Table of Contents
Epigraph
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chaper Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Teaser chapter
“Hunter hooks you with exquisite prose and masterful storytelling.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Three Kisses a Day
“Simply make sure that I am kissed three times before the day is out, and you are safe.”
The devil was in Hawkeswell’s eyes as he teased Verity. Only it was the devil that also suggested he was not only teasing.
“Three, then,” she agreed. “So we catch up.” She quickly stepped toward him, rose on her toes, and planted a quick kiss on his lips. She tried to peck him again, but he angled back, out of reach.
“That is one,” he said. “Two to go.”
He appeared to be having a fine joke at her expense. She held herself straight and tall and prepared for the other two.
To her shock, he took her face in his hands. The hold was gentle enough, but very intimate. The sensation of his warm palms against her cheeks startled her. “We did not agree that you could touch me like this. You are just supposed to—”
“Hush,” he muttered, his lips hovering near hers, but not exactly kissing her. “When I kiss a woman, I do it properly.”
Properly meant he watched while his thumb caressed her lips in a manner that made them sensitive and tingling. It meant nipping her lip, creating a jolt to her body much like an arrow of sensation spiraling downward. It meant a stunning closeness that made her too alert and too aware of him. When his lips finally touched hers, her breath caught.
She did not step back at once. Being held like this, she was not sure she even could. But the kiss provoked something inside her that caused her to forget momentarily that she wanted to get away.
Still cradling her face in his hands, he looked down at her, those blue eyes watching, watching, and darkly pleased with whatever he saw. “That is two.”
Jove titles by Madeline Hunter
RAVISHING IN RED
PROVOCATIVE IN PEARLS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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PROVOCATIVE IN PEARLS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Jove mass-market edition / March 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Madeline Hunter.
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Chapter One
A good friend lets one spill bile, even if he finds it boring. So it was that Grayson, Earl of Hawkeswell, took advantage of Sebastian Summerhays’s friendship while they were both trapped in Summerhays’s carriage this bright August morning.
“I curse the day my cousin introduced me to the bastard.” He heard his voice snarl with anger. He had sworn to himself, sworn, that he would not do this, but here he was fuming like a chimney at the idiocy of life and pouring woe into Summerhays’s ear.
“Thompson was not at all willing to cooperate?” Summerhays asked.
“Hell, no. But, her trustee has agreed to join me in pressing for a new inquest, and with the help of Providence and the courts, I will be free of this complicated disaster by year’s end.”
“It makes no sense to interfere with the inquest. The man is not rational if he tries that.”
“He wants the connection. Or rather, his wife does. She is mining it for all it is worth while she can, hoping the new ties hold once the connection itself is severed. He is also comfortable with the way things stand. He has control of that company, which is what he wanted. If we end this impasse, he risks losing that.”
“It is good for you to be going down to the country, then. You can use some peace.”
Summerhays smiled like the good, understanding friend that he was. There was something of the physician’s sympathy in his expression, as if he worried for the health of the man he placated.
Hawkeswell saw his umbrage the way Summerhays must, and his anger turned to bitter amusement. “I am a comical figure, am I not? Such are the punishments for selling oneself in marriage for some silver, I suppose.”
“Such matches are made all the time. You are the victim of an odd circumstance; that is all.”
“Let us hope the circumstances change soon. I am in dun territory up to my eyebrows and have sold what I can. It will be porridge this winter, I think.”
The talk turned to other things, but part of Hawkeswell’s mind remained fixed on the marital conundrum that had plagued him for two years. Verity had drowned in the Thames, but her body had never been found. How she got there on her wedding day, why she left his estate at all, remained
a mystery. There were those who wanted to blame him.
His old reputation for a bad temper fed that speculation, but any fool could see it was not in his interest for Verity to disappear that day. An unconsummated marriage was an ambiguous marriage, as her trustee had so clearly explained when he refused to hand over her income from her trust. The Church would have to decide if there had been a marriage at all if she were ever declared dead. In the meantime . . .
In the meantime, her husband, or maybe not her husband, could wait. He could not remarry while she officially was still alive. The money that led him to the altar was out of reach, however. He was in limbo.
That powerlessness goaded him. He resented being a pawn of fate. Worse, this could go on for years.
“I appreciate your company, Summerhays. You are too good to tell me I am tedious. It was generous of you to suggest I accompany you out of town before taking to horse for Surrey.”
“You are not tedious. You are on the horns of a dilemma and I regret that I have no solution. Since you will not allow me to lend—”
“I do not want one more debt, least of all to a friend. I have no expectations of being able to repay what is gone already.”
“Of course. However, if it does come down to porridge, perhaps you will accept my offer for the sake of your cousin and aunt.”
“I cannot accept.” Except he could, of course. If it got that bad, he probably would. It was one thing to suffer this himself, but even worse to watch it affect those for whom he was responsible. He carried considerable guilt already, not only for his aunt and cousin, but also for the good people who lived on his entailed lands and who deserved more care and generosity than he could afford.
“Did you tell your wife that you were coming down a day early?” he asked. Summerhays had married in the spring, and his wife visited her friends in Middlesex with some frequency. Her stays this summer were often extended, to avoid the heat in town.
“I cleared my affairs so late yesterday that there was no point. I will surprise her. Audrianna will not mind.”
Hawkeswell admired the security with which his friend said that. Generally women did mind when husbands interfered with their plans. If Summerhays were another kind of man, and his wife another kind of woman, showing up unexpectedly, a day early, at a house party in the country could lead to some awkward explanations.
The coach rolled down the main lane of the village of Cumberworth, with his black gelding trotting along on its tether. He would have to visit his aunt once he reached Surrey, he supposed, and tell her that he would soon have to let her town house go. It would not be a pleasant meeting.
Even worse would be the consultations with his steward, who would again advise enclosures of the common ground on the estate. Hawkeswell had long resisted following the modern practices on that. He had sought to avoid the hardships that enclosures would bring to the families whose lives depended on that land.
People who had not seen the roofs over their heads maintained properly by their landlord should not now be deprived yet again, and in worse ways. His finances had become dire, however, and unless they improved soon, everyone would suffer anyway.
The coach took a turn outside the town. A half mile along, it carefully made another turn onto a private lane. A sign marked the property: THE RAREST BLOOMS.
The coachman stopped where the trees fell away in front of a pleasant stone house surrounded by a handsome perennial garden of free, rustic design. Summerhays opened the coach door. “You must come and meet the ladies. Audrianna will want to see you.”
“I will take my horse and be off. It is you she will be happy to see.”
“The horse needs to rest. I insist you come with me. Mrs. Joyes will give you some refreshment before you begin your ride, and you can see the back garden. It is among the finest in Middlesex.”
Since the duties waiting in Surrey did not encourage haste, Hawkeswell fell into step beside his friend and they walked to the door. A thin woman opened it and curtsied when she saw Summerhays.
“Lady Sebastian was not expecting you today, sir. She is not packed, and is in the garden.”
“That is fine, Hill. I will not mind waiting. I can find my own way to the garden, if you have other duties.”
Hill curtsied again, but walked with them through the house. They passed a sitting room and a cozy, small library, crowded with stuffed chairs. Hill left them when they entered another, more informal sitting room in the back.
“Come with me,” Summerhays said. He guided the way down a corridor that gave into a large greenhouse. “Mrs. Joyes and the ladies have a business here, called The Rarest Blooms. You have seen their artistry at my wedding, and at many parties last season. This is where they work their magic.”
The greenhouse was impressive, and large. Citrus trees and ferns, plants and vines, filled it with greenery and scents. High windows had been opened and a cross breeze fluttered leaves and petals.
They strolled to the back, where a grape vine laden with clusters of fruit hung over some iron chairs and a stone table.
Hawkeswell looked out through the wall of glass. Distorting waves in the rectangular panes made the scene beyond more a watercolor wash than a Renaissance oil, as colors paled and blended and blurred. Even so, one could identify four women out there, at what appeared to be an arbor near a brick wall on the far side of the property.
Summerhays opened a door and the images clarified. It was a rose arbor covered with white blooms. Audrianna sat on a bench under the arbor, beside the pale, perfect Mrs. Joyes of the dark gray eyes. Hawkeswell had met Daphne Joyes at Summerhays’s wedding.
Two other women sat on the grass, facing the bench. One was a blonde with elaborately dressed hair. The other wore a simple straw bonnet, and its deep brim obscured her profile.
Mrs. Joyes noticed the gentlemen emerging from the greenhouse. She raised her arm in greeting.
The two women on the ground swung their heads to see whom Mrs. Joyes hailed. Then that bonnet turned back and the woman wearing it gave her attention to Audrianna.
An odd sensation vibrated in Hawkeswell, like a plucked string of a soundless instrument. That patch of grass was shaded, and that bonnet made deeper shadows. And yet . . .
He peered hard at that bonnet, so still now. It did not turn again, even as Audrianna and Mrs. Joyes called for Summerhays to join them. The tilt of the head, however, made that string pluck again.
He walked toward them with Summerhays, along sand paths that meandered amid thousands of flowers.
“Who are the others?” he asked. “The ones sitting on the ground.”
“The blonde is Miss Celia Pennifold. The other is Miss Elizabeth Smith. Lizzie, they call her.”
“You have met them before?”
“Oh, yes. I am well acquainted with all the rarest blooms.”
Hawkeswell exhaled deeply. Of course Summerhays would have met them all. The alarm in his instincts was uncalled for.
“Well, not Lizzie, now that you mention it. I had never realized it before, but while I have seen her in the garden and through the greenhouse glass or even passing by in that bonnet, I do not think that we have ever been introduced.”
They approached the ladies. The bonnet’s crown remained resolutely turned to them. No one else seemed to notice that, or consider it rude, in the chaotic exchange of greetings and introductions that followed.
No one seemed to realize that Lizzie had never been introduced to Audrianna’s husband, either, just as Summerhays himself had not. But an earl had entered the garden for the first time, and that head’s immobility could not last forever in the courtesies that followed. Eventually Audrianna began the official introduction to Lizzie.
The bonnet rose as Lizzie stood. Blood pounded in Hawkeswell’s head as that lithe body, hidden beneath its shaft of simple blue muslin, turned. Head bowed modestly and deep brim shadowing her face, Lizzie curtsied.
The pounding eased. No, he had been wrong. And yet his memories of the p
articulars were so vague. So shockingly vague. But, no, his mind had played a trick with him; that was all.
“I will go ask Hill to bring out refreshments,” Lizzie said quietly. Very quietly. Like a whisper.
She curtsied again, and walked away. The circle of women and the buzz of talk did not much notice her leave.
The tilt of that head again. The manner of walking. The pounding began again, savagely.
“Stop.”
Everyone froze at his command and stared at him. Except Lizzie. She kept walking and did not look back. Her gait altered, though. She looked ready to bolt.
He strode after her and grabbed her arm.
“Lord Hawkeswell—really,” Mrs. Joyes scolded, her expression one of stunned surprise. She looked with distressed curiosity at Summerhays.
“Hawkeswell—” Summerhays began.
He raised a hand to silence Summerhays. He stared at the delicate nose visible beyond the bonnet’s brimmed profile. “Look at me, please. Now. I demand it.”
She did not look at him, but after a long pause she did turn toward him. She shook his grasp off her arm and faced him. Long, thick dark lashes almost touched her snow-white cheek.
Something shivered through her. Anger? Fear? He had never before felt someone’s spirit react as he did in that moment.
Those lashes rose. It was not the face that told him for certain. Not its oval shape or her dark hair or her rose of a mouth. Rather it was the resignation and sorrow and hint of rebellion in her blue eyes.
“Damnation, Verity. It is you.”
Chaper Two
“If she is not down here in two minutes, I am going up I there. I swear that I will tear this house down with my bare hands if I have to and—”
“Calm yourself, sir. I am sure there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Calm myself? Calm myself? My missing wife, assumed dead for two years, has been living the sweet country life here, mere miles from London, knowing full well the world was looking for her, and you say I should calm myself? Let me remind you, Mrs. Joyes, that your role in this borders on criminal and that—”
Provocative in Pearls Page 1