With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “He did. Ah…the day is so lovely I thought I would walk instead.”

  The duke leaned toward her and offered his hand. “Well, you may as well ride the rest of the way. Come, I’ll give you a lift.”

  His hand completely covered hers as, with one arm, he hoisted her up, her feet hardly skimming the steps. She slid onto the bench and folded her hands atop her reticule, all too aware of the man beside her. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.”

  “I’m not sure how kind I’m being. After seeing you fly in front of my team, I was certain I’d be scraping your bones off the cobblestones.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t see your carriage behind the hay wagon.”

  “We’re fortunate you are so nimble, else my theater would be without its Sylph.” He cued the horses for a walk, then grinned down at her. “Other than running out in front of carriages, have you been well?”

  “Yes, thank you. Though…” She stopped. What should she say? I’ve missed seeing you backstage? I wonder if you would mind kissing me again since last time we were interrupted, and I have the strongest feeling there would have been more?

  He regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “Yes?”

  “It is always comforting to see you in your box every night.”

  “I wouldn’t miss a single performance.”

  “I’m glad. I like having you there. I feel as if we are…” Good heavens, it would be nice if she held her tongue.

  “You were saying?”

  “Friends.”

  “Ah, yes. I suppose we are. Though I’ve never…”

  Now His Grace wasn’t finishing his sentences. That simply wouldn’t do. If he didn’t finish, Bria mightn’t sleep at night for trying to figure out what he was about to say. “You’ve never what?”

  “Well, all of my friends are men.”

  She wound her finger around her reticule’s drawstring. “Most of mine are women, aside from the men in the corps, of course.”

  As they turned into Hyde Park and approached the white tents set up for the luncheon, Pauline and Florrie stood side by side and gaped. Bria put her finger to her lips to shush them.

  “Ladies,” said Ravenscar as he pulled the horses to a halt. “My team nearly trampled our Sylph when she dashed across Regent Street.”

  “Alors,” said Pauline, clapping her hand over her heart.

  Of course, Florrie showed no sympathy. “Always out to attract attention are you not, Bria?”

  She didn’t wait for Ravenscar to walk around and help her down. “Not that kind of attention.”

  As soon as Bria’s feet hit the ground, Pauline pulled her aside. “I thought you were going to see the investigator,” she whispered.

  Bria checked behind to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “And that’s exactly what I did.”

  “And His Grace just happened past?”

  “His phaeton nearly ran me over, mind you.”

  Pauline giggled. “Imagine if you’d been injured. He’d be irate and have no one to blame but himself.”

  Bria looked his way. Ravenscar stood beside Mr. Perkins looking directly at her. She quickly turned her back. “He was furious with me, but I didn’t see his carriage from where I was standing.”

  “I imagine you frightened him something awful.”

  “He frightened me, that’s for certain.”

  Pauline tweaked the bow on Bria’s bonnet. “He’s still watching you.”

  She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know Ravenscar was staring. The heat of his attention seared her spine with the intensity of blue flame. “He’s probably just ensuring no one else tries to run me down.”

  “I think he likes you.”

  Smacking Pauline with her reticule, Bria shook her head. “Stop. He likes all of us. That is why he’s sponsoring today’s luncheon. Speaking of which, let us find a place to sit.” As far away from His Grace as possible.

  Chapter Eleven

  Preparing for the Hughes ball, Bria turned in front of the mirror, making the pink organza skirts of her new ballgown billow. “I think I like the latest style, not quite off the shoulder,” she mused, adjusting her stays so her bosoms showed a hint of cleavage.

  “And those gigot sleeves are a work of art.” Pauline nudged beside her, smiling in the mirror. She brandished a white ostrich feather and pinned it in Bria’s hair. “And I do believe this is the first time you are wearing a prettier dress than me.”

  Biting her lip, Bria looked to the worn floorboards. Her friend was right. Pauline wasn’t wealthy, but her father always ensured his daughter was stylishly clothed—and her gown was darling. “The blue makes your eyes stand out like stars.”

  “At least it’s my favorite color.” Pauline handed Bria a blue feather which she in turn pinned so it dangled just above her friend’s eye.

  “The feather adds a saucy touch.” She gave her work a pat. “And this will stay in all night.”

  “I believe you. Those pins have teeth.”

  Bria stepped back and admired her work. “You do not want the plumes to fall in your eyes whilst you’re dancing, do you?”

  “Non.” Pauline picked up both pairs of elbow-length gloves and handed the pink to Bria. “It is a shame there is a ball at Almacks tonight. I’m afraid there won’t be many people at the Hughes private event. What say you?”

  “I have no idea. Regardless, I intend to have a lovely respite. What with the traveling, the rehearsals and performances, both of us need a night out.”

  “And we shall have it.”

  Bria pulled their cloaks off the hooks. “’Tis time to head downstairs. The carriage should be waiting.”

  The pair had decided to pay a little extra and hire a hack between themselves. Too many times Bria had shared rides with six others and they always managed to be the last to leave, which meant feeling like a wet rag the next day.

  Once they arrived, it took about a half-hour before the carriage processed through the queue on Mr. Hughes’ oak-lined drive. Against the dusky sky the sprawling mansion posed a picture on a well-manicured estate in Kensington.

  Bria and Pauline both sat forward, eagerly watching out the window. “Did you know there is a royal palace not far from here?” Pauline asked.

  “I did not.”

  “Imagine, your ancestors may have built it.”

  Bria gave her a nudge. “Stop. My ancestors were more likely to have spent time in the Tower of London’s dungeons than a royal palace.”

  When the carriage finally stopped in the circular drive, they were met by footmen who escorted them up a marble staircase. After checking their cloaks, they received their dance cards and were announced as Miss LeClair and Miss Renaud.

  Not unlike balls in Paris, a number of important people queued in a welcoming line and greeted guests, with Mr. Hughes at the end. He had thick sideburns and a moustache, spoke with a pronounced lisp and smiled warmly at his guests. Moreover, he was the first to sign both Bria and Pauline’s cards.

  “I think he’s genuinely happy to have us here,” Bria whispered as they moved into an enormous ballroom painted in white. The chandeliers overhead glowed with hundreds of candles made brighter by squares of mirrors. It wasn’t quite as opulent as Ravenscar Hall but, still, the room oozed wealth.

  “Oh, I daresay he is thrilled to invite an entire troupe of dancers to his ball. We are professionals. There’s no one better with whom to enjoy a waltz.” Pauline spread her arms wide. “Look at all the coattails. I’m guessing there are far more gentlemen in attendance than at Almacks.”

  Bria admired an entire line of men in pristine black tailcoats. “I pity those poor debutantes who are anxious to find husbands.”

  Pauline chuckled. “I doubt pity is the right word.”

  Thomas Newport stopped and bowed. “Miss LeClair, Miss ah…”

  “Renaud,” Bria finished, curtsying before turning to her friend. “Pauline, have you had the pleasure of meeting the Earl of Fordham?”

 
“And Viscount Saye?” added Richard Fiennes who always seemed to be in Fordham’s shadow.

  Pauline flushed, giving a graceful curtsy. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said in heavily-accented English.

  Fordham slipped the dance card from Bria’s fingers and held up a sharp pencil. “I was disappointed when you missed our ride through Hyde Park.” He signed right below Mr. Hughes and returned the card.

  “Forgive me,” she replied. “But I do have a duty to Chadwick Theater and cannot miss a rehearsal when one is called.”

  The earl’s gaze slipped downward and paused a bit too long on Britannia’s bosom. “No apology is necessary. I should have thought you would be engaged, especially the day after the ballet opened.”

  “Are you settling in now?” Lord Saye asked.

  Pauline nodded. “We are, thank you.”

  He pointed to her dance card. “May I?”

  “Certainly.” She giggled. “It would be awkward for a troupe of dancers to attend a ball without dancing.”

  “It would, indeed.” Lord Fordham signed Pauline’s card as well.

  “Have you had the pleasure of chatting with Miss Bisset?” Bria gestured to Florrie who was standing beside Mr. Hughes.

  “Ah, yes. She was at the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar’s soiree. I found her quite chatty. We spoke for…”

  Bria tuned out the earl while she scanned the room for a tall man with black hair and coattails, no doubt.

  “He’s not here.” Fordham tapped Bria’s shoulder, giving her a knowing look. “Ravenscar’s mother is a patroness at Almacks.”

  “Ravenscar?” Bria asked as if she hadn’t been searching for the man. “It is only right for the duke to attend his mother’s exclusive ball though invitations only went out to members of polite society.”

  “Which is why we are here, what say you, Saye? I’d reckon the lion’s share of the gentry would rather be in Kensington this night.”

  “And they are.” The viscount swept his upward palm across the scene. “My guess is news of the success of La Sylphide has brought them to Hughes’ mansion in droves.”

  Bria gave Pauline a wink. They had worked so hard, it was uplifting to have Londoners accept them. Of course, there were critics, but naysayers lurked everywhere, even in Paris.

  And as the evening progressed, it didn’t escape Bria’s notice that Lord Saye danced with Pauline twice. She flirted unabashedly. In fact, she seemed captivated by the nice-looking nobleman, slender and of average height with blue eyes and fair hair. He carried himself with an unpretentious air and didn’t seem as much of a predator as Lord Fordham. Even without Ravenscar’s warning, Bria found the earl to be brash—definitely more suitable for someone like Florrie.

  Both she and Pauline danced every set until intermission was called and they were ushered into the dining hall for the evening meal. Three courses all served with wine, the first with soup and bread, the second with five different meat and vegetable dishes and the third with irresistible cakes and ices along with port. But by the end of the meal, Bria was ready to head for the boarding house. It seemed as if London parties were never as fun without the Duke of Ravenscar.

  Just as Drake had imagined, Almacks wasn’t quite the bustling hub of activity usual for a ball early in the Season. The ballroom glimmered in a sea of taffeta and lace and smelled as fragrant as a field of lilies. He stood with a glass of champagne in hand, chatting with Baron and Baroness of Calthorpe, which was much preferable to striking up a conversation with a nervous debutante attending her first ball of her first Season.

  Mother slipped beside him, her lips in a white line—a sure sign she was madder than a hornet. “I hope Mr. Hughes is happy with his den of debauchery this evening. It has drawn too many eligible gentlemen away from what should be the ball of the year.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing for the Season to begin slowly,” said Lady Calthorpe. “I recall during my debut, I attended a masque and was absolutely overwhelmed. I’d been raised in Gloucester and despite being the daughter of a duke, I truly had no idea how to handle myself among gentlemen. Mind you, though they possessed rank and titles, some behaved like absolute scoundrels.”

  “Well said, my dear.” The Baron of Calthorpe looked a bit awkward in his coattails and Drake imagined him much more comfortable wearing tweed, hunting on his country estate with a pair of Gordon Setters. “Young ladies need time to adjust to the London scene.”

  “Well, I hope this is not the commencement of the downfall of polite society,” Mother said.

  Drake held his tongue. With the fortunes being made by entrepreneurs, the downfall of the ton and exclusivity owed only to the nobly born had already begun.

  “There’s a sizeable crowd, and next week there will be no conflict with Almacks.” Lady Calthorpe gave a polite curtsy. “If you will excuse us, Your Graces, Calthorpe and I are expected in the card room.”

  “Of course.” Mother grasped Drake by the elbow. “Come, dear. There’s a young lady I’d like you to meet.”

  Resolutely, Drake allowed Her Grace to pull him through the sea of bright-eyed debutantes, all giggling behind their fans, no doubt longing for a chance to dazzle a duke. He’d grown accustomed to the stares, though would always rather be anywhere than a ballroom this time of year.

  Mother introduced Lady Blanche whose coloring was a likeness to her name. As expected, Drake engaged the daughter of Viscount Falmouth in conversation, finding her to be the epitome of good manners and excellent breeding—not at all what he wanted in a wife and everything his mother expected. Of course, manners and breeding were necessary, but a sense of humor and expression of passion were descriptors he might envision for his future bride. Unfortunately, overt passion was discouraged by The Mirror of the Graces. Drake knew why. Young ladies who were flippant and predisposed to temper tantrums oft disgraced themselves and, as a result, society had labeled passion akin to the fervor Miss LeClair demonstrated on stage as being vulgar.

  Playing the dutiful son, he danced with Lady Blanche and a number of other young ladies, but at intermission, he slipped away and instructed his coachman to take him to Mr. Hughes’ residence. His plan? After he checked to ensure Britannia and the others were well, he’d return to Almacks with his mother none the wiser.

  When he arrived, the musicians were taking a recess and Miss LeClair stood in the ballroom with her back to him. He accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and stood behind a pillar where he could observe without notice. No matter where she was or what she wore, Britannia served as a shining beacon in any room she graced.

  Tonight, her cinnamon hair was elaborately knotted atop her head, exposing her long, slender neck. The modiste had captured perfection with an elegant cut of the nape. Starting at her shoulders, the gown plunged into a wide V. With Britannia’s subtle movement, the silkiness of her skin enticed. How much would any man present pay just for one chance to brush his fingertips across her statuesque perfection?

  Drake sipped. I’d kill anyone for the mere suggestion. Two more men joined the ever-growing circle with Britannia in the center. Perhaps her gown was too damned revealing.

  Blast it all, for the past fortnight, Drake had thought of little else than the ballerina, but he’d kept his distance on purpose. No use giving the gossip columns something more to write about. He had vowed to protect Miss LeClair, not debauch her. Unfortunately, he doubted any other female in the British Isles had a chance of tempting him while the ballerina was in London. His mother would simply have to wait another Season or two before her wish came true.

  A young lady who’d been chatting with Britannia spotted him and pointed.

  Drake wasn’t ready for the melting of his knees when the diva turned. God’s bones, how had he ever considered her anything but exceptional?

  “Your Grace. I’m surprised to see you here.” As hypnotic as the Sylph, she smiled while they moved together and joined hands as if they were old friends.

  “I
cannot stay long.” Bowing, he gave the back of her hand a kiss. “Are you having a good time?”

  “We are dancing, how could we not enjoy ourselves?”

  “Well put.” He looked to the young lady from the corps and bowed. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced, madam.”

  “This is Miss Pauline Renaud, my dearest friend. Though you know of her, I do not think you have been formally introduced.” Britannia gestured to the woman—one of the corps dancers. “Allow me to introduce the Duke of Ravenscar.”

  Pauline curtsied. “’Tis my pleasure to meet you, monsieur.”

  “Your Grace,” Miss LeClair corrected.

  “Pardonnez-moi, Your Grace.”

  He chuckled at Pauline’s heavily-accented English, which he’d first expected from Britannia. “You both look lovely this evening. And Miss LeClair, your gown turned out splendidly.”

  “Thank you, and especially your mother’s modiste.”

  He’d paid extra to have the sewing expedited, and the additional coin had been well worthwhile. Britannia glowed like a ray of sunshine bursting through a forest’s canopy.

  Viscount Saye joined them. “Ravenscar, I didn’t expect to see you this evening. Cut mummie’s apron strings, did you?”

  He shot the man who’d once been his partner in crime at Eton a leer. “Hold your tongue. And why are you not making an appearance at Almacks? Hasn’t the dowager viscountess come to London as of yet?”

  “My mother has no say in my affairs.” Saye directed his attention to Miss Renaud. “The next dance is a waltz. Is your card full?”

  “I believe I have reserved the next dance for you, my lord.”

  While Saye offered his elbow, Drake glanced to Britannia. “A waltz, did he say?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned in. “Is your card full?”

  “Pauline and I both purposely kept our cards open for the second half of the evening.”

  “Why? Were you looking to monopolize some poor man’s time?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Scandalous.”