A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  Escott turned sad eyes on her. He shrugged. “I am heartier than that, Miss Barton, and your brother is my friend. Our families have been close for ages. I’m happy for him to take my horse.”

  Miss Barton bit her lip. She gave Mister Escott a little nod.

  “Well, that’s settled, then,” Barton said. “I’ll ride Escott’s horse. He’ll walk. Kensley will walk. They’ll both have a merry time while I escort the ladies back.” He turned an oily smile on Miss Wycliff.

  “I will walk back with Mister Kensley,” she said.

  Nathanial’s hand, still on her back, twitched, the only indication of his surprise.

  “Becca, don’t be daft,” Miss Barton said. “It is winter.”

  “It is not so cold as all that, and Mister Kensley isn’t familiar with the best route. Someone must walk with him, but Mister Escott lives in the opposite direction.” She let out a slow breath. A plume of mist formed before her. “And I am agitated by the distressing turn today took. I need a walk in the fresh air to settle me.”

  Nathanial watched Miss Barton’s internal struggle. She looked at him, then Mister Escott. She frowned at Miss Wycliff. Finally, she shuddered, yanked her cloak more tightly about her with her free hand, and nodded. “Fine, have it your way. Walk about in the freezing cold. Charlie will escort me home. Mister Escott, come get your hat.”

  Chapter Nine

  Rebecca stood beside Serendipity, loosely holding her mare’s reins, and watched her cousins and Mister Escott depart. She’d held her breath, willing them away before anyone realized it was improper to leave her alone with Mister Kensley. From Mister Escott’s look, he knew, but trusted her enough not to protest. Maggie and Charlie, as always, were oblivious to anyone but themselves.

  “What is the trouble between Miss Barton and Mister Escott?” Mister Kensley asked in a low voice, once the others were out of hearing.

  “He’s to be a curate. He seeks a position now,” Rebecca replied, not surprised he’d noticed Mister Escott’s jealous looks. She could see Mister Kensley nod from the corner of her eye.

  “He loves her, I assume,” he stated more than asked.

  “Yes, and although she loves him, she’s been raised to believe she loves money more,” Rebecca said, anticipating his next question.

  “She can’t see her way past that?”

  Warning rang in her ears. Rebecca took a moment to choose her next words. “Missus Barton can be difficult to live with. By behaving exactly as required, Maggie avoids most of that.” She rubbed her arm, where several bruises were nearly healed, but stilled when she realized Mister Kensley watched the gesture. “I understand Maggie’s choice to not go against the wishes of her mother, or father, but it saddens me. She and Mister Escott have been friends since we were young. He’s always loved her. I doubt either shall find that with another.”

  Rebecca decided she’d said enough on the matter. Not until the others dwindled out of sight did she turn to Mister Kensley. He stood a few paces away, holding the reins of both Falcon and Whisper, green eyes on her. He’d secured his somewhat dirty and battered hat to Whisper’s saddle, after locating it where she’d dropped it in her haste to get to Charlie. The breeze playfully stirred his tumbled black locks. She could still feel the soothing pressure of his hand on her back. She blessed the cold that kept her cheeks from heating at the memory.

  “You would prefer to walk back with me rather than ride with your cousins?” he asked.

  Rebecca glanced down, suddenly nervous. Perhaps it was more improper than she thought to be alone with Mister Kensley. “Yes, but not in that way.”

  One jet brow shot up. “That way?”

  Even the cold couldn’t keep the heat from her cheeks. “That is, I’m not trying… I don’t mean…” She drew in a deep breath, then another. He waited, that smile lurking about his mouth. “I wanted the chance to thank you for saving Falcon.”

  He nodded, a momentary respite from the intensity of his green eyes. “He’s a good horse. He deserves better.”

  “You’ll have the expense of his care for months, yet none of the use of him.” She wanted him to know she appreciated the whole of his gesture.

  “So Barton pointed out.”

  Rebecca sighed. “Yes, he did.”

  Mister Kensley studied her for a long moment.

  She resisted the urge to squirm under that assessing gaze.

  Mister Kensley shifted. “It’s forward of me to say, but I’ve observed you don’t seem as fond of Barton as he wishes you to be or feels you to be.”

  Rebecca look away, toward the oak. The intimacy of the questions should offend her, but she could hear the concern in his voice. She gave a gentle tug on Serendipity’s reins. “We should head back. The afternoon wears on.”

  Mister Kensley nodded. He fell in step with her. His gray, who walked between them, relegated him to nothing more than the occasional glimpse of boot-shod feet.

  Rebecca angled toward the path she meant them to take. “The farmers use this. It will be much faster than following the hunt’s path back. Is Falcon managing?”

  “He is.”

  Rebecca waited, but no more words came. No press of questions. No prying into her heart. Still, his unanswered observation weighed on her. He deserved more from her, both in gratitude for Falcon and for his concern. When was the last time someone had wondered over her happiness?

  “When we were little,” she said, the words tentative, “whenever Charlie got upset, he would wait until the house slept and come up to my room, to tell me his troubles. What Maggie had done, or his father, or an instructor. He shared all the injustices of his world. So, you see, I know him better than anyone else. I know his strengths, and I know his flaws.”

  Silence met her words. They reached a section of the farmer’s road that cut through a narrow grove of scraggly pines. Out of the sun, the air cooled.

  “And what did you tell him?” Mister Kensley asked.

  “Tell him?” She frowned.

  “Barton told you all his troubles, and you came to know him well. What did you tell him?”

  Rebecca shook her head, though Mister Kensley couldn’t see her. “It wasn’t like that. Charlie talked—ranted—most of the time. He waved his arms about and decried the world. Then he would settle onto the foot of my bed to pout, and finally he would laugh, tell me life is fickle or some such, and go back down to his room.”

  “I see. You listened, offered the comfort of your ear, and he gave nothing in return,” Mister Kensley said, tone hard.

  “It meant a lot to me. No one else ever came up there. I think Missus Barton only made the climb once, when she gave me the room on my fourth birthday. Before that, though I can’t really remember, I stayed with Maggie.”

  “Climb?” he asked sharply.

  Rebecca winced. Missus Barton’s admonishment not to hamper Mister Barton’s plans repeated loud in her head.

  “Why should anyone need to climb to reach your room, Miss Wycliff?” he pressed.

  They came out the other side of the grove. Sunlight sparkled off the unused roadway and the fields that slept to either side. A fabulous blue painted the sky above. They were, she realized, as alone as two people could be, with no one to overhear a word said. Mister Kensley was a good man. She could warn him about the Bartons’ plans for him. He wouldn’t betray her confidence.

  Rebecca couldn’t bring the words to her lips. As terrible as the Bartons sometimes were to her, they’d raised her. They’d taken her in, a penniless child. For all that his rants were cruel, Mister Barton spoke the truth about her being another mouth to feed. Who knew, without her to use up funds, Maggie might have a real dowry. Then she could marry where she wished, not set herself to seduce a wealthy man.

  “I suppose Charlie told you they took me in at a very young age, with nothing to my name?” She offered the question as an oblique apology.

  “He did, though I wonder that a gentleman’s daughter could be so completely without means.”


  “They left a beautifully embroidered baby’s blanket. When I was small, I would cry relentlessly if anyone took it from me. I couldn’t sleep without it.” She smiled at the vague memory. “Later, as I grew, I would take it out and think, if my mother had such time and skill to make this, and the money for such fine fabric, how could I have been left with so little? I asked Missus Barton once.” And received a slap across the face for the question. “She said the blanket had been a gift.” And that if she ever found it lying about, she would burn it.

  They fell silent once more. Rebecca turned her face toward the sun. Warmth bathed her. It truly was a magnificent day, if cold. She wouldn’t have minded walking, at all, were the air a touch warmer.

  “My father died when I was twelve,” Mister Kensley said. “My mother took all her jewelry, a considerable fortune’s worth, and departed for Italy the next day. I haven’t seen her since. I have no other family.”

  Rebecca’s eyes flew wide. “That is terrible. How could she abandon you like that?”

  “She does write on occasion,” he said, tone dry.

  “Who raised you?”

  “My housekeeper, and the other servants. They had every incentive to stay on, for I paid them well. My father left me a considerable fortune.”

  “But, surely you had a guardian? Someone?” Unlike her.

  “I’m afraid not. My father wasn’t prepared to die, you see. My mother did think to leave a note that made me master of my own funds, regardless of my age. With no guardian or relatives save her, no one knew what to do except comply.”

  “But, you were so young. You could have been cheated, or betrayed. Taken advantage of.” As the Bartons planned to do. She bit her lip.

  “Oh, I was. All those things, but never too badly. I learned to read people quickly, and I had a core of loyal staff,” he said, tone light, as if he discussed the weather. “I’ve retired most of them, with generous pensions. They deserve them.”

  Rebecca had no notion what to say to that. His life seemed both more and less fraught than her own. He’d known his parents, but lost his father and been deliberately abandoned by his mother. At least, she had the comfort of believing her parents would have stayed with her, if they’d lived.

  They fell into silence once more. The farmers’ road made a long, slow arc. Once they reached the end, she pointed toward a narrow path. In the not-to-far distance, over a rise, the smoke of the manor’s chimneys wended a slow, sinuous path into the blue sky.

  “The last stretch is uphill, then down again, correct?” Mister Kensley asked.

  “It is.”

  “I believe Falcon could use a rest before attempting it.”

  Rebecca halted, ashamed she hadn’t thought of the idea. Here, she claimed to care about the horse, yet she’d all but forgotten him in her contemplation of Mister Kensley’s childhood. “We’re not very far. Will he make it?”

  Mister Kensley led his two horses to the side of the roadway and draped their reins over the brittle branches of a frozen shrub. He walked back to her, lids half lowered over his keen eyes. “He will. The injury is minor. I don’t wish to press him, though.”

  She nodded.

  “It was kind of you to walk back with me,” he said. “It’s been more pleasant than walking alone.”

  “I truly did want the chance to thank you and, if I’m being honest, I couldn’t bear an instant more of Charlie, at that moment.”

  “He was being rather obtuse, even for him.” Mister Kensley looked about. His gaze slid over fields and roadway before returning to her. “He did have one brilliant idea today, though.”

  “He did?” Rebecca sought back but couldn’t think of one.

  “That the winner of the race should claim a kiss from either you or Miss Barton, winner’s choice.”

  Rebecca went still. “I—I think that was Maggie’s idea.” She swallowed.

  “Was it? I suppose I care less for the origin of the idea, and more for the implementation.”

  He slid reins from Rebecca’s unresisting hand and led Serendipity to the side of the roadway. The mare permitted him to do so with docile trust. He secured her in a similar fashion as Falcon and Whisper, then returned to the middle of the lane to stand before her.

  She hadn’t moved. She glanced toward the puffs of chimney smoke. She could have moved. The manor stood near. Over one hill and down the other side. In fact, once she reached the hilltop, she’d be visible from the house.

  Mister Kensley stood near, but not so close that she couldn’t retreat. He watched her with eyes the color of sun-caressed moss. The movement slow, allowing her ample time to step back, he reached to run his hand along her cheek. Her breath, in the form of flighty little puffs, misted between them. Rebecca leaned ever so slightly into his touch.

  He frowned.

  She jerked back, mortified. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  A smile replaced the frown. “Don’t be sorry.” In three swift gestures, he pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his coat. “I want to feel the softness,” he murmured. “Your softness.”

  Rebecca stared at him, heart pounding. He slid his knuckles along her skin again. Warmth blazed in their wake. When his hand reached her chin, he drew his thumb across her lips. Every sensation, every ounce of joy she hadn’t found in the press of Charlie’s mouth, suffused her.

  Charlie. What was she doing? She cared for Charlie, didn’t she? Could she cast aside years of being his confidant for Mister Kensley’s kiss?

  “It’s only a kiss,” he whispered, as if he read her mind. “But the choice is yours.” He slid his hand down along her neck, around to cup the back of her head. His other hand came up to smooth curls back from her face.

  Her lips throbbed where he’d touched them. She took in his eyes, pupils large, as he gave every ounce of his attention to carefully tucking curls behind her ear. No one had ever looked at her like that, like she was the most important thing in their world.

  “May I kiss you, Rebecca Wycliff?”

  Her gaze settled on his mouth. It was only a kiss. “Yes.”

  Fingers under her chin, he tilted her face up. The hand that cupped her head drew her near. With agonizing care, he lowered his lips to hers.

  He was wrong. Not only a kiss. A reverberation of feeling. Warmth, brightness and her pounding heart. She sank into the sensation with no thought of ever coming back.

  He lifted his head. The world seemed to spin. Rebecca realized she clung to him. Her hands clenched his coat to hold him near. Strong arms wrapped about her, pinned her to his tall form. She felt the frantic beat of two hearts, momentarily unable to tell which was hers.

  He pressed her head gently to his chest. His cheek settled against her hair. “Give me a moment,” his said, voice low and hoarse.

  Little did he know, she had no desire to pull away; might topple over if she tried. She drew in slow breaths. Her ear, pressed against the warmth of him, fixated on the throb of his steadying heartbeat.

  “Are all kisses like that?” she whispered.

  Would a kiss from Charlie be the same? Was the trouble that he’d only pressed his mouth to her hand? Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that.

  Mister Kensley chuckled. She felt the sound in his chest. “I would be lying if I said yes.”

  He brought both hands to her shoulders and braced her as he stepped back. She forced her fingers to release his coat. He studied her for a long moment. With a sigh, he looked away. His lips settled into a frown.

  Lips she’d felt. On hers. Her face heated.

  “That was a mistake.”

  She jerked her attention up to his green eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “Us kissing. It was a mistake.”

  Rebecca gaped at him. She didn’t know what usually happened now. They’d said it was only a kiss. Still, his words seemed wrong, hurtful. “It was a mistake to kiss me?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “As was admitting as much.”
r />   “I don’t understand.” Tears thickened her words. A dreadful tightness swelled in her throat.

  “Oh, sweetest, no,” he murmured. He cupped her cheek, his eyes compassion-filled. “Not a bad mistake. It’s only…” He broke off and drew in a slow breath. “That was the most amazing kiss of my life, which makes it a mistake.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  Gentle fingers stroked her cheek. “Do you wish to marry me, Miss Wycliff, right now?”

  She took a step back, gaping at him. Maggie would hate her. Missus Barton would kill her. Charlie… How would Charlie react? “I—I don’t know,” she stammered.

  “And I don’t know if I wish to marry you. I do know Charlie does, for what that’s worth.” He grimaced. “Which isn’t much.”

  “Charlie wants to marry me?” Her head spun again, but not in the pleasant, floating way Mister Kensley’s lips evoked.

  “Yes, though I advise against it.”

  “You do? Why?” He’d just said he didn’t want her, so why keep her from Charlie?

  He pushed a hand through his black locks. “Anything I say now will be suspect, no matter how wealthy I am.”

  “I don’t understand.” Did kisses always make men so confusing?

  “I know you don’t, and honor forbids me from explaining, though I’m halfway to saying honor be damned.”

  Rebecca stared at him. He looked angry, and bereft. She had no notion of what they spoke, but her whole world seemed tossed about and overladen with pain. Whatever else he’d said, obviously Mister Kensley was correct. Their kiss was a mistake. “Should we pretend we didn’t kiss?” she offered tentatively.

  She could see the struggle in his eyes as he watched her. She resisted the urge to lean toward him. She could drown in that look of his, that said she mattered.

  His eyes went flat. Expression smoothed from his features. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I suppose we must.” Even his voice held no remnant of emotion. He pulled Maggie’s kerchief from his pocket. “I meant to keep this because you stitched it, but I believe it’s best returned.”