One More Kiss

CHAPTER Twenty-five





FROM THEN ON wagers were tossed back and forth with abandon. Several languished with no one accepting the offer.

“A guinea to the person who can name the breed of our chickens.” Lord Jess held up a coin.

No one answered until Nora Kendrick came up behind him and grabbed it.

“They are female Devon Old Pegs!”

“Never heard of ’em.” Crenshaw held up a coin. “A guinea says Mrs. Kendrick made it up.”

“My lord, they are a relatively new breed. The admiral was fond of chickens so I am more familiar with them than most ladies are.” Nora was smiling broadly and Jess could not tell if she was being honest or not.

Lord Crenshaw was convinced and admitted defeat by handing over his coin with a gracious bow.

“I think Crenshaw gave in too soon,” Belmont called out. “I wager two guineas that Nora made up that name after all.”

Mrs. Kendrick merely raised her brows and they all turned to the keeper, who rubbed his chin and then spoke.

“Cannot say I ever heard of Devon Old Pegs, my lady,” he said, “though they may exist. These are indeed a new breed but they are called Derbyshire Redcaps, madam.” He touched his forelock in apology.

“Well, at least I fooled one of you,” Nora said, not noticing the spasm of anger that twisted Crenshaw’s face before he regained control of himself.

“Let the race begin,” Lord Destry bellowed, all impatience. As restless as the chickens, Jess thought.

“No!” Beatrice objected. “First we must pick our team of hens.”

The ladies gathered by the cage as they chose their runners. Miss Wilson named them Roxie and Molly.

“Laugh if you dare,” Beatrice challenged as the ladies moved behind the fabric wall. “Roxie and Molly will race all the better for having names.”

“Not being burdened with names, ours will run like the wind,” Destry announced as Jess gestured for the fowl to be released.

“Wait! Wait!” Beatrice called out again and everyone groaned. “Can we turn them toward the finish line if they become confused?”

“Yes, but only if you are willing to touch them yourself with your own hands. No servants allowed.” Jess wondered if the will to win would overcome Beatrice’s natural wish to avoid a henpeck.

“A guinea that there will be a hen fight the minute they are released from the cage.” Lord Crenshaw won his guinea from Lord Belmont.

“Belmont obviously knows nothing about hens,” Destry said to Cecilia.

Jess noticed that while she did not ignore him, she did no more than nod.

Beatrice decided to champion Molly. Jess watched her, not the hens, and grinned at her enthusiasm, the way she wrinkled her brow at Molly’s disinterest.

“This is a race, Molly! Money is at stake. Possibly even your life!”

The four chickens responded to the boisterous shouting and encouragement, each in her own way. Molly and Nameless Number One pecked the earth, ignoring the noise. Roxie headed toward the finish line with purpose but was distracted when Lord Destry whistled.

“You can’t whistle like that!” Beatrice shouted. “That’s not fair, is it, Lord Jess?”

Jess folded his arms, and rocked back on his heels. “Whistling is perfectly acceptable.”

“Of course you say so since Lord Destry is on your team.”

“Of course,” Jess said, holding back a laugh.

She gave him a threatening look, but he was sure she saw the laughter in his eyes.

At that moment Nameless Number Two flew toward the ladies, though she could not make it over the wall. Even so all of the ladies screamed, except Nora Kendrick, but even she took a step back.

Having achieved her wish to wreak terror on the humans, Nameless Number Two settled to the ground and began a prosaic search for seeds and insects.

Molly began to move with significant speed, but in the wrong direction.

With a “No!” Beatrice lifted her skirts to a rather unladylike height and stepped clear over the wall. She grabbed Molly from behind, a move so unexpected, by the hen at least, that Molly was not able to elude her. The hen squawked with such vehemence that once she was facing the right direction Beatrice ran from the course and back to the relative protection of the wall.

Apparently Molly blamed Roxie, the hen nearest her, for the interference and a classic hen fight began. The keeper brushed them apart with a broom, urging them toward the finish line, but the two seemed set on bickering. It took another try for the keeper to separate them successfully.

Then Roxie turned her head and, with one eye, stared at Katherine Wilson. “What did I do? I didn’t do anything,” she insisted, stepping behind Nora Kendrick.

Suggestions flew back and forth on Roxie’s motivations until Lord Belmont called out. “I will pay a shilling to anyone who can stay quiet for one minute.”

Murmurs all around before silence settled on the group. Now all that could be heard was the pecking and squawking of the hens. Lord Destry picked up Nameless Number One and set her in the correct direction, a few feet ahead of her starting point.

One of the ladies protested, very quietly, but it was a sound, and Belmont held out his hand for a guinea. Beatrice handed him a marker and pressed her lips together.

As the end of the minute approached one of the chickens moved purposefully and directly for Lord Crenshaw’s boot, the toe of which was under the edge of the fabric. Everyone pressed forward and saw Crenshaw lift his foot and kick the fowl toward the center of the run, without force but without any care, either.

Jess saw Destry draw in a breath to protest, but then Cecilia put a hand on his arm and he stayed silent.

A few seconds later when Lord Belmont called the minute, Destry bowed to Cecilia. “You saved me from myself. I and my shilling thank you.”

Cecilia curtsied back to him, her eyes more thoughtful than her smile. “My lord, his anger was barely contained. I was worried about more than your wealth.” His huge smile must have made Cecilia rethink her comment. “I mean that I did not want any unpleasantness to upset us again.”

Des inclined his head, but Jess could tell by his expression that Destry felt his apology had finally been accepted.

Lord Crenshaw wagered that the ladies would lose interest before the hens ever made it to the finish line. Lord Belmont accepted. Crenshaw lost. For with the return of the noise, or perhaps it was the grain Belmont scattered at the end of the run, three of the contestants moved more or less toward the finish.

Miss Wilson protested when Destry nudged Nameless Number Two toward the finish line and away from an apparently appealing insect hidden in the grass.

Lord Crenshaw wagered a guinea that none of the ladies would be willing to pick up either Molly or Roxie after the race ended. Where had he been when Beatrice had turned Molly around, Jess wondered.

Beatrice promptly accepted as did Cecilia and Nora Kendrick. Then Beatrice spent a hilarious minute chasing the elusive Molly. Finally, breathless, her hair tumbling down her back, she nabbed the hen and returned her to the cage. They both received a reward. Molly’s was edible.

Jess had no idea why such a wave of longing washed through him as he watched her. There was something about her that drew him in, and he was just as charmed by her laughter as he was by the way she sobered and quietly handed her guinea to the keeper. All the while she seemed completely unconcerned about her mussed hair and blotchy cheeks.

The last wager was from Lord Belmont. He insisted that Roxie would make it back to the cage in record time to try to claim her part of the prize. Several accepted and Belmont had to pay up when Roxie fell off the edge of the ha-ha, tumbling three feet down, stunned but apparently unharmed.

Roxie’s indignant squawks left everyone laughing. The keeper fetched her and Jess hoped that the fall would not mean Roxie went to the stewing pot while still so young.

Jess watched Beatrice as she tried juggling her coins according to Des’s instructions. She pressed her lips together and concentrated with a determination that made him aware of exactly how intense this woman could be. Before he could censor his thoughts, he imagined that same intensity in bed and groaned as his body responded to the fantasy.

Roxie’s state of health was the least of his worries.

Slowly the group made its way back to the house. Jess did not wait for Beatrice, but at some point she abandoned her attempts to juggle and walk at the same time and caught up with him.

When she reached his side, she stopped and put her hand on a giant beech, as though she still needed to catch her breath.

“Do not even mention this to Lord Destry, or Cecilia, come to think of it, but that was much more fun than last night’s experience. Does that mean I would prefer wagering on horse races to games at table?”

“I think you make the most of any opportunity life puts before you. Your curiosity is one of your greatest gifts.” He did not mean to sound as serious as he did.

“How kind of you to say so.” Her expression showed some surprise. “Mama said it was one of my greatest faults. She did not see it as curiosity but called it my inability to accept life as it is without questioning everything.”

Her cheeks were pink now; the blotchy look had faded. She had smoothed her hair at some point but it still spilled down her back, making him wonder why women felt compelled to pin it up. Ah, he realized, women didn’t, but ladies did.

And he knew why. He knew. Right now she was everything he had ever wanted in a woman and completely irresistible.

“Mothers surely see things differently than gentlemen.” Lovers was what he wanted to say and stopped the word just in time. “Mothers want to protect their chicks, do they not? Gentlemen love the idea of a curious young lady, which I do believe we proved earlier today.”

“I suppose we did, but you see, the problem with a kiss like that is it only makes me more curious.”

“It cannot happen again, you do understand that?” he insisted.

She nodded, a hand on her mouth as though holding something back. What did it say about how little he understood her that he did not know if it was laughter, tears, or curses?

When Beatrice did not move, he did, heading toward the river with the aim of spending some time in, or at least very near, cold water, because he knew exactly what she had not said. She might understand but it did not mean she would obey.


BEATRICE WALKED SLOWLY back to the house. Her heart was pounding as though the kiss against the tree had just happened. Yes, his kisses had been her first but she could not imagine any other man’s kiss inciting more passion. Her body was awakened in ways that were unfamiliar and shocking.

She wished Jess had not stopped, but was relieved that he had. Still, she wondered when they could find a quiet spot and kiss again.

It might not be the wisest thing to wish for but they were both adult enough to stop before it went too far. Hadn’t Jess proved that?

She ignored the truth that it had taken her all of five minutes to walk on steady legs after their encounter. Beatrice tried to bury the longing for more in the back of her mind and hurried to the house.

As she reached the patio Beatrice could see Lord Destry and Cecilia coming across the lawn together, deep in conversation. The marquis walked with his hands behind his back and listened to whatever Cecilia was saying with much waving of her hands. Beatrice wondered what they could be talking about, but was thrilled that they were talking.

The house party had settled into a lovely rhythm of entertainments, meals, and the occasional outing. The countess knew exactly what was needed to keep her guests from boredom. Was that a natural skill or something she had learned? Beatrice decided that experience helped, but that it could be learned through observation.

Was it not interesting that the same did not apply to every skill? She was sure that making love came from experience and that observation had very little to do with it. And she was sure that Lord Jess had a great deal of experience. She did not, she thought with sudden chagrin.

The kiss to end all kisses was back in her head again and her body reacted with the same shivering want that had enveloped her when she was in Jess’s arms. She tried to ignore the restlessness and quickened her pace as if she could outrun the longing.

As she drew close enough to hail her sister and Destry, Beatrice could see it was the marquis’s turn to speak. Whatever he was saying was making Cecilia look at him with surprise.

Beatrice decided to walk in a different direction and allow the two some time to finish their conversation, whether it was a beginning of something or the end.

After a week she had some sense of the house. Examining the art had taken her all the way to the attics, where she had discovered some truly terrible examples of sixteenth-century art and some lovely floral sketches, which she had admired so much that the countess had made her a gift of them.

Now she made her way from the main floor to the second and then up to the third, ignoring the statue of a couple in an intimate embrace and the painting of a man and woman who had eyes only for each other.

Where was a landscape when you needed one? Not a wild chaotic sea scene, but a meadow in the afternoon sun with animals grazing. Even in a painting like that there would probably be some dairymaid and shepherd dallying in the woods.

Beatrice found herself in one of the bedroom wings, one that was facing east. It was a section favored by the gentlemen who rose early to ride, or those who welcomed the sun. As she hurried down the corridor looking for a footman to show her the way out, she heard someone crying.

She froze. It was a woman, surely. But what would a woman, other than one of the serving maids, be doing in this wing? Crenshaw popped into her head and she moved more purposefully toward the sound. She came around a corner and saw a couple standing in a doorway.

“What am I to do?”

For the love of God, it was Darwell. Darwell crying was as hard to accept as her father laughing uncontrollably.

“Crenshaw has not actually set his sights on the Wilson girl. This is a house party, Leonie. He is entertaining himself with what is available.”

Beatrice had no idea who Darwell was talking to but clearly it was someone she knew well, who called her by her Christian name. Beatrice thought a moment. It was Daniel Callan, Lord Jess’s valet, she was almost sure of it. Darwell had mentioned him more than once. They seemed very close, much as she and Cecilia had suspected.

“He may be only flirting now, but he will soon realize that Miss Wilson is the perfect match. Miss Beatrice would have realized how poorly suited they were eventually. Miss Wilson”—Darwell sighed—“she is too eager to please, too easily led.” She lowered her head to Callan’s shoulder and his arm came around her. “I watched him ruin one woman’s life. I cannot let that happen again.”

Beatrice backed up and retraced her steps. She did not need to hear any more to know what had upset Darwell.

Beatrice wondered how she could help, what she could do.

She was so lost in thought that she finally had to ask a footman for help in finding her room.