A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  “Of course, dear.” Lady Longmoor waltzed over in a swish of silken skirts to press a kiss to Victoria’s cheek. “Sleep well, my dear. We have a great many plans to make tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mother.” She nodded to her father, repeated her good nights, and fled to the empty darkness of her bedroom.

  After a long night spent mostly sitting in front of the window, staring at the moon passing between dark clouds, Victoria stood stiffly and yawned. A timid knock at the door sounded before it opened.

  “Oh, Miss!” a young girl, certainly no more than fourteen, exclaimed. Her cap was askew over lank, pale brown hair, and her apron was a worn, dingy gray. Her pale blue eyes were round as she stared at Victoria, water sloshing out of a water pitcher onto her limp apron as it wobbled in her thin hands. “I didn’t mean to disturb you—I thought you were fast asleep.” She lifted the jug and more water sloshed over her wrists. “I’m so sorry—I brung your morning water.”

  “Thank you.” Victoria stood aside as the maid hurried over to place the pitcher on the washstand. “What is your name?”

  “Mary, Miss—er—Lady Victoria.” The girl sketched a hasty curtsey.

  “Where is Rose?”

  Mary’s eyes cut first left and then right. “Er, gone, Miss—er, Lady Victoria.”

  “Gone?”

  “Went to live with her lover, I heard,” Mary confided, before pressing grubby fingers to her mouth. “Sorry, Miss, em, Lady Victoria.”

  “Are you replacing her?” Victoria asked with a smile, trying to set the girl at ease.

  Mary nodded, one hand going up to keep her cap on her head. “Yes, Miss Lady Victoria. Cook says as how I’ll do for now.” Her blue eyes went wide again as if she were listening to the echo of her words for fear she’d said something wrong.

  “And Rose is gone?”

  “Yes. I heard as she came late last night, packed her things, and left. Didn’t say a word to anyone ‘cept Cook. Not even Mrs. Eadle, and she were that mad, too!” Mary’s eyes widened at the thought of Rose’s defiance in not notifying the fearsome housekeeper, Mrs. Eadle, of her departure. “Mrs. Eadle said as how she hoped Rose’ud known what she were about, as she’d find precious few places for her now, what with her burning her bridges and such.”

  Victoria laughed. “I believe Rose has left to get married, so we should all wish her the best.”

  “She’s a lucky one, then, ‘cause Cook says as how Rose weren’t no better than she ought to be,” Mary said in a matter-of-fact way that made her seem years older. Then she glanced up at Victoria with a bright sparkle in her blue eyes. “We heard as how you might be getting married, too!” She curtseyed, smiling. “So, you’re a lucky one, too!”

  The pale morning light, spilling in through the window, grayed. Victoria glanced away, focusing on the glass panes. “Yes.” The word grated in her throat. She took a deep breath and pushed the trapped, desperate sensation aside. “Thank you for the water, Mary. That will be all.”

  “All?” Mary’s freckled nose wrinkled. “Don’t you need my help? Dressing and such?”

  “Not this morning, Mary. I’ll send for you, if I need you.”

  “Yes, Miss Lady Victoria.” The maid curtseyed and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  After dressing in a dove gray morning gown, she finally wandered downstairs. As she expected, she was soon caught up in the whirls of plans, and dragged to the library by her father before being hauled away by her mother to the white and yellow drawing room she favored in the morning. In some ways, their excitement and the necessity to create guest lists, dress patterns, and plans kept Victoria from brooding over her dismal future.

  By noon, her sleepless night was beginning to tell. Her eyelids fluttered, and her head drooped over the gown illustrations in the latest issue of Ackermann’s Repository.

  “A Mr. Archer and Mr. Wickson are here, Lady Victoria. Are you at home?” Mr. Kingston intoned from the doorway.

  Her head jerked up as her heart fluttered. Then she caught her mother’s warning glance. “No. I am not at home to Mr. Archer. Or Mr. Wickson. In fact, I don’t believe I am at home to anyone today.”

  “Except Sir Arnold, of course,” her mother amended. “That will be all, Kingston.”

  “Very good, Lady Longmoor.” The butler bowed and closed the door gently.

  “I am so pleased you have finally come to your senses, my dear,” Lady Longmoor said as she gently slid the fashion magazine out of Victoria’s hands. “I was worried about whom you might select.” She paused before murmuring, “He was not a very nice man, my dear.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Never mind. We have all sorts of exciting plans ahead of us, and I assure you, you will be quite happy with Sir Arnold. He is a very kind man.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Victoria replied dutifully, staring at the gleaming top of the walnut table next to her. “At least we shall dine well.”

  Her mother laughed. “Indeed. Sir Arnold is noted for the table he sets. And he is reputed to be very generous. I am sure you shall want for nothing.”

  Nothing except love. Her mouth tightened, and she pressed a hand against her hollow stomach. She’d been unable to eat more than the corner of a piece of dry toast, and yet she felt no hunger—nothing but a sensation of yawning emptiness that sapped her energy and will.

  “We shall make a trip to Bond Street,” her mother announced after a moment. “I would like to see you in a new gown Tuesday night. Perhaps something in a pale rose would be nice.”

  “Of course,” Victoria agreed. The thought of a new dress failed to lighten her mood, but she did her best to be agreeable.

  Practice made perfect, after all. And she’d soon grow used to presenting the placid, contented demeanor expected of married women. She could only hope that time would lessen the deadness inside, the darkness that welled up, threatening to hold her under in a shoreless lake of tears.

  An hour later, Victoria slipped her feet into a pair of stout walking boots and shrugged into a new blue pelisse. She tied a bonnet with dark blue ribbons over her hair before linking arms with her mother and setting out for Bond Street.

  They had gone less than a block when Mr. Archer and Mr. Wickson appeared suddenly. The two men blocked the walkway and doffed their hats, bowing in greeting to Victoria and Lady Longmoor.

  “What a delightful surprise!” John exclaimed, his brown eyes firmly fixed on Victoria’s face. “How are you, Lady Longmoor? Lady Victoria?”

  She glanced down at the pavement beneath her feet, flushing and shifting from one foot to the other. She chewed her lower lip, unable to speak. Her heart beat against the prison of her ribs, making it difficult to catch her breath, despite the brisk, spring breeze.

  “We are quite well, sir, though we are in a hurry and beg you to step aside,” Lady Longmoor said in a cold voice.

  “Of course, of course,” Wickson babbled, stepping out into the street. Unfortunately, he sank ankle-deep into something that looked like mud, but definitely didn’t smell like it. He bounded back onto the walkway with an exclamation. Gripping John’s shoulder, he shook his foot, apologizing incoherently.

  “Naturally, we do not wish to detain you.” John’s gaze burned Victoria’s face. “However, we had hoped to speak with Lady Victoria. Perhaps we could walk with you to your destination?”

  Her glance bounced around, searching for a safe place to land. She wanted to wail that she was sorry, that everything had been a mistake, and that she never intended to agree to marry Sir Arnold, but she couldn’t. Why couldn’t John see how much he’d hurt her? How much she loved him, despite his betrayal?

  Her grip on her mother’s arm tightened.

  “We are going to Bond Street. I doubt either of you will find our errands to your taste,” Lady Longmoor stated firmly.

  “May we escort you partway, then?” John asked, a hard edge honing his voice.

  “Mr. Archer, we have no need of your company, and let me be frank, th
ere is no need for you to converse on any topic with my daughter now or in the future. I am sorry to be so blunt, but this, well, pursuit of my daughter will not do. Not at all. While it is none of your concern, Lady Victoria has agreed to marry Sir Arnold, so even you must see why your behavior regarding her is wildly inappropriate. Now I hope I have made matters clear to you.” Lady Longmoor drew Victoria forward a step, forcing John and Mr. Wickson to give way. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”

  Victoria was aware of his gaze on her as her mother dragged her along.

  Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she caught his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Although his expression was unreadable, his eyes were black with pain.

  She stumbled and clung to her mother’s arm, pulled relentlessly onward.

  Her last glimpse was of his white face and dark, hopeless eyes, watching her walk away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Come along, Archer,” Wickson said, pulling John down the street. He paused to shake his muddy boot again.

  “I can’t believe… Sir Arnold? She has agreed to marry that bumbling oaf? A man whose greatest desire is to roast the perfect chicken?”

  “To be fair, he is quite well off, I believe,” Wickson said. “And he does set a fine table.”

  John stared at him.

  Wickson shifted uncomfortably and pulled at his tight collar. “Well, the food last night was quite good, you know. Enjoyed it, myself.”

  Glancing down the walkway, John searched for Lady Victoria’s tall, elegant figure. Jostling pedestrians filled the space between them.

  She was gone.

  “Come on, Archer. We’ll go to the club.”

  Numbly, John followed, not seeing the faces of the people they passed, nor hearing the shouts of the hawkers or bustle of the traffic, and not feeling the cool moist breeze fluttering around them.

  But he felt a deep pressure, slowly building in his chest. “I never expected… It hurts—I hadn’t expected that, Wickson. One doesn’t realize…” He chuckled bitterly, painfully, through a tight throat. Strangling. Passersby buffeted them as Wickson tried to drag him faster down the street. The leather soles of his shoes caught on the uneven walkway, and he stumbled. “Of course, one reads of heartache. But it doesn’t truly prepare one—being alone…” He swallowed. “One sees Romeo and Juliet and thinks how foolish, how melodramatic it all is, all this weeping and wailing and stabbing one’s chest. But when you—when one—feels such things—the howling emptiness—nothing seems too dramatic, does it? Not nearly dramatic enough.”

  “Come away.” Wickson cast a quick, concerned glance at him. “We’ll stop at Boodle’s.”

  “No. No, I don’t think that will do.” He stopped, letting the traffic swirl around him. “Not this time. Perhaps a trip. A very long trip. To the continent. Away from here.”

  “Right. A few weeks, and you’ll be back as chipper as a finch. So, let’s go, shall we? We’ll have a few drinks, go out, lift a few skirts, then off to Paris. You’ll forget soon enough.”

  “Soon enough,” John repeated. “That is what the duke would expect of his baseborn son, is it not? What anyone would expect? Drunken stupors and sporting women. A rake and useless scoundrel to the end.”

  “Well, it does help, you know. Women, that is.” Wickson shrugged and then tugged at his collar again, looking uncomfortable. “Not that I’ve been much for over-indulging in that sort of thing, you understand.”

  “Never do what is expected, Wickson. Boring.” John frowned, trying to bring order to his thoughts. But all he could see was Lady Victoria’s lovely face and the anguish in her beautiful gray eyes when she gazed at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps the club, though. A small drink.”

  “That’s the spirit! Regroup! After all, it was you who pointed out that flaw in our wager. Who knows but what she might be a merry widow before you know it. You might still win the bloody wager.”

  “No.” John shook his head and slipped his wallet out of his pocket. He weighed it in his hand—a bit more than one hundred pounds by the feel of it—and thrust it at Wickson. “There you are. The wager is done.”

  “But—”

  “No more. We’ll say no more about it, Wickson. Not one more word.”

  For once, Wickson clamped his mouth shut and followed John meekly to Boodle’s.

  In the end, John found that one glass of brandy was enough. He had plans to make, tasks to complete, even if they were done grimly and with a sense of futility. He spent the rest of that day, and the next, in restless activity that left him too tired to think at the end of the day. By the second night, he fell into bed exhausted, but he was up before the dawn the next morning.

  Lady Victoria’s gray eyes and beautiful face haunted him from his shaving mirror, and all that day, he found himself glancing up when he heard the swish of a silken skirt, searching for her tall, elegant form. She was never there, and her absence hardened his grim resolve.

  The hours passed swiftly, and then it was night again. The clock on his mantle chimed two in the morning when he left his apartments and walked to the Longmoor townhouse.

  Once more, he slipped around to the rear of the building and gazed up at Lady Victoria’s closed, darkened window. Moonlight bathed the small area around him, picking out several small outbuildings and the neat outline of a kitchen garden. He picked up a few pebbles from the garden and threw them. The stones rattled against the glass.

  No light appeared. The moon silvered the glass above him, preventing him from seeing inside.

  He stooped and picked up another handful of pebbles. As he drew back his arm, the window above him opened.

  Lady Victoria’s head, crowned with a small, white nightcap, appeared. She leaned forward to peer down at him. “Mr. Archer! What are you doing?”

  “John—please. We agreed on it, if you’ll recall.”

  “Mr. Archer!” she called more firmly. “Go away! You cannot be here.”

  “Come down, or let me come up! I must speak to you.”

  “There is nothing to talk about. Now go away.” Despite her words, she didn’t withdraw or shut the window.

  “Come down!”

  “Go away!”

  “Please—I must speak to you—just one last time.”

  “I—I do not wish to speak to you!” She jerked up as if to retreat into her bedchamber, but in the end, she remained where she was, gazing down at him. Despite the clarity of the night and bright moonlight, her face was but a white oval above him and her eyes fathomless pools of darkness.

  “Please, Lady Vee. Please.”

  She hesitated and finally pulled back, shutting the window. He waited a moment and then tried the kitchen door. Locked. Rattling the doorknob, he considered breaking into the house.

  The servants would surely hear him and the fat would be in the fire, then. Grimacing, he stepped away from the door. He was starting to sound like Sir Arnold. Fat in the fire, indeed.

  He walked back to stare up at her window again. There was no sign of any light, nothing but the silvered glass reflecting only darkness and the moon.

  An hour passed. His side ached. The air was growing damp and chilly with dew. A cold droplet ran down the side of his neck into his limp collar.

  Still he waited.

  A soft rattle alerted him. He stiffened, staring at the kitchen door. With a creak, it opened a crack. Through the narrow opening, he caught a glimpse of movement.

  Holding his breath, he waited, his gaze focused on the door. He didn’t dare walk forward, though his hands twitched at his sides. Any movement might force her to retreat, and he didn’t want that.

  If it was Lady Victoria—his Lady Vee.

  Finally, she slipped through the door to stand on the stoop, one hand at her throat and the other on the door latch. She wore a plain blue dress with a shawl draped around her shoulders, and although the white cap that had perched on her head was gone, her hair still hung down to her waist in a thick braid.
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  “What do you want?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder into the kitchen behind her.

  “Come out.” He pulled out a handkerchief and draped it over the low garden wall. “Please.” Gesturing to the white square, he stepped back.

  After looking over her shoulder once more, she stepped forward, but she didn’t pull the door shut behind her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine what there is left to say. My mother told you—I am betrothed to Sir Arnold. I should not even be here, speaking to you.”

  “And yet you are. Please.” He waved again at the wall.

  Moving slowly, she walked toward him, but she remained standing. Her face in the moonlight appeared thin and wan, with deep circles under her eyes. There was none of the glowing pleasure one expected from a bride-to-be, nothing in her drooping shoulders that indicated happiness.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms and carry her away, then and there, but he remained where he was.

  “There is nothing to discuss.” Her quiet voice descended into despair as she stared at the carefully laid out squares of the kitchen garden.

  “What did Wickson say to you at Sir Arnold’s supper?” he asked abruptly, his words sounding harsh in the still night air.

  A small, bitter smile twisted her mouth. She looked at him briefly and then over to the kitchen door. “Surely, you must have guessed.”

  “He told you about the wager, did he not?”

  “Yes. How could you do it? How could you humiliate me, treat me like nothing more than a horse to be wagered over?” She leaned forward, her hands fisted at her sides, her face stiff with anger. “Laughed at, no doubt, at your club!”

  “I never thought of you as less than the intelligent, beautiful woman that you are. The wager meant nothing.”

  “You mean I meant nothing.”

  “No—you meant everything. You mean everything to me—everything I have ever wanted.” This was not going the way he planned. All his fine words, his eloquence had deserted him. He fisted his hands to keep from grabbing her and holding her against him to feel her heart beat against his chest. “All I ever wanted and could never have,” he added bitterly.