One Scandalous Kiss (9 page)

Chapter Ten

T
HE CARRIAGE RIDE
from Wiltshire to Berkshire was the most bone-rattling experience of Jess’s life. Not even the uneven cobblestones of London’s streets offered the kind of jarring travel the rutted lanes between England’s counties afforded. Jess had secretly hoped they’d travel via train. She thought the notion of a long train journey held adventurous appeal, but Lady Stamford preferred her carriage, despite the bumps and jolts.

Amazingly, Lady Stamford and her pugs seemed oblivious to the bouncing and swaying, all three falling asleep in a compact heap—pugs on top of each other on Augusta’s lap—halfway through the journey and remaining so until they stopped at an inn for luncheon. Along with her lady’s maid, Rachel Dawes, Lady Stamford had brought Tilly, whom she thought might serve as her lady’s maid or assist Jess in case Rachel was required to tend to another guest. Rachel and Tilly, like Jess, sat staring out the carriage windows, unable to nap along with their mistress.

“It must be a very fine house.” Tilly’s voice made Jess jump, despite its soft timbre.

Rachel turned her hand to some stitching and ignored Tilly.

Jess thought it impolite to ignore her, though she wasn’t sure she was the one the girl had addressed.

“Yes, I think it must be.”

“I hear he’s very handsome.” Tilly whispered the words conspiratorially, turning a quick glance toward Lady Stamford to make sure she still slumbered.

“I hear he’s mad as a March hare.” Rachel managed to sound both resolute and dismissive.

“Is he? What a pity.” Tilly looked bereft. “Is he truly mad? Perhaps he only plays at it for fashion.”

Jess couldn’t imagine what might be fashionable about madness, nor could she imagine the tall, dark viscount as a madman. He’d seemed utterly rational. If anything, her impression had been of a man who kept his emotions in check. Despite the fire she’d glimpsed in his gaze, it had been fleeting, and the stoic expression on his face had never truly wavered.

“Who says he’s mad?” Jess couldn’t resist attempting to discern if there was any truth to the maids’ gossip.

“The earl?” Rachel put down her sewing and turned her full attention to Jess. She was an intimidating woman, with her direct stare and humorless expression.

“I thought he was a viscount.” Jess distinctly recalled Kitty and Lady Stamford calling him a viscount.

“Oh, you mean the son. Yes, he is right handsome. No, it’s the father what’s mad, but it’s in the blood, isn’t it? The son’s bound to go mad himself one day.” Rachel spoke without passion, matter-of-factly, as if she knew her beliefs to be utter truths.

Jessamin thought it all sounded a good deal like slander and suspected her employer would be livid to hear her brother and nephew dismissed in such terms, whether there was a shred of truth in the rumors or not.

“What a shame.” Tilly sighed out the words as if she felt genuine sadness for her employer’s family.

“It’s more than a shame, girl. If the son goes mad, no rich lady will ever marry him, and they’ll lose their fine estate,” Rachel attempted to whisper the words, but her tone was so full of venom most of it came out more like hissing.

“Why do you dislike him so?” The question came out before she could bite her tongue, and both young women turned wide eyes on Jess.

“And why should you favor him? I’d wager you know as much about him as you do about being a lady’s companion.”

Lady Stamford’s lady’s maid didn’t like her, but Jess couldn’t match the woman’s hostility. Rachel had been helpful to her, however begrudgingly. And her certainty that Jess knew nothing of Lord Grimsby was just as it should be. At least her involvement in the London incident hadn’t become fodder for downstairs gossips. Yet.

“You’re right, of course. I have a lot to learn.” Jess didn’t have a bit of trouble allowing Rachel her moment of satisfaction. It was true. Not a single day went by when Jess didn’t discover some new rule, ritual, or standard she’d failed to adhere to.

Rachel sniffed and nodded her head, no doubt pleased to have won this round.

Tilly seemed to realize the inappropriateness of the conversation and kept silent. Rachel continued to sew, her nimble fingers moving silently over the fabric, even as she turned to look at the passing countryside. As Jess watched the woman’s hands move, drowsiness drew her down into sleep, but she fought to keep her eyes open, despite the swaying carriage.

It seemed only a moment later the carriage rattled to a stop and footmen began assisting Lady Stamford to separate herself from the pugs. Augusta looked refreshed, but Tilly and Rachel blinked against the bright sun and moved slowly for a few moments before collecting cases and bags. Each woman took a leash attached to one of the pugs.

Neither of the maids spared a glance for the enormous structure before them, but Jessamin guessed they’d seen Hartwell many times before. It was even grander than Jess anticipated, dwarfing Marleston Hall in size. But it possessed none of the simple elegance of Lady Stamford’s estate. Marleston Hall’s façade had been designed to invite, while Hartwell’s architect seemed to have conceived a house that would overwhelm all who gazed upon it.

Jess heard the story of Marleston House from her employer. It had been built within the previous century and reflected the late earl’s preoccupation with Greek architecture. Hartwell, on the other hand, seemed to strain at the bonds of being called merely a house. It had an air of the ancient, with Gothic spires and a rounded tower at one end that made Jess imagine it had been a fortified castle at some point in its history. She couldn’t take her eyes off it, yet the enormity of the building unsettled her. Marleston was stately but it had quickly become familiar. Jess didn’t think she’d ever feel at ease in a place like Hartwell.

Placing her hands on her lower back, she arched, trying to stretch out the stiffness. Her legs felt as heavy as lead, and she wanted nothing more than to walk. In London, walking had been a necessary part of life, her main mode of transport. At Marleston, Lady Stamford kept her near and there was only the occasional opportunity for a stroll around the grounds. She’d begun making Castor and Pollux her excuse to walk out nearly every day, but the two dogs were more used to reclining on their mistress’s lap and disdained going far.

As she had a knack for doing, Lady Stamford divined her thoughts.

“Why not take a little wander, my dear? The grounds at Hartwell are lovely, and I can see long carriage rides do not agree with you.”

Jess knew she should accompany the countess inside to help her settle into her rooms and then find her own. But the offer to take a walk and have a moment to herself was too tantalizing to refuse.

“Thank you, my lady. I won’t be long and I’ll come to your rooms directly.”

The countess was already ascending the wide stairs toward the doors of Hartwell, though Jess saw no one other than servants ushering her in. The idea of climbing those stairs herself and being confronted by Lord Grimsby made her shudder. Would he would think her a madwoman—accosting him in public and now breaching the walls of his fortress-like home—or just an infatuated girl who’d finagled employment with his aunt in order to see him again? Both notions made her queasy with doubt about her decision to become Lady Stamford’s companion.

As she walked, Jess turned her mind to the moment she’d first glimpsed him. So tall and proud, yet completely uneasy. He’d been wearing a frown, his brows knitted and full mouth pulled tight, and he’d tugged at his neck cloth just before she approached. He tugged at it the same way Jess sometimes pulled at the collar of the high-necked day dresses Lady Stamford had ordered for her. Fine clothes were as confining as the many rules aristocrats seemed to impose on every little action, every impulse.

But as Jess had drawn near to Lord Grimsby, there’d been a spark of something more in his ice blue eyes. She still couldn’t identify it. Curiosity? Interest? Horror? And then certainly when she’d kissed him, when he’d grasped her waist and pulled her closer—that hadn’t been horror. That had been pleasure. She hadn’t experienced much of it in her life, so it had made a lasting impression. She’d never forget the moment when the kiss had turned from an embarrassing, perfunctory act into an experience of heat and sensation she ached to sink into, to lose herself in—to forget about money and Kitty and her father’s blasted bookshop. In that instant she’d needed something more than money. She needed to be desired. For that moment, she needed to be precisely where she was, there in that gallery kissing Lord Grimsby.

The path under her feet began to change as she walked, the grass becoming denser and unkempt as stones appeared now and then. Jessamin slowed her pace, then stopped and looked back. The ground had descended, taking her down a long sloping hill, and she could barely glimpse the spires of Hartwell in the distance. Turning away from the house, she spied a copse of trees and began to walk toward them. Then a movement caught her eye and made her stop again.

He was there. Lord Grimsby. Striding back and forth so quickly he must have carved a bald patch in the grass under his feet. He gesticulated as he paced. Nothing wild, just the lift of an arm here and the movement of his hands there. His mouth—that lovely, familiar mouth—moved, but Jess couldn’t hear his voice. Was the man talking to himself?

It was impossible not to notice how well he looked with disheveled hair and dressed more casually than on the two previous occasions she’d seen him. A honey-colored waistcoat hugged his chest, but he wore no jacket or tie. His black trousers molded to his legs as he marked off a small distance and then turned to travel it again and again.

That fizz of anticipation she’d felt back in his aunt’s sitting room welled up. The prospect of seeing him was nothing to this, to standing a few paces away from him, close enough to see the shape of his mouth as he mumbled to himself. Close enough to be grateful for his unfastened top button that allowed her a peek of the line of his neck and the hollow at the base of his throat.

It was too close. So near he might turn and see the woman who’d shocked him and everyone else with her brazen behavior. The woman who was now supposed to be assisting his aunt in preparing for the arrival of the heiress he planned to marry.

She should turn away, move as quietly and as quickly as she could back to the estate and Lady Stamford’s room. It was only prudent to allow the man’s aunt to be there when they met again. Augusta could explain Jess’s employment, her role as companion, and the likelihood she wouldn’t remain in her position for long. That might reassure him.

Yet he was just there. So close. In the gallery, she’d pushed through a throng to stand before him. Now there was nothing between them but fresh air, nothing surrounding them but grass and trees as far as the eye could see. Once they were back inside Hartwell, all the rules she was so dreadful at following would dictate every word, regiment every glance.

Some wild impulse in her couldn’t resist making a noise. Clearing her throat loudly enough to attract his attention, she took a step toward him. It was as if a force pushed her in his direction, one her body insisted on obeying no matter how much the sensible voice in her head urged retreat.

His head snapped up and he stared at her. Turning his body, he moved into a solid stance, hands on hips, seeming to brace himself as if she might hurtle toward him and knock him over. He looked down at the ground between his feet and then up at her again.

“Are you flesh and blood?”

His husky whisper carried on the breeze, but Jess wasn’t certain she’d heard him properly. She stepped closer, close enough to see the blue of his eyes. His gaze traced her face, paused at her lips, and then skimmed down her body, and Jess would have sworn heat warmed her skin along the trail his eyes had taken. She found herself ridiculously grateful to be garbed in one of the fashionable dresses Lady Stamford had purchased rather than the outdated clothes that had served her well as a failed London bookseller.

“Pardon?” She wanted to hear his voice again. She’d never heard a low rumble quite like his before, and she’d yet to hear it nearly enough.

“The apparition speaks.” He closed the distance between them in three determined strides.

Jess noted flowers embroidered on his waistcoat in the thinnest golden thread, a shade that perfectly matched the color of the fabric. She found his fine clothes much easier to study than meeting his searching gaze, which teased at her like the insistent flutter of butterfly’s wings.

“I’m no apparition.” Her voice was soft, shaky, belying the words coming out of her mouth.

He slipped a finger under her chin.

“You shouldn’t touch me.” The man really did have an awful habit of touching her quite freely.

Applying the slightest pressure, he nudged her head up to meet his gaze.

“And you shouldn’t be here. How did you come to be walking the grounds of Hartwell, Miss Wright?”

Jess didn’t see the condemnation she’d expected in his eyes, though some emotion had turned them a shade darker, and the grim line of his mouth and clenched jaw implied anger. Much like the night at the gallery, his eyes and expression telegraphed conflicting emotions. Was there so much dissension in his heart?

Good grief, what does the state of his heart matter?

Unraveling the puzzle of Viscount Grimsby would be Miss Sedgwick’s task, not hers. And he was right. Jess knew she shouldn’t be here, with his skin pressed against hers, his mouth inches from her own.

Guilt rushed in, and she lifted her chin away from his touch and turned. Tugging the full skirt of her dress up a fraction to make walking easier, she began striding away. Then she stopped, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. She owed him an explanation, but accepting employment from his aunt—
his
aunt—now seemed ridiculous when considered from his perspective. It smacked of a woman far too eager to remain near him, connected to him by any means possible.

When she looked back, he’d returned to his wide-legged, hands-on-hips stance, his golden waistcoat straining its buttons as it stretched across his broad chest. A breeze kicked up and riffled the black waves of his too-long hair.