by Jane Goodger
John decided to save her. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we go over to the Gosslings’ tomorrow and have a look at the pups? If you feel anything at all, we’ll simply leave.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Melissa said, and John felt his heart give a sharp tug. She’d never seen a puppy, never mind held a squirming little body in her arms.
“I could use another hound,” Charles said, thoughtfully.
John could not immediately think of an excuse for Charles not to go, so it was agreed that he would come.
Melissa stifled a yawn and glanced at the mantel clock, surprised to see it was past midnight. She was unused to staying up so late and was suddenly quite exhausted.
“Shall I escort you to your room, Melissa?” John asked, all politeness.
“I fear I shall fall asleep standing up if you do not,” she said. “And I want to be well rested when we look at the puppies tomorrow.”
“Perhaps we should all turn in for the evening,” Charles said, and the others agreed. Bidding each other a good night, they all headed to their rooms, with John and Melissa trailing. His father had bade Miss Stanhope to remain, and John assumed he was informing the chaperone of Melissa’s birth.
Guests turned left, John and Melissa right toward the family wing. He’d been alone with her many times in the past weeks, but was aware in a way he had not been before of their isolation, of the cloak of privacy that surrounded them. When Melissa reached her door, she turned and tilted her head, giving him a smile that seemed almost sad.
“Good night, John.”
“Good night, Melissa.”
But neither moved. They stood there, looking at one another, until Melissa looked down.
“I am sorry about what I said today in the library. About that silly kiss. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or embarrass you.” She looked up at him with a self-deprecating smile. “I’m quite certain any significance I put on it was purely my imagination.”
Of their own volition, John’s eyes swept down to her delectable mouth, parted just slightly. “Yes.”
She nodded, but continued to look troubled. “What if it wasn’t?”
John said a silent but fervent prayer, for God to give him strength. The air around them was still, thick, and filled with so much tension, he could feel his body begin to shake. He shoved his hands in his pockets so that he wouldn’t reach out and pull her against him, against his raging arousal. “You must stop talking of it, thinking of it. My God, Melissa, it was a simple peck, nothing more. It wasn’t even a real kiss, for goodness sakes.” He was talking to her, his voice low and urgent, but the message was for himself.
“When other men kiss me, I will feel the same?”
No. “Yes.”
She searched his face, almost as if she were searching for the truth. Her breath came out slightly ragged. “John.” It sounded like a plea.
He didn’t know how it happened, how his hands came out of his pockets, how they ended up behind her neck, how they started to draw her to him. He didn’t know how his lips met hers. He only knew that when they did, something in him broke, something that held him in check. That thing, honor or duty, snapped, leaving him exposed and unable to stop himself from deepening the kiss, from pulling her closer, from pressing his arousal against her just for the sheer pleasure of it.
He felt her hands clutching his shoulders, nearly shouted in joy when she let out a low moan and opened her mouth for him. He tasted her, sweet and intoxicating and entirely too addicting. When his tongue met hers, she stiffened slightly, but he could not stop. If the hounds of hell had been ripping him apart, he could not have stopped himself from deepening the kiss, from thrusting his tongue against hers, from moving one hand from her nape to a full breast, from reveling in her gasp of pleasure as her nipple hardened against his palm.
“Yes, John.”
Those words, urgent, thick with desire, aroused him to the point that he nearly lost all control. He was a hairbreadth away from opening her door and carrying her to her bed. That close to snapping the very last shreds of decency and honor. With a force of will he didn’t know he had—for he’d never had to use it—he drew away, his breath harsh, his eyes glazed with raw desire.
“I see what you mean,” he said, finally, after swallowing heavily.
She smiled up at him, her lips swollen and red from his kisses, her cheeks flushed, her eyes, oh, Lord, her beautiful eyes drowsy with need. John folded his hands as if in prayer and pressed his knuckles against his mouth.
He dropped his hands and stepped back, not trusting that he wouldn’t draw her into his arms again. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. It was highly . . . unexpected. I have no excuse.”
Melissa looked slightly bewildered by his words, then she smiled. “It’s not just me, then. There is nothing wrong with me.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “Hardly.”
Her smiled widened, and now it was John’s turn to be confused. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because I’ve just learned I’m perfectly normal. You were affected by the kiss as much as I was. Am I right?”
“I suppose you are.”
“Why, that’s wonderful.”
Why couldn’t she ever react the way she was supposed to? Being molested outside her bedroom door by her cousin was not wonderful. It was abhorrent. He must get her to understand that what they’d just done, had anyone witnessed it, would have been tragic for both of them. Perhaps John was not honorable, not anymore, but his father was. The earl upheld his convictions completely, and if he’d witnessed his son making love to his niece, it would have killed him.
“John, are you angry with me?”
He must have looked so, for he was angry with himself. How could he have allowed himself to put Melissa in such a position? He was worse than a cad, for he knew the repercussions of that kiss if it were discovered. His father would never forgive him, and Melissa would be married off to the first person who even hinted at interest.
He lifted a hand to cup her face, but shoved it into his pocket. He didn’t trust himself to touch her—and that realization frightened him even more. Even though he knew she was off-limits, he still wanted to have her.
“No, I’m not angry with you, but with myself. I think it is best that we forget about what happened and never discuss it again. There shall be no more kisses between us. No more thoughts of kisses. Do you understand?”
Her expression became slightly mulish. “No.”
“We are cousins,” he said, exasperated.
“We are not cousins. We share not a single drop of blood.”
“We. Are. Cousins.”
She grinned. “Kissing cousins?” Something in his face must have finally registered with her, for her smile slowly faded. “I’m sorry. I was only jesting. And I do understand. Truly.”
“It is best that we not forget ourselves again, Melissa,” he said, sounding very much like a pompous ass. “Good night.” He smiled, an attempt to lessen the impact of his cold dismissal.
She turned and went into her room, quietly closing the door behind her, not meeting his gaze. He was glad to see she finally understood how important it was that they not succumb to this ridiculous attraction again. He could no longer put himself in situations where he was alone with her. The strength needed to stay away was simply beyond him. He’d never truly been tested before. But as John walked to his room, he felt a gnawing emptiness grow with each step he took away from her.
Chapter 11
It was almost as if that kiss had never happened, as if she’d dreamt it all. For the next day, when the couples met up to look at the puppies, John was his old self. Jolly. Friendly. And completely at ease.
Melissa, however, felt as if she were teetering on the edge of hysteria. Had it been a dream? Had the delicious sensation of his hand against her breast been her imagination? Every time she looked at John, she saw nothing. No pain, no longing. No interest. He stayed mostly by Lady Juliana’s side as they strolled al
ong a country lane toward the Gosslings’ house. It was a pleasant walk, taking them through a small woods, the path cushioned by the leaves that had fallen last October. Following yesterday’s wet weather, the air was heavy and fecund, and while the sun had yet to break through the clouds, it was quite warm for late March.
They crossed a stone bridge that spanned a sparkling river, and Melissa found herself smiling at the sound of the water tumbling over the rocks. The others didn’t seem to notice, but she was enchanted by it and stopped to look over the edge.
“Fine trout in that river,” Charles said, peering over the edge as if he might see a trout. “Do you fish?”
“I never have, but it seems as if it would be fun,” Melissa said, thinking back on the letter John had written to her all those years ago, those boyish words she’d held so dear.
“Perhaps later today. The fish bite right well after a rain and when it’s overcast like this.” He called up to John. “Have you been fishing yet this year, John? I thought we could all have a go at it this afternoon.”
Lady Juliana smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”
“She’ll outfish you all,” Avonleigh warned.
“That’s the point,” his sister said pertly.
As they got to the other side of the bridge, Melissa let out a gasp of delight, and John turned sharply to her.
“What a lovely cottage,” she said, completely enchanted. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”
John frowned as if annoyed by her enthusiasm. “That’s the Gosslings’,” he said.
As they approached the cottage, a man stepped out from behind the house and called a greeting. “Here to see the pups, are you, my lord?” he asked.
John introduced the man, known to be one of the top breeders in all of Britain, to his friends. “Miss Atwell may have an adverse reaction to canines, so we’ll have to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Charles, I’ll put you in charge of monitoring Miss Atwell’s nose.”
“I’m certain I’m not going to,” Melissa said, feeling her cheeks redden.
As they approached the garden, the air was filled with the sounds of baying as the dogs, enclosed in a large kennel, greeted them. Mr. Gossling shouted at the dogs, and they immediately became silent.
“Mama’s back in here,” Gossling said, jerking his head to a small building. He was dressed like a gentleman farmer, and everything but his boots looked expensive and clean. No doubt working with the hounds all day, Mr. Gossling didn’t care to ruin his finest boots. As the group entered the building, Melissa hung back, suddenly overcome with anxiety. It was as if an invisible force were keeping her from entering the darkened door. Even as the others calmly walked through, Melissa stood frozen. John, looking back, casually held his hand out to her, and she walked forward as if nothing were wrong. But she grasped his warm hand almost desperately. “The pups, Melissa,” he said quietly, as if reminding her that nothing evil lurked in the shadows. She smiled up at him, embarrassed and confused by her sudden anxiety, but stepped through the door.
She could hear Laura oohing over the puppies and Charles chuckling over his sister’s enthusiasm. “Aren’t they precious?” she said. “Oh, we should come back and get one ourselves,” she gushed.
“Perhaps you can return with Brewster and pick out a pup for your wedding present,” Charles said, cheerfully needling his sister.
Laura lifted her chin with a bit of defiance. “Perhaps we shall,” she said.
Melissa was completely entranced by the squirming little animals who seemed in a frenzy over the people looking down at them.
“The dam is a good mother,” Gossling said. “Takes care of the brood well. It’s only her second litter. Don’t like to overbreed. Not good for the mama.” He looked up at John, who studied the puppies with an expert eye.
“That one,” John said, pointing to a sturdy, fawn-colored puppy, who, while friendly and curious, was not as frantic as the others, nor as timid as a little one that hung back by its mother.
Gossling immediately began rubbing his beard. “I was considering keeping that one for breeding,” he said, and John laughed.
“I’ll loan him out to you,” John said. “You’re not trying to increase your price, are you, Peter?”
Gossling made an effort to appear affronted, then grinned, holding out his hand. While the two negotiated a fair price, Melissa kept her eye on the one John had chosen, trying to determine why that one and not another friendlier puppy. Her heart went out to the shy little one, who looked soulfully up at them from behind its mother.
“I like that one,” Melissa said, pointing at the shy pup.
“That’s the runt,” Gossling said. “Not good for much, typically. You don’t want a shy dog, ’cause they won’t perform in the field. Most breeders will put ’em down, but I never did have the stomach for it.”
“Put it down?”
“Kill it.”
Melissa gasped. “But why?”
“Can’t breed ’em. Can’t hunt ’em.”
Melissa was silent for a time, her eyes riveted on the little puppy, who edged forward just a bit, almost as if it were trying to overcome its fear, as if it wanted nothing more than to join its siblings but simply couldn’t gather the courage to do so. “But you can love them,” she said softly, mostly to the little puppy. She leaned over the rough wooden kennel and held out her gloved hand, and the puppy moved another step toward her. Melissa ignored another more rambunctious dog that tried to lick her fingers.
As the little puppy approached, she withdrew her hand and peeled off her glove. “There you go,” she whispered. “You can do it. I won’t hurt you, little one. Courage.” After a few more tentative steps, the dog’s tail began wagging wildly, and it was licking her fingers. Melissa giggled at the sensation, the pure joy of having a puppy’s warm, wet tongue bathe her fingertips. She looked up, her eyes shining, to see John watching her, his eyes warm and smiling. In his arms was his choice, calm and content and looking rather drowsy. A fine puppy, to be sure, but Melissa’s eyes went back to the little one.
“How much for the runt?” John asked Gossling, sounding resigned.
Charles was aghast. “It’s worthless,” he said, and Melissa straightened, her brows furrowed in anger.
“He is not worthless.”
“She,” Gossling put in. “You can have her, considerin’ what yer payin’ for the one.” He cackled, and John gave him a dark look.
Melissa let out a small squeal, and, unable to contain her joy, gave a hop and clapped her hands before throwing herself into John’s arms. He caught her awkwardly but laughed at her excitement.
“You shall have to teach me all about dogs and puppies and how to get them trained. Oh, it shall be so much fun.”
“They are a lot of work, you know,” he warned, but Melissa could tell it was a halfhearted warning.
“I don’t care. I’ve never had anything of my own before. A living thing to love.”
Melissa didn’t notice the look that passed over John’s face, as she was far too excited to recognize the mixture of anger and pity—the look he always had when thinking about her isolated childhood.
“I shall name her Darling,” she said.
“Darling?” Charles asked, looking at the pup with a bit of skepticism.
“After Grace Darling, the Bamburgh heroine.”
“The little girl who saved all those people. You remember her, don’t you, Charles?” Laura asked.
“Ah,” he said. “Yes.”
“A fine name,” John said, bending down and scooping the puppy up with one hand before it could skitter away. “Here you go, Darling, this is your new mistress. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, so you’re going to have to teach her.” He handed the squirming puppy to Melissa, and she held it up in front of her face, her hands clutching it gently as the puppy’s tail wagged wildly.
“She loves me,” Melissa said. “Don’t you, Darling?” Then she looked up at John, her eyes brimming with tear
s. “Thank you, John. This is the finest present.”
“My father is going to be very displeased,” he said. “Not only does he have to marry you off, now he must find someone who will accept an ill-trained, worthless hound.”
Melissa gave him a look of mock affront. “Any man would be lucky to get this little beauty.” She turned to gaze at Darling. “Wouldn’t they?”
John rolled his eyes, and Melissa scowled up at him. “What?”
“If you insist on talking that way to a hound, I’m afraid you’re going to drive me to the madhouse long before you find a husband.”
“You have to use a stern voice,” Charles said. “You have to show her who’s in charge.”
Melissa hugged the puppy a little closer. “No, she needs a gentle hand.”
Charles looked slightly flabbergasted, and glanced at John for support. John, however, simply shrugged as if saying, “It won’t be my problem.”
Which, of course, was true. Still, that shrug bothered Melissa, making her realize that in a matter of months, she might leave Flintwood House and John and be living with a husband—a husband who might not like an ill-trained dog. Or dogs at all.
“Perhaps it would be best to have a well-trained dog,” she said thoughtfully.
“Of course it is,” Charles said. “But I still don’t know why you wouldn’t want one of these other fine specimens.” He looked down at the remaining puppies. “That red might end up in my kennel.”
“Darling and I understand one another,” Melissa said, knowing she sounded foolish. But she was holding a warm little body with impossibly soft fur and couldn’t imagine putting her back in place of another. They belonged together.
George Atwell frowned heavily at the invitation before him. It was from the Duke of Waltham, inviting him, John, and Melissa to their famously popular Spring Ball held annually during the first week of the official start of the season. He’d never attended before because he’d never before been invited. The invitation, on thick, expensive vellum, embossed with the ducal seal, held a malevolence that made him physically ill.
