A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  “Now you’ve gone and spoiled my fun, Becca.” Charlie added a laugh to his reprimand, but his tone said he didn’t joke.

  Mister Kensley tipped his hat to her. “Thank you.”

  “Now, what shall the prize be?” Maggie asked with a look of exaggerated perplexity.

  “Maggie, Charles, Miss Wycliff!”

  Rebecca, recognizing Walter Escott’s shout, turned Serendipity toward the caller. He rode across the field toward them, his course converging with the path she’d taken. He reached them in moments, his face split in a wide smile until his attention fixed upon Mister Kensley among them.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Mister Escott offered Mister Kensley a nod.

  “Kensley, may I present Walter Escott,” Charlie said. “Walt, this is Nathanial Kensley.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Mister Kensley said.

  “Mister Kensley?” Mister Escott repeated. He shot Maggie a narrow-eyed look.

  “Yes, Charlie brought him home to entertain me,” Maggie said brightly, but with a brittle undertone to her words.

  At the hurt in his eyes, Rebecca felt a pang for Mister Escott. “The gentlemen were about to race,” she said in an effort to include him.

  “And the winner gets a kiss from me,” Maggie declared, her attention fixed on Mister Kensley.

  Rebecca resisted the urge to grimace. Mister Escott flushed. Charlie’s amiable grin didn’t falter. Rebecca sought desperately for something to say that would right the situation.

  Chapter Eight

  Nathanial was a good judge of men, but he didn’t need to be to observe the jealousy that rolled off Mister Escott. Though the notion baffled, the poor sod obviously cared a great deal for Miss Barton. From the blush that crept up her neck and the harsh undertone to her squawking voice, Nathanial would wager his carriage that she reciprocated Escott’s affection. A man of middling height and build, Escott was well-favored and appeared a decent sort. Money, Nathanial assumed, kept them apart.

  “Hang on now,” Barton said, blithely unconcerned with the mounting tension. “I plan to win, and I don’t want a kiss from Mags. Not even a peck on the cheek.”

  “I’m sure if you win, Becca will kiss you in my stead,” Miss Barton said.

  “I will not,” Miss Wycliff protested.

  Barton shot her a confused look.

  “Stop this talk of kissing, Maggie,” Mister Escott said stiffly. “It’s unseemly. There ought not be any kissing at all.”

  “It’s Miss Barton,” she snapped. Her agitation caused her stout little mare to sidestep. “And do stop being so stodgy, Mister Escott. You’re spoiling all of Mister Kensley’s and my fun.” Nathanial received a spastic eyelash flutter. “Isn’t he, Mister Kensley?”

  Predictably, Escott turned a glower on Nathanial. He met the stocky man’s gaze calmly. “I daresay the question of a prize isn’t up to me, but to the ladies. I feel safe proclaiming Miss Barton in favor of the winner receiving his choice of a kiss from her or Miss Wycliff, but rather suspect Miss Wycliff is opposed.” A vision of how Miss Wycliff’s kiss would feel, soft and tentative, flittered through his mind. Definitely something a man could race for.

  “Come on, Becca,” Miss Barton’s tone made the words an order. “Be fun for once in your life. You might find you prefer it over how you usually are.” Lips curled in a sneer, she glared at Miss Wycliff.

  “Don’t let her pressure you, Miss Wycliff,” Mister Escott said.

  Miss Wycliff shook her head.

  “Becca, please,” Barton said. He nudged his horse closer to hers. The stallion fidgeted beneath him. “For me? It’s just a bit of fun.” His attempt at a soft, winning smile served to emphasize his thin lips and weak chin.

  Miss Wycliff looked around at them. When she reached him, Nathanial offered a slight shrug. As entertaining as it would be to kiss her, he never pressed a woman, especially an innocent like Miss Wycliff. Mister Escott, round face severe, shook his head.

  “Just this once,” Barton urged, voice low.

  The intimacy of his tone grated on Nathanial. He stroked a gloved hand down Whisper’s neck, more to soothe himself than the already calm gelding. Barton obviously thought he would win, and that a kiss would seal his place in Miss Wycliff’s affections. Nathanial’s gaze slid to her full, bowlike lips. The thought of them pressed against Barton vaguely nauseated him.

  Miss Wycliff gave a halting nod, as if she must force the gesture by sheer will.

  Miss Barton let out a squeal of delight.

  Barton’s face broke into a smug grin, even more nauseating than his plea.

  None of your concern, Nathanial reminded himself. He was there to ascertain Mister Barton’s business acumen, which, after one meeting, he already suspected to be meager. He was not there to play hero to some slip of a girl who had the misfortune of catching Barton’s eye… and his avarice. Especially not when he’d given his word. Although, if he correctly recalled the conversation, he’d promised not to speak of her wealth to anyone, and nothing more. Revealing her fortune to her and kissing her so soundly she forgot about Charlie Barton were two entirely separate matters.

  “I must protest this talk of kissing under the strongest terms,” Mister Escott said.

  Miss Barton tossed her head. “You don’t have to race, Wally. You can watch Mister Kensley win and claim his kiss from me.”

  Mister Escott turned a new glare on Nathanial. He frowned back, a touch annoyed by the other man’s anger. Escott’s hostility, so undeserved, put Nathanial half in mind to actually kiss Miss Barton when he won. Already damned for the deed, he may as well do it.

  “I will race,” Mister Escott said, words as stiff as his spine. “If I win, I will not claim a kiss.”

  Miss Barton rolled her eyes.

  “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Mister Escott,” Miss Wycliff said. She offered Escott a sympathetic smile before turning to Barton. “I wish you would make the same pledge, Charlie.”

  Barton laughed. “You’re putting on a good front, Becca, but the world knows you want my kiss.” Oblivious to her frown, he turned to Escott. “We set a course out to the large oak along there, then around and back through the edge of the bog. The girls will space out. The winner is the first man to pass between them.”

  “Lord Haywood won’t appreciate us tearing up his land and spooking the foxes so near the hunt,” Mister Escott said.

  “Lord Haywood will never know,” Barton said. “He’s too fat to keep up. Everything will be trampled and the fox dead at my feet before he rounds the halfway mark.”

  “Someone will inform him,” Mister Escott predicted.

  Why did Nathanial think that information would take the form of a confession? He wondered what Escott intended to do with his life. The man would make a splendid addition to the clergy.

  “Ease off, Walt,” Barton said cheerfully. “We’ll hardly touch the course and the hunt’s days away. The foxes and the fields will be fine.”

  “We’re all agreed, then,” Miss Barton said. She pulled a lace trimmed kerchief free of her bodice and thrust it toward Nathanial. “My token, Mister Kensley.” She favored him with another disturbing display of eyelash twitching.

  Aware of Mister Escott’s glare, Nathanial took the delicate fabric between thumb and forefinger. The kerchief was beautifully embroidered. His gaze slid to Miss Wycliff, for Miss Barton hadn’t the patience for the undertaking, or to gain the level of skill displayed. “Your work?”

  She blinked once, obviously surprised by his observation. “It is.”

  Nathanial nodded. He folded the square neatly and tucked it into his coat, over his heart. He nudged Whisper nearer to Miss Wycliff, then removed his hat. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said, but her eyes darted to Miss Barton in worry.

  Barton crowded his stallion close on Miss Wycliff’s other side. “Will you hold my hat too, Becca?”

  She nodded as she kept her mare from sidestepping with a firm hand.
Though she kept her expression bland, Nathanial caught her distaste in how gingerly she accepted Barton’s hat, her gloved fingers kept well away from the dark ring left by his hair oil. Nathanial could also tell, even if she couldn’t, that Barton’s pause after he handed over the hat was for Miss Wycliff to offer him a token.

  “Right,” Barton said into the awkward silence. He turned his bay toward the course. “Line up, gentlemen.”

  Without a word, Mister Escott held his hat out to Miss Barton. She received it with as close to a real smile as Nathanial had seen from her.

  Miss Wycliff pressed her lips together, features taut. “Do mind the ditches, and the hedgerows. Please.”

  “Don’t fret, Becca,” Barton said over his shoulder. “All you need do is look pretty and ready yourself for a kiss when I get back.”

  Nathanial resisted the urge to guffaw as he brought Whisper around. Instead of lining up immediately, as Mister Escott did, he walked his horse in a wide circle. The air was cold, and their mounts had been still for some time. He wouldn’t strain Whisper for this foolishness.

  “Stop stalling, Kensley,” Barton called.

  Nathanial ignored him. He continued to walk Whisper, not taking his place until he felt his horse was ready. Miss Wycliff and Miss Barton urged their mounts in opposite directions, giving wide berth to the riders who would come charging between them on their return. Miss Barton clutched Escott’s hat against her chest. Though she shivered in the cold, her eyes flashed with excitement. Miss Wycliff appeared perfectly composed, save for the dark cast to her blue eyes.

  “Finally ready?” Barton asked when Nathanial joined him and Escott, his voice heavy with annoyance.

  “Ready enough,” Nathanial replied, unperturbed. Whisper held more worth than Barton’s good graces.

  “Give the count down, Becca,” Barton called.

  “Charlie, are you sure this—”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Becca,” Miss Barton snapped. “On my mark, gentlemen. Three. Two. Go!”

  At Nathanial’s signal, Whisper leapt forward. Though the gray loved to gallop, Nathanial, unfamiliar with the lay of the ground, didn’t give him his head. The ground stretched out flat between the final hedge and the ladies. Whisper, faster than the other steeds, need only keep pace and pass them there.

  They took the first hedge with ease. Chill air whipped through hair and mane alike. A narrow ditch waited on the other side. Nathanial signaled another jump. Whisper’s powerful muscles bunched. They flew over the ditch. Nathanial grinned.

  Onward they sped, Barton to Nathanial’s right and Escott keeping pace beyond that. The three of them reached the tree with no clear winner and wheeled their mounts around the wide trunk to head back. Warned by Miss Wycliff, Nathanial kept firm control of Whisper’s pace. He treated each jump with care, though he could feel the gray’s desire for speed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Barton whip his steed into a more headlong pace. Escott fell behind.

  Nathanial let Whisper stretch out and take the lead. The waiting figures grew ever nearer. The final jump, a wide, tall hedge placed immediately after a deep ditch, sped by beneath Whisper’s powerful form. Nathanial grinned and leaned low, rewarding Whisper’s performance with a run.

  As they thundered between the two women, an equine squeal cut through the crisp air. Whisper skidded and reared up in reaction. Nathanial gave a hard yank of the reins to regain control. He wheeled his horse toward the sound in time to see Miss Wycliff and her roan spring forward.

  Nathanial urged Whisper after her. In the field, a figure lay prone on the ground. Barton. Escott was there, leaping free of the saddle. Nearby, Barton’s stallion stood, leg cocked and head down, sides heaving.

  Miss Wycliff reached Barton before Nathanial. She slid free of her sidesaddle and rushed to the prone figure. Her knees met the half-frozen ground as she dropped to his side. Nathanial was down from his horse and kneeling on Barton’s other side a heartbeat later. Mister Escott moved to gather the stallion’s reins.

  “Charlie?” Miss Wycliff cried. Barton’s eyes were closed. She reached to touch his shoulder. “Charlie?”

  His eyes flicked open. He blinked rapidly, then let out a groan. “What happened?”

  Nathanial rocked back onto his heels, relieved. Barton was conscious. That was something. “I daresay you took the jump too fast and got yourself flung from your horse.”

  Barton levered up onto his elbows. He grimaced and turned his head to look about. Nathanial heard hooves on turf behind him; Miss Barton riding up. To his right, Escott inspected Barton’s horse.

  “Charlie, get up off the ground,” Miss Barton ordered, voice higher than usual. “You’re ruining your coat.”

  “Do you feel you can stand?” Miss Wycliff’s eyes were wide, her face white.

  Barton surveyed his sprawled form. He wiggled his feet and sat up fully, then rubbed the back of his head. “I think I took a knock, but the ground isn’t all that hard yet.”

  Nathanial exhaled, relieved. The ground wasn’t nearly as hard as Barton’s head, at any rate. He stood and proffered a hand. “Think you can make it?”

  Barton clasped his hand. Nathanial pulled. Miss Wycliff inserted her slender form under Barton’s other arm. Between them, they got him to his feet. He shrugged free of their help.

  Not swaying as much as Nathanial would have thought, Barton dusted his clothes. His fingers found a tear in his coat sleeve and he grimaced. “I’ll have to get a new one.”

  “I can mend it,” Miss Wycliff offered. She hovered by Barton’s side, as if worried he would topple.

  “Don’t be silly, Becca. I don’t want a mended coat. I want a new one. Perfect excuse,” Barton said.

  “Charlie’s hurt, Becca,” Miss Barton snapped from her perch on her mare. “The least you can do is appear to care more about him than his coat.”

  Miss Wycliff nodded and angled her face toward the trampled turf. Nathanial could see the red that suffused her cheeks.

  “What about his stallion?” Mister Escott asked in a quiet voice.

  Nathanial turned, aware Miss Wycliff mimicked the movement. She let out a little gasp and slipped past him, going to the horse.

  The bay still stood with one foreleg raised, head down. His eyes were glazed and his breath ragged. Mister Escott held his reins, but it didn’t appear to Nathanial the stallion was going anywhere.

  Miss Wycliff ran a hand down the bay’s neck, murmuring to him. She moved to his side to inspect the leg, but didn’t touch it, then looked up at Mister Escott. “Will he walk?”

  Escott frowned and tugged lightly on the reins. The bay took several limping steps after him. Nathanial let out another breath of relief. Miss Wycliff’s lips widened into a smile.

  “He’ll be all right, Charlie.” She turned to Barton with glowing eyes.

  Barton, one hand braced on his lower back and a grimace further pinching his narrow features, snorted. “You seem happier about the horse than me. I daresay I can hardly walk as well as Falcon there, though I won’t have to be put down.”

  Miss Wycliff’s forehead crinkled.

  Nathanial moved to run a light touch down the bay’s leg, assessing. “I concur with Miss Wycliff. With care, he should recover. In six months he will be fit to ride again.”

  “Six months?” Miss Barton squeaked. “Charlie, you will have to get another horse.”

  “Another horse?” Miss Wycliff’s voice held a hard edge.

  “You cannot expect me to wait six months to ride, Becca,” Barton said. He shrugged, then rubbed at his spine again. “Not that I’ll be able to enjoy riding for a week.”

  Miss Wycliff’s eyes narrowed. “You could borrow one of your father’s horses.”

  Barton shook his head, expression mutinous. “Those old nags? I’m a young man, Becca. I need a fast horse under me. Furthermore, I’m not paying to keep an animal that’s useless to me for six months.” He waved a hand toward the stallion. “He’ll likely never be right again. He’s b
est off at the knackers.”

  Miss Wycliff’s hands balled at her sides. She seemed almost to vibrate with rage. “This is the third horse you’ve injured in as many years, Charlie.” Her voice was low, and colder than the frost that gleamed on every blade and branch about them.

  “Nobody cares, Becca,” Miss Barton cut in. She looked between her brother and Miss Wycliff with wide eyes. “They’re just horses.”

  Miss Wycliff’s full lips pressed nearly flat. Her breath took on a ragged edge. Nathanial could tell she struggled not to speak. He moved to stand beside her. Discreetly, the movement hopefully obscured by their coats, he placed a hand on the small of her back. She went still.

  “I’ll buy him off you, Barton,” Nathanial said, tone deliberately neutral.

  “What?” Barton turned quizzical eyes on Nathanial. “Why?”

  “I have a wager going with myself. I wish to see how fully he can recover.”

  Barton shook his head. “It’s a sad world when Nathanial Kensley is reduced to wagering with himself.” He shrugged. “If you want the beast, he’s yours. No charge.”

  Nathanial nodded. Beside him, Miss Wycliff’s shoulders drooped in relief.

  Mister Escott cleared his throat. “Not to be pragmatic, but if Barton can’t walk and his mount can’t be ridden, how are you all getting back?”

  Barton gestured to the horse. “We can leave that sorry pile of bones here, for starters. The groomsmen shouldn’t have any trouble finding him, once we tell them where to look.”

  Miss Wycliff went stiff again.

  Nathanial applied light pressure to her back. “He’s my horse, Barton. I’ll walk him back.”

  Barton’s eyes lit up. “Then I can ride your gray.”

  It was Nathanial’s turn to tense. Miss Wycliff angled her face toward him and gave a little shake of her head, a warning of what he already knew. There was no earthly way he would permit Barton on Whisper.

  “You can ride my horse,” Mister Escott said. “I’ll walk home.”

  “Oh, but Wally, you’ll get chilled.” Concern colored Miss Barton’s tone, perhaps the first honest emotion Nathanial had heard in her voice. “It’s freezing out.”