One More Kiss

CHAPTER Five





JESS DID NOT intend to be the last to join the party, but his valet had dawdled and insisted on shaving him, and then ruined three lengths of linen tying his cravat.

“Who the hell are you trying to impress, Callan? None of the gentlemen here need a new valet.”

“Yes, my lord.” Those were his three favorite words. Followed by “Thank you, my lord” on the rare occasions when he was paid on time.

“Begone. You will be late to the servants’ table.”

“Yes, my lord,” Callan said, ignoring the order and giving a final brush to the dark blue coat that was Jess’s favorite.

With Callan’s directions he found the Long Porch easily enough, following the sound of laughter as it echoed down the corridor.

He had no idea whether the countess favored a structured sort of house party or if they would be left to find their own entertainment. Destry and Belmont could be counted on for a challenging game of cards even if Belmont did prefer more modest stakes than he did.

Were any of the ladies so inclined? The stakes would escalate when Crenshaw arrived, but for now gaming would be as cordial as the guests who were present, which meant altogether delightful.

The others were outside on the terrace. The Long Porch was not a porch at all, but a room with a wall of glass doors that opened onto a generous terrace. The stone terrace overlooked a carefully natural garden, clearly the work of Repton or one of his more talented students.

Jess had stopped at the drinks table to garner a glass of sherry when a woman emerged from the door leading to the terrace. It was Venus, or perhaps her twin.

The scent she brought into the room hinted at secrets and magic and made him want to draw her closer. This sister was even more tempting than the other. He took a step back.

“You and your sister are amazingly alike, Miss Brent.”

“Oh!” she said, raising a hand to her throat, apparently surprised by his presence. When she stepped fully into the room and saw who had spoken, her good humor returned.

“I assure you, my lord, my sister is far more beautiful than I am. As a matter of fact everything about her is beautiful.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Brent, but when I met her this afternoon, the only difference I noted is that she wears spectacles.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?” She came up to him, a confused smile replacing the flirtatious one.

“Your twin, I met your twin earlier today.”

“You met me, my lord.” She took yet another step, as though twelve more inches would make that clear, and then added, “Though she is my twin, my sister does not look anything like me.”

“Were you able to find your extra pair of spectacles?” Her scent enveloped him, her innocent eyes urging him on. Attraction replaced caution.

“Yes, but I only need spectacles when I am going to do close work or read.”

“Ah, I see. And is close work or reading important to you?”

“Both are, my lord.” She leaned closer and whispered, “There is a rumor about that I am a bluestocking.”

A rumor she did not deny or seem to find offensive.

“Then remind me not to play any games with you.” It was just as well that he had never been attracted to overeducated women. And yet he still enjoyed standing close to her.

“You already are playing games, my lord,” she said with a directness that should not have surprised him.

He took a deliberate step back, but her scent lingered between them. “You see, that is why I find educated women so unappealing. They have no sense of humor.” He winced at the snub even though it was deliberate.

Beatrice Brent looked as though he had slapped her and he felt such regret. Surely he could have nudged her away with something less hurtful.

“I have a friend, a gentleman friend, who maintains that educating women would double the development of new ideas and inventions.”

“Miss Brent, my greatest fear is that a woman will discover exactly how uneducated most gentlemen are.”

“Do you number yourself among them, my lord?”

“Yes, and rather proud of it.”

She looked disappointed.

“You see, I am able to live happily in my ignorance and enjoy the pleasures of life without a worry for troublesome ideas and debates.” That was better, he thought, and drank his sherry in one gulp. “While those who think and study develop wrinkles and worrisome tics and are still not able to change what is wrong with the world.”

“You do not really mean that, do you?” Her eyes were wide with dismay.

He poured himself another tot of sherry, then faced her once again. “Yes, I do. The world is what it is, and the sooner we accept our place in it the happier we will be. These endless efforts to improve ourselves, to care for the poor, and to teach everyone their letters are misguided attempts to prove that we are not innately selfish at best and little better than animals at worst.”

Beatrice blinked and slowly shook her head. “I am so sorry for you, Lord Jessup. Your life must be singularly empty. Do you have any friends?”

He slapped his glass down and was relieved when it did not break. “You were not listening. Another failure of educated women. I am doing exactly what I want to do and am exactly where I want to be. Can you say the same, Miss Brent?”

She had no answer for him. Not in words at least, but he had hit a responsive chord. He could read it in the way she lowered her eyes from his.

Jess was sorry if he had damaged her sensibilities but he was not going to apologize. This was exactly one of the pitfalls of meaningful conversation. There was too much potential for offense. In this case that was just what he had intended.

The silence stretched between them, and in it was a more honest answer to his question than anything she could have said. He resisted the urge to soothe and comfort, to placate with winning words and honeyed charm. What he really wanted to do was draw her into his arms and show her what pleasure they could find if she would just stop thinking so hard. Of course doing that would completely upend this painful effort to put some distance between them.

The door from the corridor opened and someone came into the room. Before Jess could turn to see who it was, Miss Brent called out. “Lord Crenshaw! How lovely to see you.” She hurried across the room and curtsied to the gentleman. His equally happy welcome indicated that they were of some long-standing acquaintance.

Crenshaw took her hand and bowed over it, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

She withdrew her hand but still retained a welcoming smile equal to any she had shared with him. The minx. So she was that friendly with everyone.

“Do you know Lord Jessup Pennistan?” Miss Brent asked with guileless pleasure, apparently unaware of exactly how well the two knew each other.

“Yes, I do.”

The man’s curt answer drew a mystified glance from Miss Brent, her gaze shifting from him to Jess.

“Pennistan” was the extent of Crenshaw’s greeting.

Jess answered with a nod of his own and silence.

Miss Brent’s brow wrinkled with curiosity, but she chose to relieve the tension by taking Lord Crenshaw’s arm. “We must announce you to the countess, my lord. And Cecilia will be so pleased to see you.”

“I bask in your joy alone, Miss Brent.”

Little Venus blushed at the effusive compliment and Jess wondered if Crenshaw was courting her. An educated woman was not his usual flirtation, but then Miss Brent’s fortune might make him willing to overlook her bookishness.

That could not be permitted.

Jess watched the two of them go out to the terrace and fortified himself with another tot of sherry, doing his best to convince himself that Venus did not need to be rescued. And if she did, there was time to consider how best to save her from the bastard.


BEATRICE WATCHED AS the countess welcomed Lord Crenshaw. After a brief conversation she excused herself and turned to her other guests. Crenshaw scanned the small group and moved purposefully back to Beatrice’s side.

Before he could speak, the countess clapped her hands and waited for everyone’s attention. Only those closest to her heard. Beatrice saw Cecilia jump at the sound and knew her sister’s nerves were winning. Even as she tried to think of a way to excuse herself from Lord Crenshaw she felt someone tap her arm.

“Excuse me, Miss Brent. Could I stand with you? My mother is ill this evening and I am not at all comfortable on my own.”

“Of course.” Beatrice wound her arm through Miss Wilson’s, wondering why this girl thought she herself was any more comfortable. She and Cecilia might be two years older than Miss Wilson but they were not at all used to society.

“Miss Wilson, do you know Baron Lord Crenshaw?” She stepped back so that she stood between the two but not in front of them. She heard the countess try for everyone’s attention one more time and winced at the poor timing of her introduction. Neither Miss Wilson nor Lord Crenshaw seemed to be aware of the countess’s efforts.

“Lord Crenshaw,” Miss Wilson murmured with a curtsy.

“Lord Crenshaw, this is Miss Wilson,” Beatrice went on.

Crenshaw bowed to her. “I know your parents and your older sister. How lovely to have the second of the Wilson trio out in society.”

“There are actually four of us, my lord. But Betty is still in the nursery.”

“My apologies for neglecting your sister.” He bowed again and Beatrice thought his manners a little too precise. In this gathering Lord Crenshaw was not as informal as he was at the Assemblies. Beatrice considered what that might mean. Did he view her differently than he did Miss Wilson?

The sound of breaking glass drew all their attention.

“Neither conventional nor economical but it worked, did it not?” the countess called out in the silence that followed. “I am delighted that you are all such enthusiastic conversationalists and trust that by now everyone knows everyone else.”

The company looked around, nodding and smiling. Beatrice had met everyone and had been disconcerted to see that her father had stayed on with the group for the time being. But not Roger. No, Papa had probably sent him on to London. How disappointing.

“Lord Crenshaw has joined us just in time for dinner,” the countess continued.

Everyone turned to him, bowing and curtsying, except Lord Jessup, who stood near the terrace doors. It confirmed in her mind that there was some sort of bad blood between them.

Who would know? Whom could she ask? It was more than curiosity, she decided. She and Cecilia needed to be armed with all the information possible as they made their way through the unknown that was the ton.

She scanned the company and decided to wait until she found out who was most inclined to gossip, just a little. Suddenly it occurred to her: Darwell, their maid. She had lived among the ton for years, her whole life. Beatrice imagined that as a maid there was probably not much she didn’t know about the principal players at the party. About Lord Jessup, the Earl of Belmont, Baron Crenshaw, and Marquis Destry. Perfect, she thought.

“We are also joined this evening by Mr. Abel Brent, who will be leaving soon for London and will return later in the week. His daughters, Miss Beatrice Brent and her sister Miss Cecilia, are my honored guests and as welcome as my own children would be if my son and daughter-in-law were not abroad on their wedding trip.”

Several in the group applauded lightly and the countess smiled at their good wishes.

“After dinner we will gather in the Gold Salon and I will tell you what I have planned for the week, and you can discuss what entertainments you can contrive for yourselves and each other.”

Beatrice heard someone laugh a little and saw Marquis Destry press his lips together.

The countess gave him a look of reproof, undermined by the amusement in her eyes. “In a few minutes dinner will be announced. I would like to invite the Marquis Destry to escort me, and the rest of you may follow as informally as you wish.”


JESS WATCHED THE Brent sisters, as Destry elaborated on how they could “contrive to amuse” themselves. Lewd comments to which Jess refused to respond with anything more than a laugh. He was already the countess’s least favorite guest. No reason to risk being sent home like a misbehaving schoolboy.

“The Brent sisters are intriguing,” he said at last.

Destry nodded, distracted from his bawdy game. “The taller one, Miss Cecilia, is one of the loveliest women I have ever seen.”

“Blond hair, blue eyes.” Jess made the inventory as though he had not noticed her before. “Quite pretty.”

“Pennistan, that’s like saying a Rembrandt is quite nice. She is a diamond and will take society by storm.”

Destry was right. Cecilia’s blond hair was thick and beautifully coiffed, her skin that lovely peaches-and-cream shade that looked sun-kissed even on the rainiest of days. Her very blue eyes were friendly enough and her mouth was a pink bow of perfection.

“Maybe,” Jess half agreed. “But look how uncomfortable she is. You can see the tension in her body, the way she stands so still as though she’s holding a pose. She’s not easy here. She looks like she is afraid someone will look beyond her beauty and find her wanting.”

“Then credit her with brains enough to realize that there is more to a woman than beauty.”

“Defending her, are you?” Yes, Jess could see the little man was quite taken with the angel of perfection, not just by his words but by the way he kept glancing around to see where she was or who she was talking to.

It was more than his usual restlessness. This was focused.

Marquis Destry and Miss Brent. What an odd couple they would make.

“Miss Beatrice is lovely in her own way,” Jess observed. “She has a quiet beauty that one does not notice at first. I expect her looks will only improve as she ages.”

Destry nodded, still all but dancing on the balls of his feet. “They each have much to admire.”

“You can’t marry both of them, Des,” Jess said, annoyed. A besotted Destry could grow to be a bore.

“Don’t want to marry both,” Destry answered shortly. “Just proving I am not blinded by Miss Cecilia’s beauty. Most likely they are different in more ways than their size.”

Jess watched Destry watch Miss Brent, the beauty, and turn away the moment she glanced in his direction.

“I would wager a quid that they’re as different as it is possible to be,” Jess mused.

“A bet I will not take for a number of reasons, not the last of which is that I can guess what method you would use to win.” Destry’s gaze drifted to the Brent sisters again, even though he could only see their backs.

The man was already becoming predictable.

“You don’t think she will give me the time of day, do you, Jess?”

“I have no idea, Des; attraction is strange and indefinable. Who would have thought that my oh-so-proper duke brother would marry a woman who had spent her life among musicians in Italy, even if she was the disinherited daughter of a duke?” Belatedly he remembered that the new duchess was Destry’s aunt.

“When you see them together you know it is a love match.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Jess said, relieved that Destry was not offended, even if the man was beginning to see the whole world through the prism of the lovesick. He had barely even met the woman. “Or that my brother David would marry such a lively ingénue as Mia Castellano.”

“She is that. Did you know we were engaged for a time?”

“You and Mia Castellano?”

“Certainly not me and Lord David.”

“Good God.” Jess felt more shocked than mortified at his second gaffe. “I’m sorry if mentioning her brings painful memories.”

“Not at all. She is a delightful woman,” Destry said with apparent goodwill. “We both agree now that we are too much alike for a marriage to have worked with anything less than a shouting match on a daily basis. As a matter of fact, the disagreements had begun even before our engagement ended.”

“She and David do seem to thrive on their frequent arguments.”

“As you said, there is no accounting for what will make a marriage work.”

Which was not what he had said at all, but before he could correct Destry the butler announced dinner. Thank God. They were nattering on like a couple of old ladies observing the dance floor.

As he watched, Mr. Brent approached his daughters. Cecilia look relieved, Miss Beatrice a trifle vexed. Jess smiled to himself. Would she be as vexed if he had offered her his arm?