Wildfire Kiss (3 page)

Certes!
If ever he was caught in a muddle, it
was now. She was his brilliant, daring, brave little puss, full of
impulse. She was rough-and-tumble to a fault, but she was his, and
in the end he would think of something.
He must.

He went to his writing desk and sat. With a long and
somewhat worn sigh, he took up a quill and started his letter. So,
just as she had predicted, he was again applying to her for
assistance. Lady Jane was a formidable figure whose presence in his
household would most certainly cut up his peace, but there was no
other way.

Even in the wilds of Romney Marsh her power wielded
itself with the beau monde.
She would come
.

Theirs were very different natures. She took after
their father and he after their mother, but their common bond was
their great love for their name and his Babs. He sighed heavily; if
Babs only knew what sacrifices he always made for her—perhaps she
would be more circumspect!

***

Indeed, had Babs known to what drastic measures her
father was moved to implement, she would have been astonished. This
in spite of the fact that she watched Count Otto purchase a copy of
her novel from a stack of neatly and prominently displayed copies
laid out on a nearby table.

Who would know a mere slip of a girl had written
it—who would suspect? No one, she told herself confidently.

She did, however, experience a ripple of excitement
as she watched Otto flip through the pages.

“Aha!” said Otto. “This is a read!” He shoved the
book into her hands. “You will skim through it while we take the
drive to the fairgrounds and tell me what you think.”

She rapped his arm playfully. “
Aha,
is it,
beastly man? Always putting me to work. You read it for yourself.”
She pushed the book back at him.

“Ah, Lady Barbara.” It was a distinctive male drawl,
and although the address of the man was decidedly languid, there
was a certain masculinity that caught and held the interest.

Babs’ dark eyes opened wide, and the woman in her
responded. She gave the gentleman a soft smile as she put out her
gloved hand in genuine pleasure. Sir Edward Danton bent over her
fingers but easily, deftly found the uncovered wrist and allowed
his lips to linger audaciously there. His hazel eyes bright with
something she could not name met her own, and she felt an intake of
breath. He was so excitingly bold!

A tremble skidded through her body. That was not
like her. She had some experience handling the London rakes, and
her style was simple but effective. She would return their
flirtation, but she did so while keeping on the move. She never
gave an answer that could come back to haunt her and always kept it
at a lively and shallow banter.

Most of the libertines she encountered took her
responses in the light nature they were intended. She was after all
‘aristocracy’, and the general rule was
not
to dally too
deeply with their own set—it could get a man married, and that
would never do for a rake about town.

Sir Edward, however, was different. For one thing,
he did not have the reputation of being a libertine. He was not
even counted amongst those in the petticoat line. Sir Edward was,
in fact, something of a dandy.

His chestnut curls were lightly pomaded and framed
his lean, attractive face. His brows were finely shaped over his
light hazel eyes. His lips were thin, his dress exquisite. His
conversation witty, fluent, and interesting.

No invitation list was complete without his name. He
was considered the best of good
ton
, and his wealth and
lineage made him a prize on the marriage mart. He broke the hearts
of many mothers, for up until recently he had never displayed an
interest in the misses presented during the season.

He made Lady Babs move closer, for he did not
immediately release her hand; instead, easily, indiscernibly, he
brought her to him, and his drawl lowered to a soft, husky tone.
“Your obedient servant, my lady.” He turned to smile sweetly at the
count, who was by now pulling a face, and said, “My dear count, one
wonders how it is you manage, in spite of the deplorable habit you
have of donning a gray greatcoat, to wield Lady Barbara on your
arm.”

The large count started to bluster out a reply, but
Babs put a restraining hand on his upper arm and said lightly, “La,
Sir Edward, the color suits him … I think, don’t you?”

“Yes, deuce take it, what is the matter with gray?”
the count managed to demand.

“It is Napoleon’s color,” Sir Edward drawled, his
sneer marked. “As nearly everyone knows, but then, I have heard
your views lean in that direction …”

It was a bait, just the sort of bait to set two men
against one another. Napoleon and Wellington were in the very heat
of battle in Spain, and sects of Napoleon sympathizers existed
(though in small numbers) in England.

“Politics!” Babs stood between the two men and
stamped her foot, drawing their full attention. “It is not the
subject to openly discuss in a Bond Street Book Shop.” She lifted
her piquant face to the count’s. “Now, as I recall, you promised me
a trip to the fair.”

The count’s expression was victorious as he offered
Babs his arm.

“Very neat,” Sir Edward whispered as she moved away.
“My felicitations—you handle him well.”

To this, Babs frowned, and then she hurried with
Otto out of the shop, all the while listening to Otto grumble about
his greatcoat, the color gray, Sir Edward, and the dastardly
inference Sir Edward had made.

“Do not allow him to annoy you. He provoked you on
purpose, you know,” Babs said as she smiled sweetly at Otto’s round
face.

“He wants you,” Otto pronounced after a moment’s
silence.

“Do you think so? I do not,” she returned on a
laugh. “He would not provoke my friends if he wanted to curry favor
with me.”

“You are naïve,” the count said and clucked his
tongue. “Just look at how he attends you. I have never seen him
behave like that with any marriageable chit before. He is forever
seeking you out and paying you considerable notice.”

“You are mistaken. Sir Edward is not interested in
me. For goodness sake, I have been out two seasons, so why should
he suddenly decide to take an interest now? It doesn’t make
sense.”

“Just a moment, my girl … as I recall, Sir
Edward was in Greece during your first season. He doesn’t hunt—so
he wasn’t with us when we all went up to the riding country and the
Quorn.”

“But I was introduced to him last spring, and I
can’t remember his succumbing to my many charms then.” She laughed
and patted Otto’s arm.

“Obstinate,” he said and tweaked her nose. “A man
sometimes has to find his sea legs. No doubt he just wasn’t ready
then … but as he saw more and more of you …”

She batted her lashes at him. “He was overtaken and
his heart stolen …” she said dramatically.

“Mayhap you just don’t want to see, but remember,”
he said, wagging a finger at her, “he means to have you—
but what
is worse
, I think you rather like him.”

“He is ever so attractive, Otto.” She sighed.

“
I
don’t like him. Dangerous fellow—not for
you.”

“Why, do you think he will break my heart?” she
asked curiously.

“No … not that exactly, but he won’t make you
happy. He is not for you. You need someone who will smile at your
antics … perhaps curb you a bit … but never tame
you.”

“Oh, Otto … yes, I know, but who may that be?”
she asked, sighing again.

“Damn if I know,” he answered, and both eyed one
another and laughed.

***

Sir Edward stepped outside and watched the count’s
carriage as it was driven off into London’s hub of traffic.

A flower girl waved a daffodil at him.

“Fer yer loidy, sir … a ha’penny will
do …” It was a plea.

He eyed her a moment. She was dressed in an ensemble
of ill-fitting and mismatched pieces of clothing. Her hair might
have been a fair shade beneath the soot and grime, and she appeared
a good deal older than what he assumed her age might really be.
Thinking of Lady Babs, he reached into his pocket and flipped her a
coin a great deal better than the ha’penny she had asked for but
refused the flower with a shake of his hand as he turned away.

As he walked down the avenue, he found himself
asking what in hell he was doing. He stood a moment, leaning on his
ebony walking stick, and then absently proceeded to cross the busy
intersection as he assembled his thoughts. He was irritated beyond
belief. What was happening to him?

He wanted Babs to the point of distraction. He even
found himself doing some odd thing because something in the back of
his mind told him that she would like it, as he had just now with
the child.

This had to stop.

He was his own man. Courtesans of great beauty had
always taken care of his needs, and that had always served him in
the past and kept him satisfied, but from the moment he had met
Lady Babs, he had discovered a new side to himself.
It was
not
a side he wanted to embrace.

He wanted to be carefree.

He wanted to continue to enjoy his life in the
manner he was accustomed—and now, all that was shattered!

This young, innocent chit aroused sensations in his
breast he hadn’t been aware he was capable of feeling any longer.
He had believed that part of him had been murdered when he was
still quite young and innocent himself.

Yet … he found himself forever seeking her out.
He was considered quite a catch, and yet, she kept him at bay. Why?
She was not adverse to his attentions, but neither did she
encourage him. She seemed perfectly content to allow the dolt of a
count to escort her everywhere, and yet it was perfectly obvious to
him that she didn’t mean to have the count. What was her game?

She was not even in his usual style. He favored
tall, elegant ladies who were both sophisticated and worldly. She
was a bit piece of bounce and jumble, a child really—but he damn
well meant to wake up the woman in her. She was full of impulse,
spirit, and something he could not name, and he realized that these
things attracted him to her.

Still, she was also a bit too impulsive, and that he
could not approve of at all. One thing was for certain, however:
she was the most beautiful creature he had ever clapped eyes
on …

There was nothing for it. He had admitted to himself
some days ago that he had to have her, and
damn it to bloody
hell
, one way or another and by any means, this chit would be
his.

Thus it was that he set about finding everything and
anything he could about her. Quiet inquiries elicited bits and
pieces about her. A tease with one of her friends just the other
day told him she had a serious side and enjoyed, of all things,
writing. Writing? Of all the things he had expected to hear about
her, he had not expected that. Intrigued, he continued conversation
along that line, and her stupid friend informed him that Babs had
once published (while still at school) an article of some humor. He
didn’t like that at all, and it would not do in any bride he meant
to have, but no doubt she had grown out of the vice now that she
was in her third season on the town. And that was another thing. In
her third season, and he had heard that she had turned down any
number of eligible suitors. Odd. Lucky for him, but odd all the
same.

In addition to these unusual circumstances was her
friendship with the poet Lord Byron and his publisher, Murry.

Flitting thoughts brought his mind into focus, and
he recalled the way she had run her hand over the cover of the new
book everyone was talking about. As though she knew the
author …

Odd … all very odd and certainly intriguing.
All at once he found himself picking up the book and making up his
mind to read it as soon as he reached his establishment, though he
was not quite certain what this action would tell him.

Three

THE NINTH DUKE of Barrington’s black, gleaming coach
was stopped in the heat of London’s busy traffic and he looked out
into the hubbub, his thoughts in a tumble.

Hawkers cried out their wares and looked hopefully
towards the impressive coach. One young and horribly dirty boy
sidled up to the duke’s vehicle and stuck an apple up with
outstretched hand to its open window.

“Bright ’n’ shiny it be … jest right fer ye,
guvnor.” He grinned and displayed a mouth nearly devoid of
teeth.

The duke tapped at his driver’s box, stuck his head
out the window, and called to him, “Hold up there, Harly.” He
turned to the boy and flipped him a hefty coin. The lad flipped him
the apple in turn before calling out a parting thanks as he ran
back into the hubbub of the traffic to try his luck again with
another apple he produced from the ragged bag slung over his
shoulder.

The duke watched the child for a moment before
motioning for his driver to go on, turned to his companion, and
handed him the apple. “Just the thing to keep you quiet,” his grace
said, grinning widely at him.

Sir Charles Liverpool looked at the fruit with some
contempt and set it aside. “I won’t be put off, Nick. It is time
you reentered society. It has been more than eight months since
your father’s death, eight months since you left the Peninsula
and—”

“And I am in mourning,” the duke replied, cutting
his cousin off with what he hoped was an end to the discussion.

“Don’t pitch your gammon at me. We both loved your
father, but—and I can say this, for he was more a father to me than
my own was—well, damn, Nick, he would not have wanted you to bury
yourself in the wilds and forget what life has to offer.”

“Well, as to that, ol’ fellow, you can’t say I have
done anything like burying myself in the wilds …” The duke
fleetingly recalled the last few months. “No … wouldn’t call
it that at all.”