Only a Kiss

by Mary Balogh

  “Six?” Aunt Lavinia said, her soup spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. “They should be finished in no time at all, then.”

  “If they come again tomorrow,” Cousin Adelaide added.

  “Oh, but I believe they will,” Imogen assured her. “Mr. Tidmouth was most apologetic for all the delays. He told me that he has been unwell since Christmas and that his second-in-command has been sending out the men to other, less important jobs without his knowledge. He will see to it personally that every one of his men comes to Hardford every day until the work is finished. He even assured me that having now seen the house for himself, he realizes that he overestimated the cost of the repairs and will lower the new, reduced estimate even further as an apology for the long delay.”

  “Never trust a man who apologizes to a lady,” Cousin Adelaide said, “or a businessman who reduces his price.”

  “I am very happy for you, Imogen,” Aunt Lavinia said, “though the repair to the roof will mean your removal back to the dower house, I suppose. I shall miss you.”

  “But I will be close by,” Imogen said, “and will call on you almost every day, as I always have.”

  She would be so happy to be back home with just herself for company except when she chose to go out. She would be very happy to be away from the disturbing presence of the earl.

  He had not contributed to the conversation about her roof. He had concentrated instead upon his food and his wine and merely regarded her somewhat sleepily once in a while from below half-lowered eyelids. It was a new expression, an annoying affectation.

  “I daresay,” she said, addressing him directly, “it was the letter I wrote yesterday that brought Mr. Tidmouth here today with his apology and his men. The polite letter. Good manners are often more effective than bluster. If I had gone all the way to Meirion merely to fume at him, as you advised yesterday, Cousin Percy, I would probably have been kept waiting another week or so as punishment.”

  “Quite so, Cousin Imogen,” he said agreeably, raising his glass to her. “My hat is off to you.”

  But as she cut into her roast beef, she suddenly felt a horrid, ghastly suspicion. Never trust a man who apologizes to a lady, or a businessman who reduces his price. She looked up sharply at the earl, but his attention was upon his own roast beef, and suspicion gave way to irritation over the fact that he looked simply splendid in his dark blue evening coat with paler blue satin waistcoat and snowy white cravat and a neckcloth so intricately arranged that poor Alden Alton, if he was at the Kramers’ house tonight, would surely die of envy and despair.

  What was the real explanation, though, for the sudden appearance of so many workers, all diligently occupied, this afternoon? And for the oily apologies Mr. Tidmouth had uttered? And for the strangely drastic drop in price? Had she been very naive to be delighted by it all?

  She had no chance to confront her suspicions or the man who had aroused them. They all rode to the village together in the earl’s opulent traveling carriage. He must, Imogen concluded, have other sources of income than just Hardford. Perhaps the younger branch of the Hayes family had been somewhat more ambitious than the elder. Imogen sat with her back to the horses, as did the earl, so that the older ladies might have the more desirable forward-facing ones. But the carriage, she discovered, though luxurious, was no wider than the more humble one that sat idle in the carriage house. She could feel his body heat along one side, a fact that would have been comforting on this chill February evening if the heat had not carried with it the faint odor of an expensive, musky cologne and a powerful aura of masculinity. That latter fact annoyed her intensely. She could not remember ever being suffocated by any other man’s masculinity, though she had known many virile, attractive men.

  Oh, she would be very happy when she was back home in her own house.

  * * *

  And it was for this that he had dashed down to Cornwall to escape his boredom, Percy was thinking. Though that was not strictly accurate, was it? He had not expected to escape boredom, but had decided quite consciously to travel deeper into it just to see what happened. Well, this was what happened.

  He was sitting in his traveling carriage with three ladies, one of whom suffered from tender sensibilities and had filled his house and park with strays; another of whom spoke in a baritone voice and had not uttered a single complimentary word about the male half of the species since his arrival, but had spoken plenty of derogatory ones; and a third of whom was made of marble. And if this journey was not enough to plunge him into the deepest gloom, there was the fact that their destination was the Kramer house, where they were to be entertained by the musical talents of the Kramer ladies and the neighbors at large.

  The Misses Kramer, he discovered after their arrival, fancied themselves as pianists and vocalists, and proceeded over the couple of hours following the arrival of all their other invited guests to demonstrate the truth or falsity of that fancy. To be fair, however, they did not monopolize the evening’s entertainment. A few other ladies sang and played the pianoforte. Alton had brought his violin, and his son, looking as though he would rather be cast into the fiery furnace with the lions thrown in for good measure, played along with him on a flute. The Reverend Boodle sang to his wife’s accompaniment in a bass voice that might have set the liquor decanters to rattling if there had been any in the room.

  Lady Barclay conversed with Lady Quentin, wife of Sir Matthew Quentin, and with Miss Wenzel before the recital began. When everyone took a seat for the entertainment, it was Wenzel, gentleman farmer, who seated himself beside her, drawing his chair a little closer to hers as he did so. He proceeded to engage her in conversation—or, rather, to deliver a monologue—while ignoring the music. It was ill-mannered of him, to say the least, though he did keep his voice low enough not to disturb those around them who chose to be polite and listen, among which virtuous number Percy included himself. Wenzel did not even pretend to listen. His eyes and his whole attention were fixed upon the lady, who admittedly was looking fetching enough in a blue gown that complemented every curve of her body to perfection—as well as complementing his own waistcoat, Percy had noticed at dinner. Wenzel did not applaud any of the entertainers. The man must not have visited a tailor for the past five years, and he was more than half bald—for which uncharacteristically uncharitable thoughts Percy did not pause to berate himself.

  Lady Barclay herself did listen to, or at least keep her eyes upon, the performers. And she applauded. Only twice did Percy see her make a brief answering remark to Wenzel, and only one of those times did she turn her head to look at him.

  The man irritated Percy. The really annoying thing, though, was that he was noticing such things. Wenzel was trying to fix his interest with Lady Barclay, as he had every right to do. He was a single gentleman of roughly her own age, and she was a widow. Good luck to him if he aspired to marry her. He would need luck, though. She was giving him no encouragement. Nor, it was true, was she giving any sign that she felt harassed by his attentions. She was being her usual marble self. Percy had no excuse whatsoever for wanting to express his displeasure.

  But why should he feel irritated? Had he become all proprietary just because the woman lived beneath his roof? The very idea threatened to bring him out in a cold sweat.

  Mrs. Payne, the admiral’s wife, had a soprano voice with a pronounced vibrato and more than lived up to her name during the Handel aria she had chosen. Percy dutifully clapped when she was finished and agreed with Mrs. Kramer in a slightly raised voice because the latter was deaf that yes, indeed, it had been a fortunate day for the neighborhood when Admiral Payne decided to settle among them upon his retirement.

  The grand finale of the entertainment portion of the evening was a Bach piece with some clever finger work performed by Miss Gertrude Kramer, the younger sister. It was clearly the signal to the servants to bring in the refreshments, which were set out along a large sideboard at one side of
the room, while tea and coffee trays were placed on a table for the elder Miss Kramer to pour. There was no sign of anything alcoholic making its appearance.

  Wenzel leaned closer to Lady Barclay before getting to his feet and making his way over to the sideboard. Percy stood unhurriedly, congratulated two or three of the evening’s performers who were within his orbit, including a stammering, blushing Alden Alton, strolled across the room away from the sideboard, and took the empty seat beside his third cousin-in-law once removed.

  She looked up at him in some surprise and what he would have interpreted as relief if it had not been highly unlikely.

  “I hope,” he said, “you enjoyed the musical entertainment, ma’am?”

  “I did,” she said. “Everyone means well and tries very hard.”

  Which was damning the artistes with faint praise, he thought appreciatively. “Quite so,” he agreed. “And did you also enjoy the conversation?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I would have preferred to concentrate all my attention upon the music.”

  “Why did you not instruct him to stuff it, then?” he asked her.

  “Perhaps, Lord Hardford,” she said, “because I try at all times to observe good manners.”

  “Perhaps you were enjoying the gentleman’s attentions,” he said, “even if you would have preferred to listen to the music first. Shall I give him back his chair when he returns with a plate for you? I take it that is what he has gone to fetch.”

  “I believe it is not your concern whose attentions I enjoy or do not enjoy,” she told him. “But, no. Please stay where you are.”

  At almost the same moment Wenzel was back, a loaded plate in each hand. He looked pointedly at Percy, his eyebrows raised.

  “Ah,” Percy said, “how very good of you, Wenzel.” And he took one of the plates and handed it to Lady Barclay with a smile before taking the other for himself.

  Wenzel was left with empty hands and an unfathomable expression on his face.

  “But you must go back and fill a plate for yourself,” Percy said kindly, “before all the food is gone. Though there does seem to be an abundance of it. Mrs. Kramer and her daughters have done us proud. I trust you enjoyed the recitals?”

  Wenzel looked speakingly at the lady before murmuring something indecipherable, bowing, and moving off.

  “Thank you,” Lady Barclay said.

  “Oh, it was nothing, ma’am,” Percy assured her. “Procuring you a plate took no effort at all.”

  And she laughed.

  It was a ghastly shock. It almost knocked him off his chair and onto the floor.

  It was a brief laugh that lit up her whole face with amusement, gave an impression of dazzling, vibrant beauty, and was gone without a trace.

  And it left him with the shocking realization that he wanted to make love to her.

  It was fortunate—very fortunate—that conversation had become general and that Sir Matthew Quentin was asking his opinion on what appeared to be a matter of interest to everyone.

  “And you, Hardford,” he said, “what is your opinion on smuggled brandy?”

  Since there was no liquor in sight, Percy assumed it was an academic question. “Undoubtedly it is usually of a superior quality,” he said. “However, the fact that it has been brought into the country illegally makes it a forbidden delight.”

  It seemed to him that almost everyone smirked as though he had just uttered something witty, and by doing so had been admitted to membership of a secret club.

  “Ah, but are not forbidden fruits always the sweetest?” the dandyish young Mr. Soames asked.

  His father frowned at him, two of his sisters tittered, and the Misses Kramer looked shocked. The third Soames sister and one of the Boodle girls put their ringleted heads together over by the pianoforte and giggled behind the fan one of them held open.

  “Quite so,” Percy said, nodding genially in the direction of the young man, who would undoubtedly be on the receiving end of his father’s wrath later tonight.

  Lady Quentin began a determined discussion of the varying merits of Chinese and Indian tea.

  Percy, listening with half an ear, was making connections. Smuggled brandy. Smugglers. Cornwall, specifically the southern coast of Cornwall.

  “Is there any smuggling activity hereabouts?” he asked the ladies on the way home.

  “Not much now,” Lady Lavinia said into a silence that lasted a beat too long. “There used to be, I believe, during the wars.”

  “But there still is some?”

  “Oh, it is possible, I suppose,” she said, “though I have not heard of any.”

  “And there is nothing even vaguely romantic about it,” Lady Barclay added.

  “Romantic?” He turned to face her as far as he was able given the narrow confines of the carriage seat. Not that he could see her clearly even then. It was a dark night and the carriage lamp was throwing its light forward rather than back.

  “Smugglers, pirates, highwaymen,” she said. “They are often glamorized as rather dashing heroes.”

  “Carrying off the swooning heroine lashed to the mast of the ship or thrown over the back of the horse or tossed over a man’s shoulder and carried by superhuman strength to the top of a sheer cliff?” he said. “You are not a romantic, Cousin Imogen?”

  Mrs. Ferby snorted.

  “Not on the subject of bullies and criminals and cutthroats,” Lady Barclay said.

  He continued to look her way in the darkness. There had been real bitterness in her voice.

  “But is he not always the wronged son of a duke?” he asked her. “The eldest son, that is, and is he not, through seemingly suicidal acts of great derring-do, setting the world to rights and clearing his name and winning the undying love of the sweet damsel in distress, who is quite possibly a princess, and, as a final reward, being restored to his inheritance and his father’s bosom and marrying the princess and living happily ever after?”

  Mrs. Ferby snorted again. “One must give the man his due, Lavinia,” she said. “He has a sense of humor.”

  “You ought to be writing for the Minerva Press,” Lady Barclay said.

  He wondered if she was smiling, even if only inwardly. It would be a worthy, heroic thing to do, he thought, to make this woman laugh again as she had laughed at the Kramer house, and to make her do it again and again. Perhaps he ought to make it his life’s mission. Would it be an achievable goal, though? He half smiled in the darkness. Sometimes one wondered where such absurd fancies came from. He must still be horribly bored.

  According to the older ladies, it was dreadfully late when they arrived home. According to the grandfather clock in its splendid old case in the hall, it was not quite eleven o’clock. Percy bade the ladies good night, ascertained from Crutchley that a fire had been lit in the library, and took himself off there for a read and a drink before going to bed for sheer lack of anything more interesting to do.

  Inevitably there were animals in the room—two cats on the hearth and Hector under the desk. Percy ignored them.

  He was pouring himself some port at the sideboard when the door opened and Lady Barclay stepped inside. She had shed her cloak and bonnet and donned a woolen shawl over that fetching blue evening dress of hers. It was not elaborately styled. None of her dresses was that he had seen. They did not need to be, though. She had the most perfect figure he had ever seen. Not that anything could be most perfect or even more perfect, since perfect was an absolute in itself. He could hear that explanation in the voice of one of his tutors.

  “Wine?” he asked her.

  “Why was Mr. Tidmouth at my house this afternoon?” she asked him. “And why were there six workmen with him? Why has the cost of the new roof dropped in half?”

  Ah.

  “Wine?” he asked again.

  She took a few steps in his direction. Sh
e had come to do battle, he could see. She did not answer his question.

  “My house?” he said. “As in yours? I still maintain that it is mine, Lady Barclay, though you may live in it with my blessing until your eightieth year if you so choose, or your ninetieth should you live so long. After that we will renegotiate.”

  “You went to see him.” She took another step closer. “You ranted at him. You threatened him.”

  He raised his eyebrows. She looked rather magnificent when she was angry. Anger put some color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.

  “Ranted?” he said faintly, closing one hand about the handle of his quizzing glass—not the jeweled one—and raising it halfway to his eye. “Threatened? You wrong me, ma’am, I do assure you.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose you just played haughty aristocrat.”

  “Played?” Briefly he raised the glass all the way to his eye. “But what is the point of being an aristocrat, ma’am, if one cannot also play at being what one is? I do assure you, it renders rants and threats quite unnecessary. Underlings, in which category I number roofers, quite wilt in the presence of hauteur and a jeweled quizzing glass and a lace-edged handkerchief.”

  “You had no right.” She had taken yet more steps closer.

  “On the contrary, ma’am,” he said, “I had every right.”

  He was rather enjoying himself, he realized. This was better than reading his book, which was the poetry of Alexander Pope of all things.

  “It was my battle to fight,” she told him. “I resent your interference.”

  “Despite your title, ma’am,” he said, “and the impressive fact that you are the third cousin-in-law once removed of the Earl of Hardford, you seem not to have overcome what must be Tidmouth’s total disregard for women. He undoubtedly belongs to an inferior subspecies of the human race, and one must pity his wife and daughters, if there are such persons. But the fact remains that you need his services, since he appears to have no competition for at least fifty miles around. I need his services too. Without them I might be doomed to having to offer you my continued hospitality here at Hardford Hall for another year or more.”