One More Kiss

CHAPTER Twenty-eight





“INDEED, IT IS Mr. Brent,” Mrs. Kendrick said as even Finch gave a quiet bark of agreement. The three of them watched the warmth with which the countess and Beatrice’s father greeted each other.

“I think I know what self-interest the countess has at play tonight,” Mrs. Kendrick said. “She wants to dance with your father.”

“Dance with him? But how extravagant.”

“One of the advantages of being a wealthy widow is that you can spend your money any way you choose.”

Beatrice nodded, still astounded that the countess might go to such lengths to spend time with her father.

“Bear in mind that once her son and his new wife return from their wedding trip, the countess will no longer be the lady of the house. This is her last opportunity to entertain in the style she has perfected over the years.”

Lord Belmont and Jess joined them and any other thoughts of Beatrice’s papa and the countess evaporated.

Jess looked wonderful. His coat was a green superfine wool that reminded her of the colors the old masters used; its deep, deep green hinted at mystery. His eyes were not at all mysterious but he cringed, actually cringed, when his gaze fell on her.

“Miss Brent!” The earl’s surprise was genuine. “I wondered to whom Nora was talking.”

“Have you noticed that Mr. Brent has just arrived?” Nora brought them into the conversation with practiced skill. Though her father’s arrival was something Beatrice herself might have avoided mentioning since he and Jess were not on the best of terms.

“Yes, I saw him in the hall when he first arrived.” Belmont barely drew a breath before continuing. “Nora, come look at this wall with me. I think it has a secret door.” Belmont drew her away, leaving Beatrice and Jess together.

She watched them walk away as though all the air in the room went with them. She wondered if Jess felt the same way.


JESS COULD TELL Beatrice had seen him hesitate. What did it say about his gamer’s face that he had not been able to hide that reaction, which she would surely misinterpret? He had hoped to avoid her but only because being this close was so damn distracting.

Now he could see that she felt abandoned. The weather had been lovely, but she was unable to speak even that conventional courtesy. Despite her discomfort she looked especially lovely tonight, rather like a sprite who had deigned to join the mortals for the evening. The jeweled comb in her hair caught the light from the massive chandeliers and sparkled the way her eyes usually did. He knew just the way to bring that sparkle back.

“We must speak of something, Miss Brent. I am not going to leave you alone with no one to talk to. That would make me even less of a gentleman than I already am.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Tell me what you are thinking, Beatrice. It is much more entertaining than trying to think of something innocuous to say.”

“Why would you think I am hiding the truth, my lord?”

Because your voice is wooden and stiff and that is not at all like you. “Because you have very speaking eyes and at the moment they are not at all taken with my presence.”

“Very well,” she said firmly, raising her chin. “I was not looking forward to seeing you again after our last encounter.”

“Are you referring to our kiss?” He leaned close and whispered the obvious.

“Yes.”

“So you are deliberately avoiding me this evening?”

“Only as much as you are trying to ignore me,” she tossed back at him, nervous and unsure of how he felt now.

“Yes, I am avoiding you.”

That brought her attention back to him with a jerk. When she looked puzzled he reminded her, “Honesty, please.”

“All right. I assume you are avoiding me because of my inexperience. My first kisses were with you, and I was a complete failure at it.”

Perhaps that was a little more honesty than he needed at the moment. The reminder of that jolt of wanting made him want her all over again. “That is not the reason at all, Beatrice. Not at all.”

“Then why?” She stepped closer. The cluster of people behind him prevented him from taking a step back. He did not need to be any closer to her. At least now they were surrounded by chaperones.

“The truth, Jess,” Beatrice said, turning the tables on him.

“Think about it, little Venus. If you were not a failure at kissing, tell me, why else would I avoid you?”

When the light did not dawn, he raised her hand and kissed it. She was wearing gloves, of course, but he could feel the shiver run from her fingers up her arm. “That’s why.” He put his other hand on top of hers so that it was caught between his. “Because your touch does the same thing to me.”

She looked at their hands and then into his eyes. He saw confusion in hers. “But we hardly know each other. We have nothing in common.”

“Oh, my dearest Venus, what’s between us has nothing to do with anything but the desire to hold and be held. We could speak different languages and the wanting would still be there.”

“We may not speak different languages but we do live in different worlds.”

He could hear the heartache in her tone and would do anything to make her smile, to have her eyes light with curiosity. “And you wish we could meet in the middle, is that it?” Before she could answer an incensed voice came between them.

“I told you not to spend time in this man’s company, Beatrice. And what is the first thing I see? That you are practically in his arms. Must you always do the exact opposite of what I ask?”

Abel Brent startled them apart. His words were like a cold-water bath dumped on both of them.

“Good evening, Papa. How wonderful to see you here.” Beatrice kissed him on both cheeks, choosing to ignore his reprimand. “Lord Jess, I hope to have the chance to dance with you this evening. If you will excuse us I will help my father find Cecilia.”

Nicely handled, Jess thought. He bowed in response to her curtsy, now feeling committed to ask her to dance at least once. Her father gave him a scathing look, as if challenging him to even try to dance with her. He’d wager a guinea that the countess would be able to calm him down and acted on that certainty. It was only one dance, after all.

“It will be my pleasure to dance with you, Miss Brent.” Was playing along with her despite her father’s annoyance one way for them to “meet in the middle”?

Jess walked away, feeling her father’s glare like a dagger in his back. It was the first time in a very long while that he had been in a situation like this. But he was significantly older, if not wiser, now. He found himself looking forward to the dance and, if necessary, the confrontation with her father.


BEATRICE WATCHED JESS walk away and wished the dancing would begin. She hated the idea of arguing with her father among the company. She took his arm and told him as much.

“We will discuss it later,” he said firmly. “But you are not to dance with Lord Jessup,” her father added, ignoring his own words to “discuss it later.” “He has proven over and over that he is not the gentleman he was born to be.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together. If she responded to that accusation the discussion would begin here and now and would become an argument. She searched for something else to say.

“Did Roger come with you?”

“No, he stayed in London to discuss a design with one of his mentors,” her father said, and then went back to the subject she wished they would drop. “I trust by now you have heard of his involvement in Lord Crenshaw’s divorce, as well as his legion of mistresses and the fortunes he has won and lost. His own family does not receive him.”

His sister does, Beatrice wanted to say, just one breath away from arguing with him. Please, someone interrupt us.

As if in answer to her prayer, the orchestra played a chord calling everyone’s attention to the countess, who stood on the musicians’ platform.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Havenhall and our first ever dinner and ball.” She went on to explain the dinner service, each course to be followed by a period of dancing, and invited her guests to sit down to enjoy the first course and wines.

Beatrice and Cecilia were seated at one of the tables for eight with their father and the countess. The other seats remained empty long enough for her father to berate Beatrice yet again for accepting Lord Jessup’s invitation to dance.

“Abel, dancing with Lord Jess is perfectly acceptable,” the countess said.

“But you don’t want them together any more than I do.”

“Yes, but Jess has been the model of propriety this past ten days and we will be nearby.”

Neither one of them gave Beatrice any credit for behaving well. Did they think that she would melt into his arms without a thought? Actually, she admitted to herself, that’s exactly what had happened; being in his arms made thinking difficult and clear thinking nigh impossible.

Her father considered the countess’s words. Before he could comment further, Michael Garrett and his wife took two seats at the table, along with Marquis Destry and an older gentleman whom the countess introduced as Mr. Hogarth, the art curator and librarian of Havenhall. In answer to Beatrice’s excited question, the man acknowledged that, yes, he was related to the artist of the same name, but only distantly.

The conversation was general at first, leading Lady Olivia to comment, “I think tables for eight, be they round or square, are the best possible number for a dinner party. It allows for interesting group conversation and one-on-one as well, with no one left feeling neglected.”

They continued on in a general manner but soon the conversation became more directed, and Beatrice was so engrossed in her discussion of art with Mr. Hogarth that she could not have said what she ate, although she was quite sure she would have noticed if it had been either salmon or haricots verts.

She did notice that her father and Lord Destry were deep in conversation, but both Cecilia and the countess were listening to them, so it could not have been a discussion of anything too personal, like whether Lord Destry could pay his addresses to her sister.

As Beatrice and Mr. Hogarth finished speaking about the Canaletto mural at the end of the banquet hall, the orchestra struck a chord and the dance master invited, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take the floor for a set of reels.”

To her surprise, and a little dismay, her father did not ask the countess to dance, but came directly to her. With a mental groan she accepted his hand. Cecilia and Lord Destry were a couple, as were Michael Garrett and the countess. Lady Olivia explained that she did not enjoy dancing and would be delighted to talk with Mr. Hogarth about any books on cookery with which he might be familiar. Apparently it was a subject he knew well, as they immediately fell into a discussion of the writings of the celebrated chef Antoine Carême.

I want to be with them, Beatrice wailed to herself as she took the floor with her father and steeled herself for a lecture between steps. As luck would have it, each time he began to speak they would change partners. Eventually he realized that he had to pay attention to the dance, and even once asked her to remind him of the next step.

Beatrice realized that dancing was not something Papa had ever had an interest in, and wondered where and how he had learned so quickly. He performed very well, she thought, and she hoped that the countess appreciated his efforts.

As they progressed through the dance she saw that Lord Crenshaw was dancing with Miss Wilson. The two were spending a significant amount of time together, which was worrisome. What could she do to warn the girl without betraying Lord Jess’s confidence?

The others were also paired as one would expect. Destry made Cecilia laugh each time they came together, and Lord Jess had already made a conquest of one of the young lady neighbors whose name Beatrice could not recall.

As they left the floor, Papa held her back a moment. “Watch yourself, young lady.”

“Yes, Papa,” she answered with as demure a curtsy as she could manage, and then turned to find Lord Destry behind her, asking for the next dance.

“It’s going to be a waltz and I much prefer to dance with someone my own size or I will look ridiculous.”

“Which is not a very gracious way of explaining why you wish me for a partner, but since I feel the same about dancing in the arms of a tall man like Lord Jess I will make no complaint.”

Destry made one of his elaborate bows to her as the music started and the two of them set themselves in position for the dance, far enough apart to be decorous but as close as the dance dictated.

They moved quietly to the music until Beatrice noticed Lord Jess’s dancing partner.

“Lord Jess is dancing with Miss Wilson.”

Destry looked their way. “And appears to be having a serious conversation with her.”

“Where is Lord Crenshaw?” Beatrice asked.

“Dancing with Mrs. Wilson,” he answered, his voice sounding just as worried as she felt.

“Do you think Lord Jess is telling her about Lord Crenshaw’s,” she paused, trying to be discreet, “about his misdeeds?”

“What misdeeds would those be, Miss Brent?” Destry asked with a narrow-eyed interest.

“Um, his evil deeds,” she answered with some exasperation. “The way he treated his first wife.” She finally decided to be blunt. “Lord Jess told me the story.”

“He did?” It took Destry several turns to adjust to the bit of news, and as they danced Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on Jess and Miss Wilson. She looked intense and a little upset, but was keeping a polite smile on her face.

Relieved, Beatrice relaxed too soon, for a moment later Katherine broke away from Jess and left the dance floor, heading from the room.

“What should we do?” Beatrice asked.

“Keep dancing and do not give it any attention. With a waltz very few people will notice since it is such an intimate dance.”

They kept on moving but Beatrice was sure that Destry wanted the dance to be over as much as she did. They noticed Lord Crenshaw and Mrs. Wilson leave the floor, too. Crenshaw headed for Jess and Beatrice could not stand the suspense. Fortunately the music ended. At the same moment, Jess turned his back on Crenshaw and headed for the grand doors. Beatrice grabbed Destry’s hand and pulled him with her in the same direction.

“We must do something.”

“Miss Brent, no! Please stay here.”

She let go of his hand but was not about to stay behind.