The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  Tears filmed her eyes again. “Aye. I’d rather not choose, but, aye, I’m tellin’ ye that.”

  “Thank you.”

  She frowned again.

  “Thank you for wanting to be here. God forgive me for being grateful, but I am. There’s so much I want to tell you, so much I ought to tell you, but later we’d both regret the telling.”

  Kirsty smoothed her hair and ran a finger beneath each eye. “Mayhap we should get t’work.”

  “There’s no work to be done this evening.”

  “But ye said—”

  “I know what I said. I was searching for an excuse to explain why I was watching for you to return. I made one up.”

  “Oh.” She nodded, looked at the toes of her worn ankle boots. “No doubt ye were concerned because of what His Lordship said. Ye’ve no reason t’worry. It’ll be all right in time. People—some people have a spiteful way wi’ ’em. They like t’find bad when they should be lookin’ for good. My father and mother are shamed because there are those who have made . . . well, they’ve told lies about me. But later it’ll come right because I’ve right on my side. I do regret that your good name has been sullied. I’ll find that harder to forgive.”

  Max flexed his fingers. With his palms he made circles on her shoulders, then chafed her arms. “I won’t be the one to suffer. You know that perfectly well.” He would not suffer because of idle talk. “Those who spread gossip are cowards. They victimize the weak.”

  “I’m no’ weak,” Kirsty said. “I’ve made up my mind that I’m no’ bendin’ before their wicked tongues. Ye’ve given me an opportunity I’ll not give up lightly.”

  God help his irresolute spirit. He said, “You told me it would pain you to leave me. Because of the advantage you will have from working for me?”

  A bleak light entered her eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Nothing more?”

  “What more would there be?”

  “That you . . . It couldn’t be that some of the closeness we shared as children remains for you?”

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip, but still it trembled.

  “Kirsty,” he said. “Could that be?”

  “Could it be for ye?” she countered.

  Closing his eyes, he rested his brow on hers—and felt her shudder, and his answering shudder. “It could be,” he muttered. “I have absolutely no right to ask such questions of you, or to tell you that I feel anything for you but respect for your intelligence. But I do.”

  “So do I.”

  Very carefully, he enfolded her in his arms. He stroked the back of her head, and the soft skin on her neck. After hesitating, she rested her hands at his waist, beneath his jacket. She shook steadily, and he held her more tightly, murmuring senseless words against her temples.

  “I do understand why it was that there could never be anythin’ more between us once we were both grown,” she said. “It wouldna do. We’re from different worlds. Ye’re a gentleman. I’m nothin’, not really.”

  “Kirsty—”

  “Hush,” she said. “Let me speak t’ye while I can. I don’t mean I’ve no respect for mysel’. I mean I’m o’ peasant stock. Proud o’ my family, but wi’out false notions as t’my place in t’world. It’s fine. Please believe that. All except for the fact that I’ve loved ye. I willna lie, I’ve loved ye so.”

  He had to open his mouth to find enough air.

  “But now I’m grown. I’m a mature woman and I know what can and canna be. I know what I can never have. I can never have ye and I have to find peace wi’ it. I’ll serve ye well, and take pride in your accomplishments, and if I can help ye, well then, I’ll find my happiness there.”

  Suddenly, convulsively, he clutched her so tightly, she cried out. “Well, I can’t find my happiness in such a manner,” he said, hating the harsh sound of his voice. “It isn’t enough for me to have you push a pen at a little desk in the corner of this room while we watch our lives pass without the passion we might share.”

  For an instant he felt her begin to slip toward the floor. He thrust his arms beneath hers and supported her. “Forgive me. This is all too much, but believe me that it is too much for me as well as for you.”

  “They willna let us be more t’each other than we are, Max.”

  At the sound of his name on her lips, he squeezed his eyes shut again. “They can’t stop us from what we choose to do in private.”

  “In time ye’d no’ be happy. I canna bear to think o’ bein’ the cause o’ that. I love ye too much.”

  She told him she loved him. Simply, with conviction and no embarrassment, she opened her heart to him. And, at the same time, she tried to take all responsibility for what happened between them.

  “Look at me, please,” he said, barely able to speak at all. When she did as he asked, he framed her face with his hands and kissed her mouth. Softly, holding back his ardor for fear of frightening her, he kissed her inexperienced lips and tasted her sweetness. She didn’t try to draw away. Nor did she encourage him to do more than kiss her. Her mouth moved inexpertly beneath his, but he felt her willingness, and breathed in her breath, marveling at the potent power of that joining, the joining of their breath, to make him feel one with her.

  He raised his face and looked down into her eyes. Such trust. He kissed the smooth place between her brows, and her eyelids, and her jaw. He stroked her face, and her hair, and rested his hands loosely around her neck while he placed another kiss on the tip of her nose.

  “I have wanted to do this for so long,” he said. How deeply he felt the heaviness of responsibility upon him, his responsibility for this darling creature. “I have often stayed away from Kirkcaldy for fear of seeing you and being unable to control my longing for you.”

  “What does it mean?” she asked. Her fingers, stroking his jaw, his neck, and passing down the front of his shirt, caused muscles in his back and thighs to stiffen. “Does it mean we mustna be together? Does it mean I must go away from ye?”

  “It means,” he told her, “that I will never allow you to go away from me. If you ever tried, I should track you down and bring you back.”

  Confusion sent disparate expressions flitting over her features. “But ye’re to be married. We canna—”

  “Don’t tell me what we can’t do. And my supposed marriage is not a topic for discussion.”

  “You were always a lordly laddie, Max Rossmara,” she said with a faint smile. “Under the circumstances, I’ll have t’defy ye. I thank ye for your kisses, and I’ll take the memory o’ them with me wherever I go. But I’ll no’ be able to stay.”

  He swallowed. “And where would you go?”

  Her eyes shifted away. “I dinna know, but I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll be fine because you will remain here. In the rosy rooms you love so much.”

  “Stay? Stay and look at ye, and think o’ this night when ye kissed me and made me feel the way I’ve never felt before? Like it’s a beginning o’ something that’s much more? Stay and watch ye with Lady Hermoine and know ye’re holdin’ her like ye’ve held me t’night? Then go alone t’the rosy rooms while ye’re only a few doors away from me? I’m just a woman, sir. I’m no’ a magical bein’.”

  “Yes, you are a magical being. But it’s not going to be the way you think it is. I love you, Kirsty. I’ve loved you since . . . I loved you before I had any right to love you because you were too young. Once I thought having you would be an easy thing. It won’t. But I will have you. I’m nowhere near ready to let you go.”

  “Ye must. I’m ready to go t’my bed. Will ye please have the modiste sent away? It’s been a long day wi’ many a new thing t’learn. And many new things to accept. We’ll forget about all this. You’ve been worried about me, and I thank ye. I’ll no’ cause ye further concern.”

  His mind raced. Tonight was a night for making decisions and he would do so—and the devil take the consequences. “I’d thought that I would not marry Lady Hermoine.”
/>   “But your mother and father think it a good match, don’t they?”

  “A suitable match. One that will ally me with a titled woman and be good for my standing in their circles.”

  Her repeated blinking was the sign of how hard she fought against more tears. “Well then, ye should marry her. Your parents wouldn’t want it for ye unless they thought it good.”

  How sensible she was, this woman he knew he could not live without. “Perhaps I will.” He judged her reaction but she had assumed her smooth expression. “Marry her and attend those functions where I should be seen with a suitable wife.”

  “It’s wise,” she told him, her throat jerking. “We canna always have what we’d like.”

  “I think we can have a good deal of what we’d like. She doesn’t love me any more than I love her.”

  “Oh, but she wants ye,” Kirsty protested. “She’s verra possessive. I saw that wi’ my own eyes. She’ll make ye a good and attentive wife.”

  “She’ll make me an irritating, demanding wife, but that will mean my lot will be much easier.” He hauled Kirsty to him and kissed her again, with force this time, pressing his tongue past her lips and ignoring her shocked intake of breath. He kept on kissing her just so until she tentatively touched the tip of her tongue to his lips.

  Max felt his own legs weaken. He was, after all, only a man.

  They pulled back from each other, but he didn’t release her.

  “Why would it be easier if Lady Hermoine should be an irritating, demanding wife?”

  “She will take other lovers, and I shall not care,” he said, searching for the words to say exactly what he wanted to say.

  “Oh, but that would be dreadful,” she said. “I’m a bad one t’be kissin’ ye so, but at least ye’re no’ married. Not yet, anyway. I’m sure ye’re wrong about the lady. She’s mad for ye. She’ll never stray.”

  “She’s mad for the money that my family will settle on us,” he said without compunction. “I don’t want to heap bad words upon her, or question her motives and her nature, but I see no sign of affection for me in her.”

  “I see.” Kirsty was subdued now. “Aye, I see. The ways o’ the rich have always been a puzzle t’me, but it’s no’ my business. If she can help ye because o’ who she is, and that’s enough for ye, then I wish ye happiness in her.”

  “I’ll find no happiness there, Kirsty. Surely you guess what I’m saying to you.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. But I’ll comfort ye as I can, for as long as ye need me. And ye’ll find comfort in your bairns when they come. I’ll make sure Lady Hermoine comes t’trust me, and she’ll never have t’know about tonight. After all, ye’re only tryin’ t’comfort an old friend. And I thank ye. And I bid ye good night.”

  “Do you think the way we just kissed is the way a man comforts an old friend?”

  “Och, ye’ll embarrass me,” she said, flattening both hands on his chest.

  “Well, do you?”

  “I’m not goin’ t’answer ye. Ye’re tormentin’ me.”

  “And you’re tormenting me. You seem to like touching me, miss.”

  For an instant she withdrew her hands as if they burned, then she returned to smoothing his shirtfront, to pressing and feeling his chest beneath. “I do like touchin’ ye. Ye’re no longer a boy. Ye’ve a fine, strong body.” She gave attention to his shoulders. “Wonderful strong. And ye’re much too handsome for a woman’s good.”

  “I’m glad I please you as much as you please me—although perhaps I presume too much.”

  “Ye please me greatly.”

  “Your body is supple, Kirsty. Supple and very female. All soft curves and a gentle way of moving that draws attention to your womanhood without being overtly provocative.”

  “Hush now,” she said, bowing her head.

  “You have a little waist.” He gripped it. “And hips that sway, just the tiniest bit, when you walk.” He smoothed her simple skirt over rounded flesh. “And your breasts are perfect. Just the right size and shape to drive me mad.” Expecting her to push him away, he covered her breasts, rubbed them lightly, and looked deeply into her eyes.

  She didn’t push him, but she removed his hands gently, and held them. “I’m glad I please ye.”

  “You do. And I want you. And I’m going to have you.”

  The sad shadows were in her eyes again. “Ye know ye’re only dreamin’. Ye’ve just said ye’ll do your parents’ biddin’ and marry the woman they’ve chosen for ye.”

  “Perhaps I will. And very soon my lack of passion will bore her, and she’ll go elsewhere for her pleasure.”

  “So ye say.”

  “So I do say,” Max told her, gathering his courage. “But I won’t care because I’ll have you.”

  Her frown showed she had no idea what he was suggesting.

  “You will be my assistant in my work, and my companion when we both need comfort. Kirsty, I’m asking you to become my mistress.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’m a good girl,” Kirsty whispered to herself. “That I am. A good girl, a good girl. But Lordy, I dinna want t’be good anymore.”

  The hour grew late. She didn’t know how long she’d sat in her sitting room before a fire that had burned down to no more than embers. The curtains were still open at the casement, and the sky had finally turned navy blue and violet with the approach of deep night.

  She hadn’t lighted any lamps, afraid that if she did Max might pass by, see the light, and try to talk to her. If she looked at him again tonight, she might not hold fast to her resolve.

  He’d asked her to become a fallen woman—his woman in every way but through marriage before the Lord.

  And she’d been frightened by his asking, but she’d wanted to say yes.

  She was a good girl.

  If Lady Hermoine’s cousin hadn’t arrived to see Max, would it have been so easy to leave him in his study with a quiet, “That willna be possible, sir. Good night, t’ye.”

  No doubt the Honorable Mr. Horace Hubble had come to talk about the wedding. Kirsty didn’t think Max liked the man overmuch, probably because Mr. Hubble made poses and dressed in a fancy way so unlike Max’s own simple manner of dress.

  She hadn’t heard Max come upstairs. He was probably angry with her and gone to find entertainment elsewhere. Kirsty pressed her cheeks. Even to think of such things was wrong. She didn’t know what Max was about at this time of night, and she should never judge him harshly.

  To pretend was to delude. He had spoken the truth when he’d said he wanted her—and it had been that wanting that had driven him to retain her for a position unsuited to a woman, particularly a woman of her background. He had retained her, though, and she was capable of being a credit in the position. Unless he told her he’d changed his mind, she’d apply herself to the work and try not to think of the other. And if he did change his mind, well then . . . Well, then she’d have to pray she’d find happiness elsewhere.

  She was strong. Her mother and father had taught her to be strong, and she had a good mind.

  But to leave this place . . .

  To leave her family and Max . . .

  Oh, his kisses. And he’d said lovely things—and touched her. Her body had never felt such feelings. She felt them again now and blushed from the power of it all.

  Her throat ached so. If she started to cry, she might never stop.

  He wanted to lie with her.

  He wanted to do what men and women did together— make the passion he’d spoken of. If she gave him his way, she’d be no better than Fergus Wilkie and the others said she was.

  Did she care what they said, care enough to deny herself the wonder of having as much of Max Rossmara as he’d be able to give her?

  The truth was that there was no hope of peace. She couldn’t go back, and she would never truly belong here. If she stayed, the future would be one of grasping moments of happiness just from the looking at him, the listening to him. The rest would be wat
ching him with Lady Hermoine, who would surely not be the callous creature he expected. No, not at all. She would love him, and they would be happy. How could any woman not love him?

  Kirsty got to her feet and went to the bedroom. Once undressed and beneath covers that smelled of soap, she curled into a tight ball.

  The sobs came, dry and unbidden, but impossible to suppress any longer. She turned her face into the pillow to muffle the noise and prayed for morning.

  • • •

  Brandy was misunderstood. It was a wonderful drug, a cure-all, a sure way of banishing the misery visited upon innocent men by uncaring women.

  Max climbed the stairs, holding tight to the banister with one hand, and gripping the neck of his all-but-empty decanter with the other. The lovely brandy had served him quite well this evening. He’d drunk a few glasses with the Hubble chap and tempered the man’s demanding mood, finally sending him on his way satisfied to wait a while to announce the bloody betrothal.

  The warmth in Max’s veins had begun to cool. The sooner he got to his rooms, the sooner he could remedy that with another draft of the amber fire.

  “That willna be possible, sir. Good night t’ye.”

  She had turned him down, turned down Max Rossmara, a man who could find a woman to fawn upon him whenever he pleased. Well, if she hoped he’d beg, she was mistaken. The time had come to put any feelings for her behind him.

  He paused, leaned against the balusters, and rubbed his eyes. He was foxed, but not as foxed as he’d been many times before. Kirsty didn’t approve of his drinking. If he had her at his side, he wouldn’t need the bottle.

  Damn her anyway, who did she think she was? He didn’t need her and her prissy notions.

  He carried on, walking more steadily. Deep within him the seeds of fury sprouted. When he reached her door, he stopped. No light showed. She’d have gone to bed, to bed to wrap herself in righteousness. If he went to her, she wouldn’t turn him away. Who was master here, anyway? He’d retained her to do his bidding and do his bidding she should.

  He raised a fist to beat on the door.