Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  The words echoed his conversation with Libby yesterday, but he pushed the thought away. The mere thought of her squeezed his battered heart, and he needed to focus on Nigel right now.

  His brother’s jaw worked as he pressed his eyes closed, clearly trying to gather himself. When he opened them, unshed tears shimmered, threatening to spill over. “Philip, you don’t mean that. You—”

  “I do mean it,” he said, not letting his brother say another word. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be content in life. I want you to see that there is more to life than brothels and gaming hells and endless nights of nothingness. I want you to be the good, honorable man I know you can be.”

  Philip came to his feet, walked to his brother, and held out his hand. Cautiously, reluctantly, but with a glimmer of hope reflecting in his eyes, Nigel took his hand and allowed Philip to pull him up. There, as the breaking light of morning poured through the open windows and chased away the gloom of dawn, the two brothers embraced for the first time in years.

  Sweet relief flowed through Philip’s veins, and when they pulled apart, Nigel smiled at him in a way Philip hadn’t seen him do since before their father’s death.

  “Does this mean that we can go home now? I’m not certain I want to be here if those men change there minds.”

  Nodding, Philip stepped back and gestured toward the room at large. “As soon as we can pack, we can go. I’m sure we can find passage on one of the outgoing ships if we hurry.”

  As his brother rushed to gather his things, Philip drew a long breath. More than anything, he wanted to go to Libby, to try to explain why he had deceived her. To apologize, to beg for forgiveness. But now wasn’t the time. The look in her eyes had told him clearly enough that there was no way she would talk to him again anytime soon. He didn’t want to leave things how they were, but right now, he had little choice.

  It was time to leave Mr. Westbrook behind, and return to the Duke of Gillingham.

  Chapter 9

  Libby had thought leaving Spain behind would somehow also remove the almost-physical ache of her heartbreak. She now knew how naive she had really been. She’d been living with her aunt for over a month now, and she still found herself putting her hand to her heart, trying to soothe a pain that could never really be touched.

  “Libby, dear, did you hear me?”

  Blinking, she glanced over to her aunt, who watched her with empathetic gray eyes. “My apologies, Aunt Margaret. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.” Her thoughts had once again turned to the man who didn’t exist, wishing the dream of their time together had been real.

  “That’s perfectly all right, dear. I was hoping you could read the correspondence for me. Nothing brightens a rainy day quite like letters from friends.”

  Pasting a smile on her stiff lips, Libby nodded and reached for the pile of letters the butler must have brought in while Libby’s mind had been in a courtyard in Spain.

  Sorting through the letters, she said, “Let’s see. We have one from Eleanor, one from Amelia—make that two, there’s one for each of us—another from Lady Darley, and it looks like another for me.” She frowned, not recognizing the handwriting on the thick packet. What on Earth?

  “Let’s start with Eleanor’s,” her aunt said, unaware of Libby’s distraction. “I’m so looking forward to hearing more about the baby.”

  “Um, just a moment, if you don’t mind. I-I have something in my eye.” Dropping all the letters but one, she hurried from the room, not even sure why her heart had begun to pound. As soon as the door was shut behind her, she pulled open the packet.

  The first page was mostly blank, with only one sentence written in thick, bold letters. Her hand flew to her mouth as she recognized the words as Spanish. She pored over them, easily translating them in her mind:

  Every butterfly deserves a place to call home.

  That was it. No signature, no other explanation. Shaking her head, she shuffled the papers, attempting to make sense of the other three pages. It was all very legal and official sounding. It was only when she saw a paragraph titled Description that she realized what she held.

  A deed.

  In her name.

  Had he truly bought her a cottage by the sea? But his name was nowhere to be seen, not under any section. Only Elizabeth Anne Abbington, and an address: 13 Seashell Drive.

  She flipped to the last page, which contained only two sentences:

  Though I don’t deserve it, I hope that you may someday forgive me. If that day should be today, then you’ve only to step outside.

  Libby gasped, her hand flying to her heart. This time, instead of the ache she had grown so accustom to, hope sprang to life. Could he really be here?

  Not pausing to think, to feel, or even to worry, Libby bolted for the front door. To the butler’s great surprise, she wrenched it open and rushed outside, only to come up short, her heart thundering in her ears.

  There, on the driveway before her, Philip stood completely alone, patiently waiting for her. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but his fine clothes and uncovered hair were well soaked. So many emotions flickered across his face—relief, caution, hope, joy—all the things she herself was feeling as she stood at the top of the steps, looking down at him.

  He smiled, a small, boyish grin that made her heart melt. “Buenas tardes, bonita.”

  She bit back an almost giddy grin. His pronunciation was horrible, but she knew what he meant. Good afternoon, beautiful. She hesitated for only a moment before offering a small smile in return. “Good afternoon.” She didn’t even try to choose a name to call him. Philip seemed much too intimate for a duke, but she didn’t know if she would ever think of him as Your Grace. Your Grace was a person she didn’t know.

  “You came,” he said simply.

  She nodded, suddenly shy.

  He gazed up at her, his dark lashes spikey from rain. “My dearest Libby, I hope you can forgive me for deceiving you. It was never about you, but I should have told you the truth. The woman I was falling in love with deserved to know who I really was.”

  She sucked in a breath, her heart shuddering to a stop before surging back even faster than before. He had been falling in love with her? Her cautious hope from earlier bloomed brighter still.

  “The thing is, you did know who I was,” he said, stepping forward and slowly climbing the wide limestone steps. “More so than any other person in the world. The parts of me that I shared with you, I’ve never shared with anyone else.” He reached the top step and paused, his gaze locking with hers. “I was wrong to deceive you, but what was between us was as honest as I’ve ever been.”

  She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him as she savored his closeness. Looking to him once more, she said, “I forgive you, but I still don’t know what that means. What about my uncle? Or your title? Or a hundred other little things that no longer seem to fit between us.”

  Smiling softly, he stepped forward until they were mere inches apart. “Oh, Libby,” he breathed, sending a little chill chasing down her back. “We fit. We fit in every way that counts.”

  He slipped his hands beneath her jaw, cradling her face gently. He leaned down, setting off a riot of butterflies in her stomach as his lips came so close she could feel the heat of him against her mouth. “You’re smart, strong, quick-witted, and beautiful,” he said, his breath caressing her with each word. “You’re kind, and brave, and adventurous. And best of all?” He paused, making her whole body burn with anticipation. “Best of all, our lips fit just so.”

  He kissed her then, pressing his mouth hard against hers, proving exactly how well they fit. It was the kind of kiss she had always dreamed of, stealing her breath and even making her toes curl right there by her aunt’s open front door.

  When at last he pulled away, he lowered his hands to hers, lacing them together tightly.

  “I’m not going to let your uncle dictate my happiness, just as I hope you won’t allow my station to dictate yours. As far as
I’m concerned, you, my love, are perfect for me.

  “Now, having said all of that, and with the promise that the cottage is yours no matter what . . . Elizabeth Anne Abbington, will you allow me to court you?”

  “You wish to court me?” For some reason, she hadn’t expected him to offer such a thing.

  “No, I wish to marry you, but I realize that you may want some time to get know me, warts, titles, and all.”

  The thing was, standing here in his arms, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she did know him. Even without knowing his name, she knew everything about him that mattered. She knew of his kindness, his willingness to stand by those he loved, his open-mindedness, and, despite it all, the upstanding nature of his character.

  She thought of the past few years, how she had never really found the place where she felt she truly belonged. As he had so astutely pointed out, she’d simply had been flitting from one place to the next. But he’d changed all that because truly, that’s what he felt like to her.

  Home.

  Wetting her lips, she met his warm gaze. “Perhaps you should ask me what you really wish to know.”

  He froze, his eyes wide. After a moment, he drew in a slow, deep breath and said, “My dearest Libby, will you marry me?”

  Libby didn’t even try to stop the tears that sprang to her eyes and slipped down her cheeks, cleansing away the heartache of the last month. She nodded, over and over again, smiling so broadly it hurt.

  “Is that a yes?” he replied, grinning hugely, obviously knowing full well that it was.

  “Yes,” she exclaimed, the word as full of joy as she was. “Si! Oui! Etiam! Ja, da, ναί, evet—”

  She broke off when he lifted her from her feet and laughed with delight as he pressed his lips to hers in a deliciously sweet kiss. “I love you, Philip, no matter what your name or title may be.”

  Setting her back on her feet, he slipped his hands back in hers. “And I love you, Libby Abbington. And I will really love it when you will become Her Grace, The Duchess of Gillingham.”

  She scrunched up her nose, though she couldn’t have wiped away her smile to save her life. “I suppose I can live with Duchess, but only if you promise call me Mrs. Westbrook on our honeymoon.”

  Epilogue

  Leaning against the railing of the third floor balcony, Libby breathed in the warm, damp morning air and sighed happily. It had stormed during night, making the cozy atmosphere of their rented townhome that much more intimate. It had made for a rather delectable evening. She smiled, hugging her arms around her middle and holding tight the memory of Philip’s capable hands exploring every inch of her to the music of the falling rain.

  As if summoned from her thoughts, warm, strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Philip tugged her gently against the solid wall of his chest as his lightly stubbled jaw slid along the sensitive skin of her cheek. “Buongiorno,” he murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.

  She shivered with pleasure, burrowing deeper into his arms. This was her absolute favorite part of the day. In the early morning hush, there was no Your Grace or Duke or Duchess; they were simply Philip and Libby, madly in love newlyweds. These were the moments when she could center herself, preparing for whatever the day may bring.

  Philip had been wonderful about her role as duchess, making it clear that her only obligation was to love him, but she found she enjoyed being by his side and helping to run their households. Of course, she was also immensely grateful for his mother, who had welcomed her with open arms. Not only had she helped smooth the transition, but more importantly, she had provided the motherly love Libby had so desperately missed. It was easy to see where Philip’s kindness had come from.

  “Good morning,” she replied, the words coming out on a blissful sigh.

  “I’m surprised you’re up this early, given your rather late night.”

  Even though it was just the two of them, alone above the empty piazza, the heat of a blush warmed her cheeks. “Mmm, the same could be said of you,” she teased. “Nothing, however, could make me miss out on the glory of a Roman sunrise.”

  He tightened his hold and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “And nothing could make me miss out on the glory of seeing you bathed in the golden light of morning.”

  Reveling in the feel of his lips on her skin, she closed her eyes. “Sei troppo dolce.” You’re too sweet. Not that she was complaining—quite the opposite, in fact.

  He chuckled, and she could feel the rumble of his chest against her back. “I do so love when you speak Italian to me. Or Spanish, or Latin, or anything else you care to learn. It’s molto bello,” he said, swinging the syllables in a surprisingly good impression of the way the locals spoke.

  Smiling in utter contentment, she leaned back against him and watched as the first streaks of dawn fanned out over the city, lighting the magnificent buildings of both past and present. This morning they were in Rome, next week they’d be in Switzerland, and by next month they’ll have made their way back to England, but no matter where they were, so long as she was wrapped in the arms of her husband, Libby was home.

  Author's Notes and Bio

  Author’s Note

  As an author of Regency-set historical romance, I spend a lot of time in early 19 century England (and I love every minute!). With this book, however, I was excited by the possibility of heading somewhere a little more exotic. I had great fun researching all the wonderful places in Seville that Philip and Libby could have explored. In the end, I decided to take a bit of liberty with one of their visits: Museo de Bellas Artes. The museum was established in 1839, so while the building would have been there, I’m not certain the nuns who lived there would have allowed them in for a tour ;)

  Author Bio

  Despite being an avid reader and closet writer her whole life, Erin Knightley decided to pursue a sensible career in science. It was only after earning her B.S. and working in the field for years that she realized doing the sensible thing wasn't any fun at all. Following her dreams, Erin left her practical side behind and now spends her days writing. An award winning and USA Today Bestselling author, she is living her own Happily Ever After in North Carolina with her tall, dark, and handsome husband and their three spoiled mutts.

  If you’d like to know when I have new releases, special news, and giveaways, please sign up for my newsletter at my website, www.ErinKnightley.com. I’m also on Twitter (www.Twitter.com/ErinKnightley) and Facebook (www.Facebook.com/ErinKnightley) and would love to hear from you!

  Finally, if you have a bit of time, I hope you’ll consider leaving a review. Your opinions can help readers find books that are the right fit for them, and are always very much appreciated.

  Captivated by the Wallflower

  Aileen Fish

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Aileen Fish

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  Chapter 1

  June, 1813

  Ascot

  Adam Lumley, Viscount Knightwick, could see his dream hovering just out of reach. He brushed his black stallion in the stables at Ascot Heath, in a stall next to where his brother David went through the same motions on a three-year-old mare. “I see no point in using any stud but Huntfield’s Raven for Truffle’s next breeding.”

  “The point is making Huntfield feel the same way.” David closed his stall door and leaned on the post between the stalls.

  “I’ve been working on that. I simply must find his weakness. Discover what it is that will have him groveling at my feet, begging me to use Raven.”

  “Lord Huntfield has no weakness. That’s why his horses are so coveted. I wish you luck with that quest. You’d be better off finding a horse we can use before we miss out on another year.”

  Knightwick patted Sorcerer on
the rump and tossed the brush into a bucket in the corner. “I don’t want any horse. We have plenty of fine colts at Fernleigh, but I want one that’s special. Raven is one of the last of Zephyr’s line. He is distant enough from Truffle, but close enough that Zephyr’s qualities should come through. It will please father to have another horse that resembles his treasured stallion.”

  Closing the stall door behind him, Knightwick strode beside David out into the sunlight. They had the afternoon free, with the first of the races to begin the next day. “Why don’t we pay a call on Huntfield.”

  “He’s likely in the tavern, at this time of day.” David forked his fingers through his brown hair, combing out a stray piece of straw.

  “Or still sleeping. Let’s try the tavern.”

  They made a guess at which inn Huntfield was staying at for the weeklong race meeting. The Sow’s Belly was a finer establishment than its name would imply, and it was the first stop they tried.

  George Yarwood, Earl of Huntfield, sat at a table with three other men playing cards, and appeared to be doing as well at cards as he did on the racecourse. He acknowledged Knightwick and David. “Good day, gentlemen. Would you care to join us?”