After the Kiss

by Karen Ranney

  If he had been disposed to listen, she would have gladly informed him that she disliked the trappings of rank. It was perfectly acceptable to her if he never bowed again. However, that would have made him frown once more, and she had had quite enough of Smytheton’s glowers.

  She knocked on the door, pushing it open at the sound of Michael’s voice.

  He sat in the middle of his library at his desk. A majestic setting for a man of similar appearance.

  She smiled, feeling unaccountably shy.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He smiled at her. “I was wondering when you would awake.”

  “I’m sleepy all the time lately. But I understand that it is normal when one is carrying a child.”

  She walked toward him. “Are you happy about becoming a father, Michael?” A question she’d never asked.

  “I am,” he said. “But even more so about becoming a husband.”

  Her smile was born deep inside her where secret wishes were stored.

  “Are you preparing to leave me again?” he asked, eyeing the valise in her hands cautiously.

  She placed the bag on the desk. “I’ve brought you the Journals,” she said, taking them from the case. “Where else to keep books but in a library?”

  “I never asked where you got them,” he said, his attention directed at her, not the Journals.

  “I found them in the strongbox. It was the only item I was able to save the night the bookshop burned down.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said, standing. He pulled the chair in front of his desk to the side of it.

  “There isn’t that much to tell,” she said, sitting beside him. She related the story of that night, and when she was finished, his scowl was even deeper.

  “Did no one ever determine how the fire started?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said. He stood, walked to her side and scooped her up in his arms. He returned to his own chair, still holding her.

  “Don’t frown so, Michael. I did survive it,” she said, looping her arms around his neck. “It’s all right,” she murmured, laying her head against his chest, and heard the booming sound of his heart.

  “I’ve never sat on someone’s lap before,” she admitted a few moments later. “It is a thoroughly pleasant experience.”

  He smiled, brushed a kiss over her forehead. “I was just thinking that my work cannot compete with such temptation.”

  “Could I truly tempt you from your work?” An intriguing notion.

  “At this moment?” He smiled and shook his head.

  “I need to get the harvest figures to my solicitor if he is to sell my properties.”

  “Is it a very grand sacrifice?” How could he do it? How could he sell his birthright and seem remarkably calm about it?

  “Not a sacrifice at all,” he said with equanimity. “We shall have to practice some economies, but we’ll still have candles and coal.”

  “Penelope used to say that I could make a meal out of a pea,” she offered.

  He laughed, the sound echoing in the large room. “There isn’t a need for such drastic measures,” he said. “Except, perhaps, as an example. I do not think my mother or sisters are going to take the news at all well.”

  “That we have married, or that I am not an heiress?”

  “Perhaps both,” he said. She smiled at him, grateful for his honesty. “In the end they will have no choice in the matter.”

  “Do you think it’s truly that simple? Your mother makes me think it will not be. Besides you cannot simply decree that people act in a certain way and expect them to obey your command.”

  “Can’t I?” His smile was altogether too charming.

  “The only place people are orderly and silent is in a graveyard, Michael.”

  He smiled, amused. “Orderly and silent are not words I would use to describe my family,” he said. “But on this, they will have no discussion. It is done, Margaret. Do you worry that it might be undone?”

  She sighed. “I know nothing of being a countess, Michael. I am frankly terrified to attempt it.”

  “Do you not remember the examples of nobility I recited to you, Margaret? There are countless others.

  The ton is simply a collection of people, all with their own eccentricities.”

  “So if I stumble over someone’s toes, or drop my fork, or spill my wine, I will just be seen as endearingly clumsy?”

  “No,” he corrected. “You will be the endearingly clumsy The Right Honorable Countess of Montraine. Therein lies the difference.”

  “Then I should consider myself fortunate that I chose an earl, shouldn’t I?”

  “I have a feeling you’d be happier if I were a mere knight.”

  “Or a tradesman, perhaps,” she offered.

  “Being in society is not that onerous, Margaret,” he said with a smile. “As long as certain rules are obeyed, you should have no difficulties.”

  She smiled at him, wondering if she should mention that her Gran had educated her in propriety. Perhaps he did not remember, since they had broken so many rules together. “Such as?”

  There was silence for a moment, as if he chose the words to say.

  “You are never to be in the company of a man,” Michael began. “Unless, of course, I approve of him. Or to speak to those men who seem too coarse or have a roving eye. Bachelors are to be avoided, as well as recent widowers.”

  Margaret didn’t mention that she had never heard of such dictates. True, an unmarried woman or one beneath the age of thirty was limited severely in her contacts with the opposite sex. But she had never heard of a wife being so constrained. However, she said nothing, simply looked at him with what she hoped was an earnest expression. It would not be wise to reveal her amusement.

  “When we travel together, you will procede me into the carriage, while I leave it first.”

  A rule she knew well enough.

  “While traveling, I will sit with my back to the horses or sit at your side. But again, if you are ever in a closed carriage with another man, he is never to sit beside you.”

  She only nodded, fascinated. Not with the rules he intoned, but with him. She had never considered him proprietary. But it seemed he was.

  “In public you will always walk close to the wall of building or a structure, so that I may protect you from ruffians.”

  “It would be easy enough to formulate a set of restrictions for you, also, Montraine,” she said.

  “Did you know that you call me that only when you’re annoyed?” He lowered his head, kissed her gently.

  “Not fair,” she murmured against his lips. “I forget everything I’m thinking when you kiss me.”

  “Nice to know it’s not simply one sided,” he whispered, kissing the edge of her ear.

  She smiled, pushed him gently away.

  “You are never to smile at another woman the way you do me,” she said, tapping a finger on his chest as if to accentuate each point. “Nor are you ever to touch another woman. Or remove her gloves or her shawl, or stare at her bodice.”

  He leaned back in the chair, obviously amused.

  “When you are in a carriage with another woman, you must not stare at her intently. Or talk to her in that voice of yours, one that promises almost wickedness.”

  “Almost wickedness?” he asked, grinning at her.

  “Sometimes I think you are too alluring, Montraine.”

  “I shall immediately transform myself into a troll,” he promised.

  “Please do not,” she teased. “I will endeavor to tolerate it.”

  For several long moments they looked at each other. A sharing of selves not unlike their loving the night before.

  He smiled, a slow dawning smile that curled her toes.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I would not worry about being a countess.”

  “I have no idea what countesses do,” she confessed, sighing.

  “They spend money,” he s
aid. “That has been my experience. But with our newly instituted economies, that proves unwise.”

  “I have learned how to thatch a roof,” she offered. “And how to repair the chinks in the mortar between bricks.”

  “A valuable wife,” he said, obviously amused. “We shall always have a roof over our heads.”

  “I do not suppose there are any chickens about that I might feed? Or eggs to gather?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “I am quite good at milking.”

  “Regrettably,” he said, “there is not one cow in the house. You could always visit the modiste for the final fitting of your dresses,” he suggested.

  “A countess-like occupation?”

  His nod confirmed it.

  “I shall ask Molly to go. And frankly, I do not care whether or not the dresses fit. I never wish to see the woman again.”

  “You have entirely too many sensibilities,” he said, grinning. “You cannot be a truly arrogant countess unless you’ve mastered the insouciance necessary to carry it off. You must simply appear as though scandal has no effect on you. Besides, didn’t you mention that it makes no difference what your feelings are in the matter?”

  “That was when I was attempting to make a sale,” she said. “I find it’s somewhat different being a customer. Besides, that attitude was ascribed to by the Margaret who was willing to be your mistress for a week. This woman has lapsed back into propriety.”

  “Yet, I do not doubt you can be coaxed from it,” he said, nearly leering at her.

  She began to laugh, willing to admit he was indeed correct.

  She stood, kissed him lightly. As she left the room, she retrieved a book from the shelf. A treatise on the dignity of man. It would make for heavy reading, but it was something that would occupy her mind.

  Until, of course, he could join her again.

  Michael watched as she left the room, wondering if it was altogether wise to be so enchanted by a wife. But then, he had little choice.

  The crop figures completed, he made a package to send to his solicitor.

  He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the library. It was a pity that he hadn’t the money to begin renovations. The third floor now had rooms only for Smytheton and Molly. They needed a nursery, perhaps another room for a nurserymaid.

  It might be more feasible simply to sell this house and find something larger in a less fashionable location. But he would not, he vowed, occupy the family home as long as his female relatives were in residence.

  His fingers trailed over the edge of one of the books. But for the Journals, he and Margaret would never have met. She would have remained in her cottage and he would be married to Jane Hestly. But for a moment upon a terrace he would not be sitting here now. But for that single space of seconds when he’d turned, hearing the brush of her shoe against the bricks, he might have missed her entirely.

  Perhaps there was something to Fate, after all.

  He smiled at himself again, opened the cover of the first Journal.

  Oh reader, it is my intent to divulge all, to keep nothing hidden from you. For I am a traveler and a wanderer through the world. These tales I impart for education and enlightenment and joy. This second volume begins my tale of the land of the Manchu.

  Michael smiled and turned the first page. He was amazed at the breadth of topics addressed. But Augustin X’s greatest fascination seemed to be all the various women he’d bedded in the course of his journeys.

  As he began to read, Michael noticed the annotations beside each chapter heading. Babby’s volume had been distinguished with the same marks.

  It was second nature to jot down comments that interested him while reading, or to make notes that he could pursue at a later time. Michael made a listing of the marks as he continued to read, but the sheer eroticism of Augustin X’s tale diffused his interest in the marginalia.

  An hour later, he sat back in his chair, realizing that it had not been the wisest thing to read this book. It was one thing to have an inkling of the man’s licentious life, quite another to read each salacious detail. To say that the Augustin X had a way with words was an understatement. Either he had an incredibly rich imagination, or the man had been able to hold sway in the beds of more than a few supremely accomplished women.

  There was carnality in abundance, written in such precise and unremitting detail that Michael did not doubt the skill of the writer or the lover. Yet reading the Journals had left Michael feeling oddly empty. There was more to passion than what Augustin had described.

  Even as a stranger, Margaret had made him laugh, had incited his curiosity. He had, oddly enough, liked her from the first.

  His attention was captured by one of the paintings. The woman lay on her back, her hands clenched in the sheets beside her. There was such an expression of delight on her face that he was immediately intrigued. Her lover was intent on bringing her to pleasure with his mouth.

  He smiled, shut the Journal, and went in search of his wife.

  Chapter 29

  Moderation must be practiced

  in sexual congress.

  The Journals of Augustin X

  "We can stay at home if you wish,” he said, leaning toward her. A tendril had come loose from her hair and he pushed it behind her ear. “We truly do not have to go to Vauxhall Gardens. You can claim a headache, or your condition, or some female indisposition.”

  “A female indisposition?”

  He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose. “I have three sisters, madam. Do you think I have no idea of female complaints? I’ve been surfeited with them all my life.”

  “While I have never been indisposed, Michael.” She recanted that statement with a wry smile. “Very well, I do detest the smell of chocolate. But I truly would like to see Green’s balloon again. I saw it a few years ago at the King’s coronation celebration and have never forgotten it. To think that someone could really devise such a thing or wish to fly like a bird.”

  “If you’re sure you’re up to the outing,” he said.

  She slanted a look at him, then reached up and kissed his cheek. Smytheton made a noise behind them—no doubt to remind them of their decorum.

  Michael tapped his walking stick idly on the front step as they waited for the carriage to be brought around.

  He glanced up to see his carriage approach, coming up behind another carriage on the street. He noted distantly that the coach with its four matched horses had no coat of arms or other markings to indicate its owner. Not unusual, especially in Mayfair.

  This afternoon Margaret was wearing one of her new dresses, a soft green that made her eyes appear emerald. He stood below her, held out his hand.

  Once again he was struck by how lovely she was.

  “You have a radiance I’ve never seen before,” he said, studying her. How absurdly besotted he was becoming. “Is it something particular to women with child? Or is it simply you, I wonder?”

  One moment Margaret was smiling teasingly at him, about to respond to his comment. The next, an expression of horror flickered over her face as she stared at something beyond him.

  “Michael!”

  He turned his head at the sound of her warning. He glanced behind him, saw the driver of the coach pull a pistol from the folds of his coat. Everything registered within a few seconds. His mind, trained to see patterns, instantly recognized danger.

  It felt as if time itself had slowed in order for him to see each movement, each gesture, each futile second. He couldn’t reach her, was inches from protecting her.

  It was only then that Michael heard the report of a gun. Instead of the pain he anticipated, there was only Margaret’s soft, surprised gasp. His mind searched for understanding even as she crumpled in front of him.

  Michael heard Smytheton’s shout of alarm, the clattering wheels, the sound of the whip as the carriage sped away. But all his attention was on Margaret. She lay unearthly still, blood seeping from her wound to mark the steps in a hideous crimson
stain.

  In moments he had scooped her into his arms and brushed past Smytheton, through the front door, and up the stairs to their chamber, where he lay Margaret gently on the bed.

  She made a sound; her eyes fluttered open. There was so much pain there that he could almost feel it himself.

  “It will be all right,” he said. Nonsensical words. “Don’t worry, Margaret. It will be all right.” A reassurance he found himself repeating over and over.

  Help her. For God’s sake, help her. His mind issued instructions that his body fumbled to obey. He tore off the bodice of her dress. The bullet had entered her right shoulder, the sight of her torn and gaping flesh making him wince.

  He pressed his handkerchief to her wound. “It’s the only way to stop the bleeding,” he told her, when she gasped and her body stiffened with pain.

  Smytheton brought him a length of toweling that he used to replace his bloody handkerchief. Michael thought of all those books he’d read, treatises on diseases of the body, books detailing the theories of ill humors, since proven unreliable. A thousand years of knowledge, and none of it adequate for this moment.

  Smytheton spoke from behind him. “We can summon a surgeon, sir. But I’ve some experience with battlefield wounds.”

  Michael glanced over his shoulder at his majordomo. Smytheton met his gaze steadily. “I served with Wellington, sir, on the Peninsula.” A reminder of his experience.

  “Can you help her?” Please God.

  “I believe so, my lord,” Smytheton said calmly. “In the meantime, sir, we can send Molly to fetch the physician.”

  He did so, and shortly afterward Michael found himself relegated to the position of observer. There was competence in Smytheton’s manner as he probed the wound with meticulous care, removing the wadding and the traces of shot.

  It looked as if Smytheton’s skills once more extended far beyond that of an average majordomo. A valuable man to have in his employ, and a blessing at the moment.

  Michael was not a man given to prayer, an admission that did not seem entirely proper given the circumstances. He was not entirely certain how he felt about the Almighty. His existence was something in little doubt, but His exact interference in mundane mortal activities was grounds for some speculation.