The Perfect Kiss

by Anne Gracie

  “People do cover up when they’re hurt,” Grace whispered. “Poor little boy cut off from all comfort and joy . . .”

  “Stupid of his father, trying to cut him off from his mother and keep him locked up in the school.”

  “Criminal!” she said fiercely.

  “That, too. But stupid most of all.” He considered it a moment and added, “Taught me a lot, come to think of it. Never can force things of that sort. Loyalty. Allegiance.”

  “Love,” Grace added.

  He nodded. “Has the opposite effect if you try.” He sat back in his chair. “The day he finished school, Dom was to go to Wolfestone. His father had instructed the school that he wasn’t to go up to Oxford—though unlike me, he would have made a fine scholar—he was to go to Wolfestone and learn how to manage the estate.” He grinned. “Only one of the masters made the mistake of telling Dom in advance.”

  Grace sat forward, excited. “What happened?”

  “His father’s carriage arrived to collect him, but Dom had left in the night. He’d amassed enough money for a fare to take him home.”

  “To Egypt?” Grace was stunned. “By himself?”

  Mr. Netterton nodded proudly. “All the way to Egypt, crossing the continent entirely on his own. He crossed France in the middle of Boney whipping the frogs into a new frenzy, and he missed Waterloo by a couple of weeks! Amazing journey!”

  “His mother must have been so happy to see him after all those years.”

  “Ah, well . . .” Mr. Netterton’s face fell. He looked uncomfortable. “That was the biggest tragedy of all. When he got there, he found her deathly ill. He did all he could but she died in his arms just one day after he got there.” He was silent a long while, then added, “He never set foot on English soil again until the old man was dead.” He pulled out a clean, white handkerchief and handed it to her.

  Grace took it mechanically, not knowing why he’d given it to her.

  “Your cheeks are wet,” he explained.

  She rubbed at her cheeks and eyes, feeling angry and upset on behalf of the child who had been Dominic. No wonder he seemed so hard and cynical at times and tried so hard not to show he cared about anyone or anything. His father had left him a bitter legacy indeed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any

  care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in

  Hell’s despair.

  WILLIAM BLAKE

  “MY BOOTS ARE RUINED,” DOMINIC GROWLED AT JAKE TASKER. THE estate tour was taking a great deal longer than he’d expected or wanted. At every farm and every cottage, he’d had to dismount and tramp over every inch of the blasted property.

  Tasker eyed the boots with scant interest. “Look all right to me. A bit muddy, mebbe, but mud’ll brush off. Now, tell Lord D’Acre what you were tellin’ me last week, Seth.”

  Dominic listened while the tenant called Seth explained his ideas for the renewal of the estate.

  Tasker had gotten every farmer and tenant they’d met to explain everything: problems, needs, possible solutions, and despite himself, Dominic found it all fascinating. He was starting to see a pattern, starting to form ideas about how the estate could be brought back to full productivity and prosperity.

  Dominic probably could have come to exactly the same conclusions by looking at the books and talking to Tasker. And it would have been a damn sight easier to make the sort of decisions that ought to be made!

  That’s why he wanted Abdul here. Abdul could be the one to get interested, Abdul could listen to the problems and discuss solutions. Abdul was a ruthless business man. He could make the tough decisions. His eyes wouldn’t stray to ragged children and thin, worn mothers and be pierced with guilt and anger by the sight.

  It wouldn’t rip Abdul apart every time some old woman spoke kindly of Dominic’s mother and what a sweet young bride she’d been, and how she’d brought them fruit when the baby was born.

  And if Abdul met one more young woman who’d been named Beth, “After your kind lady mother, m’lord,” he wouldn’t get a hard lump in his throat making it impossible to talk. Abdul would just eye the woman’s curves and make some flirtatious remark.

  He wouldn’t feel any sense of connection at all with these blasted people, dammit! He’d just ruthlessly haul the estate into a state fit for a profitable sale.

  Dominic wished he’d never come. It was as if carefully healed scars were being picked apart. In the kindest possible way. It was unbearable.

  At one o’clock he made some excuse to take lunch at the village tavern, refusing the offer of a meal at one of his tenants’ homes. He wasn’t hungry; he’d had refreshments offered him at every stop. He just needed a drink, and a respite from all the . . . whatever had left him feeling so stirred up.

  Besides—he seized on the excuse—he had letters to post.

  The village postmaster glanced though them curiously. “I allus get a thrill from seeing letters go out, m’lord,” he confided. “To think something that’s been in my own hands here, will end up in . . . ooh, Italy.” He looked at the next. “And Egypt . . . and New South Wales and, what’s this, oh, just London,” he said, disappointed.

  But lunch and the post could only take up so much time, and then it was back to the estate tour.

  It was nearly dark when Dominic rode wearily back to Wolfestone. He wasn’t even halfway through the tour and already his head was stuffed full of farming information, of names and faces, of people who’d smiled at him, and touched his hand, who’d welcomed him, unbearably.

  Unbearably because while he’d been prepared to be seen as the next heir of Wolfestone, he hadn’t thought that so many people would remember his mother; asking after her with genuine kindness and expressing sadness and sympathy at her death, so many years ago.

  He’d never shared his grief with anyone; he’d just mentioned her death to a few friends in letters. None of them had known her.

  Now, in a country far from where she’d died, and more than ten years after she’d died, in the place where he thought she had been so unhappy, the place he’d learned to hate, her life had been celebrated, truly celebrated in small, sincere, heartbreaking ways.

  Children had been named after her, small kindnesses remembered, stories shared with her son. Her death seemed as fresh to these people as if her funeral had been today.

  Dominic had not wanted this tour: he’d been braced to receive hostility, greed, demands. He’d prepared no defense for kindness, sympathy, and . . . an overwhelming feeling of belonging . . .

  It tore him apart.

  He left Hex in the hands of a groom, checked the foal almost mechanically, and then entered the house by a side door. He didn’t feel like company.

  He had taken half a dozen steps when she came hurrying around the corner, her arms full of some fabric. He stopped dead and just looked at her. He stiffened, trying not to let his feelings show, determinied to disguise how shattered he felt.

  Grace took in the rigidity and tension of his big, strong body, the clenched jaw, and the knotted fists. Every inch of him declared his lack of desire for human contact. She was about to turn away when she saw his eyes. Golden, anguished. Wounded.

  That look drove every other thought from her mind. She made a small sound in her throat, dropped the bundle of fabric, bolted down the corridor straight as an arrow and hurled herself into his arms.

  They locked around her wordlessly. He couldn’t speak, could do nothing except hold her. In silence he held her, wordlessly fighting his long-buried, freshly torn-up grief.

  In silence she held him, hugging the small boy who’d been torn from everything he knew and loved, and the youth who’d been set adrift, ever since. The man who’d never belonged.

  Until today.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered against her skin. “It’s just—”

  “Hush,” she told him and kissed him on the jaw, on the mouth. His mouth covered hers, devourin
g her like a man starved of nourishment. His arms locked around her, crushing her against him, then his grip shifted and he swung her off the floor as if she weighed nothing at all. Still locked together in a kiss, he carried her into the small salon and kicked the door shut behind him.

  Keeping her clasped hard against his chest, he half sat, half sprawled on a long sofa. He said not a word, just buried his face against her neck, his chest heaving as he grappled for control. Grace clung to him, stroking his hair, his strong neck, his shoulders—any part of him she could reach.

  She could feel his big, warm hand moving over her, holding her, caressing her, seeking and exchanging wordless comfort.

  Time passed: she did not know how much. It was enough just to be here with him, feeling the heat of his body soak into hers, the hard muscles closed implacably around her.

  Frey’s revelations about Dominic’s life had just about broken her heart. This man, this big, powerful, complex man had been alone most of his life. From what she could make out, he’d taken care of his fragile mother since he was a small boy. And then, no sooner had she found love and security than young Dominic had been whisked away to another country. At school he’d been different, foreign. And on holidays he was shut out from his own family and not allowed to be accepted into others.

  Alone he’d forged a place in the world, amassed a fleet of trading ships, made himself independent of everything—except the past. This quest for revenge on behalf of a dead mother. Guilt was a terrible burden. Did he blame himself for her death, too?

  Grace knew from her oldest sister Prudence that when a child was burdened with responsibility too young, it burned into her soul. It was years before Prudence stopped feeling responsible for her sisters’ happiness and well-being. Even now, it still cropped up from time to time and they had to remind her.

  But at least Prudence’s sisters were alive . . .

  His grip on her finally loosened. He raised his head. “I’m sorry,” he said in clipped tones. He was embarrassed, she saw. “It’s been a . . . difficult day. Unexpected.”

  She leaned back into his embrace and rubbed her cheek against his jaw. “Tell me.”

  His arm tightened around her again. “I was so certain . . .” He stopped, his brow furrowed.

  “Certain of what?”

  “Certain I knew what she wanted me to do with this place.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Mmh.” He nodded, deep in thought. A ripple of pain crossed his face. “She may as well have been exhumed today.”

  She held tight to him, unable to find words of comfort.

  There was a long silence and then he muttered, “I thought she hated Wolfestone, but now . . . I’m not so sure.”

  Suddenly Grace had had enough. He was so mired in the past. It wasn’t healthy. She sat up. “You cannot keep guessing at her reasons and intentions.”

  He said nothing, so she gave him a small shove. “If you go on like this, you’ll drive yourself mad.” He made to speak but she covered his mouth with her hand. “Hush, let me finish. You keep talking about your father and mother—and I’m sorry for such blunt speaking—but they are both dead. And whatever plans and dreams they had for you or this place have died with them. You cannot know what they intended. It doesn’t matter anymore to them. You cannot be bound by the dead. You are here. They are not. You are alive. What matters now is you and your future—your hopes, your plans, your dreams.”

  He stared at her.

  “So, Dominic Wolfe, what are your dreams?”

  There was a long silence while he thought about what she’d said. Grace waited tensely. While she’d been speaking he’d moved away from her slightly, breaking the contact between their bodies. Deprived of his heat she felt suddenly chilled and nervous. She’d been very blunt—almost rude. She’d trampled on his sensibilities at a time when he was shaken by the emotions of the past. Had she offended him?

  At first he looked blank, almost shocked. Then a ripple of tension passed through his body and his eyes started to glow. She had offended his sensibilities.

  His powerful hands took her by the shoulders; his golden gaze pierced her.

  “You want to know my dreams?” His fingers tightened their grip. He took a deep breath. She braced herself.

  “You.” He pulled her back into his arms. “You are all I dream of. All I want is you.” And his mouth clamped tenderly, fiercely, possesively over hers.

  Grace melted. In a heartbeat all her doubts and fears dissolved. Under the heat of his hunger, his ravenous, driving need, all her resolutions about keeping him at arm’s length evaporated. She wanted him. More, she needed him.

  And he needed her.

  “Dominic.” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all the yearning buried deep inside her.

  Their tongues tangled, sliding sensuously back and forth, back and forth in an ancient rhythm her body unconsiously echoed. At the wine-dark, heady taste of him, her blood thrummed, thrilling in dark anticipation of what she’d already decided. Her body molded itself against and around him, curves seeking hollows, her softness craving his hardness, her skin itching, craving to be closer still, quivering deep within.

  Dominic clamped down hard to control the passion that surged within him. She was beautiful, eager, and despite her tangible innocence, generous. Too generous. Dangerously generous. It made a man lose control.

  And he was not going to lose control—yet. When he took her he wanted it to be perfect. So not here, not now, he told his rampant body.

  His hands caressed her feverishly, running down her back, her sides, her buttocks. Each time a shudder of pure desire rocked him, he felt an echoing response rippling through her. He ached to take her.

  He opened the front of her dress and caressed her breasts, half hidden by her stays. Her nipples pushed against the stiff fabric and each time his hand brushed across them she quivered and he felt it in his loins.

  He pushed her skirts higher, caressing the long, slender legs. They trembled and opened to him. He groaned and caressed her through the white cotton underwear.

  She rubbed against him feverishly. “Yes, Dominic, yes.”

  Her hands flew over him, stroking his shoulders, his chest, and down his front to his breeches. Her fingers explored him, feeling the hard ridge, the evidence of his desire.

  “May I touch?” Without waiting, she started to explore the fastenings of his breeches and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her to stop, even though he knew it would spell the end of all his noble resolutions.

  Resolutions? They went up in smoke. Dominic was in flames.

  She was fumbling at his breeches. He started to help her when he became aware of a growing din outside. He paused, distracted. It sounded like an army was charging at the house. Groaning, he lifted himself off her and glanced out of the window.

  He frowned, closed his eyes, and swore softly. “Visitors.”

  “Now?” she said, and then repeated crossly, “Now?”

  If he wasn’t in extremis himself, he’d have laughed at the expression on her face. He kissed her on the nose. “Yes, now. And we must go and greet them, so button up, my love.”

  They hurried to restore their clothing. Her hands were shaking and Dominic had to help her.

  In a few moments respectability was restored and together they strolled out to the front entrance, meeting Frey and Melly at the door. Most of the household, drawn by the unaccustomed noise, had drifted to the front of the house as well.

  “It’s Abdul!” Dominic explained.

  As always, Abdul made an entrance worthy of a prince royal. A veritable cavalcade swept up the driveway: several carriages laden with baggage and a string of horses following, led by several mounted grooms, the whole procession accompanied by armed outriders.

  Abdul leapt from the first carriage and strode into Wolfestone with all the arrogant swagger of a warrior arriving home. He was a magnificent sight. He was huge—even taller than his master—about six foo
t three or four, Grace guessed. Broad shoulded and walking with pantherish grace, he looked the very embodiment of an Ottoman warrior prince.

  On his head he wore a brilliant multicolored turban, with a huge glittering stone set into it. His face was swarthy and narrow, and was bisected by a bold hawkish nose. He had an enormous black mustache and a firm, square jaw. His eyes were dark and liquid deep, with the tragic expression of a martyred saint in an Eastern icon. He wore a long-sleeved coat of magnificent embroidery, a yellow silk shirt opened to reveal part of his chest, and a pair of gathered red trousers, tucked into high boots that were exotically curved at the toes. Around his waist he wore a black-and-silver sash with a curved dagger thrust through it.

  Behind Grace, Dominic murmured in a voice only she could hear, “You’d never believe he was born a slave, would you?”

  She turned, shocked. “He’s a slave?” She didn’t approve of slaves.

  “Not anymore,” Lord D’Acre said mildly. “I actually bought him to save his—man—er, life. I freed him, of course, but he chose to stay and work for me.” He saw the look she was giving him and added, “At a not-inconsiderable salary.”

  Grace was intrigued by the way he’d cut himself off. “What was it prompted you to buy him? What did you save?”

  He continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “And don’t imagine that outfit is anything you’ll see anywhere else in the world. Abdul has dressed to impress the natives.”

  If he had, it was working, Grace observed. People had appeared from everywhere, crowding into the hall, craning their necks for a sight of the enormous foreigner and speculating about him in audible tones. The three Tickel girls stood in a line, eyes popping and jaws agape, smoothing their hair and skirts and sending coy glances the big man’s way.

  He never so much as glanced at them. He seemed, in fact, magnificently indifferent to the sensation his arrival had created.

  “Part of his tactics,” Dominic murmured in Grace’s ear. “He makes it clear from the start that he’s outside any frame of reference they have; thus he cares nothing for popularity or fitting in. If we were in Turkey now, he’d no doubt be dressed as an English gentleman, only it would be some unique and bizarre arrangement of English attire, so that nobody would mistake him for a genuine Englishman. In Arabia he once dressed as a Russian. The costume varies. Only the mustache is constant.”