Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me

by Barbara Devlin

  “Would that it were so simple.” Of course, Nicholas neglected to mention he made several failed attempts. “Suffice it to say she is not amenable.”

  “Does she reject you in light of the scandal surrounding your family?” The admiral collected the letters. “Perhaps my wife can speak on your behalf.”

  “I am afraid we are beyond mere conversation, Admiral.” Not even flowers gained him entry to her townhouse. Then again, he did not expect her to make it easy. “And Lady Amanda may not be willing to do so, when she discovers the identity of my former bride-to-be.”

  “Is she someone we know?” Inclining his head, Dalton compressed his lips. “Does she frequent the ton’s ballrooms?”

  “She did, but she no longer mingles in society, given she, too, has lost favor.” And he recalled the reason for her ostracization. To Dalton, Nicholas said, “While I cannot presume an acquaintance on the part of everyone else, you were, at one time, quite intimate with her.”

  “Oh, no.” With a start, Dalton blinked and sobered. “You cannot mean who I think you mean.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” With a huff, Rylan peered at Admiral Douglas, Crown Prosecutor Berwick, and then Dalton. “Well, give over, and name your terms and the woman, that we might fulfill your demands, as I will do anything to protect my wife from your relations.”

  “Very well.” Nicholas nodded and recalled the awful day when Almira was torn from his arms and resolved to persevere. “I will surrender into your possession the entire sheaf of correspondence between Cornelius and my father, I will testify on the Crown’s behalf regarding the authenticity of the letters, including the circumstances of their discovery, and I will aid in the successful prosecution of the crimes my brother committed in exchange for your assistance in reclaiming the woman I love.”

  “And the unfortunate creature?” The duke advanced a step. “We cannot tempt you with a sizable donation to your estate and a personal guarantee you will retain your title?”

  “None of that matters without the one person who holds my heart, unreservedly, and you will help me win her, or I will burn the evidence.” Composed and unperturbed, Nicholas squared his shoulders. “I will have Lady Moreton.”

  ~

  On the rare occasions when children pondered their future, they never aspired to a miserable existence marked by the fear associated with toil, poverty, and homelessness. Indeed, as a starry-eyed girl, Lady Almira, the dowager marchioness of Moreton, often dreamed of a life spent in supervision of a large household, the chatelaine’s keys hanging from her waist, with at least six children, and in anticipation of her adoring husband’s every desire. Of course, there was love invested in each aspect of that cherished vision. But the fantasy died the day she married Lodge, the detestable marquess of Moreton, because her heart belonged to another man.

  Widowed, destitute, and on the verge of losing her home, she stood in line at a local vendor’s counter, drew down the hood to shield her face from view, noted the tattered lace edge of her sleeve, and huddled beneath her threadbare pelisse. When a customer passed, Almira bowed her head to avoid detection, as no one in polite society received her.

  How had she fallen so far, so fast?

  “Next, please.” The shopkeeper beckoned with a flick of his wrist. “Ah, Lady Moreton. You have become one of my best clients.” Mr. MacGregor smiled, and a chill slithered over her flesh. “What treasures have you for me today?”

  “Some lovely items, which should fetch a vast deal more than decent price.” From her reticule, she pulled a magnificent necklace and a matching bracelet, and she prayed they garnered enough to sustain her until she figured out an escape from her current perilous predicament. “This is a rivière of blue diamonds set in the finest gold.”

  “Very nice.” After donning his spectacles, he scrutinized the pieces. “Very nice, indeed. Only I had trouble selling the last baubles I bought from you, when the prospective purchaser discovered the gems previously belonged to the Moretons, and I settled for substantially less profit than I hoped to recover. So I gather you understand why I cannot afford to offer much in the way of compensation, if I buy the articles, at all.”

  “What?” Gasping, she checked her tone and swallowed the lingering remnants of her battered pride. “Please, I beg you, I must sell the jewels, and the money is not for me. It is imperative I meet the payroll for my staff, you see.”

  “Well, because I like you, I could pay seventy-five pounds.” He peered over the edge of his glasses and licked his lips, and she almost vomited. “For both.”

  “That is highway robbery.” She scoffed at the insult. “My husband, the late marquess of Moreton, purchased the valuables from Rundell and Bridge, on Ludgate Hill.”

  “Impressive but not enough to overcome the taint of scandal, I am afraid.” Then he narrowed his stare. “Is that coral about your throat?”

  “Yes, it is Cannetille Sardinian red coral, to be exact.” Recalling the afternoon Lord Nicholas Sheldon, her first fiancé, gifted her the expensive trinket, she caressed the smooth beads. “But this is not for sale, sir, as it is a precious keepsake.”

  “Are you sure?” The entry bell signaled the presence of another customer, as Mr. MacGregor admired what she considered a priceless memento, and Almira shrank beneath her pelisse. “Red coral is very popular, right now, and I could give you one-hundred and fifty pounds for the entire lot.”

  “One-hundred and fifty pounds?” The number danced before her eyes, yet her heart sank, as she pondered yielding the last possession that harkened to fonder days and the singular link her former self. But that delicate ingénue had been destroyed in a matter of tortuous hours, by Lord Moreton’s incalculable cruelty on their wedding night, and the hard façade she wore emerged over months of extended, unspeakable abuse. Perhaps it was time for a change, time to forswear what she would never reclaim. “And you will pay this instant?”

  “Of course.” He nodded.

  “Yet, I believe one-hundred and seventy-five a more equitable sum.” With a quick check of the immediate vicinity, she reached behind her neck, unhooked the fastener, drew the token of genuine affection from her person, and toyed with the misshapen orbs still warm from her body heat. At a crossroads, she hesitated, as it was so difficult to let go of the final lingering trace of the unspoiled and naïve girl who once believed in fairy stories, knights in shining armor, and a love that spanned a lifetime. “The clasp is fourteen-carat gold trimmed in seed pearls.”

  “But I will have to have it restrung.” The shopkeeper frowned, as she handed him the necklace.

  “The cost of doing business, I presume.” As he collected her belongings, she struggled to maintain her composure, and when he swept the pieces from sight, she bit her bottom lip and stifled a sob of woe. In her ears, her pulse pounded a rhythm of gloom, her knees buckled, and she ached to scream, as he calmly wrote a currency note. “Can you hurry, as I am late for an appointment?”

  “Sign my ledger, Lady Moreton, and our transaction is concluded.” The mere mention of her name inspired whispers from the back of the store, and Almira almost swooned. “As always, it is a pleasure to be of service.”

  “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” How she detested expressing gratitude to the miserable cheat, but the situation was of her own making.

  Shielding her face with her hand, she navigated the far side of the shop, to avoid additional patrons. But as Almira neared the exit, someone uttered an invective she dared not acknowledge.

  Outside, she skittered up Bond Street a block and located the hired gig. As usual, the driver did not provide assistance, so she yanked the handle, opened the door of the nondescript black rig, climbed inside, and eased to the squabs. That brought her full circle, returning her thoughts to the cause of her bleak condition.

  The fall from grace.

  At some point after Lodge’s death from suspected heart failure, which she questioned, given she did not believe him in possession of said organ, she attempted to assume contro
l of her fate. In a thrilling quest for power and prestige, she schemed, conspired, and manipulated those who might champion her, which ended with disastrous consequences.

  “You have no one to blame but yourself, Almira.” Sighing, she peeked through a part in the drapes and lamented her mistakes—so many mistakes. The streets of Mayfair bustled with the activity she once enjoyed, but now she hid in the shadows.

  When the driver pulled to the curb, the equipage barely slowed before she leaped to the sidewalk. To avoid further embarrassment, she paid in advance for the hack, so she rushed up the entry stairs and sought shelter inside her home, her sanctuary. In the foyer, a suspicious looking man stood.

  “Lady Moreton, I presume. We meet, at last.” The stranger bowed. “I have heard much about you, but the descriptions pale in comparison to your beauty.”

  “Oh?” Although etiquette required her to extend a hand in welcome, she retreated to the hall tree, doffed her pelisse, and tugged off her gloves. “Are we acquainted, sir? As I do not recall a connection, and you are not familiar to me.”

  “My name is Jenkins, and I have come to propose a business arrangement with you.” Something in his demeanor gave her pause, and she held tight to her reticule. “I own the Alhambra, in Marylebone, and several of my gentlemen patrons have expressed an interest in you.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Her blood ran cold, and she stomped a foot. “Get out of my home, this instant.”

  “Now, now.” The bastard chuckled. “Do not be so quick to turn your nose up to me, Lady Moreton. I have it on good authority that your situation is grave, and you could use the money. Believe me, I am prepared to be very generous, as you are quite in demand, and we could strike a mutually beneficial accord, in exchange for your services.”

  “I would live on the streets and plead for crumbs before I deigned to entertain the likes of you and your so-called business, sir.” With a firm grasp of the knob, she hauled open the oak panel and then pointed for emphasis. “Get out, and do not dare darken my doorstep, again, you blackguard.”

  “As you wish.” On the threshold, he halted, and his brandy-tinged breath almost knocked her to the ground. “If you change your mind, you can reach me at my establishment, given I am not too proud, and we could negotiate a lucrative arrangement.”

  “That will never happen.” Shrieking in disgust, she slammed the door on him.

  “My lady, I did not hear you return.” The only remaining servant in Almira’s employ, Mildred waved from the landing. “Why did you not ring the bell, that I might greet you, child?”

  “I did not wish to bother you.” Rolling her shoulders, Almira walked into the drawing room, which now functioned as the primary living quarters, given she could no longer afford to heat the entire residence. “But I succeeded in securing the money we need to survive for another few months, so we will eat this holiday season, and I made a decision that will carry us into the New Year, my dear friend.”

  “Shall I pour you a sherry, my lady?” The longtime lady’s maid, more a favored old aunt than an employee, hobbled to the side table, lifted a decanter, and filled a glass. “This should ease your chill.”

  “What were you doing upstairs?” At the hearth, Almira grabbed the fireplace poker and stoked the blaze. “How many times must I tell you that I do not want you overtiring yourself?”

  “I try to keep the second floor tidy and dusted, and it is my job, my lady.” Mildred humphed. “What did that surly character want with you, if you do not mind my asking?”

  “Presumably, to offer me an occupation in his house of ill-repute, as if I would ever consider such a heinous proposition.” It hurt Almira that Mr. Jenkins thought her so low. Turning, she surveyed the ripped and frayed damask upholstery, the worn velvet drapes that covered the front window, and the faded rugs. “Mildred, what say you to a charming little cottage in the country?” Hugging herself, Almira assessed another gift from Lodge, Vermeer’s Girl with a Flute. “I wonder how much this painting would fetch at auction?”

  “Lady Almira, you have sold so many of your treasured possessions, already, just so you can survive in this sorry state.” The maid frowned, as a tear streamed her cheek. “How your family could abandon you after what you endured is beyond me, but I will never leave you, sweet child.”

  “Please, you must not cry, as I rely on your strength to persevere.” Throwing decorum to the wind, Almira hugged Mildred. “I am going to contact my solicitor and list the townhouse, and the proceeds should provide more than enough to purchase a modest residence in some quiet town on the coast, where we can bid farewell to all the ugliness of the past and live in peace. Until then, we will guard the money I secured today, and we will not go hungry, but I fear ours will be a not-so-happy Christmas.”

  Pounding at the door brought them apart.

  “Now who could that be?” Sniffing, Mildred pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “If that Mr. Jenkins thinks he can insult you in my presence, I will beat him over the head with my cast-iron skillet, that I might knock some sense into him.”

  “You are a dear, and I almost feel sorry for the scoundrel.” Almira laughed and warmed herself by the fire. In her mind, she organized her thoughts, formulated a strategy, and composed a list of tasks. For the first time since Lodge’s death, she coveted hope.

  “A missive is just arrived for you, Lady Almira.” Mildred surrendered the expensive stationary.

  “Who could be writing me?” Curious, Almira examined the back side of the envelope, and the impressive wax seal embossed with an even more imposing coat of arms. “Upon my word, this is from the duchess of Rylan.” In minutes, she withdrew the elegant invitation, read and reread the contents, and almost fainted, as it appeared her prayers had been answered. “Oh, my dear Mildred. Pack our trunks, as we journey to Portsea Island, Friday next.”

  HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME

  CHAPTER TWO

  Portsea Island

  Delicate snowflakes danced in the air, amid a bleak backdrop of ominous clouds, and the wind whispered and howled, as a winter storm approached from the Channel. Standing in Dalton’s study at Courtenay Hall, and gazing out the window, which afforded a spectacular view of the white-capped ocean, with a heavy heart and a mood to match the tumultuous weather, Nicholas anticipated Almira’s arrival, and he was never more terrified in his life.

  “You know, this is much more fun when you have survived a brutal tour of that beastly brand of warfare known as courtship.” His Grace snickered. “And you squirm so brilliantly, Waddlington. Will you not resume pacing, as you manifest a little tic above your right eye that keeps time with your strides, and I find it rather amusing?”

  “I almost feel sorry for you.” At left, Dalton smacked Nicholas on the back. “Then again, you cannot truly appreciate the joy that is matrimonial bliss unless you have endured the hellfire and damnation inherent in the precursory adventure.”

  “Are you sure you have chosen the correct path?” At right, the duke of Rylan chucked Nicholas’s chin. “No second thoughts plaguing the wee hours?”

  “What am I, a punching bag at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon?” Rubbing his jaw, Nicholas grimaced. “Since when did we become so chummy?”

  “Did you or did you not ask us to help you catch a reluctant bride?” When Nicholas nodded the affirmative, His Grace chuckled and waggled his brows. “Then we have surpassed the bonds of friendship and charged, headlong, into familial intimacy, as nothing unites men more than the dreaded parson’s noose.”

  “Good afternoon, brothers.” Jason Collingwood, another of the invitees strolled into the study, spotted Nicholas, and halted. “Lord Waddlington.” He opened his mouth but said nothing, and in silence Nicholas vowed to endure the reaction with aplomb.

  “I know it is strange, but I gather you received my note.” Dalton walked to a side table, poured four glasses of brandy, and served the guests. “So there will be no bloodshed, and you will not kill Waddlington.”

/>   “Well you are no fun.” Collingwood cast a wary glance, and Nicholas tugged on his cravat. “Then again, I am the last person to sit in judgment of another, as I have made my share of mistakes.”

  “That is putting mildly.” Blake snorted. “If memory serves, you swept the pool with Alex.”

  “You are one to talk.” Jason tapped a finger to his cheek. “Are you not the same ignorant arse who dared declare of Lenore, ‘her consent is of no consequence, as she will marry me because I say so,’ and then promptly fell flat on your face when she refused you?”

  As another tempest brewed in the study, Nicholas winced and stepped clear of the line of fire.

  “Lenore did not refuse me.” The duke narrowed his stare. “She simply delayed her acceptance.”

  Jason and Dalton burst into laughter.

  As the men traded barbs, neither flippant nor serious, Nicholas drew a narrow box from his coat pocket, lifted the lid, and gazed upon the smooth red coral necklace he gifted Almira during their engagement. A disreputable shopkeeper contacted Nicholas prior to his departure from London, and his heart plummeted when he discovered she sold the last remnant of their young love.

  “That is the fifth time you have studied the bauble, since we broke our fast.” Dalton peered at the trinket. “What is the significance?”

  “I gave this to Mira on her thirteenth birthday, with a pledge of eternal devotion, which she returned, so I am puzzled by her actions.” Toying with the gold clasp, he wondered how she could part with the cherished item. “What concerns me are the circumstances surrounding her decision to barter what I consider a priceless keepsake, as I shudder to fathom what she endures, even now.”

  “I think the implication obvious.” Collingwood snorted. “Either Lady Almira wants nothing to do with you, or her financial situation is far worse than you realize.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Or both.”