One Kiss From You

by Christina Dodd

As Remington helped her into her cloak, he said, “We were discussing the regrettable tendency of modern women to ignore the proprieties.”

  All three women looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “When did the man who gambled for my hand start worrying about proprieties?” Madeline asked as she tied the ribbon under her chin.

  Remington subdued a grin. “It’s a matter of deep concern to me.”

  “What has Eleanor done that you should be concerned?” Mrs. Oxnard asked.

  “Nothing!” Eleanor protested. “I’m so proper I’m boring.”

  “That you are not, my darling.” Remington pitched his voice to a suggestive tone.

  Eleanor didn’t blush. She fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he wanted to curse. Damn the woman, she led him around like a docile puppy.

  “Come now, gentlemen,” Madeline said in a rallying tone, “you didn’t start this conversation for no reason.”

  “London is a dangerous place, and I would that Eleanor always take her maid when she walks the dog.” Remington shrugged his way into his own cloak and doffed his hat.

  “I…do,” she said, her irritation plain. “I’m not a fool.”

  “But I would like you to be doubly vigilant.” He took his cane in hand.

  In a clumsy effort to defuse the situation, Clark said, “Yes, b’God, I hear there’s a wave of robberies sweeping the city.”

  The women exchanged skeptical glances.

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Clark added.

  Mrs. Oxnard took his arm. “Come, dear, you’re making things worse, and here’s our carriage.”

  He harrumphed but went quietly.

  The ducal carriage was next in line, and the two couples climbed in and settled into their seats, Madeline and Eleanor facing forward, the gentlemen facing behind.

  As the coach started, Eleanor looked across at Remington. “What is wrong?”

  Should he tell her? She had liked Lord Fanthorpe. More than that—she was his wife, delicate and fragile. She deeply cared about Lady Pricilla’s fate, and she’d been horrified by his loss. He’d already distressed her enough.

  Until he had proof that Fanthorpe was, in fact, the villain of so many murders, he would say nothing. Within a few days, he should have confirmation. He would be glad to lay the ghosts of Lady Pricilla, and his father and sister, to rest—for all their sakes. “Clark had the truth of it. There have been a great many robberies around the Town lately, and Clark, Gabriel and I have been discussing how best to keep you ladies safe.”

  Gabriel took Madeline’s hand. “You already almost got killed at Rumbelow’s. I want you to be careful.”

  Neither one of the women appeared convinced. Remington didn’t care. In a conversational tone, he said, “It’s always a good idea to carry with you something you can use as a weapon, but which looks innocuous. For instance, my cane.” It leaned in the corner of the carriage. “It’s an accessory men carry.”

  “Older men, usually,” Madeline observed.

  He shrugged. “So for me, it’s perceived as an affectation, and I take care that no one should suspect any different.”

  “Yet I saw you using it.” Eleanor turned to Madeline. “You should have seen him. He was brilliant, beating five attackers.”

  “With help,” Remington said dryly.

  Eleanor showed an enthusiasm that surprised him. “So it’s not difficult to be prepared for attack as long as I use something womanly, like…I don’t know…a heavy stone in my bag.”

  “That would work.” Madeline sounded interested. “Of course, you could never carry one of those charming net reticules. Too flimsy.”

  “True, it would take a heavy material. Hm, velvet, perhaps.”

  “You could start a new fashion.”

  Remington stared at the dim outlines of the women. They had taken his suggestion and worked to make it elegant.

  Beside him, he heard Gabriel mutter, “I’ll never understand.”

  Remington muttered back, “Thank God they’re on our side.”

  Although she’d imbibed nothing but Lady Georgianna’s punch, Eleanor was as giddy as a drunk. “Wasn’t that fun?”

  Remington followed close on her heels as she entered their home, and she knew very well what he wanted. The same thing he wanted every night, and the thing she loved to give him.

  She headed up the stairs and, deliberately enticing, she discarded her gloves, dropping them as she walked. “I used to hate having people notice me, but everyone smiled and seemed to think me a wit. And you know what?” She tossed her pelisse into the window seat. “When I’m not afraid, I am a wit.”

  “I noticed.” He did not sound pleased.

  She walked backward in front of him. “Do you think I’m a bore?”

  “Never.” He was more handsome now than he’d ever been, with his fair hair and pale blue eyes that scrutinized her. “I preferred it when all the men weren’t in love with you.”

  “All the men?” she teased.

  “Once you were wed, I thought they would find another maiden to flatter, but they insist on sniffing about like dogs on the scent.”

  “Are you calling me a dog?” She fiddled with the buttons on her bodice.

  “A flirt would be a better word.” With a rush, he caught her around the waist and bent to capture her mouth.

  His kiss was now familiar, yet as always, it tempted her anew. He poured all the passion of his dark soul into the worship of her body, and she reveled in each glance, each touch.

  Lifting his head, he gazed down at her. “What an odd circumstance brought us together.”

  “It was fate,” she confessed solemnly. “I decided to wed you if Madeline didn’t arrive to stop me, and I declare it to be fate that kept her from that church.”

  With a crooked smile, he put his finger on her lips. “My darling girl, I would have wed you regardless of who appeared at that church. If Lady Shapster had made her announcement early, I still would have dragged you up the aisle and made you mine. I was that far gone with lust, and—” He stopped.

  Don’t stop now! But it appeared he was going to. “And what?” she asked breathlessly.

  He held her closer, then walked her backward toward their bedchamber.

  She laughed at his intensity, at the awkward position, and out of sheer happiness.

  He kicked the door open.

  Lizzie barked once from her position at the foot of their bed, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Remington snorted. “Watchdog.”

  “She’s braver than you think,” Eleanor protested. “Given the chance, she would defend you to the death.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” His fingers were busy on her buttons. “She hasn’t a brave bone in her body.”

  Eleanor wanted to argue, but Remington pressed his face to her head. In a grudging tone, he said, “I like your hair.”

  “Do you?” Heavens, how she loved the man, and never more than when he worked so hard to make her happy. “I’m glad, because I like it, too.”

  “It was a matter of getting used to it.”

  “I know what you mean. I like you, too. It was a matter of getting used to you.” She laughed while he pounced on her, tickled her ribs.

  Looking into her face, he grew serious. “I’ve written to Magnus.”

  “The duke? Really? Why?”

  “I want to talk to him. See what he knows. See if he”—Remington hesitated—“he still has explaining to do. His men were in Boston before my family was murdered, and I want him to explain why. But I wish you to know—you’re right. The duke of Magnus isn’t the man I’m seeking.”

  “Oh, Remington.” She hugged him. “I am right, I’m sure of it. I don’t know who killed Lady Pricilla, but it wasn’t Magnus.”

  When Eleanor rose the next day and descended the stairs, Bridgeport said, “Mr. Knight is off to the bank for the day, but he begs you honor his request of last evening.”

  “I honor all his requests.�
�� Even the ones where he pretended nothing was wrong. It didn’t take a fool to know he was worried about something, and had been for the last two days.

  He still didn’t tell her everything. He was a man used to keeping his troubles to himself. It would take time, but she would train him to understand that she was no frail flower to be protected. In the meantime, she would continue to behave as she always did, and take Beth or one of the footmen everywhere she went. It was no more than good sense—although apparently he believed she possessed none.

  “Oh, and madam, you have a package from Lacy Hall.” Bridgeport presented her with the paper-wrapped parcel.

  “At last!” She carried it with her into the breakfast room. Seating herself, she tore the paper and found a book, worn and scratched, and a note from the housekeeper, apologizing that it had taken so long to find the diary. Eagerly, Eleanor opened the pages and looked on the delicate handwriting of a woman dead long ago. Eleanor’s heart clutched; to think of Lady Pricilla, young and beautiful, on the brink of a new life with her lover, brutally murdered…and why? This book would answer all.

  Cook bustled in with a plate. “Here’s yer breakfast, mum. Beautiful morning.” A scratch on the door made Cook sigh and go to open it.

  Lizzie bounced in, all energy and exuberance.

  “Will mum be taking the doggie fer a walk?” Cook asked.

  “It seems I have no choice.” Eleanor put the diary aside and dug into her food. “Tell Beth I’m going to Green Park. I need her to accompany me, and please, bring my reticule with my needlework. I like to stitch while I’m waiting for Lizzie to finish romping.”

  Chapter 29

  “You’re the luckiest girl I’ve ever heard of.” Horatia turned from her own path to join Eleanor as she took her constitutional through Green Park, Lizzie trotting happily at her side, Beth trailing behind, complaining of her shoes. It was a beautiful day.

  “Yes, I am, aren’t I?” The sun was shining, Eleanor wore one of the new costumes Remington had bought her, and she could scarcely keep an unlady-like grin off her face.

  Last night…last night had been a living embodiment of her most secret dream. She had been feted by London’s finest, she had danced and been complimented, then at two the handsomest man in the world had taken her home, and there made sweet love to her—and more important, sweet conversation. There hadn’t been one acrimonious word between them. Quite the opposite.

  Now Eleanor bowed and smiled as she passed people she had met the night before, and she even found Horatia to be a charming and enjoyable companion.

  “When I heard the duchess’s cousin had been pretending to be her, I said to Huie—that’s my husband, Lord Huward—Huie, I said, that girl’s going to be shunned by everyone in society, and Her Grace is going to send her into exile. And I said, Huie, that luscious Mr. Knight has been courting her, and now he’s married her, and he must be furious. I said, that man has an aura of danger about him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss de Lacy turns up dead one day. Well, Huie agreed with me, but Eleanor—I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I?”

  Eleanor wanted to think about that, but Horatia didn’t wait for Eleanor’s consent. “Eleanor, last night you proved Huie completely wrong. The duchess still loves you, the ton loves you, and that luscious Mr. Knight loves you.” Envy dripped from her tone. “How did you do it?”

  “I’m lucky, I suppose.” Very lucky. They were headed for the gazebo. There Beth could go off and visit with the other maids, Lizzie could chase rabbits, and Eleanor could sit in the sun and do her needlework and dream about Remington.

  “I suppose.” Horatia lowered her voice. “What about your stepmother? That awful Lady Shapster? She’s the one who told everyone that you’d married Mr. Knight, and not the duchess, and she said awful things about you. What are we going to do about her?”

  We? “Lady Shapster is not a problem for me,” Eleanor said.

  “No, I suppose not. Lady Georgianna made it quite clear last night that she wished Lady Shapster would fall off the face of the earth, and everyone feels that way. I said to Huie that Lady Shapster has gone beyond all that is decent in her persecution of Eleanor, and she’ll get her comeuppance, you’ll see!” Horatia nodded vigorously, and her corkscrew curls bobbed.

  “I think she already has.” Last night, as Eleanor had danced with Remington, Lady Shapster had stood and watched, her face a mask of jealousy and spite. She was drowning in hate, and nothing she could do would ever salvage her reputation. Now, at last, she would have to go back to Eleanor’s father and live in the house with him, a victim of her own cruelty and a captive to his indifference.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Horatia said. “But it seems so unfair that she should get away with—”

  From behind them, Beth’s voice broke in. “Excuse me, Mrs. Knight, but there the ol’ witch is, ’eaded straight at us like a ship under full sail.”

  “So I see, Beth.” Lady Shapster wore a silver walking gown and a billowing cloak, and her golden head was bare except for a blue feather bobbing above her head. She looked beautiful, and she looked deadly, and all of Eleanor’s brave defiance faded away. She wanted to curl into a ball and hide her head.

  Horatia grasped Eleanor’s arm. “Do you want to walk the other way and pretend we didn’t see her?”

  “No.” No. Eleanor had spent far too many years hiding from Lady Shapster. Lady Shapster would not vanquish her now.

  Lady Shapster planted herself directly in the path in front of Eleanor.

  Lizzie growled.

  Eleanor slipped her fingers under Lizzie’s collar. “Sit!”

  Lady Shapster’s feverish eyes ignored Horatia, ignored Beth, ignored the dog, and gleamed viciously at Eleanor. Only Eleanor. “So you think you’ve succeeded in achieving every one of your hopes. But I assure you, when society hears that Mr. Knight has left you everything in his estate, they’ll draw away from you as decent people must.”

  Lizzie growled again and lunged.

  Eleanor held her back.

  Lady Shapster’s little foot swung out. “Keep that vicious bitch away from me.”

  Infuriated, Eleanor said, “Don’t you kick at my dog.”

  “Oh, you’re brave now. You think you’ve vanquished me. Well, wait until I tell the ton what you really are. I tried to warn your father about your murderous tendencies. He didn’t listen to me, but everyone else will. For shame!” Lady Shapster backed away as if she couldn’t bear to be close to Eleanor. “To have your husband killed so you can have his fortune.”

  Horatia gasped loudly enough to frighten the birds in the trees.

  The blood drained from Eleanor’s head, and a buzzing filled her ears. “What do you mean?”

  “As if you don’t know. Do you think no one will be suspicious that a runaway dray just happens to be in front of the solicitor’s office as Mr. Knight leaves from changing his will in your favor?”

  “Mr. Knight is dead?” Horatia squawked.

  “Lawks!” Beth exclaimed.

  Distantly, Eleanor noted that her hands shook. Her head buzzed. Remington, dead? Dead? He’d made love to her last night. She’d seen him this morning, when he had kissed her good-bye. That vital being couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be.

  This was—had to be—Lady Shapster’s idea of retribution. “You’re lying.”

  “Lying.” Lady Shapster laughed low and long. “That’s rich, coming from you. Couldn’t you have waited to have him killed? Did you hate to have him touch you so much you couldn’t have let him swive you one last time?”

  Eleanor didn’t even know how it happened. One minute, she was almost fainting. The next, her palm stung and she was staring at the mark of her hand on Lady Shapster’s cheek.

  Horatia gawked.

  Lady Shapster gazed at Eleanor as if she’d never seen her before.

  Lizzie, free from Eleanor’s restraint, sprang at Lady Shapster’s skirt, bit into a mouthful, and tugged, ripping the beautiful, light cotton right at the
empire waist.

  The paralysis that held Lady Shapster silent ended, and she shrieked, “Eleanor!” in exactly the same tone she used to use in the old, horrible days when she drove Eleanor to tears.

  Eleanor was not intimidated. She stepped up to her, toe to toe. “If I find out you’re lying about this, I’ll make you sorry. And you’d better be lying.” Whirling, she left the ugly scene behind, almost running with her need to find him. Find Remington.

  Lizzie followed, keeping up in a determined doggy trot.

  Beth lagged behind, keeping up a running lamentation on the master’s death and the sad state of her feet.

  It’s not true. It’s a lie. It was not true. Eleanor chanted the words over and over, as if that would make them real. Remington couldn’t be dead. Before him, the world had been empty, with no place and no one for Eleanor. She had found love and home in the being of one man; God couldn’t be so cruel as to separate them before she’d even told him how she felt!

  She reached the road and looked up and down for a sedan chair or a hired carriage. As if by a miracle, a handsome coach drove up with footmen clinging to the sides. The coachman tipped his hat. “Take ye somewhere, lady?”

  She opened the door. She lifted Lizzie in. “Berkley Square, at once.” She climbed into the dim interior, its windows covered with cloth, settled into the seat, and waited for Beth to catch up.

  Four things happened simultaneously.

  The door slammed shut. The coach started with a jerk.

  The dog growled, low and threatening.

  And Eleanor realized she was not alone.

  “If I were you, I’d keep my dog under control. I hate to stain my velvet seats with its blood.” The tall, thin gentleman in his old-fashioned clothes gave her a supercilious smile. “You do have a regrettable fondness for mongrels, don’t you?”

  She stared across the interior at the seat opposite. “Lord…Fanthorpe?” Lizzie growled more, and Eleanor caught her collar as she lunged. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your husband’s not really dead, my dear,” Lord Fanthorpe said. “But he will be.”

  In a flash, Eleanor understood. She understood everything, and her blood chilled. She glanced toward the door.