The Perfect Kiss

“If you haven’t already discovered the powerfully moving romances of Anne Gracie, I can’t urge you strongly enough to hunt [for] them.”—
Romance Reviews Today

“I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a book so much.”

—
Fresh Fiction

The Perfect Rake

“Contains bushels of humor, a tiny bit of farce, a generous dollop of romance, the right balance of sweet and tart, a dash of suspense, and, for spice, a soupçon of retribution.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“Near perfect.”—
Midwest Book Review

“Hysterical to read. Gracie’s humor is as engaging as ever.”—
All About Romance

Praise for the other novels of Anne Gracie

An Honorable Thief

“She’s turned out another wonderful story!”

—
All About Romance

“A true find and definitely a keeper.”—
Romance Reviews

“A thoroughly marvelous heroine.”—
The Best Reviews

“Dazzling characterizations . . . Provocative, tantalizing, and wonderfully witty romantic fiction . . . Unexpected plot twists, tongue-in-cheek humor, and a sensually fraught battle of wits between hero and heroine . . . Embraces the romance genre’s truest heart.”

—
Heartstrings Reviews

How the Sheriff Was Won

“Anne Gracie provide[s] pleasant diversions.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“An excellent story with an engaging plot and well-rounded characters.”—
Romantic Times

Tallie’s Knight

“Gracie combines an impeccable knowledge of history, an ability to create vibrant and attractive characters, and an excellent story-telling ability.
Tallie’s Knight
is far and away the best Regency romance I have read in a long time.”—
The Romance Reader

“Gracie’s writing style is charming and wonderful, and the love scenes are very sensual . . . A special book with excellent writing and characters that touch the heart.”

—
All About Romance

Gallant Waif

“A great heroine . . . This is as polished a piece of romance writing as anyone could want.”—
The Romance Reader

“I loved everything about it.”—
All About Romance

A Virtuous Widow

“A wonderful, warm, emotionally stirring Christmas story of love found, wishes fulfilled, and promises kept.”

—
Romantic Times

Berkley Sensation titles by Anne Gracie

THE PERFECT RAKE
THE PERFECT WALTZ
THE PERFECT STRANGER
THE PERFECT KISS

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE PERFECT KISS

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2007

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-0-425-21345-2

BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With thanks to Christine, my wonderful editor.

Thanks also to my writing friends Linda, Jenny, Theonne, Kaye, and Trish, who give me advice, support, and laughs when I need them most, and to Dave, an endless source of symptoms and diseases.

Prologue

DEREHAM COURT, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. 1814

“YOU ARE AN EVIL LITTLE GIRL!” THE OLD MAN BELLOWED.

Eight-year-old Grace Merridew stood braced against the corner of the room. Her grandfather’s tirade pounded her with spittle-flecked waves of hatred.

“You’ll dwell in misery and filth, alone and unloved, and when you die, even the worms will disdain your corrupt flesh!”

“I will
too
be loved,” Grace muttered defiantly. “My mama promised.”

He swore. “That whore of Babylo—”

Grace wasn’t sure what a whore was, but she knew it was something bad. She planted her fists on her hips and shouted furiously back. “My mama was
not
a whore! She’s an
angel
, an’ she’s watching over us now, and before she died she promised all of us—me and all my sisters—that we’ll find love and laughter and sunshine and happiness and so we will, so we will, and you can’t stop us, Gran’papa, because an angel is stronger than a horrible old man who spits and swears and smells!”

His eyes filled with a terrible light. He loomed over her, his big, gnarled hands clenching and unclenching. Grace was glued to the floor, shaking, shocked by her own temerity. He was going to kill her, she knew. She’d never before defied him like that. She braced herself for the blows she knew would come, the rage that would inevitably break.

The silence stretched unbearably.

When he finally spoke, it was all the more frightening because he wasn’t shouting. He spoke softly, almost tenderly. “Your bitch of a mother may have promised your older sisters love and happiness, Grace, but she never promised it to
you
.”

Grace shook her head in denial. She didn’t remember her mother, but her sisters had told her often about Mama’s promise. “She did, too,” she muttered.

“No. She couldn’t have. The others, yes, but not you.” He said it with flat, unnerving confidence.

A trickle of uncertainty ran through her. She unclenched her fists. “Why not me?”

She flinched as he laid his hand on her head in a horrible parody of affection. “Because you killed your mama, Grace. A woman doesn’t make that sort of promise to the daughter who killed her.”

She stared, unable to take in what he was saying.

He repeated it with horrible relish.
“The daughter who killed her!”

Cold fingers clutched at her heart. “I didn’t kill my mother! I didn’t!”

“You were a baby and don’t remember, but you killed her all the same. You killed the whore of Babylon and came to Grandpapa. That makes you my creature, not your mother’s.” Long, twisted fingers caressed her hair.

Grace jerked her head away, knuckling her fist into her mouth to stem the welling horror. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t. “I’ll ask my sisters. I didn’t kill her, I wouldn’t.”

“Do you think they would tell you the horrid truth? Upset their darling baby sister for no reason? You can’t bring Mama back, can you?” He gave a raspy laugh. “Of course they’ll tell you I’m lying. But I’m not, little Grace, I’m not.”

Grace thought she might throw up, she felt so sick and shivery.

“You killed your mother, Grace.” He smiled, a rictus of stained and broken teeth. “And for that you’ll die alone and unloved . . .”

Chapter One

Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound,
content to breathe his native air in his own ground.

ALEXANDER POPE

SHROPSHIRE, ENGLAND. 1826

HE RODE INTO THE VILLAGE OF LOWER WOLFESTONE WITH COLD revenge in his heart. On a huge black steed streaked with sweat and dust he drew all eyes, feminine and masculine alike. He was indifferent to their interest.

Spying the faded sign of the Wolfestone Arms hanging motionless in the sultry heat, the man nudged his horse in the direction of the tavern. A weary white-and-liver-speckled dog followed, her ribs heaving, her tongue hanging low.

Three old men sat on the bench outside, shaded from the afternoon sun by beech trees whose leaves were a mix of gold and green and russet.

A ragged, skinny child came running out. “Can I help you, sir? Fetch you an ale, mebbe? Water for your horse? For your dog?”

“Which road do I take to Wolfestone Castle?”

“The castle, sir? But Mr. Eades, he’s bin gone—”

“Ach, Billy Finn, don’t bother the gentleman wi’ village tattle-tale!” A large man shoved the boy aside and gave the gentleman an obsequious smile and a half bow. “A drink for yer honor p’rhaps? I’ve got some good ale, cool from the cellar, will slide down y’r honor’s parched throat, a treat in this weather. Or if you’re hungry, my missus makes a meat pie that’s famous in three counties.”

The stranger ignored him. “Boy, which road?”

The boy, who was giving water to the dog, glanced at the landlord, then pointed at the right fork. “Along that road, sir. You can’t miss it.”

The landlord shot the lad a warning glare and began, “There be nobody—”

But the stranger flipped a silver coin at the boy and rode on.

“Well, I’ll be beggared,” the landlord exclaimed. “What would the likes of ’im want up at the castle?”

The oldest of the old men, a wizened, bright-eyed gnome, snorted. “Ye never did ’ave a noticing eye, Mort Fairclough. Didn’t you recognize him?”