One Scandalous Kiss

by Christy Carlyle

  A lavish house party, confined to the renovated west wing and public rooms, would further diminish Hartwell’s coffers, but it might help him woo the young woman Aunt Augusta thought most promising among his prospects. Miss Sedgwick was the daughter of American business mogul Seymour Sedgwick. As Augusta told it, she’d met Miss Sedgwick’s father during her first season, when he’d married one of her dear friends, a viscount’s daughter. Since she was the sole heiress of a millionaire and granddaughter of a viscount, Lucius wasn’t surprised to find May Sedgwick at the top of his aunt’s list.

  “The short notice is unfortunate, but we must do what we can, Mrs. Penry. Lady Stamford is due to arrive today, and we should expect eight more guests within the week.” Lucius infused his words with as much gentleness as he could manage. He was asking for a bit of a miracle and the housekeeper deserved his respect for undertaking the challenge, despite his black mood.

  “I’ve taken on some additional staff, my lord, as you suggested. Two have arrived this morning. Do you wish to meet them? It shouldn’t take but a moment.”

  Mrs. Penry’s good humor and her ability to infuse any situation with the same enthusiasm she’d show a royal visit was enough to draw him out.

  “Very well.”

  “They’re just in the drawing room, my lord. Shall I send them to you?”

  His father had visited the study in the morning and still sat dozing in a chair by the fire. It was one of his mellow days, when Maxim seemed the affable father Lucius always wished he’d been. On such days Lucius could almost forget the animosity between them and simply enjoy the older man’s company. Disturbing the calm by waking him was out of the question.

  “No, let us go to them. This will only take a moment, as you say.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As Lucius made his way through the great hall to the drawing room, he was stunned to see the progress the staff had already made. Every piece of furniture shone with polish, and even the gilded frames around portraits of long-dead Dunthorpe ancestors glinted in the morning sunlight dappling the room. The staff had opened the drapes and he glimpsed a cloudless autumn sky through the gleaming windowpanes. He insisted on order, and the staff were diligent in their care of the family rooms, but the public rooms were so rarely used, he’d grown used to seeing dust motes dancing in the gaslight and stifling a sneeze. This morning fresh-cut hothouse flowers scented the air.

  “I’m impressed, Mrs. Penry.” He glanced back as he spoke to his housekeeper, who followed close on his heels. The look of shock on her face lightened his mood. He’d have to remember to compliment his long-suffering staff more often.

  “Thank you, my lord. Hartwell does look well with a bit of polish and light.”

  He heard the note of castigation in her tone but chose not to respond. Perhaps Hartwell did deserve to have a bit of the old liveliness and cheer infused back into it.

  As he approached the drawing room threshold, he saw a young woman sitting on one of the settees, her back straight and stiff and her gaze focused warily on the door where he approached. Another young woman stood looking out the window onto Hartwell Woods, her back to him.

  The figure of the woman at the window made him stop in his tracks, his boot heels scuffing the no doubt freshly polished floor. He heard Mrs. Penry make a little oomph sound as she came up short behind him.

  The young woman’s hair was a unique shade of auburn. The light from the window caught highlights of red and gold, bronze and crimson. He’d only ever seen hair that color once in his life, and now in his daydreams, when he longed to touch it, thread it through his fingers, feel it slide across his skin.

  All his dulled senses stirred to life and a kind of humming awareness buzzed through his body. It was impossible. Miss Wright was back in London. He’d spent long nights considering what she might be doing. With no family, whom had she turned to after losing her shop? How many times had he paced the length of his study, denouncing the scruples that had prevented him from offering her some arrangement when he’d visited her? However many times it had been, it was always followed by a bout of self-loathing. Whatever drove Jessamin Wright to accost and kiss him, it had nothing to do with desire.

  Logic told him she’d been desperate. The only desire between them had been on his part.

  Yet as he stood looking at the woman at the window, reason and logic lost their potency.

  She’d come all the way to Hartwell to find him. An absurd notion struck him—that Hartwell was just where she belonged.

  “Miss—”

  Before he could say her name, Mrs. Penry spoke at the same moment, drawing the young woman’s attention. Miss Wright turned from the window to look back at him, but it wasn’t Miss Wright at all. Once he examined the girl more closely, she didn’t even truly have auburn hair, just brown with a hint of burnish afforded by the light from the window. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He’d been so sure it was Miss Jessamin Wright before him that he could smell her scent and had licked his lips, recalling the taste their kiss.

  My God, did whatever ailed his father plague him too? Not even Maxim experienced hallucinations, just the occasional delusion that he was younger and stronger than his years would allow.

  “My lord, may I present Miss Hobbs and Miss Stephens. Miss Hobbs.” Mrs. Penry indicated the young woman seated before him, and she stood and bent a hasty curtsy. As the other woman strode forward, he closed his eyes for a moment, pushing away his illusion that she bore any resemblance to the bluestocking who’d kissed him in London. When he opened his eyes, a plain, brown-eyed woman stood before him. Her cheek bore none of the color of Miss Wright’s, her lips didn’t approach that woman’s lush, full mouth, and the intelligence and spirit he’d glimpsed in Jessamin’s eyes didn’t spark in the gaze of Miss Stephens. He felt a ridiculous vein of loathing for the woman who fell so short of the one who featured in his fantasies and would never again enter his life.

  “I am ever so pleased to be at Hartwell, my lord.”

  He should welcome her and the other young woman. He should do his duty as acting master of Hartwell, as the heir to his father’s name and title. He should be grateful for the additional staff to help prepare the house for its upcoming visitors. But everything in him rebelled.

  “No.” He felt the word as much as spoke it, a ripple of anger tensing through his body and tightening his jaw, negating the reality of never seeing Jessamin Wright again while condemning his foolish desire for her. He should have stamped out thoughts of her weeks ago. Forget the woman. He’d never allow himself to sink into the love-sopped obsessiveness that had ruined his father’s peace of mind.

  He saw the new maid’s mouth gape open before turning on his heel and striding out of the drawing room. He bolted back to his study, eager for the comfort of its dark wallpaper and thick drapes to keep out the world—no harsh sunlight there, no cloyingly sweet flowers, and no fantasies of a completely inappropriate woman.

  His father was awake and sat at the ornate desk dominating the room, flipping pages in the estate’s ledger book. He turned them with a speed that indicated he took no interest in their contents.

  “Heavens, has your aunt arrived? You look as if hellhounds are nipping at your heels.”

  “Not yet, Father. And no hellhounds, only housemaids.”

  “Ah, just as persistent but a bit less ferocious, I’d wager.”

  “Mrs. Penry has taken on more staff for the house party.”

  The earl looked momentarily confused.

  “Yes, tell me again about this chit you plan to marry.”

  Lucius hadn’t told him much of anything about May Sedgwick, only that she would be among the guests visiting Hartwell in the coming weeks. And Lucius certainly felt no conviction he’d be marrying the American. But he knew his father and aunt carried on a lively correspondence and wondered if his father might know more about Miss Sedgwick than he did.

  “She’s American but also the granddaughter of Viscount Siddingford.”
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br />   “So she’s in search of a title.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Can’t say I fathom much enthusiasm in your manner.”

  “I’ve yet to meet her. I shall be full of enthusiasm when I do.” Surely he could manage a bit of enthusiasm for a woman who’d traveled across an ocean to make his acquaintance.

  His mind wandered to places it shouldn’t, to the woman who’d become so fixed in his mind he was beginning to see her everywhere.

  “Is she beautiful?” His father’s words barely pierced his reverie.

  “Quite. And her hair is the most extraordinary shade of auburn.” As he spoke his musings faded and Lucius realized his blunder. Father hadn’t been referring to Miss Wright. No one knew Miss Wright’s identity, except his aunt, Mrs. Ornish, and that dreadful Mrs. Briggs and her husband. The scandal sheets only speculated about the woman who’d outraged society by kissing a viscount at a public gathering.

  He met his father’s eyes, as blue as his own. Today his father’s gaze appeared lucid and unclouded, his memory seemed sharper, and the two of them had taken tea and carried on a conversation as genial companions. But it was almost as difficult to trust the good days as to weather the bad. Lucius couldn’t be certain which version of his father he might encounter. And the man he needed to face, with whom he longed to settle old scores, was lost somewhere in the jumble of emotions and demeanors his father wrestled each day.

  “Whoever she is, I wonder how Miss Sedgwick will compare.”

  Lucius needed to clear his head, sweep his mind of its cluttered thoughts.

  “I’m going to take a walk.”

  The estate comprised nearly two thousand acres. As he strode into the meadow, Lucius wondered how far he’d have to walk to finally put the whole London business and one reckless bluestocking from his mind for good.

  Chapter Ten

  THE CARRIAGE RIDE from Wiltshire to Berkshire was the most bone-rattling experience of Jess’s life. Not even the uneven cobblestones of London’s streets offered the kind of jarring travel the rutted lanes between England’s counties afforded. Jess had secretly hoped they’d travel via train. She thought the notion of a long train journey held adventurous appeal, but Lady Stamford preferred her carriage, despite the bumps and jolts.

  Amazingly, Lady Stamford and her pugs seemed oblivious to the bouncing and swaying, all three falling asleep in a compact heap—pugs on top of each other on Augusta’s lap—halfway through the journey and remaining so until they stopped at an inn for luncheon. Along with her lady’s maid, Rachel Dawes, Lady Stamford had brought Tilly, whom she thought might serve as her lady’s maid or assist Jess in case Rachel was required to tend to another guest. Rachel and Tilly, like Jess, sat staring out the carriage windows, unable to nap along with their mistress.

  “It must be a very fine house.” Tilly’s voice made Jess jump, despite its soft timbre.

  Rachel turned her hand to some stitching and ignored Tilly.

  Jess thought it impolite to ignore her, though she wasn’t sure she was the one the girl had addressed.

  “Yes, I think it must be.”

  “I hear he’s very handsome.” Tilly whispered the words conspiratorially, turning a quick glance toward Lady Stamford to make sure she still slumbered.

  “I hear he’s mad as a March hare.” Rachel managed to sound both resolute and dismissive.

  “Is he? What a pity.” Tilly looked bereft. “Is he truly mad? Perhaps he only plays at it for fashion.”

  Jess couldn’t imagine what might be fashionable about madness, nor could she imagine the tall, dark viscount as a madman. He’d seemed utterly rational. If anything, her impression had been of a man who kept his emotions in check. Despite the fire she’d glimpsed in his gaze, it had been fleeting, and the stoic expression on his face had never truly wavered.

  “Who says he’s mad?” Jess couldn’t resist attempting to discern if there was any truth to the maids’ gossip.

  “The earl?” Rachel put down her sewing and turned her full attention to Jess. She was an intimidating woman, with her direct stare and humorless expression.

  “I thought he was a viscount.” Jess distinctly recalled Kitty and Lady Stamford calling him a viscount.

  “Oh, you mean the son. Yes, he is right handsome. No, it’s the father what’s mad, but it’s in the blood, isn’t it? The son’s bound to go mad himself one day.” Rachel spoke without passion, matter-of-factly, as if she knew her beliefs to be utter truths.

  Jessamin thought it all sounded a good deal like slander and suspected her employer would be livid to hear her brother and nephew dismissed in such terms, whether there was a shred of truth in the rumors or not.

  “What a shame.” Tilly sighed out the words as if she felt genuine sadness for her employer’s family.

  “It’s more than a shame, girl. If the son goes mad, no rich lady will ever marry him, and they’ll lose their fine estate,” Rachel attempted to whisper the words, but her tone was so full of venom most of it came out more like hissing.

  “Why do you dislike him so?” The question came out before she could bite her tongue, and both young women turned wide eyes on Jess.

  “And why should you favor him? I’d wager you know as much about him as you do about being a lady’s companion.”

  Lady Stamford’s lady’s maid didn’t like her, but Jess couldn’t match the woman’s hostility. Rachel had been helpful to her, however begrudgingly. And her certainty that Jess knew nothing of Lord Grimsby was just as it should be. At least her involvement in the London incident hadn’t become fodder for downstairs gossips. Yet.

  “You’re right, of course. I have a lot to learn.” Jess didn’t have a bit of trouble allowing Rachel her moment of satisfaction. It was true. Not a single day went by when Jess didn’t discover some new rule, ritual, or standard she’d failed to adhere to.

  Rachel sniffed and nodded her head, no doubt pleased to have won this round.

  Tilly seemed to realize the inappropriateness of the conversation and kept silent. Rachel continued to sew, her nimble fingers moving silently over the fabric, even as she turned to look at the passing countryside. As Jess watched the woman’s hands move, drowsiness drew her down into sleep, but she fought to keep her eyes open, despite the swaying carriage.

  It seemed only a moment later the carriage rattled to a stop and footmen began assisting Lady Stamford to separate herself from the pugs. Augusta looked refreshed, but Tilly and Rachel blinked against the bright sun and moved slowly for a few moments before collecting cases and bags. Each woman took a leash attached to one of the pugs.

  Neither of the maids spared a glance for the enormous structure before them, but Jessamin guessed they’d seen Hartwell many times before. It was even grander than Jess anticipated, dwarfing Marleston Hall in size. But it possessed none of the simple elegance of Lady Stamford’s estate. Marleston Hall’s façade had been designed to invite, while Hartwell’s architect seemed to have conceived a house that would overwhelm all who gazed upon it.

  Jess heard the story of Marleston House from her employer. It had been built within the previous century and reflected the late earl’s preoccupation with Greek architecture. Hartwell, on the other hand, seemed to strain at the bonds of being called merely a house. It had an air of the ancient, with Gothic spires and a rounded tower at one end that made Jess imagine it had been a fortified castle at some point in its history. She couldn’t take her eyes off it, yet the enormity of the building unsettled her. Marleston was stately but it had quickly become familiar. Jess didn’t think she’d ever feel at ease in a place like Hartwell.

  Placing her hands on her lower back, she arched, trying to stretch out the stiffness. Her legs felt as heavy as lead, and she wanted nothing more than to walk. In London, walking had been a necessary part of life, her main mode of transport. At Marleston, Lady Stamford kept her near and there was only the occasional opportunity for a stroll around the grounds. She’d begun making Castor and Pollux her excuse to w
alk out nearly every day, but the two dogs were more used to reclining on their mistress’s lap and disdained going far.

  As she had a knack for doing, Lady Stamford divined her thoughts.

  “Why not take a little wander, my dear? The grounds at Hartwell are lovely, and I can see long carriage rides do not agree with you.”

  Jess knew she should accompany the countess inside to help her settle into her rooms and then find her own. But the offer to take a walk and have a moment to herself was too tantalizing to refuse.

  “Thank you, my lady. I won’t be long and I’ll come to your rooms directly.”

  The countess was already ascending the wide stairs toward the doors of Hartwell, though Jess saw no one other than servants ushering her in. The idea of climbing those stairs herself and being confronted by Lord Grimsby made her shudder. Would he would think her a madwoman—accosting him in public and now breaching the walls of his fortress-like home—or just an infatuated girl who’d finagled employment with his aunt in order to see him again? Both notions made her queasy with doubt about her decision to become Lady Stamford’s companion.

  As she walked, Jess turned her mind to the moment she’d first glimpsed him. So tall and proud, yet completely uneasy. He’d been wearing a frown, his brows knitted and full mouth pulled tight, and he’d tugged at his neck cloth just before she approached. He tugged at it the same way Jess sometimes pulled at the collar of the high-necked day dresses Lady Stamford had ordered for her. Fine clothes were as confining as the many rules aristocrats seemed to impose on every little action, every impulse.