Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  “Him. What has he done to you?” He pointed a threatening finger toward the Earl. “You welcomed my attentions until he arrived.”

  “You are mistaken, sir. Lord Rutherford has been everything that is honourable toward me.”

  “You mean to have him instead, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps.” She tilted her head and gave him a mischievous smile. “Now I must go check on Lucy. I wish you safe travels, sir.” She dropped him a curtsy and turned with his mouth gaping open.

  “Miss Foster!” he called after her. “I am not prepared to give you up.”

  She stopped and turned back to face him. “Sir, you have little choice. I am not yours to do with as you please. Now, I need to see to a child who suffers from the measles. Surely, you cannot mean to delay care to a sick child?”

  “M-m-measles? No one told me the child suffered from measles! Good God. Do you know what happens when adults catch the measles?” he asked as he began to panic, creeping toward the nearest exit.

  Clueing in to the best way to remedy themselves from the disease of the Duke’s presence, “Yes, as Byron says, ‘measles are most dangerous late in life’. I am waiting for them to afflict me any moment, for I was exposed days ago. Now, I trust you can see the lady wishes to remain. Good day, Waverly. Shall I see you out?” Geoffrey coughed on his hand, then held it out to the Duke, who looked at it as if it were leprosy-ridden. He promptly ran toward the door without another word.

  “Dare I hope that is the last we shall see of him?”

  “Only if we can convince him that you will be contagious for life.”

  Chapter 7

  How could she have said such a thing, as bold as brass? And after refusing Rutherford, no less, only to find out he was the same gentleman from the alcove she had dreamed of! Her cheeks were still burning with embarrassment. She was thankful for the excuse to look in on Lucy, or she wouldn’t have had such an easy escape route.

  When she made it upstairs, Lucy was no longer in her room. Helena found her playing hairdresser with Lady Rutherford and her maid. She laughed, but was happy to excuse herself for a few minutes in her own room to compose herself. It would soon be time for dinner and she would have to face Rutherford. She prayed he had disposed of Waverly for good. That was one face she would be happy to never see again. She shuddered with disgust. The feel of his slimy lips on her hands reminded her of slugs from the garden, which was an insult to all slugs.

  She looked at herself in the glass. She looked a fright! Her hair was loose and tangled, her skirts were wet and dirty and her cheeks still held a touch of sun. She stepped out of her wet dress and wondered if it would be too much to ask for a bath. She needed one for the time to think as much as cleanliness, she thought as she subconsciously wiped her hands on her petticoats.

  It took a while, but she found herself soaking in a divinely warm tub that smelled of lavender. She felt relaxed and ready to face Lord Rutherford. The scene with Nero had changed her thoughts about him, removed her reservations after hearing him say he wanted her. But would he renew his offer after her boldness?

  Lady Rutherford’s maid came to help her dress for dinner. It almost felt out of place to dress up for a simple country meal, but she was happy to look her best tonight.

  “Good evening, Miss Foster.”

  “Good evening, Lord Rutherford.”

  “You look lovely this evening.”

  “As opposed to earlier.” She laughed. “I have spent the day covered in soil or sea water. I am capable of scrubbing up well.”

  “I do seem to recall that. However, you look lovely either way.” He looked away.

  “I was not searching for a compliment, sir,” she said quietly, afraid that he had changed his mind.

  “I know, Miss Foster,” he said sombrely, but offered no other comment.

  She would not be silenced. “Please tell me that Waverly is still gone.”

  “He is. He left with surprisingly little fuss after your comment, and my feigned illness.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Sir, I apologise for my remark. It was ill-done of me. Your cough, however, was a gesture of genius.”

  “Think of it no more. I assure you I am not wounded.”

  “That is of some comfort, then.”

  “Miss Foster, would you walk with me before dinner? I tend to think more coherently in nature, and there are some things I wish to say to you.”

  “Of course.”

  He took her hand and led her along the path through the terraced garden. The sun hung low in the western sky, casting a heavenly glow on the azaleas and peonies in bloom.

  “Miss Foster. You must think me…”

  She tilted her head in curiosity, but waited patiently for him to find his words.

  He gave up and thrust his hands into the air. “I don’t know. I feel like Mr. Darcy from that novel you mentioned.”

  “You read Pride and Prejudice?”

  “I did. And I confess, I am quite guilty of prejudice. I judged you by my previous wife’s sins. How ludicrous is that? You have done nothing but prove my suppositions wrong at every turn.”

  “I am glad of that at least. I am hardly without fault.”

  “Oh?”

  “I confess my pride was wounded when I realised you judged me by your experiences with your previous wife. I had not thought a man of your maturity and experience susceptible to such fallacy.”

  “You think me old?” he asked with disbelief.

  “I did. And I was terrified of becoming a step-mother,” she said with brutal honesty.

  “That much is understandable. Am I not handsome enough to tempt you?” he asked with a devilish twinkle in his eye.

  “’You are tolerable, I suppose, and you are not slighted by other women’.” She quoted her favourite authoress with a saucy smile.

  “No, never that.” He stepped close to her and she could feel his breath and smell his woody, spicy scent. He took her face in his hands and brought his lips to hers, sending feverish delight through her entire body. It was a kiss for the Ages, one that erased thoughts of slugs and spoilt misses, wounded pride and false prejudices.

  “Do you still think I only want you for Lucy?”

  Was he asking her questions? Her mind was in another land: a land of bliss and sensuous lips. She pulled his head back to hers, pressing her lips firmly to his, and wound her arms around his neck.

  When he stopped for air, she whimpered in protest and he laughed.

  “Dinner will be growing cold by now. As much as Lucy and Mother will be happy for us, I am sure they would like dinner.”

  “I completely forgot about dinner!”

  “I will take that as high praise indeed. First, may I repeat my earlier proposal in a more proper manner?”

  He dropped onto one knee before her, “Fair Helena.” He accentuated the ‘a’, and she laughed appreciatively. “Will you make me the happiest of men by becoming my wife?”

  “I will. As long as you promise to kiss me like that every single day.”

  He stood with a rakish grin. “I believe I can accommodate such a request.” He angled his head and did just that. Her stomach did a flip, as if it were falling over a steep cliff.

  “Pa-pa! Ne-na!”

  They jumped apart as Lucy ran toward them.

  “Hello, darling. Is it time for supper?” Rutherford scooped Lucy up into his arms.

  “Yes, Pa-pa. I hungry.”

  He chuckled. “Very well. I am sorry we kept you waiting. Lucy, would you like Helena to stay here with us?”

  “Oh, yes, pease!”

  “Did I hear correctly?” Lady Rutherford asked, as they walked in the terrace doors.

  “You did, Mother.”

  “Praise the Lord! I was beginning to think for all of the intelligence between the two of you, that you were not very bright.”

  “Indeed, Mother,” Rutherford said with a smile.

  “Has anyone heard how Miss Higgins is this evening?” Helena enquired. />
  “The doctor sent a note, which said he fears the worst has passed,” Lady Rutherford said.

  “Thank heavens. We may start planning the wedding then,” Rutherford said.

  “Geoffrey!” his mother reprimanded him.

  “At least I asked after her health first, Mother,” he said unapologetically. “You cannot have it both ways, you know.”

  “I think I must reform my first impression of you yet again,” Helena said thoughtfully.

  “Again? I’m not sure my character can handle that much reformation,” he said sardonically.

  “You certainly are different here to in town, so you must grant me that. Initially, I had you pegged for Fabius.”

  “And now?”

  “Then I thought Diomedes. Wise, reasonable, gallant and courteous.”

  “I see no problem with that characterisation whatsoever,” he sallied.

  “I have settled on Hector. He was all those things and a devoted husband and father.”

  “Ah. Even better. Let us not dwell on the fact that Helen was his sister-in-law.”

  “No, let us overlook that part.” She laughed.

  He held up his glass. “To antiquity for bringing us together.”

  She raised hers. “To writing our own epic.”

  About the Author

  Like many writers, Elizabeth Johns was first an avid reader, though she was a reluctant convert. It was Jane Austen's clever wit and unique turn of phrase that hooked Johns when she was ‘forced’ to read Pride and Prejudice for a school assignment. She began writing when she ran out of her favorite author’s books and decided to try her hand at crafting a Regency romance novel. Her journey into publishing began with the release of Surrender the Past, book one of the Loring-Abbott Series. Johns makes no pretensions to Austen’s wit, but hopes readers will perhaps laugh and find some enjoyment in her writing.

  Johns attributes much of her inspiration to her mother, a former English teacher. During their last summer together, Johns would sit on the porch swing and read her stories to her mother, who encouraged her to continue writing. Busy with multiple careers, including a professional job in the medical field, writing and mother of small children, Johns squeezes in time for reading whenever possible.

  Thank you for reading First Impressions! I hope you enjoyed it.

  Sign up for mailing list at www.Elizabethjohnsauthor.com , so you can find out about the next book as soon as it's available, or see my other available books.

  Connect with me on my Facebook page www.facebook.com/Elizabethjohnsauthor or follow on Twitter @Ejohnsauthor or feel free to write me at elizabethjohnsauthor@gmail.com

  Treasure Beyond Words

  Heather King

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Heather King

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  Dedication

  I should like to dedicate this book to all the people who have helped me on my writing journey so far. Thank you so much. I would not be here without you.

  Prologue

  “Ouch!”

  In spite of having braced himself and repeated his favourite passage from A General History of the Pyrates over and over in his head, Hugo Marchbanks could not prevent an exclamation of pain slipping from his lips as the birch switch sliced across his palm. At once, a long red weal rose on his youthful, pale pink skin. He flinched when the cruel cane struck his hand a second time, then thrice and twice more besides, but managed not to cry out again. Biting his lip against the agony from his throbbing palm, he pressed his back into the hard edge of his scratched oak desk and stared at the cold grey wall of the schoolroom.

  This beard was black, which he suffered to grow at an extravagant length – as to breadth, it came up to his eyes; he was accustomed to twist it with ribbons, in small tails… He chanted the familiar words with his inner voice as much in rebellion as an antidote to the pain.

  He was, as was customary at this early hour, alone with the tyrant, out of earshot of the rest of the household in the west wing. His elder brother Arthur would not be joining them until ten of the clock and besides, no-one would take his part against the priest. It was because his father believed that Hugo was defiant and lazy that he had to begin his lessons two hours earlier than his siblings. He had tried to explain, but his father had refused to listen.

  “There is the Devil in ye, Master Hugo and he must be beaten from your flesh!”

  The black-garbed priest, Father Bertram, who was tutor to all the Earl of Raftesbury’s younger sons, was spare of frame and pale of countenance, but wore two mottled flags of reddish purple upon his cheek bones. His thin lips compressed tightly together, he leaned over Hugo and glared, the switch quivering in his clenched fist. The veins showed through the parchment skin on the back of his hand like the rivers winding across the maps he forced Hugo to study and his thin shoulders were hunched, almost reaching his ears, which protruded from his head, giving him the appearance of a jug. He reminded Hugo of a malevolent crow, with his ebony robes; oily, pock-marked flesh and beady eyes.

  Hugo knew better than to attempt to defend himself as the priest launched into the familiar tirade.

  “Ye be an arrogant, insolent idler, Master Hugo. You leave me no choice but to thrash you. Do you think I enjoy striking you?” He paused, but Hugo was not about to confirm the rhetorical question, even if he was convinced it were true. “It is my duty to rid you of this unholy Diabolus which resides within you. You knew full well you were to learn ten pages of Greek verbs and recite them this morning. Your sloth and lack of proper industry with regard your lessons can only be the work of Satan. ’Tis fortunate that you will never inherit your esteemed father’s title and estates, with two brothers before you. Indeed, ’tis likely that a good-for-naught such as you will end up in the fires of eternal damnation, for it is certain you must have been replaced at birth by the spawn of Beelzebub!” Spittle decorated Father Bertram’s lips as his voice rose and rose to a crescendo until he screeched the final words.

  The dreaded switch slashed across Hugo’s cheek, blood splattering the book he was holding. Rage such as he had never known before scorched his bloodstream, spewing through him as the lava had burst forth from Mount Vesuvius.

  “You are Satan!” he shrieked, his childish treble shaking with pure hatred. Shoving the priest hard in the chest, he twisted around the man’s flailing grasp as he tumbled to the floor and fled the room.

  Chapter 1

  Hugo came to an abrupt halt at the threshold of the schoolroom. The solid oak door stood ajar and from within came the happy chatter of his nephews and nieces. He should be pleased – he was pleased. He had sworn, had he not, that no child should suffer in this house as he had suffered, in the name of education? Nevertheless, he could not prevent a stab of envy for their joyful learning as the memories he thought he had locked in the tower of life’s experience jumped over the ramparts to besiege him.

  He stepped backwards. He could not do it. He had thought that after all these years the memories would have faded; that the pain and humiliation he had endured beyond the portal before him would have sunk beneath all the horrors he had experienced during the wars with France.

  Those vivid impressions had not abated one whit, but no sooner had he come face to face with the prospect of once more entering that dread chamber, than all the intolerance and cruelty visited upon his ten-year-old self had come flooding back. Without thinking, he lifted his right hand to finger the thin white scar on his cheek. Emitting a tiny, involuntary exclamation of self-disgust, he clenched those same fingers into a fist and struck the door jamb with sufficient force to graze his knuckles.

  Shaking his hand, he turned to leave. He would send up the housekeeper with his apologies for the new governess. The children would forgive him. Even as r
egret stung him beneath his ribs, a clear, cool voice, hardly raised above a normal pitch, yet possessing a note which commanded attention, lifted above the shrill babble.

  “You may put your drawings to one side, now, children. We will return to them tomorrow. Harriet, please will you fetch the slates from the cupboard?”

  Something unfurled in Hugo’s stomach at the sound of the governess’ voice. The housekeeper had assured him the woman was no flighty miss, nor yet a life-worn spinster with no sense of fun, but a sensible female with the air of a lady. That might well be true, but her voice called to the youth he had long ago left behind in Portugal and spoke of that fairy tale he had once believed in – love and happiness – which he now knew was a fallacy, or at least not something given to such as he. The title had never been meant for him; it was only right that it should pass, not to his heirs, but to those of his brother.

  As he stood there, lost in reflection, he suddenly became aware that the door was opening. Framed in the gap, with a ray of sunlight outlining a trim figure in a golden shimmer, a young woman stood, her nondescript brown hair arranged in a severe style. Her gown was grey and buttoned tightly to her slender throat; it was perfectly plain apart from a thin ribbon threaded around the bodice and a narrow band of lace around her neck. She at once sank into a deep curtsey. Her whole demeanour was one of modesty and propriety, yet he could have sworn he had espied a dancing glint of something akin to mischief in her eyes before she dipped her head.

  He was not usually given to noticing such things, but she possessed a pair of remarkably fine eyes of an unusual shade of brown and he found himself wanting to take a second look to more accurately determine the colour.