Stolen Kisses
Page 1
Stolen Kisses
Suzanne Enoch
Dedication
For Meredith, who introduced me to Regency romances. Thanks for that, and for not making me the only girl in school who could tell a Bantha from a Jawa, and an Andorian from a Gorn. May the Force be with you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
“Isn’t There One Suitor Who’s Caught Your Heart?”
Jack’s dark eyes held Lilith’s. “One only, who makes you…
Chapter 1
Jonathan Faraday, the Marquis of Dansbury, looked up at the…
Chapter 2
“There’s Mary Fitzroy,” Penelope Sanford said, leaning over to whisper…
Chapter 3
Lilith sat eating breakfast when Bevins opened the front door…
Chapter 4
Nine o’clock in the morning was far too early for…
Chapter 5
“I truly don’t mind going to the breakfast, Papa.” Lilith…
Chapter 6
The Duke of Wenford had a damned lot of nerve.
Chapter 7
Something damned peculiar was going on. Peese and Martin had…
Chapter 8
“There are beautiful gardens in Paris,” Richard Hutton conceded, “but…
Chapter 9
Lilith awoke with a dreadful headache, her sleep destroyed by…
Chapter 10
Four of Lilith’s surviving suitors were at the Doveshane ball…
Chapter 11
“Don’t you think setting Dolph Remdale after Lilith is a…
Chapter 12
Jack stood in his garden for some time after Lilith…
Chapter 13
“My sister, the Duchess of Wenford.” William grinned, bowing grandly…
Chapter 14
“My lord,” Peese said patiently, as he balanced two lamp…
Chapter 15
For someone unused to lying and subterfuge, Lilith was suddenly…
Chapter 16
William shifted on the deep, soft couch and nervously fiddled…
Chapter 17
It took some digging, but Lilith finally found what she…
Chapter 18
“Aunt Eugenia, please?”
Chapter 19
It was, William decided, the moral thing to do. After…
Chapter 20
Jack Faraday jumped down from Benedick and walked toward the…
About the Author
Other Books by Suzanne Enoch
Copyright
About the Publisher
“ISN’T THERE ONE SUITOR WHO’S CAUGHT YOUR HEART?”
Jack’s dark eyes held Lilith’s. “One only, who makes you breathe faster? Whose image won’t leave your mind, but rolls around and around in your thoughts until you can think of no one else?”
“It doesn’t matter who…who it is,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to avoid his gaze, “so long as he is respectable.”
Jack’s lazy smile was belied by the glint in his eyes. “Anyone but me, then?” he whispered.
Lilith took a shaky breath. “Yes.”
“And you’ve left nothing out of your little equation for respectability?” His breath was warm and soft against her mouth. “Happiness, maybe?”
“Respectability will make me happy, my lord.”
“Are you certain of that, Miss Benton?”
“Absolu—”
He bent his head and captured her lips in a rough, hard kiss.
Chapter 1
Jonathan Faraday, the Marquis of Dansbury, looked up at the building before him and scowled. Depressingly respectable both inside and out, it stood in a section of London he rarely visited. And staying away from it this evening would have suited him perfectly well. He slid his gaze sideways to regard his mistress. “This is quite possibly the dimmest idea you’ve ever had.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Camilla Maguire soothed airily, though she wore the wary expression of a handler facing an irritated lion. “Anyway, I won the cut of the cards. You promised we would spend the evening wherever I wished.”
“When I allowed you to win, I assumed that your idea of an evening out would consist of Vauxhall Gardens or one of Antonia’s card parties.” He leaned closer as he led their small party through the open double doors. “Or better yet, my bed chamber,” he continued, breathing the words into her ear in a last attempt to change her mind.
“Stop it, you naughty thing,” she chastised, with a smile that did nothing to disguise her annoyance at him.
“Whatever for? I had no idea you would be leading me straight to Hades.”
“Jack, Almack’s is not at all like Hades. Please behave.” Camilla tugged at his arm to pull him into the coat room, her brown eyes regarding him with impatience from beneath carefully disheveled flaming red hair.
Jack raised an eyebrow at her. He had swiftly begun to weary of Camilla’s narrow ambitions and predictable desires, as she had apparently tired of his sarcasm and pointed cynicism—her obvious reason for the evening’s sojourn. Even so, keeping her about was less troublesome than going to the effort of acquiring a new mistress yet again this Season. He’d lost count already, after barely a month in town. “I beg to differ,” he returned, in a determinedly amiable tone. “Almack’s and Hades are barely distinguishable from one another. Damned souls wailing and swirling about, stacked to the ceiling and trapped for eternity.”
Ernest Landon, the third member of their foursome, chuckled in his usual sycophantic manner as they entered the main room. “Well said, Dansbury. Damned wailing souls. Ha, ha.”
Since London still remained locked in a midwinter chill, even in the middle of June, the blast of heat from the crowded, noisy assembly rooms ought to have been welcome. But as the smell of sweat followed close behind the warmth, Jack found it more a confirmation of his analogy to hell. Promise or no promise, the sooner he could make his exit, the better.
“Please don’t be so difficult, Jack,” Camilla pleaded again. “It’s proper society.”
He nodded. “I know. Disgusting, isn’t it?” Stodginess and Almack’s had ever been fast friends, and as Jack looked about the room he could see no evidence that the relationship had faltered. His presence had already elicited a few stares, which he returned in kind, and muttered comments, which he pretended to ignore. If he hadn’t been titled, his scandalous little party would never have been allowed into the hallowed, foul-smelling halls.
Ogden Price took a silver box from his pocket and flipped it open. “You know, Dansbury, you might for once attempt to spend an evening in a socially acceptable manner,” he said offhandedly, taking a pinch of snuff and inhaling. “It won’t kill you, after all, and I doubt your reputation will be the least bit purified by the experience.”
Jack began to reply, then stopped, his interest snared. Price cared for Almack’s nearly as little as he did. It seemed that two of his companions had ulterior motives for being in attendance this evening. He eyed his friend, noting the shifting of the gray eyes and the way the snuff box seemed to have become inexplicably fascinating.
“Who is she, Price?” He stepped closer to be heard over the strains of a boisterous country dance and a hundred wagging tongues.
Price’s gaze flicked over to meet his, then dropped. “No one,” he returned too quickly, and snapped the box shut. “Simply a pretty face.” The silver container disappeared back into his pocket. “One may admire, you know.”
“Indeed, one may,” Jack agreed, cheering considerably. If Ogden had found an objet d’intérêt, at least he could look forward to a bit of amusement before he fled back to the darker corners of London he preferred. “And does this admirably pret
ty face have a name?”
“Jack, dance with me,” Camilla interrupted, sliding her arm around his, her warm closeness smothering in the sweltering room.
“No. I’m conversing with Price.” He wished her well and Godspeed in her search for a less acerbic peer to keep her company, but he had no intention of looking the fool while she searched.
“I want to dance,” Camilla insisted, rubbing her bosom against his arm.
The motion was more annoying than arousing. “A country dance? Not even your considerable charms, my dear, could entice me to step into that pit of hell.”
“Brute.”
She pouted, but didn’t relinquish her grip. If the embrace hadn’t been shockingly intimate for Almack’s, he would have shrugged her off. Instead, he returned his attention to Price, intent on the hunt. “So, my boy—”
“Jack,” she protested again.
“Come, Lady Maguire, I shall dance with you,” Ernest offered, with more astuteness than usual.
Camilla humphed and airily took Landon’s hand. “At least there is one proper gentleman present tonight.”
“Better Landon than me,” Jack drawled, watching her departure.
Lady Maguire may have wanted a night in proper society, but she certainly hadn’t dressed for it. Her burgundy and gray gown stood out bright as blood amid the wan flowers in the pallid assembly, and her deep curtsey served to reveal most of her charms to her dancing partner—an effective advertisement for the services she offered.
Jack glanced back at Price. Although he was regarded with some fear, over the past few months he had felt in greater danger of succumbing to boredom than to a duelist’s blade. Tormenting Ogden would provide some diversion, at least. “To repeat—who is your mysterious charmer, Price?”
“Leave off, Dansbury,” Price returned, clearly irritated. “It’s not worth the jest you’ll make of it. And looking does not mandate desire, anyway. Admiring a woman is like admiring a statue; one may recognize a pleasing shape without wishing to make a purchase.”
Jack lifted both eyebrows. “Now I am truly fascinated. I have never heard you utter the words pretty, admirable, and pleasing in conjunction with any single female. Do tell me her name.”
With an annoyed glare, Price pointed at the noisy gaggle of young ladies gathered about the edges of the room, waiting to be asked onto the dance floor. “Go bother the babes in the woods,” he snapped.
“The fox prefers hens to chicks,” Jack said, amused. Simpering, witless things, they were naive enough to think his reputation romantic, and too stiff and awkward to be worth pursuing. “You’ll need a better distraction, I’m afraid. This year’s flock doesn’t show any more promise than last year’s.”
“For God’s sake, Dansbury. Have mercy,” Price sighed.
“Never. Why don’t you save us both the trouble of my wearing you down and point her out to me?”
“She’s not even here.” Price distractedly motioned to a footman laden with glasses of flavored ratafia. He took one and thrust a second at Jack. “I say, is that Lord Hunt over there? I thought him still in India.”
Jack didn’t bother looking. “He returned better than a week ago. I’ve already nicked him for nearly four hundred quid at hazard, and he still thinks he’s having fun. Don’t turn the subject. This chit is obviously the reason you joined our little jaunt into proper society, and the reason you refused to flee with me to Jezebel’s Harem when the chance arose.”
“No, she is not. You—”
“No? Then what’s wrong with her? A squint, perhaps, or an ill-placed mole?” He grinned at Price’s put-upon scowl. “A prominent birthmark, an insufficient bosom, a lisp, stooped shoulders, a bald sp—”
“Sweet Lucifer, Dansbury! Leave off!” With a look of inexpressible annoyance, Price jabbed a finger in the direction of the entryway. “There—she’s just arrived. Now, have your amusement and be done with it.”
Turning, Jack caught a glimpse of a white dress and offered his friend a brief look of mock horror. “A debutante? For shame, Price, to become besotted with a young and inno—”
For the space of a dozen heartbeats, the clamorous country dance, the cackling laughter of Lady Pender behind him, the shuffle of dancers sliding across the slick floor, and Almack’s itself simply ceased to exist. Emeralds, he thought silently…her eyes were the color of emeralds. She stood in the doorway and glanced about the crowded assembly room as though seeking a familiar face. And then, with a rousing shock nearly enough to rattle his teeth, the green, sparkling gaze caught his.
Jack drew a slow breath and stared back at her. As if in a daze, unwilling and unable to turn his eyes from hers, he took in the rest of her. Hair dark as blackest midnight had been pulled up into an intricate, fashionable tangle at the top of her head, while a few curling tendrils escaped to frame her high cheekbones. The ebony against the smooth cream of her skin was so striking it made her look almost sculpted, an artist’s rendering of perfection. Her eyes, though, were bright, interested, and very alive. They seemed to hold his with the same startled intensity he felt in himself. A slight, blushing rose touched her cheeks, a smile curved her lips—and then the dancers obscured her from his gaze.
He blinked. “‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us.’” he murmured.
“Hamlet?” Price returned.
Jack jumped. “Beg pardon?”
“You were quoting Hamlet. You must be impressed.”
“Ah.” Jack resisted the urge to look in her direction again and instead took a sip of peach ratafia. Thankfully, it was truly awful. “Good God.” He scowled and handed the glass to a footman. By the time he faced Price again his cynical expression was back in place, though anticipation and excitement ran hot just beneath his skin like a fever. “It’s merely that you had me imagining all sorts of horrors. I hadn’t expected anything remotely…attractive. Who is she?” Unable to resist, he turned to find her again.
“I…ah—”
“You said you didn’t wish to make a purchase.” This keen, humming interest was quite unlike him, but it was impossible to ignore. As she looked in his direction again and then spoke to a young woman beside her, he knew she must have felt it as well. If she possessed a beating heart and half a mind, she’d felt something. “So, who is she?”
“The Ice Queen,” came from beside him. Camilla returned to slide her arm around his. “Look at her. She’s got half the lords in London after her. Nance has already proposed, they say.”
Apparently no wealthy gentleman had been interested in Lady Maguire’s considerable charms, and Jack frowned, finding her continuing presence annoying now. He returned his attention to the girl. The crowd of gentlemen vying for a place on her dance card was rather large—and most of them weren’t particularly young, either.
Another line from Shakespeare—something about a snowy dove trooping among crows—crossed his mind, but he sternly refrained from uttering it aloud. Perhaps he was suffering from a delirium brought on by the overheated room. Yet he was alert enough to note that the delicate flowered pattern running through her ivory gown was the exact emerald of her eyes, and that the ribbon in her black hair and the soft-soled slippers peeking out from beneath her skirt were of the same rich color. And he was aware enough to know that he wanted to do more than simply look at her. Looking was for the other toads in the room. “Stuffy bunch of circling buzzards.”
“What do you expect?” Camilla returned, breathing the words into his ear, infinitely more interested in his companionship, now that he was looking at someone else. “Only the most respectable for Lilith Benton.”
“That lets you out, doesn’t it, Jack?” Ernest chuckled.
“Lilith Benton,” Jack repeated softly. She and her companion, a tallish girl with curly blond hair he vaguely remembered seeing last Season, stood speaking to their admirers and whispering together. “Who’s the girl with her?”
“Miss Sanford, I believe,” Ernest offered.
“Yes, that’s it.” J
ack nodded absently as he extricated his arm from Camilla’s. “Excuse me for a moment. I believe I’ve done my duty by you for the evening, my dear.”
Camilla snapped her fan shut with an angry crack but knew better than to protest as he turned to make his way across the crowded floor.
No doubt Miss Benton was receiving an earful of frightful details about his character from her companion. Though he could hardly dispute them, neither was he feeling particularly monstrous this evening. A few smiles and compliments were generally enough to put even the most seasoned lady at ease, and a schoolroom chit would hardly take that much effort. And schoolroom chit or not, she was exquisite.
Jack ignored the two men standing directly behind her, obviously her father and a brother, and instead stopped before the girl’s companion. “Miss Sanford.” He smiled charmingly and took the young lady’s fingers in his.
She stared at him open-mouthed.
“How pleasant to see you again.” He released her hand, and she snatched it back as though it had been scalded. “I was hoping you might introduce me to your lovely companion.”
“Oh…I…you…” Miss Sanford stammered.
Although Jack could sense the girl beside him, he didn’t want to look at her until he could speak to her and take her hand. He intensely wanted to touch her, could almost feel the heat coursing between them. He took a slow breath, welcoming the unaccustomed craving running along his veins.
“If you please, Miss Sanford,” he cajoled.
“Yes—oh, yes,” she finally managed, blushing a violent red. “Lil, the…um, the Marquis of Dansbury. My…my lord, Miss Benton.”
Jack finally turned to look at her. She was smaller than he had realized, nearly a full foot shorter than he. Small-boned and slender, she was enchanting, with a bosom that seemed to beg for poetry to be written in its honor. His gaze traveled upward, taking in every inch of her as if she truly were a piece of fine art. At her lips he paused—not just because they were full and red and he wanted to taste them, but because they were drawn in a firm, straight line completely at odds with the enticing look she had given him earlier.