One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

  Yet even today, when he’d vanquished the last of her allies, he still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t somehow escape. She was going to be a duchess; she had resources he might not have identified.

  Still, she had given her word, and the de Lacys always kept their word—or so it was said. Not that he would call off his watchdogs, but her promise did give him a measure of security.

  “What de Lacy do you think treacherous?” Clark asked curiously.

  “Her father, certainly.”

  “The duke of Magnus?” Clark’s mustache quivered with astonishment. “I don’t know him, although my father does. But I’ve never heard anything lethal about him.”

  “Still waters run deep.” The tea soured in Remington’s mouth, and he put down the cup. “Do you recall hearing about his sister’s murder?”

  “His sister’s?…Lord, yes. Brutal, vicious slaying. My parents whispered about it when I was young. They said Lady Pricilla was one of the beauties of the day.”

  “Yes, and cut down in the bloom of her youth on the same night her betrothal was to be announced.” Remington had heard the tale many a time, and he could recite it without thinking.

  Clark’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Magnus had nothing to do with that. Someone else was convicted, some commoner.”

  “By name, Mr. George Marchant. He was accused, but the testimony of three noblemen who swore they were with him at the time of the murder made it impossible for the magistrates to convict him. Because they had no one else on whom to pin the crime, and because the crime was so heinous, he was deported to Australia.”

  “Probably did it,” Clark muttered, but he didn’t meet Remington’s gaze.

  “Your father was one of the men who swore that he didn’t.”

  Clark’s teacup rattled in his hand, and he hastily placed it on the desk. “ ’Pon rep! You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. Does your father make it a habit to lie?” Remington already knew the answer, but he enjoyed watching Clark puff up in indignation.

  “Never heard him tell a bouncer for any reason.” Clark rubbed his bulbous nose. “But I still don’t understand why you mistrust Magnus. He was Lady Pricilla’s brother!”

  “In crimes like this, my friend, it almost always is a member of the family.”

  “No, really. Family members are supposed to care for one another.”

  Clark’s ingenuous belief brought a smile to Remington’s face. “Sometimes they do. And sometimes, they hate with all the ferocity that familiarity brings.” When Clark would have disputed with him, Remington said, “Come now. Don’t you have acquaintances where you’re afraid to go to their homes for fear a fight will start?”

  Clark conceded, “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

  “Ask a Bow Street Runner. Murder is usually a family affair.” Remington toyed with changing the subject just to relieve Clark’s uneasiness. Yet he admired Clark’s intelligence, and he’d never had the chance to examine the crime with anyone. “Someone killed Lady Pricilla. It wasn’t George Marchant, so the killer hasn’t been caught.”

  “Dreadful thought.” Clark looked deeply unhappy. He was a man who liked everything clear-cut and orderly, like the rows of figures in his accounting books.

  “Rumor says she was going to elope with someone, a gentleman less suitable than her wealthy lord. Who else would take violent exception, except one of her family?”

  “Her fiancé?”

  “The earl of Fanthorpe.”

  Clark slumped in his chair. “Ohh.”

  His reaction surprised Remington. Clark so seldom openly expressed aversion. “You don’t like him.”

  In exasperation, Clark said, “He’s such an old school aristocrat. He banks here, and he won’t speak directly to me. I have muddied my hands with commerce.”

  Remington’s lips twitched with amusement.

  “He comes into my office, he sits in that chair”—Clark pointed at Remington’s seat—“he tells his secretary what he wants done with his account, and his secretary tells me. I, of course, do exactly the same thing in reverse.”

  “You speak to the secretary, and—”

  “Exactly.”

  “Would he have killed Lady Pricilla?”

  “Only if he could have had his secretary kill her.” Clark laughed, then looked guilty. “Pardon me, that is an insensitive jest. Was he not a suspect?”

  “He was, but he, also, had an alibi.” Remington toyed with his spoon. “I used to think it was the old duke of Magnus.”

  “I never met him. He died before I was out of Oxford, but he is a possibility.” Clark seemed fascinated by the unsolved mystery. “He had a reputation for temper, rages that rampaged out of control.”

  “He was famous for them, and after Lady Pricilla’s betrothal he was heard shouting at her on several occasions. He could have killed her, but witnesses said there was no blood on him.” Although he could have hired the job done, the attack apparently had been one of impulse and rage. “The violence was so malicious, he should have been covered with blood.”

  “All right. It wasn’t her father.” Clark sounded almost regretful. “And I stick by my contention it wasn’t the current duke of Magnus. But I would say it could easily be his brother, and hers, Lord Shapster. Have you met him?”

  Remington shook his head. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  “No pleasure at all. The bastard’s a cold fish. Married that dreadful Lady Shapster.” As if unpleasant memories were connected with her name, Clark pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “When she tried to force Eleanor, as fine a girl as ever I met, to marry, Lord Shapster paid no attention. Let Lady Shapster brutalize his own daughter. So long as he’s not forced to cease hunting, he cares nothing for anything or anybody.”

  Clark had piqued Remington’s interest. “I had no idea you knew the family.”

  “I come from Blinkingshire, just a few miles down the road from their home. I knew Eleanor from the time she was a bit of a girl. She’s a good deal younger than me, of course, but she sits an excellent seat on a horse. Never makes a scene, never says a peep unless she’s forced to, and that’s Lady Shapster’s fault.” Clark passed his hand over his balding head. “So Lord Shapster is a good suspect.”

  Regretfully, Remington said, “He hasn’t enough money.”

  “He doesn’t need money to stab a woman to death.”

  “He needed money to wreak vengeance on George Marchant from afar.”

  Aghast, Clark said, “He wouldn’t do that. Send somebody to Australia to kill the man who he knows perfectly well didn’t kill his sister? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “George Marchant had a genius for making money, a genius he passed on to his son, by the way.” Remington kept his expression bland, taking care not to show the anger unfurling in his gut. “After George served his term, he made his way from Australia to America, where he married a shipping heiress, had two children, was widowed, and built a fortune, all with the idea of coming back to England and wreaking vengeance on the man who had killed Lady Pricilla.”

  Uneasily, Clark asked, “Why would George care so much? If he had money, family and reputation in America, why come back here?”

  “Haven’t you discerned the truth?” Remington rose and paced over to the desk. Leaning over, he looked Clark in the eyes. “He loved Lady Pricilla, she loved him, and they were going to elope that night.”

  “Dear God.” Clark stared at Remington intently. He was starting to figure out the connection.

  “Yes. About the time George, in America, was ready to act against the nobleman who had killed Lady Pricilla, his home and business were set afire, his daughter was brutally murdered, and he was beaten almost to death. When his son returned from school, grieving and horrified, George was clinging to life. George told his son who had done the horrible deed.”

  The two men stared at each other across the glossy expanse of Clark’s desk. Finally, Clark asked, “Why do you know this?”

 
Remington walked to the door, and before he opened it, said, “Because I am George’s son. Magnus will never rest until all the Marchants are dead—and I will never rest until I have vengeance.”

  Chapter 8

  That evening, Remington sat in the drawing room, watched the clock, and leafed through his well-read copy of Robinson Crusoe. But he couldn’t concentrate on the story.

  His fiancée was late. This morning, as he’d marched her back across the garden and into the house, he had informed her she was to be downstairs at seven o’clock. It was now almost eight.

  He usually accepted, with weary tolerance, the peccadilloes of beautiful women, and making a belated entrance was surely the most common transgression. But he would have never suspected his duchess of such petty dramatics—which proved he understood her not at all.

  After the incident with Dickie, Remington had thought she would faint from alarm. He’d taken her into the house, wet his handkerchief, and pressed it to her cheeks. She’d pushed his hand away, and with silent dignity had made her way upstairs. He hadn’t seen her since, but he had believed her sufficiently cowed to submit to his plans without further insubordination.

  A woman, his father used to say, would always prove a man wrong when he least expected it. It appeared his father was right.

  The brief sparks of originality and kindness he saw in her were nothing more than the polished performance of an aristocrat who thought she could manipulate him. Much to her own dismay she had learned he was in command.

  Yet she was late, and that left him to ponder the events at the bank.

  Clark had been shocked at Remington’s revelation, but he’d proved his mettle when he’d answered, “If this is the truth, if Magnus truly is your enemy, then I’ll take a weapon to your wedding and watch for treachery every second.” Before Remington could thank him, Clark had added, “But on the same token if, for reasons of vengeance, you ever harm the duchess, I’ll consider it my responsibility to hunt you down and bring you to justice.”

  Remington liked Clark—for his bravery, and his candor. “I won’t harm her. What is mine, I keep, and I swear you won’t regret your decision.”

  The two men had solemnly shaken hands, and Remington had departed.

  Now Remington again glanced at the clock.

  Madeline’s new defiance boded ill. Probably she was sulking, but Beth would have let him know if she was refusing to dress. His duchess would be downstairs in ten minutes—he glanced at the chiming clock—or he would go up and get her.

  Finally, from the floor above, he heard the faint, pleasing chime of women’s voices.

  At last. Her Grace had consented to make her appearance.

  As Lady Gertrude descended the last few stairs, she was saying in a distraught tone, “Dear girl, my point is, I don’t think he’s going to like this.”

  She didn’t think he was going to like…what? Rising, he made his way into the foyer.

  When Lady Gertrude caught sight of him, dismay chased across her soft features. Her tone changed to chipper. Excessively chipper. “Oh, sir, Her Grace looks beautiful, absolutely ravishing.”

  The duchess stood one step up from the foyer, her hand on the rail, her gaze distant.

  And her magnificent mane of hair had been cut. Short. Wisps curled around her face, caressing her forehead and her cheeks, and longer strands of hair clung to her neck. Short. She had shorn her hair.

  Striding furiously to the foot of the stairs, he stood directly below her, and in the voice which made subordinates cower, he demanded, “What the hell have you done to yourself?”

  Turning her head, she looked down at him with calm indifference. “Mr. Knight, I warned you—one doesn’t swear in mixed company. Not in England.”

  She dared reprimand him…now? Now, when she looked so different? This cut changed her appearance from that of a soft, timid, gentlewoman to one of a daring hoyden, and by God, he wanted his other fiancée back. “I’ll damned well swear if I want to, especially when faced with this kind of desecration.”

  Lady Gertrude wrung her hands. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I told you he would be—”

  Turning, he glared at her.

  She shut her mouth and backed away.

  “Mr. Knight, do not intimidate her,” the duchess commanded. In a softer tone, she said to Lady Gertrude, “Hush, my lady, I don’t require Mr. Knight’s approval.”

  His blood rose at Madeline’s cool dismissal of his opinion. “The day will come, Your Grace, when you’ll want my approval.”

  “Really?” she drawled, and for the first time he thought she sounded every inch an English aristocrat. “You won’t mind if I don’t hold my breath.”

  As she stood on the step, their heights were almost comparable. His eyes were only a few inches below hers, and he viewed too clearly her pale, cool face and studied unconcern. His hands itched to take hold of her and show her how very quickly he could make her want him, and his approval.

  But what new defiance would that provoke? He spoke slowly, weighing each word with significance. “Where is your hair?”

  “A good bit of it is on my head.” Lifting her fingers, she sifted them through the strands, as if still marveling at the transformation. “But Beth carried most of it away. A great long mare’s tail, it was. Now it’s gone.”

  The hair he’d imagined spreading over his pillow, clutching in his fist, using as a rope to bind him to this woman…that hair now adorned a trash barrel in the kitchen. “This is Beth’s doing?” He would make the maid sorry.

  “I took the scissors and hacked off all of the length,” Eleanor informed him.

  He winced at the picture that called to mind.

  “I cut it crooked, too. Poor Beth had to fix matters, and her hands are still trembling with fear of what you’ll do.”

  “So they should.” His fingers flexed. “She should tremble.”

  “I told her she had nothing to fear. I told her you were a great many things, but unfair was not one of them.” Eleanor’s dark blue eyes watched and assessed him while she spoke. “Am I wrong, Mr. Knight?”

  Of course she was not. He wouldn’t dismiss a maid for doing as her mistress commanded. But he didn’t have to, didn’t want to, admit that now. In a guttural tone, he asked, “What made you do this?”

  She leaned toward him, close enough that he could smell the faint perfume of some exotic flower. Close enough that her plump, pale breasts strained against her bodice. “I think you know.”

  He did. She’d cut her hair because he’d told her how he would use it to subdue her. He leaned forward, too, until their noses almost touched. “You’ll grow it again.”

  “If I wish it.”

  “You’ll grow it again, and quickly.”

  She smiled, a smooth, satisfied tilt of the lips. “I promise you, Mr. Knight, whether I do or not will have nothing to do with you.” She sounded so certain.

  He didn’t understand why, and he didn’t like it. She was timid, meek, frightened of him. He’d seen evidence of her caution at every turn. Didn’t she realize how thoroughly he held her in his power?

  Searching her face, he sought the reason for her composure. But as she met his gaze, he got lost in her eyes. They were beautiful eyes, wide and deep blue with long, dark, curling lashes that fluttered. He could almost see the soul she held so privately, and he wanted to know her. All of her. Her mind as well as her body.

  To his astonishment, what started out as a furious visual interrogation changed. Softened. As they gazed at each other, each remembered that moment in the alley when he’d almost, almost kissed her. The remnants of the morning’s passion grew between them, and he wanted to taste her, here, now…

  Lady Gertrude’s voice intruded with all the subtlety of a marauding bandit. “Mr. Knight, what do you think of Madeline’s gown?”

  He started.

  The duchess straightened abruptly. She stared at her hands as they nervously smoothed her skirt over her thighs.

  He watched, too,
unable to look away from that revealing introspection.

  Lady Gertrude intruded again, and this time with more success. “I especially like the neckline, and the austere cut, and the way the little sleeves puff up and show her fine white arms.”

  Remington listened to Lady Gertrude and observed the gown. The duchess wore a cream muslin evening robe, crossed across her bosom and opening to show a burgundy satin petticoat. The edges of the robe were embellished with a rich green trim in a subtle Greek pattern. Her satin slippers matched her petticoat, and a burgundy ribbon was threaded through her dark hair. A cream-colored fan dangled from her wrist. The effect was arresting. Not at all what he would have chosen, but with her height and her slender proportions, it was an excellent selection. Yet…yet…

  Grimly, he said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this gown isn’t one of the garments I had purchased for you.”

  “No. It’s one of mine.” Madeline sounded so composed, the moment between them might never have happened.

  “You said you didn’t have the proper clothing.”

  “What a surprise,” she said, deadpan. “I found them in my trunk.”

  She said nothing else, no matter how pointedly he waited, and so he scrutinized her without subtlety. “Very handsome.” He thought, for a moment, he saw relief in her eyes.

  Then he delivered an ultimatum. “But I beg that you go change. On your first appearance as my betrothed, I would have you wear a more fashionable outfit.” His gaze flicked to her hair. “If not a more proper coiffure.”

  In what was the perfect illustration of noble haughtiness, she said, “I am the future duchess of Magnus. I set the fashion.”

  He wouldn’t tolerate her defiance. “Go change.”

  Pulling on her cream, over-the-elbow gloves, she said, “I fear that’s impossible. It offends every convention to arrive at the party after the Prince of Wales, and we’re already late.”

  He didn’t know if that was true. English society had so many rules and mores he couldn’t comprehend, not to mention those interminable titles and their hierarchy and their different methods of address. He had perfected the abashed apology for the many times he’d said or done the wrong thing, called someone by the wrong title, entered a room before or after the proper time. So far the English had tolerated his mistakes. He doubted they would tolerate an insult to their prince. “You did this on purpose.”