The Perfect Kiss (2 page)

“How could I? I’ve never seen him before.”

“Didn’t ye see ’is eyes? Golden bright and cold as an hoarfrost they were. With eyes like that and hair as black as sin, there ain’t nobody else he could be but a Wolfe of Wolfestone!”

A murmur ran around those gathered.

One of the girls sighed. “He’s right handsome, for a lord. I do like a lovely, big, stern-looking man. He could have his wicked lordly way wi’ me any day.”

The venerable ancient said severely, “The important question is, which sort o’ Wolfe is he?”

“What d’ye mean, which sort?” the boy piped up.

“There’s been Wolfes at Wolfestone for nigh on six hundred years, young Billy,” the old man explained. “And Wolfes come in only two sorts—good or bad. The fate o’ the village depends on ’em.”

His bright old eyes took in the listeners and he added, “We’ve had bad for as long as most of you can remember. But when I was a lad, ahh.” He shook his head reminiscently. “The old lord then was a good ’un. One o’ the best.” He drank the last of the ale in his tankard and gazed mournfully into its emptiness. “So, I wonder what this ’un’s like.”

“He be a good ’un,” said little Billy Finn confidently, clutching his sixpence tightly.

The landlord shook his head. “Openhanded don’t mean good, lad. The old lord was free enough wi’ a tanner when it pleased him, and he was a bad ’un for sure.” He spat in the dust.

“We must hope for the Gray Lady,” a bent old woman with white elflocks and black button eyes stated with an air of authority.

Billy Finn fetched a stool for her. “Who’s the Gray Lady, Granny?”

Granny Wigmore eased her old bones onto the stool with a nod of approval. “She’s the guardian o’ this valley, Billy. She be the harbinger o’ good times for us poor folks. When the Gray Lady rides, the Wolfe be a good ’un. She hasn’t ridden in many a year.”

Grandad Tasker added, “My mam saw the Gray Lady once when she was a girl. All in gray and on a white ’orse, she was, ridin’ at dawn and bonny as the mist.”

“When the Gray Lady rides, the Wolfe be tamed,” Granny repeated.

The landlord gazed down the road the stranger had taken and shook his head. “I don’t reckon any lady—gray or otherwise—will tame that ’un. I never seen such bright, cold eyes on a man before. Devil’s eyes, I reckon.”

“Wolfe eyes,” the old man said. “Old Hugh Lupus had just such eyes.”

“Hugh Lupus?”

“Don’t ye know nothing, lad? Hugh Lupus be the first lord of D’Acre—came over with the Conqueror, he did. A mortal fierce man, old Hugh, with gold-hard eyes that could freeze a man’s blood.” He leaned back against the wall and added, “Storm be a’comin. I feel ’un in my bones.”

 
 
THE HIRED TRAVELING CARRIAGE RATTLED ALONG AT BREAKNECK speed. Dust rose in clouds from the narrow country road, drifting through the open windows of the carriage and settling on the passengers inside. It was too hot and sultry a day even to think of closing the windows. Besides, dust was but a small part of their miseries.

They bounced and bumped as the carriage lurched and jolted over ruts and potholes, remaining on their seats only with the aid of the leather straps that hung from the sides of the carriage.

“I’ll have that insolent fellow dismissed when we get back to London!” Sir John Pettifer muttered peevishly. He’d already reprimanded the postilion twice about the excess speed when they’d stopped to change horses, but the postilion and coach were hired for the journey, and he was not much inclined to listen to a fussy, elderly gentleman in old-fashioned clothes who’d already proved himself a miserly tipper.

Grace Merridew hung on to her leather strap and gritted her teeth. The problem was more than mere insolence. The postilion had been refreshing himself at intervals from a leather flask. And the more he drank, the wilder he rode and the wilder the coach swung and bounced.

Not far to go, Grace told herself. It was not for her to complain. She was supposed to be invisible on this trip. She was only here because her best friend, Melly Pettifer, had begged her to come.

And because she must have been insane at the time.

But she’d never seen Melly so desperate, so distraught. And indeed her plight seemed fantastic when she’d first broken the news to Grace.

“I won’t have to be a governess after all. Papa arranged a marriage for me!” But as Grace started forward to congratulate her, Melly burst into tears. Bitter, scalding tears. Misery, not happiness.

The carriage hurtled around a bend, swaying dangerously, and Grace braced herself. Melly clung miserably to the window frame opposite her. Poor Melly. Her complexion was green. She’d thrown up three times already on the journey. She hadn’t expected to enjoy the trip but this was worse than anyone could have imagined.

Melly’s bridal journey. To be married in a few weeks to a man she’d never met. Grace couldn’t imagine what that would be like. She could barely believe it. Melly could barely believe it. As it turned out she’d been betrothed to marry Dominic Wolfe, now Lord D’Acre of Wolfestone Castle, since she was nine years old. And nobody had told her until now.

Apparently Dominic Wolfe had returned to England for the first time in more than ten years. He hadn’t even come for his father’s funeral. But Sir John had heard he was back and had contacted him about the betrothal.

It was legal and binding. According to Sir John, Melly had no choice in the matter. He and the old Lord D’Acre had cooked up the agreement years before. Documents had been signed and a large sum of money had changed hands—money that Sir John had spent long ago and had no hope of ever repaying.

No wonder Sir John had been so miserly about spending money on Melly’s coming-out. The Pettifer money problems were well known. Why go to the expense of launching Melly on the marriage mart when it was already a done deal, signed, sealed, and the bride ready to be delivered?

Sir John’s main worry had been that it looked as though the new Lord Wolfe would never come to England. Or that he’d married abroad. But he’d arrived in England still a bachelor and so the wedding was on.

The news had shocked Melly badly, but slowly she had come to terms with it. It wasn’t as if she had any other suitors. You didn’t when you were poor, plain, plump, and intensely shy. And at least the new Lord D’Acre was young.

What a strange homecoming it must have been, Grace pondered, to return to claim your inheritance and discover you’d also inherited a bride. He’d been only sixteen when the contracts were signed.

That was the problem. Dominic Wolfe didn’t want a bride. Melly wasn’t sure what had gone on: her father and the family lawyer had journeyed up to Bristol, where he was staying. He had interests in shipping.

Sir John was determined Melly would not be done out of her rights. The contract was legal and would stand. And the only way Lord D’Acre could inherit the property of Wolfestone was by marrying Melly. It was in his father’s will—he would inherit only after he had married Melly, or should she be dead or otherwise unable to marry, he could inherit the property only if he married a bride who met with Sir John’s approval.

Lord D’Acre’s legal advisers had examined the will for loopholes, but it was watertight, apparently. At that, he’d agreed to marry her, but in a letter two days ago he’d coldly informed Sir John that it would be a white marriage—a marriage in name only. He and his bride would part at the church door. He owned a fleet of ships and had no plans to live in England.

Melly was distraught. “It means I’ll have a house in London and lots of money but I’ll never have babies, Grace. And you know how I’ve always wanted babies. I l-l-love babies.” And her soft, plump face had crumpled with despair, and tears had poured down her cheeks.

“Your papa loves you—he won’t force you to marry a man like that,” Grace had told her. “Just refuse to go through with it.”

“He can, he can! He’s utterly adamant! I’ve never seen him like this before.” Melly had scrubbed at her red eyes with a mangled handkerchief. “Help me, Grace, I beg you.”

And because she’d been protecting Melly from bullies ever since they’d met at school—and because insanity ran in her family!—Grace had found herself promising she would do what she could.

That was how she now found herself on this frightful journey dressed in drab gray clothes, wearing horrid sensible leather half boots, and disguised as Melly’s hired companion, of all things. She could have been packing for a thrilling trip to Egypt with Mrs. Cheever, a wealthy widow and cousin to Mr. Henry Salt, the British consul general in Egypt and expert on Egyptian antiquities. With such wonderful connections, Grace had expected to have a splendid time. Egypt had been her passion since she was a little girl.

But there would be other opportunities for Grace to travel to Egypt, if not to stay in the house of the consul general.

Once Melly was married, it would be forever.

The coach jolted and swayed. There was a sudden thud and a burst of terrified squawks and cackles. Feathers drifted through the open window. The wretched man had driven through a flock of chickens; he hadn’t slowed the carriage in the least and from the sound of that thud at least one of the poor birds had been killed.

It was the last straw! Grace thrust her head out of the door and shrieked furiously at the postilion to slow down. He pointed at the sky and yelled something back at her. Grace couldn’t hear what it was, but the ominous bank of swollen, dark gray clouds ahead of them told their own story.

He was trying to beat a storm, racing to get to Wolfestone Castle before it hit. The road was bad enough when it was thick with dust. Once the rain came it would become a muddy quagmire. Coaches got bogged all the time. Reluctantly she pulled her head in.

Sir John shook his head at her. “Greystoke, Greystoke, Greystoke! It is not your place to interfere!” he told her wearily. “Lady Augusta expects us to teach you to behave in an appropriate manner, and I’ll tell you now, no lady would
ever
thrust her head out a carriage window!” He gave her a minatory look. “Nor would she shriek like a banshee!”

“Yes, Sir John. Sorry, Sir John,” Grace forced herself to say meekly. He gave her a stern look, then nodded as if satisfied she’d taken his words to heart and closed his eyes again.

It was very hard to remember she was Greystoke now, playing the role of one of her Aunt Gussie’s orphan girls in training to become a hired companion. Calling herself Greystoke in case Melly forgot and called her Grace.

Sir John would never have let Miss Grace Merridew, of the Norfolk Merridews, and darling of the ton, come on this shabby, shameful journey but when Melly’s maid had left—having found herself a situation that paid wages regularly—the girls saw their opportunity. Melly needed a female to accompany her on this trip and since Grace was supposedly an orphan-in-training whose services came free, Sir John had leapt at the opportunity.

Grace looked at Sir John. He was leaning against the cracked leather squabs of the hired coach, his eyes closed, his skin sallow and clammy-looking. He looked nearly as ill as his daughter. Good, she thought angrily. He should feel sick, too, for what he was doing to Melly.

Grace didn’t understand it. From all she’d heard, all Melly had told her at school, he’d always seemed a loving, indulgent father. As an orphan, Grace had eagerly listened to tales of other people’s parents. She and Melly had always believed it was lack of money that had prevented Melly’s coming-out. But now she had to wonder.

What sort of father would do this to his only daughter?

Poor Melly, who had never had a suitor, was—unless Grace could help her—doomed to a loveless, childless marriage to a man who didn’t want her.

Grace pondered the unfairness of life as she clung to her strap and stared out at the countryside rushing past the window. It couldn’t be said that she’d never had a suitor. Plenty of offers had been made for her hand. Mostly they’d wanted her for her face and fortune. A few men might have wanted her for herself, she supposed.

The trouble was she hadn’t wanted any of them.

She’d tried to fall in love—some of the men who had offered for her were very nice—but there was always something missing, something stopping her. And it wasn’t just a lack of . . . magic.

A big part of the problem was having faith.

Grace just couldn’t manage to achieve the unshakable belief in love that her older sisters had. Prudence, Charity, Hope, and Faith all had memories of the great love their parents had shared. Even though they’d just been children, they’d
felt
it, felt its warmth, its power. They never questioned it. Grace’s sisters
knew
love was real and tangible and all-powerful. They all believed in Mama’s dying promise; that each of her daughters would find love and laughter and sunshine and happiness. Grace didn’t.

Grace had no memories of her parents. She’d grown up in a cold, gloomy Norfolk mansion, not a sunny Italian villa. And unlike her older sisters, Grace had no guarantee, no promise of love from her dead mama to protect her.

Grace had watched each of her sisters fall in love. Their happiness was real and enduring. And her sisters assured her repeatedly that it would happen for her, too, one day.

One day a man will kiss you and you’ll know . . .

Mama’s promise
, they’d remind her.
Mama’s promise.

Grace had tried, so hard, to believe, tried, so hard, to fall in love, but she just . . . couldn’t.

So she flirted and parried men’s advances, lightheartedly and with humor, ensuring that nobody would get hurt. And that nobody would suspect.

The old man’s words would come back to haunt her whenever she was feeling sad and blue-deviled, whenever she’d failed—again—to feel more than a spark of attraction to some nice man. She couldn’t marry a man, even a nice one, whose kisses left her cold.

It didn’t matter, she told herself for the thousandth time. Plenty of people managed to live without love. She could still make a perfectly good life for herself. More than good—she was determined it would be splendid!

She was her own woman now—almost! She was almost one-and-twenty and about to take control of her own personal fortune. Once she had her fortune she could live how she liked, where she liked. She could have the splendid adventures her soul had craved all her life: travel to Egypt and Venice and Constantinople, see the wonders of the world, ride on a camel, cross the Alps in a basket as her parents had done—and she wouldn’t have to ask permission of anyone.