One Scandalous Kiss (3 page)

She opened her mouth to speak, but what explanation could she offer?

Every thought scattered as she studied her objective—or more accurately, his lips. They were wide and well-shaped but firmly set. Not as firm as stone, as Kitty claimed, but unyielding. Unwelcoming. Not at all the sort of lips one dreamed of kissing. But Jess had given up on dreams. Her choices now were about money, the funds she needed to keep the bookshop afloat for as long as she could.

Taking a breath and praying for courage, Jess reached up and removed her spectacles, folded them carefully, and hooked them inside the high neckline of her gown.

His eyes followed the movement of her hands, and the lines between his brows deepened.

Behind her, a woman shouted, “How dare you!” A hand grasped her from behind, the force of the tug pulling Jessamin backward, nearly off her feet. Then a deep, angry male voice rang out and stopped all movement.

“Unhand the woman. Now, if you please.” He’d spoken. The stone giant. Lord Grim. He glared past her, over her head. Whoever gripped her arm released their hold. Then Lord Grim’s gaze drilled into hers, his eyes discerning, not cold and lifeless as she’d expected.

For several heartbeats he simply watched her, pinning her with his gaze, studying her. Jess reminded herself to breathe.

“Are we acquainted, madam?”

The rumble of his voice, even amid the din of chatter around them, echoed through her.

She moved closer, and his eyebrows shot up. Oh, she’d crossed the line now. Bursting uninvited into a room filled with the wealthy and titled was one thing. Ignoring a viscount’s question could be forgiven. Pressing one’s bosom into a strange man’s chest was something else entirely.

A surge of surprise and gratitude gripped her when he didn’t move away.

Assessing his height, Jess realized she’d have to lift onto her toes if the kiss was to be accomplished. She took a step toward him, stretched up tall, and swayed unsteadily. He reached an arm out, and she feared he’d push her away. Instead he gripped her arm just above her elbow and held her steady.

A woman said his name, a tone of chastisement lacing the word. “Lucius.”

Then she did it. Placing one hand on his hard chest to balance herself, Jess eased up on the tips of her boots and touched her lips to his.

A shock of sensation snaked through her.
Kitty lied.
His lips weren’t made of stone. They were warm, smooth flesh. For a moment he didn’t move, merely stood stiffly, his hand still heavy on her arm. Then his breathing hitched and his mouth moved beneath hers as he responded to the kiss. His free hand slid to the small of her back and tightened there, inching her toward him. His palm was warm and firm through the layers of her clothing, and she let him take her weight. He smelled delicious. Like clean, crisp linen and some exotic spice. She tasted liquor on his breath when she felt his tongue slide between her lips, but her sense of intoxication had nothing to do with the brief taste of spirits. He enveloped her now, his mouth moving over hers, his arms and scent surrounding her. For a moment she felt protected. More than that. She felt desired, wanted. For one moment she forgot that she was so terribly alone.

A woman shrieked, the sound high, ear-piercing, and blessedly brief. Just long enough to break the spell and snap Jess back to the moment, the scandalous scene she’d created. She pulled away from Lord Grimsby and he instantly loosened his hold, though he seemed unwilling to release her arm. To steady her or to steady him? His expression remained as humorless as before she’d kissed him. Only his eyes revealed how she’d affected him. A flame there singed her, warming every inch of her body before settling deep in her belly. She wanted to lose herself in that heat, sink into it, let it unfurl her knots of worry and melt away every fear.

His quickened breath gusted against her face and Jess breathed hard too as they stared at each other. Those around them clucked and fussed, but she heard the crowd as if from a distance, her awareness centered on the inscrutable man whose flavor still clung to her lips.

Jess never dreamed a kiss could be so potent, never imagined a man’s gaze could set her on fire. No man had ever looked at her with the blatant yearning she saw in Lord Grimsby’s eyes. Had any glanced at her with an ounce of interest at all? If they had, she’d been too busy running the shop to notice. And she wasn’t prepared for it now. To acknowledge that she felt it too and imagine her eyes reflecting the same need and desire as his—that frightened her most of all.

A blond man at Lord Grimsby’s side whispered to him, placing a hand on his arm as if to lead him away. But the viscount didn’t move, didn’t release her or meet anyone else’s gaze.

When the blond man turned a withering glance her way, Jess knew she had to leave and extract herself from the scene she’d created. Dizzy and a bit off balance, she rallied the strength to break away, to pull her arm from the viscount’s grasp and walk out of the gallery on wobbly legs. The din of the crowd rose as she strode away, and she heard a lady hiss as she passed by.

Turning from the sound, Jess lifted her gaze and glimpsed a familiar face. Golden hair dappled with diamond pins, Kitty Adderly stood amid the crush. She lifted her glass a fraction, simulating a toast, but there was no victory in her gaze. Eyes wide, dainty mouth slack, she looked as shaken by the whole debacle as Jess felt.

Focusing on the front of the hall, Jess pressed on, ignoring the stares, blocking out the voices. When she was finally free of the gallery, a burst of chilly September air enveloped her. Cheeks stinging, eyes watering, she inhaled deep, gulping breaths. Her frantic heartbeat refused to steady, but her breaths came less frequently as they billowed out before her.

Why had she agreed to Kitty’s scheme? There had to be consequences for striding up to a viscount and taking liberties with his mouth in front of everyone. The thought of his mouth and that awkward, wonderful kiss made her breathing hitch again. Shaking the thoughts away, Jess began scanning the street for a hansom cab.

She spotted one, its lantern glimmering in the fog, and stepped across the pavement to hail it. Before she could take two steps, someone approached from behind. Lord Grim. She already knew his scent, the same distinctive spice that still clung to her clothing.

Tensing, cringing inwardly, she waited for harsh words. Of course he’d come out to curse her or demand some explanation for her scandalous behavior. Drawing a deep breath, Jess turned to face the viscount just as a carriage, its black sides so well polished they gleamed even in the fog-shrouded night, drew up near the pavement in front of her.

“My carriage.”

Jess jumped as his deep voice rattled through her. With a hand at her back, he steered her with gentle insistence toward the carriage. Out of nowhere, a cloaked man appeared, opened the carriage door, pulled down the step, and stood aside.

“I can make my own way home.” The wind whipped around her, stealing her breath as she spoke, but it wasn’t enough to make her forget who she was. Who he was. Through chattering teeth, she added, “Thank you, my lord.”

Either he hadn’t heard her or the man was used to getting his own way. He pressed his hand more firmly against her back and moved toward the carriage, sweeping her along with him.

Jessamin stepped back, turning out of his grip. Snapping her head in his direction, she tried to make out the harsh planes of his face in the shadows and fog. She could only see those light blue eyes, glowing in the muted gaslight.

Long, gloved fingers wrapped around her wrist, not gentle but far from bruising.

“I have questions that require answers.” He tugged at her arm and she stepped toward him. “I prefer to ask them away from prying eyes.” She saw his head jerk back and only then noticed a small crowd gathered in the gallery’s entrance hall. Jessamin could see the group was atwitter with shock and outrage—one man pointed toward Lord Grimsby and another shouted futilely through the woolly fog.

Jess imagined what they were saying, curses and condemnations about her outrageous behavior. Getting into the man’s carriage would only fuel the gossip, of course, but it was preferable to being left to the crowd’s mercy. And Lord Grimsby didn’t seem inclined to allow her out of his sight until she’d offered some explanation.

Wobbling as she took the carriage step, she whispered her address to the silent footman who’d lifted a hand to steady her.

Lord Grim seemed to rise and seat himself across from her in one swift motion.

She hesitated before facing him, chafing her frozen fingers together and pointlessly arranging her skirts. Anything to avoid those eyes that had nearly melted her into a senseless puddle in the gallery. When she could finally look at him, her heart kicked against her ribs.
Mercy.
He was a handsome man. Kitty hadn’t lied about that. The warm glow of the carriage lanterns revealed all the details of his face. Sharp edges and flat planes, it was as perfectly chiseled as a statue and just as still. She could almost believe he was carved of marble, except for those eyes. They glittered like ice in the golden light. It was daunting to be the object of his scrutiny, particularly as she’d just embarrassed the man in front of everyone he knew.

With the heated spark between them cooled, guilt crowded in to mar all the pleasure of that moment when she’d pressed her mouth to his.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered the words so quietly Jess wasn’t certain if she spoke to herself or to the man seated across from her.

He didn’t respond, just continued to stare at her, and she looked away, nervousness making her pulse race. When she lifted her eyes again, she caught him studying her oft-mended skirt hem, her ink-stained fingers, shamelessly bare of gloves, and then slowly perusing the buttons of her shirtwaist before assessing her face. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her.

Then the marble shifted. Lord Grimsby pursed his lips, grimacing, and she wasn’t certain if he found her distasteful or was considering precisely how to devour her. He spoke low, one syllable slipping from his lips.

“Why?”

Chapter Three

I
N THE S
ILENCE
between his question and her answer, Lucius acknowledged to himself that the woman seated across from him was lovely. The observation had nothing to do with attraction. It was a cold, hard fact, one even the most cursory observer would be foolish to deny. There was no romanticism in the deduction. It was simply true. It was just as true she wore unfashionable clothes, kept too long and mended too often. It was equally undeniable that the striking shade of her hair held appeal, though she wore it in the most unflattering arrangement he’d ever seen. Only the stray curls escaping from pins here and there, despite evidence of her efforts to force them back into place, hinted at the lush beauty she hid with her scraped-back style.

Yes, most decidedly lovely. The cool air had put a rosy glow in her cheeks and reddened her mouth. With a jolt of shock, he realized he knew those lips—the pointed bow of her upper lip, the plump pillow of her lower—and could still recall the cushion of their fullness. He twisted his own mouth in derision. The lips might be familiar, but he knew nothing of the woman. From her behavior, he could only surmise her poor judgment and moral laxity.

He looked away, turning from the sight of her, tamping down the memory of their kiss. It was too ridiculous to contemplate. But the glass of the carriage window conspired with the night sky to offer him a mirror. Turning away from her, he found only her reflection as she huddled in the corner of the carriage, chafing her hands and avoiding his eyes.

He lifted the carriage blanket from the space next to him and thrust it toward her. “Here. Warm yourself.”

As she accepted his offering, he licked his lips and then cursed under his breath at the taste of her lingering there.

Damnation.
He would not savor the taste of a reckless bluestocking. When he wished to sate his baser needs, he accomplished it as every unmarried gentleman did—with discretion. Mistresses weren’t hard to come by, though lately the very notion of a paramour seemed more bother than indulgence. And now, with Aunt Augusta on the hunt for a suitable bride, a mistress was a complication he did not need.

The scent of starch and violet water tickled his nose and he wanted rid of the woman. Her silence irritated him. Why act as if she feared him? The brazen creature had just stomped up to him in public and put her mouth on his.

What on earth could possess a woman to commit such a scandalous act? Infatuation wasn’t even a consideration. He would remember if they’d ever met before. No one could forget the unique shade of her hair. Surely she didn’t hope to initiate an acquaintance in such an outrageous manner. Never mind that her unexpected kiss had jolted through him like an electric current, that he’d stood staring at her like a fool, unwilling to release her arm and break the connection between them.

He’d never see her again after this night and it irked him. And the fact that it irked him stoked his irritation.

“Will you offer no answer, madam?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, the small confines of the carriage making it louder than he’d intended.

Softening his tone, he tried again. “I must know why.”

“Why?” Before he could consider whether she mocked him by returning his own question, he was struck by her voice. It was strong and rich. As distinctive as the color of her hair. And it belied the embarrassment in her eyes and the way she tucked herself in the corner, as far from him as possible.

“Do I not have the right?” As he watched the emotion in her eyes shift from embarrassment to acknowledgment, he noted that their color was inscrutable. Gray? Green? Good grief, what did it matter?

“Yes, my lord.” For the first time since entering the carriage, she settled back against the leather seat. “You deserve an explanation.”

His eagerness to hear her speak again made him lean forward, an elbow on each knee, hands clasped before him.

The maddening woman tortured him with more silence and by sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. He stared at the pierced pink skin until she let out a pained little groan of frustration and finally turned to him.

“It was a mistake.” Her husky voice released the words with a kind of finality, as if the whole matter was suddenly clear. She even had the temerity to lift her chin a fraction.

Lucius took it as a challenge.

“I see. You mistook me, then. It was another man you intended to accost with your mouth.”

“Did I accost you, my lord?”

Her eyes widened and he was gratified to finally identify them as green. The darkest of greens, like the murky depths of a winter pond. He quirked his eyebrow and saw her deflate.

“Yes, I did. Forgive me. It seemed such a small thing, but I see now that it must have caused you a great deal of mortification in front of all your friends.”

Lucius was torn between allowing himself a moment of righteous indignation and assuring the strange young woman she’d done him no real harm.

“They aren’t my friends.” He didn’t bother to add that his aunt, sister, and brother-in-law had been in attendance. Marcus and Julia had never caused a bit of scandal and held their position in society securely. Aunt Augusta was beloved as a confidante and renowned as a hostess. Being associated with this event would only cause a bit of gossip, surely. The wags would be malicious, perhaps, but not destructive.

Because he kept to himself and had only come into his title following Julian’s death two years before, the gossips had little to say about him, and Lucius was grateful for it.

The bluestocking lifted a hand to her mouth, drawing his attention there, and he noticed her dark eyes had taken on a glassy sheen. He shivered at the notion that she might actually start weeping. He couldn’t abide a tearful woman. Clearing his throat loudly, Lucius waved a hand toward her in a gesture of absolution.

“You have my forgiveness, Miss . . . ?”

She took a deep breath before answering his implied question.

“Wright, my lord. Jessamin Wright.” He knew the impropriety of such an introduction, but Miss Wright seemed to take no notice.

“Miss Wright.” He weighed her surname on his tongue, but it was her first name that he repeated in his head. It was far too sibilant and ornate for such a shabbily dressed woman, but he sensed this woman was much more interesting than her layers of plain cotton and wool suggested.

“Will this cause you a great deal of scandal, my lord?”

He opened his mouth and then caught himself on the verge of reassuring her. What power did this woman wield? In the space of seconds she’d once again turned his—quite justified—ire into an urge to put
her
mind at ease. And was he truly to believe the effect of her actions concerned her now? She should have thought of that before letting him taste the sweetness of her mouth.

No, this bluestocking wasn’t at all what she seemed. Lucius’s desire to suss her out grew with every moment that passed between them.

“No, Miss Wright. I’ll be returning to the country soon. I haven’t a care for what they say about me in London.”

It wasn’t true, but he wished it was.

He’d spent the last two years attempting to put Hartwell’s finances in order and secure the future of the estate. Preferring the rational, logical rows of figures and facts in his ledger books to London society didn’t mean he was immune from scandal. Though he could easily ignore what the gossips might say, he couldn’t deny that any kind of ignominy would reflect on the earldom, and his own future heirs. He did not yet hold the title of Earl of Dunthorpe, but protecting the family name had now fallen to him.

She didn’t look like she believed his lie anyway. He’d never mastered the art of falsehood.

“What of you? What will your family have to say about your behavior this evening?”

She swallowed hard, dipping her head, and then blinked up at him. She seemed confused, as if she didn’t take his meaning. Or perhaps it was too difficult to contemplate. Shouldn’t she have considered her family before behaving in such a shocking manner?

“Come now. Your family. Your father. Perhaps an older brother. Tell me I won’t be receiving a call from them demanding I marry you to save your reputation?”

“No, of course not!”

Her exclamation bounced off the carriage walls, and it was Lucius’s turn to blink. He’d meant the comment as a jest, infusing his tone with as much mirth and irony as he could muster. But he joked and teased rarely. Apparently he was as ghastly at it as he was at acknowledging beady-eyed women in a crowd.

“My father and mother are dead. I have no brothers or sisters.”

The words were plain, simple. Perfectly understandable. Yet there was more behind them, a well of loneliness and need that resonated in Lucius, as familiar to him as his own name.

“You’re an orphan.” Lucius rarely spoke words with the sort of care he took in stating the truth of Miss Wright’s circumstances. A foolish impulse made him wish to confess that he was an orphan too. Not in the same way, of course. His father was alive. But if your mother was dead and you’d been estranged from your father most of your life, did that not qualify you as an orphan?

Miss Wright seemed to take his words as gently as he’d intended. She glanced down at her hands before reaching out to run a long, slender finger over the beveled glass of a pocket watch she’d pulled from her skirt. When she finally met his gaze, she seemed as resolved as she’d been the moment she’d walked up to him in the gallery.

“Yes, I suppose I am, though I’m not a child. And my father only died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t pity me.”

The fury in her gaze was familiar. He’d stared back at it in his own looking glass for years.

“I require no one’s pity, my lord.”

No. When you’d lost everything, pity was the last thing you desired. He’d learned that truth at nine when his mother ventured out on a trip, leaving him behind because he was ill, and a carriage accident took her life. His world became bleak, colorless, and in his child’s mind he believed fate had dealt him its worst. But being banished to Scotland two months later because his father could not bear the sight of him—that had been worse. And the pity he’d seen in the faces of his mother’s family, worse still.

The carriage slowed to a stop too soon for Lucius’s taste. He’d asked the coachman to take the longest route to the address Miss Wright had offered before returning him to his sister’s house in Belgrave Square.

As soon as the carriage stopped moving, Miss Wright looked about her like a wary bird, just landed on a foreign branch. She leaned forward to get a glimpse out the carriage window.

“This is the address you gave, Miss Wright. But there is still the matter of providing the explanation I require.”

Indignation wasn’t there when Lucius searched his heart and mind. He didn’t pity Miss Jessamin Wright. He’d abide her command on that count. But her honesty and unfortunate circumstances called to him, triggering emotions that had nothing to do with discovering why she’d approached him, why she’d given him the most singular experience of his life.

His desire to hear her explanation came from a different impulse now, a curiosity about her life and history.

“I have already explained, my lord. It was a mistake. I behaved rashly. Abominably. I’ve apologized and you’ve accepted. Will that not suffice?” Her uniquely appealing voice turned petulant for a moment, and Lucius had the distinct sense it was not a manner she often assumed.

“No.” It gave him a perverse satisfaction to see her eyes widen again, and then something like fire begin to kindle there.

“Well, I beg your pardon, my lord, but it must. I can offer no further explanation for my actions.” She turned away from him to emphasize her refusal.

He expected her to grasp the knob on the carriage door and disappear from his life just as abruptly as she’d entered it. But then she turned back and leaned toward him, her voice quiet and pleading.

“Can you not forget this night, my lord? Or if not the night, just that moment. That . . .” She struggled to form the word. “That kiss. Can you not forget?”

He moved toward her, their bodies inches apart in the confines of the carriage. He felt her breath whisper across his face, just as he had in the gallery.

“I am not certain I can, Miss Wright. Can you?”