License to Kiss

by McKinley, Kate

  “I would thank you, but I know your efforts are entirely self-satisfying. Idleness breeds mischief, does it not? You would prefer to keep my mind occupied.”

  He didn’t deny her claim. Instead, he changed the topic. “Are you well?”

  She lifted a brow. “With exception of near constant nausea, I am perfectly well, thank you.”

  He spread his legs shoulder width apart and clasped his hands behind his back. Perhaps the gesture was a habit, but it made him seem even more powerful and imposing. This was the man the world saw. Cold and unwavering. The Viscount of Devon. The man who did not take no for an answer.

  He was so different from the man she had come to know in Scotland. Though, to be fair, he was nearly unconscious over half the time. Perhaps that was why she’d liked him so well.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. When he was awake, they had laughed at the absurdity of their predicament and what a nightmare the muddied roads had been. Though he lay on his back and could see little, he had certainly felt the carriage crawl over every rut and pebble.

  And at some point during their journey, when he had doubtless been pondering his own mortality, he’d confided his fears, his hopes for the future. He had bared his very soul and Emily had been the lucky recipient.

  The man before her now was a stranger and yet, beneath the austere facade, she knew the man from Scotland remained. Or perhaps that man had simply been an illusion. A fantasy strung together by false memories and foolish hopes.

  “Is there something you wished to discuss, or are you simply here to make certain I take my tonic?”

  His gaze fell to the small, untouched bottle on the nightstand. “The doctor prescribed that tonic for you?”

  “He did indeed.”

  “Then why should you not take it? Surely it will not harm you.”

  Anger welled in her chest and she struggled hard to keep from lashing out. Could he truly be so ignorant? Servitude had required her to conceal her true feelings. She used that skill now to hide her anger behind a veil of nonchalance. “Me? No, I imagine not. But as I am sure you are aware, the babe would not fare so well.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “It will cause me to miscarry the child,” she said evenly. “The doctor made it very clear that such an outcome was your particular wish.”

  He tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. At length, he lowered his head and caught her gaze. “Is that truly what you think of me? That I would wish for the miscarriage of a child.”

  She was quick to note he’d said a child, not his child.

  “That is what the doctor said. His meaning was plain.”

  “Then he mistook my words.”

  Though he sounded sincere, she wasn’t entirely sure she believed him. Why would she? He had every reason to wish her and the child gone.

  She stood. “Did he?”

  He walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking directly into her eyes. “Yes,” he said calmly. “He did.”

  There was something in his countenance, a sincerity in his eyes, that reassured her. He was telling the truth.

  They stood that way for a long moment—his hands on her shoulders, his gaze fixed on her face. At length, he said, “It’s the strangest sensation.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “To have a connection with someone, to feel it deep in your bones, but have no memory of its creation.”

  The turn of conversation was so odd and unexpected, that it rendered her speechless—an admittedly rare occurrence.

  Without preamble or explanation, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Instinctually, she sucked in a breath and jerked her head back. She was not accustomed to anyone—handsome or not—coming straight at her face without warning.

  With a rumble deep in his throat, he hooked one arm around her waist, pulled her flush with his body and kissed her again. This time, she was prepared for it. This time, there was no pulling away. She sank against him and surrendered to his mouth.

  His lips were soft and warm as they moved over hers, gently coaxing her mouth open. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and slid it against hers, provoking a flood of longing that she felt all the way to her toes.

  His hand slid from her waist to her backside, pulling her lower half more securely against him. His erection pressed against her belly, insistent, and it fed the burning, white-hot flame wending its way through her body. The V between her thighs ached with wanting.

  You mustn’t melt. You mustn’t melt.

  She need only tell him to stop, and he would, but for some inexplicable reason the words were caught in her throat.

  Dipping his head, he nipped at the sensitive flesh just beneath her chin. Sharp, exquisite pain echoed through her, and she sucked in a shallow, uneven breath.

  He forced her against the bed so that the backs of her knees pressed against the wood frame. His hot mouth skimmed her neck, her chest as his hands tore at the tapes on her bodice.

  “No,” she said. “No, please. We cannot do this.”

  “Of course we can,” he rasped against her skin. “Why should we deny ourselves?”

  She swallowed and nodded, marveling at how soft his lips felt against hers. Yes, why should they deny themselves?

  No. She could not do this.

  Twisting her head, she pushed against his chest and arched away. “My lord. Please.”

  That persuaded him to release her. He leaned back, allowing his arms to fall limply at his sides.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her fingers trembled as she cinched the tapes of her bodice and retied them.

  “The fault is mine. I should do better to restrain myself.” He flashed her a grin. “But you are so damned beautiful.”

  Her cheeks heated and she glanced away. If she stared at him too long, she feared she might abandon her position. “I hear congratulations will soon be in order,” she said by way of shifting the conversation. “You intend to propose to Miss Westgate.”

  “You have an informant. One of the servants attending you, I imagine.”

  “Well, yes. But do not be displeased with her. Her conversation is my one source of consolation,” she replied.

  “If she has any regard for her position here, she will be more discreet in future.”

  “I gather Miss Westgate’s visit is the reason for my confinement. No doubt, you are afraid I will turn her against you with my tale of woe.”

  “The situation is of a delicate nature,” was the only answer he offered.

  Was it possible he harbored true affection for Miss Westgate? He had been engaged to someone else entirely not four months ago. Surely his affections could not have transferred to Miss Westgate so quickly.

  “Do you love her?” She held her breath, unsure if she truly wanted an answer.

  He regarded her skeptically. “What a question. Why do you care to know?”

  Emily touched her bruised lips. “I confess, I am curious about the nature of your connection. Are you well acquainted?”

  “I know very little of her, in truth. Our attachment is purely material.”

  “But surely you must know something of the woman you intend to marry.”

  Emily was far too familiar with the elite. Rarely did they marry for affection or admiration. Those who had the freedom to do so were fortunate indeed. But surely, in this case, there was at least some degree of mutual regard.

  “She plays the pianoforte proficiently,” he said.

  Emily shook her head. He truly knew nothing of his intended’s character?

  “Yes, but what of her interests, her desires?”

  He tilted his head back and sighed. “Her interests and her desires are of little consequence to me. As are mine in her view, I would imagine. Our attachment is little more than a business arrangement.”

  For the first time since arriving, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. “What a deplorable way to live.”

  He shrugged. “It is the
way distinguished families have been marrying for hundreds of years.”

  She scrunched her nose at that. “That is hardly an argument for living in misery with a spouse you scarcely know.”

  “I would not expect a maid to understand,” he said shortly.

  She straightened, stung by his brusque dismissal. She was only a maid. How could she possibly understand the complexities of his superior world? That was the inference and it made her angry.

  “Indeed, my lord,” she said curtly. “That would take insight and reflection, two traits you are clearly lacking.”

  He tilted his head down, eyebrows drawn together tightly. “You are rather impertinent. You presume to tell me what the son of an earl is lacking.”

  “On the contrary, I presume nothing. I merely speak what I see.”

  He shook his head and pushed out a breath. “I regret to tell you I will be unable to visit you this evening. If there is anything you need, Mrs. Porter or one of the maids will tend to you. They have been instructed to provide whatever you may require.”

  “What I require is my liberation,” she countered.

  “Emily, to what purpose?” His voice dripped with frustration. “What could you possibly want for that you do not have here?”

  “Fresh air and conversation, to start.”

  He didn’t seem overly moved by her request, but he nodded. “Very well. I shall send a servant to escort you on walks.”

  She huffed. “How very generous of you.”

  Of course he would congratulate himself for being charitable—instead of seeing this for what it truly was. Unfair imprisonment for fear she would poison Miss Westgate against him.

  “You said you cannot visit me tonight. Why? Are you attending a dinner party? A ball, perhaps?”

  He hesitated, narrowing his eyes, but in the end, he must have decided there was no danger in telling her. “The theater. Miss Westgate wishes to see Othello.”

  He didn’t appear cheered by the prospect. “Do you not enjoy the theater?”

  “I would much prefer an evening with my ledgers, but Miss Westgate is anxious for activity.”

  Emily had been to the theater several times with Lady Evelyn and had concluded that playhouses were much too hot and confining. Indeed, even the play—whatever it was on any given night—was never diverting enough to hold her interest.

  “Then you shall have my sympathy,” she said sarcastically. “I shall sit here, alone, pining for your good company.”

  “I shall come to you tomorrow,” he said again.

  She glared at him. “I shall wait with bated breath.”

  The theater was just as stale and ostentatious as Stephen remembered, though there was one small mercy. The autumn months had thinned the hordes that typically poured in through the doors, which at least allowed him space to breathe.

  Stephen helped Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce with their capes and handed them to the attendant stationed in the coatroom. Then he led them up the wide, sweeping staircase and through the saloon to the private boxes.

  As they settled into their seats, he studied Miss Westgate. She was not beautiful, but that mattered little. And her sense of fashion was curious, to say the least. Indeed, the gown she wore this evening was an alarming shade of yellow with colored gems stitched into the bodice.

  And there were feathers.

  Not attached to the gown, as one might expect, but by some mysterious means to her hair. Long swaying feathers dyed to match the fabric of her gown. It was a sight to behold.

  “It is so refreshing to be out in society, is it not, my lord?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to answer. “Miss Pearce regards Othello as one of Shakespeare’s most compelling dramas.” She turned to Miss Pearce who was sitting behind them. “Is that not right?”

  Miss Pearce glared at Stephen. If she could slice through him with her gaze, she would have. Though why she would feel so hostile toward him, he couldn’t begin to guess. “Indeed,” she said.

  Stephen’s mother had developed a headache a mere one hour prior to their departure from Durham House . Miss Pearce now stood in as chaperone, trailing behind them like a shadow, silent and glaring. It was a bit unsettling.

  “I am only sorry your mother could not attend,” Miss Westgate said.

  “Her headache came on quite suddenly.” Likely there was no headache at all. It was an excuse, a reason to stay home. If only Stephen had thought of it first.

  He sat back in his chair and as he settled in for what would surely be hours of tedium, his mind was cast back to Emily. She was alone in that room with nothing to assuage her boredom but the books he’d brought her. And yet, he envied her. He imagined sitting beside her, the evening paper propped open on his knee, a fire burning hot in the hearth.

  But before long, he would glance over at her. Perhaps she would glance back, her lips gently tilting up at the corners.

  Those lips….Christ, they were pink and plump, absolute perfection. During his recovery, he’d dreamt of those lips. He’d dreamt of kissing her. And now he knew it wasn’t merely a figment of his fragmented mind. It was real. She was real.

  “Oh! My Spouse and I will be playing tonight as well.” Miss Westgate clapped her hands together and smiled brightly. “I’ve been longing to see it.”

  “You are fond of the theater,” he said by way of beginning a conversation.

  He did not converse easily with ladies. He could speak on the topics of economy and agriculture for days on end, but he had come to discover the most women were not interested in such subjects.

  She brightened. “Yes, exceedingly. Are you not fond of the theater?”

  “I have no love for it.” He flashed her a smile. “But I would by no means deny any pleasure of yours, Miss Westgate.”

  “That is a comfort,” she said. “For I require a great deal of activity. Idleness is my greatest enemy.”

  From her seated position, she threaded her arm through his and placed her hand on his forearm. Glancing up at him, she flicked her eyelashes in what was plainly an effort to tempt him. To the untrained eye, it would appear she was trying to dislodge something from her eyelash. Not the least bit alluring. But one must credit her for trying.

  Miss Pearce swatted Miss Westgate’s hand with her rolled up program. “I must insist you cease. One cannot be too careful about one’s reputation.”

  Miss Westgate scoffed, but unthreaded her arm from his. Miss Pearce was tackling her role as chaperone with an enthusiasm that was quite inconvenient. He would have done better to bring one of the maids, but he could not have invited Miss Westgate to the theater without including Miss Pearce. Unfortunately.

  The two women were inseparable, which was often the case with ladies and their companions. But there was something irregular between Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

  Perhaps Emily was right. What did he know about the woman he planned to marry? He had been content to know as little as possible about Miss Westgate, but Emily’s disapproval chafed.

  “So the theater is a passion of yours,” he repeated to fill the awkward silence. “What other passions do you nurture within your breast?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Passions, sir?”

  “Your interests, Miss Westgate. The theater aside, where do you find pleasure?”

  Please don’t say shopping.

  “Shopping,” she said without hesitation.

  “Excellent,” he said dryly.

  “It must sound like such a frivolous activity to a gentleman of your intellect, but I assure you, there is a challenge to it. For instance, one must know which shops to frequent and which to avoid. Which fabrics to buy. Which patterns are in fashion. It is all quite complex.”

  Miss Westgate had no fortune to speak of, but she was well cared for by her guardian. He no doubt indulged her a great deal.

  “Yes, I see how that might challenge the mind,” he said sarcastically. It challenged his mind this very moment, b
ut for entirely different reasons.

  “Are you teasing me, sir?” When she smiled at him as she was doing now, her appearance was quite agreeable. Not beautiful, but tolerable to the eye.

  Before he could answer, she squinted at the box across from them. “Dear heaven, is that Miss Warner?” She drew in a sharp breath, inching forward in her seat. “And with such a handsome man on her arm. I have not seen him before. Lord Devon, do you recognize the man?”

  He didn’t even look. He didn’t give a damn whom the man was. “I do not.”

  She shook her head. “A blaggard of questionable breeding, most certainly. Indeed, Miss Warner is quite the harlot. She is libel to throw herself at anything with a handsome face.”

  “Are you acquainted with her?” If she were, it would surprise him a great deal. Miss Warner was an heiress with twenty thousand pounds. Miss Westgate would be far below her notice. Until tonight, that was. Tonight, she would be well noticed by everyone. People were likely wondering who she was and how she had managed to catch the notice of an earl’s heir.

  “I am not acquainted with her at all.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “But I have heard tales of her numerous exploits. It is all quite shocking. I would relay it all to you if I were not bound by the etiquette of a lady. But I will tell you that it is no great mystery why she remains unattached.”

  He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He’d long ago stopped listening to her. He had no patience for gossip. It had been his torment these last months and precious little of it was true. It didn’t reflect well on Miss Westgate that she engaged in such idle talk.

  If Emily were here now, he felt certain she would not have made sport of picking apart the other members of her sex. She seemed far too empathetic to inflict such cruelty, even if the comment was entirely private.

  He lifted his head and opened his eyes. “In my experience, gossip is rarely true.”

  Without answer, she shrugged and glanced around the auditorium in search of another poor soul to dissect. He was beginning to understand why she enjoyed the theater so much.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “There is the Duke of Arlington and his wife, just two boxes down. I had not expected to see him in Town this late in the year,” Miss Westgate said excitedly. “How thrilling to see him in the flesh. His wife is quite stunning.”