With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “I feel sorrier for you.” A sad smile turned up the dancer’s lips. “You have to endure Florrie and Gérard for the night.”

  “Not to mention the nobility. They make me feel so…so inadequate.”

  “Do not even say it.” Pauline thrust her finger in the direction of the stage. “You just gave the most sensational performance of your life. Don’t let those dragons make you feel any less than a queen ce soir. You may not realize it now, but you are already a diva.”

  “And your head is full of stars.” Bria slipped the costume from her shoulders and held up her best gown. The India muslin looked like a rag compared to some of the finery worn by the women in the audience, though she had added pink ribbons for flourish. “I wish I had something more suitable to wear.”

  “Perhaps we should pay a visit to the modiste.”

  Bria stepped into the frock and slipped in her arms. It had been difficult to make ends meet when living on corps wages. Others had parents to help them gain a start. No one had helped me. “Perhaps after we receive our wages.”

  Dutifully, Pauline began tying the back laces. “Just smile. One smile from you is worth more than silk.”

  “But not more than diamonds.”

  “Stop. You’ve been invited to a soiree in the home of a duchess. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Britannia!” Monsieur Travere’s voice rumbled through the door.

  “A moment,” she replied then glanced over her shoulder. “Nearly done?”

  “Just finished the bow.” Pauline gave her a pat. “Rouge your lips and primp your curls. The task master can wait.”

  Chapter Seven

  A string quartet played Mozart while Drake stood in the entry of the reception hall where he could keep an eye out for Britannia’s arrival. Beside him stood his boyhood friend from Alnwick to the north of Peak Castle, and Drake’s favorite sparring partner. Hugh Percy, heir to a dukedom and Drake’s closest ally. “The success of Chadwick Theater must last throughout the duration of the Season. One night of perceived success in no way validates our wager.”

  “Those were the terms,” Drake agreed. Though he hadn’t lost his fortune this night, the coming weeks would prove him a king or a pauper. He had made his wager with Percy when Chadwick Theater was only a whim of an idea, though after he’d returned from Paris he’d been convinced he was bringing a sensation to his new theater. Perhaps Percy was the one person who wouldn’t throw him to the wolves if his venture failed—though he would insist Drake make good on their wager. “What is your opinion? Do you think sales will sustain?”

  “My guess is they will. The men will come for the spectacle, and the women will come to keep an eye on the men.”

  Drake took a hearty sip of his champagne, wishing it were something stronger. “I think Miss LeClair gave an exemplary performance.”

  “Remarkable for a foundling. I never would have guessed her beginnings were so crude unless I’d seen it in the papers.”

  “She could be the daughter of a chimney sweep,” said Lady Eloise, glass of champagne in hand.

  “Or the daughter of Tsar Alexander,” Drake countered. “The point is we have no way of knowing.”

  “That is correct,” said the Duke of Beaufort, who at the age of seven and sixty had purchased two boxes at Chadwicks for the Season. He was both wealthy and proliferous which was financially beneficial for London as a whole. “Tell me, Ravenscar, where—”

  Beaufort’s words were swallowed by the steward’s announcement: “The esteemed Monsieur Travere, Mademoiselle LeClair, Monsieur Bonin, Mademoiselle Bisset, Mademoiselle Caron, and Monsieur Gagné.”

  The crowd applauded politely. Drake stepped forward, took Britannia’s hand and applied a brief peck. As he straightened, a bouquet as wild as an enchanted forest draped with wisteria washed over him. Good God, now the woman had been rested and fed, up close she looked stunning—gorgeous. In fact, there weren’t words. Where had his dormouse gone? It was far easier to resist a plain, half-starved foundling. “Welcome,” he croaked, gesturing to all the artistes. “May I offer you congratulations on a splendid opening performance.”

  She turned cherry red. Was there a hint of unease in the lioness’ eyes? But before he could offer assurance, Miss Florrie Bisset who played the supporting female lead, painted on a faux smile and wrapped her fingers around Drake’s arm. The woman’s gesture was inordinately brash, adding credence to the promiscuous reputation of professional women dancers. “We are delighted to be here, Your Grace.”

  Drawing his arm away, he led the party inside where a footman offered them their choice of champagne or port wine.

  As expected, Britannia chose the champagne, giving a soft thank you to the footman. She sipped while turning full circle, taking in the reception hall painted in ivory and trimmed with gold. Above, mirrored chandeliers were all alight with wax candles, making the room nearly as bright as a summer’s day.

  “This is the mansion you mentioned?” she whispered.

  “Yes, but Ravenscar Hall has nothing on Peak Castle.”

  “And where might that be?” asked Gérard Bonin, strutting forward as if he’d been responsible for the five curtain calls. He sipped his port and blast it if the Frenchman didn’t flutter his damned eyelashes.

  “Northeast of York,” Drake explained. “On the coast in a remote area known as The Peak, not to be confused with the Peak District near Sheffield.”

  “Ah.” Bonin clapped a hand to his chest and sighed, acting flippant even for a Frenchman. “Je suis en amore.”

  Fordham elbowed his way in front of the danseur. “I was wondering when the artiste of the hour would arrive. Thomas Newport, Earl of Fordham at your service, but I like my lady friends to call me Tom.” He grasped Britannia’s hand and planted a lingering kiss, then drew her fingers over his scheming heart. “Mademoiselle, your dancing was stupendous.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Drake followed as Fordham led Miss LeClair toward the doors to the orangery where, if left unattended, the fox would be able to make a quick exit.

  “I am positively dying to know how you manage to extend your leg so high.” Fordham continued with his flattery, which Drake knew all too well was intended to endear himself to the poor innocent in order to make her think he was smitten.

  “Yes, I’ve never seen such a thing.” Saye muscled in, taking Britannia’s other hand and introducing himself with much the same flourish as his partner in crime.

  “Perhaps we can engage you for a private demonstration,” Fordham said.

  Britannia glanced between the two lords. “I think—”

  “Absolutely not.” Drake squeezed Fordham’s wrist, forcing the earl to release Miss LeClair’s hand, then stepped between them with a genteel smile. “What I find astonishing is the toe dancing. Does it not hurt?”

  Britannia nodded, looking back at Drake, as if pleading with him to stay nearby. He followed, admiring the way her curls bounced and shimmered like copper in the candlelight. “It does, but my toes have grown calluses.”

  “Truly?” Fordham again pushed his big nose between them.

  “Yes, and in the past year, the company’s cobbler has improved on Mademoiselle Taglioni’s design by reinforcing the slippers with glue and wood. And I use lamb’s wool for padding.”

  “There she is, the woman who dazzled us all.” Bless Mother, she approached Britannia with a radiant smile, her hands outstretched. “Welcome to Ravenscar Hall. My son told me about your interesting dance style, and I must say tonight’s performance did not disappoint.”

  “Thank you. You are too kind, Your Grace.” Britannia curtsied deeply, keeping her chin lowered and looking uncomfortable. “And thank you for inviting us to your immaculate home this evening.”

  Lady Calthorpe, a petite woman, peeked around Mother’s shoulder. “Your dancing was astonishing, Miss LeClair. I for one am an instant admirer. I adored your vitality.” One of the Duke of Beaufort’s seventeen children, Drake had always looked fondly upon the bar
oness, aging well and in her late thirties. “My, your English is impeccable, my dear.”

  “How nice of you to say so.” Britannia’s gaze seemed to linger on the woman’s face. She leaned forward as if a question danced on the tip of her tongue.

  Lady Calthorpe appeared unperturbed by the ballerina’s staring. “Before you arrived, His Grace told us about your unfortunate beginnings.”

  Again blushing, Britannia ran the ends of the pink ribbon at her waist through her fingers. “Yes. ’Tis embarrassing to admit, but I am a foundling.”

  “No one ought to feel poorly about their beginnings. Did you have a guardian?” asked Her Ladyship.

  “I was taken in by a wonderful couple in Bayeux.”

  Opposed to the ballerina, the baroness’ coloring paled. “Pray tell, what is your age?”

  “Ah—” Flustered, Britannia glanced to Drake.

  “My word, Charlotte.” Beaufort stepped beside his daughter and grasped her elbow, his port sloshing over the rim of his glass. “Give the poor artiste a bit of room to breathe.”

  “A moment. I have another question or two to ask.” The baroness tugged her arm free with enough force to make Beaufort’s port spill. To everyone’s horror, the ruby liquid splattered straight down the front of Miss LeClair’s gown.

  “Oh no!” chirped Her Ladyship. “Please forgive my clumsiness.”

  “Well done,” Beaufort mumbled in a barely audible tone, though Drake didn’t miss the dissention from one of Chadwick Theater’s greatest benefactors. Were the gossips making a mockery of tonight’s performance behind his back? Unfortunately, now was no time to confront the man.

  Britannia gasped, gaping at her dress. She looked to Drake, her eyes filled with panic.

  The Earl of Fordham offered his kerchief.

  She took it. “Is there a withdrawing room where I can compose my person?”

  “Straightaway. Come with me, dear.” Mother grasped Britannia’s hand.

  Drake followed them to the grand staircase until Her Grace turned and thrust out her palm. “I shall call my lady’s maid and she’ll find Miss LeClair something to wear. There’s no need for you to leave our guests.”

  “Of course. My thanks, Your Grace.” Drake bowed his head, then shifted his gaze to Britannia. If only they could have a moment alone where he could truly tell her how much he’d enjoyed her performance this evening. Duty bound to accompany his mother home, there had been no time to venture backstage and congratulate the ballerina. “You are in good hands, mark me. And I will ensure your gown is replaced.”

  “Thank you. I haven’t quite saved enough coin for a new one as of yet.”

  Drake watched as they ascended the stairs, frustrated as hell not to be the one escorting Britannia upstairs. She threw a forlorn look over her shoulder before they rounded the landing. Bless it, she was new to this country and ever so fragile, and it didn’t help to have every man in the hall slavering over her. He’d only been acquainted with the nymph for a short time, but he already knew she wasn’t like the others. She was virtuous and talented and…and vulnerable.

  “Well, that put a damper on the evening,” said Fordham.

  “Indeed,” Saye agreed. “Your ballerina has us all mesmerized. Did you see her eyes? They’re as spellbinding as a doe’s.”

  Clenching his fists at his sides, Drake faced them. “Both of you had best find someone else upon whom to project your affections. That young lady is not to be trifled with.”

  Fordham’s jaw dropped as he exchanged glances with Saye. “Do not tell me you have eyes for her?”

  “Pull your mind out of the gutter. Miss LeClair is my responsibility, not to mention she potentially is the biggest draw for Chadwick Theater this Season and I will abide no man who puts my venture in jeopardy, especially one of you.”

  Bria wiped the stain with Fordham’s handkerchief and followed the maid down the corridor.

  The woman spoke over her shoulder. “I’ll take you to Lady Ada’s chamber. We might find something suitable for you to wear in there, though I daresay, not even our scullery maids are a small as you, miss.”

  “I’m sorry to be a bother.” She dabbed again. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to remove this stain.”

  “Wine is difficult, but if anyone can do it, our laundress can.” The maid opened a door and gestured inside. “She always manages to clean every spill from His Grace’s clothing.”

  “His Grace? Are you referring to the current duke or his father?” Bria stepped inside a bedchamber that was four times the size of the room she shared with Pauline. Colors of periwinkle and cream made the chamber a happy room with a fourposter festooned with satin bedcurtains.

  “The son. His father has been gone near ten years now. Drake Chadwick grew up in this house during the Season, of course, though I think His Grace prefers to be up north.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Peak Castle?” the maid asked over her shoulder as she stepped through an archway and opened a trunk.

  “Yes.” Bria tapped a rocking chair and watched it sway, sparking memories of a similar chair from her childhood. She’d lived in a manor once. Not a palatial residence like this one, but a home with many comforts.

  “Heavens, no. The family employs a full staff of locals from The Peak.”

  “Of course.” Bria shook her head. This was a world as foreign to her as the depths of the sea. No wonder His Grace preferred his Half Moon Street town house. At least a person could find the exit when they wanted to venture outside.

  “Ah.” The maid pulled out a blue redingote and shook it. “This ought to suffice. It might be a tad long, but it opens in the front and you shouldn’t trip.”

  “’Tis beautiful.” Bria slipped it on, but the overdress dwarfed her.

  Tsking her tongue, the maid stood back. “This will not do at all.”

  “Honestly it should be fine to see me home. I can roll up the sleeves.”

  “No, I’ll tack them up and while I’m at it I can move the buttons for a better fit. It shan’t take me but a moment.”

  Before Bria could object, the lady’s maid swept out the door and left her alone in Ravenscar’s sister’s bedchamber. The tapping of raindrops sounded at the window. She rubbed her outer arms, wishing she was back in the tiny attic room with Pauline. How humorous for everyone to watch the poor foundling being drenched in red wine. Her only evening gown ruined.

  Well, at least she would have an excuse not to attend any more soirees for a time. All those wealthy people. No wonder the duke thought she was a shrinking violet. She was completely, utterly out of her element in every way.

  Bria strolled to the bed and ran her fingers over the silky coverlet. What would it be like to be raised in such opulence?

  When the door clicked, she looked up expectantly. “My heavens, you couldn’t have altered the redingote that quickly.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ravenscar replied in his deep bass as he stepped into the chamber.

  Snapping her fingers behind her back, Bria’s stomach leaped. She oughtn’t be touching the coverlet. What if she marked it? “Your Grace, should you not be with your guests?”

  “They are my mother’s guests.” He moved inside, one corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, seeming as if he wasn’t sure if he’d found the right room. Despite his expression, his elegant and polished theater attire suited the chamber’s opulence, while Bria felt discordant and ill at ease.

  “Though,” he continued, “I do appreciate Her Grace’s efforts to support Chadwick’s grand opening.” Stopping in front of her, the duke reached out, then closed his fist and drew it over his heart, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Good Lord, could a man look more beautiful?

  “S-she’s a very gracious woman. You are fortunate to have her.” Bria toyed with the long pink ribbon tied around the waist of her dress.

  With one more step in, he grasped the silk from her fingertips and together they watched it run across his palm. Bria backed aw
ay, her stomach performing involuntary entrechats.

  “She is and I am.” His gaze grew dark, meandering down her stained dress. “Ah…where is Mother’s lady’s maid?”

  “Stepped out for a moment to make a few alterations of your sister’s redingote.”

  “Right,” He grinned again, bigger this time. “I imagine there’s nothing in this house that would fit you.”

  “Is she here? I wasn’t introduced.”

  Azure eyes met hers—mysterious eyes reflecting intelligence, vitality, and, oh heavens, hunger. “Who?”

  Bria licked her lips. “Your sister.”

  He chuckled as if at his own absentmindedness. “Ada is expecting her second child. She’s now Viscountess Bindon, living in Dorset.”

  “Oh my.” Turning her back so she wouldn’t have to endure his disarming gaze, Bria smoothed her hands over her hair. Had any pins come loose in the mayhem? And why had she suddenly become so self-aware? “Honestly, I would be fine to don my cloak and return to the boarding house.”

  “That wouldn’t do. You still have admiring fans waiting in the reception hall.”

  She sensed him move closer, shivering as his warm breath skimmed the back of her neck. “I wanted a moment alone to tell you myself, your performance this evening was nothing short of magnificent. There were times when my heart stopped and I was unable to breathe. If half the patrons in the audience reacted as I, Chadwick Theater will be sold out for the duration of the Season.”

  Sighing, Bria reflected on the ballet. She hadn’t been the only one who’d given her all. “Monsieur Bonin was fabulous.”

  “His performance was but a shadow to your brilliance.”

  Her thundering heart beat so wildly, she clasped her hands to quell it. “Surely you exaggerate, Your Grace.”

  “Not at all.” Another whisper of warm breath washed over her. “You were every bit as good as Mademoiselle Taglioni. More so. And…and I’m irritated by the way my friends fawned over you.”