One Scandalous Kiss (13 page)

She stood again, though she held on to the table edge to stop herself from listing. Goodness, if this was what intoxication felt like, she couldn’t imagine why her father had been so keen on it. He’d been a man who prided himself on his intelligence, yet at the moment Jess wasn’t certain she could recall her full name if called upon to do so.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Darnley.” Or was it Lady Julia? The rules were so confusing. She was an earl’s daughter, yet she’d married a mister Darnley. “Er, Lady Julia. Do forgive me. Yes, you saw me kiss your brother in Mayfair. But it was only for money. Quite a lot of it. I tried to give it to the bank, but they wouldn’t take it. Wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.”

Her words sped up and tumbled over one another as she spoke and a great weight, like a heavy drape, drew down around her. She bent to sit, but either the chair had moved or she’d missed it completely. She sank down to the floor, only her stiff petticoat with its small attached bustle and the frame of her corset keeping her from melting into the carpet completely.

She heard, as if from far away, Mrs. Darnley shriek. The woman certainly did exclaim a great deal. And then that voice, as dark and deep as a bottomless pool, the one that haunted her dreams—Lord Grimsby. He was angry.

“No, I shall take her. Eat your blasted pudding, Robert, and kindly take your hands off of her.”

“I have smelling salts.”

“She hasn’t fainted, Julia. Miss Wright has had a bit too much wine.” Jess’s chest warmed to hear the same note of concern in Lady Stamford’s tone she recalled hearing in her mother’s voice whenever she’d fallen ill as a child. “Careful, Lucius. Gently.”

Jess felt herself lifted, scooped up and collected into arms much bigger than her own, and pressed against a firm chest, a man who smelled achingly familiar. She couldn’t resist turning her head toward his shoulder to take a deeper breath of him. Lord Grimsby smelled like cloves. No, maybe not cloves, but some spice, rich and evocative, for which she didn’t know the name.

As Lord Grimsby carried her from the dining room, she heard Mr. Wellesley call out. “Do save her some custard. She’ll be cross she missed it.”

Jess couldn’t help grinning.

“He amuses you, does he? He amuses many women.”

They were so far away from the dining room when he finally spoke, Jess had already forgotten about Robert Wellesley. She’d nestled her head against Lord Grimsby’s shoulder and was enjoying his scent and the warmth of his body, even delighting in the way a strand of his soft black hair brushed against her nose as he moved.

“You smell like spice. And starch. And a bit like leather, like a new leather-bound book.”

He smelled delicious, much more appealing than the custard. And she felt safe in his arms, just as she had in the gallery. Even with the glares, condemnations, and gasps of outrage, his arms around her and his gaze locked with hers had insulated and protected her for that single moment of pleasure. He’d managed to exude strength and solidity, even in that heated, reckless moment.

They’d reached the door of her sitting room. Her bedroom was just a few steps away, but it wouldn’t have been proper for him to take her there. She could reach her bedroom through a connecting door in her sitting room, if she managed to walk that far.

He turned the doorknob without dropping her and carried her to the long settee in front of the fire. He bent to place her on the furniture gently, almost as if she’d sustained some injury. Then he sorted out her dress, making sure her skirts were settled just right and even slipping her flimsy but fashionable shoes from her stockinged feet. His ministrations felt lovely. Jess had never been fussed over so tenderly in her life.

“I’ll have some tea sent up.” He’d already stepped away from her and was halfway to the door.

She didn’t wish him to go, but she knew propriety dictated it.

“Please.” Her mouth felt suddenly dry as dust, but the word came out with a rasp. She had no idea what she was pleading for, didn’t want to think about what she might be asking.

He looked as confused as she, but he crossed the room toward her again. He crouched down, examining her from head to toe in the dim fire glow.

“Are you well, Miss Wright? Were you injured when you fell? There is a doctor in the village—”

“No.” Her voice was hoarse, though she couldn’t recall saying much of anything in the past few hours. “I am well,” she managed, though the edges of the walls tilted around her.

Lord Grimsby seemed the one stable object in the room and she reached for him.

He reached for her too, and she thought he meant to touch her, caress her, that she might get to taste his kiss again. Instead he laid the back of his hand against her forehead as her father had done when he feared she might have a fever. Lord Grimsby’s skin felt refreshingly cool against her own. Perhaps she was feverish.

“You’re a bit flushed.” He turned his hand as he spoke, running his fingers across her temple, down, sliding across her cheek. “Your skin is warm.” He cupped her face in his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth against her flesh. “And so soft.”

Jessamin licked her lips, and he shifted his gaze to her mouth. Surely the warmth he’d felt on her forehead had all rushed to her lips. Her mouth burned in anticipation. She’d kissed him once because she had to, and once he’d touched her as if he wished to kiss her, but now she wanted his kiss, ached for it. His kiss. Only his.

He took a deep breath and pulled his hand away. She spluttered, not unlike his sister. A little moan of frustration erupted from inside and she saw him bite his lip before he stood, turning away from her and toward the fire.

Head throbbing, Jess just wanted sleep. If the spice-scented man wasn’t going to kiss her, she wished him gone so she could sleep and, please God, not dream about him.

After several moments of silence, her eyelids grew heavy. Fighting the drowsiness, she watched the dark outline of the viscount, limned by the amber firelight. But the fatigue was winning. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, promising herself she’d open them again. She only managed one, peeking at the viscount as he stood, head down, his palm braced on the fireplace mantel.

Then he turned swiftly, approached, and leaned over her, one hand on the back of the settee, the other on the pillow near her head, capturing her but not touching her.

“I have one bit of advice for you, Miss Wright. Heed this. Robert is no man to set your cap at. He is inconstant.” He had been watching her, but he bowed his head a moment before meeting her eyes again. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

If not for the serious look on Lord Grimsby’s face, Jessamin might have laughed. She wasn’t the kind of woman a man deserved or didn’t. She was no great catch, nor did she wish to be. An equal, a partner—that’s what she might be lucky enough to find one day. But she wouldn’t find him among this aristocratic world of viscounts and earls and second sons of second sons.

Lord Grimsby bent his body closer to hers, leaning toward her so that their chests nearly touched. She could sense the heat and weight of him above her and fought the urge to lift her arms and pull him closer.

He kissed her forehead, his lips firm, his breath warm against her skin. “Remember that next time he amuses you.” Never lifting his head, he skimmed his lips down from her forehead and pressed a brief kiss against the tip of her nose. “Remember it next time he flirts with you.” He titled his head, his mouth hovering over hers. He breathed in deeply before turning his face to the left, brushing his lips across her cheek, lingering near her ear, nuzzling her there before pulling back. “Remember it when he tries to seduce you.” His kissed the corner of her mouth, touching his tongue to the seam just at the edge of her lips.

Then he pulled away slowly, hesitantly, and left without another word.

Chapter Fourteen

J
ESS WOKE WITH
a start, overwhelmed with fear that she’d forgotten to lock up the money box in the bookshop’s office. She sat up quickly and instantly regretted it. A thunderous banging echoed in her ears. No, in her head. And when her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the fireplace, she realized she wasn’t in her room above the shop at all. She was at Hartwell, and it had to be quite late because she’d already dined and . . .
Oh no. Please no.

Dribs and drabs of memories came back—mouths drawn down in disapproval and gasps of shock as she’d uttered awful things. She’d said something of her politics and—
why oh why?
—confessed to kissing the viscount for money. She’d fallen, or had nearly done so. Who would have guessed she’d ever feel such gratitude for her corset? In the end, it was the only thing that held her up.

Along with the thumping in her head, embarrassment and regret bubbled like a sickly stew in her belly. Why had she allowed herself so much wine? And why had she let her tongue race ahead of her good sense? Despite all that had happened in the last month, she still believed she possessed a bit of it. Whatever Father’s flaws, he’d been a decent man at heart, and though her mother had been with Jess only fourteen years, she’d done all she could to teach Jess how to be a practical, honorable woman.

Neither would be proud of her behavior tonight.

Jess winced at the memory of her graceless tumble, but when she tried to recall how she’d gotten into bed, her recollections went dark around the edges. Then a fragrance—an alluringly familiar mix of starch and spice—tickled her nose. Lord Grimsby. He’d been here, or touched her, or somehow been close enough to imprint his scent on her.

She struggled to recall if he’d spoken to her. Surely she’d remember if he’d kissed her again. Lifting a hand, she traced a finger across her mouth, as if the memory of it might have imprinted itself there. But she felt certain of nothing. Vague images in her head, of Lord Grimsby lit by firelight, and then closer, his mouth gliding over her skin, could as easily have been a dream. Heaven knew she’d dreamed of the man often enough.

Pushing the covers back, she eased out of bed slowly, trying not to rile the orchestra in her head. Someone had removed her dress and gotten her into a nightgown, and she prayed it was Tilly.

With her head thumping, Jess couldn’t imagine going back to sleep. More than anything, she longed for a steaming cup of coffee. Father had preferred coffee too, but she hadn’t enjoyed a single cup since coming to Marleston. Lady Stamford took tea and only tea, and that was that.

Perhaps if she had a cup of the aromatic brew from her favorite London coffeehouse, she could clear her head enough to get some writing done on the speech Alice would deliver at the next Women’s Union event. Jess missed attending the meetings, but not nearly as much as the round of discussions afterward and being able to keep abreast of developments with the group’s charitable initiatives. Though Alice sent her letters and pamphlets, even clippings from the newspaper, she missed their face-to-face debates most of all. Perhaps if she survived her two weeks of trying to avoid the viscount, Lady Stamford would allow her a train trip to London, if even for a day. Assuming she could stop blurting to everyone about kissing the man.

No more wine for me. Bloody footmen.
Jess grinned, recalling Mr. Wellesley’s condemnation. Biting her lip, she recalled more—giggling with Wellesley like a silly schoolgirl and being carried. Carried by a man who warned her off Wellesley. Carried by Lord Grimsby, who’d touched her and pressed his mouth to her skin, and made her wish to be kissed more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

No.
She had no business kissing Lord Grimsby. She wouldn’t regret the first kiss, but that had to be enough. Whether because of his aunt’s insistence or his own graciousness, he’d allowed her to remain at Hartwell. And while he might not have loathed her before tonight, what did he think of her now? Now that she’d admitted taking money to kiss him.

That disturbing thought fueled her. She needed to turn her mind to something other than Lord Grimsby. She hooked herself into her corset and searched the wardrobe for the simplest gown Lady Stamford had ordered for her, a blue day dress with matching bodice. It was such an unfussy ensemble, she could easily dress herself.

After lighting a candle, she cupped her hand around the flame and made her way into the hall. She longed to stretch her legs and walk, though she wasn’t certain enough of the estate to feel comfortable venturing out of doors. Still, the house was so grand, she imagined she could wander for an hour and still not manage to explore all its corners and corridors.

The stairwell to the ground floor beckoned, lit by gaslights that had been turned low but not extinguished. She made her way toward the main hall. By the time she reached the library door, she realized it had been her destination all along. How could she resist a room full of books?

She turned the latch, pleased to find it unlocked, and inhaled deeply the moment her foot crossed the threshold. The heady scent of books—leather, aged paper, ink—took her straight back to her father’s bookshop. Jess bit her lip at the memory of Wright and Sons Booksellers, emotions jumbling in her heart, none of them clear and all of them bittersweet. But then she lifted her candle and took in the view before her. There was no business to run here, no sales to worry over, no ledger books to balance, no debt to weigh her down, just a beautifully appointed room dedicated to one single purpose—the housing of hundreds of expertly bound and tooled books.

The bookcases were so tall, reaching up to the high ceiling, that a carved and polished wooden staircase had been installed. It ran along a track in the wall, and she set her candle on a table and gave in to the impulse to climb the steps and explore the titles far up on the wall. She climbed up several steps and then, with one foot on one step and her other foot higher up, she reached for a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
. Kitty claimed Lord Grimsby opposed suffrage for women, but, then again, she’d also said he was an odious man and kissing him would be unpleasant. For a woman willing to pay an enormous sum to humiliate him, she seemed to know very little about the viscount. If a man kept a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft in his library, surely he’d at least give due consideration to the rights of women. Unless it had been a freethinking Dunthorpe ancestress who’d purchased the volume.

Just as she reached out to replace the book, stretching up and to the right to settle it on the shelf, the rolling staircase moved in the opposite direction, sliding easily on its track and knocking the book from her hand. As she shot her hands out to grasp the staircase railing and steady herself, the clatter of the book smacking the hardwood floor below made her jump.

She looked down to ensure the volume was still intact and the staircase began to slide again. Though the bookcases at her father’s shop hadn’t been nearly as tall, she’d never been afraid of heights or maneuvering on a ladder to place books on the highest shelves. But Hartwell’s rolling staircase seemed to have a mind of its own. She attempted one step down, then another, before the contraption began to move again. She reached for a shelf to stop herself, fingertips grazing the gilded spines of several volumes, nearly pulling them over too.

“Bloody bother and blast!”

She felt better for saying it, and with no one to hear her but the library walls, Jess was relieved none would ever know she’d given in to an unladylike swearing fit. Nor how ungracefully she was attempting to descend the rolling staircase. She was close enough now that she could jump the rest of the way, though it had been many years since her tree-climbing, jumping-into-ponds days of childhood summers spent with her mum’s family in Dorset. Could she manage a moderately short jump in a long skirt and tight corset without breaking anything essential?

L
UCIUS LOUNGED IN
his study in a chair before the fireplace, legs stretched out so that his boot heels rested on the hearth. He crossed his hands over his stomach, leaning his head back, and lowered his eyes to continue staring at the remnants of a fire in the grate. He’d be content to sleep like this, in his chair before the fire. If he could sleep at all.

The flames had died down an hour before, but in the black pile of ash, an ember glowed orange now and then, still giving off enough heat to make his nearness worthwhile. He’d given up on finding any rest in his own bed and returned to his study once the house quieted and all the guests were settled in for the night.

One guest in particular eclipsed all other thoughts. With her new frock and elaborately dressed hair, Jessamin Wright had looked so different from the determined, plainly dressed woman he’d met at the gallery in London. And from the tired and disappointed bookshop owner he’d encountered and nearly kissed in her shop. Tonight she’d been as elegant and lovely as any fine young lady he’d ever been introduced to at a country ball or London soiree. Lucius liked being privy to all the forms of her beauty—far too much.

But tonight there’d been more than her beauty to admire. She’d been passionate in declaring her beliefs, bold in admitting that she’d kissed him, and audacious in standing up to Julia, whose glacial stare was known to make the staunchest men shudder.

Miss Wright seemed a woman of endless facets, and he yearned to discover each one.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself the indulgence of remembering the moment she’d leaned into him, the first moment he touched her, steadying her on her feet, before she lifted up and pressed her warm, lush mouth to his.

He lifted a hand to pinch the skin between his brows. It didn’t ease the ache in his head, but it offered momentary distraction from the problem of Miss Jessamin Wright. And she was a problem. If one dinner with her preoccupied him to this extent, how would he endure the rest of the house party? She’d no doubt continue drinking and flirting with Wellesley.

If the man touched her . . . Hell, if he continued leering at her every night at dinner, Lucius didn’t know if he’d be able to resist throttling his closest friend. No doubt Miss Wright would be more than willing to comfort Wellesley. A few quips and the man had turned the fretful frown she’d been wearing the whole evening into a beaming smile. A few more of those looks in Wellesley’s direction and Lucius would be as mad as the gossips said his father was by fortnight’s end.

And in the meantime, he was to entertain and woo Miss Sedgwick, whose wealth could save Hartwell. He wondered if the repairs needed to the estate and tenant houses would even make a dent in the dowry she’d bring. If Aunt Augusta knew the lady’s intentions as she said she did, Miss Sedgwick would be content with a title, and he’d be content knowing he’d secured Hartwell for future generations. Wouldn’t he?

He narrowed his gaze as he stared at the flickering ember among the coals. The heat at its center was waning, the color darkening as its light faded. He reached out for the poker and pushed at the ember, attempting to stoke it back to life. In his fatigued and overwrought mind, it seemed his only chance for heat and he did not wish to lose it.

Nor did he wish to lose the opportunity to make a match with Miss Sedgwick by whiling away in his study, his thoughts fixated on another woman. That reminded him far too much of his father.

He’d spent his youth wondering why his father could find no other pursuit as interesting as his mother, why the man couldn’t balance his love for her with this duty to the estate and the responsibilities of his title. Even Lucius’s mother had longed for that.

The eldest daughter of a large and well-to-do Scottish clan, Isobel Buchanan had understood duty and expected it of her children. She taught them that they had an obligation to the family and to those on the estate who relied on the earl’s good stewardship. It often seemed she cared more for Hartwell and the tenants of the estate than his father ever had.

But Father had been jealous of time Mother spent in anyone’s company but his. He’d allowed his preoccupation with her to unhinge him, letting it fester into an irrational jealousy that only served to drive her away.

He would not tread that path. Duty, responsibility, those qualities his mother expected of him, that was where his heart and mind ought to be.

Except for the problem of Miss Jessamin Wright.
Such a damnably tempting problem.

“Bloody bother and blast!”

His eyes snapped open at the sound of the woman’s shout. He might have convinced himself it was a condemnation from the depths of his own conscience, except that he recognized the voice. And the fact that it emanated from the library.

Surging from his chair, Lucius rushed to the door connecting the library and his study.

Miss Wright held on to the rolling staircase with one hand, her body turned away from it, seemingly poised to leap from a disturbingly high step.

Lucius reached out to turn up the gas, lighting up the room and revealing one shocked and disheveled former bookshop owner.

Her mouth opened as if she meant to speak, and he waited, but she merely continued to stare at him.

“Miss Wright, I would have thought you’d had your fill of books.”

She frowned as if it was the last thing she’d expected him to say.

“Never. I could never tire of books.”

He grinned, unable to hold it back, even if he’d tried. He’d loved books with that kind of passion once, books and learning, the notion that the world was literally at his fingertips within the pages of one volume or the other. Since leaving university and being called back from his uncle’s investment office after Julian’s death to take over management of Hartwell, some piece of him, that hopeful, curious fragment, had faded. He never dreamed a suffragette bluestocking would stir it back to life.

“Would you steady this staircase, my lord, so that I may climb down? I’m afraid if I jump, I’ll rip this dress or scuff your floor.”