The Kiss

by Sophia Nash

  Rosamunde smiled lovingly. “The feeling is entirely mutual, dearest. I’m very grateful to you for inviting Ata and everyone else to stay with you.” She looked at her closely for a long moment. “But you must promise me you will not cut yourself off from future chances of happiness. My brother, Miles, much as I tease him, admires you greatly. Perhaps, with time, things might—”

  “No, Rosamunde. I respect him and appreciate his attentions of late. But if I ever sensed for a moment that his heart was seriously engaged, that would be the end of it. I even went so far as to tell him that, several days ago. And he seemed relieved. Now we flirt with great ease, since we both know there is nothing behind it.” She grasped her friend’s hand. “I just can’t tolerate the idea of a marriage of convenience, much as I might desire the promise of companionship.”

  “I thought not,” Rosamunde said, sadly. “Well, I know you’ll forgive me for trying to make you my sister in law.”

  Georgiana smiled. “Considering how poorly I fared with my in-laws, I shall be delighted simply to remain your best friend.”

  A half hour later found Georgiana standing beside her father and mother, bobbing curtsies to each of the departing neighbors. She wasn’t sure how she managed to contain all the emotions running through her.

  He had done this all for her.

  All of it.

  And yet, it was simply because he was a man of great character, bound to adhere to the strictest of principles, which included providing for the widow of a man who had cuckolded him.

  And suddenly he was before her. Quinn thrust an interesting object between them. “A small gift for you, Georgiana. Fairleigh and I made several of them.”

  She looked at it, careful not to meet his eye. “It’s a beehive, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure if we constructed them properly. It was from memory.”

  “This is the design you described—the cork-bottomed ones from Portugal.”

  “The very one.”

  Grace was beside Quinn and she placed a beautifully embroidered cushion into Georgiana’s other arm. “And this is from me. I hope you like it.”

  “Oh, Grace. It’s exquisite. I shall cherish it always. It’s the most lovely thing I’ve ever possessed.

  A hand was tugging at her arm. “Georgiana, Papa told me the bestest news ever, this morning. He said that when he goes to visit his friends I can come and stay with you and Ata and the other ladies if you’ll have me. And I told him that was ridiculous. Of course you would have me—”

  “Fairleigh,” Quinn broke in with his exasperated-father voice. “I told you I would have to discuss it with Georgiana first. It isn’t proper to invite yourself.”

  Georgiana dropped to her knees and put all the gifts to one side to take Fairleigh in her arms. “You must listen to your father, dearest. He is always right, you know. But I will tell you a secret. There will always be a chamber next to mine with a bed and a painting box next to it. And it will always be reserved for you, and you alone.”

  She finally raised her eyes. Grace was conversing with departing guests and Quinn was looking down at Fairleigh, wrapped in her arms.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “It is I who should be thanking you,” she whispered back.

  He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes glimmering with unspoken emotion.

  The feelings it engendered in her breast were so powerful, she had to glance away. Beyond his shoulder, she saw the familiar form of a lone rider coming over the rise to the east, and a tremor of hope flickered.

  And then, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 18

  Ata’s List

  October 12th—to do

  - transport hidden cache of Armagnac to Trehallow

  - discuss marriage plans with Grace

  - figure out a way to see Caro and Henry more often

  - take out Quinn’s carriage!

  “Lord Ellesmere!” Mr. Brown shouted while running from the stables as fast as his spindly old legs would allow. “Lord almighty! She’s taken your phaeton.”

  Quinn grasped the arm of the new Trehallow footman. “Four horses, man. Have four horses saddled immediately.” His voice held the authority of a king. The footman ran so fast that his white wig flew off his head, revealing the dark queue beneath.

  “Bloody hell.” Dark horror streaked Luc’s face as he came running. The gaggle of remaining guests said hurried good-byes and flew away.

  “Luc, circle St. Ives. I’ll take the road to Penzance,” Quinn said quickly. “Brownie, you go toward Penrose; Miles, take the north road, and”—he looked at Georgiana—“tell whoever is coming through the gardens to take the eastern route to the opposite coast.”

  Without another word they scattered.

  Georgiana ran as fast as her damaged limbs would allow. She had another reason to run.

  He was silhouetted against the brightness of the sun but she would know him anywhere.

  Grayson. Her brother.

  He was returned and she thought her heart might burst from the joy. She had no idea how he had known to come here. But she had never been so grateful to see someone in her life.

  Brownie cursed the number of cakes rattling around his insides as he rode hell for leather toward Penrose. Lord almighty, he would strangle that thin, little wrinkled neck of hers when he caught up with her in that bloody death trap of Quinn’s. He tried not to think what he would do to himself if he was too late.

  How could she have done it? How many times had he warned her? How many locks had he installed over the years? And yet here he was again, racing to save her stubborn, brittle bones.

  He silently cursed again the good Lord above for arranging his life so that he would only ever fall in love with one woman. A four-foot, eleven-inch ball of fire. An Armagnac-loving goddess from hell with the generous soul of an angel. Tears streaked past his age-spot-riddled temples as he urged his horse to new speeds and tried to ignore a hundred different aches in his old body.

  He spied a small stile off the sandy lane and guided the gelding over it at a full gallop. Cutting through the string of meadows would give him a chance. A half mile later he jumped back onto the road and was now certain someone was up ahead.

  His heart hammered in his chest as he tore Ata’s ridiculous, fruit-laden hat from a low tree branch as he galloped past it. Around the next corner he saw her.

  Just then, the phaeton skidded wildly around another bend, and Ata’s shriek sent a bolt of pure terror through him. His horse must have sensed it, for the bay leaped ahead. He leaned forward in the saddle and raced along, spitting out dust and praying for a miracle.

  Just when it seemed he would never overtake them, his horse surged past the vehicle’s absurdly large wheels and he leaned in to grab the dangling rein of the horse galloping beside him. He straightened and tugged evenly, hoping all the while that he would not pull them all into the ditch. “Whoa,” he said deeply. “Hold up, boys. There now. There now. Whoa.” He kept up the calming stream of words, managing the trick of alternating between a slow release and a regathering of the single rein, thereby edging his mount past the two carriage horses.

  The phaeton finally came to a halt, the horses stamping and snorting their displeasure.

  John unglued himself from the saddle. Without a word he tied his horse’s reins to the back of the carriage, and noticed a missing spoke on one wheel, a partially ripped-away groom’s stand in back, and deep scratches in the paint. He shook his head and mounted the treacherous side of the tall phaeton. Och, a damned ridiculous modern notion for a carriage, this was.

  All the while he could hear the she-devil muttering. He slid his frame onto the small bench and sat there, hoping he would not have a heart seizure now that it was all over. A sweat broke out on him, and propriety be damned, he removed his wool coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Give me the reins.”

  “No,” she said petulantly.
>
  “Give me the reins this very second, lassie.”

  There was a long pause before Ata whimpered, “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t, lass?”

  “Look at me, John,” she murmured.

  That got his attention. She hadn’t uttered his Christian name in almost five decades. There were tears in her eyes when he glanced at her. He covered her one good hand and her other withered one with his own. “Let go, Merceditas.”

  “I can’t,” she wailed. “They won’t open.”

  He carefully turned her working hand over and pried the three remaining reins from her clenched fingers.

  One of the horses whinnied its desire to walk on.

  Reins collected, he urged the horses forward into a slow trot, all the while hoping the damaged wheel would hold till they reached Penrose, where he could recover his sanity in the relative quiet of the study—provided a pint of brandy could be found.

  “John,” she said again. “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t. I was driving them perfectly well. I know everyone thinks I’m an abominable horsewoman, but I’m not. My one hand works perfectly well. And Quinn did invite me to use his carriages whenever I wanted. You see, I was going along at an acceptable spanking pace when three deer popped out of a hedgerow and nearly collided with us. But I steadied the horses, quite expertly, I might add. And everything would have been just fine. I would have arrived at Penrose and I would have shown everyone that they were wrong. But then I turned a tight corner and a branch caught the near horse’s outside rein and tore it from my grasp. And the silly horses bolted, and…” Her high-pitched voice finally trailed off.

  “And?” he said.

  “And…why won’t you say something? Go ahead. I know you’re dying to say it. Tell me I’m an old, stubborn fool.”

  “That’s no’ what I would say.”

  “Well, then, say whatever you have to say and be done with it. At least I’ll be able to tell Luc you’ve already lectured me. And Quinn would never say a word. He…” She stopped talking when she realized he wasn’t going to interrupt her.

  For a quarter of an hour only the clop of the horses’ hooves against the packed ground could be heard.

  “Stop the horses,” Ata finally said forlornly. “Please.”

  He complied and pulled the pair to the side of the lane, where the shade of fall foliage beckoned. He looked at her. “Well, lassie?”

  “Talk to me. Go ahead. Rail against me. Just, please…Talk. To. Me. I can’t stand your silence.”

  He stroked her wrinkled cheek. “Really? For all the silence I’ve endured the last five decades, I’d begun to think you liked it.”

  “John, I’m so sorry. I’ll never take another horse or carriage again without someone with me.” She chewed her lower lip. “But I will still be able to drive as long as someone goes with me, right?”

  She nearly broke his heart. He could so easily see beyond the wrinkles and the thick, gray locks of her hair half tumbled from her head. She was still the sixteen-year-old lass he had lost his heart to five decades ago.

  He eased her hair away from her face. “The problem is that you’ve always felt the need to prove everyone wrong. There never was any need.”

  “But of course there was,” she replied.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because no one takes me seriously,” she said. “Oh, all the mushrooms of society and sycophants condescend to me to elevate themselves. But everyone else, from the time I was fully grown, has treated me like a child, because I’m so small and I’m female. It’s ridiculous. For goodness sakes, you would think people would begin to take me seriously at this point, at my age.”

  “No,” John replied sadly. “This need to prove everyone wrong started long before now. It started that summer you came to Scotland with your family and we met for the first time.”

  “No,” she begged. “We will not speak of this.”

  He grasped her pointed chin and tugged it toward his gaze. “We will speak of it. I’m tired of waiting for you to come around. And I’m not sure these old bones of mine will be able to keep running after you.”

  Her eyes were full, but he knew pride wouldn’t allow the tears to flow past the lashes.

  “Are you ever going to forgive me?” he asked quietly. “Are you ever going to admit that perhaps, just perhaps, lass, you were wrong too?”

  “Wrong?” Her eyes flared. “Wrong? You dare to suggest I was wrong? I was the one willing to leave everything behind for you. I was the one who arranged it all. You were the one who didn’t love me enough to go through with it. And I was the one who suffered the consequences, not you.” She looked down at her withered hand and winced in silent remembrance of a mysterious event she refused to reveal to anyone, including him.

  He wiped his hand over his face. “Och, lass. If you only knew…I suffered every day of my life since the day you married that terrible man. I know you did it to spite me. If you had only waited. Waited until I could earn enough to keep you.”

  “You asked me to wait too long,” she replied.

  “I couldna do it to you, lass.” He knew his Scottish burr riddled his speech when he became overly passionate. “I had so little to offer. Your parents would ha’ disowned you and you were but sixteen and I couldna be sure you wouldna regret marrying a lad with nothing to his name.”

  “Oh,” she said, her anger in full bloom. “You’re like everyone else, so sure I was too stupid to know my own mind. It was your fault, not mine. You were and still are hen-hearted, and I loathe everything cowardly.”

  He dropped her hands because he knew his own were shaking. “Och, you’re an unforgiving lass. I’d hoped time and everything else would soften you. But I see I’ve been a fool again.”

  “I won’t forgive you for standing me up at the altar—”

  “It was a bloody anvil at the smithy—”

  “I waited two hours before I realized you weren’t coming—”

  “I told you before, I didn’t come because I knew you’d talk me into ruining your life, what with those big, dark pussycat eyes o’ yourn.”

  “The only reason I tolerate you is because you watched over Luc at sea.”

  “I stood by your grandson in every battle he fought for more than half a decade, and I did it for you. But I see you’ve hardened your heart against me.”

  That petulant set to her mouth did not bode well for him. He knew it all too well. “Merceditas…please. This might just be our last chance. Marry me, lass. Let me take you back to Scotland, back to where we first met. Back to the anvil.”

  “I said it before, John Brown, and I’ll say it again. You had your chance. And after experiencing decades of something other than marital bliss, I’ve no taste for gentlemen ordering me about. I’m lucky to be in a position where I don’t ever have to be under someone’s thumb again.” She shifted her knees away from him. “Now, if you please, I would like to return to Penrose. I’m leaving for Trehallow in a few days to help Georgiana, and I must arrange many things before I go.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke. “The problem with old age is that we become inflexible…and prone to giving orders. But then, lass, you always did like to give orders.”

  She lashed around to face him again, fury in her dark eyes. “I think I rather earned the right to give a few orders after being forced to obey so many during twenty-four years, three months, two weeks, and one day of marriage.”

  He looked at her sadly and clucked at the horses to move forward in their traces. “And that’s why I follow your orders and have been for forty-nine years and I don’t know how many months, weeks, and days. But now that I know you won’t ever change your mind I won’t bother you again.” His burr disappeared. “I shall return to Scotland as soon as I can arrange for someone to assume my duties at Penrose.”

  It was too bad John Brown did not, in that moment, chance to gaze into Ata’s eyes. If he had, even his old and blurry eyes would have been able to discern h
er heartbreak.

  But as it stood, Ata told herself later, it was much better that way. And all so achingly familiar.

  Timing was a funny thing in life, Quinn thought, as he sat at his desk at Penrose a few days later. Mr. Brown was seated across from him, hat in hand. It was either perfect or it was a disaster, but timing was never in between the two extremes. It was unfortunate that in this instance, like the vast majority of the events in his life, timing was a disaster. With his departure imminent, who could Quinn find on short notice to oversee Penrose?

  “It’s quite all right, Mr. Brown,” he assured the older gentleman. “We agreed when you accepted my offer that it was most likely temporary in nature. I would, of course, prefer you to stay, now that I have come to admire you so much. Can I not convince you to remain here after all? Perhaps if I offered you more—”

  Mr. Brown held up his hands. “Och, no. You pay me too much as it is and what with those horrendous bills from Trehallow, you must keep a closer eye on your income. Besides, I was never in it for the money, but I think you know that.” He scratched his gray hair. “I must return to my small bit of property in Scotland. But I wouldna leave you in a bind, my lord.”

  “Quinn. I insist. You should address me as Quinn if you’re no longer going to be in my employ. I would be honored. It has been a pleasure to know you.” He wouldn’t try any harder to get the older gentleman to stay. He knew Ata was behind the misery that dogged the older Scot ever since the dowager duchess had almost turned his phaeton into kindling. “And you are not to worry about Penrose. Grayson Wilde might be persuaded to consider the position, if not permanently, then at least temporarily, I’m certain of it.”

  “She’ll no’ forgive me,” Mr. Brown said under his breath. “I must leave because she’ll never forgive me.”

  “If my words can ease your despair,” Quinn said quietly, “I can assure you that Ata loves you.”

  “Perhaps. But you see, love and forgiveness must go hand and hand. You cannot have one without the other.”