The Perfect Kiss

by Anne Gracie

  Grace wasn’t sure he understood at all. But she was willing to listen, at least. “Why would anyone choose to be a mistress?”

  “My mother was much happier as a mistress than as a wife.”

  “Your mother?”

  He nodded. “It’s a long story, but put simply, my mother married well, or so society thought. But she was utterly miserable as a wife. My father was a brute, and she was trapped. To cut a long story short, she ran away and much later, she fell in love with a man, also trapped in a marriage without love. He was a rich man and he begged my mother to become his mistress. She used all the arguments you used just now, but he wore her down, and she loved him and was lonely so eventually she agreed to become his mistress. He loved her for herself, not for what she could bring to a marriage, and . . . It was a love for all time. A love such as the poets and minstrels celebrate.”

  She swallowed.

  “When he died, losing him broke her heart, and within a few months she, too, died. She could not live without him.”

  She closed her eyes. She could not bear to see the pain in his, knowing she would only add to it.

  “This is what I offer you: my heart. Not some tawdry exchange of money for favors, but a love with no fetters and legalities, where we can choose each other freely, regardless of birth or wealth. I will bestow a settlement on you at the start, free and clear. You would have no financial obligation to me, and no obligation to stay unless you want to stay. You will be wealthy enough to leave me if you want and to live well for the rest of your life. All that will bind us to each other will be love.”

  She withdrew her hands from his clasp. They felt cold. “I’m sorry, I cannot be your mistress,” she said softly and pushed him away.

  He grabbed her back. “Think about it. Don’t reject the idea out of hand. We could have a wonderful life together—better than a marriage.”

  She thought about it for half a second and shook her head. “I can’t possibly be your mistress—especially not if Melly is your wife.”

  He dashed the question of Melly away with an impatient gesture. “Don’t worry about her. This is about you and me!”

  “It’s not just about Melly. I don’t want to be just your mistress—I want more from life—from you!—than that.”

  “There’s no just about it. You would be, you are everything to m—”

  She laid a finger over his mouth and said sadly, “No, I love you, Dominic, but I want everything. I want to marry you, to live with you, to build something together with you, here at Wolfestone, to give you children and grow old with you.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said urgently. “Mistresses are much better off than wives.”

  Grace shook her head. “You’re wrong. You don’t know who I really am. I’m not really a hired companion—I’m Melly’s friend. We went to school together.”

  “I suspected as much. But—”

  “I’m not poor, or an orphan, either. And my name is not even Greystoke. It’s Grace, Grace Merridew.” He was silent, so she added, “Of the Norfolk Merridews. My grandfather is Lord Dereham of Dereham Court in Norfolk, and my great-uncle is Sir Oswald Merridew. Lady Augusta Merridew is my great-aunt by marriage, not my sponsor. One of my sisters is married to a duke, another to a baron, and a third to a baronet. I’m an heiress and—” She stopped, knowing she was babbling. “So there is no question of me living with you as your mistress.”

  “I see.” Dominic swallowed. “But why—”

  “I disguised myself to come down here and boost Melly’s moral courage so that she could break her betrothal to you.” She added bitterly, “We neither of us understood the situation properly. And Melly has no moral courage!”

  She pressed her lips firmly together until she’d mastered herself, then said in a voice that wobbled, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I know Melly has tried. It’s her father who’s so stubborn. But whatever the reason, I can’t be your mistress.

  “Though it might suit some women perfectly, it’s not enough for me. You say marriage can be a trap, but to my way of thinking, it’s a half life you’re offering me, Dominic Wolfe. And so I must say thank you, but no, thank you.”

  He sat staring at the ground for a long time. Finally he said, “Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier? About who you really were? I knew you were an unusual companion, but all sorts of women become companions and I just thought you were a unique sort of companion.” His eyes darkened. “You are unique.”

  She hung her head. “I thought of telling you so many times. I wanted to, but . . .”

  “But?”

  She hesitated, wondering how to explain. She was going to sound horridly conceited. “Every man who’s ever shown an interest in me knew before he met me who I was, who all my relations were, and what my fortune was, almost to the last guinea—I am an heiress, did I mention that?”

  He glared at her. “I couldn’t care less if you’re the richest woman in the world! That’s not what I want from you.”

  She gave him an uncertain smile. “I know, and that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. You’re the only man who’s looked at me and seen . . . me. Not an heiress, or a beauty, or a well-connected aristocrat. Just me. Ordinary Grace Merridew. It was . . . irresistible.”

  “You’re wrong about that, actually.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “I do see a beauty when I look at you. And there’s nothing ordinary about Grace Merridew.”

  She bit her lip. “My hair is dyed this ugly color and these freckles are false.”

  He just looked at her in a way that was breaking her heart, so she added almost desperately, “You said yourself my freckles were odd.”

  “That’s true,” Dominic said softly. He’d had enough of her keeping him at arm’s length. “Odd, but delightful. How did you make them?” He wasn’t even going to try to understand the rationale behind the freckles but he’d feign interest in anything if it got him close to Greyst—Grace again. He peered earnestly at a freckle.

  “Henna. It’s this stuff you paint on and it dries and stains your skin. See, they’re fading now.”

  He moved closer, pretending to look at her skin. Frowning intently he cupped her face in his hands to get a better look. He ran his thumbs along her cheeks. “So smooth and silky,” he murmured. “And the freckles do seem to have faded a little. It wasn’t the lemons from Mrs. Tickel that did the trick, then? Or the buttermilk from Mrs. Parry?” He winked.

  Her skin warmed under his fingers. “You knew about that?”

  Dominic nodded, gazing down into her face. God, she was lovely.

  The tension in her face eased for a moment and she gave a rueful smile. “Half the ladies of Wolfestone have offered me remedies. I never knew there were so many methods of getting rid of freckles. Do you know, one lady even told me to wash my face in the dew collected from a gravestone!”

  “So these freckles will eventually disappear?” He touched them one by one. “This one and this one and this one?”

  “Yes.” She went all shy on him, turning her face away.

  “That would be a pity; I’m very fond of these freckles,” he murmured and began to kiss them, one by one.

  She went stiff and for a moment he thought she was going to pull away again, but then he felt her soften and sigh against him, and his pulse leapt and his arms tightened around her. He kissed a few freckles on her face, then kissed her long and deep on the mouth, then a few more freckles, then another long, drugging kiss.

  She gave a soft little moan and kissed him back, her hands running up his neck and into his hair, clutching at his head, pulling him closer. She kissed him back with all the fervor any man could dream of.

  This was what he wanted. This was all he wanted. Greyst—Grace in his arms. It made no difference to him who she was.

  Why could she not see it as simply as he did?

  He pressed her back onto the grass and his hand went to her bodice. She smacked it hard, pushed him off, and sat up, flu
stered and angry.

  “No, Dominic. I won’t be your mistress! You’ve agreed to marry Melly Pettifer so it’s over between you and me.”

  He lay there and watched her straighten her clothes and hair. She was so lovely when she was flustered.

  “It’s not over at all, Grace,” he told her softly. “I keep what’s mine and you, my love, are mine.”

  She stood over him, glaring, her fists clenched and every lovely line of her braced for a fight. He didn’t move a muscle, and he watched in amusement as she wrestled with her sense of fair play and decided not to kick him while he was down. She stalked over to her horse and seized the reins and he was hard put not to laugh out loud when he saw her realize she needed him to help her back into the sidesaddle.

  She refused to look at him and bent her knee without a word. He caressed her calf so quickly and lightly she didn’t have time to complain before he’d tossed her into the saddle. He admired her seat as she galloped crossly off.

  She didn’t have a hope against him. They’d said all that needed to be said yesterday: she was his and he was hers. She might have given up on him, but he wasn’t giving up on her, not by a long shot.

  MELLY WAS STILL NOT EATING, JUST PICKING AT HER FOOD. GRACE was worried that Melly might be doing it to punish herself. She could see how guilty Melly felt, but it wasn’t her fault. She’d tried to talk to her father and he’d refused. That was no reason for Melly to starve herself.

  But whenever Grace tried to talk to Melly about it she changed the subject, looking self-conscious and a bit annoyed.

  “I’m all right, Grace. It’s not as if I’m fading away to a shadow, am I?” she said bitterly.

  “No, but, Melly—”

  It was no use. Melly had walked off, leaving Grace frowning after her. This was not the Melly she knew and loved. This whole thing was driving a wedge between them. It was horrible.

  If she couldn’t talk to Melly, someone should. If it was worry that stopped her from eating, that was one thing, but if it was illness . . . or guilt . . . She decided to talk to Frey about it. That was part of a vicar’s job, after all, listening to other people’s worries.

  “You can’t say she doesn’t have a lot to fret about,” Frey said. “Apart from her father’s condition, you could cut the atmosphere here with an ax at times.”

  “But she never refuses food, not in all the years I’ve known her.” Grace had told Frey who she really was, as well. No point keeping it secret any longer.

  Frey frowned. “You don’t think she’s in danger of going into a decline, do you? I wouldn’t be surprised. Would depress anyone’s spirits. I’ve done my best to get her out of that blasted sickroom. It’s no place for a young lady to spend all hours of the day in.”

  “Yes, I noticed you’ve been taking her for a walk every afternoon. It’s very good of you.”

  He gave a self-deprecatory shrug. “Pooh, nothing else to do. Waiting for the vicarage to be fixed, sermons to write, parishioners to visit—to be honest I look forward to that walk. Highlight of my day.” He looked suddenly bleak. “I’m a bit worried that Dominic will want me to officiate at this—this wedding. My oldest friend, you know. If he does ask me, I’m not sure I can refuse. But I’d rather not do it.”

  Grace didn’t know what to say.

  “You’re not happy about it, either, are you?”

  She shook her head.

  He sighed. “Stubborn brute, Dominic. Don’t like to be done out of what he believes is rightfully his. Comes of the poverty he endured as a child, I expect. What’s his is his.”

  She glanced at him, but he was talking about the estate, not Dominic’s outrageous claim to own her. She nodded. “Melly’s father is just as stubborn. He’s the cause of all our anxieties.”

  He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’ll talk to Miss Pettifer. See what’s putting her off her feed.”

  HE BROACHED THAT QUESTION THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AFTER THEIR customary walk. It had become her habit to order tea and cakes. Frey was almost beginning to like the filthy taste of tea. As long as there were plenty of cream cakes to be washed down by it, and Mrs. Stokes was the best maker of cream cakes he’d ever come across. Normally he and Miss Pettifer cleared the plate, but lately, he realized, she hadn’t touched the cakes at all. Miss Greystoke was right. Melly was fretting.

  “You’re not eating any cakes,” he observed.

  “No.” She blushed. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You hardly ate a thing at dinner last night, nor the night before. And now no cakes, when I know you how much you like them.”

  She hung her head.

  He leaned forward and took her hand. “What’s the matter, Melly?” he asked softly. It was the first time he’d called her Melly to her face.

  She kept her face averted. “I’m trying to slim,” she muttered.

  “Slim?” He didn’t understand.

  Her blush intensified. “To lose weight.”

  He stared at her. “Good God, why would you want to do that?”

  “I’m too fat,” she muttered.

  “Too fat?” He stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Whoever told you that is a blind fool,” he said at last. “Look at me—a scrawny, unattractive bundle of bones, whereas you—you’re a, a vision of delicious feminine curves, the kind of warm softness a man dreams of sinking into and finding paradise.”

  His words hung in the silence. Frey felt himself going red. She was blinking at him, flushed, her rosy lips parted in astonishment.

  “Good God, what am I saying?” He rose from his seat and took a couple of agitated steps around the room. “I’m a clergyman, for heaven’s sake! I’m not supposed to think this way!” He sat down again. “You’re a parishioner, a member of my flock.” He stroked her cheek. “My little lamb.” He bent and kissed her. To his amazement he felt her arms wrap around his neck, and her fingers slide into his hair. Her mouth opened shyly to welcome him. The kiss deepened and his arms tightened around her.

  After a moment he released her, breathing heavily. He glanced hungrily at her soft, lush bosom and ran a finger around his tight collar. “If Uncle Ceddie knew what I was thinking now, he’d send me to Outer Mongolia.”

  “Why?”

  With an effort he walked away from her and stood next to the mantelpiece. “The thing is, Melly, I’d—I’d do something about this blasted situation”—His eyes burned—“But I’m so damnably poor.”

  “I’m poor, too,” she told him, adding hopefully. “I don’t mind being poor. I’ve never been anything else.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. I’m the sole support for my widowed mother and two younger sisters. I can’t afford to get married. I probably never will.”

  “Never?” she said sadly. “I wouldn’t mind waiting.” She blushed. “If someone wanted me to wait, that is.”

  He eyed her hungrily, battled with himself, and then shook his head. “No, it’s not possible. One day—when I’m a hundred and eight, no doubt—I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams!”

  “A hundred and eight?”

  “That’s how long my Uncle Ceddie will live for, I bet. I’m his sole heir and while the estate is rich enough to support the entire family in luxury, down to the last third cousin, Uncle Ceddie won’t part with a penny if he can help it. He keeps us all on the most stringent allowance—my mother can barely make ends meet. Almost all I earn in this job will go to her and the girls—Lord knows what we’ll do once the girls are old enough to get married.” He looked into her soft brown eyes. “So you see, there is no chance I can ever marry. No matter how much I might want to.”

  “I see,” she said in a doleful voice. She sat there quietly, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of quiet hopeless-ness. “Will you be there when I am married to Lord d’Acre, then?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to watch.”

  “MR. NETTERTON SAYS HE WON’T BE ABLE TO OFFICIATE AT THE wedding, Papa,” Melly told him that evening
.

  “Why ever not?”

  “I—I’m not sure. He just said he wouldn’t be able to be there.”

  Sir John pursed his lips. “I suppose we’d better get another parson, then. It’s a damned nuisance.”

  “Yes, Papa.” She smoothed the sheets and pulled the bedclothes straight. He watched her face with a troubled expression.

  “You do understand why I’m doing this, don’t you, puss?”

  She sighed. “I understand your reasoning, Papa.”

  He patted her hand. “It will turn out all right in the end. Trust me, Melly. It will be all right in the end.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Her voice was almost inaudible. “Don’t worry.”

  “YOU’VE BEEN PUTTING QUITE A LOT OF WORK INTO GETTING THE estate to rights, haven’t you?” Frey commented that evening. The two men were playing billiards.

  “Mmm.” Dominic squinted down the cue and potted his ball.

  “That Abdul fellow seems to be running everyone ragged in an effort to bring the house up to scratch.”

  “Mmm.” Dominic considered the best angle for his next shot.

  “I suppose you and Miss Pettifer will spend a good deal of time here after the marriage.”

  “No.” Dominic’s cue ball glanced off Frey’s, then struck a red ball, which rolled toward the pocket, teetered on the edge for a second, and then dropped in.

  “Good shot! What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I’m going abroad.” He made another shot, but missed. “Miss Pettifer, Lady D’Acre as she will be, will live wherever she wants—somewhere in England, I presume. Your turn.”

  Frey chalked the end of his cue thoughtfully. “You mean you’re not going to live with her?”

  “Good God, no! I plan to have nothing to do with her after the ceremony.”

  “What? Never?”

  “No,” said Dominic in a cheerful tone. “She will be free to do as she wishes. The marriage is merely a means to gain my inheritance. Do you think you have enough chalk there or shall I send for some more?”

  Frey started and shook the excess chalk off. He’d used half the piece. “You mean you’re going to abandon her?”