The Kiss

by Sophia Nash

  “It will be very little work, Georgiana,” Grace said stroking Fairleigh’s curls. “I’m certain Rosamunde would be willing to arrange the flowers—you know her gorgeous creations. And I’ve a notion to import an orchestra from town, if you would like.”

  “It appears it’s all arranged. There is nothing for me to do then,” Georgiana said, forcing a smile to her lips. “I can’t thank you enough, Grace.”

  There was an awkward silence as Quinn’s eyes finally rose to hers and studied her. “Actually there is something more. We need you to organize the daytime activities.”

  “What activities, Papa?”

  “Why, for Penrose’s annual harvest festival.”

  “What?” Georgiana said, disbelief threading her voice.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve discontinued the tradition of the festival?” he replied.

  “Well, yes. The last time was a decade or so ago, when Anthony’s father was still alive.”

  “What activities?” Fairleigh said with excitement. “You never mentioned anything beyond a ball, Papa.”

  His eyes locked with Georgiana’s, and discomfort knotted her stomach.

  “Well, I’m thinking a little bit of adventure would do us all some good here. Don’t you agree, Georgiana?”

  “Adventure is always a good idea,” she murmured, touched that he had remembered her advice.

  He looked down at his pretty daughter. “Penrose was the seat of a festival at the start of the harvest. It was to celebrate the bounty of the summer months and apparently in ancient times to make an offering to the gods of wheat and corn. There’s a huge bonfire, and contests of skill, and judging vegetables, and jams, and honey, and—”

  “I should very much like to judge the honey making, Georgiana,” Fairleigh cut in.

  “And so you shall, if your father agrees.”

  “What do you think, Grace?” he said, smiling at the countess. “I think I shall allow it if you are able to wheedle Fairleigh into finishing that pretty embroidery the two of you started.”

  His daughter pulled a face.

  Grace laughed. “My dearest Fairleigh, you are simply like any lady. You need a proper incentive. And I shall offer it.” Grace lifted her impossibly long lashes and winked at Georgiana. “We shall just have to make sure there is an embroidery contest. And I shall offer the prize. Hmmm. How about that lovely strand of pearls from my collection you admired?”

  Fairleigh’s eyes widened and she grabbed the countess and began dragging her away. “Come on. We’ve got work to do. You said you’d show me how to do French knotting and…” The little girl’s voice drifted and meshed with the countess’s lovely laughter as Grace tried unsuccessfully to halt their hasty departure.

  “Quinn and Georgiana, do forgive me,” Grace called back. “I shall see you both at dinner to report our progress.”

  Only the hum of the bees filled the stillness.

  “Well,” Quinn began, “I suppose I should go after them before Fairleigh tries to talk Grace into throwing in the matching pearl ear bobs.”

  Georgiana ignored her veiled hat and quickly turned to pick up the chafing dish again. Her back was to him. “Of course.” She was at least grateful he was not apologizing for yesterday’s events. She didn’t think she could bear it if he did.

  But she heard not a single fading footfall. The air was as thick with tension as it was with the smoke emanating from the pot she stoked with more peat.

  Georgiana lifted the top board from the box hive, dousing the bees again with pungent smoke and exposing the combs for her inspection. She lifted the first from its crusted slot, but it jammed at the top, most likely because she couldn’t seem to make her limbs move gracefully when he was standing behind her, observing her.

  A second pair of hands grasped the comb below her own and helped ease the board away. “Allow me to help you. Where is the scraper?”

  “You’ll get stung.”

  “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But probably not, if they’re anything like the bees in Portugal.”

  She finally looked up to meet the intense green of his gaze. The brown elements of his irises had retreated as his pupils enlarged.

  “I let a cottage with Cynthia one summer to give Fairleigh a taste of the country. The one caveat was that we had to tend the gentleman’s bees, his passion.”

  She handed him the scraper and set a pan underneath the comb. “And you were never stung?”

  “Apparently the bees didn’t mind my scent.”

  Of course not. He smelled of rosemary and everything bees loved. “You’ve not spoken of your wife before. I’ve been remiss in not telling you how sad we all were to hear of your bereavement. I understand she was a most beautiful lady, and very devoted to you.” She bit her lower lip. “I—I’m very sorry, Quinn.”

  He finished scraping the honeycombs from the rack and replaced it. “How many more?”

  His avoidance of her condolences said everything he did not. Clearly he still pined for his wife. “All but the last two,” she replied while applying more smoke to the combs.

  “The hives in Portugal were cylindrical, fashioned from the rinds of cork trees and covered with earthenware. Perhaps I could have some made for us to try.”

  “If you like,” she said carefully. She was at least grateful they could converse with relative straightforwardness.

  The strained atmosphere continued as they pilfered the honey from under the drowsy bees’ notice. “And perhaps,” he said, “you’ll tell me more about beekeeping.”

  Thank God he had pushed forward a topic of conversation to fill the void. “Well, you probably already know about the division of labor in a colony,” she replied.

  “Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘For so work the honeybees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.’?”

  “It’s a very self-sufficient life. There are the worker bees—all females, of course—who collect honey and pollen and nurse the young. The males—the drones—are altogether idle. All they do is—” She stopped abruptly and stifled an embarrassed laugh. When, oh when would she stop to think before blurting out everything?

  “Oh no. You’ve obviously got to the best part. Spill it, or else.” His eyes were full of the mirth she remembered from their days of youth.

  “Well, I think your threat is fairly empty since even you know enough not to move quickly and raise the ire of thousands of bees. But I shall tell you, for”—she laughed here—“you deserve to hear it now. The drones do little but sit around getting drunk on nectar.”

  “That’s it? Or are you just too shy to tell the truth of the matter?” He lowered the lids of his eyes and looked at her knowingly.

  And suddenly she realized he knew everything about beekeeping. Probably more than she did. And she knew a lot. “Why don’t you tell me then?” she said quietly.

  “The drones accompany the queen on her bridal tour, shall we say? And in doing so they sacrifice their lives.” His voice had become a whisper. “I think we can forgive them for drinking a bit too much, don’t you agree?”

  It was obvious he was now talking about something entirely different from bees. She straightened abruptly. He knew. Somehow he knew about Tony and what had happened on their wedding night.

  She had to get away from him. Beekeeping etiquette forgotten, she tore off her gloves. A few bees rose up and clouded her vision.

  Abruptly, she strode away without looking back, only to feel a sting on the tender flesh of the inside of her elbow. She broke into a run, vaguely hearing a clatter of boards behind her. And the voice of the man who had haunted her dreams for almost two decades calling after her.

  Footsteps thrashing the tall grasses followed her. She knew she appeared foolish but could not gather the courage to stop and face him. She doglegged to the left and entered the hay barn.

  The scent of sweet, dry clover filled the air, and dust particles drifted in the single shaft of light from the double-wide doorway. H
is hand appeared on the edge of the entrance and he swung around to the inside, panting and resting his hands on his knees.

  “What was that all about?” he asked, his breathing ragged.

  “I think you know,” she said, hurt still oozing ’round her mind.

  “Well, the thought occurred that perhaps you misinterpreted my words. I hesitate to ask if this has something to do with your marriage. I don’t want to pain you. Georgiana, let me see your arm.”

  She looked down to where she gripped her elbow. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said.

  “You’re obviously not fine at all.” He stretched out his hand and it hung in the space between them.

  “I want you to leave,” she whispered.

  “Where?” Quinn asked slowly. “Here? This barn? Or is it Penrose?”

  “Here. Obviously, I’m not in a position to ask you to leave Penrose,” she said. “Oh, I told you I don’t want the silly title. I just want you—everyone—to leave it alone.” She stopped.

  “How did Anthony die?” he asked quietly.

  And God help her, she knew she would tell him. She would do the one thing she had sworn she would never do.

  “In my arms,” she answered, raw pain filling her eyes that were so dark they appeared black in the shadows of the barn. Her lips twisted in grief. “He drank to celebrate our marriage and probably puffed on that horrid opium pipe and then he drank some more. And then we retired, and his mother intruded, and…and then she left, and we…” She closed her eyes and Quinn could see she was trying to collect herself. “And he died. In my arms. And I couldn’t move, couldn’t budge him off of me. And then I couldn’t revive him. I think it was a weakness of his heart. There. Now you know. It’s what you’ve wanted to know since you got here, isn’t it? Now you can stop the bloody questions. And you could also try to stop being kind and concerned one moment and distant the next.”

  “I’m sorry, Georgiana.” He felt wretched. “I don’t want to cause you more pain—far from it. But I did need to know, if only to help you deflect scandal. No one believes the story you concocted about him choking and collapsing during a late supper.”

  “Did you really think I would allow him to be made a laughingstock in death? It would be intolerable, having others think he died while making love to me.” Her voice had become shrill with nervousness. “And then there was the possibility of becoming known as the Black Widow, as in spider. That’s what someone—Augustine Phelps, do you remember her?—said behind my back after the funeral. ‘An insect that mates and then kills’ is what she said of me.”

  “I shall put an end to the inquiry,” he said tightly. “Immediately.”

  She was rubbing the inside of her elbow.

  He took a step toward her and she looked at him warily.

  “You should have told me, Georgiana. Right from the start. Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “Why don’t you trust me?” she whispered in return.

  He stared hard at her and pulled her toward the light beam. A tiny barb was visible in the flushed, tender skin of her arm. He extracted it and looked up to encounter her dazed, exhausted expression. “Perhaps because I’ve learned that some women are also like their bee counterparts. They sting to protect themselves.”

  “And die trying,” she countered.

  He touched her cheek gently. “I think we both know that for the bee and beekeeper alike, to show fight is to court defeat.”

  Chapter 8

  August 14—to do

  - cut hay in north field

  - find new physician for Father

  - write to Grayson

  - ledgers—see Mr. Brown

  - have lawns attended to for festival

  - last fitting of new gray silk ball gown—if time

  A fortnight passed, with Georgiana taking every opportunity to be outdoors, working on the estate or at her father’s bedside—anywhere but in the great house. She was intensely thankful the days had flown by without any more embarrassing incidents. Of course there was a reason for that. Both Quinn and she, in unspoken agreement, had kept all their interactions within the confines of the company of others.

  She had known her time at Penrose was fast coming to an end the day Mr. Brown took up residence in one of Penrose’s guest rooms. She just hadn’t figured it would end so quickly or so smoothly.

  Like so many others before her, she thought ruefully, she and her father were essentially expendable—as replaceable as the animals, the laborers, the tenants, even as disposable as the men who had borne the noble title of Marquis of Ellesmere.

  She supposed it was just penance for someone who had taken too much pride in her ability to manage a vast estate almost single-handedly.

  Glancing at the ledger—which was becoming increasingly filled with Mr. Brown’s neat script, which slanted in a different direction from her own—she realized with sadness that she was truly no longer vital here.

  “Lass, your presence has been requested in the morning room. Ata was very insistent,” the older balding man said gently from the doorway of the steward’s room. “I’m glad it’s on your pretty head to organize the last few things before the ball tonight, and not on my balding pate. Nothing I hate more than discussions of flowers and lace.” He widened his gummy smile and escorted her from the lair she was losing her grip on more and more with each passing day.

  Tea trays appeared just as Georgiana entered the room. The maids placed them in front of the countess, whose natural regal bearing bespoke of steady hands when it came to pouring tea, something Georgiana managed to make a complete muck of time and again. Georgiana circled the group and sat beside Sarah, the quietest and kindest member of the group.

  “My dears, the trick to widowhood is to stop thinking of it as permanent,” Ata advised the ladies gathered around her in the blue room.

  “The same could be said about marriage,” a male voice said behind them.

  Georgiana glanced quickly toward the doorway. Quinn stood poised at the entrance, drenched in the clear golden light of a fine Cornish morning. Like drab moths to light, all the widows turned their attention to him in a gale of giggles.

  “Quinn, dear, you’re not helping the cause,” Ata said with a smile. “I was just explaining the necessity of broadening our experiences.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you describe hunting husbands these days?”

  Another peal of laughter and a chorus of denials echoed throughout the chamber.

  “Well, I suppose”—and here he shook his head—“I could be accused of aiding and abetting your cause. Please excuse the intrusion, but I do believe you’ve all been waiting for these.”

  A footman and the harried form of the dressmaker Grace had arranged from town poured forth around him. They bore a kaleidoscope of beautiful gowns between them.

  The fashionable silk dresses were distributed over the backs of assorted chaises and gilded chairs. Exclamations of excitement filled the air while the dressmaker ordered the footman to secure the drapes in the room.

  The footman was then shooed out, leaving Quinn surrounded by members of the club and the mantua maker, who fussed over her creations in very poor, cockney-laced French.

  “The Widows Club will make a grand showing tonight,” Ata said, excitement and pride threading her voice.

  “Of that there was never any doubt,” Quinn said with a chuckle. “But I do believe, and actually I have been thinking this for a great while, that you might consider renaming your secret society.”

  Georgiana quietly retreated to a window seat, as she had been doing a great deal lately. It was better that way—to remove herself from the conversation when Quinn was among them.

  “Why, Quinn, what a wonderful idea,” Grace said with a smile, her animated expression radiant as she held her pale pink silk ball gown up to her form. That particular shade of rose had always been Grace’s best color.

  Ata giggled, wearing the silly girlish expression she adopted each time Quinn appeared. W
hy, he attracted ladies as easily as the last blooming flower of autumn tempted a horde of honeybees.

  Ata grasped his hand with her good one; the withered one she hid beneath the ends of her shawl. “You are a rogue, I think, although you hide it altogether too well, Quinn. What name were you thinking of? I’m certain I speak for all of us when I say we’re open to your excellent suggestions, as always.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured, a twinkle in his damnable eyes.

  Georgiana was sure he knew precisely what he was going to say.

  “‘Barely Bereaving Beauties’ would do quite adequately,” he said, the hint of a smile about his lips.

  Georgiana hated how everyone burst out laughing. She thought of Anthony and felt like crying. He deserved a better widow than she. Oh, she was being ridiculous. She really just grieved for the fact that she had not only lost Anthony but had also lost the ease of her past relationship with Quinn. In their youth she had at least had that. Now they had nothing—actually worse than nothing.

  She felt a soft hand grasp hers and turned to find Sarah’s very wise, kind eyes searching hers intently. “Come, Georgiana, will you help me with my gown? I can’t seem to find it.”

  Georgiana glanced beyond Sarah and spied Quinn staring at her, above Ata and Grace’s shoulders. Their eyes met for an instant before she looked away.

  “I will leave you all for your fitting, then. Until tonight, ladies.” Quinn bowed and exited amid a cloud of well-wishes.

  The ladies eagerly went to the gowns and barely noticed several ladies’ maids entering from another door. One of them approached Georgiana and bobbed a curtsy. “Ma’am. His lordship would have a word with you, if you please.”

  Sarah, still at her side, looked at her, a question in her eyes.

  “It’s all right. I’ll be right back.”

  He was waiting for her on the other side of the door. “I beg your pardon, Georgiana, if I offended you in any way,” he said, his voice deepening. “I hadn’t meant to.”