Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Mr. Kingston, no! Please listen to—”

The door burst open. Before she could quite comprehend what was going on, Christian, his face grim, wrenched Mr. Kingston off her and shoved him aside.

She struggled to her feet, stunned by this development. Christian yanked the counterpane from the bed and wrapped it around her, though she was hardly indecent—she had evening gowns that exposed more of her bosom and back.

Briefly her stepson embraced her. Then he punched Mr. Kingston in the face, as she cried out in alarm.

“How dare you?” Christian spat out. “How dare you come into this house and abuse Her Grace’s hospitality. Get out. Or next time I’ll use a pickax on you.”

She rushed to stand between the two men. “No, Christian, you are wrong! Mr. Kingston wasn’t doing anything that…that I didn’t gladly permit him to do.”

“Then why were you beseeching him to stop?”

“Because…” She groped for an answer. “Because I remembered that we are in Miss Kirkland’s room and she might arrive any minute. If we were to…proceed any further, obviously we must stop and engage in a change of location.”

Christian looked from her to Mr. Kingston and back again, blushing visibly. “So…my intrusion was unwelcome.”

“Hardly,” said Mr. Kingston with great dignity—cheer, even, considering that he had just been interrupted in his lovemaking and given a cut on the cheek. “I’m quite delighted that Her Grace has such a fierce champion.”

Christian inclined his head. “If I do not hear from you twenty minutes before dinner, Stepmama, I will take your place as host. And I’m sure I can come up with an acceptable reason for Mr. Kingston’s absence.”

As soon as he had left, Clarissa rushed to Mr. Kingston and peered at him. “Are you all right?”

He looked at her the way she had always wanted him to look at her—and even smiled a little. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She flushed, remembering what they had been doing. She walked to the pitcher by the washstand, dipped her handkerchief in the cool water, and wrung it out. But it was a few seconds before she could turn around and go back to him.

He hissed slightly as she dabbed the handkerchief on his cheek. “This is probably as good a time as any to tell you that Miss Kirkland won’t be arriving to interrupt anything.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled slowly. “You were married, you were lonely, and you were proud. I thought…I thought perhaps I could be a friend to you, even if I could be nothing else. So I invented Miss Kirkland.”

She stumbled back a step. She had never noticed it before, but that first letter from Miss Kirkland had arrived the day after his departure from Algernon House. And Miss Kirkland’s initials, J.M.K., could just as easily stand for James Maitland Kingston.

All these years, all those letters…it had been his words—and warmth and camaraderie—that she had cherished. Her head spun a little, unable to take it all in. “You never said anything.”

She could understand why he had chosen not to reveal himself while her husband yet lived, but the latter had been dead for two years.

He looked down briefly. “I was afraid to lose your friendship. It is difficult, as such, for me to speak to others. When it’s you, it becomes…almost insurmountable. I thought you would find me a terrible substitute for Miss Kirkland.”

“Then why now?” But even as she asked the question, the answer came to her: He believed her blithe declaration that she was going to make one of the gentlemen in attendance her next husband. “Ah, I see.”

“I wanted to tell you the truth when I asked to see you, but I turned into a coward. So I decided that this time I must not fail.”

She remembered how coolly she had conducted herself during their meeting. He must have thought that she did not care for him—when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Her hand raised of its own accord. Her thumb grazed along his bottom lip—yes, it was wonderfully soft. “The path to success, of course, was via kisses.”

He took her hand and kissed her on the center of her palm, sending a jolt of heat into her arm. “Easier to kiss than to speak.”

She had stopped his kisses because she had believed there to be something missing in their interactions: that lovely approach of two souls toward a point of communion. But it wasn’t lacking at all. He was already her stalwart companion and trusted confidant; he had already known her in every season and every mood.

She was, all at once, very close to tears.

He held both of her hands in his. “Please believe me when I say there was never any malice or mischief on my part. I only wished to do something for you—and be closer to you. Because…because I love you. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you.”

Of course she believed him. Of course she believed her best friend in the entire world. She kissed him, her heart full of wonder and gratitude.