One More Kiss

CHAPTER Twelve





CECILIA WAS DOING her best to dispel her speculations about Lord Crenshaw and Beatrice when she heard a mad gallop, apparently the speed at which Lord Destry did everything.

Lord Destry was almost beside her, still moving at an unwise speed, when a rabbit darted into the path in front of his mount. The horse took exception to having company on the path and reared up. Destry held on with amazing skill, but just as the horse was settling yet another rabbit raced after the first. It was too much for man and horse. Destry was thrown and he landed on the dirt path with an alarming thump.

With a screech that she swallowed before it became a full-born scream, Cecilia leapt off her horse and ran over to Destry who was, ominously, not moving. His eyes were open and for the most hideous of moments she thought he was dead.

Then he blinked and her terror resolved itself into anger, close to a wholly unreasonable rage.

“You stupid, stupid man! Why were you riding so fast? Are you hurt?” She put her hands on her hips to still their shaking. His body looked as it should, no arms or legs at odd angles. She waited. When he did speak she understood.

“No breath,” he rasped painfully. He closed his eyes and they both waited.

He was a fine figure of a man. When he was lying down and one was not so conscious of his height, he was handsome and very well formed. She blushed a little at the thought but his eyes were still closed so there was no one to tease her about it. Why was it that a tiny woman like Beatrice was not remarked on, but a short man, at least one as short as Lord Destry, was considered an oddity?

“You look as though you are in one piece, my lord,” she said with a return of her usual calm. “That is, unless you have broken your back and will be crippled for life.”

His eyes flew open at her bluntness and he wiggled his legs and feet.

Relieved, she knelt beside him. He seemed to be breathing more normally. “Are you recovering?”

He nodded. “My horse.”

“Enjoying some grass until you are ready to remount.”

“Good.” He raised himself on one elbow, ignoring the hand she offered. She withdrew it. He would have to beg before she offered him her hand again.

* * *

WILLIAM, YOU IDIOT, he thought. He wanted to swear and was just as glad that he did not have the breath for it since it would dig him deeper into Miss Brent’s bad graces. He looked like some schoolboy trying to impress a girl, which he certainly had done but not in the way he’d hoped.

“I am quite all right, Miss Brent.” Except for a raging headache and wickedly wrenched shoulder. He sat for a moment, letting the world settle around him, and brushed at his trousers as if that would remove the dirt stains.

He began to stand but stilled when he felt her hands on his shoulders. “Please do not try to stand, my lord. I can see you must still be dizzy.”

Yes, he was, but a good part of that came from the sensation of her hands on him, her lovely scent so close, the feel of her breath in his hair. “All right,” he said, leaning his head back into the comfort of her breasts. He bit back a smile and groaned a little.

Miss Brent was quiet for much too long. William turned to look at her. She regarded him through narrowed eyes, as though she was not sure whether to trust him or not.

He raised a hand to his temple and rubbed his aching head. “Thank you. Thank you very much. I cannot recall the last time I was thrown from Jupiter.”

“We can blame the rabbits. One, any good rider could have handled, but two was quite unexpected.”

“Maybe,” he allowed, closing his eyes to escape her gaze, but her beauty was now permanently etched in his memory. There was more to the woman than her perfect skin, her white teeth, her beautiful blue eyes, her perfect mouth, and her burnished gold hair. She had handled his fall with calm and sense and had not made a bad toss worse with histrionics. He valued that as much as her looks.

“Shall I find someone to help you?”

He heard concern in her voice, not impatience with his clumsiness, or anger at him for ruining her outing.

“No, I will be fine once I am over the mortification of looking a fool.”

“But, my lord, that comes so naturally to you, I would hardly think it mortifying.”

There was a set-down that was unexpected. Her air of sweetness hid a touch of acid that surprised him and made him wonder what else she hid behind her ladylike demeanor.

“Then I am in good company.” He straightened as he spoke. “As I often think that myself.”

Before she could answer, insult him more, or, God forbid, apologize, he hurried on. “I am more sorry than I can say for teasing you last night and then making my observation of the company sound so personal. It was not intended that way.”

There was no answering smile, her face remained neutral. Leave it at that, idiot. “I can manage now, and thank you again for your help.” He rose to his feet.

She stepped back, watching anxiously as he moved toward Jupiter. His arm still ached as much as his head, but he felt steady enough as he looked around for his hat. He spotted it and bent to grab it, ignoring the spin of dizziness, and whistled for his horse. Jupiter came but stopped short of where he was standing.

William turned to Miss Brent, who was still studying him, apparently fearing a faint was not far off.

“No comfort from my horse. I expect he thinks me worse than a fool. We’ve known each other much too long for him to mistake me for anything but a human subject to absurd behavior on a regular basis.”

Miss Brent flushed a little, but did not apologize. Good for her. He liked spine in a woman.

“Can I offer you a leg up onto your horse before I go?” He asked the question and bowed with as much deference as he could muster.

“No thank you, my lord. This stump is all the help I need.” She proved it by using the nearby rotting piece of wood to mount. She settled herself and looked back at him.

“Our brother Frederick was killed when a horse threw him,” she added. “He was sixteen. Years later my sister was thrown herself and has not ridden comfortably since. You are very lucky, my lord. If you are not at the stable shortly I will send one of the grooms to find you.” With that Miss Brent urged her mount toward the stable.

William watched her as she turned away. Even more wonderful, he thought with a hefty dose of sarcasm. Not only had he looked too stupid for her to ever consider dancing with him, much less kissing him, but he had reminded her of a heartbreaking loss.

How could he ever hope to redeem himself in her eyes? No need to figure out why it mattered. He could still feel heat where his head had rested against her. Only a bigger fool than he was would deny the attraction.

* * *

“I DO NOT know who was more embarrassed, the marquis or me. And I was terrified for a moment.” Cecilia stopped her washing-up and looked at her sister.

“Yes, I can imagine only too well.”

“I know, dearest, and I am sorry to have even mentioned it. It is only that I do not know how to behave with him now.”

“I’m sure you’re not the first one to call him a name, Ceci. Someone as hell-bent on adventure as he is would hardly be humiliated.”

“Bitsy, I’m the one who is humiliated,” Ceci all but wailed. “He is a marquis and I called him stupid!” She wrapped herself in a robe and began to pace the room. “How will I behave around him now?”

Beatrice stood in front of her sister to make her stop moving and then took Ceci’s tightly clasped hands in her own. “Calm yourself,” she commanded. When she had her sister’s complete attention, Beatrice went on in a softer voice. “Why should anything change? Do you like him better for falling off his horse?”

“Yes, I do. What I mean is that at least I see him as more human, more like a normal person, which is probably why I spoke that way to him. But when I remembered his rank, his place in society, I could not even find the words to apologize.”

“Then let me remind you what you told me he said last night.” Cecilia nodded and Beatrice went on. “Luck and chance are all that separate the heir to a dukedom from the rest of mankind. Or something like that.”

“And,” Cecilia added, “they have ‘wit enough to pretend that they are better than the rest of the citizenry.’ I recall that part exactly.”

“Keep all of it in mind and treat him just as you would those would-be gallants at the Assemblies in Birmingham.”

“Oh, I could never do that.”

“For the love of God, Ceci, he is not a royal, and has proved that even he can be thrown from a horse. He is not any more special than Papa or Roger.”

“Hmmm” was all Cecilia said. Beatrice gave up trying to convince her and turned her full attention to her own toilette.

By the time they were abed twelve hours later, Cecilia realized that she need not have worried. At dinner that evening she was seated between Lord Crenshaw and the earl, as far from the marquis as was possible.

The evening’s amusement involved a theater troupe brought from London to perform for them. The play, Sheridan’s The Rivals, was familiar to everyone, but the actress who played Mrs. Malaprop brought such humor to the role that even those most familiar with the story were entertained.

Over tea and brandy the countess invited them to try to converse like Mrs. Malaprop, whose defining characteristic was her hilarious tendency to confuse similar-sounding words. It was amusing, especially when Lord Crenshaw suggested it was an effort for Mr. Brent to fend off the “gallons” who wished to court his daughters. But the best of all was when Lord Belmont insisted he was not under the “affluence” of wine or brandy.

Cecilia thought she could do something with “pity” and “pretty” but decided not to call attention to herself.

Neither the marquis nor Lord Jess joined in this game. They were deep in conversation with Mrs. Kendrick and missed all but the last bit when the laughter over Lord Belmont’s phrase drew their attention.

“What did we miss?” Destry called out as he joined them.

“It will be our secret for ‘old’ time,” Beatrice told him, and they all laughed again with Destry none the wiser.

As she fell asleep that night Cecilia decided that it would be easy enough to avoid Lord Destry the next day by the simple expedient of not riding.


FORGOING HER MORNING ride was an excellent strategy for avoiding the marquis, but what Cecilia had failed to take into account was how bored she would be without the exercise. She was also constrained by the need to avoid places where he might be found. That meant she spent an inordinate amount of time with her sister doing things Bitsy loved but Cecilia found monumentally dull.

“This is ridiculous, Ceci,” Beatrice insisted as they explored the library after spending an hour in the chapel examining the stained-glass windows. “You are so good at seeing to the heart of the matter. Would it not be easier to apologize than to be looking over your shoulder every minute?”

“You think I should apologize?”

“No! What you have to do is stop avoiding him or soon he will notice and that will make it even more uncomfortable.”

Why must Beatrice be right so often?


BEATRICE FELT NOBLE for insisting that Ceci stop being foolish. She’d rather liked having her sister for company all day. They had explored the library and found a folio of drawings of flowers and shrubs of Kent which both of them had enjoyed examining. Cecilia even forgot about hiding from the marquis for long enough to ask a footman to carry the folio onto the patio so they could examine it in better light.

In the end Cecilia was no more relaxed than she had been the day before and Beatrice knew she had to convince her twin to speak to the marquis.

They were both distracted from their concerns when Darwell was late and they needed to help each other dress for dinner.

The maid finally came into the room looking less composed than usual and Beatrice looked at her sister. Has she been crying?

Ceci gave her a nod of agreement. Do not ask. Pretend everything is normal.

Darwell tried to act as if nothing was amiss, but her distraction was obvious. They were ready to put on their dresses when she came to her senses and, without apology, announced: “No, no, those are not the right gowns for this evening. There is a theme to tonight’s dinner and you both will look perfect in these.”

For Cecilia she drew out an off-white dress with black lace around the flounces. It was a very sophisticated dress for an ingénue, but according to Darwell perfectly acceptable for a private country party. Beatrice’s dress was even more dramatic, a white gown with a Greek key trim on the skirt made with a fine braid, deftly woven.

Darwell misbuttoned Beatrice’s dress twice and finally Cecilia could not stand it anymore. “Darwell, please, tell us what is wrong. You seem upset.”

“Not at all, miss,” she said, stiffening.

“Nonsense,” Cecilia said with unexpected sharpness. “We can be as discreet with your confidences as you are with ours. Has someone offended you?”

“It’s nothing, Miss Cecilia.”

Cecilia waited, and Beatrice turned to look at Darwell even though her dress was not yet entirely done up.

Darwell closed her eyes. “Lord Jess’s valet.”

“All right,” Beatrice encouraged, “what about him?”

“This is ridiculous. I am a grown woman. I am near fifty years old. I will discuss it no further.”

Cecilia did not think she needed to. She looked at her sister, who nodded agreement.

Beatrice handed Darwell a comb. “Very well, as long as you can assure us that the valet is not insulting or, God forbid, assaulting you.”

Cecilia added, “You must know we would not …” She paused and began again. “None of us, including Papa and the countess, would tolerate any abuse of someone so close to us.”

Gathering her dignity once again, Darwell curtsied. “No, Miss Brent. Callan has done nothing to offend or insult me. He never would.”

Having only half the story did nothing to alleviate the constraint among them, but Darwell was in fine form once again and did a masterful job of styling their hair to suit their dresses.

Tonight the countess did not come for them. Darwell told them that a footman would escort them to the library, where the group would congregate. They had been there earlier in the day, but they were grateful for the guidance. It was too easy to lose one’s way in such an enormous building.

All the way down the stairs and around the main floor the two discussed Darwell. Surely it was a love affair that had their maid so flustered. Very romantic, they agreed, and Beatrice decided she would try to wheedle information about Callan from Lord Jess.

Before they reached the door to the library Beatrice halted their progress. “Tell me how you are going to handle the marquis.”

“I will forget about it, if he does.”

With a nod of acceptance, if not outright agreement, Beatrice gestured to the footman to open the door.

Beatrice slowed as she entered the room. It was so poorly lit that it had a completely different atmosphere than it had had earlier in the day. At that time the room had been filled with light from the windows at each end, with candles lit for close reading.

Now the curtains were drawn, even though it was still light out, and the only light came from the chandelier overhead.

At Beatrice’s “Are we in the right salon?” the footman nodded. She and Cecilia went fully into the room where another servant offered them a glass of sherry. They both declined the spirits, and Beatrice looked around the room, hoping they were not the first guests to arrive.

Thank goodness Lord Crenshaw was there. He hurried over to them with a conspiratorial expression.

“This is a bit of a mystery, is it not?”

“Yes, indeed,” Beatrice agreed.

“The countess is famous for her creativity,” Crenshaw went on. “And I think we are about to experience it firsthand.”

Mrs. Wilson and her daughter came in right behind them. Mrs. Wilson stopped short on the threshold. “This cannot be right!”

“Come in, come in,” Crenshaw said, as though he knew exactly what was in store for them and could not wait to share it.

“Why is the room so dark?” Miss Wilson asked. Was that a tinge of fear Beatrice heard in her voice? Really, the girl was much too easily frightened.

“Lord Crenshaw tells me it is part of the grand scheme for the evening,” Beatrice reassured her.

The other ladies seemed inclined to stay in a group around the baron, so Beatrice stayed with them even though she knew what would happen. Mrs. Wilson would prattle on for hours about her life, about people and places her audience had never heard of or met.

“The vicar verily invites himself to dinner,” Mrs. Wilson started, “and then annoys everyone with his bodily noises. My husband insists it is a compliment, but I would prefer even a poorly worded thank-you letter.”

Beatrice was not sure how he managed it, but Lord Crenshaw turned from the other ladies and took her arm, and in a moment they had escaped the group and were seated on the sofa on the other side of the room.

“How did you do that?” Beatrice asked.

“Do what, my dear?” he answered with a half smile.

“Manage to remove us from Mrs. Wilson so deftly and without insult? I must learn such tactics before we go to London.”

“I could teach you that and so much more if you would like.”

Beatrice answered with a cautious nod, suddenly feeling discomfited by his tone if not his words.

Crenshaw laughed and patted her hand. “Lord Jess is the rake, Miss Beatrice. Not I. I mean to instruct you in any number of social niceties that can spare you boredom and embarrassment during your time among the ton.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Beatrice said, relaxing more, though now she was distracted. The mere mention of Lord Jess’s name made her wonder where he was. “I am sure there is more to learn than dance steps before we are ready for the London social world.”

The marquis came into the room and Beatrice watched as he approached Mrs. Wilson, her daughter, and Cecilia.


CECILIA WAS ACTUALLY happy to see Lord Destry. The truth was she would have been happy to see anyone who would rescue her from Mrs. Wilson’s pointless chatter. Mrs. Wilson stepped back to make room for the newcomer but did not break off her story.

Destry smiled and nodded in all the right places, and Cecilia wondered if he was registering a word the woman was saying. Was that the secret to enduring this inanity?

“My husband insists that some estate emergency is keeping him away from the house party.”

“I can completely understand your husband’s wish to stay home, alone,” Destry answered, proving that he was listening after all. Cecilia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“I wish you would tell me why, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson said, her aggrieved air even more pronounced.

Destry glanced at Cecilia and she added, “Please do, sir,” as though she were desperate for an explanation of the inner workings of the masculine mind.

His words were addressed to Mrs. Wilson, but he did not look away from Cecilia as he said them.

“Because the quiet of nature is so appealing after the chaos of family life.”

Cecilia smiled at the private joke and decided the man liked to tease everyone and not just her. It was a peculiar sort of relief to know she had not been singled out.

The word “chaos” was all the invitation Mrs. Wilson needed to launch into a discussion of the various illnesses and inconveniences of her household staff. Really, it was enough to put one off marriage entirely.

“Good evening, Miss Brent. Destry.” Lord Jess appeared beside her, dressed all in black. The small pearl-and-diamond stickpin that decorated his cravat was the only relief from the effect of midnight.

“I imagine that your valet must have discovered the theme for this evening as well,” Cecilia said by way of welcome.

“Something to do with night or darkness?” Destry guessed, then added, “Why wasn’t my valet given the information?”

“I have no idea, but Darwell was insistent that we wear these particular gowns.”

“Leonie Darwell is your lady’s maid?” Lord Jess asked. His surprise was tinged with something else she could not name.

He knew Darwell well enough to know her Christian name, Cecilia noticed. She took a step back, wondering if she had stumbled onto an ill-advised topic of conversation. “Yes, she is,” she began, then paused and began again. “That is, the countess arranged for her to care for us for the Season.”

It struck Cecilia that this was the perfect opening to find out how well Darwell knew Lord Jess’s valet. “Darwell seems to know your valet very well. His name is Callan?”

“Yes, Callan.” He considered the statement and then laughed and addressed Lord Destry. “That explains how he knew what the theme was. Darwell passed it on to him.”

He looked down at his coat as though noticing it for the first time. “He has been excessively meticulous with my appearance the last day or two. I accused him of trying to impress someone. If it is Darwell then I congratulate his good taste.”

That wasn’t much help. The tendre was news to Lord Jess. There would be no information from him after all.

“As for you, Miss Brent, Darwell is a loyal and talented maid. You and your sister could not have chosen better.”

It sounded as though he knew Darwell better than his own valet. What in the world did Lord Jess and Darwell have in common? Not that she dared ask.

Without an immediate response from her the silence grew awkward with the unasked question hanging in the air between them. How fortunate that he could not read her expressions the way Beatrice could.

Cecilia was spared the onslaught of complete embarrassment by the countess’s entrance. Finally.