One Scandalous Kiss (8 page)

Jess assumed Hartwell might be another of the countess’s estates, though she had no notion why anyone would need another. Marleston was lovely and spacious, so beautifully constructed and well-appointed that she couldn’t imagine anyone craving another home.

Augusta looked at her expectantly.

Jess raised her eyebrows, uncertain what to say.

“Hartwell is my brother’s home.”

“Ah, I see. Is it as lovely as Marleston?”

Augusta sat down in the armchair nearest Jess.

“It used to be. It could be again, though I suspect my nephew would deny the claim.”

Heat warmed Jess’s cheeks and she had to stop herself from nervously tapping her pen against the desk. Lady Stamford had at least two nephews. Perhaps more. Though she hadn’t mentioned any others, there was no reason to assume she’d detailed her entire family tree. It was presumptuous to assume she referred to the same dour viscount Jess had been paid to kiss.

Lord Grimsby was there in her memory, too vivid and quickly brought to mind. His voice, his scent, the shape of his mouth—the more she tried not to ponder each detail, the more fixed they became in her mind’s eye. Jess remembered him far too often, and the man invaded her dreams with impunity.

“We must prepare to depart for Hartwell, Jessamin. I’ll speak to Dawes about what to pack, but could you oversee the preparations? And we should craft a letter to my nephew. He won’t welcome a house party, but that’s what he must have. We can invite Matilda and her granddaughter, perhaps Dr. Seagraves from the village, Julia and Marcus. And Lucius will no doubt wish for Mr. Wellesley.”

Augusta continued to tick off names of guests, most of whom Jess had never heard her mention, to be invited and tasks to be completed before their departure. Jess stalled on one name.
Lucius.
At the gallery, a woman had called Lord Grimsby by that name.

That moment—the disdain in the woman’s voice, the weight and warmth of Lord Grimsby’s hand on her arm—came back as if she stood again in the overheated gallery. Jess bit her lip to stop it trembling and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. She’d never expected to see him again, and now she was to visit his home. In just a few days, she might lift her gaze and look into his eyes, stand close enough to him to see the flecks of silver in the crescent of blue. Excitement and fear tangled in a breath-stealing mass that seemed to center in her chest, and she pressed the flat of her palm against her breastbone in a futile attempt to ease the pressure.

I can’t forget
. His three words never left her, as if the heated breath of his whisper had seared them into her skin. Yet she’d spent hours tormenting herself with theories about his meaning. Was it a curse? An accusation? A plea?

That day in the shop, he’d come and offered her charity, yet the night before he’d accused her of accosting him. She’d undoubtedly scandalized him. But in the gallery, he’d held on to her as if she were his lifeline, his glacial blue eyes burning her with the intensity of his gaze. The man was inscrutable, confusing, and took up altogether too much space in her head.

“Lord Grimsby.” Jess wasn’t certain she said his name aloud until she noticed Lady Stamford had stopped speaking and sat watching her with interest.

“Yes, my nephew is at Hartwell. Maxim and Isobel’s eldest son died two years ago, and Lucius is now my brother’s heir.” Augusta answered the questions Jess hadn’t asked.

And, always sharp-eyed, Lady Stamford noticed the trembling Jess attempted to hide. Reaching out, the countess took Jess’s hands in her own. “All will be well, my dear. Please don’t worry.”

“Yes.”

It would have to be. Lady Stamford was her employer and she insisted on going to Hartwell. Lord Grim would simply have to accept Jess’s presence, though she vowed to herself she’d steer clear of him.

For the next hour they made plans, assembled lists, and addressed several invitations to those the countess wished to have at Hartwell’s house party. The letter she dictated to Lord Grimsby was brief and to the point.

L.—

I will arrive at Hartwell within the week, and Miss Sedgwick will follow shortly thereafter. Prepare Hartwell for a house party. I have invited Lady Turbridge, Marcus and Julia, Robert, and a few others.

I pray Maxim is well.

We shall be with you soon.

—A.

“We must leave tomorrow and begin preparations for Miss Sedgwick’s arrival.” Augusta reached out and patted Jess’s arm before giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m so grateful to have you with me. There is much to do.”

Jess smiled at her employer even as her stomach churned. She could only imagine Lord Grimsby’s reaction when he found the woman who’d accosted him taking up residence in his home. Would he curse her? He certainly wouldn’t kiss her, though she couldn’t resist imagining it. Lifting her hand, she stroked the flesh near her ear, tracing the spot where he’d pressed his mouth to her skin and whispered those three haunting words.
I can’t forget.

She shivered and anticipation rushed through her, as if he might walk into his aunt’s sitting room at any moment. As if he would greet her with pleasure. As if the man had given her two minutes of consideration since walking out of her failed bookshop.

Despite his parting words, he would have forgotten her. Surely he’d forgotten. He was a viscount with an estate to run and an ailing father to care for. If he simply didn’t loathe her, that would be enough. But more likely, he’d demand his aunt dismiss her on the spot, and Jess wouldn’t blame him for it. After hearing of his protective nature, especially when it came to his family, she envisioned a dismissal as the probable outcome of her trip to Hartwell.

Then a thought struck her. “My lady, why is Miss Sedgwick so keen to go to Hartwell?”

The countess didn’t meet her gaze, merely slid her hand across Castor’s fur, as if contemplating how to respond.

When Lady Stamford looked up, her mouth was tight, mirthless, but her lips trembled as if she was attempting to force a pleasanter expression. “She intends to marry my nephew, my dear.”

Chapter Nine

“M
Y LORD, WE’LL
do all we can, but it will take weeks to prepare all of the rooms and stock the kitchen. We’ll make do with the suites in the west wing. Cook wishes to know how many we can expect.”

Hartwell’s housekeeper, Mrs. Penry, spoke in her usual pleasant tone, yet even that sound grated on Lucius’s frayed nerves. His first cup of tea had done nothing to clear the fog from his brain. Nor had his second, or the third. His eyes itched when they weren’t blurring the figures before him, the joints of his arms and legs protested when he moved after too long a spell at his desk chair, and every noise set him on edge. Sleep continued to elude him, coming only in miserable fits and starts after weeks back in his own bed, and all the usual duties and minor troubles associated with running the estate seemed suddenly insurmountable. Focused thought eluded him too, unless it involved contemplation of a certain young woman’s lips.

And now his aunt proposed a house party the day after Mrs. Penry reported that a part of the east wing’s third-floor ceilings had begun to crack and leak. The exterior masonry and slate tile roofs, deteriorating and untended for years, had apparently decided now was as good a time as any to crumble away completely. He told himself that part of the estate, unsheltered by Hartwell Woods on the west, was more exposed to the wind and rain. But less rationally, gut deep, he wondered if the rancor between his parents, who’d slammed doors and shaken the walls with their shouting in that portion of the house for years, had somehow taken its toll. Whatever the cause, the cost of repairs, in addition to the interior updates the house required, was quickly piling up.

A lavish house party, confined to the renovated west wing and public rooms, would further diminish Hartwell’s coffers, but it might help him woo the young woman Aunt Augusta thought most promising among his prospects. Miss Sedgwick was the daughter of American business mogul Seymour Sedgwick. As Augusta told it, she’d met Miss Sedgwick’s father during her first season, when he’d married one of her dear friends, a viscount’s daughter. Since she was the sole heiress of a millionaire and granddaughter of a viscount, Lucius wasn’t surprised to find May Sedgwick at the top of his aunt’s list.

“The short notice is unfortunate, but we must do what we can, Mrs. Penry. Lady Stamford is due to arrive today, and we should expect eight more guests within the week.” Lucius infused his words with as much gentleness as he could manage. He was asking for a bit of a miracle and the housekeeper deserved his respect for undertaking the challenge, despite his black mood.

“I’ve taken on some additional staff, my lord, as you suggested. Two have arrived this morning. Do you wish to meet them? It shouldn’t take but a moment.”

Mrs. Penry’s good humor and her ability to infuse any situation with the same enthusiasm she’d show a royal visit was enough to draw him out.

“Very well.”

“They’re just in the drawing room, my lord. Shall I send them to you?”

His father had visited the study in the morning and still sat dozing in a chair by the fire. It was one of his mellow days, when Maxim seemed the affable father Lucius always wished he’d been. On such days Lucius could almost forget the animosity between them and simply enjoy the older man’s company. Disturbing the calm by waking him was out of the question.

“No, let us go to them. This will only take a moment, as you say.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As Lucius made his way through the great hall to the drawing room, he was stunned to see the progress the staff had already made. Every piece of furniture shone with polish, and even the gilded frames around portraits of long-dead Dunthorpe ancestors glinted in the morning sunlight dappling the room. The staff had opened the drapes and he glimpsed a cloudless autumn sky through the gleaming windowpanes. He insisted on order, and the staff were diligent in their care of the family rooms, but the public rooms were so rarely used, he’d grown used to seeing dust motes dancing in the gaslight and stifling a sneeze. This morning fresh-cut hothouse flowers scented the air.

“I’m impressed, Mrs. Penry.” He glanced back as he spoke to his housekeeper, who followed close on his heels. The look of shock on her face lightened his mood. He’d have to remember to compliment his long-suffering staff more often.

“Thank you, my lord. Hartwell does look well with a bit of polish and light.”

He heard the note of castigation in her tone but chose not to respond. Perhaps Hartwell did deserve to have a bit of the old liveliness and cheer infused back into it.

As he approached the drawing room threshold, he saw a young woman sitting on one of the settees, her back straight and stiff and her gaze focused warily on the door where he approached. Another young woman stood looking out the window onto Hartwell Woods, her back to him.

The figure of the woman at the window made him stop in his tracks, his boot heels scuffing the no doubt freshly polished floor. He heard Mrs. Penry make a little oomph sound as she came up short behind him.

The young woman’s hair was a unique shade of auburn. The light from the window caught highlights of red and gold, bronze and crimson. He’d only ever seen hair that color once in his life, and now in his daydreams, when he longed to touch it, thread it through his fingers, feel it slide across his skin.

All his dulled senses stirred to life and a kind of humming awareness buzzed through his body. It was impossible. Miss Wright was back in London. He’d spent long nights considering what she might be doing. With no family, whom had she turned to after losing her shop? How many times had he paced the length of his study, denouncing the scruples that had prevented him from offering her some arrangement when he’d visited her? However many times it had been, it was always followed by a bout of self-loathing. Whatever drove Jessamin Wright to accost and kiss him, it had nothing to do with desire.

Logic told him she’d been desperate. The only desire between them had been on his part.

Yet as he stood looking at the woman at the window, reason and logic lost their potency.

She’d come all the way to Hartwell to find him. An absurd notion struck him—that Hartwell was just where she belonged.

“Miss—”

Before he could say her name, Mrs. Penry spoke at the same moment, drawing the young woman’s attention. Miss Wright turned from the window to look back at him, but it wasn’t Miss Wright at all. Once he examined the girl more closely, she didn’t even truly have auburn hair, just brown with a hint of burnish afforded by the light from the window. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He’d been so sure it was Miss Jessamin Wright before him that he could smell her scent and had licked his lips, recalling the taste their kiss.

My God, did whatever ailed his father plague him too? Not even Maxim experienced hallucinations, just the occasional delusion that he was younger and stronger than his years would allow.

“My lord, may I present Miss Hobbs and Miss Stephens. Miss Hobbs.” Mrs. Penry indicated the young woman seated before him, and she stood and bent a hasty curtsy. As the other woman strode forward, he closed his eyes for a moment, pushing away his illusion that she bore any resemblance to the bluestocking who’d kissed him in London. When he opened his eyes, a plain, brown-eyed woman stood before him. Her cheek bore none of the color of Miss Wright’s, her lips didn’t approach that woman’s lush, full mouth, and the intelligence and spirit he’d glimpsed in Jessamin’s eyes didn’t spark in the gaze of Miss Stephens. He felt a ridiculous vein of loathing for the woman who fell so short of the one who featured in his fantasies and would never again enter his life.

“I am ever so pleased to be at Hartwell, my lord.”

He should welcome her and the other young woman. He should do his duty as acting master of Hartwell, as the heir to his father’s name and title. He should be grateful for the additional staff to help prepare the house for its upcoming visitors. But everything in him rebelled.

“No.” He felt the word as much as spoke it, a ripple of anger tensing through his body and tightening his jaw, negating the reality of never seeing Jessamin Wright again while condemning his foolish desire for her. He should have stamped out thoughts of her weeks ago.
Forget the woman
. He’d never allow himself to sink into the love-sopped obsessiveness that had ruined his father’s peace of mind.

He saw the new maid’s mouth gape open before turning on his heel and striding out of the drawing room. He bolted back to his study, eager for the comfort of its dark wallpaper and thick drapes to keep out the world—no harsh sunlight there, no cloyingly sweet flowers, and no fantasies of a completely inappropriate woman.

His father was awake and sat at the ornate desk dominating the room, flipping pages in the estate’s ledger book. He turned them with a speed that indicated he took no interest in their contents.

“Heavens, has your aunt arrived? You look as if hellhounds are nipping at your heels.”

“Not yet, Father. And no hellhounds, only housemaids.”

“Ah, just as persistent but a bit less ferocious, I’d wager.”

“Mrs. Penry has taken on more staff for the house party.”

The earl looked momentarily confused.

“Yes, tell me again about this chit you plan to marry.”

Lucius hadn’t told him much of anything about May Sedgwick, only that she would be among the guests visiting Hartwell in the coming weeks. And Lucius certainly felt no conviction he’d be marrying the American. But he knew his father and aunt carried on a lively correspondence and wondered if his father might know more about Miss Sedgwick than he did.

“She’s American but also the granddaughter of Viscount Siddingford.”

“So she’s in search of a title.”

“Mmm.”

“Can’t say I fathom much enthusiasm in your manner.”

“I’ve yet to meet her. I shall be full of enthusiasm when I do.” Surely he could manage a bit of enthusiasm for a woman who’d traveled across an ocean to make his acquaintance.

His mind wandered to places it shouldn’t, to the woman who’d become so fixed in his mind he was beginning to see her everywhere.

“Is she beautiful?” His father’s words barely pierced his reverie.

“Quite. And her hair is the most extraordinary shade of auburn.” As he spoke his musings faded and Lucius realized his blunder. Father hadn’t been referring to Miss Wright. No one knew Miss Wright’s identity, except his aunt, Mrs. Ornish, and that dreadful Mrs. Briggs and her husband. The scandal sheets only speculated about the woman who’d outraged society by kissing a viscount at a public gathering.

He met his father’s eyes, as blue as his own. Today his father’s gaze appeared lucid and unclouded, his memory seemed sharper, and the two of them had taken tea and carried on a conversation as genial companions. But it was almost as difficult to trust the good days as to weather the bad. Lucius couldn’t be certain which version of his father he might encounter. And the man he needed to face, with whom he longed to settle old scores, was lost somewhere in the jumble of emotions and demeanors his father wrestled each day.

“Whoever she is, I wonder how Miss Sedgwick will compare.”

Lucius needed to clear his head, sweep his mind of its cluttered thoughts.

“I’m going to take a walk.”

The estate comprised nearly two thousand acres. As he strode into the meadow, Lucius wondered how far he’d have to walk to finally put the whole London business and one reckless bluestocking from his mind for good.