Surprisingly, this didn’t seem to calm her concerns.
He added, “Any man would be damned lucky if you so much as looked his way, much less agreed to wed him.”
Her eyes widened. “Kirk, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me since I arrived.”
“Bloody hell, are the men here dead?”
She laughed although she shook her head. “Two things—one, as you know but cannot seem to remember, a gentleman never curses before a lady, and two, no, the men are not dead. Some have been very kind and said some lovely things, but I know you don’t often praise, so it’s worth a good deal when you do.”
“I meant it.” He did, too. And any fool with a pair of eyes and a brain would think the same way. She wasn’t perfect, but to him, even her foibles—her impetuousness, her stubbornness, her innate desire to always better the people about her—added to her charm, even as they frustrated him to the ends of the earth and back. He supposed he was cursed, but there it was.
“In fact”—she tilted her head to one side, her gaze roving over his face—“what you said was actually quite romantic.”
“I don’t believe in romance.”
“You don’t believe in a good many things that you should.” She sent him a half smile. “ ‘Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, those tissue of falsehood which folly has wove. Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, or the rapture which dwells—’ ”
“ ‘—on the first kiss of love.’ ”
“Exactly! You—of all people—have memorized that poem. Lord Bryon should be honored.”
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Perhaps not.” Her voice was thoughtful, and she gave him an appraising look. “When I came to the library, I was determined to tell you that your scheme was impossible, but now . . . Perhaps you are right.”
“About the kiss?”
“Yes.”
Hope leapt but he held it at bay, afraid it might show on his face and frighten her away from the line she was about to cross. “So perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps we should practice that all-important first kiss. Where you could not convince, Byron has.”
“For once, I find myself liking him.”
She sent him a laughing look, and with it, she had him completely at her mercy.
Unaware of her power, she slipped her hand from his arm and faced him. “So . . . how do we proceed?”
For a wild moment, he couldn’t move or speak or even breathe. But then a quirk of her brows brought him to life. “Slowly. There will be no rushing this time.” He set his cane against a chair and then turned to face her and gently took her hands in his.
It was such a simple gesture, to grasp her hands, yet it gave rise to a new tension—one so thick and instant that he was surprised it didn’t shimmer in the air about them.
Dahlia gave him a nervous laugh. “I—I don’t know what to—”
“This time, just hold still.”
“But I—”
He captured the rest of her words with the gentlest of kisses, his lips barely possessing hers.
Dahlia stood stock-still, her eyes wide, Kirk’s warm lips over hers. He didn’t move, didn’t break contact, but his lips held her in place. Her entire body seemed to focus on her lips, and only that surface had any feeling, any sensation. But oh, how much they felt. She was drawn to him through that kiss, and a slow heat began to simmer, deep within her. She pressed forward, leaning toward him and—
He lifted his head and broke the kiss.
Dahlia closed her eyes as tremors of awareness flooded through her, making her skin prickle and—of all things—her breasts tingle. She felt alive, and naughty, and excited—so many feelings at once. She touched her lips with her fingertips and opened her eyes to find Kirk watching her, his gaze dark.
She sighed. “That was—”
He kissed her again, only this time, he pulled her close so that she was pressed to his wide chest, his arms wrapped about her. This kiss didn’t ask, but took. His mouth possessed hers, demanding more. And she was ready to oblige, her body awakening under his touch.
He plundered her mouth ruthlessly, taking what he wanted, and she gave without reflection, drowning in the wild feelings that coursed through her. When he sucked on her bottom lip, she shifted restlessly against him, agonizingly aware of wanting more, needing more. She could no longer think, no longer hear, no longer do anything but be, and it was a wild, untrammeled feeling that thrilled and frightened at the same time.
Somewhere along the way, she’d slipped her arms about his neck and now she kissed him back, giving back embrace for embrace. Mimicking him, she took his bottom lip between hers and gently sucked.
He moaned and his hands cupped her bottom urgently in a way that should have alarmed her, but only made her hold him tighter. He deepened the kiss, running his tongue over her lips until she opened for him as—
Woof!
Dahlia and Kirk froze, their gazes suddenly open and locked with each other.
Woof! Woof!
Dahlia pulled away and looked down.
An old pug sat not a foot away, grinning up at them as if aware of the impropriety of the moment, his gray muzzle spattered with orange marmalade. As if he realized he wasn’t prepared for company, his long tongue flicked out and removed the marmalade and he resumed his grin.
Kirk gave a muffled curse. He sent Dahlia a lingering, heated look and then he stepped away.
The chilled air instantly took the place of his warm arms and she was aware of a deep loss, as if all of the excitement of the day had been whisked away, leaving her feeling alone and vulnerable. She found it difficult to swallow.
Kirk cursed, “Damn it, wherever that dog goes, there’s sure to be—”
“Oh!” came Lady Charlotte’s breathless voice from the doorway.
Dahlia’s face heated as she turned toward the doorway and dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, Lady Charlotte. It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?”
“Oh la, I’ve been up since dawn.”
“Dawn? Really?”
“Actually, no. It was closer to nine, but it sounds better when I say ‘dawn.’ ” Lady Charlotte came farther inside, her lace cap hanging askew, a stack of books clutched in her plump hands. Her bright blue gaze flickered between Dahlia and Kirk. “I hope I’m not disturbing a private tête-à-tête?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Kirk said in a husky voice. “Miss Balfour and I were just discussing the works of Byron.”
Lady Charlotte looked disappointed, but she quickly rallied. “I do love Byron.”
“Then you have excellent company in Miss Balfour.”
“But not you?”
“I have never been a follower, although I must admit some of his poems speak so true that they cannot be ignored.”
Dahlia knew exactly the one he spoke of, and her cheeks heated yet more.
Lady Charlotte nodded, her cap flopping over her ear. “There are times I feel that exact same way about passages in certain books, and I wish others could hear them as I do in my mind.” She blinked, looking much struck. “Lord Kirk, you have a lovely voice; I’ve noticed it before.”
She waited for him to thank her for her compliment, but when he merely continued to regard her much as one might a snake found suddenly upon one’s terrace, she continued undaunted. “Would you mind reading for the other guests one evening after dinner?”
“No.” At Dahlia’s exasperated glance, he added in a reluctant tone, “No, thank you.”
Lady Charlotte merely smiled. “I’m certain you’ll enjoy it. Oh, this is so fortuitous! Just this morning, her grace and I decided that an evening listening to the best voices among our guests as they read their favorite works of poetry and perhaps an improving essay or two might be just the thing. We could alternate between humorous, romantic, and other works.” She sent an arch look at Dahlia. “For variety, we thought we might even add a few performances on the pianoforte, if someone were so i
nclined?”
“I fear I’m not proficient enough to—”
“Of course you are, dear! I shall put both of you down for our entertainment and—”
“No,” Kirk broke in. “Lady Charlotte, I do not read aloud. Perhaps another—”
“You’ve read aloud to me,” Dahlia said promptly. “You do it quite well, too.”
Perhaps, just perhaps, if the other guests heard him read, they’d see him the way she’d come to see him all of those months ago. It was the one time his passions had shown through, and no one would ever again wonder if such a scarred and caustic man had any feelings left to hurt. They’d know he was a man capable of great emotion.
He scowled. “That was months ago.”
“I doubt you’ve forgotten how to read.” Dahlia curtsied to Lady Charlotte. “We’ll both be glad to assist with the evening’s entertainment, but I’ll need to borrow her grace’s pianoforte for a bit of practice.”
“Of course, my dear. And Lord Kirk, pray stop scowling. I’m certain you’ll do quite well. When we mentioned our idea to a few of the younger guests this morning over breakfast, the females were quite taken with the idea and instantly offered to read their favorite poems and such. But no gentlemen offered his services, so you are quite necessary to the success of our evening. Once the other gentlemen hear that you’ve agreed to read, I’m sure they’ll be more amenable. Will you read a poem from Byron, perhaps?”
Dahlia glanced at Kirk. He sighed heavily, but then said, “Fine, fine. I’ll do it. You have worn me down with your insistence.”
Nothing could have been more ungracious, but Lady Charlotte couldn’t have looked happier. “I’m very, very good at that.”
Reluctance stiff in his shoulders, Kirk bowed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I must leave. I’m expected elsewhere.” Without waiting for a response, he walked toward the door. As he passed by Dahlia, he paused. “Tomorrow after breakfast.”
It wasn’t a question. Because of that, and for other even more important reasons, she knew she should protest. She should leave this room and vow to never again be alone with him, no matter the cost.
But instead, her lips still tingling from his kiss, she replied in a very faint voice, “Yes. Of course.”
His hot gaze flashed over her and then he was gone, the elderly pug waddling after him.
Lady Charlotte tsked. “That was certainly abrupt. He’s better than he was, though. And Randolph seems to have taken a liking to him, which is surprising.”
“Indeed,” Dahlia murmured. Bemused, and awhirl with feelings she’d never known existed, she found it difficult to listen as Lady Charlotte began talking about a book she’d just read that had a scene set in a library that almost perfectly matched the duchess’s.
Dahlia barely waited for Lady Charlotte to take a much-needed breath and then quickly excused herself, saying she had to get ready for the coming tournament.
“Of course, my dear,” Lady Charlotte said graciously. “I’m sure you’ll wish to compose yourself before then. But there’s one thing I must mention.” She glanced at the doorway and then said in a low tone, “Her grace and I heard about the circumstances of your challenge to Lady Mary and Miss Stewart. It’s unfortunate that gently bred young women would speak so disparagingly of Lord Kirk’s scars.”
Good God, if the duchess and Lady Charlotte know the particulars of our wager, then so must everyone else. She sighed. “It seems that what I thought a rather private matter is no longer private at all. From what I gathered at breakfast, several people plan on attending, too.”
“More than you might realize. Her grace was not happy to hear how Lady Mary and Miss Stewart spoke ill of Lord Kirk, and she is not one to mince words about such happenings. In fact, she was going to speak to both young ladies in question just this morning, but I assured her that you had the matter well in hand.” Lady Charlotte leaned forward. “You do, don’t you? Have it well in hand?”
“I’m certain I’ll win the tournament, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Lady Charlotte couldn’t have looked happier. “You are to be commended for standing up for Lord Kirk.”
“He’s a neighbor of mine. I would do the same for anyone from Aberdeenshire.”
“That’s quite loyal.” Lady Charlotte gave Dahlia a curious look. “I don’t suppose you had any other reason for coming to his defense?”
“No.”
“None?”
“Not a one.”
Lady Charlotte looked disappointed. “Oh well. I had hoped that— But that’s of no matter. I don’t suppose he knows about the tournament or the circumstances surrounding it?”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Ah. That’s probably best. He would be so angry, you know.”
“Why? I’d think he would be most grateful to discover that so many people were willing to look out for his interests.”
“Grateful? A man that proud? That’s not likely. So if you please, do not say anything to him about it. If we’re fortunate, he’ll never know how many of us—including you, my dear—stood up for his cause.”
Dahlia glanced at the door. Would he be angry? Truly angry? She turned back to Lady Charlotte. “Thank you for your advice. I shall heed it, of course.”
“And you’ll win the tournament?” At Dahlia’s nod, Lady Charlotte added, “And if you could possibly win by at least five points, I’d be extremely grateful.”
Why would the number of points matter? Dahlia wondered. Still, she inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Excellent, my dear! Excellent!” Lady Charlotte beamed. “Now, off with you, for I’ve no doubt you’ve preparations to make.”
“Thank you.” Dahlia curtsied and made her escape, aware of the oddest feeling, as if her feet weren’t touching the floor. Even after being interrupted by a dog, being importuned by Lady Charlotte, and being quizzed about the coming tournament, she still felt the effects of the kiss coursing through her veins.
When she reached the hallway, she found it blessedly abandoned and, finally, she was alone. She slipped beside a huge, ornate wall clock which hid her from view, and leaned against the wall, pressing her fingertips to her lips.
So that was what a kiss was supposed to be. Her entire body still quivered, wildly alive and energetic, as if she were ready to run up a hill or take on a monumental task—anything to answer this flush of power that trembled through her.
She trailed her fingertips from her lips to her throat where her pulse beat wildly. She was still panting slightly, her breasts oddly heavy, her nipples strangely sensitive. It was as if no part of her body were the same. All from a kiss.
She pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. I had no idea a simple kiss could be so . . . significant.
Her only regret was that her sisters were not here to discuss this amazing discovery, something they probably already knew. If only—
The sound of voices approaching made her smooth her gown and hair. She composed her expression to one of polite civility and stepped into the hallway, glancing at the clock face. She was late for her meeting with Lord Dalhousie in the portrait gallery, but she was in no frame of mind to hear about the Roxburghe portraits today. She’d send a footman with a note bearing her apologies, and reschedule for a better time.
With that in mind, she hurried to the foyer and gave instructions and a coin to one of the footmen waiting there, and then hurried toward the staircase. But just as she placed her foot upon the bottom step, an entire gaggle of women swarmed out of the salon.
“Ah, there’s Miss Balfour now!” called a matron wearing a purple turban adorned with an ostrich feather held in place with an emerald pin. Mrs. Selfridge came to slip her arm through Dahlia’s. “This is so fortunate, for we were just discussing your coming battledore match.”
“My— Oh yes. It’s not for some hours yet.”
“Yes, but we were just wondering about your skills.”
“In battledore? Wel
l, I’ve played with my sisters quite a bit.”
They all looked at her expectantly.
“And?” Lady Hamilton, her wiry carrot-colored hair pinned with blue flowers, leaned forward. “Surely you’ve played in some tournaments?”
Dahlia shook her head.
Miss Spencer shook her head. “Don’t believe a word she says; she’s just being modest. Come, Miss Balfour, let’s retire to the Blue Salon and discuss this further.”
Dahlia tried to resist, but they’d have none of it, demanding “only a moment” of her time. Then they were carrying her into the Blue Salon, leaving her feeling like a leaf swept away by a flooding stream.
Eleven
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Just now, whilst on my way to change into something suitable for viewing the battledore tournament that my guests have suddenly developed a madness for, I realized that Charlotte was right and everyone is too distracted to decorate their assigned portions of the house. I shall have to be vigilant in making certain the castle is in full holiday bloom when the time comes for the ball. In the meantime, I must hurry to the battledore courts, for—as Charlotte and some of the other guests have taken to calling it—the Battledore of Honor begins shortly . . .
* * *
Half an hour later, Dahlia was still caught in the salon, trying desperately to make her escape. The worst of her captors were Mrs. Montrose; her chattering daughter, Miss Slyphania; and the indomitable Mrs. Selfridge. They’d all quizzed her relentlessly about her battledore experiences, the number of games she’d played with her sisters, and her “strategies,” which they apparently assumed to be many and complex.
The rumor mill had caught the tone of her conversation with Lady Mary and Miss Stewart, and Lord Kirk’s name was mentioned more than once, although Dahlia managed to avoid any direct comment. But the realization worried her. Was Lady Charlotte right in predicting that Kirk would be furious with Dahlia for interfering in something he might see as his own personal business?
Whatever he thought, she couldn’t back down—not now, not with so many people involved. She was at a loss to know why everyone seemed so enthused about the tournament, for she was certain no one cared about Lord Kirk’s honor the way she did. But they all seemed deeply engaged with the potential outcome, one way or another.
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