With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  She handed the baby—a peace offering—to her husband.

  Charlotte immediately hushed and looked up at him through her tears, her blue eyes wide and imploring as she reached up to touch his chin.

  And Juliet knew the exact moment when Gareth’s kind, bruised heart melted into a puddle at his feet.

  “Ah, hell,” he murmured, and as the baby smiled up at him, he reached down and thumbed the dampness from her cheeks, a reluctant smile already tugging at one corner of his mouth. Looking at this tender scene, Juliet was undone. How large and powerful his hand looked against Charlotte’s tiny face. How little she looked in the cradle of his strong, capable arm.

  And what a wonderful father he already is, despite his shortcomings.

  Juliet’s own gaze softened—and in that moment her husband glanced at her and caught her odd expression. He went still, and something deep and unspoken passed between them.

  “Well, I guess we’d better go,” he finally said, tucking Charlotte’s blanket around her shoulders. “It’ll be tea time soon at this rate.”

  “Am I forgiven, then?”

  “Forgiven?” He grinned, slowly, like the sun breaking through a bank of clouds. Out came the dimple. Out came the sparkle in his blue, blue eyes. When he smiled like that, it was impossible to be angry at him for anything.

  Anything at all.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “Only, my dear, if you can forgive me for not being Charles.”

  “Oh, Gareth,” she said, shaking her head and sidling close to him. “Let’s just go and make the best of it, shall we?”

  With that, they moved off down the street.

  And neither noticed the tall figure that kept to the shadows just behind them.

  The entry was duly recorded in White’s Betting Book: The Earl of Brookhampton wagers Mr. Tom Audlett fifty guineas that Lord Gareth de Montforte will return to Blackheath Castle within a fortnight.

  “What’s going to happen to us, now that he’s abandoned us for a woman?”

  “We’ll just have to make her an honorary Den member.”

  “Oh, yes, right. I can just see her getting drunk with us and vandalizing statues. I can tell you right now, this marriage isn’t going to last.”

  “I sure hope it doesn’t; I mean, what the devil are we going to do without Gareth?”

  “I give him a week,” Cokeham said, approaching the green baize table where his friends were just sitting down to a game of faro. He flipped his coattails back and took a seat near Perry, his eyes gleaming. “In fact, Perry, I’ll up your bet to seventy guineas!”

  “Done.”

  “A week?” Audlett stood up, his chair crashing backward. “The devil take it, I’ll go you a hundred that he goes running back to Blackheath in three days!”

  “One hundred and twenty!”

  “One hundred and fifty!”

  A servant arrived with a fresh bottle of wine, his expression perfectly blank at the frenzied betting going on around him while he topped up each man’s glass. As he glided innocuously away, Hugh leaned across the table and said heatedly, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Perry.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Leaving poor Gareth there to fend for himself, and with a woman and babe besides!”

  “My bleeding heart.”

  “What a heartless bastard you are!”

  “Why thank you, Hugh. I shall take that as the highest of compliments.” Perry flicked open his snuff box and took a pinch. “I didn’t see the rest of you sticking by his side.”

  “No, we went off so he could have a proper wedding night.”

  “Ha!” Cokeham said, “he’ll get no proper wedding night with her. I couldn’t believe what she did to him in that church, leaving her ring on like that! The bloody cheek of her!”

  “Really, Jonathan, I hardly think it was intentional,” Perry drawled. “And I’ll tell you another thing. Despite appearances, Gareth’s bride has more spunk than any of us gave her credit for. She’s quite striking when she’s angry.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You forget—I stuck around after you all fled.” Mirth danced in Perry’s gray eyes. “Gareth’s lovely little wife is no dull stick at all.”

  “Well, thank God for that!”

  “Aye, after the last twenty-four hours, I just couldn’t see what Charles saw in the wench that the rest of us have not.”

  “Happiness, probably,” Perry remarked acidly.

  “Happiness?! Let’s hope she doesn’t drag Gareth down in the dumps with her!”

  Cokeham leaned forward. “Care to know what I think?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I think Gareth married too far beneath himself. He should’ve married money. Lots of it. How else is he going to survive in this world?”

  Audlett nodded sagely. “Yes, he could’ve had his pick of the heiresses—Lady Eastleigh, Miss Beatrice Smith-Morgan even Louisa Bellington, who’s got to be the richest baggage in England, was panting after him like a bitch in heat. She would’ve married him in an instant if he’d only asked her—”

  “Yes funny, isn’t it?” Perry murmured with a dramatic sigh. “To hell with money or a title, all it takes is charm and a handsome face and the best doors in England open to you.”

  “Not to mention the prettiest thighs,” Cokeham muttered, a little enviously.

  Perry shot him a sideways glance. “I take it none have been open to you lately, old boy?”

  Cokeham spluttered and cursed. “Plague take you, Perry!”

  Perry merely grinned and sipped his wine.

  “I say, has anyone seen Chilcot?”

  “Not since we parted outside the church,” Audlett muttered. He raised his voice to imitate Chilcot’s high-pitched nasal whine. “Said he was exhausted and had to get his beauty sleep.”

  Laughter erupted around the table.

  “Exhausted? As though the rest of us aren’t!”

  “To hell with Chilcot,” Hugh mused, his face tight with concern as his fingertip idly traced the edge of one of the painted cards that decorated the table’s green baize. “What I worry about is how Gareth’s going to take care of them. A young wife, that little baby, no money coming in and no place to go.”

  Immediately, the mood sobered, for their friend was in trouble, and all of them knew it.

  “The duke’s got enough blunt to buy up half of England,” Audlett proclaimed. “Gareth’s got nothing to worry about.”

  “Except that Gareth’s got too much pride to go running back to his big brother, especially after the row he had with him yesterday,” Hugh countered worriedly. “He’ll have to get money from some other source.”

  “How?” Cokeham asked.

  “He’s got credit.”

  “And us.”

  Perry, staring into his wine glass, shook his head. “Gareth’s credit is about as bad as his ability to pay his debts. The duke shut him off, you know. Stopped paying his bills.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Well, then, we can help him. We’re his friends!”

  “Right,” Perry said, sarcastically. “Most of us are no better off than he.”

  “God’s blood, Perry, what do you think he’ll do, then?”

  Perry’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Perhaps he’ll have to—God forbid—work for a living?”

  “Gareth? Work? Preposterous!”

  “How else are they going to eat? It’s either that or beg, borrow, and steal,” Perry mused. “And, frankly, I think our friend has too much honor to resort to the latter. Now—shall we get on with our game? I dare say I am feeling lucky this evening.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As luck would have it, Gareth’s dilemma about where to take his new family for the night was solved for him just after an early lunch.

  They had gone into a bakery, where they’d indulged in raspberry tarts glazed with sugar, and were taking a meandering rout
e back across London when they ran into Lavinia Bottomley sweeping along in her fancy carriage. She stopped, of course—Lord Gareth was a client she wouldn’t have minded servicing herself—and, upon hearing that the Wild One had just gotten married and that he and his family were in need of a place to stay for the night, she immediately offered them a room at her place.

  “At no cost to you, of course,” she said kindly, eyeing Juliet and the baby with sympathetic eyes. “In fact, you can have the Crimson Suite on the second floor; it’s the best room, you know, and no one will disturb you.”

  “Good God, Vin, I cannot bring my family there!” Gareth cried, mortified.

  “Don’t be a prude, Gareth. Why, you can even consider this to be my wedding present.”

  “Absolutely not, this is unthinkable—”

  “No, Gareth, wait.” Juliet, either ignorant or uncaring of what Lavinia’s erotic perfume and low-cut bodice implied, put her hand up to silence his protests. She turned to the older woman. “You’re very kind. We have no place else to go tonight, and we’d be happy to accept your offer.”

  Gareth nearly choked. “Juliet, we cannot—that is to say.”

  “I’ll not mince words here,” Lavinia said, smiling. “What his lordship is trying to tell you is that I am an abbess. That is, I run a brothel.”

  “Oh!” said Juliet, darkening to crimson and looking quite embarrassed.

  “However, it is a very nice brothel,” Lavinia added. “Exclusive. I only allow clients who have wealth, wit, and breeding.” She winked. “Keeps out the riff-raff, you know.”

  “I, uh I see,” Juliet said faintly. She mustered a wan little smile. “Please forgive my hesitation, Mrs. Bottomley; staying in a brothel is not something I have ever done before, and this is a bit well, awkward. However, we are in need of a place to stay tonight, and you are being most generous—”

  “There’s no need to apologize, my dear, I understand perfectly,” Lavinia said, patting Juliet’s arm. “But a room is a room, yes? I’ll make sure it’s made comfortable for you and that no one disturbs you; why, I think I can even find a cradle for the baby. How does that sound? And if we leave now, whilst it’s still fairly early, no one will even know you’re there.”

  Juliet nodded once, her mind made up. “Very well, then. We’ll take it.”

  “Now, wait just one moment,” Gareth protested, growing angry. “I will not have my wife and daughter spending the night in a bawdy house!”

  Juliet took him aside, leaning close to him and tilting her face up to whisper in his ear: “Gareth, I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s only for one night, and it will save us some money.”

  “We have plenty of money, we don’t need to be frugal!”

  “That is the most absurd statement I’ve yet to hear you utter.”

  He set his jaw.

  She continued, “You gave most of your money to the vicar, and what Perry and the duke gave us, though substantial, won’t last forever. We cannot afford to be choosy, Gareth. Now, please—put aside your pride for a moment and be practical, would you?”

  “It has nothing to do with pride. I want to bring you to a hotel,” he said sullenly. “A nice hotel. It’s our wedding night, Juliet; you deserve no less.”

  “A wedding night is a night just like any other,” she said pragmatically, her unthinking words inadvertently cutting him to the bone. She saw the sudden hurt in his eyes and laid her hand on his wrist. “We don’t have money to waste, Gareth.”

  He stared at her, crushed by how lightly she seemed to regard the symbolic parts of marriage that he considered special—that she, had she loved him, would consider special, too. Was that how she rated their marriage, as well? Dispensable? Not worth some extra effort? He wondered, rather bitterly, if her marriage to Charles would have meant so little that she would have dishonored it by spending their wedding night in a brothel, as she was happy to do with theirs.

  Somehow he doubted it.

  “Very well, madam,” he said, retreating into formal aloofness to disguise his hurt. “Have it your way, then.”

  Gareth didn’t want anyone to see his wife in the presence of London’s fanciest whore, so he asked Lavinia to go on ahead of them, telling her they’d take their time in arriving. And take their time they did. Gareth took his time bringing his family back across town. He took his time finding mews in which to stable Crusader, rubbing the big animal down, feeding, watering, and making a fuss over him—anything to prolong the inevitable. Finally, when he could delay no longer, he chose narrow side streets so that no one would see them heading toward the brothel.

  Juliet, walking beside him, was very quiet. He sensed her despair, her knowledge that she’d done something wrong coupled with an inability to put her finger on just what that something was. She probably thought he was upset because of pride; after all, no self-respecting nobleman would ever bring his lady to a brothel, let alone on their wedding night. But it was more than that. Much more. If she had married Charles, she never would have dishonored their marriage by spending their wedding night in a brothel. She would have wanted everything to be as perfect as he was.

  She finally spoke. “Gareth?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know quite what it is I’ve done, but I do wish you’d tell me what is the matter.”

  “It shall pass.”

  “Are you angry because I didn’t want us spending money unnecessarily?”

  He winced. Unnecessarily. “No.”

  “Then is it because I took charge, and having a woman take charge does not sit well with your male pride?”

  “No.”

  “Then what have I done?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. What was he supposed to do, tell her he was angry with her because once again the inevitable comparison to Charles had been made—albeit in a roundabout way—and he had again been rated second-best? No. That sounded self-pitying.

  “It’s nothing, Juliet. I’ll get over it.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, shrugged, and fell back into quiet once more.

  The brothel was in sight now, standing unobtrusively on the corner. Gareth avoided the main entrance and discreetly took his family around to the back one, terrified that someone of consequence might see them, horrified that his wife’s name and reputation would be in shreds before he even had the chance to properly introduce her to society.

  By God, what a bloody, thundering mess!

  He stood on the steps and rapped the knocker sharply. Moments later the door opened, emitting a cloud of smoky incense, a glimpse of the foyer’s high ceiling, painted with its colorful orgy of naked, cavorting figures, and Mario, staring down at them from his height of six and a half feet. He was exquisite in a powdered wig and suit of gold satin, but such elegance did nothing to disguise the brute strength of a man hired only to toss anyone who didn’t quite fulfill madam’s standards of birth, breeding, and cleanliness out on their ear. He took one look at Gareth in his slightly rumpled suit and a face that begged for a razor, at the petite young woman standing behind him with a fussing babe in her arms, and his heavy black brows shot straight up to his hairline.

  “My lord!” he gasped; then, with a clearing of his throat and a sudden yank at the knot of his cravat, in a more dignified, subdued voice: “My lord.”

  Gareth was unflappable. “Lavinia said we could stay here for the night, Mario.”

  “Yes—yes, of course. Come right this way, please.”

  “The Crimson Suite,” Gareth said, greatly humiliated. “We are not to be disturbed.”

  “You will not be, my lord.”

  “No interruptions. I mean it.”

  “No interruptions, my lord.”

  Bowing, Mario ushered them inside. From somewhere inside the building, Gareth heard the tinkle of feminine laughter. He glanced at his wife. Her face was very pale but resolved. Determined. Strong. Behind them, Mario shut the door.

  Once inside the warm,
familiar surroundings, however, Gareth’s anger faded to dismay, then awkwardness, and finally a stifling-hot embarrassment. Above their heads was Lavinia’s famous painted ceiling, highly colorful, detailed, and lushly erotic, depicting an orgy of some eight or nine cavorting, sultry, full breasted women. They were all stark naked. Some were sucking on cherries and grapes, several were drinking from gold chalices, one was smearing wine over the nipples of another while a man crouched open-mouthed beneath, catching the droplets on his tongue as they ran off her creamy, wine-blushed breasts. He had a huge erection. Beneath him, another woman lay on her back, her hand, and tongue, hard at work on him.

  Juliet was staring up at the painting.

  Juliet was not saying a word.

  And Juliet was turning pink. Scarlet. Marble-white.

  Gareth wanted to die. He looked at the dark, paneled walls. At the ornate, gilt-framed mirror. He felt the plush burgundy rug beneath his boots, soft enough to pillow a bare foot, a bare bottom, a bare anything-else, while the sound of husky feminine laughter, male guffaws and tiny shrieks came from a distant room. The walls, hung with suggestively lewd paintings that complemented the masterpiece on the ceiling, began to close in. The erotic mix of scents—expensive perfumes, incense, the subtler, more discreet aroma of sex—began to make him faintly nauseous, and memories entered his brain that he suddenly blushed to remember. Oh, hell. Oh bloody, thundering hell! And beside him, his gentle, virtuous wife was drawing Charlotte protectively against her bosom, her face carved in stone, her gaze fixed straight ahead as several of Lavinia’s choicest girls came gliding out from around corners and behind closed doors, watching them in curiosity and high amusement.

  And then madam herself, resplendent in diamonds, shimmering mauve satin, and a bodice cut so low that her rouged nipples were in danger of popping fully free, came sweeping out of her salon in a cloud of heavy perfume. In her wake trailed her two famous redheads, Melissa and Melita.