The Kiss (22 page)

Georgiana looked at her hands. "I won't hide anything from you. Quinn and I had a row last night because I took Fairleigh swimming without his permission. And then, well, I came here after I . . ." She didn't know how to go on so she stopped.

Grace grasped Georgiana's calloused fingers in her petite, gloved hands and squeezed. "Rosa-munde and I spoke last night. You're in love with him, aren't you, Georgiana?" Her voice was very soft.

"No," she said firmly. "Grace, whatever else you believe, please know that I am not. Perhaps," she said swallowing, "I was in love with him at one time. But now I find I can only care for him very deeply as my husband's cousin." She squeezed Grace's fingers. "And I can assure you
he
does not love
me.
It might have appeared that way because my late husband and Quinn and I knew one another in childhood. But we grew up, and we each of us went our separate ways. And I have found that now we are adults and would not suit each other at all."

"I can see you're telling me the truth, Georgi-ana, even if it pains you. Rosamunde must have been mistaken. Dearest, since you've been so kind as to take me into your confidence I will tell you my thoughts too. And then we will never speak of this again." Grace's radiant blue eyes searched hers and she continued in her dulcet, cultured voice. "You see, I think I could be happy with him. He told me recently he misses town—the varied amusements—just as I do. He enjoys traveling, too, which I adore. And I could help him with his daughter. Help her to become a refined young lady." She smoothed her dress with wide-stretched fingers. "I'm not looking for a love match, you know, just companionship."

"Grace, I wish you every happiness. You, above everyone else, deserve happiness." A curlew in the fragrant honeysuckle beyond Georgiana's bedchamber window sent up its song.

Grace touched her cheek, and her eyes darkened with sadness. "We shan't have any secrets from one another, shall we?" She appeared greatly embarrassed by her frankness. "I've never spoken of last year, or of Luc." She examined her hands. "There is nothing quite as painful as unrequited love, I think. But I do know that time and distance has effected healing. And mutual admiration and companionship—a marriage of convenience— will allow me to be content. But my happiness will only be complete when you and the other ladies find it too."

"I should tell you my family will remove from Little Roses in near future, Grace. I'm looking into possible cottages." She glanced at the clock on the mantel, carved from green-veined serpentine rock from the Lizard Peninsula nearby. She forced a smile. "I do believe it's time to start the festival. Let's collect Fairleigh before my mother allows her more cakes than she ought. I predict Fairleigh will regret her visit to my mother's kitchen after several rounds of judging pies, honey, and jam."

The entire grounds of Penrose were awash with activity. Every class of Englishman was well represented—be it peasant, servant, merchant, gentry, or aristocrat. Penrose had opened its famed golden doors once again to revel in the cornucopia of the season.

It was a chance to give over to a pagan ritual that begged for a bountiful harvest. And the Cornish knew how to celebrate and offer up thanks properly.

Sir Rawleigh, the handsome blond vicar who had sailed and fought bravely alongside the Duke of Helston, and who had parted with one of his arms in the process, presided over the commencement of the event by giving one of his popular, brief benedictions before the throngs of people. His wife, Rosamunde's sister, obviously with child, was at his side, gazing at him adoringly.

In the lull of the prayer, the calls of summer songbirds came from every direction. It was as if the flocks had come to look down their beaks at man's foolishness; the reed-thin voice of the wren from the yellow gorse, the trumpet of the linnet in the apple grove heavy with fruit, the sweet cooing of the mourning doves pecking for forgotten grain. The prayer ended and, as if on cue, hundreds of starlings swooped above, their ma-neuverings a study in perfect mass symmetry in the crisp, azure sky.

Georgiana looked down at the touch of fingers on her own. Fairleigh's shining cornflower-blue eyes stared up at her in excitement.

"Oh, Georgiana," she said breathlessly, "I have the list you approved yesterday. May I begin the announcements? "

She touched her shoulder. "Of course. Here, let me help you onto the mounting block and you shall open the festival."

Georgiana reached for the little girl but a pair of strong arms beat her to the job. Quinn lifted his daughter to the platform.

"Fairleigh," he said quietly, "you may stand beside Georgiana and help judge, but it is the Marchioness of Ellesmere who makes the announcements." He looked directly into Georgiana's eyes. "That has always been the way."

Oh, he was insisting she was still the marchioness. She felt very shy suddenly, facing him, remembering vividly what had happened last night.

"Come," he said, grasping her hand.

She hated speaking before a crowd. It unnerved her, almost as much as Quinn's hand helping her up the steps. She clamped down on her feelings. He clapped his hands to gather everyone's attention.

She felt the weight of hundreds of eyes staring at her, but then she noticed everyone was smiling at her, accepting her, and she smiled back, her nervousness in check.

Fairleigh handed her the list the girl had carefully written in her childish hand. "All right, then. Sack races and more on the south lawn in five minutes—I shall judge. Awards for best of stock—sheep, chicken, pigs, cows, bulls, mares, and stallions at the stable block in one hour. The judges shall be Mr. Wilde and Mr. Brown. Household arts, embroidery, and corn dollies at the same time, near the folly—judged by the Dowager Duchess of Helston"—Georgiana heard Ata's exclamations of delight—"and then preserves, honey, and pie judging by Lady Fairleigh Fortesque and the Countess of Sheffield under the old oak tree. There will be archery after, on the north lawn, judged by His Grace, the Duke of Helston. And a special demonstration will be held during the picnic supper to follow. After, the lighting of the bonfire by the Marquis of Ellesmere."

In the silence that greeted her announcements, a boisterous voice called out, "Let's hear it for the marchioness and the marquis. Welcome home, sir, and thank you for arranging all of this." Thunderous applause and whistles pierced the air, and Georgiana turned to see tenants and gentry alike vigorously shaking Quinn's hands and gripping his shoulder in a heartwarming display. Quinn appeared overwhelmed until Grace appeared at his side and he took her arm within his and walked toward the south lawn. Georgiana turned in the other direction and carefully descended the mounting block, Fairleigh tugging her arm in impatience.

Thirty-odd children and good-humored adults lined up for the sack race, which was handily won by the limber youth of the nearest tenant family. Georgiana spied disappointment on Fairleigh's face.

"Come, dearest, there's the entire day before you. Perhaps you'll do better in the three-legged race next."

"No, I won't. Everyone already has a partner. I don't know any of the other children."

"Is it Saturday?"

"Saturday? What does it matter if it's Saturday?"

"That's the only day I accept invitations to race."

"Oh, Georgiana!" Fairleigh's eyes shone. "It is indeed Saturday."

"Well, then. Are you asking?"

As the little girl chattered with excitement, Georgiana glanced behind her and encountered Grace and Quinn. He looked at her steadily.

Thank God, he said not a word at her unladylike behavior, nor did he try to stop her as he had when he tried to limit her dancing at the ball last night. But then, last night's ball seemed a very long time ago.

Georgiana repaired to the starting line and tied a length of heavy string around one of Fairleigh's slim ankles and her own. She appealed to Miles, who had just arrived, a pretty bouquet of flowers in hand, to start the race. His sister, Rosamunde, had escorted him to watch.

Miles looked at her helplessly and chuckled. "But I have something to give you." He winked and darted a glance at the flowers.

She felt very flustered. No one had ever given her posies. But there wasn't time to think, for Quinn suddenly signaled to Miles that he would do the honors himself.

Quinn shouted, "Take your mark, and go!"

Georgiana gripped Fairleigh tightly to her hip and urged her to march with a "left, right, left, right." Ah, they almost made it, despite the horrid jarring and ache in her knee. But as the finish line loomed, Fairleigh became too heavy to hold back, and they both tumbled awkwardly a few lengths from the end.

Georgiana came up laughing, only to find Fairleigh's horrified face, staring at her exposed limbs. Before she could move to cover herself, everyone pressed closer and whispers snaked through the crowd.

She quickly pulled her gown into place and looked up again to see Miles's shocked expression and Rosamunde's pale visage beside him. Someone lifted her to her feet abruptly.

"Well, madam, it appears you and my daughter have been soundly beaten by Tom Paine and his partner," Quinn said. "Master Paine, if you keep winning each race I wager you'll be the richest boy in Cornwall. Grace, will you award the prizes?" He chuckled and the tension of the moment dissipated. The gathering's attention was soon swayed to preparing for the next event.

"Are you all right?" He asked softly when the crowd had turned away.

"Yes." She'd die before admitting to any pain. "Perfectly fine."

Miles eased forward, a stricken look of pity in his brown eyes. "Georgiana . . . shall I carry you back to Penrose?"

"Lord, no. Thank you, though."

"I didn't know your injuries were quite so . . . What I mean to say is that, are you certain I can't . . . No, I can see—" He stopped abruptly, mid-stutter. "These are for you." He handed her the beautiful bouquet.

Georgiana glanced at Rosamunde, who shook her head and smiled. "I know absolutely nothing about this," she insisted. "Well, almost nothing."

"Why everyone seems to think my sister is the only one who knows the language of flowers, I'll never understand," Miles said, his head cocked knowingly.

"I'm very impressed," Georgiana replied, burying her nose in the pretty arrangement.

"I shall prove it," Miles said, chuckling again. "The white jasmine symbolizes your amiability, gloxinia is for your proud spirit, Mercury reflects your goodness, and the amethyst is a symbol of my admiration."

"And the celandine?" Georgiana asked, delighted beyond measure.

Rosamunde sighed. "You don't miss much, do you?"

"Why, I'm glad you asked," Miles addressed Georgiana. "It signifies joys to come."

"And the throatwort?" Grace Sheffey asked quietly.

Miles paused. "That I can't tell you."

"Why ever not?" Georgiana asked.

"My sister insisted on adding it at the last moment."

The four of them turned expectantly to Rosamunde.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Rosamunde muttered. "This is between my brother and Georgiana. We should allow them a bit of privacy."

Quinn answered the question with deceptive calm. "I believe throatwort refers to neglected beauty."

Her eyes met Quinn's and melancholy curled within her before she returned her gaze to the posies. "Thank you, Miles. And you too, Rosamunde. They're lovely. I shall always remember this moment, and shall press some of the blooms. I've never received flowers before." She wished she could withdraw the sentence. It sounded so pathetic. It was just that her sensibilities had overwhelmed her.

"It was my pleasure," Miles replied, a grin finally making its appearance. "Perhaps I shall simply have to bring you flowers every day, since this deficiency should be corrected."

She smiled. "Absolutely not. Everyone knows too many flowers will turn a lady into a spoiled creature who lies abed at every opportunity to order people about."

"Perhaps"—Miles offered his arm—"you're right. That would explain the change in my sister. Ever since she married Luc and gained access to his vast gardens, she's become ridiculously overbearing."

"Miles!" Rosamunde laughed and punched her brother in the arm. "By the by, are you putting on weight? I do believe you should lay off the sausage."

"What?" he sputtered.

While the brother and sister traded well-honed barbs, Georgiana finally dared to glance at Quinn.

And oh, what she encountered. A granite wall. As she looked at the firm contoured lines of his mouth and remembered the coarseness of his cheek brushing against her breast last night, she forced herself to glance away.

Ata was coming toward them, waving a handkerchief. "Georgiana, Quinn, come quick. There is such a to-do. One of the stallions escaped and no one can catch him. Oh, and the housekeeper asked me to convey that Fairleigh is already sampling the sweets."

Georgiana turned quickly and realized that indeed Fairleigh had disappeared.

Grace's melodic laugh intruded. "Come, Quinn, let's go refresh your daughter's memory as to the importance of adhering to the schedule. And, I think it's only fair we allow Georgiana a moment to thank Miles properly." Grace winked at her.

Ata's eyes rounded. "Oh, yes, let's all go. Luc and Mr. Brown will do just fine catching the horse, with Mr. Wilde's excellent direction."

"I'm certain I'm needed in the nursery," Rosa-munde added, smiling.

They were all conspiring to allow her time with Miles. Quinn was silent, his expression devoid of emotion as he walked away with Grace.

Miles scratched his head as the rest disappeared.

Georgiana forced a smile to her lips. "Is there anything like good friends and family to make one feel embarrassed beyond measure?"

"No." Miles chuckled. "And sisters are positively the worst of all—always trying to control and arrange your life."

"I'm sad to say my brother would probably agree with you. In fact, he told me he joined the Royal Navy because he was tired of being ordered about by, ahem, me," she replied, with a laugh. "I, however, should have liked a sister."