by Mia Marlowe
“How did you know I was awake?”
“I lied,” Miss Kearsey said smoothly. “I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was worth a try. Really, it’s too bad of you to worry your brother like this.”
As if his half brother gave a flying fig about him. After all, John was the only thing that stood between Richard and their father’s title and estate. Since the secret first marriage of the marquess had come to light last summer, Richard’s expectations had plummeted. John’s standing in society, on the other hand, had soared, from being the living proof of his mother’s light heels, to the dizzying heights of the scion of the House of Somerset.
“I can’t believe you lied,” John said woodenly. “That’s not at all the done thing. Where did a debutante from Mayfair pick up a trick like that?”
“You may as well learn right now that I don’t always do the done thing,” she said with a sniff. “For instance, if you thought I wouldn’t cajole and bully my father into accompanying me here to tell your family where they could find you, then you have no idea what sort of debutante I am.”
“To be honest, I have no experience with debutantes.”
“That’s obvious. In fact, you’ve little experience with Polite Society, by all accounts,” she said. “But this life you’re living…whatever it is you’re doing here in London, it’s hurting your family. After the kindness you showed me, I must believe that’s not like you either.”
“Then you have no idea what sort of man I am.” If she knew the half of what he’d been up to, she’d flee from his presence and never look back. Since the ton was determined to shun him, he’d done his best to give them reason.
John decided to fit in with the beau monde’s seedy underbelly. He’d gone to school with Pitcairn, Smalley, and Blackwood, but he’d never had the funds to join his old classmates in the activities of the Daemon Club before. Now they were pleased to take him, and the line of credit due the heir to the Somerset marquessate, under their leathery wings and initiate him royally. They’d introduced him to the sporting life—to bear baiting and cock fights. He learned to drink, and drink hard. John hadn’t consumed as much alcohol in his entire life as he had in the last few months.
And the women! He’d come to London a virgin. Now he considered his education in matters sensual thorough, if a trifle jaded.
“This life is like me now,” John said. “Haven’t you heard? I’m Lord Hartley, a heartbeat from being a peer of the realm. Short of being caught red-handed doing murder, I can do whatever I damn well please.”
Miss Kearsey’s lips tightened into a thin line, and she glared at him. He’d only spoken the truth. A titled lord could do no wrong.
But he’d sworn in her presence. A bit of shame washed over him, remnants from his stern upbringing in Wiltshire. She deserved to have him keep a civil tongue in his head.
Then it occurred to him that Miss Kearsey wasn’t wearing the soiled and torn blue gown any longer. A fine shawl draped over her shoulders. Her off-white muslin column dress was embellished with delicate embroidery at the bodice that curled around her breasts enticingly. Even her hair had been dressed and was tied up with a satin bandeau.
“You’re looking much better than you did earlier this evening.”
“Careful, Lord Hartley,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “That sort of compliment will turn a girl’s head.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. I’m teasing you. Unfortunately, you’re looking much worse than you did earlier this evening, my lord.” She rose gracefully and went to the pitcher and ewer on the washstand. She wet a cloth and returned to press it over his swollen eye. Even though her touch was gentle, pain shot through his eye socket to his brain.
“Ow!” He took the damp cloth from her and held it over the eye himself. “If you insist on torturing me, do you think you could do it without ‘my lord-ing’ me left and right? My name is John. John Fitzhugh.”
“John Fitzhugh,” she repeated. Miss Kearsey’s face lit with that beguiling smile again. “If we’re being familiar, you must call me Rebecca.” Then her smile faded. “But that’s not strictly correct. You’re John Fitzhugh Barrett. You see, while we were waiting to learn whether your brother Richard could find you in Whitechapel, I got a chance to get to know your sister-in-law and grandmother. They told me all about you.”
John didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, Rebecca did.
“You’re shaming your family,” she accused.
“That assumes the Barretts are capable of shame.” What with a secret marriage, a scheming dowager marchioness who kept John’s true parentage a mystery, and a marquess who even now reportedly had more holes in his memory than a moth-eaten cloak, the Somerset legacy was not something to boast about. “Besides, you’re wrong. I have no family.”
“Nonsense. You’re a Barrett, rightwise born. You’re the marquess’s heir, for pity’s sake. You have four half siblings and a lovely stepmother who are ready to welcome you home to Somerfield Park with open arms.”
John snorted.
“You haven’t given them a chance,” Rebecca said.
“After the chance they gave me, what can they expect?”
John had been six years old when his mother died, penniless and alone. After a few days in the foundling home, someone came to collect him and bring him to a farm in Wiltshire, where he was fostered by Sir Humphrey Coopersmith and his wife. John was reared by the genteel yet threadbare couple. They were distantly kind to him, but he was always conscious of being someone else’s son—someone who didn’t want to admit John was his son.
The very next week after John was placed with the Coopersmiths, Lord Somerset had wed Lady Helen and built his real family with her.
“I don’t owe the Barretts anything,” John said.
“Yes, you do. They might have abandoned you forever, but they didn’t. The dowager could have taken the secret of your birth to her grave, but she didn’t.” Rebecca leaned toward him, and he caught a whiff of her violet scent again. “Don’t you see? You have a chance to make everything right and you’re frittering it away in pursuit of…well, in whatever it is you’ve been in pursuit of.”
Anger boiled in him, worse than when he was beating the stuffing out of Edgar Meek in Whitechapel. She was trying to make this his fault, and it wasn’t.
“Don’t beat around the bush. An unusual debutante like you knows full well what I’ve been pursuing—drinking, gambling, and wenching. That’s what lords do, don’t you know?”
Her cheeks flushed with color, but she stood her ground. “Then it’s too bad you became a lord. I rather suspect you were a much nicer person before you learned who you were.”
She rose and made to go, but he caught her by the wrist. Her pulse point jumped under his grip, fluttering like a hummingbird’s wing.
His chest ached. She was right. No matter what he did now, he’d never get back the innocence of that boy from Wiltshire.
“You’re right. I did used to be…” John couldn’t claim to have been nicer. As long as he could remember, he’d had a bitter taste under his tongue and a driving need to prove himself. But he hadn’t always been such a bounder. “Well, I was different from the way I am now. Don’t go, Rebecca.” He swallowed hard. “Please. Even if you hate me, stay. No one tells me the truth anymore.”
She fixed him with a pointed look, her chin determined, her eyes overly bright. Then she nodded and sat back down, giving her hand a slight tug. He released her with reluctance.
“I could never hate you,” she said. “Not after the way you came to my rescue this night. I’ll stay. But I want you to promise you’ll do something for me, John.”
Something inside him relaxed. It was as if every bit of his body had been holding its breath till she said his name. She caressed it a bit, let it linger on that beguiling little tongue of hers.
“Anything you want, I’ll do it.” He was feeling magnanimous and more than a little fuzzy-headed after the beating he’d taken, but he realized it was true. He would do anything for her.
“It sounds to me as if you’re not sure of your place in the world.”
He nodded slowly. She’d cut to the heart of his problem in no time at all. He didn’t belong anywhere.
“Then I want you to do something that will help you figure out where you belong. Go home to Somerfield Park,” she said. “London isn’t for you.”
He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Maybe he could talk her into changing her request.
“There’s nothing for me in Somerset either. My half brother Richard is running the estate. He keeps things humming, I’m told. I’d be as useful as…” He stopped himself before he said “tits on a boar,” deciding even an unusual debutante like Rebecca wouldn’t appreciate this poetical, if somewhat coarse, observation. “Well, not useful at all.”
“You were decidedly useful to me this evening, but that’s beside the point,” she said. “And there is something for you at Somerfield Park. There’s your father. It’s almost time for his annual hunt. From what your grandmother told me, his lordship is still not himself after taking a tumble off the roof. He needs you.”
Each year, the marquess hosted a grand hunt at Somerfield Park, inviting influential lords from all over the realm to shoot mallards and teal. His lordship’s guests went deer stalking and generally attempted to kill anything furred or feathered that roamed the thick woods near the coastline. John remembered hearing about it during his days at Oxford. Blackwood’s father had even been invited once.
John was a crack shot himself. Sir Humphrey had taught him, but they didn’t hunt to put a trophy on the wall. Lady Coopersmith always needed meat for the stewpot.
However, according to Blackwood’s father, more went on during the Somerset hunt than the quest for antlers for the hall. Deals were made about initiatives in the House of Lords. With a little diligence, John could study all the titled gentlemen who’d be there, their fields of influence, their interests and political leanings.
And thanks to his friends in the Daemon Club, who loved to tell tales, he’d learn more than a few of their weaknesses as well. That might be very helpful.
Perhaps John could be of some use after all.
Even though he hated himself for it, the need to have the marquess recognize him, not just as the legitimate heir but as his son, burned in his gut.
“All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll go to Somerfield Park, but only on two conditions.”
Her lips lifted in a hopeful smile. “What are they?”
“You have to come too.”
“I can’t. My family hasn’t been invited.”
“I just invited you—and your father and mother and anyone else you care to bring.” He took her hand again and was surprised when she didn’t pull it away. “In a big house like Somerfield Park, there’ll be room for everyone. Blast it all. I doubt even the maids know how many bedrooms there are.”
“Language.” She cocked a reproving brow at him. “Again.”
“I’m sorry. For both times.” He wasn’t, but it seemed expedient to act as if he were. When her lips twitched in a smile, he decided he just might have a future in politics. Lying had become much easier of late.
“In that case, I forgive you.” Rebecca flicked out her tongue and drew it across her lower lip. John wanted to take that little bottom lip between his and suckle it.
“I suspect it will be hard for Lord Hart—” John caught himself before he called Richard Barrett by the title that he now possessed. “For my half brother to be under the same roof with me.”
“Nonsense. You’re under the same roof right now. As soon as your brother found you, he brought you back to the Barrett family town house. He could have put you up in Mivart’s, you know.” The posh hotel was located in the heart of Mayfair and was a favorite of the ton during the Season. “Doesn’t the fact that Lord Richard has been looking for you everywhere for the last two weeks mean anything to you?”
But John had been in London for much longer than two weeks. The day after he discovered his true identity, he’d shaken off the Wiltshire dirt and legged it to Town, dragging the long-suffering Mr. Porter with him. His newfound family hadn’t sought him out before now. Whatever the reason they wanted him at Somerfield Park, he’d bet his best shoes—and now he finally had more than one pair!—it had little to do with Lord Somerset’s annual hunt.
“The fact that Richard came looking for me doesn’t mean as much to me as the fact that you want me to go to Somerfield Park,” he said. “I won’t go unless you agree to come.”
“All right, I accept,” she finally said, tugging her hand from his grasp. “My mother doesn’t travel well, but one way or another, I’ll convince my parents.”
John laced his fingers behind his head and gave a self-satisfied sigh. “You know, that’s one good thing about becoming the marquess’s heir. People say yes to me a lot more than they used to.”
She swatted his shoulder as if he were still a cheeky hanger-on. “Don’t get used to it from me.”
He caught up her hand again. “I’d better. Remember, there are two conditions.”
“I’ve already agreed to go to the country for you. What more could you want?”
“Kiss me.”
Her eyes went wide. “That’s not the sort of thing a gentleman asks of a lady.”
“I’m not asking. I’m offering. It’s your choice. If you want me in Somerfield Park, you know what you have to do. Kiss me. Right now.”
Anyone who thought Miss Rebecca Kearsey was a pattern sort of debutante had never seen her angry. John recognized the signs. Her sweet mouth went all pinched and her chin quivered.
But however she might feel about it, she leaned forward, grabbed him by both ears, and kissed him right on the mouth.
Three
While one cannot disregard the importance of bloodlines, great men are made, not born. Most often, however, it takes a woman to find and shape that bit of greatness.
—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset
John Fitzhugh Barrett was not going to make a fool of Baron Kearsey’s daughter. No, sir. From all accounts, the new Lord Hartley had been running with a fast crowd and had no doubt kissed dozens of women.
Fancy women. Loose women. Women whose kisses would turn a man’s knees to water.
Rebecca would show him. A virtuous girl was just as good as a bad girl. Better. She’d kiss him, all right. She’d kiss the man into next week.
She prided herself on reasoned thought and knew she was being illogical, but before she could untangle all the invalid syllogisms running through her head, she pressed her mouth against his with such force, their eye teeth knocked together. No matter. He wasn’t going to think her a missish little thing who kissed like an awkward first cousin. She was going to put some passion into it.
As much as she knew about passion, at any rate.
He covered her hands with his and she realized he was trying to encourage her to soften her grip on his ears. So she uncurled her fingers and slid her hands down to palm his cheeks.
He groaned into her mouth.
I’m getting good at this.
Then when he groaned again, she decided it was probably not a good thing. There was a definite edge of pain in the sound. Her fingertips were pressing too hard on the skin around his swollen eye.
Botheration! There were so many things to think about all at once. She eased up. Her lips softened and she slanted her mouth over his.
This time the groan was different—pleased and needy all at once. A little feral.
The thrill of danger danced on her spine. Imagining kissing a man was safe. Holy, almost. She could envision a perfectly acceptable setting for the kiss—a garden in ful
l bloom, an elegant parlor after a well-spoken proposal, before an altar and a church full of witnesses. Heaven knew she’d dreamed of a kiss often enough.
Kissing a man for real as he reclined in his bed was wicked beyond imagining.
Her imagined kisses were always chaste, too. This one was decidedly not. Something inside her went all warm and liquid.
John cupped the back of her head with gentleness as he teased her lips to part by tracing the seam of them with the tip of his tongue. She gave up, and he invaded her. His breath swirled into her, filling her, drawing her back into him.
His tongue, oh Lud, his tongue…
Rebecca had never suspected a kiss could be so…so…involving. It wasn’t just their mouths meeting. Every fiber in her body strained toward him.
She had to stop right now or she’d never be able to. She pulled back and, to her surprise, he let her go. She almost expected him to drag her down onto the feather tick with him.
A wicked part of her was disappointed when he didn’t.
Then her instinct for self-preservation won out. She and her friend Freddie had practically been weaned on cautionary tales about young ladies who lost their virtue. Granted, this was just a kiss, but in all the warnings, a kiss was how “it” started.
Whatever “it” was. Somehow, without knowing all the particulars, she was expected to be careful not to engage in the wicked activity that ended in ruin.
“Rebecca, I—” John began.
“Miss Kearsey,” she corrected, her voice coming out as fluttery as her insides felt. She straightened to sit as tall as she could in the uncomfortable Tudor chair, wishing she felt as upright as her posture. Her insides were still soft and pliant. “Please, my lord. I know we agreed on informal address earlier, but I think I should be Miss Kearsey to you. No more, no less.”
“Oh, you’re more, Rebecca.” His eyes were dark brown to begin with, but now the pupils expanded to make them nearly black. “Much more.”
