One Scandalous Kiss (5 page)

“It must be what my mother saw in him.”

Augusta’s expression gave nothing away. She rarely spoke of the difficulties of his parents’ marriage.

“Yes, I’m sure it was. Do give him my love when you return to Hartwell.”

“Of course.”

Maintaining the estate and caring for his father had consumed the last several years of Lucius’s adulthood. Though Augusta marked the change in her brother from the day Lucius’s mother died, Lucius recalled his father’s extremes from much earlier and suspected they’d always been a part of his character. And whatever the cause of his failing memory—the village doctor ascribed it to Maxim’s age—Lucius’s one avowed goal was to keep him at Hartwell and provide whatever care he needed. Rancor aside, Maxim was his father.

“What of our discussion of eligible young ladies?” Augusta was a master at drawing him back to the matter at hand whenever his mind wandered elsewhere.

“Are there so many on the list?” The prospect had never seemed more daunting.

Aunt Augusta chuckled. Matchmaking tended to make her giddy.

“There is one young lady in particular I’d like you to meet.”

“Is she in London?” If she was, it was only reasonable to extend his stay another day and allow his aunt the introduction. He didn’t wish her efforts to be in vain.

“As it turns out, no. She’s in Saratoga, New York, apparently, and decided to extend her stay. She means to make a visit to Marleston Hall within a fortnight.”

“Saratoga?”

“A bit like Bath, I understand.”

“Very well, send for me after she settles in, and we’ll see if your machinations are as effective as you claim.”

His aunt loved a challenge nearly as much as a matchmaking opportunity. Where his future was concerned, she’d found both.

Nothing in his life had ever gone as he’d planned. His late brother, Julian, should have been heir to Hartwell. Lucius had considered studying law in Scotland or joining his Scottish uncle’s shipping business in London. He’d never wished to be lord of Hartwell. And he’d certainly never expected to be in search of a suitable woman to become Countess of Dunthorpe.

“What shall we do about the other young woman?”

There was no doubt about to whom she referred. He hadn’t thought of Miss Wright for a handful of minutes, but his aunt’s question brought her vividly to mind—and to his senses. His mouth and other southerly parts of his body tingled at the memory of her lips. Then he recalled how they’d parted company, how she’d scampered out of his carriage as if the hounds of hell nipped at her heels.

He cleared his throat, forcing the memory from his mind.

“I don’t believe she wishes to continue our acquaintance. And it would hardly be appropriate for me to do so.”

Seeing the woman again was too absurd to contemplate. Never mind that an impractical urge to meet her in the light of day ticked at the back of Lucius’s mind like an overloud clock. Never mind that he’d spent the better part of the night tormented by thoughts of her, or that she’d apparently lost her shop because of a kiss he feared he’d never forget.

“Then perhaps I shall see about her.” With a beaming smile, Aunt Augusta lifted Pollux—or was it Castor?—as if Lucius should offer the creature some parting words.

The butler helped Lucius into his coat and held the door open for him, letting in a breath of the unseasonably warm air. Lucius knew he was only imagining the scent of violets that hung on the breeze.

“You will see about her? What exactly do you intend to do?”

Pollux stared up at him with innocent eyes, but his aunt wore a grin so full of machinations and mischief that it would have made a vicar blush.

The ticking at the base of his skull built to a crescendo. Jessamin Wright was an orphan, without family, with perhaps no other means of support than the bookshop she’d just lost. He owed her nothing. The woman had publicly disgraced him, if Mrs. Briggs was to be believed. Yet despite his aunt’s desire to see about her, he could not imagine returning to Berkshire without seeing about Miss Wright himself.

Even if the impulse was an ill-conceived one. And it most certainly was.

Even if it would be the last time he ever saw Jessamin Wright again. And it definitely would be.

The distraction of donning his hat and offering Castor, or perhaps Pollux, a farewell pat on the head allowed him a moment to silence the doubts and make his decision.

He wouldn’t be leaving London straightaway after all

Chapter Six

“M
ISS
W
RIGH
T
,
T
H
E
R
E
’
S
a gentleman here to see you.”

Jess jumped at the sound of Jack’s voice. She’d been staring for nearly an hour at the faded photograph of her father she kept in the bookshop’s back office. In her mind, she was turning over what to tell their patrons, their lending library borrowers, and, mostly, what she would say to her father if he were still alive. How could she explain that she’d lost a business he’d managed to hold together, even through years of mismanagement?

Jack’s words pulled her back to the present and reminded her explanations were unnecessary. If Father hadn’t died, she wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. Then again, if she hadn’t kissed a viscount on some silly woman’s whim, Mr. Briggs might have had a bit more mercy.

But there was no use worrying over the past and what might have been. Her main task now was settling their patrons’ accounts and finding some form of gainful employment.

“Did you tell him the shop is closed? Permanently.”

“Seems he’s here to see you, miss.”

Jessamin stood and arched her back, working out the stiffness the straight-back chair had caused during her pointless, dejected woolgathering.

“Please tell me it’s not Mr. Briggs again.”

Jack quirked a queer little grin, which only piqued her interest.

“Well, who is it?”

“Didn’t give a name. Just asked for you.”

It couldn’t be good news. The way the day was going, Jess felt certain it could only get worse. After pushing a few stray hairs into pins and straightening her skirts, she took a deep breath and prepared to meet
worse
head-on.

She took three steps and halted so suddenly that Jack, who’d been following behind, bumped into her and nearly knocked her off her feet.

“It’s all right, Jack. Will you work on the borrower letters in the office?”

Jack made a noise that reeked of disapproval, but he obediently retreated. He peeked out at her through the office door before shutting it behind him, as if to signal he’d be available should she need saving.

Here, in the middle of her sunken business, stood the one man in England she was certain she’d never see again. It was the tall, dark viscount. The man she’d been hired to kiss—that rash and ridiculous kiss, the very reason for the second worst day of her life.

“Lord Grimsby.” There was nothing else to say. At least nothing civil or polite, nothing pleasant. She doubted very much that he’d wish to hear how her life had just broken into pieces.

Jess clasped her hands behind her back. In the awkward silence, she could think only of what she wished to say but couldn’t. Based on her station in life, she shouldn’t even know a viscount, let alone be familiar with the taste of his mouth.

“Miss Wright.”

Such a lovely voice. In the night, she’d remembered his voice and the few words that had passed between them. She’d convinced herself its deep, seductive appeal was half imaginative fancy. But, if anything, it was more seductive in the daylight. Indeed he was more extraordinary in the daylight. His hair was pitch dark, truly black, and his eyes were the lightest, clearest blue she’d ever seen. Beautiful eyes, though their color did nothing to detract from the air of coolness about him. He cleared his throat and she felt a blush heat her cheeks. She’d lost track of how long she’d stood studying him.

“I heard some troubling news this morning, Miss Wright.”

“Did you, my lord?”

“Did a Mr. Briggs visit you this morning?”

“How could you know that?”

Why would this man know about her problems and the very changeable Mr. Briggs? Then it struck her.

“Did you send him here to close my shop?”

“No. Certainly not.” His denial was emphatic and his voice almost intimidating when matched with volume. “I was appalled when I heard the news.”

“And so you came to see the wreckage.”

He looked away from her then, as if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes.

“Or did you come here to save me?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jess knew it was why he’d come. In his aristocratic way, he probably believed he could throw money at the situation and it would all be neatly resolved. Perhaps he meant to pay her off—or make a much more inappropriate offer. She had to know.

“I don’t require saving, my lord.”

The fact that she would have no place to live within the week, owned only two decent dresses, and had approximately eleven pounds and nine shillings to her name wouldn’t make her accept the man’s charity. She’d taken Kitty Adderly’s offer of charity just last night and look where that had landed her.

He didn’t respond to her strident declaration, but he looked at her again, watching her awhile before turning his gaze to the bookshelves.

Jess allowed herself a moment to study his far too appealing profile before emphasizing her point.

“I have no wish for
your
charity, my lord.”

She’d been working in the bookshop most of her life, aside from the few years her parents saved enough to send her to a boarding school she loathed. The notion of work didn’t frighten her. Now it was a simply a matter of finding new employment.

Her words failed to earn her his undivided attention. He’d turned to inspect her books more closely, tilting his head to read the spines.

Jess lifted her hands to her hips.

“My shop is closed, my lord.”

He was behaving as if he’d come to pick out a new book. Yet he’d admitted knowing about Mr. Briggs and had to realize the books were no longer hers to sell.

“How many do you have here?”

Goodness, that voice. Her ears warmed at the sound of it. She opened her mouth and then bit her lip, trying to recall what he’d asked her.

“Books, Miss Wright? How many would you say are here in the shop?”

“We’ve maintained a smaller stock of late.”

He turned an irritated glance her way, narrowing his eyes before lifting a black brow over his right eye.

She wasn’t prevaricating. She just couldn’t fathom what the number of books in her shop had to do with the viscount she’d kissed standing in the middle of it. Surely he had no desire to purchase a bookshop. He must know involvement with her or her shop would only stoke the rumor mill. It made her wonder why he’d risked coming to see her at all.

“There are a little over eight hundred books.”

He pursed his mouth and continued glancing up at the shelves.

“Everything is quite tidy and meticulously organized. It must have been a great deal of work to run a shop on your own.”

She was grateful he didn’t look at her when he said it. Heat crept up the back of her neck and Jess suspected her cheeks were flushed too. She could count on one hand the sum of compliments she’d received from gentlemen in her life, and certainly none had anything to do with her skills as a businesswoman. It was shockingly gratifying and yet, considering that she’d just lost her business, did she truly deserve it?

“I do have an assistant. Mr. Echolls.”

“Ah, yes. The gentleman in the back room.”

She nodded her head, but he’d turned his back on her and missed the gesture.

Standing near their oldest bit of shelving, his shoulders aligned with a barely discernible series of notches on the side of the bookcase. It was where Father had marked off her height as she grew year after year. Lord Grimsby’s shoulders crested the highest notch by several inches. No wonder she’d had to crane her neck and stand on the tips of her toes to kiss him.

The memory of their kiss set loose the warmth in her cheeks and it flowed to her limbs in a pleasurable rush.

Foolish woman.
That kiss had been her downfall. She’d lost her father’s shop over that kiss. It was madness to recall it with anything but regret.

“Why are you here, my lord?”

He looked at her again, capturing her gaze in a glance that made her shiver. He stalked toward her in two long strides, and it took every bit of strength she had left to stand her ground. Like the night before, he was so close she had to tilt her head to look up and meet his eyes.

She thought he might touch her. A kind of blue fire burned in his gaze.

“Don’t you know, Miss Wright? Don’t you know why I’m here?”

“I . . .” She meant to offer up one of her theories, but his tantalizing scent sent her thoughts scattering. It was a familiar scent to her now. Just that morning she’d imagined she could smell it lingering on her clothes.

“I could give you money.”

Tension coiled in her belly at his words. Money was what she needed most, though she doubted Mr. Briggs would accept any amount from her now. But why would Lord Grimsby offer her money? Charity? She’d never take that again. And there could be no fair exchange. She had nothing with which to bargain.

Was he asking her to be his mistress? Did he respect her so little?

She thought of her behavior the previous evening and a wry grin twisted her mouth. She’d already kissed him, brazenly, without permission or even an introduction. Why wouldn’t he expect her to do much more for money now that she’d lost her business?

“Why, my lord?” She wanted to hear him say it, to admit his desire or that he thought her as dishonorable as those who’d witnessed her foolish act.

But her words seemed to douse the fire in him. He blinked and took several steps back. She thought he’d turn and walk out. The blaze had gone and there was only finality in his gaze.

He’d go and leave her to face the results of her actions alone. Just as her father had left her alone to deal with his debts and bad choices. Though now, this trouble, this had been her choice. She found a strange sort of comfort in that. That made it easier to face somehow.

She lifted her chin and looked Lord Grimsby square in the eyes. “I do not wish to be a charity case, my lord. There are many other worthy causes if you wish to give your money away. Thank you for calling. Good day, my lord.”

But he wasn’t finished with her. He didn’t respond, but he took two steps toward her, nearly as close as they’d been the night before.

“I can’t forget.” He touched her the moment the three words were out of his mouth. No bargain. No gawking socialites. Just the warm press of his fingertips against her skin. He was gentle, his touch reverent as he explored the curve of her cheek. He touched her as if she were precious, as if she mattered, even now when she’d lost everything.

Jess swayed toward him, and he reached for her, wrapping one arm around her waist as he dipped his head. If he wished to kiss her, she’d let him. Right or wrong, she’d let him. But he didn’t take her mouth. Instead, he moved his head lower, pressing his cheek to hers.

“I can’t forget.” He repeated the words low, a hot, breathy whisper that tickled her ear and sparked a wave of sensation across her skin. She was already quivering when he kissed her, pressing his lips to her cheek, just at the edge of her ear.

Then it was over. He lifted his head and steadied her on her feet. There was no fire in his gaze now. Just sadness. Or was it regret?

He stepped away from her once more, stroking his hand down her arm before releasing her.

After placing his top hat on his head, he bowed—to her, a ruined businesswoman and public strumpet—before striding out of her shambles of a bookshop. Out of her shambles of a life. This time, she was certain, forever.

E
V
ER FAITHFUL,
J
ACK
stayed on past their usual closing time to help Jess with the borrower letters and tidying the shop’s back room. Ever discreet, he’d kept mum about the viscount’s visit. Jess was thankful for both.

“We’re down to our last few penny stamps, Jack. Should we spend what’s left on some more?”

Determined to let all of their lending library borrowers know the shop was closing, Jess also wanted to urge them to keep the books currently in their care. Better that devoted readers have a book of their own than Briggs and his men have the lot or use it as kindling.

She handed the last of the Wright and Sons Booksellers’ petty cash to Jack and he donned his coat. The London weather was predictable only in its unpredictability. What began as a day of blue skies and warm breezes had now turned cool and foggy.

She followed Jack to the front door carrying a packet of letters to be mailed to the borrowers. He was on the threshold and she’d nearly closed the door on him to keep out the cold when he turned back to her.

“What will you do, miss?”

The question chilled her more than the biting autumn air. It was the problem she’d been ignoring as she busied herself with what must be done. Her morning listlessness had dissolved with the viscount’s visit and she’d been cleaning and sorting and writing letters for hours. The question of her future had been at the back of her mind, but she’d pushed it aside.

“I honestly don’t know.” Her options were few and her means even less. Service loomed as the most reasonable option.

“Perhaps I shall go into service.” It was a relief to simply say the words aloud.

“Well, you should go as a governess, miss. You’ve more sense and cleverness than most men I know.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the irony of his words, considering the situation. “Lot of good it did me, eh?”

Jack looked down and studied the letters in his hands. They both knew that the loss of the bookshop led directly back to her father—his drinking, his gambling, all the secrets he’d hidden from her for years.

“I’m freezing, Jack. Hurry back and I’ll treat you and Sally at the Frog and Whistle.” He offered her a toothy smile, appearing much younger than his fifty years, before dashing off like a man half his age. There was no underestimating the motivating power of good food and frothy ale.

Jess latched the door behind him and made certain their hastily made “Closed” sign was in place. Then she turned and surveyed the shop from that spot, just inside the front door. Tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip and choked back a sob as her gaze lit on each bookcase, the neat columns of spines, the brass plates indicating topic, and the glint of gilt on the newest, most expensive volumes. Some would simply see it as a collection of paper and leather and binding glue. To Jess it was the world. For as long as she could remember, the bookshop had formed the boundary lines of her life, but through the pages of so many of its books she’d encountered the world. Far-off places she’d never visit, though she could see them in her mind’s eye. Some of her favorite books’ characters were as dear as friends, their stories and landscapes available for a visit whenever she wished.