The Kiss

by Sophia Nash

  “It’s for birds of prey. Georgiana is fond of them.”

  The duke shook his head and muttered something about “complete pushovers” while he marched past him. They made their way to the adjacent barn, which was wholly completed.

  At the entry, something touched Quinn’s boot and he looked down to find a marmalade-colored cat rubbing against his ankles.

  “I see you’ve even acquired a barn cat,” Helston said, biting back a smile.

  The cat began purring.

  “No.” Quinn sneezed. “I don’t like cats.”

  “Well, my friend, it appears the feeling is not entirely mutual.” Luc bit back a smile. “At least a cat will be easier to explain than if you had ordered a stable full of horses and a pasture full of oxen.”

  “The animals arrive tomorrow.”

  Luc shook his head and uttered an oath.

  The cat stretched up to find Quinn’s hand and when he leaned down, it practically jumped into his arms. Its purr was like a tiger’s.

  “By the by,” Quinn said, “perhaps now would be a good time to warn you that your grandmother has been seen trying to pick the lock to my carriage house.”

  “I told you that under no circumstances was she allowed to be near any set of reins.”

  “No. You said that under no circumstance was she to be allowed access to a horse.”

  “I warn you, Ellesmere—”

  “Quinn.”

  Luc St. Aubyn stared at him for a long moment before using his Christian name. “Quinn…I won’t pay for any damages to your bloody carriages. After all I’ve done for you—”

  “Agreed,” Quinn interrupted, and then suppressed a smile. “You know, I was wrong about you.”

  Luc blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Georgiana said you were a great man.”

  “Georgiana’s observations are always brilliantly spot-on.”

  Quinn tried not to laugh. “But she was wrong in your case.”

  Luc raised his looking glass to his eye.

  “You’re not a great man. You are one of the greatest men…no, the greatest friend I have had the honor to know.”

  Helston’s discomfort was palpable, which pleased Quinn enormously.

  “Well…” Luc said, “this is very inconvenient.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s so much more amusing to hate you.”

  “Perhaps,” Quinn admitted, holding back his laughter.

  “But then,” Luc said thoughtfully, “I’d be willing to consider friendship if it will take up less of my time.”

  “That’s doubtful. One always has to watch a friend even more closely than an enemy, don’t you think?” Quinn pushed back the memory of his friendship with Anthony as a young boy. He took a step forward and Luc held up his hands to keep space between them.

  “You’re not going to try and embrace me, are you?” Luc’s eyes were black with horror. “Well, it would explain your idiotic actions toward Georgiana.” Luc barked with laughter and moved to slap him so hard on the back that Quinn almost lost his balance.

  “You know,” Quinn said, slapping Luc’s back even more soundly, sending the duke sprawling forward into a pile of wood shavings. “I do believe I preferred you as an enemy.”

  “Too late,” Luc said, regaining his feet and brushing his breeches.

  “Well, then, perhaps we should continue the tour.” Quinn crossed the length of the empty barn and went out into the sunshine. Beyond the stand of trees in the distance, three dozen men labored with shovels.

  Luc came up beside him—and whistled. “Good Lord. What have you done?”

  “The estate needed a body of water. It will be just a pond. Or…maybe a very small lake.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.” He waved his arms at the barn, the greenhouse, the lake. “This is absolute insanity. It’ll cost you a bloody fortune.”

  He ignored him and pointed to the center of the pit. “There’s to be a small island, too. All this is a much smaller version of Loe Pool.”

  The duke rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s time for your lecture. I promised Rosamunde I would lecture you. And it’s the least I can do, for a friend.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m certain I’ve already had this conversation with Mr. Brown at least ten times in the last ten days.”

  Luc arched a brow and ignored him. “Now then. How are you going to extricate everyone from this absurd situation? Start with Grace Sheffey, if you please.”

  “For God’s sake. Don’t you know she’s still in love with her husband?”

  “Grace? Grace Sheffey never loved the Earl of Sheffield,” Luc said.

  “No. Georgiana. Georgiana will never remarry. She’s made her wishes very clear.”

  “I thought we were going to discuss Grace. You do realize that if we’re going to be friends, you’ll have to be able to take direction from me.”

  Quinn rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

  “Oh, all right.” Luc waved his arm. “Start with Georgiana. She’s the one you want anyway. But don’t think I’m allowing you out of your obligation regarding Grace. If she still wants you, I’ll tie you up with a pretty ribbon on top and present you to her on a platter with an apple in your mouth.”

  Quinn turned on his heel toward the great house and Luc followed him.

  “You’re wrong.” Quinn finally replied. “I do not want to marry Georgiana. I want her to be happy, to live out her life very comfortably—in a place that will remind her of everything she has known. But I do not want to live the rest of my life with a woman who is in love with my estimable cousin.” He’d be damned if he’d explain his interactions with his blasted relation. And he just couldn’t abide the thought of lying next to a woman who would be dreaming of Anthony Fortesque—and worse, feeling pity for a man who had been a cuckold.

  “Brownie was right. You are a bigger fool than I ever was. If you’re not willing to have her any way you can get her, then you deserve all the misery you’re headed for…and more.” Luc shook his head. “Anthony Fortesque is dead, you ass.”

  In the distance, the cree-cree-cree of a peregrine falcon sounded, and Quinn looked up into the sky and changed his course to find the source.

  Luc leaned in and whispered, “And you’re not…although you fool just about everybody with that corpselike air that decorates your face.”

  Bloody dukes. Always had to get the last word.

  Georgiana had hoped Quinn’s second sudden trip to London a fortnight ago would have at least afforded her some peace at heart. But as she looked down at Fairleigh’s small blonde form surrounded by all the members of Ata’s Widows Club sitting on the hill in front of Loe Pool, Georgiana realized his absence actually made everything much worse.

  “Georgiana?” Fairleigh whispered. “How much longer is Monsieur Latoque going to make us stay in this position?”

  Georgiana glanced at the diminutive Gallic portraitist, half hidden by his massive canvas. “If you don’t ask me that question again, I’ll go riding with you tomorrow.”

  The little girl bit her lip. “Georgiana?”

  “Yes?” she returned.

  “At what time?”

  Georgiana hid her smile. “Dawn?”

  There were five seconds of blessed silence.

  “Which horse?”

  “Don’t you mean which pony?”

  Fairleigh sighed and Georgiana almost laughed as it was an exact imitation of her own exasperated sound.

  “Oh, all right.” Georgiana relented. “You may ride Lady, the small gray mare in the last stall. But only if you stop talking. Monsieur Latoque might paint a mustache like his own on both of us if you don’t.”

  “It’s ever so much more fun to do the painting instead of the sitting.”

  Sarah Winters leaned in. “But all those who gaze upon the painting will be very grateful that you made the effort to sit still, dearest. Look.”

  Sarah handed Fairleigh a locket and the little girl worked the latch to o
pen it. Georgiana glanced over her shoulder to see a likeness of a gentleman in a military uniform. Of all the widows, Sarah was the one who had mourned the most faithfully a beloved husband lost in the war against the French.

  “Was this your husband?” Fairleigh asked.

  “Yes.” Sarah stroked her hand through Fairleigh’s hair and Georgiana noticed how beautifully fragile Sarah’s hands were. “And I am forever grateful to him for having made the effort to sit for this. If he had not, I would have nothing to remember him by, other than my memories.”

  “Oh,” Fairleigh interjected, “have you seen the eye Georgiana painted of her husband?”

  Sarah glanced at the edge of Georgiana’s shawl and nodded.

  They were all silent for a moment before she heard a sniff from Fairleigh’s direction.

  “What is it, dearest?”

  “I don’t want to have my likeness taken. It could be bad luck.”

  “And why is that?” Sarah asked gently.

  “Because everyone seems to die after it’s done,” Fairleigh wailed.

  “Et alors?” Monsieur Latoque waved his paintbrush in the air. “This is impossible. I cannot create un chef d’oeuvre unless you remain in position. You must make mademoiselle sit still.”

  “Monsieur,” Georgiana said, standing to stretch her stiff joints. “I’m so sorry, but I do believe the light is fading and mademoiselle has been very good the last hour and a half. I think we should recommence tomorrow. Don’t you agree?”

  Ata murmured her accord. But Gwendolyn Fortesque, who had stayed on at Penrose despite the obvious wave of dislike from all the other ladies, disagreed. She’d arrived on the hill a few minutes ago with an expression more sour than the lemonade a beleaguered-looking footman bore in his hands.

  “You would allow a child to dictate to everyone?” Gwendolyn snorted in disgust. “She needs better guidance. You are not fit to oversee her. She’s coddled and spoiled to the core—without a shred of feminine talent or proper education.”

  Georgiana had never dared to stand up to the marchioness. But the thought of anyone saying something hurtful about Fairleigh made her lash out. “What did you say?” Georgiana walked over to Gwendolyn Fortesque. “Take it back.”

  Gwendolyn sputtered, “I beg your pardon?” She lowered her voice. “I do not answer to the daughter of a steward.”

  “You will take it all back or I shall—”

  “You shall what?” Gwendolyn’s arched smile held all the satisfaction of a woman who had been a marchioness for four decades. “Throw me off my own estate?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Georgiana saw Ata marching toward them. She put up a staying hand. “No, Ata. I thank you, but I shall not allow you to fight my battles any longer.”

  Ata stopped and motioned to the other widows to stand beside her.

  Georgiana turned back to Gwendolyn. “Take it back or I shall make your life a misery.”

  Gwendolyn laughed. “I fail to see how it could get any worse. My life is wretched anytime I’m forced to endure your presence.”

  There was the shocked intake of breath from the widows nearby. And Ata’s visage was purple.

  “I don’t care what you think of me but I won’t allow you to utter a word against Fairleigh. Do you really consider yourself a model for bringing up children after the way you stood by and did nothing to curb Anthony’s sad way of life in town?”

  “You put him in the grave, not I,” the dowager replied. It was clear Gwendolyn had completely given up every hope of becoming part of Ata’s circle of influential friends in town.

  A blast of coldness invaded her lungs. Georgiana had never been any good at putting people in their places. Had never been any good at the quick rejoinder. And she had only been able to get laborers and servants on the estate to do her bidding because they were embarrassed to see her trying to do the work herself.

  She felt a slim hand grasp hers and looked up to see Grace’s petite form beside her.

  “Lady Ellesmere?” Grace said. “I for one will not let you forget you are here because Georgiana allows it. No, let me state it more clearly, for I fear you misunderstand. None of us cares about your inquiry or your meeting with the archbishop’s assistant. And furthermore, none of the Dowager Duchess of Helston’s friends, or my friends in town will care about it either. So you have a choice before you. You may either show Georgiana the respect she is due here and now or you shall face social ruin in London.”

  “Well, the very idea—” Gwendolyn sputtered.

  “It’s your choice, of course. And really, all of us”—she indicated the rest of the ladies—“are unfortunately not as civilized as we ought to be. I suppose it is due to the combined influence of living with the Devil of Helston and, lately, living under the roof of the daughter of a steward—a woman who has more grace in her calloused hands than you do in your rather”—Grace lifted her nose and surveyed every inch of Lady Ellesmere—“inelegant form.”

  It was the ultimate insult to a lady who prided herself on her dress and deportment. It was the only reason for her existence, Georgiana thought. But while she was extraordinarily grateful to Grace for standing up to Gwendolyn in such a superior fashion, at the same time it reinforced how very much she was out of her element.

  She simply wished the entire encounter had never occurred. She was so close to leaving Penrose anyway—and would never have to see Gwendolyn Fortesque again. Suddenly the scene was just too much.

  “Gwendolyn,” she whispered, addressing her mother-in-law by her Christian name for the first time. “I know why you hate me. I remind you of where you came from. But you see, I don’t care what you think of me. I’ve never cared. But if you ever say another unkind word about Fairleigh I shall—”

  “Go running to Quinn?” Lady Ellesmere interrupted. “I don’t doubt it. You always did run to him—or to my darling Anthony.”

  Georgiana closed her eyes tightly then reopened them. “No, I won’t look to others to solve my own problems. If you don’t apologize I shall come to London and haunt your every step, much as I loathe town. I shall accept Ata’s invitation and go to every entertainment, every soiree, every fete or dinner, every musical, every ball and you shall be forced to endure my presence. And if you push me too far, I might even secretly arrange for a particular sow to be delivered to your chambers.”

  There was the sound of a forced cough. Georgiana turned to see Quinn leaning against a tree behind all her friends, half hidden by the foliage. Lord knew how long he had been standing there.

  “Quinn!” Gwendolyn Fortesque said. “When did you arrive?”

  He pushed off of the tree and crossed toward them. “Georgiana and Grace neglected to inform you of one additional point, madam. Before you take your leave tonight”—he was extracting something from a leather portfolio—“you should know that if Georgiana does decide to visit Grace or Ata in town she will be properly introduced as the true Marchioness of Ellesmere—or,” he said, looking toward Grace, “the newest dowager marchioness, for I have a document in hand which states as much.”

  “That’s impossible. Lord Thornley, the archbishop’s assistant said—” Gwendolyn interjected.

  “Perhaps. But the Archbishop of Canterbury saw it differently when I met him last week. Very differently. Georgiana’s marriage to Anthony is valid and always shall be.” He placed several sheets of heavy vellum in Georgiana’s hand.

  “You did not…” Gwendolyn said faintly.

  “Indeed, I did, madam. And by the by, while I was in town I took the liberty of arranging for your daughters and all of your affairs to be removed to Ellesmere Abbey in Cheshire. You shall join them, as I shall arrange a carriage for you tonight. You will all be very comfortable there.”

  Georgiana heard Ata whisper, “Oh, but that’s not nearly far enough away…”

  Georgiana glanced at Quinn and his eyes met hers just as Grace grasped his shoulder and leaned up to whisper something in his ear. He shifted his gaze to the cou
ntess and smiled.

  Quinn held a tiny rosebud in his hand and Grace grasped it and twirled it in her elegant fingers.

  Chapter 17

  October 12th—to do

  - see to the last of the trunks and valises

  - bid farewell to Mrs. Killen, Cook, maids, footmen, the stable master and hands, and the gardeners, the dairymaids, the shepherd, the gamekeeper—everyone

  - 1 o’clock—Luc arrives with carriage for Father

  - try to leave without breaking down

  The lovely early autumn day was at odds with Georgiana’s melancholy mood. It should be raining. Heavily. But it was not. The air was crisp and the sun shone high overhead as the Duke of Helston, showing great condescension to a man far beneath him, personally drove the ducal carriage to the front of Little Roses and handed the reins to the groom as he sprang from the seat.

  He bowed to her slightly. “Are you ready, Georgiana? Shall I assist Mr. Wilde?”

  “There’s a footman to help. We’re ready. Father is very excited. He’s been up since dawn. My mother, too.”

  Luc tilted his head and looked at her oddly. “And you, Georgiana? You are excited, happy, too?”

  She glanced at the carriage. “Oh, very much.” The lie came so easily to her tongue. “I’m so grateful—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “No more thanks. Didn’t Rosamunde warn what I might do if I have to suffer one more inch of gratitude? Can’t abide it. Besides, I think I made out very well in the bargain. Ata and the other ladies will be delighted to stay with you this coming year.”

  Georgiana smiled. “It is I who am grateful to them.” She moved aside as a footman exited the cottage, carrying several bandboxes. With a nod, Luc went past her and disappeared into the cottage, leaving her momentarily alone for the first time this morning.

  She knew she should follow the duke back inside. There were a few last things to attend to and she wanted to make sure her father was settled into the carriage properly, but she had to see Loe Pool one last time.

  She quickly made her way up the small hill and stared down past the stand of trees to Loe Pool. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to remove everything from the glass lake house. She’d left the cot made up and all the blankets. One day, perhaps, Fairleigh would convince her father to swim there and it would be ready for them.