The Kiss

by Sophia Nash

  A thread of discomfort unraveled within her. She wasn’t sure how she was going to be able to repeat this every night for the rest of her life. It all just felt so awkward. She forced herself to run her fingers through his blond locks, which curled at the ends. At least his face was so very dear to her. It was only his amber eyes that had always given her discomfort. Eyes so much like…She shoved away the thought ruthlessly.

  Perhaps it was the dimness of the light in the room, but he suddenly looked much older than his twenty-eight years, his face pale despite the fine sheen of sweat on his brow.

  “I’ve always loved you, Georgiana. You always made me happy. You alone understood me. Well, Quinn understood me in a fashion too, I suppose.” His lips twisted. “He always saw through me—unlike everyone else.”

  She removed her hand from his hair and pressed it against the bed. Oh God. No, please don’t let him continue. She couldn’t bear hearing the name that represented every lost dream.

  “Enough.” He dropped his gaze to her body and exhaled. “I want to kiss you everywhere. Ah, I’m a selfish beast, all right, but then you knew that when you married me.” He smiled wickedly and ran his fingers down the side of her form all the way to her knee. His gaze trailed after his hand.

  She stiffened. “You promised you wouldn’t look at my legs.”

  His eyes returned to her own. “But I didn’t promise not to touch.”

  “Please, Anthony,” she implored softly. If only she could forget how ugly her limbs were tonight.

  He touched the end of her nose with his finger. “I will, but only to please you. You know I will never torment you about your deformities. It was my fault, after all.”

  She closed her eyes in unbearable pain. “You promised not to mention it. And I’ve told you over and over it wasn’t your fault.”

  His expression proved he had never forgiven himself, but that didn’t stop him from resuming his exploration, touching, tasting, nipping her lips, her breasts, her fingers, until he tensed and covered her body all at once with his own. As he moved his body in alignment with hers, Georgiana realized this was the moment of truth.

  She forced herself not to squirm and raised her eyes to meet his gaze. She dispassionately noticed the deep grooves on his damp forehead. Shockingly, she felt his fingers trail a path over her belly and touch her intimately. She wanted to clamp her legs together in shock. Oh God, how was she to let him do this? It was all too intimate. Too mortifying.

  It was all wrong. All unbearably wrong.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “You’re not…”

  “I’m not what?” she whispered.

  “You need some brandy. Could use more myself. Damn my mother…Damn them all to…” He stopped and his head swayed. His face was suddenly very flushed.

  “Tony?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

  His eyes snapped open, but he seemed slightly confused. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Hard to know how much is too much and how much is not ’nuf.” With a dazed expression he looped the almost forgotten rope of pearls around her neck and teased her mouth by drawing the pebbled length against her lips. Tony sighed heavily and edged his weight onto her again. He was such a large man and Georgiana struggled slightly to breathe. Suddenly, his blunt flesh was against her most sensitive place and he was pressing into her.

  And now it was not only embarrassing but also uncomfortable, and he was too stifling hot and clammy on top of her. And something else was wrong. She was dry and taut and unyielding and he was relentless and—

  “Dearest,” he said, straining. “Just think of…Just think of…of me. Always of me. Not of him…”

  “What?” she said, her voice thin.

  His eyes widened and then rolled back into his head before he slumped on top of her, his full weight pressing her down until she thought she might faint. The forgotten pearls slithered from her neck and mouth to the decadent silk sheets.

  “Tony…” Something was terribly wrong. “Tony? Anthony!” She squeezed the massive shoulders that had collapsed against her own. She was shaking uncontrollably, and unable to budge him.

  My God…

  Oh please, Lord…Please help. Oh please, please help me…

  Chapter 1

  Twelve months later…

  “Thank goodness you’re returned, Quinn,” the dowager marchioness said, rushing toward the thirteenth Marquis of Ellesmere. “I’d despaired of ever seeing you again. Why, my daughters and I were certain those pagan tribesmen would kill you off and then where would we all be?”

  Quinn Fortesque resisted the urge to tell his aunt that if he were dead he probably wouldn’t care a whit. He also knew any attempt to educate her on the civility of the Portuguese was futile. Instead, he slowly rose from the mandarin–style desk lodged in the library of Ellesmere House, Number Sixteen Portman Square, in the most important city in the world, and ruthlessly held in check his pagan desire to cut short the false welcome. “I hope I find you in good health, madam? And my cousins?”

  “Henrietta and Margaret are well enough, but I fear my nerves will never recover.” She sighed as if onstage and coyly offered her hand to him.

  He took care to brush his lips on her fingers instead of kissing the air above as he was sure so many other gentlemen did. It brought a blush to the former beauty, just as he had known it would. Those who had had exquisite form only to watch it depart on aged feet were the ladies who appreciated attention more so than those who had never had any beauty to begin with. He offered this kiss, this laurel branch of peace, to the woman who hadn’t spared him a thought until the moment of her son’s death.

  Lady Ellesmere sighed and sank into the low-slung Egyptian settee near the massive fireplace.

  Quinn’s aunt and uncle had always had a penchant for surrounding themselves with the most exotic, and most expensive furnishings. Upon his arrival two hours prior, Quinn had taken in the Italian silk draperies, the Chinese–influenced wall hangings, and the Grecian-themed carpeting. Why, the mansion was a veritable model for harmonious international diplomacy…among furniture merchants. Well, the Fortesque fortune could withstand the outrageous expense, and it was no doubt due to the machinations of the family’s triumvirate comprised of a ham-handed solicitor, a stoic banker and a deceptively polite London steward.

  His aunt tittered to break his prolonged silence. “Margaret and Hen are scouring the shops on Bond Street in preparation for the little season. If we’d known your ship was to arrive today, you can be sure they would’ve been here to greet you. We’ve so much to discuss.” The marchioness withdrew an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and pressed the square of fine linen to her dry eyes. “To think the last time we were all together we were so blissfully happy and didn’t even know it.”

  He raised one brow a fraction of an inch. Blissfully happy was not exactly the way he would have described his sentiments all those years ago when he had been lectured, whipped, and packed off to school on the back of his uncle’s dogcart one cold, dark morning before the cock crowed. “I’m sorry you’ve been forced to suffer so, madam,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, you always—well, for the most part at least—behaved properly. Not that you shouldn’t have, you understand. Nephews are always supposed to have impeccable manners.”

  Especially nephews who were penniless orphans.

  “And I must thank you again for not getting yourself killed. I only wish you had come sooner to see to the marauder who has the audacity to call herself—”

  “Madam, perhaps you didn’t hear there was a minor problem of the colonies declaring war just after our diplomatic corps finished regrouping following the French withdrawal.”

  “Yes, yes, but you must remove that horrid gel from Penrose. I insist upon it. Why, she is running it to rack and ruin. The expenses are outrageous. Within a day of running us off the estate she shoved my dear, dear Anthony into a cold grave without telling us and then re-thatched the cottages of every
petty laborer and tenant on the estate.”

  He would not interrupt her again. It would end all the sooner if he allowed her to have her say. Once.

  “And she has the audacity to pass herself off as the new marchioness,” she moaned. “As if someone who is intimately familiar with the barnyard has the right to sleep in my bed! The horror of it. Quinn, you must force the inquiry. It’s moving much too slowly. The marriage wasn’t valid. I’m certain of it. No one believes that half-cocked story she told of my dear Anthony choking during a late supper. And one of the maids hinted that the bed linens…well, I am too delicate to tell you more. You must question her yourself and you must see our solicitor and go before the House of Lords, and you must go to Penrose and toss that ungrateful Georgiana Wilde and her scheming family out of my room and off our land. I’ll not set one foot there until every last trace of that family is removed from my home, ahem, our home.” She finally paused for breath.

  For a moment Quinn had feared she might expire from lack of air. He looked at her silently for a long moment until she finally recollected something.

  “Quinn, you do have my deepest condolences. We were dreadfully sorry to hear about Cynthia a year and a half ago.” Her expression changed. “I remember hearing how beautiful she was on your wedding day. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it, your uncle was perhaps a bit unrelenting in your case—well…the columns said Cynthia wore a lovely pale blue gown with Valenciennes bobbin lace ruffles. I understand she was almost as pretty as your cousin Henrietta…” She had the good sense to stop when she glanced at him.

  Quinn relaxed the features on his face to encourage her to prose on. It was always better to know the enemy’s plans than to be caught unawares at a later date.

  The marchioness giggled. “I know it’s too soon to mention it, but Henrietta has never forgotten you, you know. She often speaks of you. And if my hunches are right, and they always are, I forsee—”

  “Fine weather for my journey to Cornwall?” He quickly rose from his seat and offered an arm to escort her to the door. “I shall be leaving in a week to see to Penrose’s affairs and the other estates. But first I must settle Fairleigh with Cynthia’s parents.”

  “Your daughter is here? Oh, I must see her! Henrietta will be dying to meet her. I always thought Hen would make a very good mother. Is Fairleigh much grown—and does she have the Fortesque looks, or does she favor her mother?”

  “An unusual combination.” He must end this now. He would not allow a discussion about his nine-year-old daughter. He had almost forgotten how oppressive these scenes could be. “Forgive me, I must finish these ledgers and meet with Tilden before—”

  “And that’s another thing. You must tell that man he is not to countermand me. I’ve been on the point of sacking him several times this last year. Why, the very nerve of the man, suggesting I should economize. Well,” she huffed, “as if I don’t have the right to spend money the way I see fit, and all while that pretentious Georgiana Wilde is spending our fortune on God knows what. Why, when Anthony was alive—”

  Quinn possessed the ability to turn off his hearing on command. It was a skill he had honed after years spent listening to diplomatic corps blowhards from every country in the civilized and not-so-civilized world. And Gwendolyn Fortesque, Lady Ellesmere, could blow with the best of them.

  He allowed her to vent her grievances all the way to the doorway before he cut in, leaving her openmouthed. “Madam, if I am to remove to Penrose before Friday next, you must excuse me now.” He doubted Lady Ellesmere had been interrupted more than once or twice in her lifetime, and surely never by anyone other than her husband.

  Quinn glanced at Mr. Tilden on the other side of the doorway, standing patiently while suffering the withering glance of the marchioness as she huffed and swept away in a manner bearing a marchioness who had been born a mere miss and had used her beauty to claw her way up the social ladder the old-fashioned way, by marriage.

  “Your ladyship.” Mr. Tilden bowed.

  Endurance, it seemed, thy name was Tilden.

  Quinn invited the London steward into the study with a motion of his arm. “Mr. Tilden.”

  “May I be permitted to welcome you home, sir?”

  “You may,” Quinn replied, biting back a smile. The man hadn’t changed a whit, bless his limited turns of phrase.

  “And may I be permitted to offer my sincerest condolences on your losses, my lord?”

  He nodded curtly, hating to be reminded yet again. “Tilden, I should warn you that I shall hunt you down and shoot you if you ever try to leave your post.” He sat down and indicated for Mr. Tilden to do the same. “You’re the only one I can trust in this madness.”

  The steward smiled slowly. “May I be permitted to thank you, my lord?”

  “No. There’s no need for thanks when I’m certain compliments have been far too few and far between these last years. Now let’s get down to it, shall we? Before you explain the large increase in expenses at Penrose, what in heaven’s name is a Russian sable liner and how did Lady Ellesmere manage to spend three hundred forty-seven pounds on it without my approval?”

  “Well, sir, if you will permit me to explain, in the next ledger you’ll find a correction. Returned it to the shop while the marchioness was at the lending library.” He said the last under his breath.

  “And…”

  “And her ladyship thinks she left it at the Countess of Home’s musical. Created quite a fuss about it. She had some, ahem, singularly unpleasant words with the countess.”

  “Send the countess some hothouse roses along with my apologies, Mr. Tilden.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Tilden said, the gap in his front teeth making a merry appearance. “And may I be permitted to say again how good it is to see you here, my lord?”

  Chapter 2

  July 27—to do

  - oversee ricking of haycocks if sufficiently dry

  - invite Ata and the Widows Club to lunch tomorrow

  - resolve flooded field

  - check bees

  - check ledgers again in case he arrives…

  - check pigsty—ugh

  The last chore of the day coincided with the last rays of the day. Georgiana could easily have put it off. But then with her gown already dirty from examining the new drainage ditch on the northeast corner, and from bits of wax and honey from the apiary, when would she ever find a better time? And there was no possible way she could leave this for Father. It was getting harder and harder for him to do anything other than check the ledgers.

  Georgiana’s shoulders sagged at the sight of the pigsty. They really were going to have to do something about that new man they’d hired. The reworked trough was an abomination. It was uneven; the bottom quite obviously had a gaping edge. Slops were piling under it and the pigs appeared underfed.

  There was no use trying to find someone to help her. She had sent everyone home early as the wind was up, the barometer down, and an ugly storm brewed on the horizon.

  There was nothing to do but manage it on her own. Wasn’t that the way it usually went anyway? She refused to acknowledge that was the way she preferred it.

  Grabbing the heavy tool basket, she stepped into the deep muck of the pen, her skirt catching and tearing on a rusted nail. She muttered her annoyance and slogged past the jumble of sleeping pigs half-buried in the mud. The gown was for the ragman now—not even the lowest scullery maid would want it. She shrugged. Her gowns seemed to have shorter and shorter lives these days.

  Carefully, Georgiana balanced the tools on the end of the trough and reached for the hammer. She eased out the bent and poorly placed nails in the rotting wood and one side of the trough fell heavily, awakening all the swine. She had but a minute or two to reposition the wood and hammer it correctly in place before squeals of piggish delight heralded a small stampede toward her.

  Inquisitive wet snouts searched all around—beneath the fixed trough, the edge of a bucket, even under her pinned-up skir—<
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  Her last thought as she teetered and lost the battle to keep her balance was that even the ragman wouldn’t want her gown after this. She looked down to find that almost every inch of her was covered in the delightfully greenish-brown sludge that smelled so strongly of porcine elements that it brought tears to her eyes.

  And of course, to add to the final humiliation, Gwendolyn—Georgiana hadn’t been able to resist giving her mother-in-law’s name to the largest and most intimidating sow—used her prodigious snout to tip over the tool basket, sending the heavy, blunt end of an ax right onto Georgiana’s leg. Her bad knee.

  “Ohhh,” she moaned, grabbing her limb. “Damn you, you, idiotic, pathetic excuse for a ham. I’m personally carving the bacon off your condemned sides today, Gwendolyn.” Georgiana finished her rant with a blasphemous slew of words that had taken two decades to learn from the laborers on the estate. She was quite proud of her considerable skill at swearing a blue streak in private.

  A sudden movement caught her attention. She looked up to find him standing right in front of her.

  Quinn. Quinn Fortesque.

  Good Lord. It was he. She opened her mouth to speak, but not a word came to her lips. She was sure he could see her heart pounding in her chest. She had typically acted like an imbecile when he was about, and it seemed fifteen years hadn’t changed that. In fact, it was going to be far worse for her now, for he had fully grown into the impossibly handsome man she had known he would become.

  He was looking as coolly collected, as perfect, as impeccably dressed as a Marquis of Ellesmere should look. Without a hair out of place he stood there, his shoulders ridiculously broad, his stance wide, his hands on his hips. He appeared as permanent and as ageless as the great oak on the front lawn of Penrose as he took in the full majesty of the mucky scene.