by Gill, Tamara
Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
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Copyright
To Fall For a Kiss
Kiss the Wallflower, Book 4
Copyright © 2019 by Tamara Gill
Cover Art by Wicked Smart Designs
Editor Grace Bradley Editing
Proofread Monique Daoust
All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the owner of copyright and the above publishers.
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Dedication
For my friend, critique partner and fellow author,
Jo Duncan.
I will miss our emails and your unwavering support. Until we meet again my friend.
Prologue
Covent Garden, London Season, 1809
* * *
Lady Clara Quinton, only daughter to the Duke of Law, gingerly backed up against an old elm tree, the laughter and sounds of gaiety beyond the garden hedge mocking her for the silly mistake she’d made. The tree bark bit into her gown and she cringed when Lord Peel would not give her space to move away.
Walking off with Viscount Peel had not been her most intelligent notion after he insisted she see a folly he was fond of. After her acquiescence, her evening had deteriorated further. If she happened to get herself out of this situation it would be the last time she’d come to Covent Garden and certainly the last time she had anything to do with his lordship.
“Please move away, my lord. You’re too close.”
He threw her a mocking glance, his teeth bright white under the moonlit night. His mouth reeked of spirits and she turned away, looking for anyone who may rescue her. What did he think he was going to do to her? Or get away with, the stupid man? “My lord, I must insist. My father is expecting me back at our carriage.”
“Come now, Clara, we’ve been playing this pretty dance for years. Surely it’s time for you to bestow me a kiss. I will not tell a soul. I promise.”
She glanced at him. Lord Peel was a handsome man, all charm, tall, and with an abundance of friends and wealth and yet, the dance he spoke of mainly consisted of her trying to get away from him. There was something about the gentleman that made her skin crawl as if worms were slithering over her.
He’d taken an immediate like to her on the night of her debut several years ago, and she’d not been able to remove him from her side since, no matter how much she tried to show little favor to any of the men who paid her court. She was six and twenty and sole heir to her father’s many estates. She wanted for nothing, and with so many other things occupying her mind of late, a husband did not fit in with her plans at present.
If she were to marry she would have to leave her father, and she could not do that. Not now when he was so very ill and in all honesty, there had been no one who had sparked her interest, not since Marquess Graham during her coming out year before he up and married a servant. Clara would be lying if she had not felt slighted and confused by his choice.
“If you should try and kiss me, my lord, I shall tell my father of your conduct. I can promise you that. Now move.” She pushed at his shoulders and she may as well have been pushing against a log of wood. He didn’t budge, simply leaned in closer, clasping her chin and squashing her farther into the tree trunk. She cringed at the pain he induced.
“Do not make me force you, Clara.” His voice dropped to a deep whisper full of menace.
Fear rippled through her and she shivered, glancing beyond his shoulder. Should she scream? To do so would court scandal. People would come scrambling to her aid, and she would be left having to explain why she was alone with Lord Peel in the first place. Especially if they did not have an understanding. Clara could not put her father through such gossip. He had enough on his shoulders without her worrying him with her own mistakes.
“You’re a brute. How dare you treat me like this?” She tried to move away once again and as quick as a flash he grabbed her, wresting her to the ground. She did scream then, but with his chest over her face her cry for help was muffled.
Clara pushed at him as he tried to kiss her, his hands hard and rough against her face. “Stop,” she said, “please stop.”
He merely laughed, the sound mocking, and then in an instant he was gone. For a moment she remained on the ground, trying to figure out what had happened and then she saw him. Mr. Grant, or Stephen Grant, the Marquess Graham’s brother-in-law and a man she’d promised to loathe forever and a day. He stood over Lord Peel, his face a mixture of horror and fury. Somewhere in the commotion Mr. Grant must have punched Lord Peel, for he was holding his jaw and there was a small amount of blood on his lip.
Clara scrambled to her feet, wiping at her gown and removing the grass and garden debris from her dress as best she could. Mr. Grant came to her, clasping her shoulders and giving her a little shake. “Are you injured? Did he hurt you at all?”
Clara glanced at Lord Peel as he gained his feet. He glared at Mr. Grant as he too wiped garden debris from his clothing and righted his superfine coat.
“You may leave, Mr. Grant. You’re not welcome to intrude in a private conversation I’m having with Lady Clara.”
“Private? Mauling someone on the ground is not what I’d consider a conversation, my lord. I heard her shout for assistance. I hardly think the conversation was one of Lady Clara’s liking.”
Clara moved over toward Mr. Grant when Lord Peel took a menacing step in her direction. An odd thing for her to do as she had never been friends with the man and to seek his protection now went against everything within her. But if she were to remain at Lord Peel’s mercy, she would choose Mr. Grant of course. He had two sisters after all, and from what she’d seen over the years he loved them dearly. He would not allow any harm to come to her. Mr. Grant reached out a hand and shuffl
ed her behind him, backing her toward where her father would be waiting with the carriage.
Lord Peel’s eyes blazed with anger. “Of course it was to her liking. We’re courting, you fool.”
She gasped, stepping forward, but Mr. Grant clasped her about the waist and held her back. “How dare you, my lord?” she stated even as Mr. Grant restrained her. “I never once asked for you to pursue me and I never gave you any indication that I wanted you to.”
Lord Peel glared at her. Mr. Grant turned her back toward the opening in the hedge where they had entered the small, private space and pushed her on. “Go, Lady Clara. I shall speak to his lordship. I can watch from here to ensure you reach your carriage, which if I’m not mistaken your father is waiting beside and looking for you.”
Clara clasped Mr. Grant’s hands, squeezing them. “I cannot thank you enough. You have proven to be the best kind of man for coming to the aid of a woman you may not be inclined to help under normal circumstances. I thank you for it.”
He threw her a puzzled glance. “Should anyone bellow for help and I hear it, of course I will come. Now go, Lady Clara. The time apart from your guests has been long enough.”
Clara nodded, turning and walking away. She reached up and fixed her hair, hoping it did not look as out of place as it felt. As she walked back toward the revelers, a little of her fear slipped away knowing Mr. Grant watched her. She glanced over her shoulder, and true to his word, Mr. Grant continued to survey her progress and ensure she arrived back at her carriage safely.
A shiver of awareness slid over her skin, completely opposite to what she experienced each time she was in the presence of Lord Peel. She’d always disliked Mr. Grant and his siblings, one of whom married Marquess Graham, her own suitor during her first Season and the man she thought she would marry. He did not offer for her hand, choosing to marry a lady’s maid instead.
“There you are, my dear. I’ve been looking for you.”
She reached up and kissed her father’s cheek, her legs of a sudden feeling as if they would not hold her for too much longer. “Shall we go, Papa?” she said, taking his arm and guiding him toward the carriage. The coachman bowed before opening the door for them.
“Yes, let us go, my dear. I’ve had quite enough time in the gardens and watching the ton at play.”
Clara stepped up into the carriage and sank down on the padded velvet seats, relief pouring through her that no one other than Mr. Grant had come upon her and his lordship in the garden, or the position that they’d been found.
Heat rushed over her cheeks and she picked up the folded blanket on her seat and settled it about her father’s legs as the carriage lurched forward. Anything to distract her from the memory of it.
“Shall we ring for tea and play a game of chess when we arrive home, Papa? It may be a nice way to end the evening just us two together.”
Her father glanced at her, a little blank and unsure. “I think I shall retire, my dear. It’s been a tiring evening.”
“Very well,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat that wedged there each and every time she was around her parent. She knew the reason he no longer liked to play chess, cards or even the piano, at which he’d once been proficient, was because he’d forgotten how. His mind over the last two years had slowly disremembered many things, even some of the servants who had been with them since she was a girl.
Unbeknownst to her father Clara had sought out an opinion with their family doctor and he’d agreed that her father had become more forgetful and vague, and that it may be a permanent affliction.
She sighed. The fact that there was little she could do to help him regain his memory saddened her and as much as she tried to remind him of things, an awful realization that one day he’d forget her had lodged in her brain and would not dissipate.
What would happen after that? Would he still be as healthy as he was now, but with no memory, or would whatever this disease that ailed his mind affect his body as well.
The idea was not to be borne. He was all she had left.
“Maybe tomorrow, Papa, after breakfast perhaps.”
He smiled at her, and she grinned back. “Maybe, my dear, or you could ask your mother. I know how very fond of chess she is.”
Clara nodded, blinking and looking out the carriage window so he would not see her upset. If only she could ask her mama, who’d been dead these past ten years.
Stephen stood between Lord Peel and the man’s exit at his back in the gardens. The moment he’d strode into the small, private area and seen a flash of pink muslin and a gentleman forcing a woman into kissing him a veil of red had descended over his eyes and he’d not known how he’d stopped himself from pummeling the man into pulp.
“You will leave Lady Clara alone or I shall speak to her father of what I witnessed this evening. Do you understand, my lord?”
Peel chuckled, the sound mocking and full of an arrogance that Stephen was well aware of with this gentleman. He was also aware that he’d once been married and that his wife had fallen ill not long after their marriage. Of course, upon the young woman’s death, Peel had played the widower very well, and had enjoyed the copious amount of money that his young wife had left him, or so Marquess Graham had told him one evening when Stephen had noticed his marked attention toward Lady Clara. A woman who seemed to show little interest in the gentleman trying to court her.
Lord Peel tapped a finger against his chin. “I forget… Do I need to listen to you? What is your name… Mr. Grant, isn’t it? Son of nobody.”
Stephen fisted his hands at his sides, reminding himself that to break the fellow’s nose would not do him or his sisters any good now that they were part of the sphere this mongrel resided within. He’d already hit him once, to bloody him up too much would not do.
“You are correct. I’m Mr. Stephen Grant of Nobody of Great Import, but I will say this… You’re no one of import either if the rumors about you and your conduct are to be believed.”
Lord Peel’s face mottled red and Stephen was glad his words struck a chord in the bastard. He needed to hear some truths and to know that his marked attention toward women, his inability to grasp that he saw them as nothing but playthings for his enjoyment had been noted and talked about. He pushed past Stephen and he let him go, not wanting to waste another moment of his time on such a nob.
The gentleman’s retreating footsteps halted. “Lady Clara will be my wife. I will be speaking to her father soon about my proposal and I will have her. I am a viscount. It is only right that Lady Clara marry a man such as myself, so if you look to her as a possible candidate as your wife, you’ll be sadly mistaken. Move on and marry a tavern wench, that’ll suit your status better. A duke’s daughter is not for you.”
Stephen glared at the man’s back as he disappeared into the throng of revelers still dancing and enjoying their night in Covent Garden. “Yes, well, Lord Peel, she’s not for you either and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you have her.”
Chapter 1
Autumn – 1809
* * *
Clara settled the blanket about her father’s legs and sat on a settee beside the fire. They had returned to Chidding Hall a fortnight past, and autumn this year had been windy and wet, a sure sign that winter would be cold. The fire crackled and popped, and with the velvet drapes pulled closed, the candles burning in the library, the room was warm and inviting, a perfect place to relax and enjoy some time together.
Something that had been happening less and less. Her father, since the end of the season, had deteriorated so severely that she’d ended her time in London early and had returned home to Kent without delay.
He’d improved since being away from town, and the many outings she feared took a toll on him and made him more vulnerable to bouts of anxiety, clumsiness and confusion. Home at least, her father was more relaxed and he’d been better, but still, something inside Clara told her that his illness would only get worse. It was certainly the trajectory he’d been on at least
.
“Did I tell you that I received word today that we have a new neighbor? Moved in last week.”
Clara placed the letter from her friend in London down in her lap. “Really? What estate? I’ve not heard of any estate being up for sale or lease.” She knew all the particulars regarding their neighbors in the county. Having worked with the steward for the past three years, there was little she didn’t know now about her tenants, the land and surrounding neighbors.
Her father’s eyes twinkled, no doubt pleased that he knew something she did not. “Oh yes, a Mr. Grant has leased Ashby Cottage, his brother-in-law’s home. It’s been empty for so many years. I’ve not seen anyone living there since Lord Graham’s grandmother resided there. It’ll be good to have someone in it again. I always believe that when a house sits empty it deteriorates. Lord Graham has maintained the upkeep on the estate however, so I do not think there will be much needed to be done by Mr. Grant to ensure his comfort.”
Clara listened as her father rattled on about the gentleman and she ignored the fluttering that overtook her stomach at the mention of his name. Mr. Grant was their new neighbor? She picked up her letter, feigning reading. “That is good news, both for the estate and the local county. Another home open will mean more employment for the local people.” She paused, folding and unfolding the corner of the letter lying in her lap. “I met Mr. Grant several years ago in London, on recent acquaintance his character has improved, I’m happy to say.”
