The Kiss

by Sophia Nash

  He turned his attention to a letter in his lap. His daughter had surreptitiously pressed the note into his hand when he had taken leave of her at the home of Cynthia’s parents. He had read the note so many times on his journey south that the creases were worn. Large letters looped across the page, begging him between each line to return for her. He had no reason to feel guilty for leaving Fairleigh with his in-laws. She was much better off in London with Cynthia’s mother and the governess they had found. Of course she was sad. She had left everyone she had ever known in Portugal, her mother had died the year before, and now he was away.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment and remembered the day he had arrived at Penrose at the age of eleven, newly orphaned by the scourge of the pox that had invaded his parents’ modest home in Dorchester.

  He jumped up and grappled with the escritoire’s drawer to find some writing paper.

  They would be furious. He simply didn’t care. He scribbled a note to Cynthia’s parents, sanded it, sealed it with sizzling crimson wax, and stamped Penrose’s symbol of a six-petaled rose—from the signet ring his aunt had given him, amid a public flood of tears on her part and none on his.

  He hailed a footman and released the missive into the man’s hands before he could change his mind. And then he realized he had taken another decision before he’d examined it in his normal, reflective fashion. He would not return to London at the end of the week as planned and then go on to the rest of the properties. He couldn’t take his daughter willy-nilly across England for the next several months. She needed permanence after all the disruptions. Well, if anyone could banish ghosts, it would be his impish daughter. They would stay here in Cornwall, far, far away from the dazzling aristocratic and diplomatic circles of London. He shook his head. Who needed town bronze when one could have country dirt?

  What had come over him? He made a point to never take decisions haphazardly. Any innocent spontaneity he might have possessed in his youth had been thoroughly expunged from him by experience.

  It must be the mystical nature of the changeable Cornish air…or the fairies at mischief. He groaned. Fairies indeed. He stared at the untouched amber liquid in a glass the housekeeper, Mrs. Killen, had brought unbidden and then placed on the nearby desk before she had retired. He suddenly wondered if perhaps the muddy new Marchioness of Ellesmere was poisoning the firewater. He wouldn’t put it past her. He wouldn’t put it past any woman…especially a woman with a plan.

  And Lord knew Georgiana Wilde always had plans…

  Chapter 3

  July 28—to do

  - tea with the Widows Club

  - oversee spreading of hay to dry

  - gamekeeper/traps

  - meet with His Highness

  “But my dear Georgiana,” Ata St. Aubyn, the Dowager Duchess of Helston murmured with a little excited smile on her face, “you are too, too kind. Are you certain we wouldn’t be an imposition?”

  Georgiana smiled back at the tiny, old duchess, whom she had come to love with every beat of her heart. “Certain,” she replied firmly.

  “Oh, I know I should refuse. Know I should think twice before accepting your kind invitation to stay, but well, I’m too old to bother.” She let out a peal of laughter and all the other ladies in the secret circle joined her.

  Georgiana looked about Penrose’s pretty blue morning room and shook her head before joining in the laughter. In so many ways she was closer to the ladies in this intimate Widows Club that Ata had founded than she was to her own mother. They accepted her—despite her eccentricities—in a way that Georgiana had only felt before with her father, Anthony, and perhaps Quinn, when they were in the innocent bloom of youth. This deep friendship with the ladies surrounding her was the only reason she’d had the audacity to invite them all to stay at Penrose without consulting Quinn first.

  Oh, to be honest, her impudent invitation was most likely precisely due to Quinn’s arrival. She never would have presumed to have the authority until Quinn had shown a desire to question her and possibly control her future actions. Her perverseness when it came to people attempting to control her was the trait she tried hardest to change and the one she failed at most consistently. And yet she also knew if she searched her conscience the real reason she had invited her circle of friends to stay was that she needed a buffer. The sensations she harbored for him would be more easily hidden with Ata and the others here.

  She was suddenly ashamed of the last notation on her list this morning. It was so hard to put into words the conflicting emotions she harbored in her breast for him…mostly disappointment and a terrible, constant yearning.

  “I know exactly which rooms will suit each of you,” Georgiana finally murmured. “Grace, you must have the rose room. It’s very elegant, as it is the marchioness’s chamber. Elizabeth, the green room will complement your eyes. Sarah, I think you would like the suite with the sunny front bedroom with the yellow-flowered wallpaper. And Ata,”—a bubble of mirth escaped her—“you shall enjoy the room with the Egyptian drawings. I do believe it is a gentleman’s room, given the nature of the activities of the Egyptians.”

  “La! How can I refuse such an offer?” Ata chuckled. “Mind you, I always preferred the Greeks, but perhaps it’s time I broadened my mind.”

  “But Georgiana,” Grace Sheffey, the Countess of Sheffield said, her blonde beauty heartstopping in its perfection, “why aren’t you inhabiting the marchioness’s rooms?”

  “The very question I’ve been asking myself,” Quinn Fortesque said quietly as he stepped into the morning room unannounced.

  All the ladies rose and he bowed, looking every bit as handsome and lord-of-the-manner-like as yesterday before Georgiana had escaped the folly and secretly spent the night at her retreat, the tiny lake house at Loe Pool.

  “Ladies,” he murmured.

  They all curtsied and Ata tottered forward in her vibrant chartreuse gown and ridiculously tall high heels, which did nothing to conceal her minute stature. “Quinn Fortesque? Is that you?” When he nodded, she continued, “But Georgiana, why didn’t you tell us? Never mind. We’d heard you were soon to arrive. I’m Merceditas St. Aubyn. Young man, I remember your father and mother quite well. They used to attend our affairs in town and were uniformly delightful. It is good to know their son is not only charming too, but a handsome devil to boot.” The sly little dowager was obviously trying to outcharm a dyed-in-the-wool charmer.

  Quinn reached for Ata’s right hand but very smoothly changed direction when he noticed her withered, clenched fist, the one she refused to acknowledge or discuss. Quinn kissed the duchess’s left fingers and his eyes twinkled. “Delighted to have the honor of your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

  “Oh please, since my friends and I are to be under your roof for at least the next month, couldn’t you please address me as Ata, as all my intimates do?”

  “I don’t see why not, as we’re sure to become intimate, madam.”

  Oh, he was just as charming as ever. Only a flicker of surprise had crossed his features. He had expertly hidden the certain shock he must have entertained at learning four heretofore unknown ladies had been invited to stay under his roof.

  The duchess sighed and Georgiana guessed the dowager must be wishing she could slop four decades off her dish. It was vastly unfair of him to possess such poetic eyes. Eyes so like Tony’s, only with something brewing in their depths. She fingered her brooch under the shawl.

  “I’m delighted Georgiana extended the invitation as I asked her to,” he said smoothly.

  Why, he was lying through his teeth. And snatching away her giddy sensation of having overstepped her authority.

  “I must thank you very kindly,” Ata replied. “My grandson and his duchess have been ensconced nearby at Amberley since Rosamunde was delivered of twins a fortnight ago. I’m ashamed to admit that my friends and I are forever holding the babies and never allowing the papa and mama their turns. So I’ve taken it upon myself to remove—”

&nb
sp; Grace Sheffey interrupted with a gurgle of laughter. “Oh, Ata, really, you must be honest with our host.” The countess turned her lovely visage to Quinn and blinked, her lashes sweeping her porcelain cheeks. Grace was simply exquisite in a way that Georgiana would never, ever be. “My lord, Luc St. Aubyn suggested he and his wife needed a bit of privacy.”

  “Why, Grace,” Elizabeth Ashburton added, “now you’re the one telling bouncers. The duke had all our bags packed when we weren’t looking and kicked us out. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” She glanced at Quinn and continued boldly, in her usual fashion. “He ordered the driver of his ducal coach to take us to his townhouse in London, my lord, which we can assure you is very nice indeed.”

  “But not as nice as Amberley,” Ata said, her lip pouting in a ridiculous manner for someone so old.

  “Ata prefers the country,” Georgiana added, annoyed at appearing defensive.

  “My dear lady,” Quinn purred, looking at the dowager, “I do believe your grandson is in need of deportment lessons. If I had a grandmother such as you, I would never dream of sending her away. Shall I give him a good thrashing after I see you settled in your chambers?”

  He chuckled when Ata seemed to seriously consider the idea.

  Ata grasped his hand with her good hand. “We are going to get along just famously.” She then smiled radiantly.

  Lovely. Now Ata was fully entrenched under his spell—just as much as every other female who had ever met him.

  “My lord,” Sarah Winters said in her soft, melodic voice. “Thank you very kindly for inviting us into your home. It’s extraordinarily generous of you, since I’m guessing you have never heard of any of us until now.”

  Leave it to Sarah, she of the older and wiser persuasion, to say the correct thing.

  “Why, madam, that’s not true a’tall. Georgiana and I went over a list of things to do today, and this invitation topped the agenda. Why, here it is.”

  If the floor could have swallowed her up whole, Georgiana would have gratefully eaten the splinters. That was her last thought as Quinn extracted her morning list she now realized she had left in the breakfast room as she often did when in a hurry.

  The list that said,” meet with His Highness.”

  His Highness, indeed, thought Quinn with a smile a short time later. It was rare when a series of circumstances could be shuffled together to form a delicate house of cards that could be blown over with such satisfaction.

  He waved away the footman’s offer to have a horse readied for him. He would enjoy the walk to the cottage where the Wilde family resided.

  The tang and salt of Penrose’s Cornish air, made fresh by yesterday’s storm, assailed his senses. He noted the overpowering jasmine and rose aromas from the formal gardens, then the eucalyptus tree and the more pungent, earthy scents from the hidden kitchen garden beyond. July had always been his favorite month here. The bees were droning about their business, and the laborers in the patchwork of fields beyond were moving about in the same efficient manner, spreading the hay to dry from the haycocks damaged in the storm. And just as he suspected, given Georgiana’s list, there was the gamekeeper plundering a hedgerow in search of poachers’ snares.

  Well, it was no surprise Penrose was ever and always efficiently run. It was only for Quinn to find out precisely whom was to thank for the job. And he would eat his Portuguese barretina shako, the Caçadores hat his daughter loved so much, if it was Mr. Wilde alone. Clearly Wilde’s son, Grayson—with help from his sister, to be more precise—was behind the position. But how Quinn was to rectify matters was an altogether different story.

  It wouldn’t work to have one Wilde as steward and another Wilde as the questionable marchioness of the same manor.

  Quinn wrestled with the slightly rusted latch on the steward’s residence and wended his way to the pretty rose-covered cottage. Its charm was slightly diminished as it needed a good whitewashing.

  His knuckles hadn’t even reached the door when it swung open and Mrs. Wilde was revealed.

  “Quinn Fortesque!” the plump, graying lady exclaimed. “Mr. Wilde has been expecting you. My, how you’ve grown. Oh, you gave me a start. You always did have that look about you—like our dear Anthony. Such a pity.” She tsked.

  He stiffened.

  “You simply must help my daughter. She won’t listen to reason. Georgiana,” she said without pausing to take a breath in her stream of conversation, “refuses to assume the role of marchioness. Refuses to take her rightful place.”

  He bowed and then breathed in a scent he had completely forgotten. The lemony aroma of Mrs. Wilde’s poppy-seed cakes wafted from the kitchen and brought back an unwanted flood of childhood memories.

  She preceded him down the cramped hall. “You were always such a good boy. I told my husband you would do the correct thing. The only fair thing. I know you will put a stop to that evil woman and her frightfully embarrassing inquiries. Georgiana is the rightful Marchioness of Ellesmere, don’t you agree?”

  She took up a tray handed to her by the maid at the kitchen door and presented it to him.

  “Here, have a cake. I remember these were your favorite.”

  “You always made the very best cakes in all of Cornwall, Mrs. Wilde,” he murmured before popping a tiny cake into his mouth.

  “Oh, you’re just being kind,” she simpered. “But now that you mention it, they are better than anything Lady Gwendolyn Ellesmere served at Penrose. I keep telling Georgiana that we should all remove to the great house so her father and I can help her to manage everything.”

  Thank the Lord they were in front of Mr. Wilde’s study. He knocked and edged around the door, somehow managing to escape without her trailing him. He turned to find the steward at his desk.

  Oh God. It was much worse than he thought. It took every ounce of control not to jump to the man’s side. He had grown gaunt and old since Quinn had last seen him. Why, the man must have lost three stone. Clearly, it was some sort of wasting illness.

  “Mr. Wilde,” he said coming around the man’s desk to shake his hand. His grasp was more firm than Quinn would have thought possible. “Please don’t trouble yourself to stand.”

  Mr. Wilde struggled to rise. “Nonsense, my lord.”

  “Quinn. Please, I insist,” he said quietly, and then helped the man regain his seat.

  “Well, well…” Mr. Wilde’s eyes watered slightly as he tried to hold on to some semblance of formality. “It looks as if you’ve gone ahead and grown into the man I knew you would become.”

  Quinn rested his hand on the frail gentleman’s shoulder just as Mr. Wilde had used to do to him when he needed comfort or reassurance as a boy. A mere decade and a half had reversed their roles.

  There was something about seeing this humble man that made Quinn want to run as far and as fast from this place as possible. He refused to consider why he would want to run from the potent illusion of honesty and kindness.

  “I suspect,” Wilde said, “you’re thinking that I too have grown into the man you thought I’d become.” He coughed once and gave a wry smile.

  “Nothing of the sort. I suspect you’re still the most slave-driving steward in all of Cornwall.” He forced himself to maintain a light tone despite his sadness. “And if I may hazard a guess, probably with the same well-honed propensity toward terrible puns.”

  A light of humor filled the man’s eyes. “It’s always important to have a pun in the oven, you know.” He chuckled. “I’m so glad you’ve finally come. I’m afraid there’s been little humor here these days. Living like this, in such imbalance, has been a sore trial for Georgiana and Mrs. Wilde. But I knew you would come and sort it all out.”

  Quinn sat across from John Wilde in the old spindle chair he remembered from long ago. “You’ve great faith in my abilities, and I’m honored. But”—he paused—“I fear it will be some time before we can settle every matter. Most importantly, however, I’ve come to see to your immediate future.”

&nb
sp; John Wilde tried to sit up straighter in his chair. His expression, a combination of hope and thinly disguised despair, brought pain to Quinn’s chest.

  “You’ve served Penrose for what? Nearly four decades, have you not? I fear my uncle and Anthony were remiss in not arranging for the day you might eventually wish to retire your post as steward here.”

  He heard the door crack open behind him and assumed it was Mrs. Wilde with a tea tray. He continued, “The Fortesque family owes you a comfortable pension. It is your due for so many extraordinary years of excellent service.”

  “And here I was feeling grateful to you for your kindness to the dowager duchess.” Georgiana’s words were dangerously soft. She came in to stand at her father’s side. “Little did I know it was probably done to distract me while you finessed my family’s removal.”

  “Georgiana!” her father admonished. “Your manners!”

  “No, Father. I, for one, desire to know the charges being leveled at us. Penrose is being kept in prime form. I would know what fault he finds with the stewardship.”

  “Georgiana,” Quinn said softly, looking at her dark, flashing eyes. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Penrose has been overseen with the greatest of care. This is a matter between your father and me.” If she didn’t let this go, he might not forgive her. He wanted to preserve Mr. Wilde’s dignity. “Sir, I would be grateful if you would consider accepting a pension in the amount of four hundred pounds per annum as well as a deed to the cottage of your choosing. I would offer you this one, but Little Roses is entailed as you know.”

  “That is far too much,” Mr. Wilde said quietly yet firmly. “There’s not a steward in all the land who would receive a cottage and a pension such as the one you’re offering.”

  “There is not a steward in the land with a daughter who has married the heir’s predecessor, necessitating a quick removal to lessen the connection.” Georgiana’s words were so baldly honest that not one of them knew what to say in response.