The Perfect Kiss (30 page)

 
Oh fateful night!
Hold back the hour of sundering!

With shaking hands Grace closed the little leather-bound book of poems. This poem, “Night of Love” by the poet of Andalusia, Ibn Safr al-Marini, was her favorite. So beautiful and so sad.

She was curled up in the big overstuffed armchair in the library. Dinner was over. It was her last night at Wolfestone. She’d made arrangements to leave at dawn. She hadn’t told Dominic. She knew he’d make a fuss and she couldn’t bear it. But everyone else knew. She’d said her good-byes.

Melly, caught up in helpless misery and guilt, had made an excuse and gone upstairs to sit with her father. It was an excuse, Grace knew, because her father was always asleep by this time. So Grace had retired to the comfort of the library and her beloved book of medieval poems.

Hold back the hour of sundering
indeed, Grace repeated in her mind. But it was too late. Their circle of embrace had already been sundered. Dominic was marrying Melly. In a few more days the banns would be called for the second time.

She could not bear to stay and watch. She was not noble enough for that.

She looked around the room. Hard work had brought it from dusty neglect to beauty. She closed her eyes. She loved this place. She loved Dominic. How could she bear to leave?

How could she bear to stay?

Her body prickled with awareness. She looked up. Dominic had entered silently and stood watching her with an intense expression.

“I can’t decide if your eyes are more beautiful when they’re dancing like the sun on the sea, or when they’re like bluebells bathed in the morning dew.” By the time he’d finished speaking he stood in front of her. She couldn’t move. Her legs seemed to have tangled beneath her.

“How long have you been standing there?”

For answer he bent and kissed her full on the mouth. She tasted passion and tenderness and desperation.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back with all her heart. The last kiss.

When he finally pulled back for a moment, she pressed her hands to his shoulders, saying, “No more.”

“Why not?”

“Because I cannot bear it just now. No, I don’t want to talk about it, just tell me why you have come here.”

“Come upstairs with me. Come upstairs and lie down with me and we will talk.”

“No, I cannot. There are too many people here. We would be discovered and I would be ruined.”

He sighed, and turned on his heel and walked away from her. For a moment she thought he was leaving her and her heart was in her mouth. She didn’t want to leave him like this.

But he was only going to lock the door. He returned and scooped her off her chair, carrying her in his arms as if she weighed as little as a child. Her pulse pounded.

With as much strength as she could muster, she said, “I said no, Dominic.” It came out feebly.

With an innocent look he sat down with her on the sofa, only it could hardly be described as sitting. He leaned back against an arm of the sofa and she lay across his lap, half sprawled along the hard length of his body. She made a halfhearted attempt to sit up, but he pulled her back down, and to tell the truth, it was heaven being here in his arms. Heaven and hell combined. He was marrying Melly, she reminded herself. As always the thought tore at her.

“I can’t bear to see you fretting,” he said.

“I can’t bear this situation.”

He kissed her. “I know. But the only simple solution is to shoot Sir John and Melly. Which, of course, I would do. Only then I’d have to kill Frey, which would be more difficult—my oldest friend, you know, and he’s a devilish good shot himself, so it would be tricky. And then there’s all the possible witnesses, and of course I could shoot them, too, but then there would be all those bodies to dispose of and I
hate
digging.”

Unwillingly she laughed.

“You may laugh, but I really loathe it,” he assured her. “But you are thinking, of course, that I am lord of this manor and I could just order a few peasants to do it, but what you haven’t considered is that to cover up my awful crimes I would have had to kill all the peasants, too, so there would be nobody left to dig. Except me.” He pulled a face. “And that would be terrible. I love you, Miss Merridew, but though I would kill for you, digging is quite another matter!”

By then, of course she was laughing. And crying at the same time. “You are ridiculous. I don’t know how you can be so flippant at a time like—”

He kissed her. She kissed him back with all the love in her heart, all the yearning and dreaming and heartache.

And then she slipped from his arms and unlocked the door.

She paused at the door and said, “Good—good night.” And before he could react, she’d slipped out of the door. She leaned against it a moment, whispered, “Good-bye, my love,” and raced upstairs to her bedchamber.

She had to get away from him. When he looked at her like that, with yearning and desperation in his eyes, she weakened. And if he kissed her again, which was only a matter of time, she would be lost.

She understood now what he meant when he’d asked her to be his mistress. It was no insult, no second best—not in his mind. He had offered her his heart.

But it was not enough for Grace. Children, the society of friends and family—was she willing to give them up for him? No. If there was no other way, perhaps she might consider it.

The marriage with Melly could still be stopped. He would stop it, she was sure, if he did not still believe in his heart of hearts that love and marriage could not coexist.

But he didn’t, and she couldn’t think of any way to show him how wrong he was. And so she had to leave.

Egypt and the pyramids called. Her first, most reliable dream.

 
 
GRACE WAS WOKEN BY THE PREDAWN BIRD CHORUS THAT WOKE HER most mornings. She lay a moment, savoring it. The birds seemed to sing more sweetly here, she fancied. She slipped out of bed in the chill, gray half-light, dressing as quickly and quietly as she could. Melly was a still, silent mound in the bed. Grace wasn’t sure if she was awake or not, though she rather thought she was; but Melly didn’t say anything so Grace didn’t, either.

She felt a rush of sadness. There was such a gulf between the two of them now. One day Grace might be able to understand, but right now, it was not in her to be understanding. She was too angry and unhappy.

She’d made her farewells with Melly last night as they’d gone to bed. They’d wept—as much for their friendship as anything else.

She would go to London, where she knew her sister Prudence would be. Grace loved all her sisters, but right now, it was Prudence, the oldest, she most wanted.

Prudence had been like a mother to Grace for most of her life. These days she shared that role with Aunt Gussie, but when Grace was heartsore, or sick or angry, or grieving, it was Prue she turned to, as she had turned to her all her life. And right now Grace was heartsore and angry and grieving and in sore need of her big sister’s comfort.

Her valise was downstairs already. She packed her nightgown and a few things in a small bag. She’d arranged with Abdul to borrow one of the chaises he’d brought down with him and a driver and groom. She’d offered to pay, but he’d waved it aside with a lordly air.

She’d made her good-byes last night. She just wanted to slip away quietly. She didn’t want to see . . . anyone.

She was angry with Dominic, too, though she knew there was nothing he could honorably do. He was trapped.

She hated what this situation was doing to her, turning her into a virago. She was even angry with Sir John, and that wasn’t fair at all—the poor man was staring death in the face and was desperate to secure his daughter’s future.

She wished she’d never come here in the first place. It was so much easier dreaming of love than being caught in its toils. Love was torture. Why had nobody told her that?

She closed the door behind her and tiptoed downstairs, foolishly unable to resist stepping in the dips his ancestors’ feet had made.
Torture
.

To her surprise Mrs. Stokes was already at work and had Grace’s favorite breakfast waiting for her; a slice of bacon and a poached egg on toast, followed by coffee and toast with honey.

“You don’t think me and Enid would let you go off on some long journey without a good breakfast inside you? Now, eat it while it’s hot, miss.”

Grace stared at the honey pot and memories assailed her.
Torture
. “Is there anything else, apart from honey? I don’t feel like honey today,” she told Mrs. Stokes. Or ever again.

“There’s whimberry jam, if you like, miss. A Shropshire specialty. The whimberries were picked on the hills just yesterday by young Billy Finn, and I made the jam myself,” Mrs. Stokes told her. “Very good for what ails ye, whimberries are.”

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Stokes. Thank you,” Grace managed, though no jam could fix what ailed her.

After breakfast she took some apples and carrots and slipped out to the stables to say good-bye to the horses she’d grown so fond of. In the courtyard, the grooms were buckling the carriage horses into their traces. She hurried inside.

The mares were waiting to greet her, as they did every morning, their heads poking expectantly over the half stable doors, whickering a greeting. She went first to say good-bye to the foal, but he ignored her, his head buried in his mother’s flank, drinking hungrily, his little tail wriggling with pleasure. She laughed and fed an apple to his mother and her sister in the next stall.

She gave a carrot to Dominic’s horse. “Look after him, Hex.” He took the carrot but when she tried to pat him, he threw his head back in alarm. “You are well suited, you two—both big, handsome, noble-looking and thick-headed!”

She heard the carriage being driven around to the front and hurriedly said good-bye to the dainty silver mare she’d come to look on as her own. “Good-bye, Misty, my darling. I’ll miss our morning rides.” Misty took the apple delicately, crunching it with relish, as Grace stroked her velvet nose and hugged her good-bye.

She left with lagging steps. It would be so easy to change her mind, to saddle Misty and ride off as usual . . . only . . .
Torture
.

Abdul was waiting for her in the hall. “You honor me, Abdul,” she told him.

His smile was wry. “Perhaps,
sitt
. I am here to argue with you as well.”

“Argue with me?”

“You are running away, but you need to stay and fight.”

“There is nothing I can do.”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I cannot understand how it is that the English have come to rule most of the world! You, he, and that other girl—and each of you say, ‘I can do nothing.’ So you all be miserable. Pah! I say kill the old man and be done with it!”

He couldn’t be serious. She smiled, shook her head, and made to step around him, but he caught her by the arm. “
Sitt
, I have known Dominic Wolfe for ten years—since he came to manhood—and I say he has never,
never
looked at a woman the way he looks at you! Always he has pursued women he cannot have—women with old husbands, or absent husbands—women who will never want more of him than he is prepared to give.”

He gave her arm a little shake. “
Never
has he yearned after a young virgin!”

She blushed at his bluntness. She was no longer a young virgin. She pulled her arm away. “You are talking to the wrong person, Abdul.”

He flung up his hands again. “Bah—he is like a mule! But behind the mulishness, young
sitt
, he is in—how you say it?” He made a rapid rolling movement with his hands.

“Turmoil?”

“Yes, in turmoil. It is not just that he pursues a young virgin. Never has he involved himself in any lives other than his own—only when he first buy me, and that was to save my manhood.” His hands rested briefly over his male parts. “Thanks be to God and Dominic Wolfe. I was to be made a eunuch. You understand eunuch?” He made graphic cutting movements with his hands.

She nodded, blushing furiously.

“Every time I lie between the thighs of a woman I rejoice in the compassion of Dominic Wolfe—and I am a lusty fellow, so I rejoice often! But him—he has dark shadows. Too many, and I say to myself, Abdul, that is your task. But he is like a leaf that blows.” His hands imitated a leaf drifting aimlessly in the wind.

He made an emphatic gesture and his dark eyes flashed with excitement, “But now, suddenly, in this place he says he does not want to be, he takes an interest in this young boy, that old man, this woman and her family, that farmer with his broken roof, and on and on and on. He has me working all hours to rebuild the estate—and this was the place he swore he would destroy.”

“I’m glad.” She bent to pick up her bags.

He snatched them away. “Pah! Ask yourself what has caused this change,
sitt
!”

She shook her head, deliberately obtuse.

He made an exasperated sound. “You, only you! You touch something inside him, wake a part of him I have never seen! And so you must stay and fight; fight for your happiness, for this estate, and for the heart and happiness of Dominic Wolfe.”

She looked at him a long moment. “I have already given my heart to Dominic Wolfe,” she said quietly. “It changed nothing. And now I must go, if you please.”

“But of course,
sitt
,” he said smoothly as if the last few minutes had never been, and he carried out the bags.

She looked up at the gargoyle. “Good-bye, Mr. Gargoyle,” she whispered. “Take care of him and the people of this estate. Make him see how much he belongs here.” Tears prickled at her eyelids. “Make him happy.”

She hurried outside and stopped dead. Every servant had gathered on the front steps to farewell her. It was only just after dawn.

Mrs. Stokes and Enid stepped forward and gave her a basket. Mrs. Stokes’s face was stiff and red, Enid was weeping openly. “Just a few things in case you get hungry on the way, miss.”

The three Tickel girls gave her a bag of apples and some more lemons from their mother, “For them lemons have done a power o’ good to yer freckles, miss.” They burst into loud sobs.