The Lady Travelers Guide to Scoundrels and Other Gentlemen

by Victoria Alexander

  “But—” She glanced around. No one seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to them. “Here? Now?” Her pulse sped up.

  “We are on the top of the world.” His gaze slipped to her lips and back. “I can’t think of a better place or time.”

  She swallowed hard. “But there are a great many people here.”

  “And yet.” He stepped closer. “I see only you.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. “Everyone will stare.”

  “Let them.”

  Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “Kissing in public, Derek, that’s highly improper and, well, scandalous.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Of course not, you’ve done worse.” She shook her head. “But I care.”

  “You said you didn’t care about what other people think.”

  “I lied.” She sighed. “Besides, it’s pointless.”

  “Pointless?” He narrowed his gaze in confusion.

  “There can never be anything between us.” This was much harder to say than she’d imagined. “I believe we agreed on that.”

  “I don’t recall agreeing to anything quite that absurd.”

  “It was implied.” She turned back toward the view. “When we discussed the type of woman you are expected to marry. I am not that woman.”

  “Nor do I believe I said anything about marriage.” Amusement sounded in his voice.

  “I am well aware of that. I am not so stuffy as to believe a kiss is a commitment to eternity.”

  “God forbid.”

  She ignored him. “But a kiss is more than just a frivolous moment. At least it should be. And it is for most of us. Perhaps not for you.”

  “I have always liked frivolous moments.”

  “And I am not the least bit frivolous. I have always thought a kiss to be something of a...a promise.”

  “A beginning then?” he said cautiously.

  “Well, yes. But as anything between us other than friendship is impossible, it seems foolish to begin something that cannot end well.”

  “I don’t understand this at all.” He paused. “Have you never been kissed, India?”

  “I am not in the habit of randomly kissing gentlemen.” Or kissing anyone at all.

  “There is nothing random about this. As I have already confessed, I have given the idea of kissing you a great deal of thought. And more so in recent days.”

  “Well then perhaps spontaneous is a better word.” She shrugged. “As I assume you did not plan for this particular moment.”

  “No.” Frustration sounded in his voice. “And while it might have been spontaneous a moment ago, I assure you the spontaneity of it has passed.”

  “Then you no longer wish to kiss me?” She held her breath.

  “Oh, I still wish to kiss you.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “But this is obviously not the right moment.”

  “Obviously.” She ignored the unexpected disappointment that washed through her. “If that’s settled then...” She had the most absurd desire to flee. “If you will pardon me for a moment, I wish to...um...see the view elsewhere...” She turned and stepped away, circling around the tourists in her path.

  Good Lord! She stopped short. What on earth was she running from? She was nearly thirty years old and had never been kissed! She’d never so much as given it a second thought before, but now it struck her as truly awful. And somewhat pathetic. And shouldn’t she do something about it? Carpe diem, after all.

  Before she could think better of it, she swiveled on her heel and marched back to Derek.

  “Yes?” His brow rose.

  She grabbed the lapels of his coat, rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. The most remarkable spark of something electric and quite wonderful shot through her at the feel of his warm lips against hers. He smelled vaguely of warm spice and tasted faintly of lemonade and summer.

  She released him, stepped back and caught her breath. “There.”

  “There?” He looked as taken aback as she felt.

  “Now I have been kissed on the Eiffel Tower,” she said with a surprisingly firm nod given something had replaced her stomach with a quivering mass of aspic.

  “On the contrary, my dear Miss Prendergast. I have been kissed on the Eiffel Tower. You have not.”

  “You did kiss me back.”

  “A natural response to being kissed, but you caught me by surprise.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “It was not my best effort.”

  She frowned. “The, well, quality of the kiss cannot be blamed on me. Indeed, I thought it was...”

  “Adequate, no more than adequate. And you’re absolutely right—it cannot be blamed on you.” He pulled her into his arms and stared intently down at her. “But my dear Miss Prendergast, this can.” He pressed his lips to hers.

  For a moment, she froze. Then unexpected heat swept through her, and she thought she would surely melt into a small puddle of heretofore unsuspected sensation and something...more. He angled his mouth harder over hers. Her lips opened slightly, and her breath mingled with his and...and adequate was the farthest thing from her mind. And she knew without question or doubt, this kiss, this moment, this man would linger in her thoughts, in her heart for the rest of her days. Still, it wasn’t a promise or a beginning, it was no more than a foolish error in judgment.

  She pulled back and struggled to catch her breath. “People are staring, Mr. Saunders.” She stared up at him. “You should, well, release me, I think.”

  “I thought you didn’t care what people say?” He stared down at her.

  “I don’t care what they say. I care what they see.” She drew a deep breath and pushed out of his arms. “This was...” She shook her head. “A dreadful mistake.”

  “What?” His brows drew together. “Why?”

  “Because I am...” She impatiently brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Eroding as it were. With every minute, you are wearing me away. What I think. How I feel. The rules I have always lived my life by.” She shook her head. “And this cannot end well.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why!”

  “No, I don’t.” He glared at her. “And that nonsense you keep bringing up about the type of woman I am supposed to be with is nothing but...nonsense. Complete and utter foolishness. And you are far too intelligent to believe that.”

  “It’s simply the way things are.” Her voice rose. “You can protest it all you want, but you cannot deny the facts of it.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “That’s not what this is about at all.” He studied her intently. Realization dawned on his face. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”

  As much as she had decided he was, somewhere deep inside, a decent man, he was also right. “I’ve made no effort to conceal that.”

  “I understand your reticence to trust me when we first met. Now, however, I thought I had proved myself to be most trustworthy.”

  “Somewhat, I suppose, perhaps, but—”

  “But it doesn’t matter, does it?” He glared at her with equal parts anger and disbelief. “You haven’t trusted me from the beginning, and you are unwilling to bend so much as the tiniest bit to admit that just possibly, once again, you were wrong.”

  “That’s not entirely fair.” She raised her chin.

  “The world is not fair, India—remember?”

  “I...” She stared at him for a long moment. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss whatever feelings she—or he—might have. Nor did she have any idea what to say. This was not the kind of problem she knew how to solve. She straightened her shoulders. “I have no desire to discuss this further. Any of it.”

  Someone behind them cleared his throat, and Derek stepped back. The most awful sense of mor
tification swept over her, and she did so wish she was the type of woman who fainted.

  “I should like to leave now,” she said coolly.

  “And I should like to take another turn around the platform.” He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “And the discussion is far from over.” He nodded and strode off.

  She turned back to the endless view of Paris and stared unseeing into the distance. Somewhere, in a part of her mind not oddly still and numb, she noted people continuing to move past her. She heard excited comments about the view and the remarkable nature of the tower. The world, even here at the tallest manmade pinnacle, continued as it always had, as it always would.

  But India would never be the same. Something inside her had changed. Twisted. Shattered. The question was why, and she had no answer. Regardless, it seemed to hold a great deal of pain.

  Derek returned a few minutes later. “If you’re ready...”

  “More than ready,” she murmured and accompanied him toward the elevators. They joined the crowd waiting for the next ride down.

  The ride to the ground, including the changing of elevators, was fraught with tension. As if they were each tied to the end of a taut rope that neither could break or ease. The silence between them on the return to the house was broken only by an occasional terse question on his part or hers. They’d originally planned to explore some of the exposition but neither now seemed inclined to do anything other than retreat to Lord Brookings’s house.

  For the first time in her life, India didn’t know what to say and thought it best to say nothing. She was by turns angry, regretful and astonished. None of this would have happened if he had not announced he wished to kiss her. Why on earth did he have to do that? What was he thinking? And if he really wanted to kiss her, why? Did he harbor feelings of affection for her? Perhaps he should have mentioned that. And why couldn’t she stop thinking about it? About him?

  Much of the blame really should be put on her. Whatever possessed her to make such a spectacle of herself? She’d kissed him! She’d never kissed a man before. Had never wanted to. And who would have imagined how...moving that kiss would be? Although it did pale in comparison to the kiss he gave her.

  After what seemed like forever, they arrived at the house. He escorted her inside, then turned to her in the foyer.

  “Once again, I owe you an apology, India,” he said coolly. “I put you in an awkward position in public, and for that I am truly sorry. Apparently, whenever I wish to kiss you, it does not end well. However, it was a kiss. Nothing more than that. And you’re right. It was a mistake. Good day.” He started toward the parlor, then paused and returned. “I nearly forgot.” He pulled a large coin from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her. “Something to remind you of the day.” He nodded and took his leave.

  She stared after him for a long moment.

  She’d been kissed for the first time. In a public place. By a man who was as much scoundrel as gentleman. A man with whom there could be no future. A man who now was obviously furious with her.

  She looked down at the object in her hand. It wasn’t a coin but a medal. On the side facing her was a depiction of the Eiffel Tower dwarfing world monuments including Saint Paul’s Cathedral and the pyramids, together with the dates of the tower’s construction and opening. She turned it over. On the other side, in French, was written that this was a souvenir of ascending to the summit of the Eiffel Tower. She’d never had a souvenir before.

  How terribly ironic that now she had a souvenir of a day she couldn’t possibly ever forget.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “SHE’S INSANE, I tell you.” Derek strode into the parlor. “The woman is mad, utterly completely mad.”

  Val leaned against the mantel. His eyes widened at the appearance of his brother.

  “I can’t believe that I thought, perhaps, for no more than a moment really, it just popped into my head and—”

  “Someone you met on the street no doubt,” Val said in a manner that struck Derek as anxious, and nodded toward a high-backed chair.

  “Don’t be absurd.” Derek stalked to the cabinet where Val kept good Scottish whisky and fine Spanish sherry for whatever lady might be with him at the moment. “Admittedly, the thought had crossed my mind, only when we had discussed why she didn’t want to be married. Have you ever heard such words from a female? I’ve never met a woman like her. She’s an enigma. The most confusing creature on earth.” He yanked the cabinet doors open. “We seem to have discussed marriage quite a bit in a theoretical, philosophical sort of way but not as it pertained to the two of us. At least not the two of us together. I never mentioned anything remotely like spending the rest of our days together.” He grabbed the decanter of whisky. “All I wanted was to kiss her. One, simple kiss—not a lifelong commitment!”

  Val winced. “I really don’t think—”

  “Worse—she rejected me!” He sloshed a healthy portion into a glass. “Not that there was anything to reject. But it’s insulting nonetheless. And offensive. And unpleasant.” He tossed back a fast swallow. “Most unpleasant. Rather like being stabbed. In...in the heart! Yes, that’s it exactly. Even if one isn’t certain one’s heart is engaged, she stabbed me in the heart nonetheless. The woman made assumptions based on nothing more than a request for a kiss. She simply skipped over any number of—I don’t know—steps I suppose, that this sort of thing requires.” He downed the rest of the whisky.

  “Steps?” Val stared with a look that might have been horror on his face and jerked his head sharply toward the chair. What on earth was the matter with him?

  “Yes—steps! In this day and age, one kiss does not mean ‘marry me.’ One does not plunge into marriage.” Derek refilled the glass “Particularly not with a woman who drives you stark, raving mad! What kind of woman refuses to marry you when you haven’t asked? When you haven’t even thought about it?”

  “I have no idea,” Val said cautiously.

  “I’ll tell you what kind of woman!” He took a large swallow. “The kind who—”

  “No!” Desperation sounded in Val’s voice.

  “Well, I for one would like to hear that.” A familiar voice rang from the back of the room.

  Val cringed.

  “Mother?” Derek turned and stared.

  The Marchioness of Westvale rose in the graceful manner she had long ago perfected from a chair in the shadows of the room. “Good day, Derek. You’re looking well.”

  Val groaned.

  Derek threw his brother an annoyed look. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?”

  Val snorted. “I tried.”

  “Your poor dear brother practically snapped his neck off trying to indicate there was someone else in the room. You were simply too agitated to notice. Although I must say I’m delighted he didn’t succeed. Your tirade was entirely too interesting to miss.” Mother smiled pleasantly.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He moved to her and kissed her cheek.

  “I must say, your presence in Paris is an unexpected surprise.”

  “As is yours.” His mind raced back over everything he had said since he’d stepped into the room. Bloody hell.

  Celia Newell, the Marchioness of Westvale—formerly Mrs. Saunders and then the Marchioness of Brookings—was, to most of the world, a charming, attractive woman who did not look at all her true age, not that even her sons knew exactly what that age was. She was a perfect hostess and a delightful conversationalist. She was a sought-after guest at dinner parties or country house sojourns or any kind of social event. But when something caught her interest she was, as well, very much like a dog with a bone. Derek braced himself. Unless Stephen, Lord Westvale, had managed to curb her innate tendencies toward meddling in the five years of their marriage, she would never let Derek’s display of ire pass unmentioned. Especially as it concerned
a woman.

  “Is it really?” She cast Val a chastising glance. “You didn’t tell him we were coming?”

  Val shrugged uneasily. “It slipped my mind?”

  “Percival.” Mother’s brow furrowed delicately. “You are hosting a ball in this very house not more than five days from now. I do hope that didn’t slip your mind, as well.”

  “You’re having a ball?” Derek stared. “Here?”

  Val ignored him. “Of course not, Mother,” Val said smoothly. “You simply had the arrangements well in hand when you were last here, so I wasn’t the least bit worried about it.”

  She studied him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. “Aside from final details, I suppose there’s little left to do.” She turned her attention back to Derek. “Stephen and I were here last month for the opening of the exposition. I must say I was surprised by how many people I know are here. Why, London society must be totally bereft of anyone of interest at all. Although the season is winding down, I suppose.” She sank back into her chair. “There hasn’t been a grand ball in this house for years.” She aimed a hard look at her stepson. “Of course, if Percival had a wife, I’m certain that social oversight would be corrected.”

  “Keep in mind, I spend only a few months here every year. Paris is not my primary residence,” Val pointed out, wisely avoiding any reference to his unmarried state. He had come very close once, a few years ago, and had yet to again find whatever it was he was looking for in a wife. But there was no question he quite enjoyed his unencumbered status.

  Mother, however, took Val’s—and Derek’s, too, for that matter—failure to wed as a personal affront. Fortunately, Lord Westvale proved a continuing distraction from her crusade to see her sons married. Derek rued the inevitable day when the couple became too comfortable with each other and Mother could fully turn her attentions back to her unmarried sons.

  “Nonetheless, there are social obligations that do need to be fulfilled on occasion,” she said firmly.

  “Yes, Mother.” Val nodded, playing dutiful son to the hilt.

  And leaving Mother free to give Derek her full attention. “When I last saw you in London, you made no mention of coming to Paris.”