Last Chance for a Lord (A Lord's Kiss Book 1)

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by Summer Hanford


  Emily’s heart fluttered, a wild creature in her chest. The room swayed and she clutched his arms. He clasped warm hands about her waist, his fingers nearly spanning the distance.

  “And the…the depravity? The wild friends?” She forced the words out, willed her head to clear.

  “Gone. Over and done with. For good.” He drew her closer, till her ruffles were crushed between them. “Emily, if you kiss me right now, I’ll know all is forgiven,” he said in that same low, smooth voice. “I’ll know you love me and will marry me.”

  She searched his smoldering gaze. They’d never kissed, all those years ago. Then, when he proposed, he said it would be wrong to kiss her before getting permission to marry her from her father. That had never happened. Devon was whisked away, out of her life, and her father was gone. Now, instead of speeches of honor, Devon asked for a clandestine kiss in a library. Was he the same young man who’d once professed his love?

  Her eyes went to his lips. No one had ever kissed her. Did Devon need to be exactly as he’d been in their youth? He was Devon, and she loved him. That had never, would never, change. She gave the tiniest nod.

  “This is my reward for always lingering in the library,” he murmured, and lowered his head toward hers. “A beautiful woman to kiss.”

  Emily pulled back. He’d said it again, that he always waited in the library. Prudence’s smug face appeared in her mind. Prudence had known. Why else be so smug?

  “Not a woman,” she said. “Me. Emily. This is a cruel game, waiting in the library to kiss unsuspecting misses.”

  Devon blinked, expression baffled. “No, Em. It’s always been you.”

  More lies. “Except it hasn’t, has it?” She jerked free of him and backed toward the open door. “There have been plenty of others. Everyone knows what a rake you are.” He’d confirmed it to her face, moments ago. What did she think, he had reformed after three years, simply because she’d arrived in London? She might forgive him a past, but she refused to forsake her future.

  “Was,” he said, his arms half raised, as if he would reclaim her. “I was a rake, once.”

  “Yet, you linger in the library waiting for beautiful women.” She retreated another step.

  “It was a compliment. You’re beautiful. You must know that. Even more so now than ever.” He pushed a hand through his hair, his look one of mingled frustration and confusion.

  “I can’t kiss you, Devon. I don’t know what kind of man you are.”

  “But you do know. You’ve known me nearly all my life.”

  “Not for the last three years. Not the devil you’ve become.”

  “Emily, please,” he pleaded. His pretense of sincerity knifed through her. “I’ve waited for you for so long.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t do it, wouldn’t. Kissing a Devon who lingered in the library waiting for fresh-faced misses to arrive would break her heart. She would never reclaim the pieces. Emily whirled and fled the library—and the temptation of his arms.

  Chapter Three

  Emily raced down the corridor. Devon had betrayed her. How could he? Pain knifed through her. Light from the ballroom spilled into the hallway up ahead. She halted, vision blurred by tears and forced back gasping inhalations. Heaven help her if her crying transformed into sobs. With trembling hands, she smoothed down her skirt, fluffed her ruffles, and patted errant strands of hair. At last, she took a fortifying breath, then slipped into the crowded ballroom to retake her place in the emptiness near her mother.

  Mother didn’t appear to have noticed her absence, so intent was she on her conversation with the viscountess. Tears threatened again. Emily squeezed her eyes shut. How could Devon have gone from a young man who wouldn’t kiss her without declaring his intentions to her father, to a rake who lurked in libraries waiting for unsuspecting young women?

  “So?” Prudence’s smug demand brought Emily’s eyes open.

  Fury swept through her. “How dare you send me there to be…” Emily halted, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “To be kissed? What sort of cruel game is that, Prudence?”

  Gathered close on either side of them, Fanny and Liza exchanged startled looks.

  Prudence frowned. “Kissed? I have no idea what you mean. You were to go and come back, likely getting in trouble with your mama.” Prudence gestured toward Emily’s mother. “But she didn’t even notice.”

  “I was set upon,” Emily hissed.

  “By whom? Who would dare enter the Viscount Millview’s library?”

  “The viscount.” Emily frothed with anger. Prudence played a cruel game, even for a schoolmate prank.

  Fanny gasped.

  Liza’s hands flew to her mouth.

  Prudence’s jaw fell open. “The viscount was in the library?”

  Emily took in the three shocked faces. Her anger started to cool under their incredulity. “You didn’t know he would be?”

  Prudence shook her head, vexation twisting her pinched features.

  Fanny snorted. “If she’d known, she would have gone there to be kissed.”

  “Did you really kiss him?” Liza asked.

  “Did Fanny really kiss a duke to learn some secret words?” Emily countered.

  All three shook their heads.

  “It was all a lie?”

  They nodded.

  “Do you...” Emily wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but her lingering anger drove her on. “Do you send everyone who’s new off to the library?”

  Prudence’s lips pressed into a firm line, her expression darkening.

  “She plays some trick on them,” Liza offered. “Spills punch on their hem, starts rumors about them being foolish enough to kiss a frog in hopes they’ll get a prince. Sends them off into the house so they get in trouble with their mamas.”

  “Not the library before, though,” Fanny added. She held up a hand, ticking off on her fingers as she continued, “The veranda, the garden, the fountain, the conservatory, the—”

  “Enough,” Prudence broke in.

  Emily pressed fingers to her suddenly aching forehead. Devon didn’t wait in the library to kiss women. How could she think he would? He was right, she did know him. She knew him nearly as well as she knew herself, and right now, she liked him even better.

  How could she not see his sincerity? The joy in his eyes when he beheld her, the pain when he spoke of disappointing her? Those weren’t lies.

  But she knew how. She’d thought to forgive him his years of bandying about. She knew most men did the same. To hear him confess it, though, even without detail, hurt. She loved him so much, she’d never been tempted by another man, and he’d been out…out…

  “Emily?” Prudence’s tone held worry now. “Are you unwell?”

  “She’s gone white as a bedsheet,” Liza said.

  “Maybe we should bring her some punch?”

  “No.” Emily tried to draw in a steadying breath, but agony squeezed her lungs. “No, I’m perfectly well.” Her chest rose and fell with her rapid gasps. Dizziness assailed her. Her rejection of Devon rang in her ears.

  “You don’t look well,” Fanny said.

  Emily shook her head, wishing they would leave her be. She’d turned Devon away, for what? Because he’d been young and foolish? Wasn’t she being foolish, holding his mistakes against him when he was all she’d ever wanted? He said he’d given up his rakish ways. All evidence pointed to such. She hadn’t seen his name in the scandal sheets since coming to London, and he’d been throwing balls. What sort of rake threw balls?

  Emily covered her face with her hands. He must hate her now. What if she’d driven him away, back to his evil friends? He bared his heart, said they would marry, and she called him a devil and ran off. Could that be undone?

  She’d squandered her one chance of happiness because of fear and jealousy. All she wanted to do was sink down onto the hard marble floor and weep.

  Liza gasped. The room seemed almost to ripple with interest. Emily lowered her hands. The other
young women’s attentions focused on something behind her. Dread filling her, Emily turned.

  Devon stalked across the ballroom, followed by both of their mothers. Emily spared only a glance for their beaming smiles. Her world centered on Devon.

  He wore his tailcoat now, the shimmering green vest a bright splash under the black. His cravat was tied, impeccably, and somehow she knew he’d seen to it himself. His face was a cold mask, but his hazel eyes burned into her.

  Devon’s long strides quickly outdistanced the women following him. The three surrounding her melted back, Liza with an audible gulp. Devon stopped abruptly before Emily. His eyes flicked to the other women, then back to her.

  “Sending your friends away from the devil, Miss Green?” he grated out, bowing.

  Emily shook her head. Her throat was dry. She swallowed convulsively and dropped a curtsey, agonizingly aware of the pain behind his hard exterior. She’d caused that pain and it lanced through her like a living thing. “Devon, I—”

  “It’s Viscount Millview. We are in public. Not that we shall ever be otherwise.”

  Emily opened her mouth, shocked by the hollow coldness in his voice. She drew her trembling lips closed. Despair bloomed under his glare.

  “My mother has ordered me to dance with you,” Devon said. He extended a hand.

  “The first dance?” Emily’s voice came out a squeak.

  “She doesn’t realize, I imagine, that you have a strong aversion to my company.”

  He glowered down at her, his features clouded with pain, his long form taut. She’d done this to him. She’d changed him from the warm, loving companion of their youth into the devil she accused him of being. She had to bring her Devon back before the pain of it killed her and ruined him.

  She managed to whisper, “I don’t have an aversion to your company.”

  Devon blinked. He dropped his hand to his side. A murmur rippled through the ballroom. Even Emily wasn’t small enough to avoid notice when standing beside the towering viscount.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing the words out when he didn’t speak. “I behaved like a fool. I was jealous, and resentful, and…and a fool.”

  Still, he stared at her, unmoving, unspeaking, his gaze hooded.

  Was she wrong? Was he a rogue after all? Her knees felt weak. The pain of losing him made her faint. The room tilted.

  He held out his hand again, his expression softening. “Emily, I didn’t mean to hurt you. My intention was to apologize. Perhaps I am not as clever with words as I ought to be.”

  “You were clear and honest, and I was petty and silly.” She placed an unsteady hand in his.

  “You were hurt.”

  “I was.” She looked down at his strong hand, encompassing hers. Her face heated with the memory of his long fingers wrapped about her waist.

  “Are you still hurt?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

  “I won’t lie, I may be. I don’t like to think of you ever touching another woman the way I dream of you touching me.” Her face grew even hotter. She cursed her fair skin, for the whole room must see her blushing and wonder what they said to each other.

  Indeed, the murmuring about them swelled. She dared to look up at him, worried she’d shocked him, but she didn’t regret speaking the truth. This was likely her final chance with Devon. Her heart would break if she lost him.

  “I could never touch another woman the way I would you,” he murmured. “No other woman is like you, Emily Green, and no other has ever, will ever, know my love.”

  Emily’s breath caught. She hadn’t ruined everything. She took a step closer, reached for his other hand, and ignored the gasps in the crowd. “Devon, if you kiss me right now, I’ll know all is forgiven. I’ll know you love me and will marry me.”

  A slow smile curved his lips.

  Epilogue

  Emily spun through the ballroom, thrilled by the strength of her husband’s arm around her waist. Devon smiled down at her, his eyes dark with passion. She fought a blush, too aware of her mother’s and mother-in-law’s watchful gazes. As much as she wanted Devon to kiss her, she dreaded the week of scolding they would both endure if they succumbed to the impulse. Kissing in the middle of a ballroom was not acceptable behavior. Ever since the night of their betrothal, a year ago, society had kept a watchful eye, daring them to repeat the act.

  As they danced, she caught sight of Prudence, Fanny and Liza, all on their third season now, clustered about a wide-eyed miss. Emily shook her head. She would have to rescue the girl.

  “Is dancing with me not enough to hold your attention, love?” Devon teased.

  “They’re going to send that poor girl off to the conservatory, or the veranda or—”

  “The library?” His hazel eyes danced with mischief.

  “Or the library,” she agreed primly. “I must intervene.”

  “Oh? Was slipping off to the library truly so terrible?”

  She smiled at him. “It had its ups and downs.”

  “Hm.” His gaze roamed over her in a way that still brought heat to her cheeks. “It did at that. I’d say the downside was letting you leave before I could kiss you.”

  “Devon,” she squeaked, as he lowered his lips to hers.

  The gasps of the onlookers, along with her own qualms, were forgotten when his warm lips met hers. The promise and devotion of that kiss stole Emily’s breath. When he finally released her, she let out a long, languid sigh.

  “Devon Fletcher, I’ll never hear the end of that from my mother, or yours,” Emily protested, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “You’re such a rake.”

  He chuckled and spun her back into the dance. “No, my love, I’m the devil.”

  ###

  To Know a Lord’s Kiss

  A Lord’s Kiss

  Book Two

  Summer Hanford

  A single kiss...real or false, either way, she is ruined.

  Francine isn't in love with Baron Erwin, but at the end of her third season, he's the only gentleman who has shown any interest in her. Come what may, she must find a husband. When rumor of a scandalous kiss between Francine and an unnamed duke reaches the baron's ears, even Baron Erwin abandons her. In spite of the rumor, Francine has never been kissed, and now she fears she never will be.

  Chapter One

  Francine sailed into the ballroom in a frilly mint-green gown and a haze of triumph. The previous evening, Baron Erwin Bailey had danced with her, twice. Then, that afternoon, he’d called with a bouquet of hothouse flowers and the assurance he wished to dance with her again tonight. By tomorrow evening, Francine expected to be engaged. As she was halfway through her third season, the baron’s attention was a keen source of relief. After all, no one else seemed to want her…especially not the one man she wished did.

  She glided through the glittering ballroom, leaving her proud mama behind. Lords, ladies, misses and gentlemen turned to observe her. Francine couldn’t hide her smile, but marshaled her lips into a sublime curve. A victorious smile would be a bit premature, and a touch vulgar. Something her schoolmate, Prudence, would do, not Francine.

  A few of the gentlemen guffawed. Behind lace fans and gloved hands, feminine titters rose. A thread of unease stirred, coiling through her. She glanced about, suddenly needing the reassurance of her childhood friend to debase her of the notion she was being laughed at, but Lawrence was nowhere to be seen. She strove not to frown. Lawrence attended every event she attended. His absence doubled her unease.

  The crowd parted. Across the room, standing near one of the sweeping columns that held the gold painted ceiling aloft, she spied Baron Erwin. Dressed in a daring combination of puce and silver that emphasized the sallowness of his skin, he was turned toward her, frowning. Firming her smile against a tremor of worry, she went to greet him.

  He watched her approach, but made no move to intercept her. When Francine reached him, she dipped in a low curtsy. She leaned forward on her descent, as she’d observed other wom
en do. It was common knowledge men liked to avail themselves of the view the obeisance offered. That was likely the hidden origin of the act.

  Popping back up to her full height, an ungainly four inches over the acceptable five and a half feet a woman should dare achieve, Francine offered a carefully sublime expression. She wondered if the baron appreciated that she’d worn her coppery locks in dangling curls, not piled atop her head, so as not to appear taller than him.

  “Lord Erwin, how lovely to see you,” she said brightly. “Thank you again for the flowers.”

  He cleared his throat and lifted his dun-colored eyes from the view to meet hers. “Yes, well, about those. I’d prefer you don’t mention them. In fact, forget I brought them.”

  Francine blinked. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “The flowers. A mistake, that. Terrible one. Shouldn’t lead a girl on, I know. My apologies. Best forgotten and put behind us.”

  “You’re--” Realizing that contraction came out as a loud squeak, garnering looks, she marshaled her shock and began again, low and quiet. “You’re breaking it off with me?”

  “Nothing to break off.” He dusted invisible lint from his coat sleeve. “If you believe I was showing an interest, you’re mistaken.”

  Francine stared, disbelief devouring her earlier triumph. “But, why?” was all she could think to ask. They’d been getting on so well. She’d done nothing improper during his visit that afternoon. She’d been everything convivial, correct, and drilled into her head by her mama.

  He shifted weight from foot to foot, a scowl overtaking his narrow mouth. “You know why.”

  She did? “I confess, my lord, I have no idea.”

  He leaned close. “That kiss.”

  Francine could only gape at him. Kiss? “I’ve never been kissed.”

 

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