One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

  Chapter 6

  As Eleanor furtively hurried out the back door of Mr. Knight’s town house, she muttered to herself, “With your permission, Mr. Knight, I would like to speak to Dickie Driscoll. No!” Shaking her head, she tried again. “I wish to speak to Dickie if you don’t mind.” Fretting at her own diffidence, she said, “That’s not it, either.” Drawing her cape tighter about her shoulders, she glanced behind her as she made her way through the small garden.

  Ever since last night when Mr. Knight had told her he’d spied on her—or rather Madeline—Eleanor had had the creeping sensation of being watched. She’d looked at Beth differently, seeing not an eager-to-please lady’s maid but a shifty-eyed informer. She’d heard footsteps behind her when no one had been there. Last night, she had even placed a chair under her door handle to ensure her privacy, and she’d woken frequently to listen to the night’s silence.

  Now, as she slipped through the fog-tinged air toward the stable, she practiced being glib in case someone caught her.

  In case Mr. Knight caught her. He was supposed to be at the bank, but she didn’t trust him to do as he said.

  “I’m going to speak to Dickie and see if he’s comfortable in his quarters. Better. No, still too conciliatory. I’m going to speak to Dickie. That’s it.” She nodded decisively and tried to appear the confident duchess everyone thought she was.

  She had never been more miserably aware that she was merely Miss Eleanor de Lacy, impoverished cousin and shrinking violet.

  The garden gate opened with a creak of the hinges, and she peeked across the mews toward the stable. An urchin swept desultorily at the stones. No one else was in sight.

  With every evidence of equanimity, Eleanor walked to the stable door and slipped inside the dim, warm building. She’d come this far. Not bad for a coward.

  Now all she had to do was find Dickie, and she would be as good as free. Compelled by an itching between her shoulder blades, she peeked around the door and again scanned the mews. It was now empty. She had to escape Mr. Knight before the Picards’ ball. Dickie was her only prospect.

  “Can I ’elp ye, Yer Grace?”

  She jumped at the sound of a respectful male voice and whirled to find herself facing one of the tallest men she’d ever seen in her life. He held a pitchfork, and he towered so far above her that, in the gloom, she had trouble discerning his respectful tug of his forelock. With her hand at her tight throat, she stared until her voice returned. “I’m looking for Dickie Driscoll.”

  The stablehand turned and bellowed, “Dickie! The duchess is alookin’ fer ye!” With a return to his quiet tone, he said, “He be acomin’, Yer Grace.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanor faltered. It would be a miracle if Mr. Knight hadn’t heard the shout all the way in the house—and she was giving him credit for more powers than it was possible for any man to possess. He was a bully, that was all. A gambler, a stalker, a man distrustful of everyone and everything. He didn’t deserve Eleanor, and he most certainly didn’t deserve Madeline.

  Eleanor heard the thump of boots on the wooden floor, then Dickie walked out of the gloom.

  Broad-shouldered and broad-bellied, his rounded physique hid a pugnacious nature and a stubborn loyalty to Madeline and, by extension, to Eleanor. He was fast with a fist, good with a pistol, and he could make any horse follow him with doglike devotion. He’d gotten Eleanor out of scrapes before, scrapes of Madeline’s making, of course. Never had Eleanor been so happy to see him.

  Dickie placed his hand on the big man’s arm. In his pronounced Scottish accent, he said, “Thanks, Ives. The grooming is na done on Mr. Knight’s horse. Ye might want t’ finish that fer him.”

  With a nod, Ives stumped away, the floor shaking beneath his feet.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Eleanor and Dickie spoke at the same time.

  “Dickie, you’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “Miss, I’ve got to get ye oot of here.”

  “Now,” she said.

  He stared as if her vehemence took him aback. “What aboot yer things? Or rather, Her Grace’s things. Ye two changed luggage, did ye na?”

  Bluntly, she said, “He’s having me watched.”

  “Watched?” Dickie glanced around, as if expecting to see someone lurking in the corner. “What do ye mean?”

  “Someone has been spying on me—or rather, Madeline—since we returned to England, and reporting back to Mr. Knight.”

  “Ach, that Mr. Knight, he’s a villain, and so I told Her Grace as soon as she made her foolish plans.” Dickie ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up in bright red strands. “All right, then. Did anyone see ye leave the house?”

  “No.” She barely refrained from looking over her shoulder again. “I don’t think so.”

  “Very well.” He took her arm. “Let’s go.”

  They moved quickly toward the back of the stable, past the horses to the door.

  “Hey!” Ives thundered. “Where are ye agoin’?”

  Eleanor jumped and shivered.

  Dickie squeezed her arm encouragingly. “The lady wants to know her way to the street,” he tossed back.

  Lying was not one of Dickie’s strong suits.

  “Who’s agoin’ t’ clean the stalls, I’d like t’ know!” For a big man, Ives managed to sound peevish.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Dickie called. In a quieter tone, he asked, “What made ye run now, Miss Eleanor? The blackguard didn’t make advances, did he?”

  “No.” No one would call lifting her off a stool “making advances.” Only a silly virgin like her would weave fantasies about the press of his body against hers. “I wanted to come last night, but he never left the house, and I didn’t dare try to make my way to the stables in the dark. I’m sorry, Dickie, I knew Madeline would find a way to do so, but I feared getting lost in the house or finding the wrong stable….” She had no trouble keeping up with Dickie’s long strikes. She would have run every step of the way to escape Mr. Knight and his insidious seduction.

  “Timid, ye are, but that’s all right, miss. ’Tis our bold duchess who gets ye into these fixes.”

  “Mr. Knight wants to take me to a ball tonight.” Eleanor gestured down at herself. “I can’t go into society as the marchioness of Sherbourne and the future duchess of Magnus.”

  Dickie looked properly horrified. “Nay, that ye canna.”

  Besides, if she stayed in Mr. Knight’s house, before long she’d think of nothing but how handsome he was, how any woman who wed him would be well-pleasured indeed, and how darling his children would be tucked into the curve of her arm…“Hurry, Dickie.”

  They burst out of the stables. With a swift glance up and down the empty alley, they rushed toward the corner. They strode over the cobblestones, past piles of garbage, past two cats fighting over a fish bone. Ahead, through the narrow gap between the buildings, she could see the stylish pedestrians, hear the carriages rumbling past and the call of vendors.

  Eleanor’s heart pounded. If they could just make it through the gap, they could blend with the crowds and disappear.

  She would disappear, and never see Mr. Remington Knight’s handsome, cold, sensuous countenance again as long as she lived. It had to be that way, for her own peace of mind.

  She tugged the hood of her cloak up.

  “That’s guid, miss,” Dickie said approvingly. “We’re almost there.”

  They rushed forward the last few steps.

  And with silent menace, a black-clad figure stepped around the corner and blocked their path with a long, barbarically carved cane.

  Eleanor stopped short. Her heart pounded, her fingers crushed her reticule.

  It was him. Mr. Knight.

  Of course.

  Chapter 7

  Two henchmen stepped around Mr. Knight, grabbed Dickie Driscoll by the arms, and lifted him off his feet.

  Eleanor lunged for the groom.

  Seizing her around the waist, Mr. Knight held her b
ack and snarled, “Dickie, listen to me now. You’re not to come back here. You’re never to see her. You’re not to try and take her away from me again. If you try, I’ll kill you. Do you understand? I’ll kill you.”

  “Ye don’t understand, sir, she’s na for ye!” Before Dickie could say more, one of the thugs punched him hard enough to jerk his head back.

  “Get rid of him,” Mr. Knight commanded.

  Dickie was leaving. They were taking him away. “No. No! Where are they going with him?” She watched as Dickie twisted around, trying to see her, trying to get free.

  “Damn ye, Knight, don’t ye hurt her,” he yelled.

  Mr. Knight watched, his pale blue gaze frozen, his hand gripping the tall, old-fashioned cane he held, a cane carved with barbaric elegance and topped with a heavy, gold ball.

  Visions of violence and blood filled her mind. Grabbing his lapel, Eleanor jerked so hard she brought his head around. “What are you doing with him?”

  He stared down at her as if he’d forgotten that he gripped her.

  “Don’t hurt him!”

  “We’re throwing him into the street.” Still Mr. Knight stared at her, his gaze ferocious.

  She didn’t believe him, and she grasped him tighter, using both hands to command his attention. “He’s in my employ. You can’t dismiss him.”

  He laughed unpleasantly. “I just have.”

  She desperately glanced at Dickie, then back at Mr. Knight. “Promise me you won’t have him beaten.”

  Without inflection, he asked, “Do you think me a thug?”

  She did, and more than that—she was vitally aware he hadn’t answered her. “Just promise me.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Dickie was her friend. He was in trouble because of her. He could be killed…because of her. “Promise me you won’t hurt him. That you won’t have him hurt in any way, by anybody.”

  Knight’s eyebrows lifted, as if surprised by her forcefulness. With care, he placed his cane against the wall. Pinching her chin between his fingers, he lifted her face to his and studied it as he might an unexpectedly feisty pet. “On one condition.”

  She thought she knew very well what that condition would be. He wanted in her bed.

  But whatever the price, she would pay it. She’d seen too much violence in Europe. She’d seen the results of battles: the wounded, the dying, the agony. She hadn’t known any of those men. She knew Dickie, and she couldn’t allow him to be hurt now, after they’d been through so much together. “Anything.”

  Mr. Knight’s black brows made his frown more ferocious, and his mouth curled into a sneer. He looked handsome and enraged, like some magnificent dark angel come to bargain for her soul. “Promise me you won’t try to run away from me again.”

  Her heart stopped, then started beating too quickly. Didn’t he want…? She looked at him again, trying to see inside his head. But that was impossible. He showed her his wrath, but not his desire, and only her instincts told her that the man was all the more dangerous for his self-discipline.

  “Decide now, Madeline.”

  The use of her cousin’s name reminded Eleanor; she was playing a part, but she was playing in earnest. Dickie’s well-being, perhaps his life, depended on her. Taking a quivering breath, she said, “I promise.”

  “What do you promise?”

  Trust Mr. Knight to demand the exact words. “I promise not to run away from you.”

  He weighed her words, as he feared he’d been paid in fool’s gold.

  He didn’t trust her. Very well. She didn’t blame him, but she had to convince him. “I swear I won’t leave until you tell me to go.”

  He slid his fingers around her throat, just lightly, so she could feel his heat and his strength. “I will never tell you to go.”

  Of course he would. As soon as he found out she was an imposter. But until that time he had bound her to him. Staring into his cold, pale eyes, she felt the chill of the future.

  Slowly, as if irresistibly drawn, he slid his fingers into her hair, loosening the already drooping chignon at the base of her neck. Leaning his face toward her, he spoke, his voice gravelly with desire. “I love your hair. It’s as thick and as rich as sable. I’ll see this spread over my pillow before a fortnight has passed. I’ll bury my face in it and drink in the scent. I’ll use it to hold you in place while you thrash beneath me and moan with pleasure.”

  She was shocked by every word. By every threat and every promise. But more than that, she watched his soft, tempting lips move with his words, and she wanted those lips on hers.

  He was going to kiss her, here, now, in the alleyway off a busy London street. She felt the heat of his desire. She knew, she feared, that that heat would melt her reservations and give her over to him, at least for the moment. She couldn’t allow that. She daren’t. Before his lips touched hers, she said, “Go now and save Dickie.”

  He halted, and for a moment, she thought he would kiss her regardless of her command. But she held his gaze and silently demanded that he do as she wished.

  His hands slipped away from her, inch by inch, as if he released her only grudgingly.

  And she hated the loss of his warmth and hated more that it mattered to her.

  With an abrupt nod, he strode after his henchmen.

  The wall between the buildings was grimy with soot, but she leaned her hand against it, light-headed now that the crisis had passed.

  She had committed herself to remain with Mr. Knight. It didn’t matter that she had given her word as Madeline; Eleanor’s lips had formed the words, and when she gave her word, she kept it.

  That was why she’d come to such grief eight years ago when her stepmother had tried to bend Eleanor to her will. Eleanor had refused to give her word.

  “Welcome, Remington, welcome!” As his secretary ushered Remington in, the president of the bank, Mr. Clark Oxnard, rose from his desk. “I’ve been looking forward to your visit. Did our shipment turn a profit?”

  Remington didn’t bother to reply as he settled into the high-backed, cushioned chair the secretary dragged out from the corner of Clark’s luxurious office. The place smelled of money and looked like a gentleman of leisure’s study, but Remington knew very well the kind of exacting, conscientious work Clark did here.

  “Of course it did,” Clark answered his own question. “You’ve made me a rich man.”

  “A richer man,” Remington corrected.

  Clark pulled a moue. “Wealth is a relative term. Henry, please bring Mr. Knight and me a pot of tea. Or Remington, would you rather have a brandy?”

  “Tea will be best. I need a clear mind. I’ve got a ball to attend tonight.”

  Henry exited, shutting the door behind him without a sound.

  “Picard’s? Good, I’ll see you there.” With a broad smile, Clark said, “I hope for the day when my bank balance equals yours.”

  “And on that day, I plan to have twice what I have now.” The two men were about the same age, but other than that, they had nothing in common. Clark was English-born, the fourth son of an earl, given over to business to help support his aristocratic but impoverished family, and doing so very well.

  Yet despite Clark’s aristocratic connections, Remington liked the stout, balding, dignified gentleman. The two had exchanged letters long before Remington had come to England, and they found their thoughts and goals to have much in common. “I’ve come to ask a favor,” Remington said.

  Folding his hands over his paunch, Clark leaned back in his leather chair. “Certainly.”

  Remington recognized some apprehension in Clark’s manner and hastened to reassure him. “It has nothing to do with money. It’s a personal favor.”

  Valiantly, Clark ignored the reference to filthy lucre. “Anything within my power, dear boy.”

  “I’d like you to stand as my witness and best man in my marriage to Madeline de Lacy, the future duchess of Magnus.”

  Clark beamed. “Good h
eavens! Yes, of course, what an honor you bestow on me!” Rising to his feet, he extended his hand.

  Remington stood also and shook it. “Not necessarily such an honor. The duchess is a prize of unparalleled wealth and beauty, and you know as well as I there are men who would kill to be in my shoes.”

  Clark guffawed. “Yes, of course. Kill to be in your shoes.”

  Remington didn’t smile back. “As in olden days, I need you to watch my back.”

  Clark’s merriment faded, and he sank down into his seat. “You’re serious.”

  Remington seated himself also. “Indeed I am.”

  Henry arrived with a quiet knock and the tea tray. He poured for the two gentlemen, fixed it as they liked, and disappeared out the door.

  Taking a sip, Remington took up the conversation where it had left off. “The de Lacy family, especially, is treacherous.”

  “The…de Lacy family?” Clark’s brow knit. “Are you speaking of your bride?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Remington thought of Madeline, of the deal they’d struck that morning. He had known she was not to be trusted, of course, for last night, when he had informed her she was being watched, he had seen the hunted shadows in her eyes. This morning, he hadn’t been surprised when she had proved her deceitfulness by sneaking away with Dickie.

  Yet she had surprised Remington with her loyalty to her servant. She had feared for Dickie. She had demanded Remington release him. And when Remington had demanded a boon, she had, without knowing what it might be, agreed to pay the price. “My bride seems to be quite genuine in her emotions.”

  Clark rocked back in his seat, and the leather squeaked beneath his weight. “Quite right, quite right. Not that I know her well at all, but she has a reputation for sincerity.”

  “Yes, I imagine she does.” Very soon, she would pay her bridegroom the same allegiance she paid to her horsegroom, for he would bind her to him with kisses, with long, slow strokes on her bare skin, with a union that would leave her in no doubt of his possession. And she would live for him. She would die for him. She would be his, and all his plans would be complete.