by Gill, Tamara
He closed the space between them, took her face in his hands and kissed her. She fell into his arms, holding him close and he deepened the kiss, having missed her so terribly. “I made a mistake too,” he said between kisses, pushing her back toward the side of the house and away from prying eyes should anyone walk about the corner.
“You did?”
“I did,” he said, kissing her again. “I should never have left you. I should have stayed and fought for you. Made you see what you had to come to realize on your own.”
She clasped his jaw, scratching at the little growth of stubble that sat on his face. “And what was that? Remind me.”
“That we’re meant for each other. Even when we disagree we’re perfect for each other.”
He pulled back, kneeling before her. Clara’s eyes widened and she bit her lip.
“You’re the love of my life, Lady Clara. Marry me?” he asked, trepidation seeping into his blood even with the knowledge of what she’d said. Still the fear persisted that she would choose someone more equal to her.
She pulled him up to stand, leaping into his arms. He held her close, breathing in the delicious smell of jasmine and the wonderful future that was within his view. “I will marry you, Mr. Grant.” She pulled back a little, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I adore and love you too, even if you drive me to distraction most of the time.”
He chuckled, lifting her off her feet and spinning her. “You bother me too, my lady, but promise me one thing.”
Clara nodded. “Anything,” she said, watching him.
“Don’t ever stop being you.”
She smiled and his heart thumped hard in his chest. He kissed her again, deep and long and with each brush of her lips across his, the fears he’d harbored slipped away and gave way to the possibility of them. The future was grand and he’d ensure always happy. For them both.
Always…
Epilogue
Clara sat on the river back at Chidding Hall, her son stood beside Stephen, both with fishing rods in their hands as they tried to catch their dinner. She smiled as the two most precious people in her world spoke of the fish breeds available in Kent and what sizes they may catch if they were lucky.
“Did grandfather really not allow anyone to fish here?” their son, Maximus asked, looking over his shoulder at her.
Clara nodded, smiling at the many days her father had ranted and argued the point as to why no one should fish in this very stream, unless it was their gamekeepers of course. “Until your father that is. I probably should have realized at that point that your father was the one for me since father approved him.”
Stephen threw her a knowing smile before turning back to look at the river.
“I wish I had known Grandfather, Mama.”
She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat that always happened when they spoke of her dearest father and all the wonderful things he’d missed. “He was the best of men, Max. And he would have loved to have met you as well. I know he would be proud of the young man you’ve become.”
They were all proud. Max had excelled at Eton and would go on to college when the time came. Their only child, she would miss him dearly when he left, but, she reminded herself, there were still some years to go before that happened, he was only thirteen after all.
Stephen placed his fishing rod down and started toward her, coming to sit at her side. He leaned over and kissed her softly, and her stomach fluttered as it always had from the first time she’d argued with him in Hyde Park to the day they had promised their lives to each other before God.
“What are you writing in that journal of yours?” He tried to take it from her and she snatched it away, holding it away from him.
“Nothing that concerns you,” she teased. In truth, it concerned him and their little family in all ways. All their memories were in her journals, their lives, their travels, heartbreaks and triumphs. Everything written down so she would never forget, even if she one day succumbed to the illness that took her father. Not that she had any fears that her mind was failing her, but even so, at least she would never forget her life.
“Maybe one day you will let me read them.”
Clara put down her journal and shuffled closer to Stephen, wrapping her arms about his waist. He pulled her close, his hand idly running up and down her spine, sending a delicious shiver through her person.
“One day I will, but not this day.” She grinned up at him.
He reached around and slipped a strand of her hair that had tumbled free of its pin behind her ear. “You’re as beautiful as the day we met. I adore you.”
Heat rose on her cheeks and she marveled that he could still make her blush after all these years. “I love you too.”
Their son made a gagging sound and she laughed, knowing he disliked that they were so public with their affection. And they had been from the moment they were married, whether in town during the Season or at one of their many estates, they did not shy away from showing their love for each another.
Lord Peel had tried to mar Clara’s character, but Stephen and her Scottish brother-in-law, Laird Mackintosh, had put paid to his lordship’s continual threats by a good one of their own one day at Whites when no one had been about.
She grinned at the memory of it. Her fears that society would shun her for marrying a man beneath her social status had too been unfounded and instead of turning their noses up at them, they had never said a word. Certainly not to their faces at least, and she was content with that. Invitations arrived by the dozen each day as if she’d married a duke in lieu of a Mister.
How silly she’d been to have almost thrown away the one man who had made her life worth living. Had given her the gift of their boy, who squealed, reeling in his line all of a sudden.
Clara jumped and Stephen ran over to Max, helping him hold the rod as they reeled in the fish.
“I’ve caught one! It’s a big one I think,” Max said through his exertions.
She went over to them, watching as a large trout landed on the bank, gasping for air. Stephen patted Max’s back, congratulating him.
“Well done, Max. I don’t believe I’ve seen such a large fish being caught here for some years,” she said.
“Not even father has caught one so big?” Max asked, his eyes bright and excited.
“Well, I’m sure I have,” Stephen interjected. Clara shook her head.
“Not even your father.” She took the rod from Max as he picked up the fish, holding it at his side.
“Mrs. Pennell is going to be well pleased with this fish. Pity you did not catch one as well today, Father.”
Stephen messed up Max’s hair before their son turned for the house, trying to run as fast as he could, the large fish in his hand an impediment to his speed. Stephen reached over, taking the rod from her and taking her hand.
“I’m sure I’ve caught a fish of that size. You’re mistaken, my lady.”
“Hmm,” she said, “If you have it was before you gained approval to fish here from my father and I never saw it.”
He shot a look at her, his eyes wide. “I never fished here before I was allowed and you well know it. I wouldn’t dare bring the wrath of the Lady Clara Quinton upon my head.”
She chuckled. “To think that you and I officially started in this very spot. I can still see you walking across the grounds with Father, asking him if you may fish in his river. I was so annoyed that you had dared come here, but then I was pleased too. I always enjoyed sparring with you. A little at least.”
He pulled her to a stop, throwing the rod to the ground and hoisting her up against him. Her heart thrummed loudly in her ears and she reached up, clasping his face in her hands. How lucky she was he was hers. “I always enjoyed verbally sparring with you also, and everything else.” He grinned.
Stephen leaned down and kissed her and yet again, in front of the gardeners, gamekeepers and staff alike, the Lady Clara Quinton and Mr. Grant once again showed a public display of affection an
d couldn’t care less who viewed them doing so.
Certainly they did not.
A Duke’s Wild Kiss
Kiss the Wallflower, Book 5
Miss Olivia Quinton is certain a marriage proposal is imminent, but her hopes are dashed when her gentleman admirer moves his attentions to another at a country house party. Disappointed by these turns of events and seeing the man for the fiend he is, Olivia hatches a plan of revenge. With the aid of Duke Hamlyn, she sets out to make her past love interest pay for his betrayal.
Jasper Abraham, Duke Hamlyn, did not think his Season would be taken up with helping a bedeviling chit in gaining her revenge. Everything would work out splendidly well if he hadn’t already agreed to help his friend keep Olivia away from him during the house party and remaining Season.
Thrown together with opposite goals, Jasper cannot help but wonder why anyone would overthrow the delectable, sweet Olivia Quinton. Playing her fake beau is no chore, and the more time he spends with her, the more he wants to do a lot more than flirt with the chit.
Unfortunately, when games are played, there can be only one winner, but perhaps in this folly, everyone will lose.
Chapter 1
Kent 1810
"Will you do it for me, Hamlyn? We're not far from Chidding Hall, and I need your assurance you will support me with this matter. I need to have your promise, as my friend, that you will help me."
Jasper Abraham, Duke Hamlyn, gaped at his friend, Marquess Oglemoore. Had the fellow gone mad! He shook his head as the blood rushed back into his brain. "Absolutely not. Should I court Miss Quinton, she'd believe me to be enamored of her and possibly want a declaration of love and marriage soon after. If you led her to believe you liked her in town last Season and you did not, then you need to be the one who cleans up after your mistakes. I will not do it for you."
"You owe me, Hamlyn. Did I not step in at Bath just last month and stop those laborers from giving you a good thrashing? Which, by the way, I'm still unsure that you did not deserve."
"Now see here, how is it my fault that one of the men's sweethearts worked at the tavern and rented out her assets to those who could pay? I did not know she was betrothed."
"So you did sleep with her? I should have let them thrash you," Oglemoore said, raising his brow with a sarcastic tilt.
"I did no such thing. The woman seized my hand and placed it on her breast at the very moment her betrothed walked into the taproom. Had it been a bout of one-on-one, I would have had no qualms in thrashing the fool for allowing himself to be played so, but one on five and I drew the line." Jasper glared at his friend, disappointed. "What is more surprising to me is your seeking repayment of that service. I should have taken the bloodied nose and been done with it. I do not want to fool Miss Quinton in such a deceitful way. When she was in town last year, what I remember of her was a sweet, pleasant-looking woman. Are you sure you do not wish to court her instead of this Lady Athol Scott chit?"
"Absolutely certain. Miss Quinton is not for me. She's the niece of a duke, granddaughter of one, but other than the house she inherited from her father, and a notable portion, she has little else. Her cousin Lady Clara rules London society like the strict headmaster we had at Eton, and I'm not looking to be under her rule for the remainder of my days.
"I'm Marquess Oglemoore, my family has always married well. Lady Athol owns half of the Scottish lowlands. Imagine the hunting we can do if I marry her. No, Athol suits me very well."
"So, it's a love match, then?" Jasper said, his tone riddled with sarcasm.
Oglemoore's lips thinned into a disapproving line. "I do not love her, but I'm sure that will follow in time. I am fond of the chit, and so she will be my wife. But as for Miss Quinton, you must be the one to show more interest in her person. I need you to do this, truly. When she finds out that I'm courting someone else, she'll be right grieved. But if you, my handsome, English-titled friend show her there is more in the world than me, then she'll move on quick enough."
"And if she chooses me to be the man that she moves on with, what shall I do then? I do not want to be saddled with a wife. I have a mistress in town. A life." The horror of doing such a thing to an innocent woman did not sit well with Jasper, no matter who he had waiting for him back in London. He hated lies and deceit above most things. Oglemoore ought to know better. That he did not was no act of a gentleman.
"Please, my old friend. I'm begging you."
Jasper sighed, glaring across the carriage as it turned through the gates of Chidding Hall. "Very well, but this more than pays back my debt and then some. You owe me by quite a lot."
Oglemoore beamed, clapping his legs with his hands. "I knew I could count on you, my good friend. I shall gladly pay you back tenfold for this. Thank you."
Jasper wasn't so sure he would ever be repaid for acting the lovesick fool trying to turn a woman's eye toward him and off another. Even so, he would do it for his friend since he seemed so desperate. He could be Miss Quinton's friend, guide her away. There need not be anything romantic between them. If he followed that rule, all would be well and work out in the end.
"We're here," Oglemoore said, sliding toward the door.
Jasper picked up his top hat, slapping it onto his head. "Let the games begin," he said, throwing his friend a small grimace.
Let the games begin indeed.
Olivia swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at hearing her closest friend declare that she hoped to marry Elliott Keating, Marquess Oglemoore.
"We were introduced at a ball in London. He's affable, and I enjoyed his company. I look forward to seeing him attend the house party," Athol said, a small smile playing about her lips.
The world spun around Olivia, and she clasped her stomach, taking a deep breath to try to stop her stomach contents from making an appearance.
"I had no idea you were even acquainted?" she stated, quite shocked by the fact. Lord Oglemoore was not only one of the most highly placed gentlemen in the ton, but he was also one of the most handsome. There was not a feminine heart in London that did not flutter in his presence.
Last Season Olivia had happened upon Lord Oglemoore as he'd stumbled out of the supper room after slipping on some barberry ices. She had awkwardly caught him, but instead of acting the assaulted debutante, she had laughed off the collision, and they had been friends ever since.
"Oh, it's all a bit of a shock to me too. We met at Almacks one Wednesday evening. He asked me to dance, and I agreed. I like him, and I do believe he likes me as well. Or," her friend said, biting her lip, "I hope he does, at least. The ladies speak highly of him, and he seems determined to find a wife. I merely hope he chooses me."
"Of course," Olivia said, her mind reeling. "As a gentleman, I'm sure he will not play you false. If he's shown an interest in you and you return favorably, this house party may end with a betrothal announcement." Olivia smiled at her friend, whom she loved most dearly, but the idea that the one gentleman whom she'd believed to have wanted to court her was instead seemingly interested in Athol was indeed a bitter pill to swallow. How had she been so wrong to read his character and interest so incorrectly?
Athol chuckled. "I do hope so. I seem to have pinned all my hopes on him, even though I have many gentlemen in town who stated they were awaiting my return. But I like Lord Oglemoore best of them all. He will do for me, I believe."
Olivia stared at Athol, unsure what she was hearing was true. Athol was going to marry a man simply because of what? "I'm sorry, my dear, but why marry him if you only think him your best choice? Why not take your time? This is only your second Season. Find a gentleman who puts your heart in his hand and never lets it go."
Her friend shrugged, plopping a grape in her mouth. They were seated out on the terrace that overlooked the grounds of her cousin's estate, the day warm without a breath of wind in the air.
"If you haven't noticed, we are getting rather long in the tooth, Olivia dear. We're both from respectable families and will do well
together. I never cared overly much for a marriage to be based on love. You know I've always been practical with those types of things."
Olivia nodded, looking out over the gardens, bewildered at her friend's words. If she did not love Lord Oglemoore, then why could she not leave him be? Leave him for her?
The sound of a carriage approaching caught her attention, and Olivia glanced to where the road leading into the estate became visible through the trees. A black, highly polished carriage flittered through the foliage—more guests she assumed.
Athol shot to her feet, checking her gown and hair. "This will be Lord Oglemoore now. He said he'd arrive today. I'm so thankful that Lady Clara was willing to invite him and his friend to stay for the house party too."
Olivia did not move, not sure if her legs would support her. What a fun party they would all make with the man she had pinned all her hopes upon and her best friend who was trying as hard as she might to gain an understanding with him. She inwardly groaned, wanting to vanish to her rooms instead of meeting the guests as she should.
"Come, Olivia. Let us go out to the front and welcome them."
Olivia nodded, following without a word. Athol strode ahead, every now and then stopping to call for Olivia to quicken her pace. They made the estate front just as the carriage rocked to a halt, a billow of dust and all.
Her cousin Lady Clara and her husband, Mr. Grant, were already waiting on the home's steps, a warm smile on their lips as they prepared to greet their guests. Clara met Olivia's gaze. Puzzlement crossed her features before she joined her on the graveled drive.
"Are you well, Olivia dear? You look somewhat pale." She reached out, touching her forehead. "You do not feel warm, is there something else that is bothering you?"
