate the desire, the ceaseless need to connect his body to hers. He lifted a thumb and ran it gently along the swell of her bottom lip.

“Say it. Please.”

“Lucius.”

It was a mistake, complete and utter folly to ask her to say it. She caressed his name as no one ever had, letting the final consonant linger on her lips.

Now that he’d heard her speak the word, he wanted it again. And again. He wanted to hear her chastise him in anger, tease him flirtatiously, shout his name as he brought her to the height of pleasure.

She also seemed to realize the power of what they’d unleashed. She stepped away from him, turned toward the library door, and scampered off as quickly as her long legs would carry her.

Chapter Fifteen

“Y
OU DIDN’T TELL
me she was a suffragette.” Lucius spoke the words in a teasingly accusing tone as he entered the morning room. He’d woken after the first restful night of sleep in weeks with the clearheaded conviction that Jessamin Wright should return to London. He could give her the means to rebuild her shop. After seeing her in the library and the pleasure she’d taken in discussing books, he suspected it was what she wished for most of all.

But he anticipated a hearty protest from his aunt, and with each moment that passed, he sensed his own resolve waning.

Aunt Augusta nearly upset her teacup and dropped a fork full of coddled eggs onto her plate as she turned toward him.

“And why shouldn’t she be?”

Lucius expected nothing less than fire from his aunt on the subject, one he knew she held dear. He patted the inside pocket of his waistcoat before taking his chair and then reached for his teacup, hiding his discomfort behind his first sip of the morning. He didn’t bother answering her question, as he suspected from the way she kept opening and closing her mouth that eventually something more would come out.

“All the best women are suffragists. Every thinking woman certainly should be.”

“Miss Sedgwick is not.”

He regretted his timing. Augusta had just taken a bit of buttered toast with marmalade and looked as if she might choke on the morsel, but she lifted her teacup, took a sip, and seemed well again. Then she glared at him accusingly.

“What would make you say such a thing?”

She sounded as if Lucius had just accused Miss Sedgwick of the worst kind of sin. And he was prepared for her question. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he produced a folded newspaper clipping.

“This.”

He held the slightly faded newsprint up, then unfolded the paper and began reading.

“ ‘The better class of women do not hunger after the vote but are satisfied with their sacred place as mother, sister, or hostess within the home. I would much rather host a hundred friends at home than join a throng clamoring in the streets for a duty I do not desire.’ Miss May Sedgwick of New York City.”

His aunt began reaching for the paper the moment he stopped reading. “Let me see that. Where did you get this?”

“It was among the papers you sent me regarding Miss Sedgwick. Didn’t you read them?”

His aunt looked flummoxed.

“I thought the piece was about her skills as a hostess.”

Lucius took another swig of tea as his aunt perused the piece on Miss Sedgwick.

“So it is. Hosting and not voting.” Lucius felt a moment of mirth at his extemporaneous slogan. “Perhaps she should paint that on a banner and organize a march through the streets.”

Aunt Augusta glared at him again, but her glares were always ineffectual. They were belied by the deep smile lines around her mouth and eyes. A woman who smiled so often could hardly pull off a truly menacing glare.

“Well. I’m sure Jessamin and I can avoid the topic of the vote when in Miss Sedgwick’s company.” She spoke the words as if they didn’t please her, but then seemed to have another thought that did and beamed. “Or perhaps we shall convert her.”

Lucius didn’t return her gleeful expression, though he felt the urge pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I have no doubt. I confess I’ve never met two more persuasive women in my life. But is it prudent to have Miss Wright here at Hartwell when Miss Sedgwick arrives? Surely, she’d be happier back in London.”

Augusta paused in lifting her teacup to her mouth and released a long sigh.

“I thought this matter settled, my dear. If you truly wish it, I am sure we can arrange for Jessamin and Miss Sedgwick to be rarely in each other’s company.”

No one could persuade like Aunt Augusta could persuade, and his desire for Miss Wright’s departure was such a fragile construction, he felt certain she would soon have it down.

“Well, you should devise a strategy soon. Rodgers is on his way to retrieve Miss Sedgwick now.”

“Retrieve her? Where is she?”

He reached down for his pocket watch. “She should have arrived at the station a quarter of an hour ago. Miss Sedgwick will be at Hartwell’s doors within the hour.”

“The train station?”

Though she dressed in the height of fashion and favored reform in her political views, Aunt Augusta generally disdained technological innovation. She’d never taken to train travel, and the very notion of human beings moving faster than four horses could pull them unsettled her.

“She’s an American, don’t forget. For all we know, she has one of those horseless carriages back in New York.”

“Madness.”

The moment the word slipped from her lips, his aunt’s eyes went wide. It was a word they avoided, a notion they rarely mentioned, a term none of them wished to have associated with the Dunthorpe name.

“I’m sorry, my boy. How is Maxim?”

For a moment he contemplated how much to say. The protective impulse was always first where Father was concerned. But his aunt posed no threat, and she cared fiercely for her brother and the family’s reputation.

“If you refer to his memory, Dr. Seagraves says it will continue to fail as he ages. Nothing to be done on that score. As to his moods, Mrs. Ives thinks he is on the verge of a turn. It’s best if he adheres to his usual schedule. Change always seems to unsettle him.”

“Miss Sedgwick will bring change, undoubtedly. Perhaps I should have hosted her at Marleston.”

Whatever change her visit might bring to the daily schedule at Hartwell, Miss Sedgwick’s wealth would sustain the estate for years, and Lucius could think of nothing that would as effectively put his father’s mind at ease.

“Nonsense. Miss Sedgwick thwarted that plan. You said she wished to see Hartwell. And it’s only a little over a fortnight. All will be well.”

Lucius arched an eyebrow at his own assurances. He wasn’t known for his reassuring nature, and it felt odd, a bit like an ill-fitting suit. He told himself the flutter in his belly could be dismissed as indigestion, but his conscience rang with the truth of it. The prospect of an elaborately orchestrated introduction to one woman while his mind was full of another was difficult to stomach.

“How was Miss Wright when you took her up last night?”

Her skin is unbearably soft and tastes far better than that custard Wellesley made a fuss about.
Lucius imagined the look on his aunt’s face if he revealed his wayward musings.

As usual, she had the unnerving ability to read his mind. And, of course, Miss Wright was there in his head, coloring every single one of his thoughts since the moment he’d woken up. He couldn’t recall his dreams, but he suspected Jessamin featured in them too, with her petal-soft skin and body-hugging green velvet dress. She’d never gotten a bite of that damned custard and her skin still managed to taste of vanilla.

So he’d concocted a halfhearted plan to send her away, convincing himself she would be happier surrounded by books in London, and he’d be free to carry on with marrying May Sedgwick. He’d struggled to put her out of his mind, even sifting through the clippings his aunt had sent him regarding Miss Sedgwick in an attempt to rouse interest in their imminent introduction. But it was all to no avail.

“Lucius? Miss Wright, my companion. How was she when you took her up last evening? I had Tilly check in on her this morning and she was still abed.”

He couldn’t talk about carrying her upstairs, touching her, tasting her skin, so he deflected.

“You never told me about the money.”

He was curious who’d paid her, but pressing Jessamin about it in the library had been out of the question. Curiosity couldn’t induce him to squander those private moments.

“Money?”

“The kiss. She said someone paid her a significant sum. Do you know who paid her? And why she accepted?”

Lady Stamford looked tired and a bit sad. She released another slow exhalation that seemed to deflate her. “I know she was desperate to save her bookshop, and quite devastated when she could not. The individual paid her one hundred pounds, enough to make a significant payment toward her debt.”

She glanced at him, but Lucius couldn’t read her expression. “We sometimes make surprising choices out of desperation.”

Aunt Augusta took a sip of tea before truly addressing his question.

“She’s not divulged who offered the money, but she’s explained the circumstances of the bargain. I told her the incident would be forgotten. She’ll tell me all of it one day. When she’s ready to do so.”

“Bargain? It’s a curious way to earn a hundred pounds.”

Aunt Augusta dabbed daintily at her mouth with her serviette before turning to him, her usual conviviality washing away the fatigue and sadness he’d glimpsed moments before.

“She tells me a young woman engineered the incident to repay you for snubbing her.”

She picked up her teacup and took a sip, looking away from him as if she’d explained everything and there was nothing more to say on the matter. Yet Lucius found all he had were questions. He opened his mouth to ask one of them, but his aunt cut him off.

“Depending how one looks at the matter, it could be said that you are more responsible for the incident than anyone.”

That hardly merited consideration. Whoever this woman was that he’d snubbed—and he couldn’t recall a single incident in which he’d done so—her foolish prank was an ineffective retribution. Send a beautiful woman to kiss him? Punishment, indeed.

“I should like to know the name of this young woman I wronged.” To thank her, if nothing else. But that wouldn’t do, would it? He wasn’t meant to enjoy Miss Wright’s kiss and care nothing for the scandal it might cause. And he certainly shouldn’t be eager for the sight of her this morning after walking down to breakfast determined to ask his aunt to send her away.

After years of loathing his father’s changeable behavior, it was sobering to find himself every bit as muddled.

“Would you like me to ask Jessamin outright?”

His aunt respected Miss Wright. No one could mistake the affection in her tone whenever she referred to the young woman, and his own feelings for her were too troublesome to examine. He only knew he didn’t wish to distress either of them.

“No.”

“You still haven’t told me how she was last evening.”

In his head, Lucius fashioned a response for his aunt that left out any of his emotions on the matter, but before he could speak, the object of his thoughts appeared in the doorway with Robert Wellesley close on her heels.

Why had Lucius never realized how irritating the man could be? One would think several decades of friendship would have made the fact amply clear.

“I found Miss Wright walking quite slowly down the stairs. I decided to slow my pace in sympathy and escort her to breakfast.”

Lady Stamford emitted a girlish titter. The man had the oddest effect on women.

“How good of you, Robert. Jessamin, my dear, come sit beside me and tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I am well, Lady Stamford. Thank you for your concern. Forgive me for being so late to breakfast.”

She wouldn’t look at him, and yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked extraordinarily well for a young woman who’d had far too much to drink and been awake into the wee hours of the night. Her skin was a dash paler than usual, but her eyes sparkled, and—

Good grief, what was wrong with him? Cataloging Miss Wright’s charms was hardly a useful endeavor, especially with a potential fiancée en route. And judging by Wellesley’s leer, admiring Miss Wright was a task someone else already had well in hand.

“My lady, Lord Grimsby, and Mr. Wellesley, I hope you will accept my apologies for last evening. And please extend them to Mr. and Mrs. Darnley. I was—”

“Nonsense, you were the most interesting part of the evening.” When Wellesley noticed Lady Stamford shaking her head at his insolence, he didn’t bother looking abashed. “Well, she was. And you must tell us more about this ‘kissing’ incident.”

“No!” Lucius spoke the word and heard it echoed and enhanced by the voices of Miss Wright and his aunt. Their chorus was so loud, Wellesley finally looked rattled.

He lifted his arms in surrender, a fork in one hand, a butter knife in the other.

Lucius stood. He’d had his fill of Robert’s ceaseless flirting, the distraction of Miss Wright, and his long-gone-cold breakfast. He stood and straightened his cuffs and necktie, and then his waistcoat, slipping a finger along the buttons to ensure they aligned in an orderly row down his stomach.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for Miss Sedgwick’s arrival. Aunt Augusta, would you please come to my study when you’re finished?”

He laid his napkin aside and stepped out from in front of his chair. He meant to walk from the room and head straight for his study. He needed to think and the task suddenly seemed unachievable in the morning room. Yet as he took a step toward the doorway, he paused. The impulse to have one more look at her, a single glimpse before everything changed, overwhelmed him.

She was looking at him too. While the others tucked into their breakfast, Miss Wright sat very straight and still and watched him, her cool gaze unreadable.

Emotion hit him, fierce and powerful, too potent to deny. It was desire, yes, and yet more—an ache, a hunger to know every detail about the woman his aunt had chosen as her companion. To know her history, her preferences, her desires and fears, the shape and texture and flavor of every inch of her. To ask about the mother she missed as he did his own and the father who’d shared her love for clutter. He wanted to see her smile again, as she had in the library, artlessly and without a hint of guile. Had he ever wanted anything more?

Yes. Just one thing. To do his duty to his father, whether he’d ever mend the rift between them or not. To protect his family name and pass it on to Dunthorpe sons and grandsons. It was the one purpose his mother had instilled in him before she’d left Hartwell and taken all of the light and laughter with her. Despite his father’s ill treatment, the arguments and accusations between them, she’d loved him. She’d never allowed Lucius or his siblings to speak a cross word about their father in her hearing. And she’d never let him forget that whatever his father said in fits of anger, Lucius was Maxim Crawford’s son, and that meant duty to the man as well as to the estate. And now he was his heir, the man upon whose shoulders the future of Hartwell and the earldom rested.