The Lady Most Likely...

by Julia Quinn

  “No, it wasn’t perfectly clear or no, you will not kiss me?” she asked, all coyness and feminine wiles.

  In answer, he made an odd, half-strangled groan, which she took as a very encouraging sign.

  “Well, I think you should,” she said, smiling up at him through the misting rain.

  In answer, he reached between them and seized the lapels of his greatcoat, inadvertently dragging her closer. “You’re being absurd,” he growled.

  She wasn’t afraid. She was riveted. She loved him, as much as a sixteen-year-old can love, and she trusted him. And she wanted him in a nebulous but nonetheless powerful way. “Not at all. I am being most practical. I have foreseen the inevitability of being kissed and after some deliberation have decided that I want my first experience to be an enjoyable one, a most enjoyable one, and as you are well-known to have some expertise in the area, it only makes sense that I should want you to be my first kiss.”

  She smiled up at him, cocking her brow, fully anticipating that he would now bend his head and kiss her. He didn’t. He glowered. But he didn’t release the chokehold he had on the poor material at her throat and he did not step back and so Kate stood on the very tips of her toes, stretching up as high as she could and … and …

  Kissed him.

  His lips were cool and damp with rain and quite, quite unresponsive. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her after all. She might have lost her nerve then, dropped to her feet and fled in embarrassment, except that as her lips began their retreat, his head dipped, and his lips clung to hers, molding against them. His lips lingered, parting slightly, his breath hot on her mouth, his tongue slipping along the seam of her mouth and sending a jolt through her. She shivered as his kiss grew more urgent and demanding, his mouth yearning against hers, denying the paralysis that seemed to have gripped the rest of him. In no other way did he touch her, and though he did not release his hold of her coat, he did not move one inch closer.

  Without volition, she melted against him, her hands splayed over his broad chest, bracing herself as his heartbeat thickened and his body tensed. Only when she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself full against him did his statuelike stillness break. With a sound half growl half groan, he clasped her upper arms and physically lifted her away from him.

  “I will not risk that which I value most for a moment’s pleasure.” His voice was so low she barely heard him.

  She stared up at him, her thoughts reeling and her senses tingling with unsatisfied pricks of need.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I’m buying a commission in the cavalry,” he said, breathing hard. “I am going away.”

  “What?” she asked, stunned. He had never spoken of joining the cavalry, never expressed any desire to wear a uniform. Never. And yet this was the thing he wanted most in the world? And he feared kissing her would jeopardize it because …? Dear God, he did not for a moment think she would insist he had compromised her? He couldn’t think so poorly of her! And yet—A sob broke from her.

  “Kate, please. I cannot stay here.”

  “Fine. Go!” she choked out amidst her humiliation and pain.

  “Kate, you cannot always have what you want. Not this time. In a few years, when you are not so young—”

  “I am not a child!” she cried out, tears spilling down her cheeks and mingling with the rain. She wrenched herself free of his clasp and yanked off his greatcoat, flinging it at him. He caught it in one hand and took a step toward her, his other hand outstretched, his face pale.

  “Kate—”

  “Go to hell, Neill Oakes,” she said and, wheeling around, fled.

  Chapter 11

  Four years later

  You are adorable, Miss Peyton,” Hugh, Earl of Briarly murmured, stopping before a late-flowering rosebush in his sister, the Marchioness of Finchley’s, garden. It was late afternoon, and the other houseguests were resting before dinner. But Lord Briarly had suggested that Kate might like to visit the garden, and as this fell in nicely with Kate’s plans—Kate being a self-acknowledged master planner—she’d agreed.

  Lord Briarly tipped Kate’s chin up between his thumb and forefinger, angling her face with unexpected gentleness. Kate was no longer a green debutante. She understood perfectly well his intentions. Indeed, she anticipated it. She held her breath, preparing to be kissed and preparing to like it.

  Hugh was very handsome and most manly. Indeed, he looked a great deal like her father’s head groom, a large, muscular fellow with dark reddish brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. It would, of course, be nice had he trimmed his hair. It would lend him just that certain air of elegance he somehow, well, missed. He was also, truth be told, a trifle dusty, and having two seasons now firmly on her family’s account ledger, Kate felt secure in opining that an earl oughtn’t be dusty.

  Still, he was an earl and he did have magnificent cattle and he did bathe. Which until recently was more than she could have said of her four brothers … She chided herself. She ought to have been attending more closely to what Briarly was about because as she’d been considering his lack of sartorial splendor, his head had been slowly descending toward hers, but now he’d paused, an odd, hesitant expression appearing on his face.

  She knew that look. Having assumed the role of matriarch upon her mother’s death six years ago, she was well versed in reading male expressions. The earl wanted encouragement. Males, young, old, servant, or earl, always wanted encouragement.

  So when he smiled down into her eyes, Kate smiled back, lifting her chin even higher to make sure he understood that his kiss was welcome. Because it would be very pleasant to be pursued by an earl, especially now. Then she shut her eyes. And waited. And when nothing happened, experienced a twinge of rueful irritation. Must she do everything herself? She pursed her lips invitingly. Briarly swore.

  Startled, Kate opened her eyes just in time to see Briarly spin around as a dark sleeve ending in a large hand shot out of nowhere and connected with his shoulder, pushing him forcefully away. The earl stumbled back, his muscular arms already notching into battle-readiness, but by now Kate, well used to ending masculine tussles, had already darted between Briarly and his assailant. She swung around to face the interloper and—

  Neill.

  She knew he had been invited; she’d expected him, but still … It had been four years.

  She stared, her heart leaping in her throat, her breath rushing out between her parted lips as she took an involuntary step toward him. Her hands rose in an unconscious gesture of welcome as her gaze marked every detail of his countenance, every change and alteration: a sickle-shaped red scar on the hard chin, deep lines scoring cheeks now devoid of any boyish padding, black brows lowered over the large, Romanesque nose. He seemed taller, darker, broader. Everything about him was at once familiar and alien.

  ‘Twas said his tenure in the army had matured him and that he was no longer the wild scapegrace whose name had been a byword for roguery in these parts. But since he’d just manhandled Briarly, an act much in keeping with his past, she questioned the veracity of those reports. And reports were all she had. Since his return from the wars, he’d been in London being presented to the queen.

  “Move aside, Kate,” Neill said, startling her with a voice both deeper and gruffer than she recalled.

  Move aside, Kate? After being away at war for nearly four years and seeing her for the first time since his return, all he could say was, “Move aside, Kate”?

  “I will do no such thing, Neill Oakes,” she said, setting her hands on her hips. Captain Oakes, she reminded herself, though in truth she did not need reminding. Her brothers—one older and three younger—crowed about Neill’s meteoric rise in the cavalry at every opportunity. From that and all the letters that passed between Neill and her family, one would think he was the son of the house instead of the son of the neighbor’s house. And why not? He’d had the run of Bing Hall since she could remember.

  “You struck His Lordsh
ip,” she said, tapping her foot.

  “I did not strike him. I removed him. He was about to compromise you,” Neill replied, turning his black gaze on her.

  “‘Compromise’?” she sputtered. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Neill. Only an old grandmother could think so trivial …” She caught Briarly’s astounded expression and blushed, starting over. “Nothing that has happened or that might have happened can be thought to compromise me. And I might add,” she said, eying Neill darkly, “that were every kiss to lead to the altar, you would currently be heading a veritable harem!”

  Neill’s lean cheeks darkened, but his eyes did not unlock from hers. “As your chaperone, I am obliged to see to your welfare, both physical and social.”

  “My chaperone?” Kate echoed incredulously.

  “Be damned if you are Miss Peyton’s chaperone,” Briarly said, speaking for the first time.

  Kate moved to his side, visually aligning herself with him, feeling guilty that she’d nearly forgotten him. He had, after all, been about to kiss her. One would think such a thing would be noteworthy.

  “Then damned you are, Your Lordship,” Neill replied evenly. “Because I am Miss Peyton’s chaperone. Guardian. Whatever the name of the role that assigns the safety of her virtue to another.”

  She eyed him closely. “Have you taken up unsavory practices, Captain?”

  He looked mildly taken aback. “No … I would … I … What the devil do you mean?”

  “I have heard that some officers posted in exotic locales developed the habit of smoking a weed that they say makes one prone to delusions, and as this is the only way I can account for your preposterous claim, it seemed probable you might have added a new vice to your already extensive repertoire.”

  Briarly made a noise that sounded greatly like stifled laughter.

  “No, Kate,” Neill ground out. “I am not delusional. If you doubt me, you need only ask His Lordship’s sister. She will inform you that soon after I arrived this afternoon, your idiot brother Tom bolted from the premises, only after naming me as his stand-in.”

  Unfortunately, she didn’t think Neill was lying. Tom had been none too happy about being thrust into the role of guardian and had only done so at their father’s insistence. On their arrival at Finchley Manor, the flock of pretty would-be brides waiting to make her big, brawny, and handsome brother’s acquaintance (she had no illusion of their having any interest in meeting her) had provoked an expression of hunted desperation on Tom’s face. That look had grown more pronounced over the last few days as it dawned on him that the parson’s mousetrap might be sprung not only on “poor old Briarly,” as he called the earl, but on himself. Since then, he’d been badgering her to leave the house party as soon as politeness allowed.

  To simply fly the coop would be like Tom. He was hardly a font of conscientious behavior, a deficit in great part due to the unfortunate example held out by his paragon, the same black-headed Irishman who stood regarding her with such unreadable aplomb—and just when the devil had Neill developed aplomb? It was most unsettling.

  Still, she supposed there was a certain irony to be enjoyed in the fact that the same rakehell who had led her brothers in countless disreputable japes had been press-ganged into playing toothless nanny to his friends’ baby sister. Except right now she was not in the mood to appreciate it. Tom’s defection played havoc with her plans, and she would have to reconsider, regroup, and reevaluate. Drat Tom, anyway.

  She had come to Finchley Manor with the specific aim of securing a husband, and she intended to do so. The Peyton Hall household had gone to sixes and sevens during her two London seasons. The servants apparently declared holiday as soon as she passed out of the front door, the famous cheese their dairy produced had failed to take grand prize at the county fair during both her absences, and the orchard was plagued by aphids one year and spider mites the second. And as for the fracases got into by the two brothers too young to accompany her to town … She shuddered.

  “Don’t think for an instant that this is any more comfortable for me than you, Kate. I assure you, it is not,” Neill said, breaking into her thoughts.

  She didn’t doubt him. His face was grim with annoyance. Where was the old laughter, the bravado, the damn-your-eyes attitude?

  “I did not come here expecting to have to play doyen to you,” he continued. “But the alternative, for you to remain here unescorted, unaccompanied, and unprotected”—here he shot a glare in Briarly’s direction—“is intolerable.”

  “I am hardly unprotected, Neill. Lady Finchley—”

  “Is most gracious in her assurances that she would be delighted to look after you,” Neill broke in. “But it is not she Tom named to take his place, and she has more than enough to occupy her.”

  Ah, he was doing his duty. She felt like stomping her foot in irritation. She did not want his dutiful attention.

  “See here—” Briarly had started to say, then abruptly broke off. “Just who the bloody blazes are you, anyway?”

  “Neill Oakes,” Kate answered. “Our neighbor’s son. Captain Oakes.”

  Neill tipped his head. “At your service … er, …”

  “The Earl of Briarly,” Kate grudgingly introduced the two men. She swung to face Neill. “Now apologize,” she whispered, trying to sound authoritative but fearing she only sounded desperate.

  She needed to be here. And if Neill got himself kicked out of the house, all her plans would fall into ruin.

  Neill studied her a moment before turning in Briarly’s direction. “Excuse me, milord. I overstepped myself in a desire to comply with the duty with which I am charged.”

  Kate released a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding, oddly disconcerted. The Neill of old would never have apologized for something he did not regret, and he did not regret anything, and so never apologized. More than anything else, his apology brought home to her that he was no longer the brazen, brash youth of her childhood. And what of his shoving the earl? The Neill of old would have struck him. He’d struck lots of people. Mostly in brawls.

  “I see,” Briarly said, for some reason looking more irritated than he had a moment ago. “I believe I have heard of your war record, Captain Oakes. My sister is effusive. Apology accepted. ‘Spect I owe you one myself, Miss Peyton. I hope you will not think unkindly of me?”

  “No!” she assured him. “I don’t. I won’t.”

  She didn’t know what else to say, not with Neill hovering within arm’s reach, stonily dividing his gaze between Briarly and her. For an awkward moment, the threesome avoided meeting one another’s eyes.

  “So, how is it you are here?” Kate finally asked Neill. “Since you did not come intending to ‘play doyen.’”

  “I suspect because Lady Finchley felt it an appropriate patriotic gesture,” he replied.

  “Patriotic?” Kate said.

  “Yes. Seeing how I was lately in a war.” His smooth demeanor splintered just a shade. “Where did you think I was, Kate? What did you think I’d been doing?”

  Of course, she knew he’d been in a war. The thought of him in harm’s way had ruined many a good night’s sleep, and even now was wont to play havoc with her peace of mind.

  “I don’t know,” she replied quellingly. “You never wrote me. I thought you were wasting your life in the fetid corners of … wherever they have fetid corners,” she lied, unwilling to have him guess how often and long she’d thought of him. “You always seemed to me destined to lead a low life.”

  He refused to be quelled. “I did write you. You never wrote back.”

  It was the truth, but as Kate had no intention of offering him an explanation, she kept mute.

  “Certainly one of that mob of brothers of yours must have informed you of what I was doing,” he went on. “We exchanged many letters.”

  “Of course they did,” she snapped back. “According to them, you single-handedly won a dozen battles, restored the Spanish throne, and infiltrated Napoleon’s inner circle, af
ter which you rode an elephant, wrestled a crocodile, and swam the Straits of Gibraltar.”

  For the first time since his unfortunate arrival, Neill smiled, and Kate recognized anew how devastating his smile could be, how rakish and irresistible. And hard on the heels of this realization came another: Rogue and scoundrel though he’d been—and still might be—the love she’d once borne him had never faded, it had only grown and ripened. She loved him still. She always had.

  “Well, I did swim in the Straits of Gibraltar,” he allowed disingenuously. “But only because I fell off a pier while half-foxed.”

  She laughed, she could not help it, and something ignited in his eyes.

  “Did you miss me, Kate?” he asked, his head tilted slightly, his expression inscrutable. How could she answer that when she didn’t know what he meant? She, too, had changed in the intervening four years. She had developed subtlety and sophistication. She was no longer a child but a woman. “Of course, I did. I was used to your being about. I missed that nasty gelding of Tom’s once we sold him, too.”

  He frowned.

  “This is all very interesting,” Briarly said. “But, perhaps you can reacquaint yourself with Miss Peyton at a more appropriate time, Captain Oakes. Though you may be my sister’s guest, here you are very much de trop.”

  “Am I?” Neill asked. “Allow me to rectify the situation.” He turned to Kate. “I believe I saw you limping just now.”

  She blinked in confusion. She wasn’t limping—

  Before she knew what he was about, he’d taken hold of her hand, pulled her forward, and was scooping her up into his arms as neatly and carelessly as a laundress collects bedding. Briarly’s face darkened, and Kate realized that she had only to say a word, and he would intervene. But while she didn’t think the new Neill would engage in fisticuffs with an earl, she was not sure.

  So rather than object, Kate said, “How astute of you to notice, Captain.”