One More Kiss

CHAPTER Nineteen





JESS WATCHED DESTRY toss back a brandy and pour himself another. Drinking recklessly was not Des’s style. Jess watched him drink the second one with equal disregard for the fine liquor it was.

Destry needed to talk, not drink, even though Jess knew exactly what the conversation would be about. Hell, he needed the distraction. The memory of kissing Beatrice was overwhelming even though it was, at best, a mistake in judgment and, at the worst, the first step toward deep and serious trouble. Pushing the issue as far out of his mind as he could, Jess moved the decanter up a shelf and away from Destry’s grasping hand.

“Give that bottle back to me!”

Destry tried to reach past him, but Jess merely stepped in his way and let an ineffectual punch land on his arm. The man was already foxed, Jess thought. How much had Destry had to drink before his performance?

No, he had been stone sober then. No one could juggle that well when drunk.

So he’d come to the game room and started in on the drink in the last hour. That was more than enough time for him to ruin the rest of his evening.

“You’re the last one to preach sobriety, Pennistan. Just last week I saw you drunker than five lords and demanding more!”

“In a gaming hell, Des. Not at a house party where ladies are present.”

“God, now you sound like a duenna.” Destry looked around. “The only lady here is Nora Kendrick, and her husband spent most of his life aboard a ship. She’s used to men who stagger.” He laughed at his own joke.

Des tumbled into a chair at one of the gaming tables. He tried to put his head in his hands, elbows propped on the table, but one elbow missed the edge and he almost hit his head, which would have done him no good at all.

He sat back and rubbed his forehead with both hands as though the headache had already started.

“It’s hopeless.” Destry’s flat voice was more convincing than the words.

“What is?” Jess sat in the nearest chair and played with the ivory counters, prepared to listen.

“Cecilia Brent will not even look at me, much less talk to me. Much less marry me.”

Jess made a face. “Are you not jumping ahead a little? There is something called courtship between talking and marriage.”

“Yes, yes.” Destry waved a hand in the air as if courtship and all the attendant formalities of a proposal were mere details. “Yes, but I can’t even start a courtship if she ignores me.”

“She was in front of the audience with you tonight. And judging by the scared-as-a-rabbit expression in her eyes, that was not a spot she enjoyed.”

“Yes, she was.” Destry brightened. “And you say she was scared? But she was wonderful.”

She did look wonderful, Jess remembered. She hadn’t had to do anything but hand Destry the occasional prop. “She watched you as though the performance was the most impressive display of juggling she had ever seen.”

“Yes,” Destry agreed. “And the way she handed me each piece with such a reassuring smile. Did you see the little crease between her brows when she thought I might be taking on too much? Even that was adorable.”

Listening was one thing, but doing so without laughing was asking too much. Jess disguised it as a cough. “She was a superior assistant,” he agreed, fairly sure that agreeing was all he had to do.

“Indeed she was, and like a tempting dessert in that delicious pink dress.” Destry’s eyes lost their focus and he went somewhere else for a few seconds. But he came back soon enough, his expression morose again. “She disappeared the minute she could, as though she regretted helping me. How do you explain that?” He jabbed a finger at him and Jess leaned back, pushing the finger away. “Jess, she’s too beautiful to even consider me.”

“Nonsense, Des.” This part Jess knew the answer to. “You are going to be a duke. You can have your pick.”

“She’ll refuse.” He looked around for his glass and then shrugged. He paused for a long moment. “It’s because I’m too short.”

Destry spoke as if height were the most important element in a courtship. But Jess knew what that comment indicated. Destry was wallowing in the well of self-pity. This observation was always at the very bottom. Now the only thing for a friend to do was to find a bed for the man and let him sleep it off.

Destry must have realized it himself. He stood up and staggered over to the long sofa in front of the fireplace. The sofa had a high back and was parallel to the unlit fireplace, the perfect spot for a couple to “talk” without being observed by the rest of the room.

It was also true that anyone lying on it would be invisible to everyone else. If he did not snore.

Destry stretched out with an arm over his face and was asleep, or more likely unconscious, in ten seconds.

Jess headed back to the drinks table, determined to savor the brandy that Destry had drunk so thoughtlessly. He poured himself a small glass, and as he sipped, he surveyed the space.

It was a generous game room with three tables set for play. Despite the size the room had a snug quality to it. Was it because the paintings that dotted the walls did not overwhelm the space? Most were drawings and he imagined that Beatrice Brent would much rather look at them than play cards.

If Cecilia were a confection, then Beatrice was a spicy treat. She was always so alive and she drew a man’s attention with her wit and élan as much as her sister did with her beauty. Instead of ending his interest, their shared, very much shared, kiss had only fueled it. It had also fueled an accompanying frustration.

Neither her father nor the countess would consider allowing him to spend an extended amount of time with her, even under the guise of a genteel flirtation. He already knew there would be nothing genteel about it. One kiss had proved that. She was much too curious, much too passionate to want anything less than a very thorough lesson. And that would put him on the road to marriage whether he wanted it or not.

Marriage worked for some, but not for him. As a bachelor he could wager what he wanted, when he wanted, without worrying about mouths to feed or a wife to clothe. He’d seen more than one friend’s leg shackled by marriage.

Jess could not imagine a life without games of chance, a world where the players were constrained by wives and money. Where there were no surprises left.

Lord Belmont came into the room and walked toward Nora Kendrick. Nora’s dog, Finch, was notable for his absence.

“Some wine, my dear?” Belmont asked as he made straight for the drinks table.

Nora Kendrick nodded and smiled, whispering to Jess. “Does he never stop drinking? And how is it that he does not slide from his chair onto the floor? He is fascinating.” She heard her own words and went on. “Fascinating in many more ways than that, I assure you.”

“I have never seen him in any state but sober,” Jess whispered back, feeling more like a marriage broker than ever. Was that his role at this party? So far it felt that way. “And I have never seen him take a drink until well after noon.”

“The admiral, my husband, had an impressive capacity but it did seem to affect—” Nora Kendrick stopped abruptly and then her mouth spread into a guilty smile. “My, my,” she said, “perhaps it is time for me to slow down as well.”

Belmont joined them, handing a glass to Nora Kendrick with a steady hand, and Nora must have decided that one more drink would not be too much after all. She touched her glass to the earl’s and took a small sip.

Before the three of them could begin a conversation, Crenshaw came into the room and the ambiance immediately changed from convivial to challenging.

“Time for play,” Crenshaw announced.

Destry popped up from his resting spot looking completely recovered; at least, he did once he smoothed his hair back.

Without waiting for agreement, Crenshaw walked to the farthest table, the one with the best light, Jess noted, and picked up the playing cards.

Destry sat next to him, and Belmont and Nora Kendrick took two chairs next to each other, apparently playing as one. The last to take a seat, Jess settled himself opposite Crenshaw.

Tonight he would do what he had come to do. Win back his land. Then he could leave without ever having to explain that misguided kiss to the oh-so-delectable Beatrice Brent.