The Perfect Kiss

by Anne Gracie

  “Abandon? You can hardly talk about the generous settlement she’ll have as abandonment. She’ll be free,” Dominic corrected him.

  “But she’ll be alone.”

  “Nonsense. She’ll have plenty of money to hire servants. And a companion.”

  “Old ladies hire companions—not young women not yet one-and-twenty! Who will look after her?”

  Dominic raised his brows. “Oh, you mean that sort of companionship?” He shrugged. “I imagine that, too, will be easy to come by—”

  “I didn’t mean that at all. She’s a nice, respectable girl! She wouldn’t—”

  “I’m in the process of purchasing her a house near the docks. After that she is free to do whatever she likes.”

  “But that’s a terrible area. You can’t leave a shy little creature like Miss Pettifer in that district—she’ll be too nervous to leave the house.”

  Dominic shrugged. “Better than no house at all. And besides, it’ll keep her out of mischief.”

  “Mischief? What sort of mischief do you think she would get up to? Do you know her so little? She’s a virtuous little soul.”

  “Good, then it will keep her safe from the consequences of any foolishness.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t care if she takes lovers—she can have strings of ’em for all I care,” Dominic said carelessly. “As long as she doesn’t fall pregnant.”

  “Good God, she’s not the sort to take lovers!” Frey exploded. “And even if she was, why should she not fall pregnant—you don’t want her, so what do you care?”

  Dominic inspected the end of his cue. “I won’t have a cuckoo in the Wolfestone nest, that’s why. I’ll have her watched, of course. The first hint of pregnancy and she’s out on her ear! Without a home, and with no income. I’m not one of your English gents who shrinks from the public fuss and disgrace of divorce. I was brought up in a part of the world much less rigid about that sort of thing, recall.”

  “That’s inhuman!” Frey exploded.

  “You think so?” Unconcerned, Dominic lined up his shot.

  “Of course it is. What sort of a life is that for a young girl on the verge of womanhood?”

  “Rather a dreary one, I imagine.” Dominic potted the red ball.

  “She’ll be lonely and frightened and alone! You can’t do it to her, Dom!”

  Dominic gave a careless shrug. “She’s doing it to herself, Frey. Nothing to do with me. I just want my inheritance. I’d prefer not to have to marry at all, as you know.”

  “You callous bastard,” Frey gasped. “I never thought you’d turn out to be such a swine, Dominic. It goes to show, the apple never falls far from the tree. You’re as bad as your father!” He threw down his cue and stormed from the room.

  Dominic set his cue back in the rack and smiled.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oh fateful night! Hold back the hour of sundering!

  IBN SAFR AL-MARINI

  “I HEREBY PUBLISH THE BANNS OF MARRIAGE BETWEEN DOMINIC

  Edward Wolfe, Lord D’Acre, of Wolfestone Parish and Miss Melanie Louise Pettifer of the Parish of Theale in Reading. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

  As Mr. Netterton finished the announcement, an audible ripple of speculation ran through the church. The locals who had crowded into the church in order to get a look at the new vicar were getting their money’s worth.

  “That’s not ’er name,” Grace heard someone mutter to a neighbor.

  “No, ’e’s got it wrong, the silly clunch. It’s one thing to be nervous, but gettin’ the name wrong—well!”

  “Who’s Miss Melanie Louise Pettifer?”

  “The other one. Her friend.”

  Grace felt her face reddening. If she could hear the speculation, then so could Melly and Dominic, who sat on either side of her. They should have been sitting together, of course, looking like a couple, but as they’d entered the church to support Frey through his first solo sermon and hear the banns read, Dominic had been detained by someone or other, with the result that she and Melly had been sitting together in the Wolfe family pew, and he’d slid in at the last minute to join them. Next to Grace.

  She glanced at Dominic. His face was granite and unreadable. She looked at Melly to see how she’d taken it. She looked pinched and miserable and desperate. Grace squeezed her hand in sympathy. Poor Melly, caught between two stubborn men.

  Poor Grace, caught in the same trap.

  As they filed up to the altar rail to take Communion, Grace tried to block the sympathetic smiles and grimaces from the villagers. They all seemed to think she was the one who should be marrying Dominic Wolfe. It was not just embarrassing, it was agonizing.

  Because she happened to agree with them. And it was just not possible. And though her heart was breaking, she had to smile and be polite. She would put a bright face on this if it killed her.

  She couldn’t bear pity. What a fool she’d been to let herself believe that true love had at last found Grace Merridew! She could just imagine Grandpapa sniggering.

  AFTER THE SERVICE, FREY WAS HELD UP CHATTING TO HIS NEW parishioners. As Melly, Dominic, and Grace filed inconspicuously past, they could hear him trying gracefully to parry invitations to Sunday dinner from several quite forceful ladies and gentlemen—all with marriageable daughters—who had traveled a good way to hear and meet the new bachelor vicar. At the same time, he was attempting to deal with just as forceful and much more blunt statements from the locals, pointing out his error in the banns.

  In between repeated variations of “So sorry, very kind of you to ask, but alas, previous engagement at the castle. Yes, another time would be delightful,” and “No, I did not make an error in the names, dash it all!” Frey was looking quite harassed.

  Dominic began to lead them to the carriage. He felt numb, furious, cold.

  “What of Mr. Netterton?” Melly asked.

  “What of him? He can follow on later,” Dominic told her.

  Melly looked worriedly at Frey being mobbed by his flock and nudged Grace.

  “Oh no, it would be too cruel to leave him there,” Grace declared. “Why don’t we give him fifteen minutes to chat and do the polite thing, and then Lord D’Acre can stride up and claim him in a lordly manner.”

  She was being so brave, he thought. Smiling and smiling and chattering brightly, while all the time in her eyes he could see how devastated she was. If she could be brave, so could he. He gave her what he hoped passed for a quizzical look. “Claim him in a lordly manner?”

  “Yes, you know, with that ruthless, cruel, lordly look you do so well. Leaving poor Mr. Netterton no choice but to come with you or suffer a horrid fate.”

  “Oh, that look.” He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” she said approvingly. “Utterly terrifying.” She linked arms with him in a friendly fashion and looked up at him with swimming blue eyes and Dominic fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and comfort her with promises he could not keep.

  She said brightly, “Well, we need some sort of spectacle seeing as how Abdul has disappointed everyone so badly.”

  “He’s what? How?”

  “By not turning up. Mr. Netterton thinks it’s him they’ve all come to see, and that’s probably true, as far as the gentry is concerned, but most of the villagers are here to see a real live Turk.”

  “Real live Turks don’t usually attend Anglican services.”

  “Nonsense, this is England. Half the people here are chapel, not church, but it hasn’t stopped them coming today in the hope of seeing Abdul. Besides, before the Ottomans, Constantinople was the center of the Catholic church. It stands to reason some of them must have remained Christian.”

  “Not Abdul. I don’t think he follows any particular faith, as it happens. And in any case he’s not a Turk—he’s a man of many races. His mother was the
daughter of a Circassian slave girl, his father an Egyptian of Greek extraction, and the further back you go, the more complicated it gets. He says he’s pure Ottoman—representative of every part of the empire.”

  He turned to offer his other arm to Miss Pettifer, but she was in close conference with Granny Wigmore. He waited a moment, but the conversation seemed quite intense and likely to take a while, so he and Grace started strolling through the churchyard. He pressed her arm against his side and covered her hand with his and, as always, her touch soothed him.

  They strolled in silence for a few minutes and gradually he felt less desperate. He could feel the tension seeping from her, too. “Dreadful how they wanted to correct poor Frey, wasn’t it?”

  She didn’t respond. He slipped an arm around her. “Don’t worry so much, Grace. It will be all right, I promise you.” It had to be. He’d risked things on a gamble before.

  They walked on. After a while he asked her, “How do you know these things—like them wanting to gawk at Abdul? You’ve been here as long as I have and I never know what the villagers are thinking.”

  She said with an enigmatic air, “It’s a mystery. Some call it a gift.”

  “Indeed?” he said dryly.

  She smiled and said, “In the last few days I’ve lost track of how many villagers have asked me if it was true that his lordship had a real live Turk up at the castle. The people here have long memories, it seems.”

  “Too damn long,” he agreed feelingly. “But what the devil do long memories have to do with Abdul? He’s only just arrived.”

  She primmed her lips and his heart clenched as he saw how gallantly she tried to cheer him up. “Well, first there was talk of how much you resemble your ancestors. Figuring large in collective village memory is some fellow called Sir Simon Wolfe who fought with Richard Coeur de Lion in the crusades and became the first Lord D’Acre.”

  He grunted, fed up with reminders of his ancestors. “So?”

  Her smile was genuine this time. “So, Sir Simon also brought back a real live Turk as prisoner. The villagers are thrilled you are continuing the tradition.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he said, disgusted.

  She giggled and his heart lifted. They strolled on. He felt suddenly more positive. The feel of her small, firm hand tucked into his arm felt so right, so good. He adjusted his steps to suit her shorter ones; she was lengthening hers to suit his. As they walked, their bodies brushed against each other, just a touch, a reminder, a promise of things to come.

  He would find a way.

  “Oh, look.” She stopped in front of a plaque set into a lichen-covered stone edifice with an angel on top. It was set in a large railed-off section of the churchyard. She read the inscription: “Martha Jane Wolfe, Lady D’Acre, wife of Gerard Wolfe, Lord D’Acre of Wolfestone.”

  Beneath the main inscription were six smaller ones, each only recording a name and a date. Her hand tightened on his arm as she read the names and realized the significance. “Poor lady, to lose so many babies . . . She died so young.”

  He looked at the stone. Another of the innocents sacrificed for Wolfestone. Well, no more. He steered her away.

  “Will you go through with it?” she asked him after a moment. The connection was clear.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He knew what he wanted. People didn’t get everything they wanted.

  She pulled her hand out of the crook of his arm. “But you must make a decision.”

  “Must I?” He glanced back at Frey and his parishioners. “Things are in train.”

  Unable to bear the look in her eyes, he drew her away. He would drag Frey away from his parishioners and get the hell out of this place. He dropped her arm and strode toward the group gathered around Frey. Grace was left staring after him.

  Melly was waiting quietly at the back, watching Frey with an expression that broke Grace’s heart.

  Poor Melly, caught on the horns of a terrible dilemma and quite unable to take action of any sort.

  Grace could not imagine what it would be like to live with the knowledge that you’d not only disappointed your father dreadfully but caused his death, as well.

  The whispery voice echoed in her head. “You killed your mama, Grace.”

  Well, yes, actually. She could. And she would not wish it on anyone, let alone a tender innocent like Melly. Only what were they to do?

  All Grace knew was that she could stand this no longer.

  AFTER CHURCH GRACE KNOCKED ON SIR JOHN’S DOOR. MELLY WAS walking with Frey around the garden. She could see them from her upstairs window. They were deep in conversation.

  The calling of banns had made up Grace’s mind. She could stand this stalemate no longer. It was simply too painful. She would leave before they were called again, leave Dominic Wolfe and Wolfestone and everything that was ripping her apart. She would go back to London and pack to leave for Egypt with Mrs. Cheever.

  But before she did, she would talk to Sir John.

  “Yes, Greystoke,” he said. “What is it?”

  “It’s not Greystoke, Sir John.” She walked up to his bed. The clean scent of herbs could not quite disguise the stench of sickness. She tried not to pull a face. “It’s Grace, Grace Merridew. I was at school with Melly, remember?”

  Sir John’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “How can you be Grace Merridew? You’re Greystoke!”

  “Look at me, Sir John, I dyed my hair and painted freckles all over my face.” Grace tried not to stare at the large lump high on Sir John’s abdomen and visible through his nightshirt. Of course, she told herself, if Granny was poulticing it, the poultice would make it look larger.

  She could see the truth dawn slowly in his eyes. “I do recognize you. You deceived us? But why?” He looked shocked and bewildered and for a moment Grace suffered qualms about upsetting an old man who was so unwell. She steeled herself. It had to be said.

  “Melly knew who I was all the time.” She took a deep breath. “In fact Melly begged me to do it.”

  “But why?”

  “She’s desperately unhappy, Sir John. She doesn’t want this marriage. Neither does Dominic Wolfe. You know that.”

  “They don’t know what’s good f—”

  “They know what they want! And what they don’t want. For a start, Melly would probably deny this, but it is my opinion that she’s become very fond of Frey—Mr. Netterton.”

  “I’m fond of the lad myself,” Sir John told her. “But he’s as poor as a church mouse. And supporting his widowed mother and sisters. I’m not going to condemn my Melly to a life of poverty by letting her marry Frey Netterton.”

  “He won’t always be poor. He’s his uncle’s heir and his uncle is very—”

  Sir John cut her off with a dismissive gesture. “Long-lived family, the Nettertons. Ceddie will live to a hundred, I’ll lay odds. Doesn’t drink, smoke, or gamble.” He shook his head in disbelief. “When you think of the wild youth I knew . . . A dead bore now, of course.”

  He recalled himself and shot Grace a mulish look. “I won’t have my Melly scrimping and saving in the vicarage when she could be the lady of the manor, living a life of ease.”

  “Not even if she’s happy scrimping in the vicarage?”

  “Pshaw! Marriage doesn’t guarantee happiness. But money guarantees comfort and security.”

  “You would make guarantee she is miserable by marrying her to a man who doesn’t want her.”

  “D’Acre might not want her now, but—”

  “He loves me. Me.” She let that sink in. “And I love him.”

  He gave her a shrewd look. “But he’s agreed to marry my Melly.”

  “Yes.”

  “For the money.”

  “Not for the money,” she flashed proudly. “For his home. For the place his family has lived for six hundred years.”

  “He doesn’t care about—”

  “Oh, he cares, believe me. He just hides things deeper than most.” She tried to think how to
get through to this old man. “He belongs here. He’s only just discovered that, but he needs to be part of Wolfestone as much as the Wolfestone people need him . . . And so I am leaving.”

  “Good.”

  She was speechless. “I thought you loved Melly.”

  “I do. And I’m doing what’s best for her, even if she doesn’t know it. Yet.” He lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes. Argument over.

  Grace said bitterly, “Then this is good-bye. I—I cannot claim to bear you no grudge, Sir John. But I will pray for your recovery. But know this—you are wrong to force this match, more deeply wrong than you will ever know.”

  Part of the night I spent

  embracing her

  and part kissing her

  until the banner of dawn

  summoned us to leave

  and our circle of embraces

  was broken.

  Oh fateful night!

  Hold back the hour of sundering!

  With shaking hands Grace closed the little leather-bound book of poems. This poem, “Night of Love” by the poet of Andalusia, Ibn Safr al-Marini, was her favorite. So beautiful and so sad.

  She was curled up in the big overstuffed armchair in the library. Dinner was over. It was her last night at Wolfestone. She’d made arrangements to leave at dawn. She hadn’t told Dominic. She knew he’d make a fuss and she couldn’t bear it. But everyone else knew. She’d said her good-byes.

  Melly, caught up in helpless misery and guilt, had made an excuse and gone upstairs to sit with her father. It was an excuse, Grace knew, because her father was always asleep by this time. So Grace had retired to the comfort of the library and her beloved book of medieval poems.

  Hold back the hour of sundering indeed, Grace repeated in her mind. But it was too late. Their circle of embrace had already been sundered. Dominic was marrying Melly. In a few more days the banns would be called for the second time.

  She could not bear to stay and watch. She was not noble enough for that.