The Sum of All Kisses

by Julia Quinn

  How the marquess had got a room when all of the inns were full of wedding guests, Hugh could not imagine. But his father had always had a way of bludgeoning through life. If he wanted a room, he’d get one, and Hugh could only pity the cascade of guests who would be moved to the next-nicest room until some poor bloke found himself out in the barn.

  What his father’s note had not indicated, however, was why he’d traveled to Berkshire. Hugh was not particularly surprised by this omission; his father had never believed in explaining himself. He was at the White Hart, he wanted to speak to Hugh, and he wanted to do so immediately.

  That was all he wrote.

  Hugh generally went out of his way to avoid interaction with his father, but he was not so stupid as to ignore a direct summons. He told his valet to pack up his things and await further instructions, and then he set off for the village. He wasn’t sure that Daniel would look kindly upon his using one of the Winstead carriages, but as the rain was still beating mercilessly against the earth, and Hugh was a man with a cane . . . He really didn’t see how he had much choice in the matter.

  Not to mention that this was his father he’d been forced to go see. No matter how furious Daniel was with Hugh—and Hugh suspected he was irreversibly furious—he would understand the necessity of meeting with the marquess.

  “God, I hate this,” Hugh said to himself as he climbed awkwardly into the carriage. And then he wondered if some of Sarah’s propensity toward drama was rubbing off on him, because all he could think was—

  I’m off to meet my doom.

  The White Hart Inn

  Thatcham

  Berkshire

  “What are you doing here?” Hugh demanded, the words spitting from his mouth before he had taken more than two steps into one of the White Hart’s private dining rooms.

  “No greeting?” his father said, not bothering to rise from his seat. “No ‘Father, what brings you to Berkshire this fine day?’ ”

  “It’s raining.”

  “And the earth is renewed,” Lord Ramsgate said in a jolly voice.

  Hugh gave him a cold stare. He hated when his father pretended to be paternal.

  His father motioned to the chair across the table. “Sit.”

  Hugh might have preferred to stand, if only to countermand him, but his leg ached, and his desire to thwart his father was not great enough for him to sacrifice his own comfort. He sat.

  “Wine?” his father asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s not very good, anyway,” his father said, tossing back the remains of his glass. “I really ought to bring my own when I travel.”

  Hugh sat in stony silence, waiting for his father to get to the point.

  “The cheese is tolerable,” the marquess said. He reached out for a slice of bread from the cheeseboard on the table. “Bread? They can’t really muck up a loaf of—”

  “What the devil is this about?” Hugh finally exploded.

  His father had been clearly waiting for this moment. His face stretched into a smug smile, and he leaned back in his chair. “You can’t guess?”

  “I wouldn’t dare try.”

  “I’m here to congratulate you.”

  Hugh stared at him with unconcealed suspicion. “On what?”

  His father wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be coy. I heard a rumor you were to be engaged.”

  “From whom?” Hugh had only just kissed Sarah for the first time the night before. How in God’s name did his father know he’d been planning to ask her to marry him?

  Lord Ramsgate flicked his hand. “I have spies everywhere.”

  This Hugh did not doubt. But still . . . His eyes narrowed. “Who were you spying upon?” he asked. “Winstead or me?”

  His father shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Intensely.”

  “Both, I suppose. You make it so easy to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “You’d do well not to use such metaphors in my presence,” Hugh said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Always so literal,” Lord Ramsgate said with a tsk-tsk sound. “You never could take a joke.”

  Hugh gaped at him. His father accusing him of being without humor? It was staggering.

  “I am not engaged to be married,” Hugh said to him, each word a crisp and precise dart from his lips. “And I won’t be anytime in the foreseeable future. So you can pack your things and go back to whatever hell you crawled out of.”

  His father chuckled at the insult, which Hugh found unnerving. Lord Ramsgate never brushed off insults. He fisted them up into tight little balls, filled them with nettles and nails, and hurled them back at the sender.

  And then laughed.

  “Are we done?” Hugh asked coldly.

  “Why such a rush?”

  Hugh gave a sick smile. “Because I detest you.”

  Again, his father chuckled. “Oh, Hugh, when will you ever learn?”

  Hugh said nothing.

  “It doesn’t matter if you detest me. It will never matter. I’m your father.” He leaned forward with an oily grin. “You can’t be rid of me.”

  “No,” Hugh said. He leveled a frank stare across the table. “But you can be rid of me.”

  Lord Ramsgate’s jaw twitched. “I assume you refer to that unholy document you forced me to sign.”

  “No one forced you,” Hugh said with an insolent shrug.

  “You really believe that?”

  “Did I place the pen in your hand?” Hugh countered. “The contract was a formality. You know that as well as I do.”

  “I know no such—”

  “I told you what would happen if you harm Lord Winstead,” Hugh said with deadly calm, “and that stands whether it is in writing or not.”

  It was true; Hugh had had the contract drawn up and placed before his father and his solicitor because he’d wanted them to know he was serious. He’d wanted his father to sign his name—his full name and the title that meant so much to him—acknowledging all he would lose if he did not let go of his vendetta against Daniel.

  “I have kept my end of the bargain,” Lord Ramsgate snarled.

  “Insofar as Lord Winstead is still alive, yes.”

  “I—”

  “I must say,” Hugh interrupted, taking great pleasure in cutting his father off at the very first pronoun, “that I’m not asking much of you. Most people would find it rather easy to conduct their lives without killing another human being.”

  “He made you a cripple,” his father hissed.

  “No,” Hugh said softly, remembering that magical night on the lawn at Whipple Hill. He had waltzed. For the first time since Daniel’s bullet had torn apart his thigh, Hugh had held a woman in his arms, and he had danced.

  Sarah had refused to allow him to call himself a cripple. Was that the moment he had fallen in love with her? Or was it one of a hundred moments?

  “I prefer to call myself lame,” Hugh murmured. With a smile.

  “What the devil is the difference?”

  “If I’m a cripple, then that’s all I—” Hugh looked up. His father’s face was red, the kind of veiny, mottled red that came from too much anger, or too much drink.

  “Never mind,” Hugh said. “You’d never understand.” But Hugh hadn’t understood, either. It had taken Lady Sarah Pleinsworth to make him understand the difference.

  Sarah. That was who she was now. Not Lady Sarah Pleinsworth or even Lady Sarah. Just Sarah. She’d been his, and he’d lost her. And he still didn’t quite understand why.

  “You underestimate yourself, son,” Lord Ramsgate said.

  “You just called me a cripple,” Hugh said, “and you’re accusing me of underestimating?”

  “I do not refer to your athletic ability,” his father said, “although it is true that a lady will want a husband who can ride and fence and hunt.”

  “Because you’re so good at all those things,” Hugh said, dropping his gaze to his father’s paunchy middle.

  “I was,”
his father replied, apparently taking no offense at the insult, “and I had my pick of the litter when I decided to marry.”

  Of the litter. Was that really how his father saw women?

  Of course it was.

  “Two daughters of dukes, three of marquesses, and one of an earl. I could have had any of them.”

  “Lucky Mother,” Hugh said flatly.

  “Indeed,” Lord Ramsgate said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Her father may have been the Duke of Farringdon, but she was one of six daughters, and her dowry was not large.”

  “Larger than the other duke’s daughter, I assume?” Hugh drawled.

  “No. But the Farringdons descend from the Barons de Veuveclos, the first of whom, as you know—”

  Oh, he knew. Lord, but he knew.

  “—fought alongside William the Conqueror.”

  Hugh had been forced to memorize the family trees at the age of six. Luckily, he had a talent for such things. Freddie had not been nearly so lucky. His hands had been swollen for weeks from the caning.

  “The other dukedom,” the marquess finished with disdain, “was of a relatively new creation.”

  Hugh could only shake his head. “You really do take snobbism to new levels.”

  His father ignored him. “As I was saying, I believe you underestimate yourself. You may be a cripple, but you have your charms.”

  Hugh practically choked. “My charms?”

  “A euphemism for your last name.”

  “Of course.” How could it be anything but?

  “You may not be first in line for the title, but much as it disgusts me, anyone who bothers to do a bit of digging will realize that even if you never become the Marquess of Ramsgate, your son will.”

  “Freddie is more discreet than you think,” Hugh felt compelled to point out.

  Lord Ramsgate snorted. “I was able to find out that you’re panting after Pleinsworth’s daughter. Do you think her father won’t discover the truth about Freddie?”

  As Lord Pleinsworth was buried in Devon with fifty-three hounds, Hugh thought not, but he did see his father’s point.

  “I would not go so far as to say that you could have any woman you wanted,” Lord Ramsgate continued, “but I see no reason you could not snag the Pleinsworth chit. Especially after spending the entire week mooning over each other at breakfast.”

  Hugh bit his cheek to keep from responding.

  “I notice you do not contradict.”

  “Your spies, as always, are excellent,” Hugh said.

  His father sat back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. “Lady Sarah Pleinsworth,” he said with admiration in his voice. “I must congratulate you.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Oh, dear. Are we being shy?”

  Hugh gripped the edge of the table. What exactly would happen if he leapt across the table and gripped his father by the throat? Surely no one would mourn the old man.

  “I’ve met her, you know,” his father continued. “Nothing much, of course, just an introduction at a ball a few years ago. But her father is an earl. Our paths cross from time to time.”

  “Don’t talk about her,” Hugh warned.

  “She’s quite pretty in an unconventional way. The curl of her hair, that lovely wide mouth . . .” Lord Ramsgate looked up and wagged his brows. “A man could get used to such a face on the pillow next to his.”

  Hugh felt his blood growing hot in his veins. “Shut up. Now.”

  His father made a show of conceding. “I can see that you don’t wish to discuss your personal affairs.”

  “I’m trying to recall when that has stopped you before.”

  “Ah, but if you were to marry, then your choice of bride would be very much my affair, too.”

  Hugh shot to his feet. “You sick son of a—”

  “Oh, stop,” his father said, laughing. “I’m not talking about that, although now that I think of it, it might have been a way around Freddie’s problem.”

  Oh, dear God. Hugh felt ill. He wouldn’t put it past his father to force Freddie to marry and then rape his wife.

  All in the name of dynasty.

  No, it wouldn’t work. Freddie, for all his quiet ways, would never allow himself to be forced into a marriage under such pretenses. And even if somehow . . .

  Well, Hugh could always put a stop to it. All he had to do was get married himself. Give his father a reason to expect that a Ramsgate heir was forthcoming.

  Which he was finally happy to do.

  With a woman who would not have him.

  Because of his father.

  The irony of it all was just killing him.

  “Her dowry is respectable,” the marquess said, continuing as if Hugh hadn’t been on his feet with a murderous look in his eyes. “Please, sit. It’s difficult to have a rational discussion with you listing to one side like that.”

  Hugh took a breath, trying to steady himself. He was favoring his leg. He hadn’t even realized. Slowly, he sat.

  “As I was saying,” his father continued, “I had my solicitor look into it, and it is much the same situation I saw with your mother. The Pleinsworth dowries are not large, but they are large enough, considering Lady Sarah’s bloodlines and connections.”

  “She’s not a horse.”

  His father quirked a smile. “Isn’t she?”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Hugh growled.

  “No, you’re not.” Lord Ramsgate reached for another slice of bread. “And you really should have something to eat. There’s more than I—”

  “Will you stop with the food?” Hugh roared.

  “You are in poor temper today.”

  Hugh forced his voice back to a normal register. “Conversations with my father generally have that effect upon me.”

  “I suppose I walked into that one.”

  Again, Hugh stared at his father in shock. He was admitting that Hugh had got the best of him? He never did that, even with something so small as a conversational parry.

  “From your comments,” Lord Ramsgate continued, “I can only deduce that you have not, in fact, proposed to Lady Sarah.”

  Hugh said nothing.

  “My spies—as we seem to enjoy calling them—assure me that she would appear to be amenable to such a prospect.”

  Hugh still said nothing.

  “The question is”—Lord Ramsgate shifted forward, leaning his elbows on the table—“what can I do to aid you in your suit?”

  “Stay out of my life.”

  “Ah, but I can’t.”

  Hugh let out an exhausted sigh. He hated showing weakness in front of his father, but he was so bloody tired. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  “You have to ask me that?” his father retorted, even though Hugh had clearly been talking to himself.

  Hugh put one hand to his forehead and pinched at his temples. “Freddie might still marry,” he said, but by now it was more out of habit than anything else.

  “Oh, stop,” his father said. “He wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she pulled his cock out and—”

  “Stop!” Hugh roared, nearly upsetting the table as he lurched back to his feet. “Shut up! Just shut your bloody mouth!”

  His father looked almost baffled at the outburst. “It’s the truth. The tested truth, I might add. Do you know how many whores I—”

  “Yes,” Hugh snapped. “I know exactly how many whores you locked in the room with him. It’s that bloody brain of mine. I can’t stop counting, remember?”

  His father exploded with laughter. Hugh stared at him, wondering what the hell could be so funny at such a moment.

  “I counted, too,” Lord Ramsgate gasped, nearly doubled over with mirth.

  “I know,” Hugh said without emotion. His room had always been next to Freddie’s. He’d heard everything. When Lord Ramsgate brought the prostitutes to Freddie, he’d stayed to watch.

  “Fat lot of good it did,” Lord Ramsgate continued. “I thought it might he
lp. Set a rhythm, you know.”

  “Oh, God,” Hugh nearly groaned. “Stop.” He could still hear it. Most of the time it had just been his father, but every now and then one of the women would get into the spirit of it and join in.

  Lord Ramsgate was still chuckling as he stood back up. “One . . . ,” he said, making a lewd gesture to go along with the count. “Two . . .”

  Hugh recoiled. A memory flashed through his brain.

  “Three . . .”

  The duel. The count. He’d been trying not to remember. He’d been trying so hard to blot out the memory of his father’s voice that he’d flinched.

  And he’d pulled the trigger.

  He’d never meant to shoot Daniel. He’d been aiming to the side. But then someone had started counting, and suddenly Hugh was a boy again, huddled in his bed while he heard Freddie pleading with his father to leave him alone.

  Freddie, who had taught Hugh never to interfere.

  The counting hadn’t just been for the prostitutes. Lord Ramsgate was very fond of his beautifully polished, mahogany cane. And he saw no reason to spare it when his sons displeased him.

  Freddie always displeased him. Lord Ramsgate liked to count the blows.

  Hugh stared at his father. “I hate you.”

  His father stared back. “I know.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  His father shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

  Hugh stiffened. “I beg your—”

  “I didn’t want to have to do this,” his father said, almost apologetically.

  Almost.

  Then he slammed his booted foot into Hugh’s bad leg.

  Hugh howled in agony as he went down. He felt his body curling up, trying to contain the pain. “Bloody hell,” he gasped. “Why would you do that?”

  Lord Ramsgate knelt by his side. “I needed you not to leave.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Hugh ground out, still panting against the pain. “I’m going to bloody well—”

  “No,” his father said, pressing a damp, sweet-smelling cloth against his face, “you’re not.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Duke of York Suite