Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  “I prefer it that way, too,” she murmured. “You will be my ‘only’ for many things—I’m glad I can be yours for at least one.”

  “Oh, more than one,” he corrected, planting a final kiss on the tip of her nose. “You’re also the only woman I ever got drunk with, or learned dead languages with. And the only woman I think of when I smell apple blossoms.”

  She set her forearms on his shoulders and pushed back to look into his eyes. “Is that what the tree is for in your morning room?”

  “It is now.” His arms slipped around her waist and held her firmly. “It was originally going to be a gift for you—a cutting from our favorite tree at Orchard Lake.”

  “Perhaps we can plant it in the garden.”

  “Here? I thought you’d prefer a larger home.”

  She let her fingers wander lightly through his hair. “I will prefer any home you happen to be in.”

  His eyes closed for a moment as his entire face relaxed. “I’ll show you the rest before I take you back to your aunt. You can tell me then if you think the nursery is large enough.”

  She brushed her lips across his cheek. “Are we going to have so many children, then?”

  He opened his eyes and she could see flecks of gold and green in his irises. “We must at least try. I am the last Grey male. And there’s another ‘only’: you’ll be the only Mrs. Benedict Grey.”

  “Unless I am Lady Honoria Grey,” she reminded him with a smirk. “I can do that, you know.”

  He slid a hand slowly up her back. “I do know. And I don’t care which title you use—as long as it’s my name you have and my life you share.”

  She smiled and drew him closer for another kiss. “Every blessed minute of it.”

  Epilogue

  August 1815

  The house was quiet when Honoria entered, in direct opposition to the chaos that had reigned when she left. It was dark, too, except for the candle carried by the butler in the entry.

  “Good evening, madam.”

  “Good evening. Is my husband still up?”

  “He retired to the master bedchamber some hours ago, madam. Whether he is still awake or not, I cannot say.”

  She smiled. “Hopefully he didn’t fall asleep reading again, with the candles still burning. And Emily?”

  “Sleeping peacefully in the nursery.”

  He offered to light her way upstairs but she declined, sending him off to bed and climbing the stairs in the darkness. In the two years she’d been mistress of this house she’d come to know all it’s secrets, and could find her way around blindfolded.

  After a stop in the nursery to check on her sleeping child, she reached the chamber she shared with Benedict and gently pushed the door open, peeping through the widening space to see if he slept as soundly as his daughter did.

  “Ah, the prodigal wife returns.”

  He was reclining on the big bed clad only in breeches and shirt, with a book in his lap, as Honoria had predicted, but far from sleeping. He slid off the counterpane and met her halfway across the room, wrapping his arms around her despite the summer heat.

  “Welcome home.” He bent down and kissed her softly, then kissed her again with more eagerness, as if she had been gone days rather than hours. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too,” she replied, rising up on her toes to drape her own arms around his neck.

  “How was the ball?”

  “Lady Lambert outdid herself this year—every inch of the house was decorated in roses, and she had seven kinds of cake.”

  He laughed. “Seven? Perhaps I should have gone after all.”

  “You would have been bored,” she told him, massaging his nape. “I nearly was myself some of the time.”

  “What about your aunt?”

  Honoria grinned. “My aunt is so besotted with her new husband she scarcely noticed anything else.”

  “Hmm, sounds like someone else I know.” He planted a big, smacking kiss on her cheek.

  She pushed him playfully away. “We are not newly wed anymore.”

  “But you are still besotted with me.”

  She liked how he stated rather than asked it. “Yes, I am.”

  “As I am with you.” He brushed his lips against her forehead.

  She savored his embrace, but all too quickly the high temperature intruded. “Will you help me out of this gown? If I wear it any longer I fear I’ll melt into a puddle at your feet.”

  He arched a suggestive eyebrow at her, but turned her by the shoulders and went methodically to work on her laces.

  “How is the packing coming?” she asked over her shoulder.

  She felt the tugging stop for a moment.

  “I don’t remember having this much to do before I left for Greece.”

  “You didn’t have a wife and daughter to cart with you then.” The tugging resumed and moments later Honoria’s bodice fell from her shoulders. She stepped carefully out of the gown, laying it over a chair to deal with later.

  He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck and began unlacing her stays. “That must be it.”

  “You’re sure you want to take us all the way to Italy?” She’d probably asked him the same question a dozen times in the last month as their departure date drew nearer. “You’d be able to inspect the work done at the Forum much more easily without us.”

  Her stays peeled off her body and slid to her feet, and he kissed her shoulder. “You know I would expire of wanting the both of you before I ever even crossed the Channel.”

  She kicked away the corset and plopped down in a chair to remove her shoes and stockings. “Then I fear your baggage train will be disproportionately large.”

  “I don’t care if we have to commission a special ship to carry it all,” he smiled. “But it won’t be that bad. I had a letter from Mother today—she’s arrived safely in Rome and has found us a house. By the time we get there, it will be furnished and staffed. The largest of our trunks are going tomorrow, so they should be there before us, too.”

  “Good.”

  He took both her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Dance with me. We’ll imagine we’re in Lady Lambert’s lavish ballroom, with the orchestra playing whatever we want them to play, and forget about trying to move our household across an entire continent.”

  Dressed now only in her shift, she grasped his upper arm with her left hand, laying her right hand on his offered palm as his free arm came around her. “We cannot dance this close together in public, my love. It’s unseemly.”

  He grinned and drew her even more snugly against him, waltzing her slowly around the room. “Then forget the ballroom. It’s just the two of us, here in our bedchamber.”

  She closed her eyes and nestled her head against his chest. “That is exactly what I want.”

  His lips pressed against her hair once, twice, before he spoke again. “Then it’s exactly what you shall always have.”

  Author Bio

  A graduate of the University of Michigan with a major in history, Cora has been a high school teacher for twelve years and a book lover for decades. When she’s not walking Rotten Row at the fashionable hour or attending the entertainments of the Season, you might find her researching her ancestors, participating in Historical Novel Society events, or wading through her towering TBR pile.

  http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCoraLee

  http://www.pinterest.com/coralee49

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  http://coraleeauthor.wordpress.com

  The Third MacPherson Sister

  Susana Ellis

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Susana Ellis

  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.

  Acknowledgements

  Ellen Shrager

  Selene Grace Silver

&n
bsp; Cora Lee

  Aileen Fish

  Thank you for all the encouragement and support.

  You are all AWESOME!

  Prologue

  7 May 1817

  Almack’s Assembly Rooms

  King Street

  London

  Rebecca MacPherson took a step back to avoid the couple waltzing perilously close to her refuge near the potted palm outside the refreshment room. If her mother hadn’t insisted on attending the assembly rooms tonight, she could be at home re-reading her favorite of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, A Sicilian Romance. Instead, she had been duly dressed in her least-favorite gown, the pink silk with the pintuck bodice that made her bosom seem even larger than it was, and the white embroidered overdress with three rows of pink flounces sprinkled with rosettes that made her feel like an overgrown ten-year-old at a birthday party.

  “You must make the most of your assets,” her mother had fussed, not for the first time. “You don’t have your sisters’ height or elegant figures, but some men prefer ladies of more generous proportions.”

  Did they? Rebecca doubted it. After four Seasons, she was the only one of her presentation group who hadn’t married. Or even come close. Well, there had been Tommy Huddleston, who had paid her some attention two Seasons ago, but dropped her like a hot potato when he fell in love with a lovely singer at Covent Garden. Rebecca, who couldn’t sing a note, and learned more Italian from her music teacher than how to play the pianoforte, had only her connections and fortune to recommend her. The fair Bianca, the daughter of a butcher whose career was pushed forward by her late protector, an Italian conde, had neither, but Tommy wed her in spite of it.

  Rebecca fanned her face to hide the flush she felt creeping up over her cheeks. Everyone knew Rebecca’s connections, being the daughter of a wealthy Scottish father and a mother distantly related to the Duke of Devonshire. They also knew that she had two older twin sisters, Arabella and Alice, both considered diamonds in their presentation year, who had each snapped up an earl before the end of the Season. “Poor Rebecca” was a phrase she should be accustomed to hearing, after failing to “take” four Seasons in a row.

  Her mother insisted that she should “put herself out more” for the older gentlemen, widowers in need of mothers for their children. Rebecca was fond of children—she was an indulgent aunt to her own niece and nephews—but she wanted more than that from marriage. Perhaps love was too much to expect for someone like her, but surely there should be some affection between a husband and wife. Trust as well, since marriage was for a lifetime, and one didn’t wish to be married to a monster, after all. The fiasco of the Prince Regent’s marriage should serve as a lesson to all, she thought.

  The music stopped and a mob of overheated dancers made a beeline to the refreshment room. Rebecca found herself pressed backward by them until she collided with someone behind her.

  “Look what you’ve done! My gown is ruined!”

  Rebecca whirled around, only to see the haughty Lady Alicia Howland with a sizable stain on the bodice of her ivory taffeta gown, an empty glass in hand. Her escort glared at Rebecca as he pulled out a handkerchief and made a move to use it to mop up the liquid before the impropriety of doing such a thing occurred to him.

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there… I was pushed, you see, and… Here, allow me to help you, my lady,” Rebecca stammered, seizing the handkerchief and making a move toward the angry duke’s daughter.

  Lady Alicia drew back. “Don’t touch me! Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

  A maid appeared to escort her to the ladies’ withdrawing room, but her next words could be clearly heard by all in the vicinity.

  “Such a nuisance, that girl. Not at all like her charming sisters. Someone should tell her to hold back on the bonbons, for the safety of us all!”

  If she could have dropped through the floor, Rebecca certainly would have done so. A tingling swept across her face and the back of her neck. For a long moment the room was quiet, and she looked around to see a sea of faces directed at her, some showing sympathy, some disapproval, and some—including her own sister Alice—with pursed lips, apparently trying not to laugh.

  And that was the end of her fourth Season.

  Chapter 1

  3 July 1817

  Bath, Somerset

  After two full tours through the interior of the Abbey, Miles Framingham, Duke of Aylesbury, seated himself on a bench facing the St. George window. Not certain of the length of time his mother would require in the bathing pool, he had agreed to meet her at midday in the Pump Room. A quick glance at his pocket watch assured him that a good hour remained before his engagement, and he could not think of a better way to pass the time than reflect on a response to his mother’s carefully-worded request.

  Despite consultations with all the best doctors, her condition was not improving. In fact, she seemed to be weakening as each week passed. Dr. Grainger had suggested the waters at Bath as a temporary measure, but when pressed, admitted that most of his consumptive patients at the stage she had reached succumbed within two years.

  Which is why he felt compelled to take quite seriously her mild suggestion that he consider marrying and setting up his nursery sooner than later. She wished to see a grandchild before she died. What woman would not? And at twenty-eight, he was already a year older than his father had been at the time of his marriage. All of Miles’s cronies—excluding Winky, the Earl of Winkfield—were either leg-shackled or about to become so. With no parents to nag him, Winky had taken off for a delayed Grand Tour more than a year ago and showed no signs of wishing to return.

  Miles felt a twinge of conscience at his envy of his friend’s freedom. He certainly didn’t wish for his mother’s death. With his father gone ten years, the duchess was his only immediate family. He wasn’t eager to be left alone, so in that sense, taking a wife was a logical thing to do. And if it would make his mother happy, he was hard-pressed to find a reason against it.

  Well, except for the fact that he didn’t wish to settle down. He’d been tied to the dukedom and his mother for ten years, all the while dreaming of joining the army or exploring the Continent or even sailing across the ocean to Canada or America. Marriage and children would tie him down for the rest of his life.

  A crowd of tourists pressed in front of him to view the colorful images on the window, and before he knew it, a young woman landed in his lap.

  “Oh dear!” she exclaimed as she leapt up, far too soon. “I beg your pardon!” she said, her amber eyes displaying her distress.

  “No need,” he said with a smile, “It was hardly your fault. I saw that rather-er-sturdy lady push ahead of you and send you flying backwards.”

  She laughed shakily. “That seems to be happening to me a great deal lately. I suppose the sensible thing would be to avoid crowds altogether.”

  “A formidable task for anyone in Bath during the summer months,” Miles commented. She was what Winky would call “a nice armful,” with generous curves in all the right places, but clearly a lady, by her fashionable dress and genteel speech. “Are you a resident of this fair city or here to take the waters?”

  He patted the bench beside him and she smiled in acknowledgement of his invitation before seating herself next to him. Her face might not be conventionally pretty, but her smile and sparkling eyes gave her a unique sort of beauty that he hadn’t seen often in London drawing rooms, and he liked looking at it.

  “Goodness no! My family is from the north—County Durham. My mother and I are here to take the waters—well, she is, at least. I am here to enjoy this fair city before we must be off to Kent for my sister’s confinement.”

  She blushed. “Oh dear, I’m sure that’s more than you wished to know. I’m told I should be more careful to govern my tongue.”

  “Indeed not,” he hastened to reassure her. “You’ve said nothing offensive, Miss-er… I suppose I should introduce myself. Miles Framingham, Duke of Aylesbury, at your service.”
He took her hand and made a little bow from his seated position. County Durham? Sounded familiar. Which of his acquaintances hailed from there? There was a name, but it must have been from years past, and he couldn’t quite recall it.

  “MacPherson. Rebecca MacPherson. Perhaps you’ve met my older sisters, Alice and Arabella? It’s Arabella that lives in Kent—the Countess of Headley, you know.”

  Miles stiffened. She was Arabella’s sister? It just didn’t seem possible.

  Miss MacPherson’s forehead wrinkled. “I know,” she said with a wry smile, “There’s not much of a family resemblance. My sisters take after my mother, and I—well, let’s say I have the robust appearance of my Scottish grandmother.”

  He remembered the family now. Angus MacPherson was as Scottish as they came, grandson of an earl. And her mother, a distant cousin of the current Duke of Devonshire, was a famous Cavendish beauty who had produced the loveliest pair of golden-haired twins England had ever seen. Not to mention the most self-indulgent and mercenary chits he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

  He was accustomed to being the target of young ladies and their match-making mamas, but Arabella was—so far—the only one who’d nearly succeeded in trapping him into marriage. He wondered vaguely if poor Headley had been a victim of the same plot, or if he’d fallen willingly for the lady’s deceptively angelic facade.

  Poor Rebecca, to have a pair of stunning sisters ahead of her. She wasn’t unattractive herself, but her lack of height and unfashionable, full-bosomed figure must surely suffer in comparison. He felt a twinge of sympathy.