Just One Kiss (2 page)

"I put bread in your belly and clothes on your back, you ungrateful little wretch!" A vile oath scorched the air. "God knows I get little enough in return, and yet you dare to steal from me! Well, no one steals from me, boy… no one! Now, come here!"

But Morgan did not move quickly enough to please his father. A rough hand clamped his narrow shoulder and yanked him forward; his shirt was ripped from his back like the frailest of cloth. A brutal snarl twisting his lips, O'Connor jerked the tattered remnants around the boy's wrists, binding them behind his back.

Thrust to the floor upon his knees, the boy stiffened at the sound of a cane being snatched from a hook on the wall.

It was a sound he knew well.

The first blow blazed through him like fire up the chimney. The lad called Morgan closed his eyes. He was the elder, he told himself, as his mother once had. He must be strong. He must be brave.

He must protect Nathaniel.

He braced himself for the next blow.

The whistle of the cane tore through the silence again and again, but the boy made not a sound, not a whimper or a cry. He could bear it, for this was for Nat, he reminded himself.

Always for Nat…

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Beacon Hill, 1854

It was too late to turn back.

Odd, that the thought should chain itself in her mind now, when she had come so very far. Indeed, across the vastness of an ocean…

Lady Elizabeth Stanton cast one last, almost pleading glance at the carriage from which she'd just alighted. As she watched the vehicle totter around the corner, a flurry of dust and fallen leaves rose in its wake.

Clutching her reticule, grasping her courage, she turned.

In one sweep, her anxious glance took in the sight before her. Elizabeth couldn't help it. There had been such pride in Nathaniel's voice as he'd described his home to her—and no wonder. She caught her breath, for the house that loomed before her was as grand as Nathaniel had promised. Indeed, she marveled, it was surely the height of Victorian grandeur, as stately as an English country mansion, as elegant as the finest London town house.

An ornate iron fence enclosed the whole of the property, yet despite the stark outline of tree branches and frozen lawn, it was not so very forbidding. Elizabeth could well imagine what it would be like with the bloom and brightness of spring upon its face: buds of flowers and trees stretching toward the sky.

The house itself was gabled and huge. She caught a glimpse of wispy white lace framing wide, stained-glass windows and resisted the urge to curl her white-gloved fingers around the iron and stare in sheer delight. She gave a tiny little laugh. Of course, she was being silly. Nathaniel was a highly successful American shipbuilder. Of course, his home would be beautiful.

As she stood there, a sight to brighten the late winter twilight, little did she realize the picture she presented. Her traveling dress was of dark gray silk, a trifle wrinkled perhaps, but the height of London fashion. Yet it was scarcely her clothing that made her stand out like a jewel among coal…

No, for her coloring was far too striking. Hair as shiny and brightly gold as a newly minted coin lay coiled beneath her hat. Her eyes were the vivid green of an English meadow in spring. No pale, fragile flower was Elizabeth Stanton. Sweet natured though she was, her carriage was one of pride and hinted at hidden strength. Yet all at once, Elizabeth did indeed feel small and insignificant… and very, very lost.

No, she thought again, grasping for the spirit that had sustained her these many weeks. It was too late to turn back. And she had yearned to see Nathaniel for so long now.

Memories sifted into her mind, one by one. So much had happened, she reflected with a faintly wistful sigh. So very much…

He'd taken London by storm, this brash young American named Nathaniel O'Connor. Handsome as sin, as charming as the Pied Piper of Hamelin, blond and bold and dashing, he was all the rage in London: No fewer than a score of women proclaimed themselves instantly in love with him. But of all the beauties in London, she was the one he pursued.

The one he'd wanted.

He'd been an outrageous flirt, of course. At first Elizabeth had thought his attention to her a grand joke. She was hardly irresistible and most certainly not the type to swoon over a man! Yet secretly she'd been flattered, for indeed, she considered herself no beauty at all! And so she'd teased him as unmercifully as he'd teased her, certain his interest would surely wane.

But over the next few weeks, his interest did not wane. And though she'd always considered herself possessed of a steady, level head, Nathaniel O'Connor proved a temptation she could not resist.

It made her tingle inside to think of him. She remembered the first time he'd kissed her. They'd been dancing at Lord Nelson's birthday celebration, a lively, vivacious waltz that left her breathless and laughing. He whisked her out onto the terrace and onto a small stone bench near the garden. Slowly the laughter left his face. With his fingers he cupped her nape, tilting her face upward. There, with the sweet scent of roses swirling all around, with her heart leaping wildly and her pulse pounding madly in her ears, he'd kissed her—a kiss that was something she'd never expected, yet all she wanted.

It wasn't so very long after…

They were sitting in the parlor of her father's London town house. Nathaniel took both her hands in his. "Elizabeth… something's come up, love. I'm afraid I must leave for Boston sooner than I expected."

The day had wrought such awful news already—little wonder that Elizabeth gazed at him, stricken. "Oh, Nathaniel, no! When? When must you leave?"

"Tomorrow, love. I sail with the morning tide." His hands gripped hers more tightly. "Elizabeth, please. Come away with me… marry me. Be my wife. I'll make you the happiest woman on this earth, if only you'll consent to be my bride."

Even as Elizabeth's heart soared as high as the stars above, it was burdened by a heaviness she could scarcely put aside.

"Nathaniel. Oh, Nathaniel, I want to… you don't know how much! But this day has brought us nothing but heartache! You know that terrible cough that has so troubled Papa these many weeks? Nathaniel, he is gravely ill…"

She was caught squarely between heaven and hell. As the only daughter of the Earl of Chester, how could she leave? Never had she seen Papa so sick—so weak! It frightened her. True, he was not alone. He had Clarissa, his wife of the past two years. But she, Elizabeth, was his only child, and she could not desert her father! At such a time, her place was at his side.

"When Papa is well, I will come to you in Boston. I promise, Nathaniel, as soon as I am able."

"I'll be waiting, Elizabeth. That,
I
promise."

When Papa is well
... Faith, but she had come to regret those words!

For Papa had remained ill for nearly a month. But his health was even more delicate than she had feared.

They'd buried him nearly six weeks ago.

The soft line of Elizabeth's lips tightened. Yet another memory returned unbidden, but this one was like a burr beneath her skin.

Elizabeth's mother had died of a lung infection when Elizabeth was a very young girl. For many years it was just the two of them, Elizabeth and her father. But as she grew to womanhood, she began to understand all of which her father never spoke. His loneliness. His yearning for a woman's companionship. For those reasons, she hadn't been surprised when the earl eventually married Clarissa Kenton, a widowed baroness from the neighboring shire.

Unfortunately, she and Clarissa had never come to be close, though the Earl of Chester was not aware of it. Though it was not in Elizabeth's nature to be mean-spirited, she found the new countess rather dour, ever practical, and occasionally condescending.

And never more so than on the day the earl's will was read.

Elizabeth was still half-numb with grief. Although it had pained her to say farewell to Nathaniel—indeed she had clung to him almost shamelessly—'twas with the certainty that they would soon be united. But she would never again see Papa, feel the comfort of his nearness, the warmth of his voice and laughter…'Twas that very thought that refused to be extinguished as she watched his coffin sink beneath the earth.

So it was that her mood was somber and she remained quiet as she and Clarissa sat in Papa's study, listening to the droning voice of Papa's solicitor, James Rowland. Her thoughts were vague and dull.

"Elizabeth!" Clarissa's voice rang out sharply. "Are you listening? I believe this next pertains to you."

Behind his spectacles, Mr. Rowland glanced between the two women. Had Elizabeth been more herself, she might have caught his unease. "Shall I continue?" he queried.

"Please do," Clarissa snapped.

Mr. Rowland cleared his throat and began to read. "Some of my most precious memories of my life are of my daughter, Elizabeth, and the time we spent together at Hayden Park, my country estate in Kent. For this reason I wish Hayden Park to pass to Elizabeth on the joyous occasion of her marriage, in the hopes that she and her new husband will continue to keep residence there."

Elizabeth was not surprised. She had expected that Papa would leave the bulk of his holdings to Clarissa, and so he had. But Hayden Park had always been special to her. She smiled in wistful remembrance, for she, too, carried many fond memories of happy days there.

Rowland continued. "In these, my last days, I have but one regret—that I will never see Elizabeth wed, for indeed, seeing her wed and provided for are my last remaining concerns. For this reason, I have charged the task of finding a husband for Elizabeth to my dear wife, Clarissa, for I know that she will see my wishes carried out."

Her slender hands folded neatly in her lap, Elizabeth had gone very still. When she spoke, her tone was very quiet. "Please explain, if you will, Mr. Rowland. Precisely what does this mean?"

Rowland's ruddy cheeks grew redder still. "Legally it means that possession of Hayden Park will not pass to you until you marry—"

Elizabeth's voice cut across his. "Does this also mean the choice of husband lies in my stepmother's hands?"

He had no time to answer. "Indeed it does, Elizabeth." Triumph abounded in both Clarissa's tone and her bearing as she turned toward her stepdaughter. She smiled, a smile that sent needles winging down Elizabeth's spine.

"But you need not worry, dear." Clarissa wasted no time in making known her intentions. "I have taken care of everything. Lord Harry Carlton is quite agreeable to marrying you. Indeed, I daresay he was quite happy when I approached him."

Elizabeth was stunned. At the age of twenty and one, she'd had several offers for her hand. Although Papa had at times been frustrated, he had not pressed the issue.

She knew Lord Harry, of course. He was the youngest son of the Marquis of Salisbury. His weight no doubt exceeded his girth; but it was not his appearance that had always disturbed her. No, the man was a lecher. It was there in every look, in the greedy way he eyed whatever woman might pass his way.

She felt sick—sick at heart. There was an awful tightness in her chest, a fear she could not give voice to, for then it would surely be real.

She prayed unknowingly.
Merciful Father, this cannot be. Let it not be true
.

The hands that had been folded so primly tightened in her lap. "I would understand you, Clarissa. You would have me marry Lord Harry?"

"Of course!" Clarissa smiled sublimely, yet her eyes were hard. " 'Tis an exceedingly good match, don't you think?"

Elizabeth filled her lungs with air. The fires of anger sizzled in her veins. By God, she'd not give herself over to a stranger—a man she did not love—a man chosen by her stepmother!

But she did not show even a hint of her fury. Instead she chose her words carefully. "You would make me do this, Clarissa? You would have me wed a man I have no desire to wed?"

Clarissa's smile withered. " 'Tis long past time you married, Elizabeth. And you'll do no better than Lord Harry." She folded her arms across her ample bosom and glared at her stepdaughter.

It was then Elizabeth saw in her stepmother's eyes the naked truth, the venom she had always sensed… the dislike Clarissa no longer masked. Clarissa hated her. Her concern was a travesty. Now that the earl was gone, she wanted nothing more than to be rid of her stepdaughter.

Elizabeth squared her shoulders. She angled her delicate chin high. If that was what Clarissa wanted—to be rid of her—she would most certainly see the deed done.

She allowed a faint smile to grace the fullness of her lips. "You are right, Clarissa," she stated coolly. "I will marry, but it will be to a man of my own choosing—and it will
not
be Lord Harry."

Clarissa snorted, a distinctly unladylike sound. "Who then? If you wait any longer, you may as well resign yourself to spinsterhood!"

"Nathaniel O'Connor asked me to marry him before he left for Boston," Elizabeth stated very quietly, "and I have already accepted."

"Nathaniel O'Connor? That bold, young American who lacked all semblance of grace and manners?"

The elder woman's disdain was more than evident. Though a burning retort simmered on her tongue, Elizabeth thought it best kept to herself.

"We disagree as to his character, Clarissa, but yes, he is the one."

"If he intended to marry you, then why did he return to Boston?" Clarissa's tone was one of sheer triumph. "And why did your father and I not hear of this?"

"Nathaniel has a business to which he must attend." Elizabeth faltered slightly, praying her stepmother wouldn't notice and wishing Nathaniel had given her a more detailed explanation. "I did not go with him because Papa was sick. And I didn't tell him for the very same reason."

"Ha! It was because you knew he would disapprove!"

Elizabeth battled an inkling of guilt. Somehow she managed to continue to hold her stepmother's accusing gaze. So what if Clarissa was right? She'd not let the old witch know it, not now, not ever!