Kiss Me Again

by Cecilia Gray

  The cocky man smiled, and Damon noted with reluctance that he did have a nice set of white teeth. “Of course. Miss Charlotte and I are related by marriage.”

  The implication that Crawford’s connection with Lottie was a far more intimate one than he, Lord Savage, shared made Damon’s blood boil. He was not a man driven to violence, but he found that he itched to wipe the smirk off the man’s face. He had endured his time in the army as a duty to his country and had engaged in battle, but that was more for the immediate need to protect his brothers-in-arms. “You’re practically family, then. How quaint.”

  To his credit, Crawford didn’t rise to the bait. “As you can see, the suit for Miss Charlotte has plenty of sincere interest. If you are attempting to lend her credence through your involvement, the gesture is unnecessary.”

  Damon turned back to the tent as Charlotte threw her hands in the air. He was seized by the desire to stalk across the grass and take her against the side of the tent, her back against a pole. That would silence the damned man and put an end to this farce that Dinah had concocted for his benefit. But as much as he wanted to do that, he imagined Lottie’s reaction. The angry flash of her stormy gray eyes. Most of all, he knew it would violate the terms of the agreement they had reached years ago. That they would be honest with each other and that her opinion would be paramount. Her decisions, her own.

  “I would caution you against assuming you understand my motivations.”

  “Do you just want to win, then, for the sake of winning?” Crawford asked. “I am genuinely curious. You’re a bit of an enigma, as you know, so the—”

  “I’m just a man,” he bit out. “And my desires here are simple.” Far too simple for as complicated as this had become. Why couldn’t Lottie just believe him? Why did she have to complicate things with outdated terms and romantic poetry?

  “I doubt there is a single simple thing about you,” Crawford said.

  Before Damon could argue the point further—although why Damon was indulging the man, he did not know—Dinah clapped her hands for attention, having seemingly won whatever battle in which she and Lottie had been engaged.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—” She turned toward the competitor’s tent. “—and remaining esteemed suitors! It is time for our second to last event. You have shown your best as horsemen, as logicians, and as archers, and now, in your final physical feat, you will show it as fighters. You will be paired off, and the first to land a punch on the other will proceed to the final round.”

  Damon turned sharply to Crawford as applause erupted from the crowd. He wouldn’t mind a go at the man’s face, perhaps just to knock out one of those perfect teeth so that when he smiled at Lottie, it would be askew.

  Dinah continued, “To judge the landing of the punch, I have recruited my brother-in-law, famed pugilist Mr. Christian Hughes!”

  With a smirk, Damon shrugged off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves to show off his forearms. “Are you ready?” he asked Crawford.

  But Christian, battle ram that he was, stepped between them. “I am to decide the pairings, Savage,” his friend said. “And we decide by height to mitigate the possibility of arm reach being a factor. You’ll be paired over there.”

  With a mulish pout, Damon stepped over to face a tall gentleman who had seen fit to leave his coat on. He debated giving the man a sporting chance, just for show. Besides, he had worked quite hard to maintain his air of indifference. It was best when he was underestimated, so he trained with Christian, largely in secret, after his friend’s warehouse saloon closed for the night. But with one look at Charlotte, who watched from the sidelines, nibbling at her lower lip, he waited for the starting call and landed one swift punch.

  His poor partner shook his head, as if in disbelief, and crumpled to the ground. Good sport that Damon was, he helped the man to his feet and helped him over to a seat. “Just a lucky hit, old chap,” he said, to the man’s sputter. Gentlemanly conduct required him to rest with the man as he gathered his wits and was able to stand on his own.

  By the time he returned, he found Crawford and Montcrief had also won their rounds. He wouldn’t have thought Crawford had it in him, and the look he gave the man must have told him so because he laughed and said, “Imagine growing up with six brothers. You learn to use your fists to defend your food.”

  There were several moments of chaos as the losers were tended to and each gave long and flowery dedications to an embarrassed Charlotte, who, under Dinah’s steely eye, thanked them for their participation’.

  “Who will be the victor?” someone called from the audience.

  “Patience, my bloodthirsty crowd,” Dinah said. “This is a pentathlon, and we’ve had but four events. The final event will be the most difficult and, thus, cannot be won by prowess or intelligence. Nay, it is nothing so simple as that.”

  Damon leaned in closer. What was the minx about?

  “We shall adjourn inside, to give our competitors a moment to rest and recover. I shall announce the final event in the ballroom!”

  The crowd murmured its protest but dutifully filtered off the lawn and back toward the house, wondering aloud what would be the final task and who would win. With some annoyance, Damon heard someone speculate that Savage would lose interest at this point and leave the competition to the Crawford and Montcrief. He was even more dismayed to overhear that Crawford was the favorite.

  “They are so well suited, don’t you think?” someone said.

  Damon did not think so at all.

  Try as she might, Charlotte could not persuade her sister to give up this madness. She did not know what had motivated Dinah to make such a spectacle of the family. Even now, watching her sister prepare opening remarks for the next round of her ridiculous pentathlon, Charlotte could glean nothing from that innocent-looking pixie face.

  As Dinah sat at a desk in the study opposite the ballroom, her gray eyes were a serene mirror of Charlotte’s. She gave away nothing in the scratch of her pen on the page, in how she occasionally fingered her cropped blond locks. One would have assumed she was finalizing a dinner menu, not devising a competition to determine which man she’d recommend to Father as Charlotte’s suitor.

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes, as if concentrating on her sister even more might give her a glimpse into that complex mind. Knowing Dinah, this was no act of whimsy, and certainly not a mere distraction. There was not a more calculating mind in all of London than her sister’s.

  The ballroom itself was a crush, but there was no music and no one was dancing. Every last pair of eyes was trained on Dinah, awaiting her next words, with the occasional curious glance at herself or the three men who had made it to the final round.

  Did Dinah mean to encourage Reece Crawford? Charlotte had felt she was doing well in encouraging his affections, but perhaps Dinah was not aware of her success. She was more than aware of the perceptions about her shape—there was that awful nickname—so it shouldn’t be a surprise that Dinah thought Charlotte needed her help.

  Never mind that Charlotte felt she presented a smart and witty picture. She did not have Bridget’s elegant neck or Dinah’s petite stature, and she certainly did not exude Sera’s blinding comeliness—not that anyone did, so the comparison was somewhat moot. Even Alice, who towered over most men, possessed dark hair and sultry eyes. But Charlotte?

  Her hair was too red to be romantic, her figure too soft to be svelte. She had attracted no interest when her sisters were available, but now she was the lone Belle left unmarried. As a result, her dowry was more attractive than ever. That had to have increased her value in her potential suitors’ eyes.

  And Damon. What did he hope to gain, standing there looking smug for having made it so far? It was hardly fair for him to compete. He was too fine a male specimen—a superb rider, an accomplished fighter, an academic of more than passing competence, and charming to boot. He must know he could abandon his fickle pursuit of her now that Reece had taken an interest. Had Dinah asked him to parti
cipate to add legitimacy—and numbers—to her contest?

  She had to speak with him, to persuade him to stop this madness and get Dinah to give up the chase. She just needed to do so in private before the final round began. They had a signal for such things, and she employed it now.

  Slipping away without attracting notice was a challenge. She was the center of attention after all, but a woman often had certain needs to attend to, and she gave indication of this as she made her way out of the ballroom and up to her room. It would now be up to Damon to follow. It wouldn’t be an easy task. Eyes would be on him, and he had no business in the west wing of Woodbury Hall that he might use as an excuse. But he was an agent of the Crown, and she had faith in his abilities.

  Sure enough, not eight minutes had passed before he slipped into her bedroom and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. It was after sunset, and dusk had settled. She hadn’t lit a lamp, so her room was bathed in soft, fading light. In the shadows, his face was unreadable, but his tone was clearly disapproving as he said, “In the middle of your fete with all eyes upon us? A bit risky, don’t you think?”

  She crossed the room to him, unsure of herself in his presence for the first time. For the past few years, she’d always known exactly how to behave with Damon. She knew what he wanted of her. She trusted him to be honest with her. There were no games between them. So why did she feel differently today?

  “You must persuade Dinah to put an end to this. She won’t listen to me.”

  He snorted softly and stepped toward her, leaving only an inch between them. “And you believe she’ll listen to me? I haven’t had time to take up mesmerism since we last spoke.”

  He had a point. Dinah listened to very few people. “Then maybe you could persuade Graham—”

  “Any man of intelligence does not pit a husband against his wife unless his objective is to end the marriage.”

  She nibbled on the inside of her lip. “There must be a way.”

  “It will be over soon enough,” he said. “Are you worried I won’t win?”

  “Win?” she sputtered. “You can’t mean… Damon… I already told you that I will not accept your suit. Why must you continue this for sport?”

  “Do you think I am playing for sport?” His voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “Why do you persist in not taking me seriously?”

  “Why do you persist in asking me that when I have already given you good reason?” she cried. “I told you—I believe in love and you do not.”

  His features hardened, and he grabbed her shoulders, pulling her closer even though there was no reason to whisper, no one to hear them. “I don’t give credence to love. So? I have been told by many women that they love me. Since I was a boy, it’s all I’ve heard from young and old, married and innocent alike, as they crawl out of their marriage beds or into other arrangements. It’s a word, and it’s meaningless without action. I know nothing of love, but what I do know is that you are my partner, and you have been my partner. I’ve trusted you with my darkest secret as you have entrusted me with yours. If you believe there is more to a happy marriage, then you are doomed to disappointment.”

  She nearly fell back as he released her and pivoted on his heel to stalk out of the room. He let the door slam as he left. She steadied herself with her hands on her lips. What could he mean by saying such things? How could he expect her to have her head spun about? And to bring up that one night when they had shared their secrets! A night they’d sworn never to speak of again.

  She did not know how long she stayed in her room, only that Bridget came to fetch her. Bridget was the most romantic of her sisters, her nose always in a book, which was why Charlotte could hardly believe she had married Benjamin, who was the most practical and humorless of the set. However, he did smile more now that they were married.

  Bridget had once fancied herself in love with Damon, and she had even come close to confessing it to him, as far as Charlotte knew.

  Love. It had not meant what it ought to have whenever Bridget said it. Was it really so meaningless a concept?

  “The guests are waiting,” Bridget said. “And Dinah—well, now that she is ready for you, she grows impatient.”

  Charlotte allowed her sister to take her by the arm and lead her downstairs. “Can you believe she would do this to me?”

  “I believe Dinah would do anything,” Bridget said. “Besides, is it so bad? Mr. Crawford has made a rather determined effort. I would not have thought… But all Robert’s brothers are pleasant fellows, are they not?”

  “Why must you ascribe a pleasant man to me, when such a description would denote a man as boring for you?” Charlotte asked.

  “Reece Crawford isn’t boring,” Bridget said. “Per se.” She wrinkled her nose. “I find nothing objectionable in him. Do you?”

  “No.” Charlotte sighed. They entered the ballroom, the hum of conversation slowly enveloping them. Guests parted so they could pass down the center, and Charlotte was ever aware of the stares, the attention, the likes of which had only ever gone to Sera, or even Father. Not to her.

  She faced Dinah, who stood with the three candidates to one side as if they were horses up for auction. “Ah, Charlotte, good. You return. We may begin.”

  Dinah addressed the crowd, lifting her voice to carry through the immense ballroom. “In our final round, there is only one task, and there will be only one victor who will curry my favor in his pursuit of my sister. For such a task, there is only one appropriate judge—Charlotte herself. For, in the quest for her hand, you must prove you know Charlotte’s heart best. So pray tell, gentlemen, in your good opinion, what is Charlotte’s greatest fear in all the world?”

  Chapter Eight

  July, two years ago

  Woodbury, England

  “Champagne is in order,” Damon announced.

  It was almost midnight, and at least half the guests had left the birthday festivities, with another quarter retiring at Woodbury. He had accommodations in the village, but had commandeered the gardener’s cottage by the lake for a private moment with Lottie.

  She was tired from a day of toasts and festivities and had sat upon the sofa in an ungraceful heap. Her head lay over the arm of the sofa, and she groaned, tucking her feet beneath her. “I couldn’t possibly imbibe any more.”

  “But we’ve three engagements to celebrate, even if some are in secret.”

  Her eyes were closed, yet she smiled at the remark. “We did it.”

  They had managed to successfully encourage and maneuver three of her sisters toward engagements with eligible British gentlemen. He would send a report to London tomorrow.

  “So, a toast,” he said.

  With a sigh, she lifted her head. “One toast.”

  He poured the bubbly wine into a flute and handed it to her, then poured one for himself and joined her on the sofa. While he enjoyed all their interactions, tonight’s was the first time they could count their successes, and he felt heady with the victory. He tipped back the glass and drank it in one gulp.

  “I’ve a confession,” he said.

  She scooted closer. “Do tell.”

  “I touched Dinah’s ankle.”

  Her glass slipped from her fingers, but he caught it before it hit the floor, and set it back in her hand.

  “But… she’s engaged to Graham. Why ever…?” She shook her head as if to clear the fog of drink. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  “You did. She sent for me and asked me to touch her ankle. I believe she was testing something. She is rather scientific.”

  “What could she possibly be testing?”

  “I could always touch you in the same manner and we could discover it for ourselves.” He threw out the comment on a lark, but her eyes darkened and her lips parted. He had kept his distance since their last kiss in the gambling hell. He’d been ensuring their meetings were by chance in the park or in other appropriate places, under the watchful eyes of her lady’s maid and all manner of respectable people
. Tonight’s meeting had only been to celebrate their success, but it seemed the years that had passed had done nothing to dull his desire for her.

  It was inevitable, he supposed. They were two people of the opposite sex working in close proximity. Of course he would be curious about her. Imagine her. Consider her in that way.

  She pulled up her skirt to show her ankle, slipped her foot out of her shoe, and rested it on the sofa between them. “How did you touch it?”

  He slipped his hand around her ankle so his fingers encircled it, and then he brushed his thumb twice against the soft indent on the inner side. While he had done the same to Dinah merely hours ago, it had felt largely like an academic exercise, whereas now, he was attuned to every one of Lottie’s reactions. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers tightened around the champagne flute. Her teeth dragging against her lower lip.

  She abruptly pulled her foot back and beneath her voluminous skirts. “How scandalous of Dinah,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her. Is that all you did?”

  “That’s all she asked for.”

  “So you would have done more?”

  Damon cocked his head to regard her. “If she had asked, I suppose.”

  “Is that all it takes? One must ask and you will provide?”

  The questions had taken a dangerous turn before he’d even realized it. “No.”

  “But you did as Dinah asked,” Lottie pointed out.

  “I felt she was wrestling with a decision regarding her affection for Graham—as though her asking this of me would assist her in coming to a decision. As they are now secretly engaged, it is safe to assume that this gamble paid off.”

  “All your gambles pay off, don’t they?” She set her flute on the end table. “Engaging me in your mission—that paid off too.”

  “For both of us,” he reminded her. “I’ve given you everything I offered.”

  “Yes, yes, you have.” She glanced off into the distance.

  He didn’t like the pensive nature of her expression.