With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  She didn’t bat an eyelash. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  Drake never asked his groom to hitch a carriage or saddle a horse for a casual jaunt of less than a mile. A man needed fresh air and exercise daily. He had friends who walked little, and they were all growing thick around the middle. But at the moment, he rued not having a town coach in which to make a stealthy exit.

  It couldn’t be helped. The papers already had their story for the morrow, and it certainly would provide society with interesting conversation over Easter dinner. Perhaps in hindsight, it was a boon to have scheduled the premiere of La Sylphide for the day after the holidays. The ton would have less time to gossip.

  Chapter Three

  Shaking from hunger, Bria accepted Ravenscar’s hand and alighted from the hackney. Though he wore gloves, the power beneath the leather made gooseflesh rise on her arm. She stole a glance at his profile—a bold nose, chiseled chin, and black hair that brushed his nape.

  If only he were old and crusty, she might be more comfortable sharing a meal with a man of his station. Shabby from her travels, she was in no state of dress to be parading about town, especially with a duke. But Ravenscar had promised a simple meal after which he’d see her to her accommodations. How could she refuse such kindness from the gentleman who owned the theater where she was to perform for the next four months, especially when he’d caught her mid-swoon? I swooned, for heaven’s sake.

  At least her reasoning to accompany him was sound until she realized he hadn’t taken her to a tearoom or even an alehouse. They stood on a residential street lined by rows of elegant town houses. She took a step toward the coach which had already started away from the curb. “Wait!”

  The coachman didn’t bother to turn, blast him.

  Pleasing to the eye or not, she whipped around and faced the duke. “Your Grace, you said you were going to take me to a place where we could eat. Clearly this is a residence.” She flung her hand toward the door. “Is this not your home?”

  “Indeed, it is. One of them, anyway. The Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar occupies my mansion on Pall Mall. This humble abode suits me, however.” Swinging his walking stick, he started up the steps. Did he oft bring unmarried dancers to his home just to feed them? What if he tried to take advantage of her behind closed doors? Duke or not, she mustn’t allow him liberties.

  Bria pressed her palms to her face to stop her lightheadedness. “I cannot go in there.”

  His Grace stretched his arms to his sides. “Whyever not? You’ll eat better here than at your boarding house.”

  Because I’m not about to let you charm me into thinking our association can be anything other than dancer and theater owner. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Pardon?” A pinch formed between his brows. “Earlier you told me you are a foundling from a village in provincial France. Clearly you’re not a debutante being cosseted by a mother hen. Are you worried about your reputation?”

  She raised her chin and straightened, though stretching to her full height was fruitless. “I am very concerned with how I look in the public eye. I do not want people to think me a woman of easy virtue.”

  “Then I suggest you should have opted for another profession. A governess, perchance?” He chuckled while he gestured north and south. “To ease your trepidation, allow me to say this; all of society is embroiled in Easter preparations and festivities. There’s nary a soul about this eve. Besides, not but a quarter-hour ago you collapsed in my arms and admitted to being starved half to death. I’ll not be accused as the duke who turned his back on his theater’s hungry ballerina.”

  Groaning, Bria clamped her fingers around her cloak’s collar, squeezing the neckline taut. “But you didn’t say you were taking me to your home. You said you knew just the place.”

  He grinned—good heavens, he could make the entire cast of La Sylphide swoon when the corners of his mouth turned up—straight white teeth, eyes sparkling like stars. “That is because I do. My cook is one of the finest in London. My table mightn’t be as formal as my mother’s, but I assure you, when my carriage returns you to your boarding house, you will be sublimely satiated.”

  Bria pursed her lips. Obviously, since she was a mere artisan, Ravenscar thought nothing about how it might appear for her to be entertained alone…within his town house. True, she was of the working class, but she still had values. “If anyone in the troupe discovers you have dined with me privately, they will assume the worst, especially Monsieur Travere.”

  “Well then, we’d best hasten inside before someone happens past.”

  She brandished her reticule while she scooted away.

  Tall, bold and entirely insufferable, he stepped very near. “Miss LeClair, presently no Londoners have any idea who you are and, therefore, anyone who may be hiding behind a lamp post will have absolutely nothing to gossip about unless it is that I am keeping company with a housemaid.”

  “A housemaid?” If only she had a weapon as sturdy as His Grace’s cane, she might thump him with it. “Do you think insulting me will aid in your effort to coax me into your home?”

  “Dash it all, that’s not what I meant. I was referring to our master-servant status.” His expression softened while his gaze slipped to her skirts. “Forgive me. My housemaid comment was unfeeling and brash, though I imagine you are not wearing the finest gown in your wardrobe.”

  Bria followed his gaze. She’d been wearing the same traveling dress for nearly a week. Not that she could afford many dresses, but this one looked the worse for wear. Wrinkled, stained, the hem muddied. For days she’d been hankering for a bath and a change of clothes.

  “Now, shall we proceed inside? You have my word that I will ensure you enjoy a substantial meal after which my coachman will take you home. Allow me to also add; on the topic of your esteemed virtue, you have nothing to fear from me.” He bowed, gesturing up the steps, looking every bit the composed and cocksure duke. “Shall we, or would you prefer I call for a tray to be brought out to the footpath?”

  Ravenscar’s argument only served to make Bria’s head spin and the last thing she needed was to collapse in front of His Grace once more. What if he decided she was unfit to perform? Then Florrie would dance the part of the Sylph and she was hopeless at toe dancing. Good heavens, if Bria fainted, she might again end up with those brawny arms wrapped around her or, worse, carried upstairs to a bedchamber while the duke called for a physician. Notwithstanding of the circumstances, far more calamitous for her debut, bedrest might be ordered, and she’d never be ready for opening night.

  Florrie will not dance in my place, I swear it!

  Bria took in a reviving breath, grasped her skirts, held them to the right and only high enough to ascend the steps. Thank heavens Maman had taught her something about how to behave amongst polite society, lest she be completely flummoxed. “I thank you for your concern. But please understand I am accepting your hospitality because you put forth a convincing argument and assured me of your honorable intentions.” She would enjoy a simple meal then hasten to the boarding house with no one the wiser.

  “What is it about you?” he asked, opening the door, those vibrant blues growing dark again.

  “I beg your pardon?” Watching him, she stumbled forward. She, a ballerina about to debut in London managed to trip her way into the Duke of Ravenscar’s town house.

  “’Tis naught but a trifle.” He ignored her clumsiness. “Only…” Squinting with one eyebrow arched, he studied her as if she posed an unsolvable puzzle.

  “Yes?”

  “You are nothing like what I expected.”

  She clutched her reticule with both hands. “With all due respect, you cannot say something like that and assume I will brush it under the carpet. What, pray tell, were you expecting?”

  “I anticipated you might be more tractable—a bit of a shrinking violet.”

  “Hardly. I have been on my own for five years and if I cowered to powerful people, I would presently be no mo
re than a street urchin,” she said, stepping further into the entry, still shaking and starved.

  Vaguely, Bria noted the opulent simplicity of the duke’s abode as he guided her through the entry. The immediate impression was that of masculinity. An enormous portrait of a black stallion greeted them, stark, dark-wood furniture, green and white striped wallpaper, tasteful, unpretentious wainscoting. The décor was simple, exquisite, and uncluttered.

  “Pennyworth,” Ravenscar said to a man in black coattails and white gloves who could be none other than the butler. “This is Miss LeClair. She took ill on the voyage from Calais and is in sore need of sustenance. Please tell Cook we must be fed immediately.”

  The man’s gaze shifted to Bria but revealed no judgement on his part. “Straightaway, Your Grace.” He had gray-streaked, thinning hair atop his head, which seemed to have migrated down to his hedgerow of eyebrows—a long nose, hollowed cheeks. He wasn’t quite as tall as his master. After bowing, the butler left them.

  Bria glanced from the closed door to the very large, devilishly handsome and domineering duke who owed her a well-prepared meal. “Shall we?”

  Seated at the dining table with ample light, Drake studied the ballerina from behind his wine glass. He hadn’t expected Miss LeClair to be so young, but then performers were usually young unless they were well established in their professions. Upon their arrival, she’d asked to freshen up, emerging from the withdrawing room with her hair smoothed, her face and hands washed, and a darling smile—one worthy of a halo of wisteria. Now that she’d also imbibed in a few sips of sherry, a bit of color had sprung in her cheeks. As a general rule, he preferred more full-figured women. But there was something about this dancer he couldn’t put his finger on and he had a blasted time preventing himself from staring at her.

  Whisky. That was it. The color of her eyes was that of aged whisky. Soulful, expressive, and luminous, they were wideset, but not too wide. And the lady’s hair wasn’t brown. It was more like cinnamon with wisps of fairer blonde framing her face. Her eyebrows were expressively defined, and her eyelids drooped a tad as if she were tired, which anyone would be after an arduous journey. A straight nose suited her face. But was it her mouth that enticed him? Her lips weren’t thin as were many of the constant stream of heiresses introduced by his doting mother. On the contrary, Miss LeClair’s lips were full, and the corners turned up a tad in repose.

  She held her glass in a dainty hand and took a sip. Those whisky eyes met his for the briefest of moments before she blushed and set the glass down. Seeming to study the cut of the crystal, she traced her finger along the stem. “I mustn’t drink any more.”

  As if on cue, a footman arrived with pastries and a soup tureen.

  “Ah, sustenance. This will set you to rights.” Drake sat back while they were served, pleased to see Miss LeClair select the largest pastry on the platter, take up the correct knife, slice it in two, then try to look well-mannered while she shoved it into her mouth.

  “Mm,” she moaned, her eyes losing focus.

  Good God, the dancer’s enraptured face looked as erotic as a woman pleasured. Drake shifted in his seat. Miss LeClair posed a picture of feminine innocence, not one of Aphrodite. He would stop staring this instant.

  “Coming to London when so many patrons have quite high expectations must be unsettling,” he said.

  She gulped down her bite. “Somewhat, though I am thrilled to be given a chance.”

  “How long have you known you would be dancing in Mademoiselle Taglioni’s place?”

  “I was only told two weeks before we left Paris, though I have been Marie’s understudy since La Sylphide opened last March.”

  What was this? She was advised a fortnight before, yet Monsieur Marchand hadn’t bothered to send word ahead? The man most likely had known of Taglioni’s intentions months in advance. The bloody backstabber had set him up for failure. Well, Drake wasn’t about to lie down and allow a Frenchman to take advantage. First thing after the holidays, he planned to have his solicitor renegotiate the contract at the very least.

  If only Miss LeClair had given him some tidbit of information to make patrons curious, he might be able to assuage a riot before opening night. “Tell me about your childhood.”

  She took two spoonsful of soup before she said a word. “Must you know more? I’ve already explained my past.”

  He watched the candlelight flicker in the reflection of his silver knife. “Taglioni is the daughter of a renowned choreographer. She pioneered toe dancing. That, in and of itself, would have ensured Chadwick Theater would be sold out for the Season.”

  With a turn of her head, Miss LeClair’s chin rose, delicate eyebrows arched pridefully. “As you saw, I dance on point as well. We’ve worked to reinforce the slippers to make dancing appear more effortless. In fact, I’d like to think I was instrumental in perfecting toe dancing.”

  “Interesting point. But what else? Go back to your time in Bayeux.”

  “As I said before, I didn’t even know I was a foundling until the couple who cared for me died.”

  “Both passed at the same time? Was there an accident?”

  “Smallpox. Those were the darkest days of my life.” Her shoulders fell a tad. “I was the only one in the village who would tend them—not even the physician would come.”

  The memory of Miss LeClair in his arms weighed on him. She’d seemed frail. Though he suspected her will might be forged from iron. Drake’s gut twisted. Her past had been haunting, and it made him want to cradle her to his breast and vow to be her protector from this day forward. “How awful for you, and at such a young age. ’Tis a miracle you survived.”

  “A miracle, perhaps, but the people of Bayeux branded me a demon.” She took another spoonful of soup, leaving a tad of moisture glistening on her lip.

  “Is that when you went to Paris?” Drake’s tongue slipped to the corner of his mouth. What would it taste like to kiss her? Would she respond with the same passion she showed on stage?

  Good God, I will stop forthwith!

  “Oui.” She glanced away as if there might be more to her woeful story.

  Drake thought of more important matters while the tureen was cleared and replaced by a roasted goose and leg of mutton. At least he tried to think of more important matters.

  “Another course?” Miss LeClair asked.

  “There will be three. Eat your fill.”

  Drake stared at the candle flame, pondering the possible headlines for Tuesday morning’s paper. Ballerina and toe dancer extraordinaire who escaped the grips of the Angel of Death? A foundling who rose from the bowels of Paris like a shooting star? He tapped his fingers. Such statements would whet the appetites of the curious. He would dispatch a letter to Mr. Maxwell at the Post straightaway.

  Drake finished his wine, suddenly curious to know her given name. Was it something exotic like Brielle, Evlina, or Alegra? By the way she danced, lively Alegra would suit her ideally. But he wouldn’t be so bold as to ask. The mystery would be solved as soon as Mr. Perkins had the programs reprinted.

  A footman bowed with carving knife and fork in hand. “What is your pleasure, miss?”

  “A bit of both, please.”

  Drake held up his glass to be filled. “I’ll have the same.”

  “With a side of cauliflower?” asked Pennyworth, giving a nod to a footman who’d just entered with the vegetables.

  “Thank you,” Miss LeClair mumbled, her mouth already full. For such a diminutive person, the woman could eat like a prize fighter.

  Entranced, Drake hardly touched his food, watching her consume a goose leg, a quarter of a breast, three slices of mutton, and the entire bowl of cauliflower. “Fascinating.” He only realized he’d spoken aloud when she glanced up.

  Her eyes enormous, she drew elegant fingers over her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

  Food certainly had a way of brightening her complexion.

  “I do not believe I have ever seen a small woman eat with s
uch robust abandon.”

  “Oh, dear.” She swallowed with a gulp. “Forgive me. I was so hungry I forgot my manners.”

  “Not at all. ’Tis refreshing to see a lady with a healthy appetite.”

  “Truly, I never shovel food into my mouth like a starved dog. I have no idea what came over me.”

  He offered her the last slice of lamb. “I think anyone who dances as vigorously as you must need more sustenance than, say, the daughter of a nobleman who sits in her withdrawing room and embroiders or reads all day.”

  Miss LeClair frowned. “I cannot imagine such idleness.”

  “Quite.” Drake couldn’t imagine the lady at his table doing anything but dancing with the vigor she’d demonstrated that day.

  Vigor that could make any man’s loins stir. He ignored his own inopportune ping of desire. His loins stirred fifty times a day, just like any red-blooded Eton graduate. Lustiness was part of being male, which was why God created Sunday service…to be reminded they were not barbarians. The Duke of Ravenscar had the responsibility to be a gentleman. To respect others just as he commanded respect. And Miss LeClair, possibly the most gifted dancer he’d ever seen, would receive his respect tenfold.

  Clearing his throat, he finished his second glass of wine while he pondered the differences of the fairer sex. Drake abhorred the idea of entertaining a mistress. He’d tried it once. Never again. On the other hand, his mother was unduly anxious for him to marry, a topic that detracted from appreciation of any female, including the feminine form sitting beside him. In truth, now he’d spent a bit of time with Miss LeClair, she was far prettier than a dormouse.

  Far prettier.

  The final course arrived—stewed plums with cream and brandy sauce, and the ballerina showed no signs of slowing down. Holding her spoon like a practiced duchess, she took the tiniest of nibbles, closed her eyes and moaned. Well, so much for being duchess-like. Nonetheless, Drake preferred Miss LeClair’s unfettered expression of delight to any of the debutantes his mother had introduced.