by Anne Gracie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
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
Epilogue
“ANNE GRACIE HAS A MAGICAL FLAIR
FOR PUTTING WORDS TOGETHER.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Praise for The Perfect Waltz
“Duty vs. love [are] brilliantly battled.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[O]ne of the best Regency-set historicals I’ve read in years, with a beautifully developed love story at the center.”—The Romance Reader
“A definite keeper . . . one of the best romances I have read in a long time.”—All About Romance
“If you haven’t already discovered the powerfully moving romances of Anne Gracie, I can’t urge you strongly enough to hunt [for] them.”—Romance Reviews Today
“I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a book so much.”
—Fresh Fiction
The Perfect Rake
“Contains bushels of humor, a tiny bit of farce, a generous dollop of romance, the right balance of sweet and tart, a dash of suspense, and, for spice, a soupçon of retribution.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Near perfect.”—Midwest Book Review
“Hysterical to read. Gracie’s humor is as engaging as ever.”—All About Romance
Praise for the other novels of Anne Gracie
An Honorable Thief
“She’s turned out another wonderful story!”
—All About Romance
“A true find and definitely a keeper.”—Romance Reviews
“A thoroughly marvelous heroine.”—The Best Reviews
“Dazzling characterizations . . . Provocative, tantalizing, and wonderfully witty romantic fiction . . . Unexpected plot twists, tongue-in-cheek humor, and a sensually fraught battle of wits between hero and heroine . . . Embraces the romance genre’s truest heart.”
—Heartstrings Reviews
How the Sheriff Was Won
“Anne Gracie provide[s] pleasant diversions.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An excellent story with an engaging plot and well-rounded characters.”—Romantic Times
Tallie’s Knight
“Gracie combines an impeccable knowledge of history, an ability to create vibrant and attractive characters, and an excellent story-telling ability. Tallie’s Knight is far and away the best Regency romance I have read in a long time.”—The Romance Reader
“Gracie’s writing style is charming and wonderful, and the love scenes are very sensual . . . A special book with excellent writing and characters that touch the heart.”
—All About Romance
Gallant Waif
“A great heroine . . . This is as polished a piece of romance writing as anyone could want.”—The Romance Reader
“I loved everything about it.”—All About Romance
A Virtuous Widow
“A wonderful, warm, emotionally stirring Christmas story of love found, wishes fulfilled, and promises kept.”
—Romantic Times
Berkley Sensation titles by Anne Gracie
THE PERFECT RAKE
THE PERFECT WALTZ
THE PERFECT STRANGER
THE PERFECT KISS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE PERFECT KISS
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Anne Gracie.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-0-425-21345-2
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With thanks to Christine, my wonderful editor.
Thanks also to my writing friends Linda, Jenny, Theonne, Kaye, and Trish, who give me advice, support, and laughs when I need them most, and to Dave, an endless source of symptoms and diseases.
Prologue
DEREHAM COURT, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. 1814
“YOU ARE AN EVIL LITTLE GIRL!” THE OLD MAN BELLOWED.
Eight-year-old Grace Merridew stood braced against the corner of the room. Her grandfather’s tirade pounded her with spittle-flecked waves of hatred.
“You’ll dwell in misery and filth, alone and unloved, and when you die, even the worms will disdain your corrupt flesh!”
“I will too be loved,” Grace muttered defiantly. “My mama promised.”
He swore. “That whore of Babylo—”
Grace wasn’t sure what a whore was, but she knew it was something bad. She planted her fists on her hips and shouted furiously back. “My mama was not a whore! She’s an angel, an’ she’s watching over us now, and before she died she promised all of us—me and all my sisters—that we’ll find love and laughter and sunshine and
happiness and so we will, so we will, and you can’t stop us, Gran’papa, because an angel is stronger than a horrible old man who spits and swears and smells!”
His eyes filled with a terrible light. He loomed over her, his big, gnarled hands clenching and unclenching. Grace was glued to the floor, shaking, shocked by her own temerity. He was going to kill her, she knew. She’d never before defied him like that. She braced herself for the blows she knew would come, the rage that would inevitably break.
The silence stretched unbearably.
When he finally spoke, it was all the more frightening because he wasn’t shouting. He spoke softly, almost tenderly. “Your bitch of a mother may have promised your older sisters love and happiness, Grace, but she never promised it to you.”
Grace shook her head in denial. She didn’t remember her mother, but her sisters had told her often about Mama’s promise. “She did, too,” she muttered.
“No. She couldn’t have. The others, yes, but not you.” He said it with flat, unnerving confidence.
A trickle of uncertainty ran through her. She unclenched her fists. “Why not me?”
She flinched as he laid his hand on her head in a horrible parody of affection. “Because you killed your mama, Grace. A woman doesn’t make that sort of promise to the daughter who killed her.”
She stared, unable to take in what he was saying.
He repeated it with horrible relish. “The daughter who killed her!”
Cold fingers clutched at her heart. “I didn’t kill my mother! I didn’t!”
“You were a baby and don’t remember, but you killed her all the same. You killed the whore of Babylon and came to Grandpapa. That makes you my creature, not your mother’s.” Long, twisted fingers caressed her hair.
Grace jerked her head away, knuckling her fist into her mouth to stem the welling horror. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t. “I’ll ask my sisters. I didn’t kill her, I wouldn’t.”
“Do you think they would tell you the horrid truth? Upset their darling baby sister for no reason? You can’t bring Mama back, can you?” He gave a raspy laugh. “Of course they’ll tell you I’m lying. But I’m not, little Grace, I’m not.”
Grace thought she might throw up, she felt so sick and shivery.
“You killed your mother, Grace.” He smiled, a rictus of stained and broken teeth. “And for that you’ll die alone and unloved . . .”
Chapter One
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound,
content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
ALEXANDER POPE
SHROPSHIRE, ENGLAND. 1826
HE RODE INTO THE VILLAGE OF LOWER WOLFESTONE WITH COLD revenge in his heart. On a huge black steed streaked with sweat and dust he drew all eyes, feminine and masculine alike. He was indifferent to their interest.
Spying the faded sign of the Wolfestone Arms hanging motionless in the sultry heat, the man nudged his horse in the direction of the tavern. A weary white-and-liver-speckled dog followed, her ribs heaving, her tongue hanging low.
Three old men sat on the bench outside, shaded from the afternoon sun by beech trees whose leaves were a mix of gold and green and russet.
A ragged, skinny child came running out. “Can I help you, sir? Fetch you an ale, mebbe? Water for your horse? For your dog?”
“Which road do I take to Wolfestone Castle?”
“The castle, sir? But Mr. Eades, he’s bin gone—”
“Ach, Billy Finn, don’t bother the gentleman wi’ village tattle-tale!” A large man shoved the boy aside and gave the gentleman an obsequious smile and a half bow. “A drink for yer honor p’rhaps? I’ve got some good ale, cool from the cellar, will slide down y’r honor’s parched throat, a treat in this weather. Or if you’re hungry, my missus makes a meat pie that’s famous in three counties.”
The stranger ignored him. “Boy, which road?”
The boy, who was giving water to the dog, glanced at the landlord, then pointed at the right fork. “Along that road, sir. You can’t miss it.”
The landlord shot the lad a warning glare and began, “There be nobody—”
But the stranger flipped a silver coin at the boy and rode on.
“Well, I’ll be beggared,” the landlord exclaimed. “What would the likes of ’im want up at the castle?”
The oldest of the old men, a wizened, bright-eyed gnome, snorted. “Ye never did ’ave a noticing eye, Mort Fairclough. Didn’t you recognize him?”
“How could I? I’ve never seen him before.”
“Didn’t ye see ’is eyes? Golden bright and cold as an hoarfrost they were. With eyes like that and hair as black as sin, there ain’t nobody else he could be but a Wolfe of Wolfestone!”
A murmur ran around those gathered.
One of the girls sighed. “He’s right handsome, for a lord. I do like a lovely, big, stern-looking man. He could have his wicked lordly way wi’ me any day.”
The venerable ancient said severely, “The important question is, which sort o’ Wolfe is he?”
“What d’ye mean, which sort?” the boy piped up.
“There’s been Wolfes at Wolfestone for nigh on six hundred years, young Billy,” the old man explained. “And Wolfes come in only two sorts—good or bad. The fate o’ the village depends on ’em.”
His bright old eyes took in the listeners and he added, “We’ve had bad for as long as most of you can remember. But when I was a lad, ahh.” He shook his head reminiscently. “The old lord then was a good ’un. One o’ the best.” He drank the last of the ale in his tankard and gazed mournfully into its emptiness. “So, I wonder what this ’un’s like.”
“He be a good ’un,” said little Billy Finn confidently, clutching his sixpence tightly.
The landlord shook his head. “Openhanded don’t mean good, lad. The old lord was free enough wi’ a tanner when it pleased him, and he was a bad ’un for sure.” He spat in the dust.
“We must hope for the Gray Lady,” a bent old woman with white elflocks and black button eyes stated with an air of authority.
Billy Finn fetched a stool for her. “Who’s the Gray Lady, Granny?”
Granny Wigmore eased her old bones onto the stool with a nod of approval. “She’s the guardian o’ this valley, Billy. She be the harbinger o’ good times for us poor folks. When the Gray Lady rides, the Wolfe be a good ’un. She hasn’t ridden in many a year.”
Grandad Tasker added, “My mam saw the Gray Lady once when she was a girl. All in gray and on a white ’orse, she was, ridin’ at dawn and bonny as the mist.”
“When the Gray Lady rides, the Wolfe be tamed,” Granny repeated.
The landlord gazed down the road the stranger had taken and shook his head. “I don’t reckon any lady—gray or otherwise—will tame that ’un. I never seen such bright, cold eyes on a man before. Devil’s eyes, I reckon.”
“Wolfe eyes,” the old man said. “Old Hugh Lupus had just such eyes.”
“Hugh Lupus?”
“Don’t ye know nothing, lad? Hugh Lupus be the first lord of D’Acre—came over with the Conqueror, he did. A mortal fierce man, old Hugh, with gold-hard eyes that could freeze a man’s blood.” He leaned back against the wall and added, “Storm be a’comin. I feel ’un in my bones.”
THE HIRED TRAVELING CARRIAGE RATTLED ALONG AT BREAKNECK speed. Dust rose in clouds from the narrow country road, drifting through the open windows of the carriage and settling on the passengers inside. It was too hot and sultry a day even to think of closing the windows. Besides, dust was but a small part of their miseries.
They bounced and bumped as the carriage lurched and jolted over ruts and potholes, remaining on their seats only with the aid of the leather straps that hung from the sides of the carriage.
“I’ll have that insolent fellow dismissed when we get back to London!” Sir John Pettifer muttered peevishly. He’d already reprimanded the postilion twice about the excess speed when they’d stopped to change horses
, but the postilion and coach were hired for the journey, and he was not much inclined to listen to a fussy, elderly gentleman in old-fashioned clothes who’d already proved himself a miserly tipper.
Grace Merridew hung on to her leather strap and gritted her teeth. The problem was more than mere insolence. The postilion had been refreshing himself at intervals from a leather flask. And the more he drank, the wilder he rode and the wilder the coach swung and bounced.
Not far to go, Grace told herself. It was not for her to complain. She was supposed to be invisible on this trip. She was only here because her best friend, Melly Pettifer, had begged her to come.
And because she must have been insane at the time.
But she’d never seen Melly so desperate, so distraught. And indeed her plight seemed fantastic when she’d first broken the news to Grace.
“I won’t have to be a governess after all. Papa arranged a marriage for me!” But as Grace started forward to congratulate her, Melly burst into tears. Bitter, scalding tears. Misery, not happiness.
The carriage hurtled around a bend, swaying dangerously, and Grace braced herself. Melly clung miserably to the window frame opposite her. Poor Melly. Her complexion was green. She’d thrown up three times already on the journey. She hadn’t expected to enjoy the trip but this was worse than anyone could have imagined.
Melly’s bridal journey. To be married in a few weeks to a man she’d never met. Grace couldn’t imagine what that would be like. She could barely believe it. Melly could barely believe it. As it turned out she’d been betrothed to marry Dominic Wolfe, now Lord D’Acre of Wolfestone Castle, since she was nine years old. And nobody had told her until now.
Apparently Dominic Wolfe had returned to England for the first time in more than ten years. He hadn’t even come for his father’s funeral. But Sir John had heard he was back and had contacted him about the betrothal.
