How to Ruin Your Reputation in 10 Days (Ladies of Passion)

by Harmony Williams

  “Lord Panicle being the fellow who followed you?”

  “That isn’t his name—he’s the Duke of Beaufort’s son—but yes.” I nodded, but Julian was too busy peering around the corner of the manor to notice the gesture.

  He let out a prolonged breath. “We’re safe for the moment.” Shutting his eyes, he rested his forehead against mine. Not even my friends touched me so intimately, but I found myself relaxing. I took solace from his presence, after we’d been separated for so long. It almost felt like a dream.

  We stood like that for several minutes as the heat of the direct sun mounted. Sweat broke out along my neck where the bushy tail of my hair scratched my bare skin down the back of my shirt. I squirmed. It didn’t help to ease the discomfort.

  Julian opened his eyes, separating from me so we no longer touched. But something dangerous lingered in his eyes. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?”

  I shivered despite the heat. What would I have done? I doubt I would have been able to outrun Lord Panicle on my own. I shrugged. “I doubt I would have been let in to begin with.”

  Shaking his head, he leaned closer. Did he notice? I couldn’t seem to dispel the mounting awareness of his nearness. I hadn’t grown much since we were children, but whereas he’d been near my height when I’d left Leicestershire, now he surrounded me. The heat of his body burned along mine, reminding me that he was a man now.

  And I was a woman, not a plant. His proximity awakened desires in me I’d thought dormant, or perhaps nonexistent. It didn’t seem to matter that he was my dearest friend, the one person I’d always been able to count on.

  Until six months ago, I reminded myself. He’d proven that he wasn’t dependable when he’d answered none of my letters. No friend would do that, let alone…

  I smothered the thought.

  “Maybe not, but I’d rather not take the chance.” He raised his hand. It hovered just out of reach of my cheek. Confliction crossed his features, as though he battled an internal struggle.

  In the end, he only tucked away a flyaway strand of my hair and dropped his hand. But he said, “Before you launch another harebrained scheme, ask me. At least while I’m in London.”

  His proposal took me aback. I stared at him, mouth agape, as I tried to discern whether or not he meant the offer. I shifted my arms to cross them in front of my chest, but he stood too near. I couldn’t cross them without brushing his chest. The thought of touching him sent odd tingles over my skin.

  “Why?” I asked finally. “So you can stop me?”

  “Hardly.” He emitted an odd sound. I couldn’t decide if it was closer to a snort or a chuckle. He shook his head ruefully. “I doubt I can stop you once your mind is made up.”

  I matched his smile. He had that right.

  But…could I still trust him? This was Julian, the boy I’d known from birth. We’d embarked on more escapades than I could count, but never before as adults. Much had changed in the ten years since we’d lived adjacent to each other.

  And my freedom was about to be cropped short.

  On a whim, I said, “Kiss me.”

  It was madness. He’d never do it.

  He flinched. “Are you mad?”

  “Hardly. If you want to fulfill my requests, then kiss me. Otherwise I’ll have to turn elsewhere.”

  I didn’t mean it. I was the staid one of my friends, the voice of reason. Despite the way Mary flouted convention, I never stepped a toe out of line of my own volition. Maybe I should start.

  He scraped a hand over his mouth. My pulse beat faster. To my astonishment, he considered the request. My head spun. How far would he take his offer? I suspected he’d only made it to be polite.

  Any respectable lady would have retracted the request for a kiss. I was many things, but thanks to Rose and Mary, “respectable” didn’t quite make the list.

  I pushed the issue. “After the Season is through, I will never get the chance.”

  He dropped his hand to his side. “Is this some bizarre age restriction I don’t know about? Plenty of women marry after twenty-three.”

  Not me, but I refused to explain my father’s decision. I didn’t want his pity.

  At his hesitation, I shrugged. “I knew you weren’t serious.” I turned toward the corner of the manse, the way we’d come.

  “Wait.”

  His voice halted me in my tracks. I pinched back a sudden tide of nervousness. Would he agree to kiss me—and more importantly, did I want him to? I swallowed heavily. For an adventive idea, it quickly took root. Fitting, for my first kiss to come from the boy who gave me a peck on the cheek as a child. Schooling away my apprehension, I turned to face him.

  His expression was unreadable, as impenetrable as hardpan.

  “A kiss.”

  “Only one.” Then, because he’d be just as likely to press his lips to my cheek like he had last night, I added, “And not on the cheek.”

  Lifting my chin, I puckered my lips, closed my eyes, and waited.

  I half expected him to walk away. Well-bred young ladies did not ask men for stolen kisses, even if said lady had known the gentleman in question for forever and a day.

  His hand found mine. Slowly, his fingers explored every inch of my bare skin. They traced the rolled sleeve of my stolen shirt, where it left the skin of my wrist bare. Goose bumps erupted from his touch. He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my skin. The burn of his mouth coursed all the way to my toes. I gasped. Who knew my wrist was so sensitive?

  I covered my reaction by opening my eyes. “I meant to my mouth.” Although I intended the words to be demanding, they emerged somewhat breathless.

  He didn’t seem to notice. His eyebrows knit together in a scowl. “I know. Don’t rush me. I have a process.”

  “Your process is lengthy and tedious. Kiss me!”

  He lifted my chin with the rough jab of one finger. His gaze smoldered. I licked my lips in anticipation. Would he kiss me, after all?

  “Are you sure?” he asked. His tone was just as demanding as the finger preventing me from lowering my face.

  I rolled my eyes. “Before I die of old age, please.”

  His mouth descended upon mine. I offered myself up, ready to be swept away by the kind of passion Rose described.

  He lingered for only the briefest of moments. The delicate brush of his lips against mine. Nothing more. He moved away. I touched my fingertips to my mouth.

  “That was a kiss?”

  A thunderhead of broken pride gathered across his features.

  I hurried to correct my hasty words. “Granted, it was lovely, but I expected it to be rather…longer.”

  The cloud of anger evaporated. He sighed, running a hand over his chin. He didn’t meet my gaze.

  “No, that was not a kiss.”

  I frowned. “But I asked for you to kiss me.”

  “I did kiss you.”

  “I don’t understand. You just said you didn’t.”

  He raised his gaze heavenward. “I kissed you, but it was not a proper kiss. Or rather, it was a proper kiss. Too proper.”

  He spoke in circles. I wondered if he understood his own words.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re a virgin.”

  I recoiled. “Is that meant to be an insult?”

  “No. It is an unmarried woman’s greatest virtue.”

  “Yet it is never insisted of a man.”

  He glanced at me curiously. “You aren’t one of those long-suffering women, are you?”

  “Like Mary?” I tossed at him. “No. But I do crave freedom. A freedom you men have in spades.” I stepped closer. He retreated by a pace, his expression wary. I refused to grant him a single reprieve.

  I moved until we stood toe-to-toe, very like the kiss he delivered. The one he called “proper.” I lowered my voice. We stood so intimately, he undoubtedly heard me. “I want this other kiss you speak of. The improper one.”

&nb
sp; “Francine…”

  “Miss Annesley,” I corrected, just to be ornery. If he insisted on being proper, I would, too.

  “Francine,” he said again, this time with feeling. “If we’ve been intimate, I will call you by your Christian name.”

  “By your own admittance that was not an intimate kiss.”

  Challenge sparked in his unwavering brown gaze. “No,” he said. “But this one will be.”

  He clasped me by the back of the neck. The collar of my shirt tightened as his fingers snagged it. The added restriction to my breathing tripled my heart rate. I shut my eyes, waiting.

  His breath teased my lips, hot and ardent. I stood on my tiptoes to close the distance between us. An instant before our lips met, his body stiffened against mine and he raised his head. “Forgive me. I can’t.”

  I curled my fingers into his jacket. “Why not?” Did he not feel this…this pull between us?

  A voice punctured the intimate moment before Julian could answer.

  “I can’t say I expected to find this.”

  Chapter Six

  Lord Panicle smirked from his position near the corner of the building.

  My cheeks flamed hotter than the beating sun. I hastily stepped back from Julian’s form at the same time as he stepped between me and Panicle, shutting me from sight with his body.

  He crossed his arms over his chest as he squared off against the duke’s son. “Can’t a man engage in a little harmless sodomy in peace anymore?”

  For a second, my heart stopped beating in my chest. What was he doing? Good men were hanged for engaging in sodomy. It was a capital offence.

  Lord Panicle sniggered. “Right. Sodomy. Because that’s what’s going on here.”

  Sneaking his hand behind his back, Julian urged me to leave with a surreptitious wave. But I couldn’t abandon him, could I? When I didn’t budge, he risked a glance over his shoulder. His glare penetrated me. “Leave,” he mouthed.

  Without taking my eyes off them, I slipped backward until reaching one of the pillars rooting the lofty balcony overhead. I flattened myself against the far side. The balcony cut off the overbearing sunlight, leaving my vision punctate with sunspots.

  When I risked a peek around the column, Julian had approached Panicle. The pair exchanged words in a low monotone. The conversation didn’t carry. Then, to my surprise, Lord Panicle gave a haughty salute and left.

  I crossed to Julian’s side. He managed a shaky smile, but I still wasn’t convinced.

  “Do you think he recognized me?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “In your cunning disguise?”

  I moaned, letting my head fall back against the cool stone of the shady wall. “My life is over.”

  “Please.” Julian snorted. “Who would believe him if he told anybody?”

  I wished I shared his confidence. “We should go.” Before someone else recognized me.

  He stared down at me with an unreadable expression. He nodded once, curtly, and rounded the corner.

  I hesitated. “Is it safe?” We had hidden at the rear of the manor for a reason, after all.

  Julian shrugged. “The duke’s son already caught up to us. What else can happen?”

  When he continued walking, I trotted to keep up. “Can you slow down?” Twinges of pain spiked through my ankle with every step.

  He lengthened and slowed his stride. At the next corner, he paused before he peered around to the front. I sidled up next to him, hoping to catch a view.

  At least half of the carriages in front had departed. Julian pointed to the row. “Third one down,” he said. “Unmarked. That’s the hack I hired to bring me here.”

  His body pressed alongside mine. I inched away. My cheeks heated as the foolishness of asking him to kiss me finally sunk in.

  He turned to me, frowning. “Let me escort you home.”

  I didn’t meet his gaze but nodded. He hovered by my side as I walked to the carriage under my own power. I might be injured, but I was far from helpless. After glancing around to ensure no one was looking, he grabbed my elbow and hoisted me into the carriage when the steps proved troublesome.

  We didn’t speak as the driver snaked through the thick London traffic. Our passionate embrace hung heavy over us like the heat. At least, it did over me. I turned my attention to the small window but didn’t say a word. Once the hack pulled to a stop in front of my townhouse, I shuffled to the edge of the seat then paused with my hand on the door.

  “Francine?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Julian. “Why didn’t you write? I sent you more than one letter.”

  The shadows crossing his face deepened the hesitation in his expression. “It’s complicated.”

  I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. His expression turned stony. That was all the answer I was going to get?

  I mumbled a good-bye under my breath and let myself out. Julian made no move to help.

  I hurried up the steps and into the house proper before someone spotted me dressed inappropriately. Our butler, Grimsby, lifted a gray eyebrow but didn’t comment on my attire. I slipped past him into the house, hoping if I ignored his awkward stare he might forget he ever saw me. It was a slim hope.

  I tried to sneak up the stairs without anyone else spotting me.

  My luck had run dry. Mary paced back and forth in the parlor. She spotted me as I reached the bottom step.

  “Francine.”

  It wasn’t a hail of excitement. Anger thrived in her expression, damping off all cheerfulness in the room. Her ire spilled into the hall like the stink of rot.

  “Where did you go?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Where did I go? Where did you go?” I pushed past her into the sitting room, hobbling toward a chair. My ankle throbbed with a vengeance. “You left me in there on my own.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “I did not. You had Julian there with you.”

  And good thing I did. It was a measure of how much she liked Julian that she considered him an option for companionship. She rarely trusted a gentleman she’d just met. With any other man, she would have bristled at the fact I was left alone with him. At his “mercy.”

  But Mary continually planted herself in the presence of men while unchaperoned—usually in pursuit of justice. Like today with Cypsela.

  I shook my head. “You left with Cypsela, nonetheless.”

  Puzzlement took root across her features. “Who?”

  Twin points of heat bloomed in my cheeks. I aborted eye contact. “Sutton, sorry. I meant Sutton.”

  She stepped closer. “What does Cypsela mean?” From her tone, she wasn’t happy at the moniker.

  “It’s a plant term,” I mumbled.

  “Half the words to tumble out of your mouth are plant terms.” She crossed her arms. “What does it mean, Francine?”

  “A cypsela is a dry, shriveled, one-seeded fruit borne from an inferior ovary.”

  Mary barked a laugh. “It’s perfect.”

  A smile ghosted over my lips. She approved? She usually hated when I referred to people by plant terminology. I glanced down. My smile slipped.

  “I have to change out of these clothes before Papa sees me in them.”

  Mary barred my path. Anger rotted her good mood once more. She squared her shoulders. “That’s right. He’s forcing you to marry.”

  I felt as green as grass. I swayed, but Mary turned tail and catapulted through the parlor door. “Where are you going?” I called after her.

  She paused to shoot me an incredulous look over her shoulder, as if surprised I didn’t already know. “To confront him, of course.”

  I moaned as she disappeared from view. The thought petrified me in place for too long.

  By the time I staggered to the door, she was already gone. I prayed my father had already taken himself off to White’s, or some other men’s abode that Mary couldn’t penetrate. Assuming, of course, that White’s doors were closed to her. Very few doors in London were.

  We h
ad infiltrated a men’s lecture without consequence, after all.

  Even so, I couldn’t keep standing in the middle of the hall, dressed in my father’s old wedding clothes. I limped toward the stairs and slowly, carefully climbed to the top. At the landing, I leaned against the wall as I waited for the throb in my ankle to subside.

  Mother exited the library farther down the hall, a book in her hand. A disapproving frown marred her features as she spotted me. “Francine, are you wearing your father’s wedding clothes?”

  I groaned under my breath. “I believe so,” I said in a small voice. I couldn’t very well lie to her.

  If anything, the truth deepened her frown. “Why ever are you dressed like that?”

  My head throbbed. I had no good excuse for wearing men’s clothes.

  “I attended a lecture on botany.”

  “Oh.” Her disapproving expression eased. “And how was it?”

  I’d half expected Mother to fixate on my state of dress. Seemingly, she cared more for the reason than for the attire itself. I smiled.

  “Quite stimulating. The professor was a guest from the Americas. Would you like a copy of my notes?”

  “Please.” She narrowed her eyes as she studied me. “It can wait a day or two, if you’d like. You seem ill.”

  I felt utterly drained. “I don’t feel quite the thing. Would you mind terribly if I cried off tonight?”

  Mother pursed her lips. “I’ll speak to your father.” She sauntered away, book in hand.

  I wondered if she would remember.

  Pushing the thought from my mind, I escaped into my room. I sighed as I shut the door but didn’t immediately cross to the dressing room to remove my clothes. My ankle spiked pains up my leg with every heartbeat. I hobbled to my bed and sat. I carefully removed the oversize boots, wondering which servant I should return them to. Hopefully Mary remembered.

  My ankle throbbed with vigor as I removed it to the open air, as if the boot had muffled the pain. I winced, doubling over the appendage. I worked my fingers into the muscle, hoping to massage it. I whispered promises not to venture on such an escapade again.

  Ever again.

  As I slowly stripped the stocking from my leg, Rose barged into my room. Her blond hair was in disarray, her eyes wild. I frowned at her. “Rose, what’s wrong?”