The Perfect Kiss

by Anne Gracie

  He sat down a short distance away from her. “It’s all right, I know. You’re not ready for me yet. I can wait.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no point waiting, I’m not going to change my mind.”

  He just smiled. She shivered inside. It wasn’t from cold. Or fear. She turned her back on him. She could still feel his warm gaze slipping over her like a touch, a caress, but at least she couldn’t see him. She sat on the fresh green grass, hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Her emotions were in turmoil.

  They were not really star-crossed. Melly didn’t want him, but her betrothal was still official. Grace wanted him, but he acted like a free man, and he wasn’t. That disturbed her.

  What did he want? To make love to her, yes. A few moments of passing pleasure, yes. But what else?

  She didn’t know him very well, and what she did know wasn’t encouraging. He didn’t want a home. He didn’t want children. Ever.

  There’d been no talk of marriage between them. Or even love. He’d called her “my love” once, but that was just an endearment, and he’d been in extremis at the time. Her breasts still tingled from his caresses. She hunched over them.

  He thought she was a hired companion. Men had a double standard toward women of different classes, she knew. For all she knew he might be just wanting to tumble her as lords had tumbled servant girls for centuries. Droit du seigneur.

  Of course she could tell him who she really was; there was no need to keep up the imposture now that Sir John was so ill. But she didn’t want to. Yet.

  She’d never been in this position before, where a man reacted to her, to Grace herself. Not to Miss Merridew, a diamond of the ton, or Miss Merridew, heiress, but to simple, ordinary Grace, a girl who’d grown up in a cold, miserable house, and who, like her sisters, had nourished herself on dreams.

  But dreams could deceive.

  Two of her sisters had allowed their dreams of love to deceive them. Both Prudence and Faith had made disastrous mistakes at first, mistaking their own deep yearning for love as the real thing and falling for men who were unprincipled rogues.

  They’d let their dreams of love blind them into taking terrible risks, giving themselves and their happiness into the hands of unworthy men. Both their lives had nearly been ruined forever. Luckily they hadn’t, but it made Grace wary.

  She was not yet ready to take the same risk. Not for a man who she’d only known a few days, and who, despite his soft words and caressing ways, might turn out to be just another untrustworthy rake.

  She needed more than soft words and tender caresses. The taste of ecstasy he’d shown her in the lake couldn’t be allowed to affect her.

  Or that when he kissed her it felt like he was a man who’d come out of a desert and she was his first taste of water . . .

  No, that couldn’t be allowed to matter.

  He might seem to be the embodiment of all her secret dreams, but she couldn’t trust her feelings yet. Not while he remained betrothed to Melly. Not while she knew so little about him.

  “I have other plans,” she told him at last. She rose to her feet and went behind a bush to don her dress.

  “Do you want help with your corset?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said crisply. She had, in fact, left off the corset when she decided to come swimming but she didn’t want to alert him to the fact.

  As she emerged, fully dressed, he said, “Ah, I see you’ve left off the corset. How delightful.” He’d dressed very rapidly, too.

  She crossed her arms across her breasts and fought the blush.

  “Why hide what I’ve already memorized, already tasted?”

  His soft words threatened to melt all her resolve. She turned and hurried down the path.

  He followed her. “What other plans?”

  It took her a moment to realize what he was asking about. The way he’d looked at her made her so . . . flustered. “I want to travel. I want to sail into Venice at dawn, I want to see the moon rise over the pyramids, to stand in front of the Sphinx and know how small and insignificant I am. I want to sail in a felucca down the Nile and to ride a camel.” She turned and began to march down the pathway.

  He followed. “A camel?”

  “Yes, why not? I think it would be very exciting to ride a camel. A ship of the desert, isn’t that a wonderful expression?”

  “Camels smell, they spit, and they sneer.”

  “Sneer?” She laughed.

  “No man on earth can sneer as well as a camel, I promise you,” he said. “And they’re vilely stubborn! And as for the ship of the desert, that no doubt comes from their rocking gait, like a ship on a rough sea. I hope you don’t get seasick.”

  She ignored that. He was just teasing, she could tell. “Have you ridden a camel?”

  “Many times. And I’ll tell you now, I’d take a horse any day.”

  “Yes, but a camel is so exotic.”

  “Not in Egypt.”

  She beamed at him. “Exactly.” They reached the castle driveway and he took her hand and tucked it under his arm.

  She told him, “If I hadn’t come here with Mel—Miss Pettifer, I would be packing now to leave for Egypt with the cousin of the British consul general.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it was all arranged. We were going to sail to Alexandria . . .” She looked at him shyly. “Would you tell me about Alexandria, please?”

  He said nothing. He stopped and frowned as if in deep thought.

  “Not, of course, if the memory is painful,” she said quickly.

  “Oh, it’s not painful. It’s just that I remembered something more important.” He turned to her and said in a solemn tone, “Do you know, your freckles stop just below your neckline. There’s not a single one below here.” He traced a finger along the round neckline of her dress, leaving her skin tingling. “I was”—he darted her an intense look—“distracted at the time, but I’ve just realized it. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  “Not a bit.” She stepped away from him. “I told you I had other plans. I’ll tell you something else, Lord D’Acre—I don’t dally with the fiancés of other girls. I don’t dally with husbands, either. In fact I don’t dally at all.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “So, now you can ignore me completely.”

  “I don’t want to ignore you, Greystoke,” he murmured.

  She made a careless gesture. “Then don’t. But if it’s dalliance you want, I believe the Tickel girls thrive on it, so you could try them.”

  “I don’t want a Tickel girl.”

  “Are you sure? They’re very pretty. I think Tansy is the prettiest, but Tilly has the lovelier smile and her complexion is a dream.”

  “I prefer freckles. Especially where they stop.”

  She blushed and tried to carry it off. “Oh, of course it must be Tessa; she’s by far the most curvaceous of the three. I know men set great store in curves when it’s a matter of dalliance.”

  “Do they?”

  “So I’m led to believe.” She was getting a little flustered by his stare.

  He gave her an enigmatic look. “I have no interest in any Tickel curves. Nor Tickel smiles or complexions or any Tickel quality whatsoever. I like small, gray spitfires with freckles.”

  “Well, you can’t have them—us—me!” She hurried up the driveway alone.

  “Oh, can’t I?” He called after her. “I’m a Wolfe—we don’t wait for invitations. We choose our prey and hunt it down. Consider yourself warned, Miss Prey.”

  WHEN DOMINIC ARRIVED AT THE HOUSE HE FOUND FREY ENSCONCED in a parlor eating lemon biscuits and sipping gingerly from a teacup, which Miss Pettifer refilled as he arrived. Dominic’s lips twitched. He’d heard Frey before on the subject of tea.

  Frey rapidly explained his mission. “Sorry to thrust myself on you so dashed early, Dom, but the vicarage is in a mess, I’m afraid.”

  “In what way?”

  “Storm a few days ago, I’m told. Seems to have blown off half th
e slates. The roof has leaked, quite badly. Everything is wet and rotting—the stink is frightful. Dashed inconvenient, but act of God, y’know. I was hoping to prevail on your hospitality, Dom, and stay at Wolfestone.”

  “Of course, Frey. You are very welcome, of course, though conditions here are rather more spartan than you’re used to.”

  “Oh, not so spartan—Miss Pettifer here has made me very welcome.” He smiled at her, almost fatuously, Dominic thought.

  She blushed and murmured something inaudible.

  “I see you’ve met my betrothed,” Dominic said.

  “Eh?” Frey’s jaw dropped and he spilled tea all over his dove-gray inexpressibles.

  MRS. STOKES OUTDID HERSELF AT DINNER THAT NIGHT, TRIUMPHANTLY serving up trout with almonds, a fricassee of chicken, green beans, rice and veal soup, potato pie, roasted quails, something she called a fidget pie, made up of bacon and apples, which tasted surprisingly good, a grand salad, several jellies, a plate of lemon curd cakes, and a trifle.

  “Well, miss, I’m trying me best to tempt Sir John into eating something,” she said when Grace complimented her on the meal. “He doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

  Grace raised her brows. “I would have thought chicken soup would have been more the thing for him.”

  Mrs. Stokes blushed. “Ye’ve caught me out, miss. I did send chicken soup and bread and butter up to Sir John—not that he touched it, poor soul. ’Tis the vicar,” she confided. “Such a skinny, long lad he be, anyone can see he be in need o’ some good Shropshire home cooking.”

  Grace laughed. It seemed they would all benefit from Mr. Netterton’s lanky build.

  But despite the lavish spread, nothing seemed to appeal to Melly, she noticed. She picked at her meal, merely nibbling on a morsel of chicken and some green beans. She even refused the lemon curd cakes, which Grace knew for a fact were her favorites.

  “Are you feeling ill, Melly?” she whispered as the final course was removed.

  “No,” Melly said, surprised. “Why, do I look it?”

  “It’s just that you’re not eating.”

  “Oh, that.” Melly avoided her eyes. “I’m just not hungry tonight, that’s all.”

  Grace frowned. Sir John’s loss of appetite was bad enough. She hoped Melly was not falling prey to the same illness. But apart from refusing food, she looked in good health—glowing health actually.

  It was the worry, Grace decided. Melly’s father was not making any visible progress—in fact he was fading away to a shadow of his former self. Of course Melly was getting increasingly worried. They all were.

  “GRACE.” THE WHISPER CAME OUT OF THE DARK. “ARE YOU awake?”

  “Yes,” Grace responded. “What is it, Melly?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just wondered if you were asleep yet.” There was a long silence, then Melly whispered, “You like Lord D’Acre, don’t you?”

  How was she to answer that? Grace thought. Like was entirely the wrong word. There were times when she could happily throttle him. And times when she ached for him. “He—he’s an interesting man.”

  “I saw you when you came in this afternoon. Your face was glowing.”

  “Too much sun,” Grace muttered.

  “No, Grace. He came up the drive just moments after you. You’d been with him, hadn’t you?”

  Been with him? Grace pressed a hand over her mouth. What did Melly mean by that? “I ran into him down at the lake,” she said in what she hoped was a careless tone.

  “I saw your face. And I saw the way you two looked at each other through dinner. You’re in love, aren’t you, Grace.” It wasn’t a question. Melly was one of her oldest friends. The two of them had whispered of love for years.

  Grace sighed. “Oh, God, Melly. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve never felt like this. I never imagined . . .”

  There was another long silence, then Melly said, “I’ll talk to Papa. I’ll make it right for you, Grace. I promise.”

  “AH, HERE YOU ARE. I THOUGHT YOU USUALLY DID YOUR GRAMMAR study in the library.” Dominic strolled out onto the terrace where Greystoke was curled up in a chair, basking in the morning sun, a book in her lap. Her feet were tucked under her and her shoes lay askew on the stone flags of the terrace.

  She looked up and smiled at him and, as always, he felt a catch in his chest.

  “I know, but it was such a lovely morning, I thought I’d sit out here for a little while. Only I can’t seem to concentrate. The sun is making me sleepy,” she confessed. She closed the book and sat up in a more decorous manner, slipping her feet to the floor and fluffing her skirt out over them to hide the fact that she was barefoot. “I might try again later in the day.”

  “You’re still determined on traveling to Egypt?” He watched her feeling surreptitiously for her shoes.

  “Yes, indeed.” She was determined to be sensible.

  He strolled over and knelt down in front of her. “It seems an awful lot of bother to swot over an Arabic grammar book, just to look at the pyramids.”

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked as he reached under her skirts.

  “Fetching your slippers for you.” He located the errant slipper and wrapped his hand around her bare foot. Without taking his eyes off hers he took her toes into his mouth. She gasped with shock, then found herself melting at the incredible sensation. He sucked them gently at first, just playing with them, and then gradually the sucking became hard and rhythmic, and he watched the look of arousal steal over her face, softening her features.

  The sound of gardeners arguing nearby recalled her to her surroundings and he felt her try to pull back. He kissed the sole of her instep, making her foot curl, and slipped the shoe on.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” She fussily tucked her skirt around her feet.

  He grinned at her actions. “Out of sight is not out of mind, Greystoke. I know what’s under your skirts, remember? And your toes taste as delicious as the rest of you.”

  She looked aroused, flustered, and trying hard to look disapproving. “What did you come out here for?”

  Casually he dropped a small leather-bound book on the table beside her. “I found it the other day in the library and thought of you. Might be more interesting than a grammar book to read.”

  She opened it. “It’s in Arabic,” she exclaimed. “It looks like poetry . . . It is poetry!” She read some and her face lit with pleasure. “And beautiful poetry, too.” She glanced up at him, her face glowing. “Did you read any of it?”

  He shook his head. “That sort of nonsense is of no interest to me,” he lied. “It’s yours now, to keep.”

  Her smile dazzled him. “Thank you, I’ll treasure it always,” she told him softly. She hugged the book to her bosom briefly and then returned to examining it. “Oh, look, there’s an inscription here in the front—the back as we think it. The ink is faded, but perfectly legible: ‘To my dove, my heart, my beloved, ever yours, Faisal.’ ” She sighed dreamily. “How romantic. I wonder who Faisal was. And who his beloved dove was? And how did it get here, to Wolfestone?”

  He shrugged. “No idea. I have to go. Meeting with Jake Tasker.” Before she realized his intent, he bent and kissed her swiftly on her soft, unwary mouth. “Enjoy the poems.”

  “YOU WERE SURPRISED YESTERDAY WHEN YOU DISCOVERED I WAS Lord D’Acre’s betrothed,” Melly said to Mr. Netterton. Her father was sleeping so she’d ordered a pot of tea to be brought to them in the drawing room.

  “Me? I suppose I was—I mean I didn’t expect a conveni—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Yes, a bit surprised.”

  “You were going to say something like you didn’t expect his convenient bride to be someone like me, weren’t you?” she said with dignity. “You must think me very odd.”

  “No,” said Mr. Netterton, sipping his tea mistrustfully. “I was wondering why my friend Dominic, who I always thought was a clever chap, could be such a fool—”

  Melly bit her lip. She must
learn to become inured to such careless insult.

  “—As to waste someone like you in a white marriage,” he finished.

  Melly closed her eyes in embarrassment that he even knew the conditions of the agreement. Her biggest humiliation: that Lord D’Acre didn’t even want her as a brood mare.

  And then his words penetrated.

  Melly blinked and looked at Mr. Netterton in surprise. “You think it would be a waste?” she whispered.

  “I’d say I do,” he said and reached for a biscuit. “Any red-blooded man would agree with me. Dominic’s a fool.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  And listen why; for I will tell you now

  What never yet was heard in tale or song.

  JOHN MILTON

  DOMINIC WALKED TO HIS MEETING WITH JAKE TASKER WITH A SMILE and a jaunty step. The look on her face when he’d sucked on her toes . . . He grinned. He was going to introduce her to a whole world of new pleasures.

  But when he spoke to Tasker the smile dropped from his face. “Tour the estate? Good God, no! That can wait till Abdul gets here.”

  “No, m’lord,” Tasker insisted. “You must learn the estate and its people. And they must meet you.”

  “Abdul is the one who’ll deal with that sort of thing. The tenants can meet him. I just want to be kept informed.”

  But Tasker was made of sterner stuff. “Like your pa was kept informed by Mr. Eades?” It was a low blow.

  Dominic compressed his lips. “The books will tell me all I need to know. It was through my examination of the books we discovered what Eades was up to.”

  Tasker snorted. “Us folk here could tell he was bent from the first. By the time you found he’d been fiddling, a deal o’ damage was done and honest folks ruined.”

  Dominic was irritated by such blunt, plain speaking, not the least because he knew the blasted fellow was right. He made one last effort. “Abdul, on the other hand, is a man I’ve known for ten years and is completely trustworthy. He can get to know everyone.”

  Tasker looked skeptical. “Aye, p’raps folk will take to some furriner, I dunno, but they’ll not take kindly to him unless they’ve met their lord first. ’Tis a matter of respect, m’lord. You respect them and they’ll respect your man. But they’ll not have a bar of him unless they hear it from you.”