Kiss Me Sweetly

by Cecilia Gray

  B.B.

  Miss B.,

  I imagine there are many rituals in which women engage that are not observable by men, and even those that are observable have intentions that remain obscure to us.

  B.A.

  Lord B.,

  I confess to finding this trip very illuminating.

  It is worth noting that while the vestals had but one ritual unknown to priests, the priests, in return, had quite a number of secrets. It is a historical ratio I am determined to invert.

  B.B.

  Chapter Two

  Bridget’s account of Viscount Savage

  May 22, 1817

  Woodbury, England

  Bridget had heard many rumors, mostly substantiated as far as she knew, of the Viscount Savage. It was said that the name intended for Damon Cade had actually been Elliot Noseworthy Cade until his mother had seen the babe, understood his eventual tendency toward heartbreak and debauchery, and renamed him. He was supposedly a prowling specimen of “feline masculinity”—whatever that meant. It certainly sounded promising.

  He wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the gothic heroes in the books Bridget had recently devoured. If anything, their in-laws’ association with Christian Hughes, famed pugilist, fit that bill. That man could barely walk through a doorway without having to pull his shoulders up to his ears.

  No, Damon Cade was titled and wealthy, with pretty, learned manners that made him infinitely more dangerous to Bridget’s tender sensibilities.

  Even though his connection to the Abernathy sons was well known, the duke had forbidden him from attending Sera and Tom’s wedding, and her father had advised them against seeking out his acquaintance.

  And as with anything that was forbidden, Bridget absolutely had to have it.

  An entire gossip sheet was devoted to first-time sightings of Lord Savage. A good half of them ended in hysterics or fainting. The other half were rumored to end in bed. Not that this was reported in the sheets, and not that anyone of good quality had made the claim, leading Bridget’s logical sister Dinah to wonder how it could be rumored if no one was inclined to admit her part. Dinah was no fun in that way.

  Still, Bridget was finding it difficult to run into Viscount Savage. He would never be caught dead at Almack’s Assembly. He wasn’t one to favor Hyde Park—any park, rather—and he had yet to attend any of the balls or parties she’d attended in past Seasons.

  Supposedly, he was great friends with Benjamin and Graham, having served with her brothers-in-law at the Battle of Salamanca, but since returning from Italy, she’d yet to lay eyes on him, making her the only sister not to have done so. This meant her sisters had more stories than she did, a state of affairs Bridget was loath to allow.

  Which was why Bridget was presently dressed in breeches and suspenders over a loose-fitting, white linen shirt and a dark wool coat she had smuggled from downstairs. She snugged her cap over hair she’d bound so tightly atop her head that she could feel a headache coming on. It was a very specific uniform—one worn by the boy runners who worked at the gambling hell Bridget had every intention of infiltrating that night since it was rumored Damon Cade would be in attendance.

  She could just imagine the story—her story—a triumph above all the others.

  It was this imminent victory that sent Bridget tiptoeing through their Bayswater townhome, down the stairs, out the door, and into the street. Her senses blazed in the familiar surroundings made exotic by the darkness. The clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones rushed by her ears. Conversations seemed louder, danger closer. Her heartbeat thrummed steadily in her chest.

  She seemed just a boy—thank goodness for her slim frame—and most passersby went on their way without a first glance, much less a second. It was an experience unlike any she’d had before. She wasn’t a great beauty like Sera, but she was winsome and pretty and commanded enough attention that no recognition at all felt strange.

  She walked, head down, until she was able to hail a hackney cab. She instructed the driver to take her to the establishment. He glanced at her an instant longer than was comfortable, perhaps at the slim circle of her wrist that peeked out from beneath her sleeve as she handed him a coin for the journey, but then he shrugged and urged on his horses.

  Bridget sat in the corner and kept her eyes down, but she began to wonder if she’d been too hasty in her plan. She imagined one of her sisters looking for her, finding her gone, and worrying, even though they would rarely look for her this late at night, since she could be relied upon to be reading.

  Right now, she’d certainly rather be reading a specific journal she had yet to find. The search for the journal was still plaguing her. Her eyes had scraped over every title on every spine of every shelf in Woodbury ten times over until she was cross-eyed with it.

  Yet, the search, however fruitless, made her feel like the heroine of a book instead of its reader, and she wasn’t ready to let go of the feeling yet. Especially not with Benjamin threatening to burn his mysterious journal.

  She was certain he hadn’t found it, either, and as far as she knew, neither he nor she had returned to Woodbury in months and they would not until after the Season. Anything could have happened to it. A servant could have returned it to the wrong place. It could have been thrown away—although she refused to entertain this possibility seriously.

  The wait was unbearable. Perhaps that was why she could no longer be idle. If she couldn’t lay her eyes on the book, then she would finally lay her eyes on the infamous viscount if she damn well chose.

  The hired hackney slowed to a stop and announced her destination as if it were royal quarters instead of a house of misspent youth and money. She rushed down from the carriage. From the stories she’d read, the pages entered through the back, but the town house abutted its neighbor and she’d no idea how to get around. She turned her head, staring longingly at the hackney and wondering if she should call for it to come back and take her home, but it sped around a corner and she was stuck.

  The front door of the house opened, and sound and light flooded the otherwise dark pavement. She hid in the shadow of a tree, considering her next move, as the loud strike of pianoforte keys, the bawdy laughter of a screeching female, and the din of conversation echoed around her. Then a fine coach pulled up, bearing the Rivington crest.

  Two men spilled out—one she recognized easily as Benjamin Abernathy. He was slightly in his cups from the looks of it and threw his arm over his friend’s shoulders to steady himself as they leaped from the coach.

  She was riveted by the sight of him—the smart cut of his coat, his easy grin and ruffled dark hair, the serious nose that had obviously seen the wrong end of a cricket bat. For a moment he seemed so unlike the serious lord of her experience, the one who had written her chastising letters for several months now. His eyes lit up with amusement at something his companion had said.

  Bridget had not realized that she’d stepped out of the shadows and was staring at him until his friend asked, “Is that your page?”

  Benjamin glanced her way. “No.” Then he turned and glanced back sharply. His voice cut through the air with an even greater chill. “Savage, I’ll find you later.”

  Before Bridget even had a chance to study the stranger, the infamous Damon Cade was making his way through the front doors of the establishment, oblivious to his friend’s foul mood.

  “What the devil?” he said. “No, don’t answer that. There is no answer. Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  But of course he recognized her. “Am I to answer you or not?” she demanded.

  “Do you mean to see yourself ruined?”

  “Of course not,” she sputtered. “I didn’t even know you would be here.”

  “I didn’t know how you could make matters worse, but your answer has enlightened me. If you did not know I would be here, why are you here? You don’t think the book is here, do you?”

  “So you don’t have it,” she said triumphantly.

  He
blew out an exasperated breath. “If not for me, if not for the book, then why are you here?” His gaze skimmed her up and down, straying to her hips and legs and then back to her face.

  She felt uncomfortable now in her boy’s outfit, especially as he had just appeared to become aware of it. “I had hoped to catch a glimpse of your friend Viscount Savage who I learned would be in attendance tonight.”

  Benjamin pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew nothing good would come of that damnable sheet.”

  “So you’ve read it?”

  “All of London has read it. And you thought to be featured yourself? Are you mad?”

  “I’m not mad. I’m curious,” she said. “All my life, my only adventures have been in books. Not even in books I was allowed to read but in books I had to smuggle in for myself.”

  “Adventure is overrated,” he said. “You’re a silly girl romanticizing things you don’t understand.”

  “I don’t seek to romanticize anything,” she said. “Do you find this club romantic? It is merely a way of life for you, in a way I have never experienced on the page or in person. How is that fair?”

  “It’s not,” he said. “The very idea that you think life should be fair shows your naiveté. I can’t have you exposed.”

  “You can’t make me leave.” She tilted up her chin. “And if you can’t risk exposing me, you have no recourse but to let me stay.”

  His lips pressed into a solemn, grim line, and he stepped closer and leaned down, his face next to hers, his breath against her cheek. “I can’t risk exposing you here, but I can expose your behavior to your father.”

  She gasped before she could contain the reaction. He wouldn’t. But of course he would. Benjamin Abernathy was nothing but a stuffy old starched shirt. How he managed to consort with Damon Cade, Lord Savage, was beyond her. How he even managed to retain friends at all was beyond her. “You’re no gentleman, sir.”

  “I’m every bit the gentleman,” he said. “That’s why you don’t like me. Now we are going to turn around and head straight to my coach. I am going to personally escort you back to your home. You are never to speak of this night, and neither will I.”

  “You’re just like the rest of them.”

  Confusion crinkled his brow. “The rest of who?”

  “Men,” she spat. “The lot of you deciding what I read, what I do, whom I marry.” Her voice broke, and she hated its weakness.

  Benjamin must have noted it. He flinched at the sound, and a contemplative look crossed his features. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed, his fists unclenched. His gaze raked her up and down once more, but this time without censure. When he spoke, his tone was firm but gentle. “Lord Savage will be at his favorite table. I will ensure that we pass it.”

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Thank you.”

  “Eyes down,” he barked. “How anyone could mistake you for a boy is beyond me.”

  “Lord Savage mistook me for a boy.”

  “He has enough conquests without having to go looking for them in hidden places. Come along. This is your only chance.”

  Then they were off. She was prepared this time for the noise and the opulence. Benjamin grabbed her wrist and hustled her up the stairs and through the door into the loud throng of the gaming hell.

  It was everything she’d ever imagined.

  The foyer was decorated in vivid reds and golds, from the carpet to the tapestries, Eastern in origin. The main room was half the size of a standard ballroom but covered from one end to the other in tables, each ringed by a dozen gamblers turned toward the action. For each man in evening clothes there was a woman in a low-cut gown exposing her cleavage and holding a drink.

  Benjamin pulled her up a flight of stairs.

  “You’re hurting—”

  “Not a word,” he said.

  She imagined his tone must have been similar to the one he’d employed on the battlefield for, despite the ache in her wrist, she dared not disobey him. Yet her heartbeat remained steady. What a strange way to feel about a man she barely knew, who was, for all intents and purposes, just the brother of her sister’s husband.

  Still, her eyes strained at the sights around her. She had so many questions.

  When they reached the second floor, they practically ran down the corridor. Benjamin had her in a room, the door shut behind them, in a handful of seconds. He took a long step away from her, steadied himself, and heaved in a breath. He turned away and walked to the window, staring out onto the main floor.

  She realized they were in a bedchamber of some kind. A large bed now lay between them, covered in the same red and gold hues as the foyer. The coverlet was the finest silk and curtains hung from the frame, tied back to reveal a mattress so high she would need a running start to land on top. It was covered in red and gold silk pillows.

  Why a gambling establishment needed a bed was beyond her. Was gaming an especially tiring endeavor?

  “I see him below. We will pass him by on our way out. Look to your right, at the gaming tables, when we do so.”

  She reached out and ran her fingers over the decadent coverlet fabric. It was softness and strength, the silky smoothness of the fabric juxtaposed with the firm weave of embroidered threads.

  “Now!” His voice cracked like a rifleshot. His hand on her arm was gentle but exuded a heat that radiated down her side as he pulled her from the room and towards the den. She kept her eyes squarely trained on the floor, searching for Savage. She remembered little from outside except black hair, but once she spotted him, it was ridiculous to think she had not remembered more of him.

  He was all tawny strength and jade-green eyes she could see from across the room. What was more, he had the look of a beast on the prowl. She’d never seen such searing intensity. She followed his gaze to a woman across the room. Her back was to him—and therefore, to Bridget—but she was tall, buxom, and had a shock of red hair. He made his way toward her, rested his hands on her waist, and seemed to press his lips to her neck.

  Bridget’s eyes nearly fell out of her head.

  “Good Lord,” Benjamin mumbled, dragging her out of the den and onto the street.

  Bridget replayed the image in her mind over and over. By the time his carriage had been called, she could scarcely breathe for remembering it. The forceful way Lord Savage had touched her, but most of all, how the woman had seemed to welcome it.

  Bridget found herself staring at Benjamin’s hands. He had somehow lost his gloves, and she could make out each ridge of his knuckles. She wondered what his hands would feel like against her waist, and the thought shook her so much she wished to sit down.

  He tipped up her chin, forcing her gaze to his. His finger was warm, and she wanted very much for him to slide it against her throat.

  Maybe she could imagine him to be Damon Cade.

  But he dropped his hand and pinned her with a warning glare as he thrust her into the carriage and climbed in after her. “When you do tell this story—as I assume you will and which I would never dream I could prevent you from doing—pray, leave my role out of it and do not use your initials.” She crossed her fingers behind her back as she made her promise.

  Benjamin’s gaze was drawn across the carriage to Bridget Belle numerous times over the course of the journey. She was leaning against the open window, her head tilted back, staring dreamily out at the stars as the curtains swayed. As though she had not a care in the world.

  Unlike him, who had far too many, not the least of which was finding a suitable bride. If he had thought he’d hated the Season before it was only because he had yet to attempt a Season while dancing attendance upon marriageable ladies.

  It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with them. Far from it. They were all very presentable, from nice families, with earnest expressions. A few were quite clever. Several extraordinarily accomplished. Some even wealthy enough to please his father. So if nothing was wrong with them, it stood to reason something was wrong with him, for he could no
t see making a life with any of them. What kind of life would there be? What could they share when most of his life was not fit for their ears? Would he regale them with tales of war? Of his misspent youth? Or was he destined for a life of cold silence with naught but the clatter of cutlery to mask the lack of dinner conversation. How could he imagine an entire life with a woman but he could barely see past a dance or dinner conversation?

  It was this general state of indifference that had Savage dragging him to his gaming hell in the first place, promising with a cavalier toss of his head, “You’ll have no trouble finding a woman who pleases you here.”

  But he had not. He had found Bridget Belle instead.

  And that made him angry.

  He was not a lady’s maid meant to wait on her. He had his own life and his own concerns; she should have the decency to mind hers. If his father ever found out … He went cold at the thought.

  “If you have no care for your reputation, I beg you to consider your family, as well as my own.” His tone was sharper than he’d intended as it sliced through the silence.

  She sat up as if waking from a dream.

  “You could see your sisters ruined. Don’t think a marriage to my brother will mean a damn thing to my father—or Society—if you’re caught and compromised.”

  Her lips pursed and trembled. He had thought her above crying. The Belles seemed to be made of sterner stuff, but then, Bridget had always been the sensitive one.

  The urge to comfort her shook him, but he quelled it and continued. “I’m sure this is difficult for you to hear. I understand your father indulges you, and perhaps to some degree, you cannot be held accountable for your behavior in light of such an upbringing. Unfortunately, that luxury is at an end.”

  Her trembling lips began to quake, as did her shoulders. Had he upset her? Good. Maybe that’s what was required to keep her from taking such foolish risks.

  “I would tell you not to be hard on yourself, but you should be. This was beyond foolish. It was dangerous.”