One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

  “You must tell me all.”

  Madeline sat straight up. “First, you must tell me—are you happy? We came to London as soon as we could, sooner than Gabriel should have traveled, only to find you gone on your honeymoon.”

  Eleanor put down her plate. She picked up her neglected needlework. She stared at the design, at the needle threaded with gold thread. Since the last time she’d touched the frame that held the canvas, she’d taken a man to her bed. Her husband—and sometimes she knew him so well. And sometimes he was alien to her. When she woke in the morning, she never knew whom she would meet, the thoughtful husband, the distant stranger, or the passionate lover.

  But to discuss him with Madeline, even as close as they were, seemed wrong somehow, so she bent over her embroidery to avoid Madeline’s gaze. “Remington took me to a cottage on the seashore. It was lovely and quiet. The inn had wonderful food, and we enjoyed ourselves.” She could feel her face heating as she spoke.

  “Oh, dear.” Madeline sounded dismayed. “He’s angry with you.”

  Eleanor peeked up at her. “Yes, for he did very much want to marry you, my dear duchess, and he was rightfully perturbed at my deception.”

  “You’re far better than he deserves,” Madeline said angrily, “and if he doesn’t know it, he’s a fool. Is he cruel to you?”

  “Do you mean, does he beat me? No. I don’t think he could bear to raise a hand to any woman.” The memory of his sister’s death must haunt him.

  “There are other ways for a man to be cruel to his wife.” In a lower tone, Madeline inquired, “Is he mean to you…in bed?”

  Eleanor scarcely knew how to reply. She thought about the last week. The walks on the beach, the way he’d hungrily watched her, the times he’d fed her with his fingers, the hours spent in bed, exploring each others’ bodies. She almost laughed. She almost cried. After many tries, she looked Madeline in the eyes and said, “If it is possible for a man to try and kill a woman with pleasure, I believe that is his plan.”

  Madeline stared at Eleanor, her blue eyes wide and shocked. Then, gradually, merriment grew in her face and she sputtered with laughter.

  Eleanor sputtered with her, embarrassed and almost proud. “I give as good as he does. Everything the concubines taught us, I utilize, and I’ve even made up a few things on my own.”

  Madeline leaned back against the sofa and released peals upon peals of mirth, her laughter as pleasant a sound as Eleanor had heard for weeks. “Then I will stop worrying about that.” Wiping her eyes on her napkin, Madeline asked, “When will I meet this husband of yours?”

  “Tonight? We’re dining in. He says I’m tired from traveling, although I’ve never felt better.”

  Madeline started giggling again. “You are an inspiration to me, dear cousin. You come to London on a mission you much despise, and before a fortnight is out, you’re married to a wealthy man and teaching him to love you.”

  Eleanor’s smile faded. “I fear that the latter is not the truth, but I have hopes that someday, he’ll at least tolerate me again.”

  With the innate wisdom of a new wife, Madeline asked, “Because you love him, do you not?”

  “So much, Madeline. I love him more than I have ever loved another living soul, and even if he never knows, I’m happy.” Because she was honest, Eleanor added, “I am almost perfectly happy.”

  As Remington sat alone in his club, whisky in hand, Eleanor’s doubt chewed at him. She was so sure that the villain who had killed his family wasn’t the duke of Magnus.

  Could Remington have possibly made a mistake?

  But no, it was Magnus’s men who had been investigating his father’s business, and that had led to the fires and the murders. Pervasive evidence, surely.

  Yet Remington himself had had doubts when he had met Magnus—doubts Eleanor had called up again. Magnus was either a magnificent actor…or the wrong man. And if he was the wrong man, then someone else had killed Lady Pricilla, and who was that someone? Lord Shapster? Lord Fanthorpe? The old duke of Magnus?

  Or, God forbid, a stranger who killed for pleasure.

  But no. It was too unlikely, that she would plan to run away with his father on the same night she was killed.

  And worse, Remington had to wonder if his doubts about Magnus had surfaced because Eleanor had weakened his resolve. Because it was easier to loll in bed with her than to rise and seek vengeance on the man who had killed his family.

  The other men in the great room played cards, rested in great leather armchairs, and gossiped about politics and society. But they skirted around Remington, who was ensconced before the window, shunning him and the aura of menace that surrounded him.

  One man stopped and stared.

  Remington ignored him, but the stranger didn’t take the hint. Remington glanced at him and saw a man about Remington’s age and height, with his arm in a sling and the drawn look of a recent convalescent. A man apparently indifferent to Remington’s need for solitude, a man Remington had met once before—Gabriel Ansell, the earl of Campion.

  So with a curt nod, Remington acknowledged him. “Campion.”

  “Knight.” Gabriel indicated the easy chair across from Remington. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Actually—”

  “I understand we’re now cousins-in-law.”

  Nothing else Gabriel could have said would have startled Remington quite as much as that. “You married the duchess?”

  “When you won her, but didn’t come and get her, I decided to settle the matter in my favor.”

  So Madeline was no longer single. Remington couldn’t have wed her anyway, and he experienced a great, unacknowledged relief to know that his plan could never have come to fruition anyway. Observing Gabriel’s pale complexion, Remington said, “Sit down, before you fall down.”

  “Thank you.” Gabriel subsided in the chair, signaled to the footman, and ordered a brandy. “Madeline just got back from visiting Eleanor. I’m to dine at your house tonight.”

  “I’m delighted.”

  “No, you’re not. You wish I would go to hell. But you can forget that. We might as well decide we’re best of friends, for our wives are—and nothing will separate them.”

  At Gabriel’s blunt speaking, Remington grinned and relaxed. “Truer words were never spoken, and I suspect you’re a good man to have as a friend.”

  Gabriel made a seated bow. “Thank you. But there are disadvantages to having our wives be so close. For instance, Madeline sent me out to find and speak to you.” He accepted his drink. “She’s worried about Eleanor. Eleanor doesn’t seem completely happy.”

  Remington’s brittle temper snapped. “Not completely happy? Did she tell Madeline that?”

  Gabriel snorted. “Do you know Eleanor at all? I’ve never heard the woman utter a word of complaint! Of course she didn’t tell Madeline. As I understand it, Madeline inferred that from a twitch, or some such damned silly feminine thing.”

  The two men’s gazes met in perfect understanding. They would never be able to keep a secret for the rest of their lives.

  “Eleanor made me a laughingstock,” Remington said.

  “The first time we were engaged, Madeline did that with me.” Gabriel took a drink and rested his head on the high back of his chair. “While she was gone, I discovered a few things. The people who’ll laugh to your face are either your friends or your enemies. You can cuff your friends, and as for your enemies—it’s good to know who they are.”

  Remington thought back. It was true. Since the wedding, the men he’d come to know, to game with, to drink with, to do business with, had laughed loud and long at his foolishness and still teased him about his precipitous rush into marriage with the wrong woman. But their laughter held no malice.

  The men who hated him because he was more handsome, because he had more money, because he outwitted them in cards or business, sneered or made rude comments meant to be overheard, and of those men he had taken note.

  But there was one g
entleman…Remington had run into him at the club. The gentleman had stopped in his path, pointed a long, slender finger at him, and stared. His short laugh had rung with triumph. And why? Remington knew the gentleman’s name, of course. He knew his name very well. But they had never had dealings of any kind. They had never even spoken.

  Remington stared at Gabriel. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Interesting, indeed.”

  And the memory of his conversation with Clark popped into his mind.

  “Would he have killed Lady Pricilla?”

  “Only if he could have had his secretary kill her.”

  Lord Fanthorpe.

  Grimly, Remington stood. “Excuse me, Gabriel. I’ll see you tonight. Right now, I have business to attend to.”

  Chapter 28

  Two evenings later, Remington danced the quadrille with the duchess. Not his duchess—Gabriel’s duchess. Remington didn’t have a duchess, and much to his surprise, he no longer cared. “Your Grace, this is a grand party.” He watched as Lady Gertrude danced past with Lord Bingham. “How did you organize it in so little time?”

  “I didn’t,” Madeline confessed. “Lady Georgianna was going to have a ball tonight anyway, and with the excitement of two such important marriages in so little time, she saw the sense in converting her ball into a party honoring us.” She flicked a glance at Eleanor and Gabriel, dancing in a separate set across Lady Georgianna’s large and crowded ballroom. “All of us.”

  Following the pattern of the dance, Remington and Madeline made their way to different partners, then returned to each other. “How did my marriage to your cousin become an important marriage?” he asked. “I’m not noble, nor is my bride.”

  Madeline shot him a smile. “In the ton, everything is perception. You have an aura of excitement. Eleanor is now perceived as being witty, and clever enough to capture a dangerous man, as well as being the diamond of the first water.”

  The ways of the English were inscrutable to him. He suspected they always would be, but tonight, in the midst of the laughter and the music, he felt at home. At home—because of Eleanor. His gaze sought her out. Her face was alight with her delight in the music, and his body ached with the need to be with her. To talk to her. To take her. To hold her.

  This wasn’t infatuation. This was love.

  Love. For a de Lacy.

  He was enmeshed in Eleanor’s net, and he was glad to be there. “She is beautiful.”

  “Very much so.” Madeline sounded amused. “A hint—you’re supposed to be showing interest in your partner.”

  With his most charming smile, he returned his attention to Madeline. “So I am, and so I do. I have thanks to render to you, too, since our close association with the future duchess of Magnus and the current earl of Campion lends us a patina of respectability.”

  “Of course, that helps, but make no mistake. If not for the sensation you create as a couple, you would be shunned and discarded. As it is, you’re the toast of London.”

  “Of course, there is my money,” Remington said cynically.

  Madeline laughed warmly. “Of course.”

  Again, the figures of the quadrille separated them, and Remington took the moment to look for Fanthorpe. The old man was dressed in his best togs, chatting with his friends as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Remington knew better. His investigation had not yet confirmed Fanthorpe’s guilt in the murders of Remington’s family or Lady Pricilla, but it had turned up other crimes. The more Remington found out about Fanthorpe, the more he despised him, and the more convinced he was that this man had murdered Remington’s father and sister, and killed Lady Pricilla. God rot Fanthorpe, he’d done a world of harm with his hatreds, but Remington would get his revenge.

  For his investigation had turned up yet another interesting fact. Fanthorpe had completely run through his second fortune, and the weight of his debts made it necessary that he flee to the Continent. He had barely been hanging onto the remnants of respectability—and Remington wanted him out of England.

  So Remington had pulled strings. Merchants were repossessing their goods, foreclosing on Fanthorpe’s properties, and it hadn’t been difficult to convince Clark to cut Fanthorpe’s credit.

  Remington and Madeline met again in the intricate dance, and as smoothly as a woman who regularly made threats, she said, “I want to give you a word of warning. I don’t know you well, but since Eleanor’s father cares nothing for her, I must advise you that she’s my dearest cousin, and if you ever hurt her, I will use all my resources to hurt you in return.”

  Remington held up his hands to stop the duchess. “I can safely assure you, Eleanor is my wife. I’ll take only the best care of her. I’ve pledged my life on it.”

  “Well. All right.” Madeline grinned. “Actually, I believe you. You bring out the best in her. All the fine attributes only I’ve seen before, she confidently shows to the world—because of you.” The music ended, and Madeline hugged him. “I’m proud to welcome you into my family.”

  Wrapped in the embrace of no less a personage than the future duchess of Magnus, Remington again looked at Fanthorpe, and he smiled. In fact, he gloated. The ton had accepted him, feted him, made him one of their own, and Fanthorpe hated it, and him.

  Deliberately, Fanthorpe turned his back on Remington.

  If he knew who Remington truly was…but he didn’t. Remington hadn’t yet told him who now took his place in English society. But he would. Tomorrow, he would.

  In the meantime…Remington walked to take Eleanor’s hand, and reflected that he could not have imagined such happiness could be his. Leaning close to her ear, he said, “It’s late, and I want you. Let’s go home.”

  She laughed, low and deep in her throat. “We came with Madeline and Gabriel. We can’t leave without them.”

  Remington glanced up at Gabriel.

  Gabriel stood with Madeline, and the two of them gazed at each other as if they were the only two people in the world.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Remington murmured.

  The two couples profusely thanked their hostess and made their way toward the door. There they found Clark and his wife waiting for their carriage.

  “The newlyweds are leaving early!” Clark proclaimed with a twinkle.

  “At least we have the excuse of being newlyweds.” Remington tipped the butler, who sent a footman for their outer garments.

  The color rose in Mrs. Oxnard’s cheeks, and Clark looked as guilty as a boy.

  Gabriel grinned and rested his palm on Madeline’s back. “Marriage is a great institution.”

  “Yes, if you want to live in an institution,” Remington retorted.

  Clark and Gabriel guffawed.

  “Remington!” Eleanor tried to look severe, but in the last few days her smiles had come more frequently, as if she couldn’t resist displaying her joy, and she smiled at him as if he were the greatest man in the world.

  And when she was smiling at him, he felt he was.

  “Men,” Mrs. Oxnard said with affectionate disgust, and the women moved away into a huddle to complain about their husbands.

  The men gazed after them, then Clark turned to Remington. In a low, serious voice, he asked, “How is your plan progressing?”

  “Fanthorpe bought a ticket on a ship to Italy, leaving tomorrow on the afternoon tide.”

  “You have more connections than anyone I’ve ever met!” Clark exclaimed. “How do you know that?”

  “I own the ship.”

  Clark laughed. “B’God, how clever of you.”

  In the few short days Remington had known Gabriel, he had come to trust him as a man of action and good sense, so Remington explained, “Fanthorpe has caused a problem for my family, and I’m making sure he doesn’t cause another one.”

  Gabriel’s face hardened in contempt. “I’m not surprised. The old villain has a penchant for running down children with his coach and raping his maids, and he suffers absolute contempt for any but his own ki
nd—men born to the aristocracy and bred for idleness. He rather despises me for a bit of work I did securing the defenses against Napoleon.”

  “Did you?” Remington surveyed Gabriel with interest. “That’s good to know. Before Trafalgar, some of my ships were involved in the effort—I don’t like despots.”

  “Another of the reasons to dislike Fanthorpe,” Clark said.

  “Yes,” Remington agreed. “Once Fanthorpe’s in Europe, I’ll have him watched on his road to hell, and I will rest a little easier.”

  “Do you fear him?” Gabriel asked.

  Remington spoke quietly. “Yes. I can’t guard all of my holdings every second.”

  Gabriel got right to the heart of things. “Are you afraid for Eleanor?”

  “I don’t think Fanthorpe could hurt her—with his world tumbling around his head these last few days, he’s been busy.” Remington had made sure he was busy. “But when she is out, she stays in public places, and she’s accompanied everywhere by her maid or a footman, and I’ve talked to them seriously about their duties.”

  Gabriel watched Eleanor as she laughed with the other ladies. “Madeline says that even when bandits attacked their carriage, Eleanor talked the robbers into letting them go. That’s an extraordinary woman.”

  “An extraordinary talker, anyway.” But Remington knew what Gabriel was saying. Eleanor was too gentle, too kind to defend herself against a threat. She needed to be instructed, and she needed to be protected. “I sent my men into the pubs to find Fanthorpe’s men and buy them a pint or two. My men discovered that Fanthorpe had ordered the attack on my carriage after Picard’s ball, and again on my wedding day. He’s got to go.”

  The footman arrived with an armload of cloaks and hats, and Eleanor returned to Remington’s side. “What are you gentlemen discussing so seriously?”