One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

  Then the duchess had appeared and upset his plans. How the hell was he supposed to keep his hands off her when she defied him at every turn? She wouldn’t wear the clothes he’d provided. She’d cut her hair. She answered his kisses. And it seemed that with each defiance, she blossomed a little more.

  Worse, he liked it. He liked seeing her chin lift and hearing cheeky remarks burble from her lips. He encouraged her to face the world with the haughtiness that so set his teeth on edge from the other aristocrats. With artless guile, she was destroying his plans.

  Gesturing to the groom, Remington brought the man forward. “The lady and I will stroll.”

  “Aye, sir.” The groom took the bridles.

  Remington dismounted, then walked to Diriday’s side and held up his hands to Madeline.

  Something of his lustful thoughts must have shown in his face, or perhaps Madeline recalled the events in the stable, for she hesitated, then slid slowly out of the saddle. He caught her, allowed himself a shameless moment when their bodies rested briefly against each other, then set her on her feet.

  The groom walked the horses toward a patch of trees near a stream.

  Today the sun shone, but the sky had a gray cast to it, and again Remington thought a tempest must be brewing. The air held a scent of iron, as if the hammer of a storm waited to smash through London’s streets and prove its mastery of mankind.

  Yet the air was warm, the day rife with opportunities, and he gestured toward the pavilion. “Shall we go and see the sights?”

  She sauntered ahead of him, a fine figure of a woman in a misty gray riding costume that clung to every curve. Her hat sported a cardinal red feather, and the fringe of her matching red scarf fluttered around her neck. Her hips rolled with each long stride. “I have milked a cow, you know,” she said. “We were in Italy, traveling a mountain road. A freak snowstorm came up and drove us to the first shelter, which was a barn with five cows and no owner in sight. We were hungry, and the cows became increasingly more miserable when no one showed up to milk them, so Dickie showed us how. We had warm milk for supper.” She chuckled, lost in reminiscences of her European tour.

  As he was lost in the memory of what had happened in his stable.

  She shouldn’t have run from him. With all the good sense of his own stallion responding to a mare, he’d chased her. Chased her and would have mounted her but for some lingering good sense.

  “I had a great many adventures on my trip.” She glanced back at him, her eyelashes fluttering in womanly enticement. “You’d be astonished to hear them all.”

  How did she do that? Beckon him with a glance, ensuring that he would trail after her like a lovesick swain? Two days ago she’d scarcely had the courage to look him in the eyes. A few kisses—a few very good kisses—and she was flirting.

  She added, “Someday I’ll tell you…if you ask nicely.” A cascade of climbing roses blossomed on trellises they passed, and she stopped and, with tender fingers, lifted a blossom. She smiled down at the furling petals, then, closing her eyes, she sniffed it deeply. “I love roses, especially yellow roses. They’re not cherished like red roses, but they’re invariably cheerful. Add them to a bouquet of lavender, and they make a heavenly smell and a beautiful display. Put them in a vase by themselves, and they nod and smile at everyone who passes.”

  It was one thing to leap a few steps in the courtship, to kiss Madeline ahead of schedule. It was quite another to jump the girl like a soldier on a rampage. But when Remington had made his plan to seduce his duchess, he’d failed to consider two contingencies. He’d not expected her to respond as if he were the man she’d waited for all her life…and he’d not anticipated his own undisciplined passion for this one woman.

  Without changing her tone, she asked, “Mr. Knight, are you going to speak, or are you going to continue to maintain that enigmatic silence which tells me nothing and our onlookers everything?”

  Startled out of his reverie, he asked, “Our onlookers?”

  “People are wandering the paths. Riding, walking, exchanging greetings—and we’re of interest to them. If you appear to be not speaking to me, they’ll put an unfavorable explanation on your truculence, and the rumor will sweep London that we’re quarrelling. From there, it’s a short journey to a broken betrothal and a cancelled wedding.”

  Was she hinting at insubordination? Taking her arm, he pulled her to a halt. “There will be no broken betrothal. There will be no cancelled wedding. We shall be wed, and once wed, you’ll wear my ring and my clothes, and accept my possession and my authority.” He waited for her to complain, to challenge his decree.

  Instead she stared intently over his shoulder at the riding path.

  He couldn’t believe her. He was talking to her, telling her what their life would be, and she ignored him.

  Her eyes grew bigger and bigger.

  Swinging around, he saw a black, scrawny, medium-sized dog skulking across the path in front of a spirited stallion. The fashionable youth on the stallion paid no heed. The dog was going to be hit.

  With a scream, Madeline pulled free of Remington and dashed into the path.

  The driver shrieked and sharply pulled up the horse.

  In terror, Remington shouted a warning and raced after her.

  She caught the dog around the belly.

  In a smooth movement, she jumped off the track and rolled in the grass, the dog clasped in her arms.

  The rider fought with his rearing mount.

  The dog yipped in an ever increasing crescendo. Struggling out of Eleanor’s grasp, it limped away to huddle on the ground not far away.

  Skidding on his knees at Madeline’s side, Remington demanded, “Are you hurt?” His heart pounded, and he wanted to shake her. Or embrace her. He didn’t know which.

  “I’m fine.” She struggled to sit up.

  Afraid she was injured and didn’t realize it, or wouldn’t admit it, he tried to keep her down.

  Slapping his hands away, she crawled toward the cowering dog. “Are you hurt, my beauty?” she crooned.

  Beauty? The dog was nothing but a mutt. At two stone or a little more, it looked like an elkhound who’d been washed in hot water and shrunk to half size. Its black-and-tan fur was matted, its belly was sunken, and the creature gave off an odor of ripe garbage, probably from foraging for scraps.

  As the duchess neared, it bared its teeth and growled.

  She extended her fist, fingers down. “You poor little thing.”

  “Be careful,” Remington said sharply. Damn the woman, she ran from one danger to another.

  “I am.” The growl subsided to a whimper, and Madeline scratched its chin. “It won’t bite me.”

  Apparently she was right, for the mutt fixed its brown eyes on the duchess, and when she stroked its head, it responded by burying its head in her chest.

  She ran her fingers over its left rear leg. The dog whimpered, and she said softly, “It’s hurt.”

  Remington badly wanted to say that he didn’t care, but he couldn’t quite. He liked animals, but damn it to hell! She’d almost gotten herself killed for this one.

  From behind them, Remington heard the stomp of boots. The youth stalked toward them, slapping his gloved hand with his whip. “Lady!” He was white and shaking. “What in Hades were you doing, lady? I almost hit you.”

  Remington rose to confront him, but before he could say a word, Madeline came up like an infuriated wasp. “What was I doing? What were you doing? You almost hit this dog.” Her cheeks and the tip of her nose glowed scarlet with fury. Her eyes sparked with brilliant blue. She had a smudge on one cheek and her hat was askew, but that didn’t matter, for all the passion she had revealed in the morning’s kiss she put into the defense of a mutt she had never before seen.

  Surly with guilt, the youth said, “It was just a flea-ridden stray.” Then her loveliness registered. He jerked to attention, back straight, shoulders back. He stared with avid fascination into her face. “I believe we may have met,
although I can’t quite remember—”

  She rampaged on, “Is that the way you were taught? To run over defenseless animals?”

  Stepping back, Remington folded his arms. This youth didn’t stand a chance.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. I recognize you. You’re Lord Mauger!”

  “Yes, I…I am. Viscount Mauger, humbly at your service.” Whipping his hat from his head, the youth bowed, eager to make a belated good impression on the beauty before him. “And you are…?”

  She wasn’t impressed or interested. “I know your mother, and she would box your ears for this.”

  Dull red rose in Mauger’s cheeks. “You won’t tell her.”

  “Not if you promise to be more careful in the future. I won’t be around to rescue the next dog, and I remember what a fine lad you were. You love animals, and you’d feel guilty if you killed one.”

  “You’re…you’re right.” Mauger’s pleading eyes looked much like the dog’s. “I just bought the chestnut, and came into town, and I wanted to show him off, but that’s no excuse…”

  As Mauger dug his toe into the dirt, Remington realized he was observing a master at work. She had taken the young man from fury, to infatuation, to guilt in one smooth journey, and Mauger adored her for it.

  In a comforting tone, she said, “I know you won’t do anything like this ever again.”

  “I swear I won’t.” Mauger smiled winsomely.

  With an unpleasant start, Remington realized the young man was quite handsome.

  “Please, ma’am, won’t you tell me the name of my goddess of justice?” Mauger implored.

  She blinked at him.

  “He means you,” Remington said dryly, and did the honors. “Mauger, this is the marchioness of Sherbourne and the future duchess of Magnus. Your Grace, the Viscount Mauger.”

  “You’re the duchess of Magnus?” Mauger’s eyebrows raised. “You visited us one summer eight years ago, but I didn’t remember you being so beautiful.”

  It didn’t sound like a compliment; it was too sincere for that. And Madeline cringed as if she’d been slapped.

  Remington picked up her hand and conveyed it to his lips. “She grows more beautiful every day.”

  “Yes. Obviously!” Mauger bowed again, as if eager to make amends for his less than tactful comment. “Her Grace is as fair as the sun in all its brilliance.”

  If possible, Madeline looked even more dismayed.

  Infatuation. The youth was infatuated with Remington’s duchess. That would never do. She was Remington’s, and other men could envy him, but they were not to want her. So Remington bowed and introduced himself. “I’m Mr. Remington Knight.” He waited, but nothing registered on Mauger’s face. The lad hadn’t heard the gossip. “Tomorrow night, the duchess and I are having a ball to celebrate our betrothal.” He watched Mauger deflate as he realized his sun-goddess was already out of his reach. “I hope you’ll do us the honor of attending.”

  “Thank you. Yes. Of course. I’d be delighted. A pleasure to meet you both. Sir. Ma’am.” Mauger’s gaze lingered on Madeline as he tipped his hat, but he manfully made his way back to his groom and his horse, and with shaky care rode away.

  Madeline didn’t bother to watch him leave, which gave Remington comfort. Instead, she again knelt beside the dog—which filled Remington with trepidation. He squatted at her side and with his finger under her chin, brought her to face him. “Never mind the mutt. Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said brightly. “Of course.”

  Taking her hand, Remington removed her shredded glove. Her palm was skinned, one fingernail broken. He hadn’t a doubt that she’d banged her knee or wrenched her wrist or some other injury to which she wouldn’t confess. But now that the incident was over, he wanted to shake her. “For a mongrel? You risked your life for a mongrel?”

  The dog raised its hackles and bared its teeth at Remington’s tone.

  “Down!” Remington snapped, and the dog settled back. But it kept its gaze warily on him, and Remington knew the damned dog had attached itself to Madeline.

  “Some people might call you a mongrel.” She wore an odd expression, as if some people already had.

  Had she defended him as she’d defended this strange dog? Was he a stray she’d taken under her wing—or had she laughed and agreed that, because of his birth, he was less than her? It shouldn’t be a matter of interest to him—but it was. Everything about her was of interest to him, and why?

  Because he was infatuated with her. Infatuated…and obsessed with the one woman he should never love.

  Chapter 15

  Eleanor shifted uncomfortably beneath Mr. Knight’s gaze. He looked at her as if he wanted to pry open her head and peer inside.

  Well. He could scarcely have stumbled on the truth here in the middle of Green Park, could he? That was impossible…wasn’t it?

  She moved from foot to foot, trying to ease her aches and pains. Now that the excitement of the rescue had ended, she was aware that her palms hurt where she’d scraped them and she’d landed on her knee wrong. She wouldn’t complain, of course. Mr. Knight would tell her it was her own fault, and right now his eyes looked cold and thoughtful, and his broad, delicious mouth grew thin.

  Then his lids swept over his eyes, and when he looked at her again, she could see no censure—and no interest. “You don’t know what this dog is or where it came from, except that Lord Mauger is no doubt right—it is flea-bitten.”

  Her ire rose again. “So I should only care about creatures with the proper pedigree and the proper hygiene? Thank you, sir, but no. I abhor cruelty, especially to poor beasts who can’t do anything to help themselves, and if you can’t see the value of caring for the lost and the forlorn, then I’m sorry for you.”

  In a cool, flat tone, he said, “Not at the cost of your life.”

  Bitterly aware that her life was only valuable to him because he believed her to be the duchess, Eleanor shrugged. “My life is not so important.” Then some errant resentment made her taunt, “Oh, but I forgot—I’m your passport into the ton.”

  He apparently didn’t appreciate cynicism, at least not from her, for his voice held a warning. “Madeline…”

  Madeline. She wasn’t Madeline, she was Eleanor—but this was no time for confessions. She gestured behind him. “We have attracted an audience.” An audience comprised of a number of guests from the Picards’ ball, and a few others, unknown to her, but costumed in the finest garb and obviously noble. All ogled her in openly expressed amazement, and two of the ladies released a series of high-pitched giggles.

  To her astonishment, she wasn’t so much embarrassed as annoyed. She hated scenes, yes, but these people needed an occupation if their best entertainment was tittering about a dog rescue.

  “Poor Mr. Knight,” she murmured. “Your plan to impress the ton with your sophistication and your fiancée has taken a downward turn.” Sinking back down beside the dog, she left him to deal with the situation.

  But he surprised her. With a smile that looked genuinely amused, he faced the crowd.

  One gentleman in particular seemed to hold his attention. The gentleman was perfectly groomed, with a crisp cravat, a snowy white shirt, and boots so shiny and black that the sun gleamed on the leather. He looked thoroughly shocked by the proceedings, and Eleanor idly reflected that Madeline would have a dreadful time clearing up her reputation when she finally arrived in London. Yet Eleanor wasn’t nearly as sorry as she might have been, and growing more impatient.

  Where was Madeline? This situation was disintegrating by the minute.

  “Brummel,” Remington said. “Good to see you.”

  Brummel. Eleanor knew that name. Beau Brummel was the arbiter of English society, the man who spent hours tying his cravat, the man who cared little for aristocratic prestige, and everything for an ideal appearance.

  Eleanor was aware she failed to present an ideal appearance. In fact, she was a mess, and without a bit of contrition
, she reflected that Mr. Knight was in trouble now.

  “Mr. Knight.” Beau Brummel stepped forward and bowed to Eleanor. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the lady.”

  With a last scratch under the dog’s chin, Eleanor rose as Remington made introductions.

  Beau Brummel’s gaze flicked over the scene. “You…like dogs, Your Grace?”

  With innate honesty, Eleanor answered, “I find them more trustworthy than most humans.”

  “I don’t know any trustworthy dogs,” Beau Brummel said.

  “Do you know any trustworthy humans?” She was speaking of the little crowd gathered behind him, the people who last night had thronged about her and after this escapade would shun her.

  To her astonishment, Beau Brummel comprehended—and smiled. “Your Grace, you’re all too right.” In a solicitous tone that revealed his true concern, he said, “But I fear that you’ve ruined your riding costume.”

  With an audacity that surprised even her, she said, “I’m the duchess of Magnus. I set the fashion. Tomorrow you’ll see ladies riding with torn gloves and their hats askew.”

  Brummel was startled into a chuckle. “I would be most honored if you would walk with me.”

  “Toward the horses. I suppose I should go and repair my appearance.” And her injuries were hurting her more and more.

  “Of course, to the horses,” Beau Brummel agreed.

  They strolled side by side toward the wood where the groom waited; Mr. Knight and the dog walked a step behind.

  When they had moved away from the mob, Beau Brummel said, “I understand that you’ve been away from London for quite some time, Your Grace. If I might be so bold as to offer advice…you have a style all your own and, I suspect, a prediliction for trouble.”