A Kiss for Miss Kingsley: A Regency Short Story

by Collette Cameron

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other books by Collette Cameron

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  About the Author

  Also by Collette Cameron

  From the desk of Collette Cameron

  A KISS FOR MISS KINGSLEY

  A Regency Short Story

  By

  Collette Cameron

  Blue Rose Romance

  in cooperation with Windtree Press

  Portland, Oregon

  Copyright 2014 by Collette Cameron

  Excerpt from A Kiss for Miss Kingsley copyright © 2014 by Collette Cameron

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any ressemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Please respect the hard work of this author and legally purchase a copy of this book. Unless the author has authorized a promotion through a reputable distributor, sites offering this work for free or for a reduced cost are pirating sites. Such sites are guilty of theft and copyright infringement.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Blue Rose Romance

  8420 N Ivanhoe # 83054

  Portland, Oregon 97203

  www.collettecameron.com

  Other books by Collette Cameron

  Castle Brides Series

  The Viscount’s Vow (Book 1)

  Highlander’s Hope (Book 2)

  The Earl’s Enticement (Book 3)

  Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

  Triumph and Treasure (Book 1)

  Virtue and Valor (Coming Soon)

  Bride of Falcon

  (Captivated by His Kiss – Regency Boxed Novella Set)

  Heart of a Highlander — A Short Story

  (A Gift of Love Valentine Anthology – Coming Soon)

  Dedication

  For the sweetest lady I know, Debbie Davison.

  Friend, encourager, prayer warrior, and woman of God.

  Acknowledgements

  A Kiss For Miss Kingsley is my first attempt at a short story, and my first trip down the self-publishing road. I wasn’t even sure I could write a short story, but as always, my wonderful Regency critique partners said to go for it.

  I also have to thank the amazing Christi Caldwell for the book’s cover quote, Daniel Fine for her expertise at editing, and Sheri McGathy for the book’s fabulous cover. I’d be remiss if I didn’t recognize Maggie Lynch of Windtree Press whose advice and encouragement made this project possible, Christy Caughie, my friend, web designer. and answerer of all dumb questions, as well as Cindy Jackson, my virtual assistant extraordinaire.

  And finally, to the most amazing street team ever, Collette’s Chéris, who daily prove what generous, giving, and supportive people readers are.

  Bless each and every one of you!

  xoxo

  A lady must never forget her manners nor lose her composure.

  ~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment

  London, England, Late May, 1818

  “This is a monumental mistake.” Fingering the ruby pendant hanging at her neck, Olivia Kingsley peeked out the window as the conveyance rounded the corner onto Berkeley Square. Carriage upon carriage, like great shiny beetles, lined up beside an ostentatious manor.

  Guests in their evening finery swarmed before the grand entrance and on the stairs as they waited their turn to enter Viscount and Viscountess Wimpleton’s home.

  Trepidation dried her mouth and tightened her chest. Yes, attending the ball was a featherbrained solicitation for disaster. No good could come of it.

  God’s toenails, what was I thinking, agreeing to Auntie Muriel’s addlepated scheme?

  Olivia flattened against the sky-blue squab in the corner of her aunt’s coach and vehemently shook her head. “I cannot do it.”

  A curl came loose, plopping onto Olivia’s forehead.

  Bother.

  She shoved the annoying tendril beneath a pin, having no doubt the tresses would work their way free before evening’s end. Patting the circlet of rubies adorning her hair, she assured herself the band remained secure.

  Her pulse beat an erratic staccato, and she searched for a plausible excuse for refusing to attend the ball after all.

  “I ... We,” she wiggled her gloved fingers at her brother, Bradford, lounging on the opposite seat, appearing as contented as their fat cat, Socrates, after lapping a saucer of cream, “were not invited.”

  Terribly gauche, that. Showing up at a haut ton function, no invitation in hand.

  “Nonsense, darling. It’s perfectly acceptable for you to accompany me.” Aunt Muriel, the Duchess of Daventry, patted Olivia’s knee with her plump hand. “Lady Wimpleton is one of my dearest friends. Why, we had our come-out together, and I’m positive had she known that you and Bradford had recently returned to England, she would have extended an invitation herself.”

  Not if she knew the volatile way her son and I parted company, she wouldn’t have.

  Bradford shifted, presenting Olivia with his striking profile as he, too, took in the hubbub before the manor. “You’ll never be at peace unless you do this, Livy.”

  Olivia frowned. “Please don’t call me that, Brady.”

  Once, a lifetime ago, that was what Allen Wimpleton had called her—until she’d refused to succumb to his begging and run away to Scotland with him.

  Bradford hunched one of his broad shoulders and scratched his eyebrow. “What harm can come of it? We’ll only stay as long as you like, and I promise, I’ll remain by your side the entire time.”

  Her aunt’s unladylike snort echoed through the carriage.

  “And the moon only shines in the summer,” Aunt Muriel said, her voice dry chalk as she fussed with her gloves. “I have never known you to forsake an opportunity to become, er ...”

  She slid Olivia a guarded glance. “Shall we say, better acquainted with the ladies, Nephew. This Season, there are several tempting beauties and at least a score of young widows eager for a distraction.”

  He turned and flashed their aunt one of his dazzling smiles. “All pale in comparison to you two lovelies, no doubt.”

  Olivia made a rude noise and rolled her eyes heavenward.

  Doing it much too brown. Again.

  Bradford was too charming by far—one reason the fairer sex were drawn to him like ants to molasses. She’d been just as vulnerable and doe-eyed when it came to Allen Wimpleton.

  “Tish tosh, young scamp. Your compliments are wasted on me.” Still, Aunt Muriel angled her head, and a pleased smile hovered on her lightly-painted mouth. “Besides, if you attach yourself to your sister, she won’t have an opportunity to find herself alone with young Wimpleton.”

  Olivia gaped at her aunt then snapped her mouth shut. “Shouldn’t you be cautioning me not to be alone with a gentleman?”

  “That rather defeats the purpose of coming tonight, doesn’t it, dear?” Aunt Muriel chuckled and patted Olivia’s knee aga
in. “I do hope he kisses you. He’s such a handsome young man.”

  A hearty guffaw escaped Bradford. “Aunt, I refuse to marry until I find a female as colorful as you. Life would never be dull.”

  “I should say not. Daventry and I had quite the adventurous life.” The duchess sniffed, a put-upon expression on her lined face. “Dull indeed. Hmph. Never.”

  Struck dumb, Olivia swung her gaze between them. Her aunt and brother beamed at her, rather like naughty children not at all abashed after being caught stealing sweets from the kitchen.

  She gestured dismissively. “Bah. You two are utterly hopeless when it comes to decorum.”

  “Don’t mistake stuffiness for decorum, dear,” her aunt advised with a sage nod.

  Bradford snickered again.

  Olivia itched to box his ears. Did he take nothing seriously?

  She edged near the carriage window once more and worried the flesh of her lower lip.

  Bother.

  How many guests were invited? The whole of London, it appeared. “And you’re positive, Allen—that is, Mr. Wimpleton—remains unattached?”

  Fiddling with her shawl’s silk fringes, she attempted a calming breath. No force on heaven or earth could compel her to enter the manor if Allen were betrothed or married to another. Her fragile heart, though finally mended after three years of painful healing, could bear no more anguish or regret.

  “You’re certain he’s not courting anyone?” Olivia cast her aunt a sidelong peek.

  Aunt Muriel shook her turbaned head. The ostrich feather adorning her cap jolted violently, and her diamond and emerald earrings swung with the movement. She adjusted her gaudy paisley-bordered wrap.

  “Not from the lack of enthusiastic mamas shoving their simpering daughters beneath his nose, I can tell you. He’s considered a brilliant catch, and,” she winked at Olivia, “dashing, and a Corinthian, to boot. Why, if I were only a score of years younger...”

  Aunt Muriel paused in fussing over her skewed necklace and tapped her gloved fingers upon her plump thigh. “I’d wager a year’s worth of my favorite pastries that fast Rossington chit has set her cap for him, though.”

  A year’s worth?

  Hound’s teeth, then it was a given. Aunt Muriel took her pastries very seriously, as evidenced by her ample figure.

  Olivia scowled then immediately smoothed her face into placid lines.

  Ladies do not scowl.

  Or so Mama had always insisted, quoting A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment as regularly as the sun rose and set.

  Olivia didn’t want to consider having to compete with others for Allen’s affections. If any chance remained that he still cared one iota for her. She would find out tonight precisely where she stood. “No doubt this Rossington miss is excessively lovely.”

  If only auntie would say she’s homely as a toad with buggy eyes and rough, warty skin. Oh, and missing several teeth.

  “Hmph. If you consider a heavy hand with cosmetics, dampened gowns, and bodices that nearly expose entire bosoms lovely, I suppose she is.” Aunt Muriel resumed her preening.

  Bradford’s mouth curved into a devilish smile. “I quite like dampened gowns—”

  “Brady!” Olivia kicked his shin. Sharp pain radiated from her slippered toe to her knee.

  Bloody he—

  Proper ladies do not curse, Olivia Antoinette Cleopatra Kingsley, Mama’s voice admonished in Olivia’s mind.

  “—and exposed bosoms,” Brady dared to finish, nestled in the carriage’s corner with his arms crossed.

  “Of course you do.” Auntie lifted her graying eyebrows. The twitch of her lips and the humor lacing her voice belied any true censure. “My poor sister would roll over in her grave if she knew what a rogue you’d become.”

  Another rogue dominated Olivia’s thoughts.

  What will I do if Allen rejects me?

  As the carriage lurched to a rumbling stop, she eyed the stars, dim from the streetlights and the coal-laden clouds blanketing London. It had been on a night very much like this that she’d crushed both their dreams.

  She’d only known Allen for a fortnight before he proposed. Two weeks wasn’t enough time to truly fall in love with someone, was it?

  More than enough time when your soul finds its other half.

  Her foolish doubts had fueled her fear of making a hasty, impulsive decision. And so, she’d said no to hieing off to Scotland, and instead, asked him to wait a year for her to return to England.

  His answer had been an emphatic, “Like bloody hell I will.”

  Not a day had passed since sailing to the Caribbean that Olivia hadn’t lamented not eloping with Allen. Wisdom had arrived too late, though, and she had destroyed her greatest opportunity for love and happiness.

  Maybe my only opportunity.

  No doubt the bumpy road to Hades was paved with a myriad of regrets, for life without Allen would surely be—had been—hell.

  A white-gloved footman in hunter green livery opened the carriage door.

  Bradford descended first then turned to hand Aunt Muriel down.

  Olivia remained rooted to her seat, her gaze fixed on the entrance.

  Allen is in there.

  Her brother stuck his head inside the carriage. “Come, kitten. Put on a brave smile, and let’s go meet the dragon. Who knows, mayhap tonight is providential. In any event, you’ll have an answer, and you can get on with your life.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Although that existence would be only a shadow of what life might have been with Allen.

  Such a pity hindsight, rather than foresight, birthed wisdom.

  Bradford extended his hand. “Come along.”

  Sighing, and resigned to whatever providence hurled her way, Olivia placed her palm in his.

  “That’s my girl.” He gave her fingers a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

  “So help me, Brady, you step more than two feet away from me, and I shall—”

  “Never fear, kitten. I’ll forsake my romantic pursuits and act the part of diligent protector for the entire evening.”

  Olivia chuckled, despite her rioting nerves. “How gallant of you, dear brother.”

  He tucked her hand into the crook of one elbow while offering the other to their aunt before guiding the women up the granite steps.

  Inside the manor, Olivia forced a smile and passed her wrap to the waiting footman. Had he detected her shaking hands? Her stomach fluttered and leaped about worse than frogs on hot pavement, threatening to make her ill. She ran her hands across her middle to smooth the champagne gauze overlay of her new crimson ball gown Aunt Muriel had insisted on purchasing for her. The ruby jewelry she wore was her aunt’s as well.

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Daventry, Lord Kingsley, and Miss Kingsley.” The majordomo announced them in a droning monotone.

  Behind Olivia, someone gasped. A low murmur of hushed voices circled the room in less time than it took to curtsy as the three of them advanced into the ballroom. Every eye was trained upon them.

  This is a mistake.

  Head lowered, her attention riveted on the polished marble floor, she prayed for strength.

  Where was the pluck Papa so admired in her, or the feistiness Bradford often teased her about?

  She could do this. She must if she were ever to know the truth. Had Allen forgotten her? Did he love another now?

  Olivia blinked then blinked again, forcing her eyes upward. Inhaling, she squared her shoulders and lifted her head.

  Her gaze collided squarely with Allen’s.

  A lady of gentle-breeding should never appear too eager to engage the attentions or affections of a gentleman.

  ~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment

  Allen damned near dumped his champagne down Miss Rossington’s ample pink-clad bosom upon hearing Olivia’s name announced. He was blindsided, entirely unprepared to see the woman he had once loved more than he’d thought humanly possible standing in his home again.

  Vices
clamped his heart and squeezed his lungs.

  For one very real moment, he couldn’t suck in an ounce of air and feared he’d swoon. Wouldn’t that give the chinwags something to bandy about?

  Say, did you see Wimpleton? Keeled over like an ape-drunk sot.

  Olivia’s presence sent him hurtling back to the evening she’d announced her father’s intention to move her family to Barbados— in two days.

  Desperate not to lose her, Allen had thrown his pride aside and implored her to flee to Scotland with him that very night.

  Now, she hovered, hesitant and anxious, at the ballroom’s entrance, and a tidal wave of devastation and hurt crashed down upon him, drowning him in remorse. It took everything in him to regard her impersonally.

  Allen fought dual impulses, one, to turn on his heel, giving her the cut direct, and the other, to charge across the room, sweep her into his embrace, and beg her forgiveness.

  Miss Rossington clawed at his arm.

  “Who is that? I don’t recall seeing that creature before.” She furrowed her brow and crinkled her eyes. “Egads, she’s a longshanks, isn’t she? And would you look at her hair? Dyed, to be sure, just like a lightskirt’s.”

  She tittered with feline satisfaction.

  Allen studied Miss Rossington’s haughty features.

  Devil it.

  Was he addled? He’d half-heartedly contemplated courting this hellcat. Large bosoms and a beautiful face didn’t compensate for a narrow mind and spiteful shallowness.

  She rubbed her breasts against his arm, fairly purring. “She’s a bit long in the tooth, isn’t she?”

  He clamped his jaw, his nostrils flaring, as she hurled yet another insult at a woman she had never met. It said much about her character. ... Or lack thereof.

  Allen stared into his half-full champagne flute. Fine bubbles floated to the top and popped.