One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

  Chapter 17

  As Eleanor absorbed Mr. Knight’s announcement, the crowd, the ballroom and all its lights faded. She thought she was going to faint right here on the stage, but strangely, she could still hear his voice clearly proclaiming, “With the blessing of God on our union, we will live among you for the rest of our days.”

  That didn’t sound like a promise to Eleanor; it sounded like a threat. Everything about Mr. Knight’s face and figure looked like a threat. He was going to force the ton to accept him on his own terms, and she was the instrument of his determination.

  “Breathe,” he commanded softly.

  She took a gasping breath and realized she’d been holding her breath.

  “Smile,” he said.

  She did smile, a tremulous smile, and from the answering beams around her, everyone found her apprehension completely normal and the whole affair so romantic. Apparently, few cared that the betrothal had come about through a despicable card game. With his pale blond hair shining like a halo, her fallen angel had mesmerized the whole of the ton.

  He offered his hand to help her descend the stairs.

  Well, not the whole of the ton. Lady Shapster stood twirling her full champagne glass, watching Eleanor as if trying to decide how best to expose the truth. Her malevolence made Eleanor shiver, yet it was Mr. Knight who occupied Eleanor’s mind. Anything Lady Shapster could do paled in comparison to Mr. Knight and his schemes.

  As soon as her feet touched the dance floor, the orchestra struck up a minuet. Other couples rapidly joined them. The proceedings had been coordinated by Mr. Knight to achieve maximum impact, and on the surface, everything looked like every maiden’s fantasy.

  But Eleanor was still reeling from his coup d’etat. She couldn’t marry him in two days. She had to tell him so. But although he danced with inexpressible grace, always less than three feet away, he might as well be on the moon. He wore a mask, one comprised of a charming smile and opaque eyes that hid the secrets of his soul. The softening she had thought he’d had toward her was a chimera. The common sentiments she had imagined between them did not exist. The blue-eyed devil had forced a ring on her and now threatened her with immediate marriage.

  And why? Eleanor didn’t understand why he wished to marry the future duchess of Magnus. He said it was because he wanted her fortune and her status, but Eleanor didn’t believe him. There was something more, something lurking beneath the surface of his smile, some deeper plan that frightened her in its enmity.

  The dance ended. The gentlemen closed in on Mr. Knight, slapping him on the back and congratulating him.

  Eleanor backed away, wanting desperately to flee, but escape was impossible.

  Horatia caught up with her first. “You sly puss. You never gave us a hint of your imminent wedding!”

  “I didn’t, did I?” Eleanor hadn’t been cagey, she had been ignorant.

  Lady Picard hurried forward with all the bustle of a confirmed and exalted gossip. “Congratulations, Your Grace. You must be so pleased!”

  “Words cannot express my feelings.” Eleanor’s stomach twisted. What was she supposed to do now?

  Madeline’s advice chased across Eleanor’s mind. Whenever you are in doubt, think, What would Madeline do in this situation? And do it.

  Without a doubt, that was the silliest counsel Eleanor had ever heard. It helped her not at all. Not at all.

  Mr. Clark Oxnard hurried over, his petite wife in tow, and Clark beamed jovially, his round cheeks cherry red with pleasure. “When you asked me to stand as your best man, Remington, I had no idea it would be so soon. Congratulations, Your Grace, congratulations indeed!”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Did Eleanor make sense? She didn’t think so. She didn’t care.

  “My felicitations, Your Grace.” Mrs. Oxnard’s voice was surprisingly low for so small a woman, and her eyes scrutinized Eleanor shrewdly. “A marriage is always exciting, but somewhat overwhelming, also. Perhaps, when you’re settled, we could meet for tea?”

  She sounded so normal, so absolutely calm, that Eleanor wanted to put her head on Mrs. Oxnard’s shoulder and weep. “That would be delightful,” Eleanor said. “Thank you.”

  Beau Brummel strolled up, flicking his handkerchief to clear himself a path. “Your Grace, what excellent news! You’re to be married at once. Trust Mr. Knight to charge in where others fear to tread and sweep you off your feet as you deserve.”

  “I deserve this? I suppose I must.” For lying about who she was.

  Young Lord Byron lifted his soulful gaze to hers. “Such a romantic gesture inspires me to write a poem. An epic poem. Or perhaps a sonnet.”

  Eleanor took a small step back, then another. “Mr. Knight will be pleased, I’m sure.” She was sure of the exact opposite.

  “Dear girl.” Lady Gertrude stood on tiptoe and kissed Eleanor’s cheeks. “I’m so excited!” In Eleanor’s ear, she added, “This will halt rumors about where you’re staying before they get started. A relief, I will tell you. Servants gossip, and a few more days could be fatal to your reputation.”

  In that she was wrong, for Lady Shapster pointedly examined Eleanor’s belly. In that smooth, warm, assured tone that used to drive Eleanor to tears, she said, “You aren’t wasting any time getting to the altar. Is there a reason for the hurry?”

  Every jaw within hearing dropped.

  Mr. Knight twisted around like a vengeful whirlwind.

  In unison, the guests stepped back.

  But for the first time, Lady Shapster hadn’t the power to shame or terrify Eleanor. Maybe Eleanor had matured. Maybe the last four years, the last few days, the last few minutes, had shown her real adversity. For whatever reason, a rush of fury chased anxiety out of her mind. She didn’t need Mr. Knight to defend her. She could stand up for herself.

  With a smile that was more tooth than benevolence, she said, “Lady Shapster, I arrived in England less than a week ago. If you wish to spread rumors, that isn’t one that will take.”

  Lady Shapster blinked, as if a kitten had attacked her ankles and drawn blood. Then that terrifying smile spread across her lips, and she stepped closer to Eleanor.

  Before she could speak, Lady Gertrude said in an insufferably outraged tone, “What an ill-bred observation. Don’t you agree, Lady Picard?”

  “I do, indeed.” Lady Picard looked sincerely shocked, like a woman not adverse to gossiping in private but horrified by public scenes.

  “Lady Shapster.” Mr. Knight took her by the arm. “I don’t remember including you on the guest list.”

  Lady Shapster turned on him like a cornered tiger, all teeth and claws. Then she caught a glimpse of his face, and something there made her soften into the guise of a lady. “I realized it was an oversight, so I—”

  “Not an oversight at all.” Mr. Knight clipped off his words. “I do not like coarse, vicious women. I most certainly don’t want them at my betrothal ball.”

  Lady Gertrude patted Eleanor’s hand and murmured incoherent comfort.

  “But that’s what I have to tell you.” Lady Shapster pointed a long finger at Eleanor. “You don’t aspire to marry her.”

  Eleanor wanted to leap at her, to stifle her and that dreadful, smooth, accusatory tone.

  Mr. Knight’s lips drew back from his teeth, and his voice was scarcely audible when he said, “Do not tell me what I aspire to do. You know nothing about me or my aspirations. Now—you want to leave. I’ll escort you to the door.”

  “Such a scene,” Beau Brummel murmured. “So sad when a noted beauty fades to infamy.”

  Mr. Knight didn’t hear him, but Lady Shapster did. She cast a venomous glance at Eleanor, and as Mr. Knight marched her away, she said, “I promise you, you’ll be sorry you humiliated me this way.”

  Mr. Knight answered, “For your own safety, my lady, don’t say another word.”

  Eleanor drew a quivering breath. She had confronted her stepmother and escaped unscathed. She wouldn’t truly win until she faced her as El
eanor, but now she was grateful to Lady Shapster. Lady Shapster had distracted Mr. Knight and given Eleanor a chance to escape, for just a moment, the suffocating blanket of interest. “Excuse me. I see a friend I must greet.”

  “Of course you do, dear.” Lady Gertrude patted her hand. “Go and freshen up.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Eleanor tried hard not to rush away, for she well knew everyone was watching her. And she tried very hard to walk a straight line, since she hadn’t the foggiest idea where she was headed. She only knew she needed to get away. Away, before she suffered her first ever attack of the vapors.

  The open door leading to the garden promised fresh air and the veil of darkness, so she steered toward it—and heard a hiss emanating from the plant by the French doors.

  “Psst.”

  She looked around but saw no one.

  “Psst, miss!”

  Walking around the pot, she saw a red-haired man crouching almost on the floor. In an instant, the anguish that filled her turned to hope. Dickie Driscoll had never failed to help her. He wouldn’t fail her now. “Dickie! What are you doing here?”

  “Rescuing ye.” Dickie peered over the plant at the dance floor, where couples dipped and rose in the minuet. “ ’Tis the first chance I’ve had to get to ye without that Mr. Knight or one of his henchmen intercepting me. Come on.” Catching her hand, he stood and slid furtively toward the doors. “Let’s go.”

  “Oh, yes! Let’s go!” She followed him onto the terrace, rejoicing in her freedom. “I want to get away from here. I need to get away from him, before…I need to get away.”

  “Sh.” Dickie’s voice was hushed as he led her down the stairs. “Knight’s men are everywhere. I had a fair difficult time getting in here, and I dunna relish being tossed out again.”

  “You mean—like the other day when they caught us coming out of the stables?”

  The garden path was not lit, but she heard the gloom in Dickie’s voice. “’Twasna fun, Miss Eleanor.”

  She tensed. “His men didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “Nay, Mr. Knight instructed them to keep it clean, and they did—for the most part.”

  She slowed. “So Mr. Knight kept his promise.” He had promised not to hurt Dickie.

  She had promised not to run away.

  But Mr. Knight hadn’t told her that they should wed immediately!

  “Hurry, Miss Eleanor!” Dickie urged.

  So what if Mr. Knight hadn’t told her the whole truth? She hadn’t demanded it. She had simply promised him she wouldn’t run away. She had set no restrictions on her vow. “Dickie.” Reluctantly, she set her heels. “I can’t go.”

  “What do ye mean, ye canna go?” Dickie tugged harder. “This is na a game, miss. I heard him. He’s announced yer wedding for the day after tomorrow, and Her Grace is nowhere in sight. I dunna know where she is, but I do know we’ve got a bit of a crisis here.”

  “I understand. Believe me, Dickie, I understand. But the fact is—I promised Mr. Knight I wouldn’t flee again.” Eleanor had to stay. She’d given her word.

  Dickie knew it, for he sputtered, “P…promised? Nay, Miss Eleanor, ye wouldna be so foolish. Tell me ye wouldna be so foolish.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Dickie, when his men were taking you away, they were going to hurt you. I couldn’t let them do that. So I promised to stay with him until he told me to go.”

  “If I were na a guid Protestant, miss, I would curse down the Tower of Babel.” Dickie stood still, head down. “Miss, what are ye going to do? Are ye going to tell him?”

  “Who I am? No!” No. When he discovered who she was, she wanted to be far, far away.

  “Ye can’t marry the man with him thinking ye’re the duchess. When the truth comes oot, he would kill ye.”

  “Of course I won’t. I can’t.” Because that wouldn’t be the right thing to do. She would not dare think about how very much she was enjoying herself: being the toast of London, having a fine horse to ride, being bold enough to occasionally, very occasionally, speak her mind. She would not remember how her heart tripped when Mr. Knight looked at her with his pale blue eyes hot as banked coals. To imagine herself as his wife was asking for pain and heartache, and she had plenty of that coming anyway. “Dickie, here’s my idea. I’ll write a note. You’ll take it to Madeline. I’ll tell her about the wedding, and she’ll come to my rescue.”

  “And if she canna?”

  Eleanor stood in the dark garden. Her new ring was cold on her finger. The breeze flirted with the leaves above her. The fresh air filled her lungs. In her soul, a struggle took place. A struggle between the old, meek Eleanor and the new Eleanor trying to be born. The old Eleanor was timid and took what life handed out without a whimper. The new Eleanor fought for herself and her happiness and didn’t care about consequences.

  Madeline didn’t want Mr. Knight. The new Eleanor did. She wanted him desperately in her heart and in her loins, and if Madeline didn’t arrive in time to stop the wedding…

  The new Eleanor spoke. “If Madeline doesn’t arrive in time to stop the wedding, then fate has made its decree. And now I believe I shall go have a small libation or two.” Anything to quiet the old Eleanor shrieking warnings in her head.

  In a voice thick with dread, Dickie Driscoll asked, “What do ye mean, miss, that fate has made its decree?”

  “I mean—if Madeline doesn’t arrive in time to stop me, I mean to wed Mr. Knight.”

  Chapter 18

  Alone, Remington bade farewell to the last guest. The duchess was nowhere in sight. He’d seen her disappear up the stairs half an hour ago, but he hadn’t seen her return. He hoped the guests had believed that she’d left to go to her own home. It wouldn’t do to have them think she was staying with him, for they would make the assumption he had already breached her maidenhead.

  He extinguished a few of the sputtering candles.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. Blast it. A few kisses, albeit glorious kisses, could scarcely be called significant. He only wished his rampant body would settle down into a dignified acceptance of what was really a very short wait.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Bridgeport looked as fresh as he had this morning, proving once again that English butlers had the most remarkable stamina.

  “That will be all, Bridgeport. Tell the staff they’ve done very well, and there’ll be a suitable reward come Sunday.”

  Bridgeport bowed and went to supervise the cleanup.

  As Remington unhooked his cuffs, he idly wondered if his duchess had recovered from the shock of hearing she would wed him in thirty-six hours.

  She had taken it well. She hadn’t screamed or fainted, or repudiated him or railed at her father, and Remington had been prepared for all of those reactions. Instead she had stared at him in wide-eyed and mute bewilderment, reminiscent of a raccoon facing a speeding carriage. He’d almost felt embarrassed for springing it on her in such a fashion.

  But she had connections. If she had known earlier, she would have somehow worked out a way to disrupt their wedding, and he couldn’t take that chance.

  Then one of his men reported that Dickie Driscoll was on the grounds, and Remington had watched to see if she would run. She hadn’t, and for no good reason whatsoever, that pleased him. Her restraint could be, and was, probably, a result of having given him her word. The de Lacy family had a reputation for making promises and keeping them; that was why she’d stayed, not that she wanted to wed him.

  But even that unflattering assumption shook him down to the bedrock of his beliefs. The aristocrat who slept under his roof kept her word.

  Tugging off his jacket, he wondered, did she have other virtues, too?

  As he passed the library on his way to the stairs, he heard a voice, convivial and slightly slurred. “Mr. Knight, what a pleasure to see you again.”

  Halting, he stared into the pocket of darkness inside the room. “Your Grace?”

  She stepped into the light. Her
silk gown draped her figure with the same glorious detail to attention as it had earlier, but one glove was gone, her hair ribbon was wrapped around one ear, and her cropped hair stood up wildly. She looked beautiful, she incited his lust, and she was listing like a ship about to sink.

  With a smile that looked mellow and far too cheerful, she said, “Mr. Knight, you are to be congratulated. You give quite a good party for a single gentleman.”

  “Have you had too much wine?” It seemed a safe deduction.

  “Wine? Wine?” She used every incredulous intonation, and shook her head in an exaggerated gesture. “No. That would be so inappropriate at my own betrothal party.” She stopped and tapped his chest. “Don’t you think so?”

  He looked down at that slender finger as it stopped tapping and instead twitched his cravat askew. She was foxed—and when had that happened? He’d not seen a sign of it an hour ago. “Not at all. If you can’t have a drink at your betrothal party, when can you?”

  She squinted at his chest. “Your cravat is crooked. You’re an American. I should warn you—Brummel says a mushed cravat is not allowed.” She smashed her palm on the cravat, flattening the last of the graceful curves. “And yours is a mess.” She staggered.

  He caught her arm. “So I see. But the party’s over, so it doesn’t matter.” Was this intoxication her reaction to knowing she would marry him so soon? He supposed it must be, and how unflattering for him.

  But she was so charming, and the wedding date had been a shock. He would excuse her this once. “Would you like me to help you up to bed?”

  Her smile tilted up on one corner and not on the other. “You are a very naughty boy.”

  Under normal conditions, he would agree, but he couldn’t take advantage of a souse, especially one who seldom indulged in more than a sip at a time. “How much did you drink?”

  “A little tiny glass.” She showed him a miniature size with her fingers.

  “Of what?” He led her toward the stairs.

  “Brandy.” The word rolled richly off her tongue.

  “A little tiny glass, or several little tiny glasses?”