Mistaken Kiss: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 2)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “No, Miss. It weren’t wonderful. You mustn’t do such things. Gentle bred young ladies mustn’t go about kissing gentlemen. I learnt you better’n that, I did.”

  “Taught. You taught me to behave better than that.”

  “That’s what I said. It’s not ladylike.”

  “Well, I did kiss him. The deed is done. In fact, I liked it so much, I asked him to do it again.”

  Aggie squawked. Then she slapped the back of the brush against Willa’s upper bottom.

  “Ouch!” Willa twisted around and scowled up at Aggie. She rubbed the sting through her nightgown. “Very well, I won’t tell you the rest.”

  “Humph.” Aggie vigorously brushed through Willa’s tangled curls. Willa closed her eyes and leaned back while the brush pulled roughly through her hair.

  The silence only lasted a few moments before Aggie started muttering. “Sir Daniel is as fine a man as ever there was. If you was to marry him, you wouldn’t never starve. A sensible girl would know where to get her bread baked.”

  “Buttered.”

  “But no, you’d rather kiss a stranger than marry a respectable gentleman. And I ask you, what kind of man takes advantage of a green young miss like that fellow done?”

  “Oh, he’s completely unsuitable. A rakehell, to be sure.”

  Aggie whacked Willa’s bottom once more. “Mind your tongue, my girl.”

  “Well, it’s the truth. He’s not the sort of gentleman who takes an interest in proper young ladies. He probably has any number of beautiful paramours. Exotic women from other countries who put kohl on their eyes and wear silks from the Far East and—”

  “I don’t want to hear no more about them fallen women. All the more reason for you to marry a good, decent, and honorable—”

  “I can’t marry Sir Daniel.”

  “And why not?”

  Willa cocked her head sideways and looked into the mirror. She didn’t want to miss Aggie’s reaction.

  “I kissed Sir Daniel, too. Frankly, it was as dull as old porridge.”

  Aggie stepped back and dropped onto the bed. She looked at the child she had cared for since infancy and shook her head.

  “Oh, Aggie, don’t act so shocked. I had to know what it would be like, didn’t I?”

  Willa stood up and walked over to the wardrobe. “I wish I had something to wear besides Mother’s old dresses.” She opened the doors and plowed through the garments hanging inside. She spun around to her maid. “Which of these gowns is the most fashionable?”

  There was no response. Aggie sat with her arms folded across her chest, sulking.

  “Come now, Aggie, surely you can remember which of my mother’s gowns was made last?”

  “Of course, I do. It were the rose silk.”

  “It was the rose silk.” Willa draped the skirt of the rose silk over her arm. “Hmm. Do you suppose the ladies from town might wear silk to a prizefight?”

  “I expect they might—those kinds of ladies. A prizefight is no place for a gentlewoman.”

  “Probably not. It’s just that poor little Georgie Thompson has gotten himself in a fix. I’m afraid he’ll be killed if I don’t do something.”

  “Georgie? That great bull ox? He can take care of himself.”

  “No, Aggie. There is a fellow, Jackson, in London who teaches brutes the art of boxing. The man who is coming is one of those trained fighters. Alex told me so. Georgie is going to get his head smashed in.”

  “Then you ought to tell your brother and leave a man to straighten out things like this.”

  “I tried to talk to Jerome on the way home from Sir Daniel’s. He refuses to speak to me until I come to my senses and agree to marry Daniel. You saw him tonight. He was stiff as stone. No, I have to do it myself.”

  And this way, she thought, I might have one last glimpse of Alex before he disappears out of my life forever.

  Aggie smacked her hand on the bed covers. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had brain fever. You can’t go traipsing out into a field full of men, some of all them strangers from London. It isn’t proper. You’ll be the talk of the county.”

  Willa walked over to the bed and sat down. She lifted one of Aggie’s hands and rubbed it against her cheek.

  “Be reasonable. You know I can’t let that London fellow hurt our Georgie. He’s just a boy.”

  “He’s not a boy. He’s your age, my girl.”

  Willa exhaled loudly and let go of Aggie’s hand. “Never mind that. He’ll get killed if I don’t do something. Don’t you worry. Everyone in the village knows me. They’ll realize the importance of what I’m doing. They won’t let anything bad happen to me.”

  “You’re not listening to me, Wilhemina. I see that contrite look in your eye.”

  “Contrite? What do you mean? Oh. You mean contrary.”

  “I mean—you’re going to land in a hay wagon full of trouble, that’s what.”

  Willa went back to the wardrobe and studied its contents while tapping her chin with one finger.

  “Do you think this rose silk will fit me?”

  Aggie shook her head and sighed.

  * * *

  The next day, Willa, decked out in her mother’s rose silk, sat in the driver’s seat of a small black dogcart and rolled slowly along the rutted road out of St. Cleves.

  “Get along now, Euripides. Hurry up, I say. Euripides, you stubborn lump, at this pace, we’ll never get to Lord Winthrop’s field by two o’clock.”

  She slapped the traces against the buttocks of her plump brown mule. Ignoring her commands, the animal stopped to pluck a tuft of grass from the roadside.

  “You infernal pigheaded beast—you’re holding up traffic.”

  A high perch phaeton loaded with dandies from London whipped around her. They whistled and jeered at Willa in her small buggy as they passed. Annoyed at both the rude men and her defiant animal, she smacked Euripides with her whip. Instead of moving down the road like he was supposed to, the mule’s eyes widened and his back legs sprang into action. Up and down went the cart as he bucked. Willa held her glasses with one hand to keep them from flying off her nose and clutched the traces with the other, trying desperately to keep the rebellious mule from landing both of them in the ditch.

  The cart spun sideways, blocking most of the road, and Euripides came to a standstill in the path of an oncoming coach. The coachman pulled his team up short to keep from smashing into them.

  Willa clipped the traces, grabbed a carrot from a box under the seat (kept there for just such occasions), and went to speak with Euripides. She grasped his harness and held the carrot in front of his face. The mule walked obediently beside her, his lips rolling and curling up while his big teeth opened and shut trying to snatch the carrot.

  “Ornery mule. I don’t know why Jerome keeps you. You are the most obstinate creature on God’s green earth.”

  The fancy black carriage rolled past her. Willa spotted a blurry but elegant crest painted on the door. A red-haired lady inside the coach leaned out of the window, as if straining to get a closer look.

  “What a sight we must be.” Willa shoved the carrot into his greedy mouth and climbed back into her cart.

  “I should have walked. It would have been faster.”

  * * *

  Willa arrived at the prizefight with her sausage curls wilting and mud splattered on the hem of her outdated rose-silk gown. Her confidence wavered as she surveyed the enormous crowd. There were more people standing in the field than ever came to church. There were more people gathered there than even the parish fair attracted.

  Willa squinted, searching the crowd for familiar faces, and saw none. Beautiful ladies sat in low-slung elegant carriages and atop tall phaetons. The people laughed loudly, shouted, and threw things. Girls roamed through the crowd selling oranges from boxes hung on their hips.

  In the center of it all, Willa saw Georgie standing tall and quiet, like a man waiting to be executed. She renewed her courage for his sake.
Brushing a strand of unruly red hair out of her eyes, she wriggled her way through the crowd.

  * * *

  Alex tapped his hand on his thigh. He consulted his pocket watch and then counted the number of heads in front of him at the betting post. The fight was set to begin any minute.

  After getting a good look at little Georgie, he wanted to hedge his bets. He knew Jack Scroggins was handy with his fives, but little Georgie looked like an overgrown fjord horse. One good blow from that farm boy and Scroggins would think he’d been hit with a sledge. Alex glanced back toward the ring to make sure he wasn’t overreacting to George Thompson’s size. It was then that he saw Willa—headed straight for the ropes.

  Alex looked up at the heavens and shook his head. He consulted his watch again and calculated his distance from the betting post in terms of minutes. No time to do anything about a stubborn young woman who should have stayed at home and out of trouble. The idea that she thought she needed to rescue Gigantic Georgie was ludicrous. Alex spotted her red curls just as she slipped under the cording.

  “It’s none of my affair,” he said aloud to convince himself. “I hardly know the chit.” Then, he heard the laughing start. Alex took a deep, exasperated breath, clenched his teeth, turned around, and plowed through the crowd.

  It wasn’t easy shoving his way up toward the center of the gathering, but he persisted.

  “Excuse me, I must remove that bit of baggage cluttering up the ring,” he explained as he pushed through the spectators. At first they laughed and stepped aside, but as he got closer, the crowd was more hostile.

  He could hear Willa reprimanding the gargantuan boxer. “Go home, Georgie. If you stay here, you could be killed or maimed. Then what will your poor father do?”

  Alex couldn’t see her, but he pictured her, hands on her hips, one finger shaking imperiously at her prey. The men standing outside the ropes began to boo her.

  The hulking farm boy answered his would-be rescuer. “I can’t go home, Miss Willa. All these folks come here t’ see me fight.”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “Leave the man alone!” A fellow in the front shouted.

  Willa turned toward the voice. “You should all go home. This is no way for grown men to behave.”

  “Killjoy.” The man waved his hand at her in disgust. “Go home and tend to yer knitting.”

  A shout went up. “Get her out of there!”

  “Meddler!” Someone threw an apple core. It hit her in the shoulder. Willa ducked as a volley of fruit flew toward her. Alex stepped into the square. The mob hushed. He walked toward her, smiling broadly, and held up his hand to the crowd. For a moment, it was quiet. He bent toward her, grasped her around the waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder. Everyone burst out laughing.

  A cheer went up as Alex carried her out of the ring. Spectators lowered the ropes and parted like the red sea. A hail of compliments followed him as Alex carried her away.

  “Well done, man.” Someone patted him on his free shoulder as he passed.

  “Cart her off to the asylum, lad.”

  * * *

  Willa held onto her glasses as she flopped unceremoniously against his back. This wasn’t the way she had planned it. She had hoped to meet up with him after she had stopped the fight and dispersed the crowd. This was hardly the triumph she envisioned. Augmenting her humiliation, a brown mush of overripe pear oozed down her sleeve.

  “I’m getting pear juice on your coat.”

  Alex tightened his grip on her thighs. She fit quite tidily on his shoulder, the little imp. “I’ll send you a laundering bill.”

  He didn’t know if he felt like flogging her or laughing at her. The fight began behind him, and the crowd lost interest in them and started cheering for their respective champions.

  He continued to haul her away from the throng. It wasn’t until a parasol poked him in the midsection that he stopped.

  “You will put my niece down this instant.”

  Alex looked at the woman in front of him. She was obviously wealthy and had the air of a woman accustomed to having her own way. Her hair was an unnatural shade of red, and her eyes were unreadable. Alex didn’t trust her.

  “Willa, do you know this woman?” He turned slightly. Willa twisted sideways and peered up through her smeared spectacles at the well-dressed lady in front of them.

  “No.” She flopped again against his back.

  “I,” said the lady imperiously, “am the Countess de Alameda, your aunt.”

  Alex almost dropped his passenger he was so surprised. He knew the lady by reputation.

  Willa twisted around, wiped a fruit smear off her glasses and adjusted them. “Aunt Honore?”

  “The same.” She thumped the point of her parasol against the ground as if she were the queen and it was her staff. “Now, if you will kindly set my niece on the ground.”

  What was the infamous Lady Alameda doing in this neighborhood? She usually ran with the Carleton crowd. How could she possibly have a niece like Willa? The two didn’t belong in the same courtyard together, much less the same family tree. It didn’t seem credible.

  Alex smiled congenially. “As much as I would like to oblige you, Lady Alameda, I’m afraid it is out of the question.”

  The countess sputtered. “Of all the impudent—”

  “Practical, my lady. You see, if I put her down, your niece will head straight back into the boxing arena to rescue that huge young man you see fighting in there.” Alex smiled at the look on the lady’s face. “Then, I will be obliged to fetch her out again. The crowd was tolerant the first time, but a second time, and in the midst of the match...” He shook his head.

  Lady Alameda stared at Alex. “Wilhemina, is any of this nonsense true?”

  Willa, who was not at all sure she would really go running back into the ring to be pelted with fruit again, considered her answer carefully. She rather enjoyed riding around on Alex’s shoulder. If he put her down, it was quite possible she might never see him again. She twisted around Alex’s side while holding her glasses in place and attempted to focus through the one lens not thoroughly clouded with fruit juice.

  “Highly probable. Young George is one of our parishioners. It’s my duty to protect him. My brother is the vicar, you see, and—”

  “I know who your brother is.”

  A shout went up from the crowd, and Alex spun around to see what the commotion was over.

  Willa thumped on his back. “What’s happening? What is it? Tell me.”

  “It’s Scroggins—he’s letting it fly to Georgie’s chin. Hammering the big fellow with his famous quick punches.”

  Willa moaned.

  Honore studied Alex and Willa. A more unlikely pair never existed. Alex was obviously a Corinthian, well dressed and worldly. Yet, here he stood with her countrified little niece slung over his shoulder. How very intriguing. Honore perked up like a fox who had just spotted a hapless hare wandering in the meadow.

  Cheers and huzzahs rose from the crowd. Willa rapped Alex harder. “What happened?”

  Alex reached up and smacked her bottom. “Scroggins won, my girl! You just saved me twenty-five pounds.”

  Honore raised one eyebrow after observing Alex pat her niece in such a familiar way. She cleared her throat. “The fight is over. I believe you may safely put her down.”

  Alex sighed involuntarily. He supposed he must comply. He lowered Willa down slowly, appreciating every luscious curve as she slid over his chest. He winked and smiled provocatively at her just to vex the arrogant Lady Alameda.

  Willa’s face did not mirror his levity. She was troubled. “Is George dead? Can you see him?” She clung to his arm and strained on tiptoe to see over the crowd, to no avail.

  Alex shook his head. “No, he’s not dead. Took one to the jaw. Went out like a candle. He’ll come around in a minute or two.”

  “How can you be certain? Is he bleeding? Who’s there to tend him?” Willa plunged into the crowd. “I have t
o see for myself,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Alex shut his eyes and sighed.

  Honore ground her parasol deeper into the dirt. “Do something.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it’s none of my affair. I set her on the ground at your request, and now—” He held his hand out toward the mob encircling the ring.

  Honore narrowed her eyes at him. “You most certainly are involved, young man. Or you wouldn’t have been carrying her around in that disgraceful manner. You show a decided lack of manners carrying a young lady around like a sack of potatoes.”

  “My manners have always been lacking. But for future reference, my lady, how do you propose I haul your niece around? With a bit and halter? Stuff her in my vest pocket?”

  “Don’t get impertinent with me, young man. What’s your name?”

  “Alex Braeburn, at your service, my lady.” He bowed extravagantly.

  She arched one eyebrow. “I’ve heard of you. You’re not what I pictured. Pictured someone older.”

  “Ah, you must be thinking of the noble Sir Daniel Braeburn, ma’am. I’m his younger brother—the not so noble.”

  “Hhmm. No, that’s not it. I heard something…” She tapped her cheek and then waved away the annoying riddle. “It doesn’t matter. Go and fetch my niece. Then, we will all retire to the vicarage for a rest and dinner.” Honore produced a handkerchief and waved it in front of her face. “All this running about has tired me to the bone.”

  Alex frowned at Honore. She didn’t look weary to him.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Go after her.”

  He inclined his head and went in search of Willa. He found her instructing George Thompson’s seconds to use caution as they lifted the puffy-faced lad into the back of his father’s splintered old farm wagon. Blood trickled from the poor wretch’s split lip. All in all, Alex had seen far worse, particularly when Scroggin’s had been the other contender.

  The elder Thompson said nothing. He glumly climbed up on the creaking wooden driver’s seat and grunted to his team. The wagon lurched forward and Georgie moaned. Willa waved sadly at his retreating figure. Alex patted her shoulder. “He’ll be mended in a day or two.”