One Scandalous Kiss (2 page)

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Kitty gasped with delight and clapped her hands together.

Alice shot her a look as if Jess had taken leave of whatever sense she’d been given.

Jess couldn’t match Kitty’s enthusiasm or acknowledge Alice’s concern. She was too busy fighting off the sense of dread that settled in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of what she’d agreed to do.

“Where is this gallery and what time will he be there?”

Chapter Two

T
HE ROOM
W
A
S
sweltering. Who knew a gallery event in Mayfair would attract such a crush? Lucius Crawford, Viscount Grimsby, darted his gaze from framed portraits to lush landscape pieces, fully expecting the paint to start melting off the canvases. No one could deny the colors were extraordinary and the compositions pleasing, but couldn’t they have found someone with a better eye to hang the pieces? The arrangement of art was irritatingly haphazard, small and large side by side, some frames just inches apart and others an arm’s length, or two, away from each other. Despite the impulse to find a ladder and impose order on the chaos, Lucius found focusing on the paintings preferable to meeting the eyes of those around him.

Glancing around a crowded room could be dangerous. Too often he’d find himself snared by a questioning look here, a disapproving frown there. They wondered about his father, of course, especially now that he had withdrawn from London society completely.

Lucius was prepared to admit his own lack of aristocratic tendencies—he was far more interested in discussing business than horse racing, technology than teacakes—but none of his faux pas or successes since becoming heir to his father’s earldom eclipsed Maxim’s infamy. The man had been so querulous and apt to initiate feuds with fellow noblemen that they’d dubbed him the Dark Earl of Dunthorpe.

Would the gossips be any kinder if they could see the frail, doddering man Maxim Crawford had become? Lucius doubted they would, and he had no intention of giving anyone the opportunity for either pity or pardon. Sheltering the earl from rumormongers was one of the duties that had fallen to him.

So he would learn to tolerate the speculative gazes and whispers. Eventually. But they still set his nerves on edge and made him wish for the haven of his study back at Hartwell. Never mind what else awaited him at Hartwell. Leaky roofs and crumbling masonry didn’t daunt him. And regardless of the pain he’d experienced within its walls and the resentment that swelled and ebbed between him and his father as regular as the tides, the family estate in Berkshire was home now.

He’d accepted that it was no longer the home of his childhood, that idyllic Hartwell he’d longed for and missed with a searing, stubborn ache all the years he’d been away. The real Hartwell, a pile of wood and stones—some rooms as old as the Dunthorpes’ Tudor ancestors, others as new as those Lucius had refurbished the previous year—was a bit of a mess. A mishmash of architectural styles, just as the estate itself had seen a mix of care and indifference over the years. Father’s neglect had caused the most damage, and neither his ailments nor his obsessive love for Mother excused his poor stewardship. Lucius was determined to do better by the estate than his brother, Julian, or his father ever had.

Turning his head, he snagged the gaze of an elderly matron, her eyes as beady and hungry as those of any crow he’d ever seen. He acknowledged her with a minute nod, and she reared her head a fraction, as if utterly taken aback. And that, exactly that, her reaction and his failure to exude one tenth of the charm required to engage in any sort of social repartee, was why he came into town and mixed in society rarely. Even without an infamous father, he would have found the social rounds daunting.

So let them talk. Let them watch him tug at his neck cloth like a man on the gallows might claw at the noose and straighten and re-straighten his waistcoat, running a finger down the four buttons at the bottom to make sure they formed a perfect line. This visit to London was necessary and would, if his aunt could be believed, allow him to settle his future—to meet Father’s demands that he marry a woman with money and impeccable breeding and ensure the estate’s future with an heir. Stability had always eluded him, and the notion of a settled future seemed as unlikely as a happy one, but if anyone could achieve such a coup, it was Aunt Augusta.

She’d been the one constant in his life, writing and visiting after Father shipped him off to Scotland, guiding him after Julian’s death and the news he’d become heir to Hartwell, and comforting him when his own mother could not. She’d been as much a parent to him as either of his own.

“You look a bit seasick, my boy. But unless someone has failed to inform me, I don’t believe Mayfair has set sail.”

Aunt Augusta tucked herself into the space between him and the scowling crow woman. She lifted a glass and he took the crystal flute with a nod of gratitude.

“How long must we stay?”

“I believe the hostess is going to give a brief speech. It would behoove us to linger until then.”

He sensed her eyes on him, assessing his discomfort, looking out for him as she always had.

“You will be attending many more social events once you marry. Get in as much practice as you can.”

“Didn’t you promise to find a candidate who’d be content to do the social rounds on her own?”

“Independence is one thing. Being forever without one’s husband is another matter entirely.”

Lucius closed his eyes a moment and imagined a life of house parties, elaborate dinners, and sitting room musicales. The prospect made him shudder. He opened his eyes, still avoiding Aunt Augusta’s inspection, and took in the canvas before him—a man on horseback with a verdant English landscape stretched out behind him. It looked a bit like Hartwell’s meadow, and though he’d been away only a week, longing for the place gnawed at him. In this hot, congested space of too many colors and a cacophony of voices, he missed Hartwell’s spacious rooms, familiar scents and textures, and labyrinthine floor plan, so well-known to him he could navigate it blindfolded.

“She certainly enjoys London more than you do.”

She?
She
was very specific. Far too specific. He’d come to London to discuss the possibility of marriage. No, more than that—the necessity of it. And to seek Augusta’s help in securing the perfect candidate, a woman with an ample dowry to keep Hartwell afloat, enough connections to earn his father’s approval, and such a rabid desire to be a countess that she might not notice how ill-suited he was to be an earl.

The notion that she’d found a match so quickly, and that the young woman might be here among the crush of attendees . . . that he did not expect. And in Lucius’s experience, the unexpected never heralded a pleasant turn of events.

“Does she? I wasn’t aware you’d settled on anyone. Is she here tonight?”

He looked around, scanning one perspiring feminine face after another. None of them stood out. None of them stopped him short and made him wish to continue to look, to learn what lay beyond a flushed cheek or bright, smiling eyes.

“Not tonight, no. She is traveling at the moment.”

That finally earned his attention and he turned to question Augusta further just as an older woman approached and embraced her, gushing about how long it’d been since they’d last seen each other.

As Aunt Augusta allowed herself to be pulled away to join a lively conversation, his sister, Julia, and brother-in-law, Marcus Darnley, approached. Marcus and Lucius exchanged nods. Julia merely sipped at the liquid in her glass as she watched him, much as his aunt had moments before. But Julia’s was a different gaze. Her eyes narrowed, not out of concern, but in judgment.

“Do stop glaring at everyone, Lucius. People will think you as frightful as Papa.”

His sister’s tone held a note of irritation along with the command, and he allowed himself a slight twitch of his mouth that none but those who knew him best would ever mistake for a grin.

“He must continue glaring, love. I believe he enjoys nurturing his grim reputation.” Marcus Darnley leaned in to whisper the words to his wife, though Lucius didn’t care who heard him. His sister’s husband tweaked him as often as she chastised him. And though he would never admit it, he found as much enjoyment in Marcus’s teasing as he did in his sister’s scolding. He and Julia had missed out on years of sibling squabbles as children, and he didn’t mind catching up now.

But Lucius would never apologize for being discerning about how he spent his time and whom he took into his confidence. His reputation as one of society’s most dour bachelors served him well. It kept giggling debutantes, scheming mothers, and nearly everyone else at bay. Marriage was necessary—he accepted it as his chief goal for the year. But not the game, the silly business of inane conversations, coy flirtation, and stolen kisses on balconies. Lucius was quite content to leave such carrying on to rogues like his friend Robert Wellesley and allow Augusta to find him a sensible, practical, and exceedingly wealthy bride.

Time was too precious a commodity to waste on games. Managing Hartwell, a task he loved but had never been groomed for, consumed his days and nights. But Julia played on his sense of obligation and had urged him to help make Delia Ornish’s gallery gathering a success. Mrs. Ornish’s friendship with their late mother had indebted them both to the wealthy social butterfly.

Marcus stood close to Lucius and leaned in to speak confidentially. “There are some lovely young women in attendance tonight. Don’t you agree, Grimsby? Surely one of them must strike your fancy.”

His sister and her husband were unaware of Augusta’s matchmaking efforts.

“Yes and no.” Lucius lifted the flute of champagne to his mouth and sipped.

Marcus quirked a brow at him, begging explanation.

“Yes, there are lovely women in attendance. No, none of them strikes my fancy.”

The women in the crush of attendees were stunning in their finery. Every color and shape one could desire. But none of them stirred him.

Marcus wouldn’t be deterred. “Are you never lonely, old chap?” His brother-in-law turned his eyes to Julia as he spoke.

Lucius caught the look, and an ember of loneliness kindled in his chest. He didn’t desire any of the women before him, yet he did envy the easy companionship that his sister and brother-in-law shared. He could envy it but never imagine it for himself. Even if Aunt Augusta’s scheme was successful, it wouldn’t be a love match. He’d seen the results of what such an attachment had done to his father, a man whose adoration for his wife became a destructive obsession, sparking jealous rages that drove her—and Lucius—from their home.

He wouldn’t lose himself in that kind of passion. Now, with the responsibility of Hartwell laid on his shoulders, he couldn’t spare the time for it. Let his father indulge in maudlin sentimentality; Lucius had an estate to run.

“I haven’t the time for loneliness.” He lied easily and ignored the look Marcus shot him, fearing he’d read pity there.

A fracas near the gallery’s entrance offered a welcome distraction. Turning away from Marcus, Lucius craned his neck to spot the cause of the ruckus. The room was so full of bodies it was difficult to see the front of the building, despite his height. But whatever the commotion, it caused a few shouts mingled with cries of outrage.

Then he saw the trouble. A woman. A bluestocking, more precisely, wearing a prim black skirt and plain white shirtwaist, spectacles perched high on her nose, pushed her way through the throng of ladies in colorful evening gowns and men in black tails. She looked like a magpie wreaking havoc among the canaries, though her hair was as striking a shade as any of the finery around her. The rich auburn hue shone in the gaslight, and though she’d pinned her hair back in a severe style, several rebellious curls had escaped and hung down around her shoulders.

As he watched the woman’s progress, a gentleman grasped her arm roughly, and an uncommon surge of chivalry made Lucius consider interceding. But in the next moment the woman proved she needed no rescuer. Stomping on the man’s foot, she moved easily out of his grasp and continued on her path—a path that led directly to Lucius.

F
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time, Jess called herself a fool for agreeing to Kitty Adderly’s ridiculous plan for revenge against Viscount Grimsby. Kissing a viscount for one hundred pounds sounded questionable at the time Kitty had suggested it. Now Jess thought perhaps the jilted heiress had put something in her tea.

Initially she made her way into the crowded art gallery unnoticed, but then a woman dripping in diamonds and green silk had questioned her. When the lady’s round husband stepped in, it all turned to chaos before she’d even done what she’d come to do. The deed itself shouldn’t take long. A quick peck on the mouth—Kitty had insisted that she kiss the man on the lips—and it would all be over. She’d already handed the money over to Mr. Briggs at the bank. Turning back now simply wasn’t an option.

She recognized Lord Grimsby from the gossip rag Kitty had shown her. The newspaper etching hadn’t done him justice. In it, he’d been portrayed as dark and forbidding, his mouth a sharp slash, his black brows so large they overtook his eyes, and his long Roman nose dominating an altogether unappealing face. But in the flesh every part of his appearance harmonized into a striking whole. He was the sort of man she would have noticed in a crowd, even if she hadn’t been seeking him, intent on causing him scandal and taking unimaginable liberties with his person.

He was there at the end of the gallery, as far from the entrance as he could possibly be. Jess continued through the gamut and a man snatched at her arm. Unthinking, she stepped on his foot, and he spluttered and cursed but released her.

Lord Grimsby saw her now. She noticed his dark head—and far too many others—turned her way. He was tall and broad shouldered, towering over the man and woman beside him. And he did look grim, as cold and disagreeable as Kitty had described.

Jessamin turned her eyes down, avoiding his gaze. Helpfully, the crowd parted before her, as if the respectable ladies and gentleman were unwilling to remain near a woman behaving so unpredictably. Every time she raised her eyes, she glimpsed eyes gone wide, mouths agape, and women furiously fanning themselves.

Just a few more steps and Jess stood before him, only inches between them. She met his gaze and found him glaring down at her with shockingly clear blue eyes. Furrowed lines formed a vee between his brows as he frowned at her like a troublesome insect had just spoiled his meal.