by Anna Bradley
Just One Kiss
“This unpleasant thing you must confess—is it the reason you’ve been hiding from me?” Nick asked.
“Yes. I’ve been an awful coward. I beg your pardon for refusing your calls this week. I did want to see you, but well…I was afraid of what you’d say, and I didn’t know how to explain what I’d done, and I’m…ashamed of myself, Lord Dare.”
She looked away from him, down at her hands, but Nick, who was truly concerned by this point, took her chin between his fingers and raised her face to his. “Don’t look away from me, Hyacinth. Just tell me what’s got you so worried, and we’ll find a way to…”
Nick trailed off when her gaze met his, and he was horrified to find her eyes had filled with tears. “Oh, sweetheart, no.” He moved closer and took her face between his hands, and all at once everything else—the strange business with the pianoforte, her mysterious disappearance this week—all of it faded into insignificance at the sight of those tears. “Don’t cry, Hyacinth.”
For some reason this only made her tears fall faster, until she was crying so hard she could only speak in incoherent gasps. “B-but that’s just i-it, my lord. I’m n-not—”
“Hush.” He caught the back of her head in a gentle grip and pressed her face to his chest, then ran his hand over her back in long, soothing strokes until at last she began to calm. “There. That’s better.” He tilted her face up to his again and pressed gentle kisses to her forehead, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose.
He hadn’t intended to kiss her at all, and if he’d stopped there—if he’d been able to resist her trembling mouth—what happened next might not have been quite such a scandal…
Books by Anna Bradley
LADY ELEANOR’S SEVENTH SUITOR
LADY CHARLOTTE’S FIRST LOVE
TWELFTH NIGHT WITH THE EARL
MORE OR LESS A MARCHIONESS
MORE OR LESS A COUNTESS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Table of Contents
Just One Kiss
Books by Anna Bradley
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Notes
About the Author
More or Less a Countess
Anna Bradley
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2018 by Anna Bradley
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First Electronic Edition: August 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0533-5
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0533-8
First Print Edition: August 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0536-6
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0536-2
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
London, November, 1817
Before she even crossed the threshold this evening, Violet Somerset knew there would be pain. She’d braced herself for gaping chest wounds, perhaps a severed limb or two, and a few pitiful but silent screams of agony. A graceful swoon would follow, and then the convulsive death throes of a love that had been hopeless from the start.
She hadn’t expected any of it would be pleasant, but she’d hoped it would be quick.
It wasn’t quick. It was death by a thousand cuts.
Dreadful way to die. Unseemly. Bloody.
Violet knew all about the blood. She’d seen a gruesome picture of death by a thousand cuts in an extraordinary book she’d found hidden in her grandmother’s library. It was called The Punishments of China1, and it was fascinating reading. A bit grisly, of course, and not at all proper for the eyes of an innocent young lady, but then nothing of any interest was. For her own part, Violet couldn’t help but be intrigued by such an astonishingly creative approach to the thorny problem of crime and punishment.
Still, death by a thousand cuts wasn’t at all the kind of thing one wanted to see at a dinner party.
Yet here she was, trapped between the fifth and final courses, and instead of a lovely pudding, Violet was facing a ghastly execution.
“I’d hoped for a happy marriage, of course. Doesn’t every young lady? But it’s so much lovelier than I ever dreamed it would be. I never imagined my husband could be my friend, but that’s just what Lord Derrick is to me. My best friend.”
Lady Honora looked splendid tonight, with her pink cheeks and her sweet brown eyes alight with happiness. A few weeks ago she’d become the Countess of Derrick, and if one could judge by her transcendent glow, her marriage suited her.
Violet met her dear friend’s luminous smile with what was no doubt a sickly grimace. “How wonderful, Honora. I couldn’t be happier for you and Lord Derrick.”
Honora beamed at her and squeezed her limp fingers, but Violet could only manage a feeble twitch of her hand in return, rather like a bird with a broken wing trying to take flight.
“I don’t mean to say he’s just my friend, of course. He’s, ah…well, he’s much more than that. It’s difficult to put into words, but it’s rather like…like a dream has come to life before my eyes, except it’s better than a dream, because it’s so much more vivid and colorful than I dared imagine.” The fetching pink flush on Honora’s cheeks deepened. “I daresay Iris understands. Is that how you feel about Lord Huntington, Iris? As if he’s a dream come to life?”
Violet’s elder sister Iris, who was recently married herself, was seated across the table from Honora. “I—that is, of course Lord Huntington and I are quite…we do enjoy each other’s…” Iris glanced between Honora and Violet, bit her lip, and lapsed into a pained silence.
Poor Iris. It was a trifle awkward when one’s sister was in love with one’s best friend’s husband. Violet roused herself to fill the uncomfortable pause. “It’s truly wonderful, Honora. I couldn�
�t be happier for you, and for Iris.”
I never should have come here.
“I always thought Lord Derrick handsome.” Honora cast a besotted glance at her husband, who was seated at the other end of the table. “But it’s only since I married him that I think him the handsomest gentleman in the world.”
Violet didn’t follow Honora’s gaze. She didn’t need to look at Lord Derrick to know he was the handsomest gentleman in the world, and he was no less kind than he was handsome. “He’s wonderfully handsome, Honora. Truly. I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“It’s his eyes, I think. They’re such a lovely brown. Don’t you think he has remarkable eyes, Violet?”
Cut.
Dear God. Compared to Honora’s innocent brutality, Chinese torture felt like being nuzzled by a dozen purring kittens.
“They’re wonderful, Honora, truly. I couldn’t be happier about his eyes.”
Iris choked on her wine, but Honora didn’t seem to notice this strange reply. “Oh, I feel the same way. I adore his eyes. Well, not just his eyes.”
Honora clapped her hand over her mouth, but not quickly enough to hide an uncharacteristically naughty giggle.
Cut.
Violet raised her wineglass, but her hand was shaking so badly she couldn’t bring it to her lips. Honora had always been the most decorous of the three of them, but Lord Derrick, it seemed, had transformed their modest friend into a shameless wanton.
“He has the loveliest lips. So firm, but gentle, too.”
Cut.
“He’s always gentle, even when he’s…agitated.”
She’s a monster. A murderess.
“When I say agitated, I mean when he’s—”
“Honora!” Iris’s knife landed on her plate with a sharp crack. “I, ah…I beg your pardon, dear, but who’s that gentleman who’s just come in?”
“Gentleman? What gentleman?” Honora, distracted at last, looked up as a tall gentleman in a dark blue coat and a lavishly embroidered scarlet waistcoat seated himself at the other end of the table. “Oh, that must be Lord Dare. He’s a childhood friend of Lord Derrick’s. He’s just returned to London from a long stay on the Continent.”
“Oh? How long?” Violet didn’t much care how long Lord Dare had remained on the Continent, but she seized on it, desperate to turn the conversation away from Lord Derrick’s firm lips.
“Two years. Lord Derrick told me Lord Dare despises England, and wouldn’t be here now if he could have avoided it, but you see his black armband? His father passed away several weeks ago, so he was obliged to come home, to attend the memorial and assume the duties of the title. To hear Lord Derrick tell it, Lord Dare is quite put out by the whole business.”
“Why, how rude of his father to spoil Lord Dare’s prolonged Continental frolic. Pity he couldn’t wait for more convenient timing to die.” Such pointed sarcasm was a trifle unfair, and the words singed a bit as they rolled off Violet’s tongue, but her misery had found an outlet at last, and Lord Dare never need know he was to be executed in her place.
Honora leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “From what I understand, he’s had quite a frolic, indeed. The gossip has it he left a trail of broken hearts from Paris to Rome.” She frowned. “It’s terribly rude of him to arrive to dinner so late. For pity’s sake, we’re onto the dessert course already.”
Violet watched as Lord Dare turned a charming smile on his dinner companions. Even from this distance she could see he was handsome, with a tall, lean frame, a sculpted jaw, and an overabundance of silky dark hair.
Too handsome.
In Violet’s experience—which was, admittedly, limited to one painful season of being laced into a tight corset and forced to endure the balls at Almack’s—handsome gentlemen often hid staggeringly unhandsome ideas behind their charming smiles.
No, handsome gentlemen weren’t to be trusted, and especially not this one—the waistcoat alone was proof of that. Lord Dare’s clothes were in the height of fashion, of excellent quality and perfectly tailored, but a gentleman only wore a scarlet waistcoat embroidered with an intricate pattern of silver vines and masses of silver roses if he wished to be noticed.
Not that he needed the waistcoat for that. One was as likely to overlook a gentleman like Lord Dare as to forget to follow one breath with another.
His movements were graceful and confident, his smile easy, and if he was a trifle unkempt, it only added to his appeal. His unruly dark hair was a bit too long, his jaw not quite cleanly shaven, and his cravat just a shade off-center, the knot careless, as if it had been tied in a hurry. Despite the extravagant waistcoat, he looked almost as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and Violet hadn’t the slightest doubt he had.
Not his own bed, either.
No, one wouldn’t overlook Lord Dare, especially if one happened to be a lady. Not her, of course, but other ladies. Less sensible ones.
Violet raised her wineglass to her lips and took a healthy swallow. “So he’s a rake. How shocking.”
Honora smothered a laugh. “Now, Violet. How can you say so? You haven’t even been introduced to him yet.”
“No, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. I don’t care for rakes.”
They cared for her even less. There was nothing a rake despised more than a bluestocking, or a bluestocking a rake. They were natural enemies, like a mongoose and a cobra. Rakes dealt in nonsense, after all, and bluestockings were immune to nonsense, just as a mongoose was immune to a cobra’s poison.
A smile curved Violet’s lips. Her knack for creating apt analogies hadn’t prevented her utter failure on the marriage mart, but it never failed to amuse her.
“Well, Violet, you’re right, as usual. He is a rake, and a dreadful one, too. It seems Lord Dare has a lovely Italian villa, and an even lovelier Italian mistress he’s anxious to return to.”
“I can’t think how Lord Derrick should be friends with him, if he’s as awful as you say,” Iris said. “They can’t have much in common.”
“Not anymore, no, though Lord Derrick says they were inseparable as boys.” Honora fiddled with her wineglass, a pensive look crossing her face. “It’s rather a sad story. Lord Dare had an elder brother, you see, but he was murdered by a highwayman several years ago. Such a tragic death, and now his younger brother is obliged to take a title he never expected to have, and doesn’t want.”
“Oh.” Violet’s voice softened. “That is rather sad—” She broke off, her gaze narrowing on Lord Dare as he raised his wineglass in a flirtatious toast to his dinner companion.
Violet and Iris’s youngest sister, Hyacinth.
Hyacinth had been seated in a place of honor to Lord Derrick’s right. She was a favorite of his, and because of her profound shyness he always insisted on taking care of his “little friend” in this way. It was kind of him, but it sometimes meant Hyacinth was seated far away from her sisters.
Tonight, she was seated right across from the wickedly handsome Lord Dare.
He was talking rather animatedly to her, his striking face alight with interest. Hyacinth listened to him with polite attention, but Violet could see the self-conscious flush on her sister’s cheeks, and every one of her protective instincts rushed to the fore. “Take the ladies out, Honora.”
Honora gave her a puzzled glance. “What, now? But I haven’t finished my wine.”
Iris glanced down the table, nudged Honora with an elbow, and jerked her chin in Hyacinth’s direction. “Now would be best, Honora.”
Honora followed Iris’s gaze and rose at once to her feet.
Lord Derrick leapt up to open the door for the ladies, and his expression, as he watched his wife approach…
Violet’s heart lurched miserably in her chest.
She knew Lord Derrick loved Honora. He wasn’t the sort of man who married a lady he didn’t love. But
to know a thing wasn’t, alas, the same as witnessing it, and even as Violet’s heart twisted with pain, she couldn’t take her eyes off his face as he gazed at Honora.
His entire being was alight with joy, his brown eyes glowing with it. Honora was simply crossing the dining room, a common, everyday occurrence, and yet he watched her as if…as if his every hope and dream had come to vibrant life in front of him.
Because it had.
He didn’t just love Honora; he adored her. One had only to look at him to see there wasn’t the smallest corner of his heart that didn’t echo with Honora’s voice, her laughter, her smile.
It wasn’t any wonder Honora inspired such profound love. She was beautiful and kind and graceful, a diamond of the first water. She was the sort of lady who could bring the most jaded gentleman to his knees.
Whereas Violet…wasn’t.
She had the same dark blue eyes and fair hair that had made her sister Iris the belle of last season, but Violet’s laughter didn’t tinkle like silver bells. She didn’t know how to toss her curls or flirt her fan. Her quadrille was a disgrace, and her musical abilities—well, even her grandmother had been brought low in defeat over Violet’s tone deafness.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have anything to recommend her, but the gentlemen of the ton didn’t admire cleverness. They didn’t fall into desperate passions over a lady who was intrigued by Chinese torture or could recite the particulars of a mongoose’s immune system. No, the best such a lady could hope for was to be mocked and ridiculed.
“Violet? Are you unwell? You’ve gone white.” Honora took her arm, her brows pinched with concern as she studied Violet’s face.
To Violet’s horror, tears threatened. Honora had been a true friend to her, and instead of swallowing her bitter disappointment over Lord Derrick, Violet had spent these past weeks begrudging Honora her happiness.
“I’m fine, dear. It’s just a sudden headache.”
Honora patted Violet’s hand. “Why don’t you go into the library and rest for a few moments? You can slip into the drawing room when you feel better.”
