Once Upon a True Love's Kiss

by Julie Johnstone

  Bradford straightened until the sot was forced to crane his neck to meet his eyes.

  "Nothing of the sort. The Pomfretts and I are old friends, and I am the most fortunate of men that Miss Pomfrett has just agreed to become my viscountess, honoring a promise made many years ago."

  "You don't say?" The portly chap slapped the other on the back. "I won that bet, Underhill! Told you she had her sights set higher than a fourth son, I did. And you said no one of upper worth would have her. Calls for a celebration, it does."

  Philomena bristled and impaled Underhill with her narrowed eyes.

  Bradford itched to plant the boor a facer. He wasn't fit to wipe her slippers on.

  Henderson quaffed another long swallow from his flask. The stench of strong spirits emanated from him, and Bradford's nostrils twitched. Seems the sot had been celebrating a great deal this evening.

  Underhill scowled at his chum then struck a superior pose and elevated his nose. "Rather poor form, encouraging a gentleman's attentions when you're already promised to another, Miss Pomfrett. I admit to being quite put upon. The ton doesn't tolerate such fast and fickle behavior."

  Bradford clenched his fists. Only uneasiness about Philomena's reaction kept him from bloodying Underhill's nose.

  "The only think fast and fickle in this arbor is you, Mr. Underhill. You flit from silly girl to silly girl quicker than a bee after nectar, always with the intent of relieving her of her dowry and virginity, and not necessarily in that order. I am not such an empty-headed ninnyhammer and never once encouraged your attentions." Philomena stood and gave the fop a frosty stare, clutching her fan as if she'd like to give him a good poke.

  The Philomena of old would have.

  Another chilly breeze blew past, sending the greenery to quivering, and she hugged herself, shivering. Though mild for a May evening, the temperature had dipped in the last half hour, a not-so-subtle reminder that spring hadn't yet lost winter's sting.

  "If you were already spoken for, why did your brother go about practically begging men to take you off his hands?" Underhill's reedy voice exploded into the stunned silence.

  "That's outside of enough, you lying, ill-begotten swine." Giles lurched to his feet, his sister immediately scooting to his side and restraining him. "Apologize to my sister—"

  Damn it to hell.

  Seizing Underhill's lapels, Bradford jerked him off the ground. He gave a sharp shake, satisfaction thrumming through him. Underhill provided just the outlet he needed for his pent-up emotions. "You will apologize to the future Viscountess Kingsley and her brother, and then take your sorry arse and leave. Is that understood?"

  Bullies like Underhill seldom stood up to bolder men.

  Underhill gulped audibly, his toady eyes bulging. His mouth worked, but no lucid sound emerged for a few seconds. At last, he managed a strangled, "Yes. Quite. My lord."

  "Viscountess Kingsley? Thought I heard my cousin tittering something about a Viscountess Kingsley. Cannot 'member what, 'xactly." Henderson scratched his chins and squinted at Bradford. "Victoria does prattle on 'bout the queerest things. Spent a quarter of an hour discussin' various shades of yellow embroidery thread last time I saw the gel. She had seventeen. I try m' best to ignore her."

  Babbling must have been a family trait.

  Bradford lowered Underhill until his feet settled on the pavers. Keeping one hand firmly round his arm, Bradford propelled the bufflehead toward Philomena and Giles, each looking ready to topple head over bum.

  "Please accept my deepest, most earnest apology, Miss Pomfrett, Pomfrett." Underhill's grudging mutter, steeped in insincerity, clearly conveyed the opposite.

  Not bloody good enough. Not by half. Bradford jerked Underhill's upper arm. "And?"

  Underhill's brows crashed together in an irate glower. "I was completely out of order and unaccountably rude."

  "And?" Bradford intended to wring every drop of remorse from the cull for insulting Philomena.

  Underhill shot Bradford a venom-laced glare. "I humbly beg your forgiveness."

  "And?"

  As he swung to face Bradford, Underhill's face contorted into a snarl. "What the bloody hell else am I supposed to say?"

  Bradford chuckled, quite enjoying taking this uppity cawker down a peg. "That you're a foul-mouthed, thoughtless chucklehead who's undeserving of a woman as magnificent as Miss Pomfrett, and that she even deigns to be in the same room with a twiddlepoop such as you is an honor beyond measure."

  "Chucklehead. Twiddlepoop." Henderson released a girlish giggle, his flask at the ready once more. He hiccupped. "'Pon my rep, tha'ssh funny."

  "Stubble it, Henderson." Huffing his displeasure, Underhill wheeled round to face Philomena again. "I'm a thoughtless—"

  "Giles?" Philomena's husky voice rose in alarm. "Bradford!"

  Bradford lunged too late.

  Pomfrett hit the ground with a portentous thud.

  Her Scandalous Wish: Chapter Five

  FATE PROVED MOST FICKLE, BESTOWING A welcome blessing after extracting an excruciating toll. Philomena could find no other explanation for her and Giles staying in the Duchess of Daventry's luxurious home while he battled for his life.

  The duchess's generosity and kindness, wholly unexpected, knew no bounds. Immediately upon spying Bradford carrying Giles's limp form into Wimpleton's manor, she'd sailed to the entrance, called for her coach, and insisted Giles be transported to her much closer house rather than the humble—more aptly, tumbledown—cottage Philomena and Giles rented on London's outskirts. The colorful dame had also sent for her personal physician and paid Doctor Singleton's fee as well.

  "You're my guests, Miss Pomfrett. I won't hear another word about paying Percy. That crusty old barnacle ought to tend your brother for free considering how frequently I've needed his services of late." She'd winked, a mischievous youthful glint in her eyes, despite the wrinkles etching her once handsome face. "Aging is not for the faint of heart."

  "I'm sure that is true," Philomena murmured politely, uncertain what else to say.

  "Besides, I quite anticipate seeing my nephew at sixes and sevens with you underfoot. That cocksure boy could do with a good rattling. I remember how eagerly he anticipated visits to Bromhamshire, my dear, and I know it wasn't anticipation of seeing his cantankerous uncle or wastrel cousins at Bromham Hall that had him gallivanting to the country at every opportunity."

  With a painful pang to the region near her heart, Philomena remembered too. Blinking back tears, she forced her lips to turn up. She couldn't retrace her steps and relive the past few years. Her only choice was to move forward, wherever that obscure path might lead her. "I'm not positive his lordship's affections are what they once were, Your Grace."

  "Hmph. More fool he then." The duchess's expression grew solemn, though kindness brimmed in her eyes. "My dear, if things shouldn't work out between you and my nephew, I would be honored if you would consider becoming my companion. My son's wife prefers that I not visit often, and once Olivia marries… well, this drafty old house gets lonely. And I dearly want to visit my daughter in Spain but have hesitated to take the journey by myself."

  Glad tears blurred her eyes. An answer to one prayer. "Your offer is very generous, Your Grace, and one I gratefully accept."

  "Excellent. You've made me very happy, though in truth, I hope that boy comes to his senses." After kissing Philomena's cheek, Her Grace had set off to the kitchen to ensure a hearty broth was prepared in the event Giles awoke.

  Now, whether he lived or died, Philomena wasn't compelled to wed. Profoundly relieved, the closest thing to peace she'd experienced in long while engulfed her. She smoothed the rich satin counterpane across his chest again, then—holding her breath—tentatively rested her palm upon his gaunt chest. Yes, he still breathed, though shallow and weak, his lips blue tinged and his pallor as white as the sheets he lay upon.

  Ten days he'd lain here, rarely rousing. Ten trying, yet wonderful days as Giles struggled for his life, and she
and Bradford became reacquainted. Fate's capriciousness again, bringing Philomena's only love back into her life just as she faced losing her brother.

  She'd fallen in love with Bradford all over again. More accurately, she'd never stopped loving him, but in recent days, she had dared to allow the emotion she'd deliberately buried so long ago, to reemerge—perhaps foolishly, and she would regret her lapse later. Her love had grown and blossomed into a something wondrous and magical, way beyond a young girl's adoration into the permanent binding of her soul to his. How could it not? Loving him came as easily as the sun rising or rain falling.

  There would be no other man for her. Ever.

  He, on the other hand, had given no indication, not the merest hint, whether he returned her affection, and the uncertainty kept her lips sealed. Especially, since there'd been no further mention of them wedding either, not that she'd hold him to the absurd bargain Giles had negotiated in the bower. Nonetheless, that knowledge, added to her despair about Giles, had become an almost unbearable ache. She was at once, her happiest and gloomiest, a jumble of conflicting emotions.

  Giles stirred, mumbling something incoherent before stilling once more. Only a trace remained of the purplish, egg-sized bump on his forehead and ugly scrape along his left cheek from his tumble. With each new dawn, she praised God that he still lived.

  A regretful half-smile curved her mouth as she examined the chamber.

  He'd never slept in finer bedding, yet he couldn't appreciate the quality of the luxurious ivory and gold coverlet or the opulent room. That couldn't be said of the Kingsleys' rotund, orange-striped tabby. Socrates, his nose tucked beneath a white-tipped paw, lay curled against Giles's legs, snoozing contentedly.

  Sitting beside Giles, she lifted his limp hand and closed her eyes in silent prayer. Please God. She pressed the back to her cheek then kissed the cool flesh.

  "You must get better, Giles. You're all I have. I know it's selfish of me, and would extend your suffering, but I cannot bear losing you. I'm not ready to be alone yet. It's too soon."

  I shall never be ready. How can I let him go?

  A tender touch to her shoulder made her eyelids fly open.

  "You have me, Philomena."

  Bradford had slipped into the chamber, leaving the door ajar. His taut-fitting emerald jacket emphasized the breadth of his wide shoulders, and his ivory pantaloons accentuated his ridiculously long, muscular legs. An emerald stickpin winked from the folds of his cravat, and sooty stubble shadowed his strong jaw. Was he one of those men who needed to shave twice daily? She longed to rub her cheek against the roughness and inhale his unique, manly scent.

  Her heart turned over, or perhaps the peculiar fluttering centered in her stomach—so difficult to tell which, when her breath snagged and her pulse stumbled momentarily.

  He'd never looked more striking, and a flash of awareness dampened her palms.

  The youthful Bradford had been such a charming scamp. The mature man, a dangerously rakish rogue. Both had captivated her heart, although the latter proved the more formidable.

  He'd always been deft of foot and used to creep into the vicarage's gardens too. He relished surprising her with a new ribbon, a handful of posies, a book, or even on occasion, La Bell Assembleé or Ackermann's Repository of Arts, Literature, Commerce, Manufacturers, Fashion and Politics he'd filched from his mother.

  How Philomena had delighted in perusing Ackermann's fashion plates and reading the latest on dit. And gleaning every useful morsel that might help her be a wife worthy of him when the day finally came. Moisture pooled in her eyes as much for the loss of their innocent, uncomplicated love as for her brother.

  "Do I have you, even though Giles meant to coerce you into wedding me?" She searched Bradford's face. How she adored him.

  Compassion deepened his eyes to midnight blue. His handsome mouth tilted sympathetically, and he squeezed her shoulder, leaving his sturdy hand there, the possessive gesture infusing her with his strength. "You always have and always shall."

  Unbidden warmth welled in her chest, spiraling outward, the heat spreading into her veins, giving her hope. Did he mean it? Could he truly care for her still?

  Had time diminished her feelings for him?

  No, but unlike a besotted schoolgirl blinded by giddiness, a woman clearly recognized love's poignancy and fallibility. And the risk it took to surrender oneself to the emotion. To love with abandon meant relinquishing part of your soul to another, trusting unreservedly. The pain she'd endured when she thought Bradford had betrayed her had been a thousand times worse than her burn-ravaged flesh, and she never wanted to endure that agony again.

  She wouldn't survive.

  To hide the maelstrom of regret assailing her, Philomena busied herself tucking Giles's hand under the bedding, atop his chest. After smoothing the covers once more, she plucked the faded gingham skirt of the well-worn dress Bradford had retrieved from her cottage this morning.

  "Thank you for this. I'm rather self-conscious about others seeing my scars, else I would have gratefully accepted Olivia's sweet offer to borrow a gown."

  Which would have been several inches too long, and probably too snug around as well. Olivia sported a tall, lithesome figure, whereas Philomena was of average height and much rounder curves shaped her form.

  "Understandable." His attention dipped to her chest for a fraction, no doubt curious what, precisely, the gown hid. Except the appreciative gleam in his eyes gave her pause. Mayhap he speculated about something other than the scars, and for the first time since the flames had ravaged her flesh, womanly awareness puckered her breasts.

  His penetrating gaze again swooped downward again. Could he see the pebble-hard tips? "Do they bother you?"

  My nipples?

  "Do they hurt?"

  Not hurt exactly, more of an ache.

  Jaw slack, and in an unaccustomed dither, Philomena struggled for an appropriate answer. How did one respond to a gentleman discussing your bosoms?

  A set down and a sharp slap, that's how. She couldn't muster the vexation for either, or more on point, didn't want to. His impertinence should outrage her, and that it didn't revealed just how deeply, and absolutely he'd captured her. Again.

  "I beg your pardon." His gaze snared hers before he rolled his head, his sheepish expression that of a rascally child who knew he'd overstepped the bounds. "That was much too forward. I but worried the scars yet caused you discomfort."

  "Oh." See, nincompoop. He wasn't talking about your breasts at all.

  Thank goodness she hadn't scolded him. His intent had been solicitousness. Then why did she feel mildly disappointed he hadn't been ogling her? She raised a shoulder and fingered a loose thread at her wrist. "They itch at times, and I dislike how they feel when I touch them. I don't think I shall ever become accustomed."

  She wouldn't. Would he or any other man? How could she expect them to?

  That was one reason she'd been reluctant to encourage her undesirable suitors, despite her promise to Giles. Nevertheless, she retained the smallest iota of hope that a man would yearn to wed her and not be disgusted by her scars. If only that man could be Bradford.

  "I imagine it would take time." No hint of distaste registered on his face or in his deep voice, only sympathy. "Are there many?"

  "Several. You do know the viscount started the fire?" Focusing on a Blue John vase atop the fireplace mantel beyond his shoulder, she relived the horror. The scorching heat and acrid smoke. The agony and the terror. She veered Bradford a sideways glance. "Giles told me he confronted him. Your uncle claimed he accidentally dropped a candle near the altar when he kneeled to pray."

  "That damn—" Nostrils flaring and jaw taut, Bradford smothered the vulgar curse.

  He needn't on her behalf, for she had condemned Herbert Kingsley to every kind of hell imaginable, particularly in those first horrendous weeks. She hadn't forgiven him entirely either, perhaps never would be able to. Every glimpse of herself unclothed in a mirror remin
ded her of her parents' needless deaths, Giles's suffering, and the loss of Bradford's love. She rolled a shoulder in an attempt to gracious. "Perhaps he truly had sought God's guidance."

  "What utter rot." Bradford took a deep breath. "Forgive me, but my uncle hadn't set foot in a church for decades, and if that spawn of Satan prayed, it wasn't to God Almighty, I assure you."

  "I supposed as much." She nodded, blinking drowsily.

  Sleep had eluded her these past weeks. Anxiety for Giles, apprehension about their finances, and dread of an inevitable marriage robbed her of slumber nightly. Though she needn't worry about the latter two anymore, Giles's condition still kept her tossing and turning. She yawned behind her hand, weary to her bones' marrow. "I've always wondered why he hated us so."

  "That we'll never know." Bradford cupped her nape and rubbed her knotted neck muscles, the long strokes and gentle kneading bringing much-needed relief. "How does Giles fare? Any improvement?"

  "No." She shook her head. "Though he's no worse either."

  Bradford made a sound in the back of his throat. "I had hoped for better news, for your sake."

  For the life of her, she couldn't form a single protest at his impudence, or the impropriety of his caresses, but instead, closed her eyes and bowed her neck, breathing out a silent sigh. She'd missed his touch, and like a long-parched plant, soaked the sensation into every arid pore.

  "That's it. Relax. You deserve a modicum of respite. You're half asleep on your feet." He brushed her hair aside—tied back with a ribbon rather than knotted properly atop her head—

  before setting both hands to massaging her neck and shoulders.

  Could he feel the few irregular, hardened ridges through her dress's thin fabric? The worst scars, the ribbons of unsightly, rigid flesh, marred her front and forearms. She sighed as errant flickers pulsed in places she had no business noticing with her dying brother lying beside her, and she shifted, edging away from Bradford.

  Socrates raised his head and, citrine orbs barely open, eyed her disdainfully for disturbing his nap before yawning and resuming his slumber.