A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  Missus Barton, her smile broader than ever, came forward to place a gentle hand on Rebecca’s cheek. “Such a dear thing you are, Rebecca.” She shot a look at Charlie. “Isn’t she dear, Charles?”

  “She is,” he avowed. “She always has been.”

  Missus Barton dropped her hand. Rebecca looked back and forth between them, eyes wide. Missus Barton condoned Charlie’s attentions? But, why?

  Rebecca blinked in the blazing light of the giant chandelier that dangled overhead. Confusion assailed her, accompanied by a wave of dizziness. The strangeness of her low-cut gown and Mister Kensley’s intense eyes, combined with Charlie’s and Missus Barton’s inexplicable behavior to form a throb in her temples. She needed space, and air.

  “Shouldn’t the gentlemen care to change for dinner?” she suggested, her words halting.

  “Yes, so I may escort you in.” Charlie’s features shifted into a disconcerting leer.

  “Mister Kensley, please permit me to show you to your room,” Maggie’s voice was bright.

  “Thank you, Miss Barton.” Mister Kensley offered a sweeping, all-encompassing bow. He followed Maggie as she passed Rebecca and started up the steps. At the top, he looked back once before disappearing around the corner.

  A warm hand closed on Rebecca’s icy one. She turned to Charlie as he once more raised her fingers. His lips, as squishy and hot as undercooked meat, pressed her fingers. Rebecca tensed every muscle to remain still. Missus Barton looked on, smile beatific.

  “I shan’t be long, Becca,” Charlie murmured. “It’s my one desire to escort you into the dining room this evening. Wait for me.”

  Her face heated at his intimate tone. She nodded. She didn’t dare look at Missus Barton again. Rebecca didn’t know which would be more disconcerting, to find Missus Barton glaring in anger or still radiating approval.

  Charlie slid his hand along hers, as if reluctant to release it. He winked, then turned and jogged up the steps. Rebecca watched him go. He didn’t turn to look back at her.

  “Now, that went well, don’t you feel, dear?” Missus Barton said. “I thought a new gown or two would be just the thing and, of course, you’ve filled out since Charles was last home.”

  Rebecca returned to her earlier study of the tile floor, overly conscious of her swooping neckline. Perhaps she should complain of a chill and fetch a shawl? Maggie’s squeaking laughter cascaded down the steps. A hall door closed somewhere above.

  “Now, Rebecca, you go ask--” Missus Barton broke off.

  Rebecca glanced up to find a cold, shrewd expression turned on her. The look vanished in a syrupy smile.

  “That is, dear, you wait for Charles,” Missus Barton said. “I shall go check with Cook and ensure dinner progresses properly. We want to impress Mister Kensley, after all. Then I’ll inform Mister Barton we’re ready for the meal.”

  “I can speak with Cook, Missus Barton,” Rebecca offered.

  Normally, she would be given both tasks, but if she could choose, she preferred the kitchen. Mister Barton was eternally bad tempered. Most evenings when she summoned him to dinner, he kept her for long moments while he ranted about how much it cost to cloth and feed her.

  “I will not hear of it, dear,” Missus Barton said. “You remain right here and wait for Charles.” She studied Rebecca for a long moment, then pursed her lips, eyes going hard. “And, Rebecca, dear?”

  “Yes, Ma’am?” Rebecca recognized the change in Missus Barton’s tone. She was about to be reprimanded, though she knew not for what.

  Missus Barton said in a shrill, hissing whisper, “This Mister Kensley is very wealthy, dear, I do understand that, and I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “At me?” True, he’d looked, but at her face. He’d met her eyes. Not like Charlie, whose perusal of her spoke of a different sort of interest.

  Missus Barton grabbed one of Rebecca’s ears and yanked her head down so they were face to face. “Just remember that Mister Kensley is here for Margaret, and for Mister Barton’s investments, if we’re fortunate, but not for you, girl.” She squeezed.

  Pain enveloped Rebecca’s ear. “I know that, Ma’am. I swear I won’t do anything to attract Mister Kensley’s attentions.”

  “Or jeopardize Mister Barton’s plans for the man’s money.” Missus Barton squeezed harder.

  Tears sprang to Rebecca’s eyes. “Or that,” she agreed, since she couldn’t nod.

  Missus Barton smiled. She released Rebecca’s ear and patted her cheek. “That’s a good girl,” she murmured, and bustled away.

  Freed, Rebecca rubbed her hot, throbbing ear. She hoped her curls hid her lobe, undoubtedly bright red. She sighed and looked around the foyer. Normally, she would retire to the parlor, but Missus Barton had ordered her to wait for Charlie, so she would wait.

  The foyer, silent now, had a singularly empty feel. A footman had been promoted to butler for the duration of Mister Kensley’s visit, but he was absent. He’d obviously taken the gentlemen’s outerwear and disappeared with it before Rebecca made her way down. A shame, because she would have preferred to greet Charlie while he wore his hat. That way, she could pretend he wasn’t still oiling his hair.

  Rebecca let out a sigh. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the red and gold papered walls with distaste. Someday, if she could find someone to wed her so she could leave the Barton’s country manor, she would have a home done in any color, every color, but red. She found the deep crimson practically morbid. Though gold accents reflected back the pricy candles that filled both chandelier and sconces, the crimson of the walls seemed to devour all light.

  Another thing Rebecca hoped to have someday—light. More than just the occasional pilfered candle stub, salvaged amidst hours of hot, tedious labor while she melted remnants to make new candles. A window in her chamber as well, she thought with a dreamy smile. Especially a window that didn’t bleed frigid air in winter. That would be splendid.

  Reminded of the outdoors, she crossed to peer through a small rectangle of glass into the half-frozen world beyond. In the nearby parlor, a clock ticked away the moments. Rebecca studied the manicured, frost-kissed lawn. Shadows set against the dwindling sunlight stretched in long fingers over the neatly trimmed grass and inched across the drive.

  A soft tread sounded behind her. Rebecca turned to find Mister Kensley descending. He’d changed from his buff trousers of earlier to black and wore a black tailcoat to match. His cravat, stark white, rested against a vest of light green and gold, embroidered with hunter green accents to match his eyes. Raven locks, both darker and shinier than his coat, were now neatly arranged.

  He reached the foyer floor and crossed to her, but turned his glaze out the window. “Dutifully waiting for Charles, I see.”

  Rebecca flushed. His tone made the observation a criticism. One she elected not to answer as she had no notion how to do so civility. For the first time, she wished Charlie didn’t intend to stay for a whole week. Not if he was going to be so disconcerting, and this Mister Kensley bent on tormenting her.

  Chapter Six

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nathanial took in Miss Wycliff’s flush. She clamped full lips closed over whatever retort she might issue. He wished she would voice the thought. Like as not, her words would entertain. For all her blushes and meek countenance, he suspected more lurked within than malleable sweetness. No spineless child could own the intent blue eyes that had met his from that upper window.

  A window which, unless he was sorely mistaken, belonged to the very room he’d been given. His gaze flicked to her glossy chocolate tresses. A single pin sparkled, mate to the one found on the floor by his window. On purpose to entrap, or by mistake in her haste? Though accustomed to women’s attempts to ensnare him, he would wager a hundred pounds on the latter.

  As his barb met with continued silence, Nathanial tried another avenue of conversation, “They care a great deal for red and gold here, do they not?”

  Her lips twitched, but she contained her s
mile. “They do, yes.”

  “I suppose the choice speaks to Mister Barton’s many entrepreneurial successes.” Now he must withhold a wince. He hadn’t meant to mix his reason for being there into conversation with Miss Wycliff. Barton plotted enough for the girl. She didn’t need Nathanial to heap on additional subterfuge.

  “One would conclude as much.” A thread of unease underscored her reply.

  Though he didn’t mean to involve her, the careful phrasing piqued Nathanial’s curiosity. She seemed unwilling to agree with what should be a harmless statement. “One would? You do not see this lavish display as confirmation of Mister Barton’s business acumen?”

  She turned to face Nathanial. Worried, guileless blue eyes regarded him from a face framed by locks that shimmered in the candlelight. “What would I know of such things? I’m nothing more than a poor relation, one fortunate enough to receive Mister Barton’s charity. And a girl.”

  So, she would not repay Mister Barton’s generosity by revealing his secrets. Her obvious attempts not to lie told more than she likely realized, but he wouldn’t press her. Instead, he would settle his hundred-pound wager. “Are you, then?”

  She frowned. “Am I what, Mister Kensley?”

  “A girl?” He looked her over, taking in every curve before returning his gaze to her now-pink face. “You look rather more than a girl to me. To Charlie as well, if I’m any judge.”

  Her cheeks went white, but her blue eyes smoldered. “I cannot imagine it’s appropriate for you to speak to me that way, Mister Kensley.”

  She would not be all abiding and meek, he was pleased to see. “You are correct, of course. I meant to say, one would conclude from your appearance that you are a woman, not a girl, if one knew of such things.”

  “And I suppose you do not know of such things?” she snapped, tone heavy with sarcasm. “I daresay you live a saintly life.”

  He answered with another scouring glance and a slow grin. He could practically hear Miss Wycliff’s teeth grind together. Whatever Barton thought, the girl was not a drab, dewy-eyed slip of a girl. In fact, candlelit and seething, she beguiled.

  But was she underhanded? He eyed the lonely pin and slipped its mate free of his pocket. He held the incriminating accessory up. “I found this in my room. Were one to continue this vein of supposing, one might conclude a trap of some sort in a lady’s pin found in my guestroom.”

  A long-fingered hand flew to her hair. Her eyes went wide. “Then one would be a fool.”

  He’d expected indignation. He’d hoped for honest denial. The fear that shot across her features surprised him. “Am I, then, a fool?” he pressed.

  “I don’t know you well enough to say,” she replied, her attention on the pin. “May I have that, please?”

  “Do you give your word you had no intention of entrapping me?” he asked, though he could already read the truth in her distress. Did she care for Barton so much that she feared to lose him through scandal?

  “I certainly do.” A new blush alleviated her pallor. “If you must know, I availed myself of your mirror. Maggie loaned me the pins but ordered me from her room before I could place them and--” She snapped her mouth shut.

  “You don’t have a mirror?” He said the words slowly.

  She gave a little shake of her head. Her eyes pleaded with him to drop the issue.

  He frowned. When Miss Barton showed him to his room, she’d carefully pointed out hers, and mentioned the locations of her parents’ and brother’s. There’d been nothing about Miss Wycliff. He’d assumed out of jealousy, but now he wondered. Stirling’s words about rags came back to him. “Which room is yours?”

  “That is a wholly inappropriate question, Sir.” Her tone was officious, but dread still lurked in her sky-blue eyes.

  He opened his mouth to press her.

  Her lower lip trembled.

  He didn’t believe the tremor contrived. “You were in my chamber to place your borrowed pins and dropped one?” he suggested instead.

  She nodded. “And I do apologize. I had no intention of leaving one. I meant to use both, so as not to offend Maggie, but I couldn’t figure out where to put the second.”

  One hundred pounds for me, Nathanial tallied idly as he studied her. Taller than the diminutive Miss Barton and more slender with a willowy sort of grace. Skin like fresh cream. Hair that looked too soft to touch, as if each tress would flow through his fingers like silk and slip away. And those eyes, with their slight upward tilt and dark lashes, pleading with him to let the matters of the mirror and hairpins drop.

  He plucked free the pin in her hair. “I think you’ll find if you place one here, and the other like so,” he suited actions to words and slid each pin among her glossy locks, “that you will achieve the desired effect.” Unable to resist, he permitted the backs of his fingers to graze her cheek as he lowered his arm. Thankfully, he hadn’t wagered that her skin couldn’t be as soft as it looked. Nathanial hated to lose.

  Her cheeks flamed in the wake of his touch. “Th-thank you.”

  “I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t aid you in avoiding Miss Barton’s displeasure.”

  Miss Wycliff offered a faltering smile, like sunlight flirting with clouds.

  Should he kiss her hand? Would she permit him to?

  “There you are, Mister Kensley.”

  At Miss Barton’s squeaky voice, Miss Wycliff whirled to present Nathanial with a luxurious pile of glossy locks, carefully arranged and curled. A warm alluring scent, some mixture of berries and yuletide spices, wafted about her. The fragrance impeded his attempt to pull his composure back into order.

  “Come, Charlie,” Miss Barton called over her shoulder. “Becca and Mister Kensley are waiting.”

  Miss Barton glided down the staircase, her brother in her wake. Bright avaricious eyes never left Nathanial’s. He had to admit, Barton hadn’t oversold his sister. With lush curves, bouncing white-blonde curls and her obvious willingness to do whatever would secure his attention, she was exactly the sort of woman to whom Nathanial usually paid court.

  Which left him singularly unentranced. One vapid, willing buxom blonde after another… They blended together. Oh, her social class and almost comically high voice distinguished Miss Barton, but not in a pleasant way. Her place as a gentleman’s daughter meant Nathanial could expect only a little fun before making an offer of marriage, and that voice…no man could live with that voice, which she shared with her mother. Perhaps that explained his host’s continued absence. Mister Barton could no longer stand the sound of his wife’s voice.

  Miss Barton alighted in the foyer and sailed across the inlaid marble toward Nathanial. The rich scent of berries and spice disappeared as Miss Wycliff stepped aside. Nathanial followed her with his gaze as she hurried toward Barton. Her enthusiasm for her scheming relation put a sour taste in his mouth.

  Not his concern. He was there to gather information on Mister Barton’s financial standing, to get free of his obligation to Stirling. Nathanial frowned. The goal of being free to bet on horses and the like seemed a bit hollow juxtaposed with Miss Wycliff’s future, with the idea she might spend her life chained to Charlie Barton and his lot.

  “Mister Kensley,” Miss Barton’s whispered, high-pitched warble grated on his ears. “Whatever did Becca say to put that look on your face? Tell me, and I shall set it right. I’m afraid the girl has no sense of social niceties.”

  Nathanial mustered a smile and offered in an equally low voice, “More likely, I insulted Miss Wycliff.”

  Over Miss Barton’s blonde locks, heaped ridiculously high, he saw Barton offer his arm. Miss Wycliff placed her hand on her cousin’s crimson sleeve, the movement tentative. Barton covered those delicate fingers with his. Miss Wycliff flinched slightly. Barton escorted her away.

  A slender finger trailed along Nathanial’s coat sleeve. Miss Barton leaned toward him. “Somehow, I doubt you led the conversation astray. A worldly man such as yourself, and a poor child who’s never atte
nded so much as a single ball, well, it’s impossible for me to believe any lapse in social niceties on your part.”

  “You’re too good to say so, Miss Barton.” He offered his arm.

  She twined her slender limb about his and pressed close. “Oh, let’s hope I’m not too good, Mister Kensley, else we shall have no fun at all.”

  Aware what she expected, Nathanial offered a chuckle. Knowing, as well, what game she played, he set them walking. It wouldn’t do to be left alone with Miss Barton. Not unless he wished to appear before an altar distressingly soon.

  They reached the dining room in time to witness Barton pull out Miss Wycliff’s chair, which happened to be beside Barton’s. Seeing but one footman, and him pulling out Missus Barton’s chair, Nathanial performed a similar service for Miss Barton. Unsurprisingly, they flouted tradition by seating him between her and Mister Barton, who stood behind his chair at the foot of the table. They’d obviously resolved to gain Nathanial’s fortune one way or another, through business or by marriage. Perhaps both.

  Mister Barton, a thin man with a sycophantic smile, bowed in greeting. “Mister Kensley, welcome to my home. I trust you find everything to your liking?” The man had the audacity to flick his gaze toward his daughter.

  “You have a stunning household, Mister Barton,” Nathanial offered. Stunningly garish.

  “Thank you, Mister Kensley,” Missus Barton piped from the head of the table.

  Nathanial turned a pleasant smile toward her. The red-liveried footman who’d pulled out her chair waited with a look of concentration, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, obviously afraid he’d miss the moment to push the chair back in. Nathanial narrowed his gaze at the man’s ill-fitted attire. He would bet his Edinburgh townhouse the footman had never served in the dining room before, much as he suspected the so-called butler who’d met their arrival was new to his role.

  Mister Barton cleared his throat. “Shall we be seated?”

  Dutifully, Nathanial sat.

  The staff brought out the soup course, placing the gilded tureen before Missus Barton so she might serve. Other dishes amassed on the table in rapid succession. Nathanial took the opportunity to size up the serving girls. One might give him an alibi for exploring the less public sections of the home. Oddly, though they were trim, comely creatures, they sparked no interest.