The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Quite certain.”

  “Then you are wrong, milord,” Godfrey said. “Drop to your knees before her, confess your sins, confess your heart, and she will have you.” Godfrey felt his teeth clench tightly as Valor unexpectedly chuckled.

  “What?” Valor asked through his amused disbelief. “Confess my sins? Confess my heart? I have no heart, Godfrey! And well you know I have far too many sins where Coquette is concerned to merit time enough in all the world to confess them. You are ridiculous in your suggestion. That I would ever think to—”

  “I daresay you think on it every moment, milord,” Godfrey interrupted.

  “Do you know what misdeeds I have heaped upon her, Godfrey? What pain?” Valor growled.

  Godfrey was witness to the deep hurting already in his master’s eyes, yet he said, “Yes. Years passed. You abandoned her without giving her a moment to consider on a harsh decision. Of recent you lie to her, endeavored to cause her to abhor her beloved family, put her off at every turn as easily as you would a happy puppy…to name a few misdeeds, milord.”

  “Indeed you spare no mercy for my already thick and sickened guilt,” Valor mumbled.

  “And yet she loves you, milord. All you need do is reach out, take her in your—”

  “Godfrey,” Valor began through clenched teeth. “I am Lord of Roanan—cruel, harsh, hardhearted. It is who I am—who I have become. She will never—”

  “She will prove herself to you, milord,” Godfrey said. “One day, milady will display her true feelings for you. It may be subtle, for she has little reason to hope you will accept her, but one day she will prove unguarded, weaken, and if your eyes are wide instead of blinded as they are now, you will see her heart belongs to you…as ever it has. Then, with the opportunity of redemption before you—then you must find the courage to take her heart into yours once more.”

  Valor frowned as he looked at Godfrey. Valor could not believe such heartfelt advice was falling from his first-man’s lips—such a weathered, beaten, stiff soldier was he. Could he be in earnest? Could Godfrey be correct in his assumptions, his predictions? Surely not! Valor knew the devil he had become. Unworthy of Coquette and her heart, he would not waste his time and effort in hoping Godfrey possessed some great insight he did not.

  Yet he could not deny the small glimmer of hope, desire, and wishes flickering in his chest. The mere thought of Coquette set his mouth watering, his knees weakening, and his hands tightening into fists. He must deter his thoughts, concentrate on facing Dickerson’s dreaded dinner party and the social pressure to be endured. He could not think of Coquette. To think of her any longer would surely be his undoing.

  “Inform milady of our need to leave now that we may be prompt in our arrival, Godfrey,” Valor said. “At once.”

  Godfrey nodded and offered a slight bow. “As you wish, milord,” he said as he turned to go. “She will show her hand one day, sire. Do not be foolish enough to fail to notice it and to act when she does,” he said as he left the room.

  Valor watched Godfrey leave, making certain he was gone before dropping to his knees. One powerful hand pressed his thigh for support; the other clutched his chest. He struggled to steady his breathing, struggled to find the strength to stand once more. She would kill him, he was certain of it. The battle within him—desire to release his heart from its stone encasement fighting with fear and the need to further harden it—had begun to take a very physical toll. His hands were numb while yet his arms ached with the pain of wanting to hold Coquette. His throat felt dry with resisting her, while his mouth constantly watered for want of her kiss. Her smile! It’s what he most wanted to see before him—to let his last vision each evening be that of her beautiful smile. He wondered if he could indeed endure a life of torture—a life that thrust his greatest desire before him at every turn, yet denied him even the simplest touch or the happy beauty of her smile.

  Tightly closing his eyes, Valor endeavored to calm his breathing, to remember the pain he’d known the day Antoine de Bellamont had denied him Coquette’s hand—the same day his most beloved had chosen her cowardly father over him. He must draw upon the darkness that had saved him from utter failure and despair.

  Yet his hands continued to tremble, his heart endeavoring to convince his mind of Godfrey’s wisdom. Still, his own lies chewed at his thoughts and conscience, the knowledge of his own wicked deception reminding him of the loathsome beast he had become—a beast unworthy of beauty, of love, of the simplest kind of good.

  Eventually, Valor found his physical strength—enough to rise to his feet and breathe more calmly. His determination and power returned none too soon as, in the next moment, Coquette entered.

  However, Valor feared he might collapse to his knees once more as his eyes lingered on her beauty, beauty of body and of spirit—the brilliant green of her eyes so complemented by the emerald gown she wore, the cherry of her lips, the soft, ebony locks cascading over the smoothness of her shoulder. He swallowed the excess moisture flooding his mouth as he gazed upon her.

  “We must away to Dickerson’s,” was all he could say.

  “Yes, milord,” Coquette said, and he feared the sweet sound of her voice might be his undoing.

  Yet as he strode to meet her, he caught a glimpse of his loathsome self in a nearby hanging mirror. At his own reflection his determination was fortified, for it seemed all his lies, all the black bitterness in his heart, shone plain upon him. What beauty such as she could care for a beast like him?

  Coquette swallowed the excess moisture filling her mouth as she watched Valor stride toward her. Dressed in the finery of a great lord, sword hanging at his hip, eyes aglow with strength and power, she thought she might lose herself, fling her arms about his neck. Ever she’d felt drawn to Valor—from the first moment she had seen him so many years before. She wanted to throw herself against him, beg for his kiss, plead with him to love her—but she must be patient. The beast was wary, and so must she be if she were to one day find Valor again. To confess her feelings and thoughts to him now—well, surely it would mean only disaster and further pain.

  She must wait, be patient until the beast could be soothed, lulled to sleep, and Valor lured away. Still, she must touch him. She must!

  “Forgive me, milord,” she began as he stood before her, “but there is something…just there…on your cheek.” Carefully she reached up, running one finger across his left cheek. There was nothing there, of course, but the feel of his flesh was purely invigorating. “There. Now you are presentable,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, glaring at her. He seemed quite unaffected by her touch, yet Coquette experienced such exhilaration as to send goose pimples breaking over her arms.

  “You are chilled,” Valor said.

  Coquette was mortified at his having noticed the effect his presence had on her. “Yes. A little,” she said.

  “Autumn is full upon us,” he said. “I will have Victoria gather a wrap for you as we leave.”

  “Thank you,” Coquette said.

  “Come then,” Valor said, holding a hand toward her. “We must go. I do not wish to be late.”

  “Yes, milord,” Coquette whispered, awed by the blissful sensation washing over her as she placed her hand in his. Again she swallowed the excess moisture flooding her mouth. Oh, how she wished he would pull her into his arms, devour her with ravenous kisses.

  Valor stumbled, and she glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic clumsiness. He seemed impassive, however, and she wondered if perhaps she had missed a step and not he.

  An unexpected excitement rose in her bosom—pride in knowing all those in attendance at Lord Dickerson’s would know Valor belonged to her. He is magnificent, she thought, daring to glance at him. She hoped he found her appearance acceptable—hoped she was a Lady of Roanan he would be proud to sit next to at a dinner party. He was magnificent!

  

  Valor exhaled heavily, relieved to have reached Dickerson’s estate at last.
The ride in the coach with Coquette had been nearly unendurable. The only thoughts in his mind the entire length of the trip were those of restraint, battling to keep himself from ravaging Coquette. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead, Valor nodded to the coachman as he took Coquette’s arm and led her into Dickerson’s manor home. He sighed, relieved to know distraction waited within. Distraction would be his rescuer.

  “Milady Lionhardt,” Lord Dickerson greeted, taking Coquette’s gloved hand, stooping to kiss the back of it. “You are more dazzling in your beauty than even I remember.”

  Coquette smiled at the kind, roundish man. “You are too kind, milord,” she told him. “And I thank you for your invitation. It was very thoughtful.”

  “Thoughtful?” Lord Dickerson chuckled. He winked a friendly wink at Valor and said, “Thoughtful to wish to have the loveliest lady in Roanan at my dinner table? P’shaw! You do me honor, milady. Both you and your gallant husband. Good evening, Lionhardt,” he greeted Valor.

  “Dickerson,” Valor said, nodding in greeting. “We do thank you for the invitation.”

  Lord Dickerson chuckled again. “Thank you? No doubt your lovely lady pulled you from your saddle or soft chair and dragged you here by that handsome mane of yours. I know how you feel about social events. It’s why I’m all the more flattered to see you.”

  “Lord Lionhardt!”

  Coquette turned to see a young woman of perhaps her own age approaching with the grace of an ascending dove. Auburn-haired, rosy-cheeked, and dressed in a lovely cream gown, the young woman’s hands alighted on Valor’s free arm as she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him sweetly on one cheek.

  “Lady Dickerson,” Valor greeted as Coquette attempted to squelch the hot sting of jealousy rising in her bosom.

  The young woman then gasped as she looked to Coquette. “Oh! Is this she? The new Lady of Roanan? Is this your bride, Lord Lionhardt?” she asked.

  “Indeed, Lady Dickerson. This is Coquette—Lady of Roanan,” Valor said.

  “Oh, you are exquisite!” Lady Dickerson said, her lovely hands alighting on Coquette’s arm. “When Dickie told me Lionhardt had wed, I at first could not believe it! But now I see how the Lord of Roanan was finally ensnared—by beauty herself.”

  “I am Coquette,” Coquette offered, uncertain as to what else to offer in greeting. She was not at all convinced she liked a young woman who would so easily kiss Valor’s cheek when his new wife was present. Yet she seemed a sort of innocent—happy in simply existing.

  “And I am Juliann! Dickie says we are meant to be great friends, you and I. Isn’t that right, Dickie?” the young woman asked her decades-older husband.

  “It is undeniable,” Lord Dickerson said. “Is it not obvious, Lionhardt? Our wives are destined to be the dearest of friends.”

  “Undeniable,” Valor said, smiling at Coquette.

  Coquette smiled too, delighted by the amusement she saw dancing in Valor’s warm-amber eyes.

  “We’ll mingle just a bit before dinner, darlings,” Juliann said. “Everyone is simply blissful to know you two are attending, so please do talk to a few guests, Lionhardt. I know how you like to try and hide in a corner. But not tonight! Not with your lovely bride on your arm.”

  “As you wish, milady,” Valor said, leading Coquette away from the merry couple and toward a room full of waiting guests.

  “We must brunch soon, milady,” Juliann called as her husband greeted another guest.

  Coquette smiled and nodded. Looking up to Valor, she could not help but whisper, “Dickie?” She heard the low chuckle in Valor’s throat accompanying his amused grin.

  “They have been married for near to five years, and she seems little changed from the first day I met her,” Valor said. “She is purely bliss for him, and I am glad. He is a good man—though I often live in fear she will invent some tender endearment for me and take to greeting me aloud with it.”

  “She seems very kind. Very affectionate as well—and very fond of you,” Coquette said.

  “It is hard for you to believe then? That someone could be very fond of me?” Valor asked.

  “Th-that isn’t what I meant,” Coquette faltered. Yet she was not willing to admit her jealousy over Juliann’s affectionate greeting.

  “Ah,” Valor said then. “There are Lord and Lady Winston. They hail from Brookstone. We should offer greetings.”

  Valor wondered, Could it be Coquette is slightly vexed, somewhat jealous of Juliann’s greeting kiss? He thought not. More likely she was stunned in witnessing anyone finding Valor Lionhardt the least bit likeable. The evening promised to be long and taxing, yet he was somewhat intrigued by her notice of Juliann’s affections.

  An odd heat warmed his stomach momentarily, yet the warmth within and his advance on Lord and Lady Winston were halted as Lord Springhill stepped in his way.

  “Lionhardt,” Springhill greeted.

  Valor forced a friendly grin. He did not care for Lord Noah Springhill. He found him irritating and held him in great suspicion. His black hair and hulking stature seemed to somehow deny his age, for there was nothing graying or weathered about him. Ten years Valor’s senior, Springhill did not appear the elder of the two. It seemed a devil’s trick in Valor’s mind—something to be distrusted.

  “Springhill,” Valor said.

  “Fancy meeting you at one of Dickerson’s events,” Lord Springhill said.

  Valor noted the manner in which the man spoke to him, his eyes to lingering on Coquette, however. “Fancy it indeed,” Valor said.

  Valor was startled at Coquette’s abrupt closeness. He glanced down at her, his body tensing as she suddenly began to cling to his arm with an odd sort of desperation. Something was amiss. He could sense it instantly—sensed the immediate fear and trepidation in her. Not but fear and trepidation would find her body pressed against his side, her slender arms clinging to his arm so frantically.

  He looked again to Lord Springhill—witnessed him assessing Coquette with a lustful glint in his eyes, a barely masked wonton expression on his face. Coquette must’ve sensed the man’s licentious thoughts, and realization filled Valor’s mind: she clung to him for protection. Lord Springhill disturbed her. Yet no doubt Coquette had suffered such appraisal before. Her beauty would certainly attract the attention of gentlemen as well as filth.

  “And has it been, I’d say, near to one year since last our paths crossed, Milady Lionhardt?” Springhill asked Coquette.

  Valor felt her arms further tighten about his own, her hands clutching the fabric of his coat sleeve. And what was Springhill saying—that he’d met Coquette before?

  “Yes, milord. I-I believe so,” Coquette managed to answer politely.

  Inwardly Valor was infuriated. Something in him suddenly desired to reach out and encircle the man’s throat in the power of his hands—squeeze the breath from him. Instead he simply placed a reassuring hand over one of Coquette’s clinging to his arm, slightly angling his body, a shoulder toward Springhill, placing more of his own mass between the man and Coquette.

  “How is it you know milady?” Valor asked.

  Springhill smiled, continuing to openly admire Coquette as he answered, “I have business with her father now and again. The merchant de Bellamont has provided me with several fascinating antiquities. He well has an eye for value in rare artifacts. I am a collector, you understand. A collector of beautiful things.”

  One of Coquette’s arms released its bind on Valor’s. Yet while the other remained, Valor drew in a deep breath at the startling and wonderful sensation of her free arm sliding across his back to awkwardly embrace him at his waist. He sensed she was terrified and wondered, did she know something of Springhill he did not or did she simply sense his vile nature?

  Calmly, Valor removed his arm from her remaining grasp, placing it about her shoulders and pulling her snuggly against him. He trembled slightly as her now freed hand suddenly clutched the front of his shirt at his stomach. He felt her small, trembling fi
st tightly bunching the fabric there and covered it with his hand in order to both reassure her and to hide her frantic discomfort from the predator before them.

  “Ah,” Valor said then in response. “A collector of antiquities, is it? I then see how de Bellamont has proven of worth to you. Has he procured anything of value for you of late?”

  “Ah, yes!” Springhill affirmed. “A Roman vase that would amaze you with its fine condition. But then the treasure you acquired from de Bellamont, though the method of acquisition is a mystery to us all, is far more beautiful than anything I have ever before laid eyes, or hands, upon, for that matter.”

  At this utterance, Valor felt Coquette’s body go even more rigid against his own. She was terrified, and he knew he must end the conversation with Springhill—whisk her away from his loathsome presence.

  “Well, then,” Valor said, “we leave you to enjoy Dickerson’s refreshments and others of his guests, Springhill.” He nodded a dismissal to the man rather than offering him a hand, for both his hands were otherwise engaged in reassuring Coquette. He would champion her; he would not offer his own hand to a man whose mere presence caused her to feel so deeply assaulted.

  “Good evening then, Lionhardt…milady,” Springhill said with a smile and nod in Coquette’s direction.

  “Good evening, Springhill,” Valor said, turning himself and Coquette away from the vile man. Never releasing the frightened young woman at his side, Valor directed her toward the nearby open doors leading to the veranda, fresh air, and, he hoped, some idea of privacy.

  The night air was cool but did nothing to lessen the fires burning in him—fires of anger, rage, and barely controlled violence toward Springhill, fires of excitement, some odd sort of joy, and the flame of desire Coquette’s clinging to him had sparked.