The Perfect Kiss

by Anne Gracie

  Grace smiled and nodded back, but inside she was seething. She hadn’t misunderstood—he’d deliberately misled her, the rat! The scent of the pies tantalized her nostrils and her stomach rumbled. The fiend! How could she possibly stay angry with a man who sent her hot pies?

  But she had to. Melly was starting to like him, so more than ever, Grace had to keep him at arms’ length. Or further.

  Only what if Melly fell for him? And he only saw Melly as a cold-blooded business arrangement? It wasn’t just her own heart Grace had to protect, it seemed. She sighed and reached for a pie. It was all getting horribly complicated.

  DOMINIC SAT ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE WOLF’S HEAD INN, NURSING a mug of ale. Sheba lay sprawled at his feet, her chin on his boot, her eyes watchful. It was a lovely evening and the scent of fresh, damp earth and leaves rose all around him like perfume. He watched the moon rise over the valley. The valley of his forbears. His despised, unknown forebears.

  God, but they’d left things in a state.

  He’d never intended to set foot on Wolfestone property, but now he had, it would be some time before he’d be able to leave.

  He’d given two letters to the landlord of the inn to go off on the first available post; one to Podmore, the family lawyer and executor of his father’s will, and the other to Abdul, his—what would you call Abdul—majordomo? Agent d’affaires? There wasn’t a word big enough. There was simply nothing that Abdul could not—or would not—do.

  He found himself grinning. What would the villagers make of Abdul? They’d really have something to whisper about then!

  Each time he’d entered the inn, the taproom had fallen silent. Dominic didn’t care. He’d never really belonged anywhere and he had no interest in the villagers’ opinion of him. He hadn’t intended to know them in the first place, and now, after he’d gotten to the bottom of the situation he’d found here and sorted it out, he’d leave and never clap eyes on them again.

  But furtive whispers all around him were irritating, so, since it was a fine evening he sat outside.

  He took a sip and grimaced. English ale was not to his taste, yet the innkeeper had been unable to provide him with any decent wine, other than a port that was mellow, but too sweet for his taste. The ale, on the other hand, was heavy and bitter and dark. It suited Dominic’s mood exactly.

  He’d been angry with Sir John Pettifer and his daughter for forcing him to come here, but in retrospect, it was a good thing he had. How long had Eades been playing out his little scheme? He must have run off as soon as Podmore had instructed him to present himself in Bristol to meet the new heir. He hadn’t been warned that Dominic had found anomolies in the estate books. Lucky he had a head for figures, otherwise Eades’s embezzlement might not have been discovered.

  The estate had been paying for half a castle full of servants for God knows how long. Most of it hadn’t been cleaned for years. Eades was the villain, but Dominic knew whose was the real responsibility. His father. He should never have left this place to rot.

  Dominic didn’t understand him at all. When had he ever? Wolfestone was everything to his father and yet he’d let it rot. What sort of mentality would glory in six hundred years of ownership, and yet think that all that was needed to continue the tradition was a male heir?

  Now, having seen the dire state of the estate close up, the mess left by his neglectful father and exploited by his estate mismanager, Eades, Dominic had no choice but to sort it out. He had to get it in a state fit to sell. He hated waste. When you’d started your life with nothing and everything you owned was hard earned, you valued things more, he supposed.

  He looked across the valley with a dispassionate eye, at the patchwork fields and rolling hills, golden in the setting sun. It was hard to believe it all belonged to him—after he married Miss Pettifer. This was beautiful country, good, rich land. It would take a great deal of work to bring the estate back to productivity again, but whoever bought it would be well rewarded. The sale of Wolfestone would give him a fine profit.

  In the meantime he’d have to live here, for a time at least, in that wreck of a house. The last place on earth he’d wanted to be.

  The thought pierced him unexpectedly as it had the first time he’d clapped eyes on his ancestral home, and innumerable times since. A wreck of a house. What an irony! What a thrice-damned and blasted irony.

  How many times in his life had he sworn to wipe Wolfestone from the face of the earth? And now, here he was, actually planning for a certain amount of rebuilding of the estate . . .

  Only until it was in a fit state to sell, he promised himself. For the sake of his mother’s memory, he needed to wipe the name of Wolfestone from the face of the earth. How often had he found her weeping, when he was a boy. She never would explain, never would speak of this place, except to say, “You’ll understand when you go to Wolfestone.”

  He understood now, all right. This place was the site and source of all her woes. For Wolfestone, an innocent, unworldly seventeen-year-old heiress had been sold in marriage to a man nearly thirty years her senior. For the getting of Wolfestone heirs his father had forced a young girl to his bed and beaten her when she failed to conceive. For Wolfestone she had been made to suffer most of her young life, and for that her son would destroy it.

  Dominic drank some more ale. The inn’s pies had been as good as promised, only rather salty. Deliberate, he was sure; salty food meant that patrons drank more.

  A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the overhanging beech trees. Autumn was coming, dappling the ground with leaves of gold and russet, like freckles on the earth, like bright new pennies. He smiled.

  Thank God for the bright new penny in his life, he thought, his spirits lightening. Who’d have thought he would find her at Wolfestone, of all places, covered in freckles and dressed in an ugly gray gown.

  Sheba sat up suddenly and Dominic glanced at the bridge. But there was no sign of anyone. Young Billy Finn wasn’t back yet. The boy had earned himself a shilling this evening.

  His mouth quirked. He would have loved to see her face when the boy arrived with the basket.

  “How on earth did she come to be a hired companion?” he asked Sheba. “Bold as brass and twice as bright. Hired companions are invariably meek and self-effacing. I doubt she even knows the meaning of the words.” Sheba thumped a lazy tail in agreement.

  Her background intrigued him more than ever: her armed-to-the-teeth female relatives sounded like street-walkers or something of the ilk. And yet in some ways she was so innocent. He grinned, recalling the way she had stared at his chest, nearly going cross-eyed with the effort of not staring, determined he should not see she was as interested in him as he was in her.

  A fascinating mix, his Bright Eyes with no first name.

  As a hired companion, she had much to learn. She had much to learn about men, too. And Dominic was just the man to teach her.

  She had no opinion of lords—that much was clear! He smiled to himself. She’d shown the same amount of respect to him as Lord D’Acre as she had when she thought him nothing but a gypsy groom—little or none! She’d told him what she thought of him in no uncertain terms, those brilliant blue eyes sparking with anger.

  Magnificent eyes. His hand wrapped around the mug reminiscently. He could still taste her in his mouth: sweet, warm, fire in his blood. And the feel of her soft young body against his. Her silky smooth skin.

  She hadn’t so much as squeaked when he’d pulled that jagged great splinter out.

  His jaw tightened. Who or what had taught her to deal with pain like that? She was no stranger to pain, to mistreatment. You didn’t develop that degree of self-mastery without a reason.

  Dominic sipped the bitter brew. And yet her spirit remained undaunted. He thought of how she’d faced him down, again and again with a cheeky air of defiance. Thank God.

  “Bold and bright and beautiful,” he told Sheba. The dog sat up, pricking her ears, then scrambled to her feet and rushed off into the tangl
ed vegetation opposite.

  Paid companion was no life for a woman of Greystoke’s mettle. She deserved more. She deserved the world. And Dominic would give it to her.

  His mouth quirked. That look on her face when he’d said he was going to eat pie at the inn—Lord, if looks could kill!

  Her spirit delighted him. She would not come to him easily. But come she would, he vowed silently.

  Greystoke would be his.

  A few minutes later Sheba returned, panting, her fur covered in grass seeds and twigs. She laid a dead rat at his feet, her tail a swaying plume of pride. Dominic thanked her gravely. It was not every day one was presented with a rat, after all.

  Would Greystoke be as grateful for the basket of food he’d sent back to the house with young Billy Finn? Somehow, he thought not.

  He smiled to himself and lifted his ale in a toast. “Bon appetit, my sweet companion. And to a glorious seduction.”

  Chapter Six

  The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.

  MADAME DE STAEL

  “I WISH WE’D NEVER COME HERE,” MELLY SAID SLEEPILY. THE TWO girls were tucked up in their beds. “I’m sure that carriage accident has made Papa worse. And that doctor—he took so much blood from Papa, I felt sick. I couldn’t watch.”

  “Of course you couldn’t,” Grace murmured soothingly. “But your father is sleeping now and you should be, too. It’s been a big day.”

  There was a long silence. Grace thought Melly had fallen asleep, but then she said, “He’s not as bad as I thought.”

  No guesses as to who she was talking about.

  “He’s very good-looking, don’t you think? Except for those strange eyes.”

  “Yes.” Grace thought his eyes were beautiful, strange but compelling. She hesitated, but it had to be said, “Melly, are you changing your mind about marrying him?”

  “No!” Melly sat up and stared across at Grace. “No! Not at all. Just because he’s done a few kind things and is good-looking doesn’t mean I want to marry him!” She lay down again in the bed. “He’s not, not a comfortable sort of man. Not husbandly, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really.” Grace thought she did, but she wanted Melly to explain. If there was any likelihood of Melly changing her mind about this betrothal, Grace needed to know before it was too late.

  “He’s a bit too intense and scary at times and I think he might have a temper. I think I’d always be nervous of him and I think that would annoy a man like that. And besides, he doesn’t want me, or children, and that I couldn’t bear.”

  Yes, she’d forgotten Melly’s babies for a moment. Though clearly he was the sort of man who liked women. “He might change his mind about that.”

  “Mmm, he might,” Melly said sleepily.

  Grace waited for a further comment, but the sound of deep, regular breathing meant that Melly had fallen asleep.

  Grace found it much harder to drift off. Her head kept spinning with the day’s events, most particularly those involving Lord D’Acre.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about him. Her emotions were a jumble of confusion. How could one kiss—well, several kisses—possibly turn everything upside down? Yet that’s what it felt like.

  She tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep. It was the cheese, she decided. She shouldn’t have had it. And those pies, though delicious, had been salty. A glass of water might help her sleep better, but she didn’t have one handy. She should have brought a jug up before they retired for bed, but Grace was in the habit of leaving that sort of thing to servants and so she’d forgotten. Now, the more she thought of water, the thirstier she got.

  Finally she gave up. She slipped out of bed, put on her slippers, pulled a shawl around her shoulders, lit a candle from the fire and tiptoed from the room. The house was still and silent.

  Shadows flickered eerily as she hurried down the curved stone staircase. She made her way to the kitchen. She glanced out the window as she drank a glass of cold water. Light flickered from inside the stables. What was a light doing there at this hour? It flickered again. Fire? She hurried outside to investigate.

  She peered into the stables. The light came from partway down. Not a fire, but it could be a thief. She glanced around and saw a pitchfork hanging up. She carefully lifted it down and crept forward, her heart thudding.

  She came to the half stable door and saw a horse lying down and a dark shape bending over it, silhouetted against the lamplight. Horses hardly ever lay down. Someone was up to no good!

  “What are you doing?” she said in as tough a voice as she could manage. “Stand up so I can see you—and be warned: I’m armed.”

  “And delightfully dangerous.” Lord D’Acre straightened and faced her.

  Grace nearly dropped the pitchfork in relief. “I thought you were a thief. What are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “The mare is giving birth.”

  “Oh!” She put down the pitchfork and pulled her shawl tighter around her. “Is she all right?”

  He said brusquely, “I hope so. She’s young. I think it’s her first birth. With first births you never know. It might be . . . unpleasant, so if you don’t want to witness it, leave now.”

  He bent over the mare again and Grace was able to see the whole stall. “Ohhh.” She forgot about Melly and Sir John, forgot about the problem of Lord D’Acre, forgot about everything except the drama taking place in front of her eyes.

  The mare was lying on her side. She was in some distress, her silvery hide dark with sweat. Lord D’Acre crouched nearby, soothing her with words and touch. Before Grace could say another word the mare’s flanks heaved and her tail, which had been wrapped in cloth, lifted. Grace’s breath caught in her throat. She could see two tiny hooves protruding.

  She watched tensely. She’d never actually watched a mare give birth before.

  The mare’s flanks rippled and heaved again and the hooves were followed by the shape of a nose and then a head.

  Grace held her breath. Let it live. Let the mother and baby live, she prayed silently.

  In a moment or two, a dark, wet bundle streaked with slime and blood slithered out onto the hay that lined the stall floor. “That’s my beauty,” Lord D’Acre soothed. He bent over the tiny foal and Grace couldn’t breathe. Was it dead or alive?

  He made a small exultant sound and she saw one of the tiny hooves twitch, and then twitch again, more certainly. The foal was alive! “There you are, my beauty. You have a fine little son,” Lord D’Acre murmured to the mare, then stepped back and quietly left the stall, leaving the mother to get acquainted with her baby.

  The mare lay wearily for a moment or two. Grace watched, entranced. The mare had raised her head to sniff curiously at her tiny foal. She moved closer, sniffing him, learning him, cleaning his wet, slimy coat with rough, loving sweeps of her tongue. She stopped every now and then to nudge him gently with her nose and snuff his new baby scent.

  It was the most beautiful sight Grace had ever beheld.

  The foal squirmed under his mother’s tongue. The mare whickered gently and the foal’s long ears flicked back and forth as he responded to the first sound of his mother’s voice.

  Lord D’Acre stood beside Grace, watching over the half door. Grace gave him a misty smile. “It’s a miracle,” she whispered. “A miracle.” Her eyes were blurry with tears.

  As she spoke the mare inside whickered again to her foal.

  Their eyes met, clung, shared the moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It is a miracle.” He touched her cheek with one finger. It came away wet. “And so are you.” And he drew her into his arms and kissed her, a long, sweet kiss.

  It was a sweet and simple kiss, tender and quiet, a sharing of feeling, a communion . . . and it stole Grace’s heart right out of her body.

  After a time, she drew away from him, remembering who she was and who he was. She watched the mare, licking her foal, learning it.

>   “How does she know just what to do?”

  “Maternal instinct,” he said quietly. “One of the most powerful forces in the world.” He said it almost reverently, and with deep conviction.

  “Melly would love this,” she murmured.

  “She likes horses?”

  His question jolted Grace to an awareness of what she’d said. She hadn’t meant to say anything—it was for Melly to tell him, not her, but now, by speaking without thinking, there was an opportunity to push things along a little. Should she say something more?

  She bit her lip, watching the mother lavish her baby with care. Upstairs Melly lay dreaming. Melly, overflowing with maternal yearnings, dreaming dreams that would never come true if she married this man. Yes, she should speak up. That’s why Melly had begged her to come, to help free her of an unwanted betrothal.

  “No, Melly Pettifer doesn’t like horses; she’s afraid of them. But that.” Grace gestured at the mare, nudging her foal gently. “That is what Melly Pettifer dreams of.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

  “Motherhood.” She met his gaze somberly. “She loves babies. She yearns for the day she can hold her own babe in her arms. I’ve known her for seven years. She’s always wanted children.” She pulled her shawl more tightly around her and stepped away from him. “Always.”

  He reached out to hold her, but she avoided him. “No. It’s not me you need to talk to,” she said and walked back out of the stables.

  GRACE’S EYES FLEW OPEN AND SHE JERKED AWAKE WITH A START. Another dream, she realized. A faint gray light threaded through the curtains. Dawn. She decided to give up on trying to sleep. She knew she must have slept, but mostly the night had passed in tempestuous dreaming: dreams in which Dominic Wolfe played a far too conspicious part. Passionate, toe-curling kisses, jumbled in with phrases such as “Marriage is nothing but a business arrangement.” And lurching carriage rides and foals and a dark head bent with unbearable tenderness over a splintered palm. And babies and a silver horse and wood-chopping and a white shirt and wet breeches plastered to a hard, lean frame.