One Scandalous Kiss (19 page)

“He must dote on you. My father wouldn’t escort me across an ocean if I was to marry a king.” Kitty spoke teasingly, and glanced at May as if to reassure her, but Jess detected bitterness in her tone.

“Oh, I’m sure he would. I met your father at a dinner I attended in London. He seemed quite charming.”

“Yes, he’s very good at charm.” Kitty stood as she spoke, sweeping a hand down to settle her gown. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I should go and dress for dinner.”

Jess reached down for her father’s watch, easing it from the pocket of her skirt just enough to read its face. Kitty was right. There was a little over an hour before dinner, and she’d yet to return to Lady Stamford.

“We should prepare too,” May said as she lifted her teacup for a final sip. “But I must request your help, Jess. You did promise you’d help me.”

There had been no promises, but Jess nodded and waited. Nothing could be as odd as Kitty’s request that she kiss a stranger.

“If you’re able, would you go into the dining room and rearrange our place cards?”

“Place cards?” The cards to indicate where each guest should sit were sometimes used at Marleston for a particularly elaborate dinner with several guests, but there’d been none on the dining table during Jess’s first night at Hartwell.

“Yes, I suspect they’ll seat me next to Lord Grimsby, but I’d have much more fun near Wellesley, or anyone else.”

Jess swallowed hard. “Do you truly dislike him?” The room seemed to grow quieter. Her rushing breath and the patter of her heartbeat grew louder.

May took a long moment to consider the question, reaching up to loop a finger around one dark curl, puckering her mouth.

Like a swinging pendulum, Jess’s emotions tipped from hope to guilt and back again.

“I suppose I don’t know him well enough to dislike him. Not really. But I haven’t taken to him as I thought I might.” She smiled with a childlike glee. “Perhaps I’ll wait for a duke. I’d much rather be a duchess. Wouldn’t you?”

Chapter Twenty

W
HILE
L
ADY
S
TAM
FORD
read a telegram from May’s father, Jess worked on invitations for a ball her employer planned to host in the coming season. She tried to focus on the fine stationery beneath her hand and forming words and numbers in neat, carefully formed script, but her thoughts wandered. Her mind sifted memories of Lucius—the scorching heat of his gaze the night she’d kissed him in the gallery, the tenderness of his touch after she’d made a fool of herself at dinner, the furrowed flesh between his eyebrows when he looked at her as if she was the most vexing woman he’d ever encountered.

In a few days she’d return to Marleston with Lady Stamford. Would she ever see Lucius again?

“Perhaps we can put the invitations aside for a bit. We’ve plenty of time. Are you up to reading to me, Jessamin? I should like a spot of poetry before dinner.”

Jess pressed the cool skin on the back of her hand against her flushed face and hoped Lady Stamford didn’t notice.

“Of course, my lady.” Jess never declined an opportunity to read poetry, and it would occupy her mind far more effectively than addressing invitations.

“This one?” She pointed to a blue leather-bound book of poetry Lady Stamford sometimes preferred, but the countess shook her head.

“No, would you fetch the collection of Romantics? The one I purchased from your shop.”

Lady Stamford had never actually paid for the book, but Jess’s salary was such an astounding sum, she could hardly argue about the cost of a single volume of poetry.

“It’s in my bedroom, on the table by my bedside. Thank you, my dear.”

Making her way into the hall, Jess walked in a daze, her thoughts still full of Lucius. May’s dislike of him shouldn’t please her as it did. It wasn’t as if he would choose her if he didn’t marry May. And surely a deeper acquaintance would serve to show May how kind and open he could be, much more engaging than Mr. Wellesley, though perhaps with less gloss. Jess would take the quiet strength of Lucius over the obvious charms of Mr. Wellesley every day of the week.

An image of Lucius, his cool gaze and black hair with a mind of its own, flashed in her mind. Those stray strands slipping over his eyebrow or curling across his ear of their own volition must be quite an irritant to a man so used to commanding all about him. She grinned at the thought and imagined a child, a young boy with clear azure eyes and undisciplined sooty locks, running across the lawns of Hartwell.

Jess clenched her hands. Long ago, she’d promised Father she could do without marriage and motherhood. Lionel Wright had named his shop Wright and Sons Booksellers, but there’d never been any sons. None who survived anyway. When her mother died giving birth to her third child, and the boy joined her just days later, Jess knew it meant the bookshop would be hers one day. Though just fourteen years old, she’d accepted her role—to help Father run his shop and keep it open after he’d gone. It was what he expected of her, and she could never bear to disappoint him.

Lost in her thoughts, in memories that eclipsed even Lucius’s handsome face, Jess found herself colliding with a warm, hard, spice-scented wall. She looked up into the eyes of the man who’d smiled at her as no one ever had. He held her in his arms, much as he had the night they met, and a shiver danced across her skin when he slid his hand down her back.

He pulled away, releasing her, but seemed at a loss for what to say.

“Jessamin . . . Miss Wright . . .”

“Pardon me, my lord.” Jess forced her legs into motion to carry on with the task of collecting Lady Stamford’s poetry book.

But when she finally did move, walking around him to continue toward Lady Stamford’s bedroom, he reached out to stop her, gently encircling her wrist with his hand.

“Where are you going? You haven’t decided to leave after all, have you?”

“Leave Hartwell?” The words lodged in Jess’s throat and she swallowed against the lump.

“Excuse me, my lord. I must fetch a book for your aunt.” The physical act of pulling away from him was easy. He held her wrist lightly and released her as soon as she tugged. But the notion of walking away from him for the last time if she accepted Kitty’s offer to return to London—that thought sparked a spike of pain in her chest so sharp it made her breathless.

“T
ELL ME YOU
haven’t let her go.”

Lucius burst into the sitting room where his aunt reclined on a settee, feet up, her pugs settled on her lap.

She huffed a sigh at his outburst but didn’t move from her comfortable arrangement. Pollux, or Castor eyed him disdainfully, letting Lucius know his shouts were not at all conducive to napping.

“Gracious. Calm yourself, my boy. Sit. Just there so I can see you. Would you care for some tea? I was just going to ring for some.”

When Lucius had settled himself into the chair opposite his aunt, a furnishing far too low and petite to accommodate his long legs and arms, he rested his elbows as well as he could and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He steeled his nerves, taking a long, deep breath, and tamped down the frazzled emotions his collision with Jessamin had wrought. He could still feel her soft curves against the skin of his palms.

“Now tell me what has upset you so.”

“Nothing at all.” Had he really just burst into the room braying like a madman? “I wonder if you’ve had the pleasure of conversing with Lady Katherine Adderly since her arrival.”

“Briefly, yes.” Augusta didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the lady’s behavior.

“She came to me and confessed being the one behind the incident in Mayfair. Her apology did seem sincere, though I suppose I should write to her mother about the whole silly charade. Shall I ask her to return to London?”

He quite liked the idea, but he feared she’d simply take Jessamin with her. “No, I see no need to go that far.”

“As I said, I do not think it will do you or any of us any real damage, but it was childish. Sarah must have taught her better than that.” Lucius had no notion of what marchionesses taught their daughters, but he could hardly bear a grudge against Kitty. If not for her vindictive lark, Jessamin would never have come to that gallery and kissed him.

“I’m sure she did.”

“There’s more.” Augusta took a deep breath. “She said she was shocked to find Jessamin here, and in my employ. As a means of making amends with her, she’s offered Jessamin the funds to return to London. She hopes to help her find a position there.”

His aunt sniffed, clutched at the neck of her gown, and sat up straighter on the settee. “But I cannot do without her.”

Neither can I.

His aunt studied him, and he turned his head to examine the wallpaper. It was yellow, and his aunt always claimed the blue suite of rooms. A surge of pleasure came with the realization he sat in Miss Wright’s sitting room. The room looked quite different in the light of day. He moved his gaze to the door along the west wall of the room, the door that led to Miss Wright’s bedroom. At least while she was at Hartwell. He mentally charted the space between the bed where she laid her head and his own rooms.

“I won’t let Miss Wright go.” Augusta’s tone was as fierce and emphatic as the one she’d used when he was a boy, assuring him that his father did love him.

“Nor will I.” Lucius didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud, but his aunt’s wide eyes confirmed that he had.

“Does she wish to go?” she asked, twisting her handkerchief as if she might rend the flimsy fabric apart. “I would not deny her what she truly wished.”

What of me? Would you deny me what I truly wish?

Lucius stilled his tongue to keep from speaking the sentiment. He was loath to allow his aunt to read the emotion in his eyes, careful not to unwittingly form some expression that would reveal the need and desire that had become his constant companions since meeting Jessamin Wright.

“Why is she so essential?” He asked himself the same question through many a sleepless night. Now he kept his tone light, his expression mocking as he spoke the words to his aunt.

“She is quite the most organized young woman I’ve ever met.”

Lucius wasn’t sure about that claim as he surveyed the room Jessamin had inhabited for the last few days. Several books were stacked in a haphazard pile on her bedside table, and papers were scattered across the top of her desk, one piece crumpled but not yet discarded.

“She knows my schedule better than I do and has caught me up with the piles of correspondence and all of my usual visits. She manages my appointments, sees to menus, and arranges everything with the staff when I host guests at Marleston.”

What a countess she’d make.
He liked the image of Jessamin organizing the daily running of Hartwell as effectively as she had apparently transformed his aunt’s life. But that led to other thoughts, and his pulse raced at the notion of facing each day with her by his side, of taking her to bed every night. Being the one to take the pins from her magnificent hair, to peel every layer of cloth and lace from—

“She’s well read.” His aunt’s emphatic tone, as if she still needed to convince him of Jessamin’s worth, shocked away his musings.

Lucius coughed and avoided his aunt’s gaze. “She did own a bookshop. I suspect she was never at a loss for something to read.”

She could read to me.
Lucius had devoured books as a youth. It chased away the loneliness, allowing him a measure of comfort no matter where he was. Now, between assuming his father’s role as lord of Hartwell and dealing with the demands of running the estate, he rarely turned the pages of a book for pleasure, unless it was the pages of the estate’s ledger books.

“And she reads well. In fact, she is just about to read me a bit of poetry. You should stay and listen.”

The pleasure of hearing her lovely voice reading poetry seemed too much, a treat he didn’t deserve. What could he offer her when everyone expected his imminent betrothal to another woman?

Aunt Augusta watched for his reaction. He projected a mask of disinterest—a shield against all invaders. He’d practiced it well. Still, her perusal nettled him.

“I could only find a book of poems by Shelley, my lady.”

That voice they’d just mentioned sounded in the silence that had fallen over the room. Jessamin stopped so abruptly when she saw him, he feared she might topple over. She was wearing her spectacles. He hadn’t seen them since the night she’d walked up to him so boldly in the art gallery.

“I must have been mistaken. Only one Romantic poet then. But it’s Shelley and that will do quite nicely. I must have left the collection back at Marleston. Thank you, my dear.” His aunt gestured toward him accusingly. “As you can see, my nephew has claimed your chair. Join me here on the settee and let us hear you read.”

Augusta shifted to allow Jessamin a small space on the end of the settee, and Lucius watched as she settled herself there, noting how careful she was to avoid his gaze. Her cheeks had begun to bloom into a fierce blush, and she seemed to hate that most of all. But the contrast of rosy skin against the creamy paleness of the rest of her face only made her lovelier. Still, he ached at the notion she was embarrassed and he and his aunt were the cause.

“My aunt tells me you have quite a talent for reading poetry.” It was the most inane compliment he’d bestowed in his life, and he realized when she turned her dark green gaze on him that it had done nothing to give her ease.

“I have been reading for many years, my lord.”

“Yes, of course. And teaching everyone else how to do so, apparently.”

Lucius did not mind her teaching his boot boy to read. Indeed, every staff member ought to be able to enjoy the pleasure of a book. Heaven knew they had enough of them at Hartwell, especially considering his impulsive purchase after the bank had reclaimed Jessamin’s shop. That bit of information would be difficult to explain, and he had no idea how he might tell her, or if he ever would.

“The ability to read should not be the privilege of one class over another.” She bit the words off at each end, and Lucius found no satisfaction in the challenge in her eyes. He sat up straighter in his chair.

“I agree, Miss Wright. Everyone should have the right to study, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their duties.”

She quirked an odd expression, more scowl than smile.

“Surely educated men and women would carry out their duties far better. Would they not?”

They were sparring and he’d never intended to fire the first shot.

His aunt had apparently tired of it all. “Indeed. Well said, my dear. Lucius has a fine reading voice too, though I haven’t heard it in years. Indulge us, nephew.” Augusta indicated the slim volume in Jessamin’s hands.

He closed his eyes, sensing defeat before he’d even begun to fight. Miss Wright’s scent tickled his nose and his aunt watched him with the look she’d give him as a boy when he’d done something utterly witless. Reaching up to settle his necktie, he ended up tugging at its constraint and forced his hands down to the arms of the chair, only to find he’d balled them into fists.

Shaking the tension from one hand, he opened it palm up and held it out to Jessamin. “Let’s have it then, Miss Wright.”

He tried to extract himself from the small chair to reach her, but Jessamin moved more quickly, approaching him in two quick strides. She lifted the slim volume and laid it in his hand. As their fingers touched, he felt a jolt of heat warm his body, though her fingers were cool. Their eyes met and he saw amusement in her expression. The minx enjoyed the embarrassment that had now been transferred to him. He liked seeing that flicker in her emerald gaze, that ember of joy, and he wanted to stoke it.

He opened the book, a volume of poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley. He flipped the pages to “Queen Mab,” a poem he’d read at university and recalled enjoying. He cleared his throat, took a fortifying breath, and began to read.

Augusta’s voice stopped him before two syllables could escape his lips. “How can you begin reading, Lucius? I haven’t even told you which page.”