After the Kiss

by Karen Ranney

  Words did not seem to be allowed in this almost secret room. As if the spilling of one would let loose a torrent of thousands. Perhaps it was better if they remained silent. Michael wanted no recriminations, no tearful confessions, no wishes to turn back the clock.

  He stared at the fire, his attention on the woman behind him. Each rustle of material was furnished a mental image by his mind. A curious bit of imagination that had been dormant until now.

  What had he done?

  Acted entirely unlike himself, for one. Taken a woman on the floor in the morning room, for another. Used little finesse. He had been like a callow boy with his first woman. Eager to impress, but more intent upon his own pleasure.

  At least that was not one sin not on his doorstep. If she had not fainted from pleasure, she had come close to it. He turned his head and looked at her. She sat on the settee, her cheeks still flushed. Her hands stilled in the act of donning her cotton stockings. She made no move, however, to cover herself.

  He hardened in unrepentant response. He wanted to remove the shift she’d donned, and take her dress off again, stroke her exquisitely sensitive breasts, kiss her until she fainted from it.

  And if that wasn’t enough of a dangerous thought, he wanted to know what she was thinking at the moment. What caused that small smile on her lips? Embarrassment? Or acknowledgment of this silent stretch of moments between them?

  It wasn’t wise to solicit her thoughts. Doing so would reveal too much of his inner nature, betray the curiosity that refused to remain quiescent even now. He had already surrendered a certain measure of vulnerability to her in his reaction.

  An apology might be in order. He had been too hurried. Too feverish. Was it wise, however, to admit to such a thing? The uncertainty he felt was an irritant. But then, he had never before been in this circumstance.

  He turned away, concentrated on the fire again. She was going to be impossible to forget.

  In a matter of months he was going to give up his autonomy, his privacy in order to recoup a fortune that would not be in ruins save for the selfishness of others. Keeping Margaret with him would soften having the marriage foisted upon him.

  The thought brought him up short.

  A mistress? He’d never thought to have one. But then, he’d never thought to love a woman on the floor of his morning room, either.

  He turned to her, the words voiced before he knew he was going to speak them. “Stay with me.”

  She looked surprised. As well she might be. His behavior since he’d seen her at Babby’s house had not been entirely normal. Decidedly irrational.

  She stood and came to him, turned her back, an artless and silent request as she held up her hair and bared the nape of her neck to him. A smile curved his lips as he buttoned her dress. He placed a small, almost discreet, kiss there before he finished his task.

  She turned and raised her hand to his face. Her palm felt cool, her eyes lambent. There was something in her expression, some emotion he could not decipher. Perhaps she was adrift in the same bewilderment he felt, albeit stripped of its annoyance.

  “No,” she said.

  He felt a spurt of irritation at her easy refusal.

  “I’ve no mistress,” he said. Nor a wish for one until now.

  She looked away, began to braid her hair.

  “Will you consider the post?” he asked, deliberately smoothing his face of all expression. He would show neither his eagerness nor his annoyance.

  “You make it sound as proper as a governess,” she said. “But I regret that I cannot comply. I was not raised to be a mistress, however my actions indicate it.”

  “You might come to like me, Margaret Esterly.”

  “No doubt I would,” she effortlessly agreed. “But no.”

  “My visits to you would be scheduled. They would not be oppressive. I have patterns in my life. Restraint. I am normally not ruled by my loins.”

  “But you are by your obstinacy?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, annoyed.

  “You should be seeking your wife, Montraine. Not a mistress.”

  She rebuked him with a soft smile.

  “You would never have to worry,” he said stiffly. How stern he looked standing there, frowning at her. Autocratic and insistent. Yet this was the same man who had loved her so passionately only a few moments ago.

  “No,” she said, slipping her feet into her shoes. In that one word she put all her revulsion for the role. But the fact that he had offered it to her neither offended her nor was a surprise.

  He was an earl and the nobility often acted with arrogance. That very attitude was an indication of the chasm that stretched between them.

  “Do you regret this afternoon, Margaret?”

  She glanced at him, smiled ruefully. “No,” she said, “but perhaps I should.” A truth for him, and a warning for herself. She finished braiding her hair, then stood.

  “You really are leaving, aren’t you?” He looked surprised.

  She turned and smiled gently at him. “Why should I stay? So that we might argue about this further? We cannot be friends and we must not be lovers.”

  She walked to the door, turned, and glanced at him. One more look for her memories.

  He’d not donned his jacket, but stood there attired in shirt and trousers, his feet bare, his hair disheveled. His face was carefully expressionless, but his eyes were filled with irritation. Or was it regret? If so, she felt the same. Not that this afternoon had happened, but that it must end here. Now.

  A wise and sane voice, kept muted beneath desire thrust up into her confusion, chided her. Leave, Margaret. Before he stretches out his hand and you take it. Before he asks again and you agree.

  She turned and left him.

  Chapter 12

  A courtesan who experiences pleasure at the

  giving of it excels in the art of love.

  The Journals of Augustin X

  "Montraine, I’m so pleased you could attend!” His hostess, Lady Dunston, smiled brightly up at him.

  He stared at the crowd of people milling through the house. He’d forced himself to this gathering for one purpose alone, that of singling out his bride. By summer’s end he had to be married. An explicit enough goal.

  “We’ve some delightful entertainments planned,” Lady Dunston said. “I do hope one of your sisters will honor us and play. Such beautiful young ladies.”

  “Yes, it is warm,” he said, distracted. “It’s the time of year for it, however, and to be expected.”

  Leticia Enright was to be present tonight. In addition, Arianne Mosely had told Charlotte that she would be in attendance. If they did not suit as bridal candidates, then Jane Hestly certainly did. Then, all this hesitation about picking a bride would be over.

  “Oh, but I was talking of your sisters, my lord. Such talented young ladies.”

  He frowned down at the woman standing beside him, unwilling to admit that he had not paid any attention to her comments. She was fluttering her fan at him as if it were eyelashes. Women had a habit of doing that. He had no control over his appearance, but the content of his mind was his to choose. However, most females did not seem to care a flying farthing what he thought. Their main interest in him appeared to be how he looked in his blacks.

  “Do you not think so, my lord?”

  Only one woman of his acquaintance had ever questioned him, challenged his conclusions. Margaret, again. She had an insidious way of slipping into his thoughts.

  Get out of my mind. It had been long enough. She should have vanished like a vapor before now. Instead, Margaret Esterly was proving to be a recalcitrant phantom.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, attempting to be sociable. “I was distracted by the number of guests.”

  “We are quite overflowing,” she said happily, tapping him with her fan. “Almost no one declined.”

  “Indeed,” he said, forcing a smile to his face.

  She said something else, but his atten
tion was captured by a woman on the opposite side of the room. Her hair was auburn, her laugh intriguing. He narrowed his eyes and stared across the room, motionless. It couldn’t be her. She lived in the country. The woman turned, revealing a pleasant enough face. But not, however, Margaret’s. The disappointment he felt was unwarranted and unwelcome.

  He had respected her wish for privacy and some degree of anonymity, evidenced by her fleeing from him that day. He had followed her, intent upon offering up his carriage for her use, but she had disappeared. From that day forward he had not attempted to find her.

  His thoughts, however, were another matter.

  His morning rides were filled with images of Margaret’s remarkable smile. A mouth that almost begged to be kissed. Even his morning boxing matches had been marked by a curious distraction of thought. So much so that he’d almost been leveled twice.

  If he believed in Fate, he might well countenance the idea that she had been delivered to him as a test of sorts. Do you believe in logic, Michael? Then here is a woman who will be in your mind incessantly. Discover logic in that. Order, Michael? Her incursion into your life will bring only chaos. You will stop your work too often and think of her, wonder where she went, who she truly is. Or, if those fascinations are not enough, here is one more. Why can’t you forget her?

  She declined to be his mistress, but she did quite well as a wraith, refusing to leave his thoughts even at the most inopportune moment.

  His hostess looked affronted, folded up her fan, and muttered an excuse to leave him. He stared after her, wondering what it was he’d said.

  For the last month he’d been unable to focus his thoughts on the Cyrillic cipher or his financial difficulties. He insisted upon quiet while he worked. But the cacophony that prevented him from concentrating now was that of his own thoughts. Snippets of memory flashed into his mind like sparks. He remembered her smile, the curve of her lips. The sweep of her lashes against her cheek, her mouth. Michael stared at his hand. Even now he could recall how her skin felt, as if the memory of her resided in his fingertips.

  “Enjoying the party, Montraine?” He turned and nodded to an acquaintance. What the devil was the man’s name?

  “Warm evening, isn’t it?” he asked, but before the man answered, he’d moved on.

  He found himself repeating every word he’d spoken to her. Every nuance of speech, every inflection was examined in close detail. What had convinced her not to take advantage of his offer? We can never be friends and we must not be lovers. It had been a sensible notion to make Margaret his mistress. It simply possessed order. She would be a part of his life. He would pass a portion of his week with her. Grow to know her. He would provide for her and she, in turn, would…his thoughts halted as he stopped. What was happening to him? It was the very worst thing he could do. She occupied too much of his mind, too deep a corner of his concentration.

  Someone spoke to him and he raised a hand in greeting, smiled.

  He glanced over the assembled crowd. People were seating themselves in the drawing room. A few of the female guests had been prevailed upon to play before dinner. His sister, Charlotte, had begged off, to his immense relief. Elizabeth, the only one of his sisters with any musical ability at all, had slipped from the room a few moments earlier. She disliked these amusements as much as he.

  Unfortunately, he was trapped by good manners and the fact that he had already been noticed. He smiled at Leticia Enright, among the first to agree to perform.

  She sat, hands poised above the keys, and sent him a particularly lovely smile. Moments later, Michael wished he’d been able to follow Elizabeth’s example. What Leticia was doing to Mozart should not be visited upon Satan himself. She came to a particularly difficult passage, sent the audience an apologetic glance as her fingers fumbled on the keys, then simply skipped over the rest of it.

  He frowned at the ceiling. A giant disk carved of plaster accentuated the baroque chandelier that emerged from it. A centerpiece for his attention.

  Did Margaret play? He closed his eyes, not to mute out the sound of Leticia’s music as much as to blank out thoughts of the Widow Esterly.

  When Leticia was roundly applauded, he suspected that it was due more to the fact that she had finished playing than out of any appreciation for her talent.

  He stood and approached her.

  “I ruined it, did I not?” Her voice quivered and her fingers trembled as she gathered up the sheet music. She studied the piano, the carpet, the candles, the flower arrangement. Anything but him.

  “It is a difficult passage,” he said, attempting to put her at ease.

  She nodded jerkily, gripped the music to her bosom, and stood before him as if she expected punishment for her poor rendition.

  “My sisters could not have done better,” he said.

  She blinked back tears. “But you sat there the whole time and frowned at me.”

  “My sisters tell me I do that often,” he said, finding it odd that he should have to apologize for his facial gestures. What people construed as ferocity was more often than not absorption. He was simply thinking out a puzzle.

  She gulped back a sob and nodded, then walked from the room so swiftly that it was almost a run. He stared after her. Did he frighten her that much? If she was so fearful now, what would she be like if they wed?

  The image of Leticia Enright cowering in his bed, sobbing through her days, was enough to strike her from his list.

  I will love you. With great deliberation and absolutely no hesitation. Is that what you wish?

  Please.

  Bloody hell. Not now!

  He went to speak with his hostess. At his request, she raised one brow, haughty in her pique.

  “I am trusting you with my difficulty,” he said with a conciliatory smile.

  She unbent enough to glance at him speculatively. “A bridal candidate, Montraine?” she asked.

  Any other time, he would have demurred from answering. But his inattention had annoyed her and he’d bridges to mend.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will seat Arianne Mosely next to you.”

  He smiled his thanks, knowing that before morning, word of his intentions toward the woman would be common knowledge.

  Gradually the assembled company moved into the dining room and Michael made his way to his place. Arianne Mosely sat delicately against the back of the chair, her right hand toying with the silverware while her gaze focused on the elaborate centerpiece.

  She was a very agreeable young woman he’d met at Babby’s house. He remembered her as kind, exceptionally pleasant, graced with an agreeable nature.

  When the first course was removed, Arianne leaned toward him. “Too spicy, don’t you think?”

  He smiled and sipped his wine.

  After taking two bites of fish in white sauce, she frowned and lay her fork against the plate. “The sauce tastes too much of flour,” she said, her voice too loud for such a critical remark.

  The breaded oysters, sweetbreads, and peas were all treated to the same derision. Everything within sight or hearing was subjected to her remonstrations. Michael began to count her complaints.

  “Lady Dunston is too old to be wearing pearls. They are a young woman’s adornment.”

  “That gown is not appropriate to a matron of her years.”

  “Whoever suggested those absurd-looking flowers for a dinner table?”

  “The candles must have drippings in them. They sputter too much.”

  “I would sack any servant as slow as her footmen.”

  “Those girls are laughing entirely too loudly.”

  Her observations, while issued in an agreeable voice and meant, he was certain, to sound witty, managed only to be petty. Michael intensely disliked people whose character thrived on the disparagement of others.

  Nor did she seem to notice that two of his sisters were in the group of women she criticized, a fact she laughed off when he pointed it out to her. And she did not appear to care that his mot
her was a friend of their hostess and had advised her on the decorations. However irritating his relatives, they were his and not to be subjected to criticism by other people.

  “Thank heavens this dreadful meal is over,” Arianne said.

  He seconded the thought and erased her from his shortened list of wifely candidates.

  There was only one woman left. Miss Jane Hestly was of an agreeable nature and seemed ideally suited to be a wife. She barely spoke above a whisper and if she had a few grating mannerisms, Michael reasoned, then so did he.

  An hour later in the ballroom, he decided. He would settle on her, then. Get over this idiotic fixation about Margaret Esterly. He would forget her. Completely. Absolutely. An admonition he’d already given himself for a month. How much longer until he believed it?

  “Please do not fix any more studied looks upon Jane Hestly,” Elizabeth said, coming up to him. She frowned at him and pursed her lips. A unique experience, to be chastised by his youngest sister.

  He raised one brow.

  “You object to her?”

  The look she sent him was part commiseration, part irritation.

  “She is such a prig, Michael. She speaks in that nasally tone all day long. It’s enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Everything, positively everything, she says is in Latin. Then, just when you’re ready to announce that you don’t understand, she gives you that patronizing look. As if she thinks you’re some sort of imbecile for not speaking Latin. As if anyone does,” Elizabeth said, frowning at him. “Then, she utters that perfectly horrid giggle that’s meant to sound sweet and apologetic, but resembles a pig’s snort, instead.”

  He grinned at her, amused.

  “You’re perfectly handsome, Michael. Surely there are other women better suited.” Elizabeth looked suddenly shamefaced. “Do not tell me that you have some fondness for her. Is that why you’re considering her? I could understand it if you did. We cannot always choose whom to love.”