"You weren't close to your uncle? I'd heard—" She cocked her head, and a moonbeam illuminated the lower portion of her face, revealing a pert chin and Cupid's bow lips, the lower clamped between her teeth.
What color were her eyes? Blue as was typical of most blondes? And what did she know of his uncle? For more than half a decade, Herbert had sequestered himself at Bromham Hall, and except for infrequent and unsolicited encounters with his heir, Horace, a cocksure weakling of dubious moral character, Bradford seldom had news of the sot his father had once called brother.
"He didn't hold you in his confidence? I thought the Kingsleys a close-knit, closed-mouth family, wary of outsiders." The angel cast a harried glance to the entrance before edging nearer to Bradford.
Had he interrupted a lover's assignation? Annoyance jabbed at Bradford's jealousy, doing its utmost to garner a reaction from him. He quashed the impulse. What she did in secluded, moonlit vestibules wasn't his concern.
Then why did it trouble him so much?
"Indeed, not. I hadn't spoken to him since…" Since the fire that stole Philomena… No. He wasn't trudging down that lengthy and ghoulish trail. He scratched his jaw just below his ear. "Well, in very long while. You might say we were at permanent odds. What had you heard?"
She stood before him now, so close he could touch her—brush her silky cheek with his thumb or cheek. The graceful curve of her mouth—lips molded for kissing—snared his attention. Her enticing perfume enveloped him once more, demanding he recall where he'd seen—and smelled?—her before.
Blast and damn, why couldn't he remember?
"At odds?" She peered up at him, her gaze unpretentious. "Why?"
Did confusion dance across her features? The pale light filtering through the lattice might have caused the illusion.
He brushed her jaw, the flesh warm and silky, with his knuckles. "You oughtn't to be out here alone. What if an unscrupulous chap came upon you?"
"How do I know you aren't just such a man?" She didn't pull away, though her breaths came quick and shallow, and she swallowed before wetting her lips. Not the reaction of a woman meeting her lover. "Even now, you might harbor dishonorable designs."
His pulse leaped. Oh, he had an idea or two, but he wouldn't call the musings dishonorable, more along the order of improper, sensual imaginings. Not altogether wise, contemplating kissing a nameless woman in an obscure arbor housed in the gardens of his soon-to-be-brother-in-law.
The moisture glistening on her plump and pink lower lip, enticed temptingly.
But, then again, who was he to turn down such an unexpected and precious gem?
Bradford lowered his head a couple of inches, and her sooty eyelashes swooped downward, fanning her cheeks. Hovering over her parted lips, her breath sweet and slightly fruity as if she'd eaten berries, he booted caution aside.
What could one kiss hurt? He had no intention of taking the moment as far as those in the bushes outside. Perhaps if he kissed her, he would finally recall how he knew her.
No, fool. If you'd ever kissed this woman before, you'd not have forgotten.
True. This woman would leave her mark on a man's soul. Savoring the moment, he trailed his tongue along the seam of her mouth, wanting her to experience the same enchantment encompassing him. How easily he could become snared in this temptress's grasp. He nipped the corner of her mouth.
She gasped and gripped his forearms, swaying slightly before relaxing into his chest and offering her mouth.
Gathering her into his arms, he pressed his lips to hers. Lust exploded, flooding through his veins and roaring in his ears. Tendrils of want wended around his senses, and he pulled her closer, deepening their kiss and cupping her lush buttocks.
"Pray tell, what the hell do you think you are doing mauling my sister, Kingsley?"
Her Scandalous Wish: Chapter Three
FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TEN minutes, Philomena gave a startled yelp and lost her balance—only this time, mortification licked her cheeks, and the muscled arms already encircling her kept her steady. Averting her gaze, she slipped from Bradford's embrace. Putting a respectable distance between them, she retreated to the bower's corner where she could observe her brother and the man she had once loved without revealing her rattled state.
Or before Bradford finally recognized her.
She flipped her fan open to cool the rush of warmth suffusing her.
What did it matter if he discovered her identity? He'd know soon enough. It changed nothing, and she certainly wasn't going to make a scene about the kiss. Absurd, this hurt constricting her chest because he still hadn't realized who she was.
He'd truly forgotten her.
She known him the instant he entered the Wimpleton's gilded ballroom. But then, to be fair, a hundred blazing candles lit the room, and here, only silvery moonbeams filtered through the rose-covered arbor. Nonetheless, she would have recognized him anywhere: the way he moved, the timbre of his voice, the angle of his head, his animal grace, his scent.
His essence had long ago been etched into her memory—her soul—and could no more be erased or obliterated than she could change her eye color. In her youthful naiveté, she'd thought the same true of him, but he had forgotten her, and the knowledge sent a fresh surge of betrayal to her heart.
In the bower's seclusion, he'd taken her in his arms, but he had also given her the opportunity to resist, to pull away, and she hadn't. She'd lifted her mouth in anticipation, wanting the kiss she'd been denied as a constantly chaperoned miss during his visits.
Hadn't she wished for that very thing a mere moment before?
No, she'd wished for true love's kiss, and Bradford had proven he didn't love her.
Utterly foolish, however, indulging in an actual kiss. It only served as reminder of that which she would never have. Besides, Giles had been most clear he regarded his former friend as his greatest foe, and her presence at the ball was for one purpose only.
To snare a husband as swiftly as possible, God forgive her, and Bradford was beyond her reach now.
Nevertheless, she wouldn't regret her impulsive action.
When he'd slipped into the arbor, it was as if time had propelled her back seven years, to the innocent girl, too young and protected to do much more than hold hands and make secret, fervent vows of undying love. A shallow, youthful love—at least on his part—incapable of enduring hardship and separation.
Her wish, cast upon a series of stars pelting across the heavens, had been to experience true love's kiss before she surrendered herself to a match of convenience and bore the fumbling and groping of a husband whose touch she only tolerated, or worse, repulsed her.
A delicate shudder skittered across her shoulders.
How shall I bear it?
Giles.
She would do it for him, because he'd sacrificed so much for her.
Risking his life, he'd saved her that terrifying night, pulling her from her bed and carrying her from the inferno as their home disintegrated around them. He'd sought out their peculiar, reclusive aunt with her healing gift and retained the best physician he could afford to tend to Philomena's burns. With no other options for immediate employment, he'd enlisted, sending the majority of his paltry wages home to pay for her medical fees.
Neither she nor her brother had suspected that Aunt Alice had secreted the monies away, along with the dotty woman's life-savings, and when their childless aunt died six months ago, she'd left them a tidy sum. Not enough to live on for a lengthy period, but enough, if they were frugal, to provide Philomena the Season Giles insisted upon.
She hadn't wanted to spend their funds on something so frivolous, but he'd quietly confessed that the physician had said his heart grew weaker, and Giles had but months to live. The now familiar pain of losing him blossomed in her chest.
Her brother's courage and selflessness mustn't be for naught, and if finding a husband brought him peace of mind and extended his life a single day, she would willingly make the sacrifice.
She'd all but given up on him joining her in the garden, he'd taken so long. His happening along as she clung to Bradford, savoring his firm lips upon hers, was pure coincidence—or perhaps, it had been providential, because she wasn't positive she would have been able to stop him if he'd wanted more than an ardent kiss.
No, she wasn't sure she would have been able to stop. Her girlish daydreams and fantasies fell short of the mark of his devastating, glorious kiss, and once she'd tasted his mouth, coherent thought had fled swifter than a startled bird to wing.
"Well, Kingsley?" Chest heaving and struggling for breath, Giles shuffled farther into the enclosure. "What say you?"
Had he been running, fearful for Philomena's safety when she wasn't on the veranda as agreed? Dash it all. She oughtn't to have ventured this far, but Mr. Wrightly had appeared, likely in search of her so he could present his address, and to avoid him, she'd fled into the garden's protection. She wasn't ready to refuse him just yet, nor could she accept him either.
A pleasant twinkle in his eye, Bradford inclined his head, not the least nonplussed. "I humbly beg your pardon. I was overtaken with the magic of the moonlight and the beauty of the woman I found staring at the same shooting stars as I."
"Save your flowery poppycock for someone who appreciates such claptrap." Giles seized a nearby post, and Philomena bit her lip to keep from crying out.
He detested others knowing how weak he became when he exerted himself. He would especially not want Bradford to know. They'd been the best of chums before the fire, swimming, hunting, and riding together whenever Bradford's family came down to the country to visit the viscount.
She crossed to Giles's side. Slipping her arm through his, she winced at the tremors shaking his frail frame.
"Extremely poor judgement on my part, brother dear. Let's go home, shall we? I'm quite done in."
"I fear you have me at a disadvantage." Even in the alcove's dimness, Bradford's teeth flashed brightly. "You know who I am, but I haven't the same privilege."
Giles's breath left him in a long, shuddery hiss, his eyes gone dark and cold as a wintry forest at midnight. When he spoke, the icy disdain in his voice raised the hairs on her nape. "You mean to tell me you don't know who you kissed just now? Who you've so carelessly compromised?"
"Surely a single, chaste kiss doesn't qualify?" Philomena didn't like the turn the conversation had taken, and although she hadn't any experience with kissing, she was positive the tongue tangling, explosion of sensation she'd just experienced had been a far cry from chaste. She tugged at her brother's arm. "Come, let's take our leave. No one but we three need ever know of my foolishness."
That she'd yielded to temptation, too sweet to resist, at the expense of guarding her heart and reputation. Fool.
"There was more than innocent kissing going on. I saw Kingsley pawing you."
Whether anger or difficulty drawing his breath caused Giles's husky voice, Philomena couldn't determine, but her alarm spiraled. He mustn't become agitated. It stressed his heart too much. "The fault is not entirely his. I shouldn't have been out here alone, and should have returned to the house at once when he entered the bower."
And I kissed him too.
She couldn't bring herself to confess that to Giles. He'd done everything a loving brother could to help her heal as well as forget Bradford's betrayal and abandonment, and she'd cast caution and good sense aside with the ease of a laundress tossing out dirty wash water.
Bradford shook his head, his keen gaze fluctuating between her and Giles. "I confess, I don't, but from your reaction, I fear I should. I thought I should as well, but I've been away from England these three years past, and have never been adept at remembering names."
"Have we changed so very much?" Pulling himself upright, a skeletal shell of the virile man he'd once been, Giles gave a short, harsh laugh.
Yes, he had.
He jerked his head toward Bradford. "Phil, he doesn't even remember us. You. The cawker just meant to take advantage of a woman he found alone."
"It wasn't like that. Please, you mustn't upset yourself." Philomena yanked on his thin arm. "Let me take you home. I'll prepare a hot toddy to help you sleep, Giles, and—"
"Giles?"
Bradford went rigid, and then took a half-step forward before halting abruptly. He shook his head, and even in the shadowy light, his probing gaze raked her. "Phil? Philomena Pomfrett? No, it's not possible. You're dead."
Raw pain and stunned disbelief radiated from his eyes, and his confused expression gave him a helpless, boyish appearance. He shook his head and scraped a hand through his hair, more vulnerable than Philomena had ever seen him.
"Dead? You imbecile, does she look dead?" After shaking off Philomena's restraining hand, Giles stomped the few feet to Bradford. Giles unreserved wrath spewed forth like a river breaching a dyke, and his face contorted into a snarl as he jabbed Bradford in the chest. "She did almost die and has the scars to prove the hell she endured. Made worse because the man she adored abandoned her."
"I'd been told you died in the fire." His face folding into distraught lines, Bradford held out his hand to her in entreaty. "Please, you must believe me. I didn't know."
He breath snagged as compassion welled within her. Had he suffered too?
"It doesn't matter. It's in the past. Water over a dam cannot be retrieved." Far too late for recriminations, at this juncture. She touched Giles's forearm, reluctant to reveal that he ailed, but anxious to calm him. Muted voices and a dove's sleepy coo trickled into the garden nook along with a violin's faint strains. "We risk someone coming upon us and overhearing, and that would ruin everything. My suitors mustn't know of this indiscretion."
"Suitors?" Surprise registered on Bradford's face before his features closed. "You've more than one?"
Why so astonished? She wasn't altogether repulsive to gaze upon; at least not clothed. He needn't know her beaux bordered on the dregs of humanity. Piqued, she arched a brow, and said, "Indeed, several as a matter of fact."
Unless her indiscretion became known.
Dear Lord, she'd be ruined. Just like that. All because of the irresistible temptation of true love's kiss. And then what would she and Giles do?
Stupid, rash girl.
Unyielding, his breathing shallow and rapid, Giles glowered at Bradford and flexed his hand as if he wanted to pummel him. He mustn't become more agitated.
"Giles, please. Your heart."
He would have none of it, however. "Let me guess. Your ruddy uncle told you she died, didn't he, Kingsley? Why am I not surprised? Did it ever occur to you that the manipulative old bugger lied? He reviled us from the moment the bishop appointed Father vicar. Most especially, the cur objected to you spending time with a family he held in such low regard. Did you even attempt to find me, to learn the truth, to see how I fared? After all, you thought I'd lost my entire family and my home."
Philomena flinched as if slapped, and ache burgeoning in her chest. She'd never considered the depth of Giles's hurt and anger, that his dearest friend had never sent his condolences or tried to see him. Absorbed in her physical and emotional pain, she'd been oblivious to his misery, and dear Giles wouldn't burden her with his suffering.
How selfish could she be?
A cloud drifted across the moon, plunging the arbor into darkness, and her earlier joy along with it.
"My friend, please accept my deepest, most heartfelt apologies, but I thought you dead as well." Closing his eyes for a moment, Bradford rubbed his right temple.
Even in the dim light, she could see the strain pinching his mouth, and she yearned to smooth the tension away with her lips.
"I was beside myself when I heard the news," he said, "and by the time I could bear coming down to Bromhamshire weeks later, nothing remained of the vicarage and church except the garden wall and the charred bell tower. My uncle claimed all had perished. In all these years, I haven't returned. Not once."
"Am I supposed to feel
sympathy for you?" Giles attempted a laugh, which ended on a wheezing cough. Something was wrong. His breathing rattled and rasped with each labored breath.
"No, but I want you to know I mourned mightily." He sought Philomena's eyes for a brief moment, and she couldn't help but feel he meant the words for her, almost as a request for forgiveness.
Her earlier anger at his callousness faded, replaced by searing regret. They would have been happy together, too, and now, that bliss was lost to her. He'd find some exquisite, unmarred bit of loveliness to wed, and she would settle on whichever man she could most stomach for the rest of her life.
"Perhaps some sixth sense alerted me, and that's why Philomena enchanted me when I saw her just now." He flicked a hand in her direction, though his attention never faltered from Giles.
"My sister is not some fast wench you can dally with." Hand shaking, Giles stripped off a glove then whacked Bradford's face, the slap echoing in the enclosure. "I demand satisfaction."
"Giles, no!" This was a damned fine turn of events. All because she hadn't the backbone to stand up to Mr. Wrightly.
Bradford cupped his cheek. "The devil you do. Are you dicked in the knob? You can barely stand upright."
Philomena pushed her way between the men pursed her mouth. "You're being utterly absurd. Please, let's leave, before this situation becomes any more ludicrous."
"It's my responsibility to protect you, Philomena. I may not have long left on this Earth, and I may be as weak as a runt, but by God, I shall see you properly married and set up in your own home before I cock up my toes!"
Her eyes misted. He championed her, even sick as a cushion.
Giles swayed and stumbled forward, bumping into the arbor and sending a shower of leaves and petals cascading down upon them.
"Giles!" Something was definitely wrong.
Once Upon a True Love's Kiss Page 25
