License to Kiss

by McKinley, Kate

  Stephen glanced over and his gaze collided with the Duke’s hard, menacing glare. He was looking directly at them, his lip curled up in a knowing smirk. That expression said everything. It said you never should have crossed me.

  Stephen’s blood boiled like liquid fire in his veins. Everything he had endured since returning from Scotland was the Duke’s doing. He had never wanted to pummel a man so much as he did right now.

  There was one small mercy. Lady Evelyn was noticeably absent. Of course, she would be. She lived in Scotland now with her new husband. There was no reason for her to be in London and for that, he was grateful.

  Just as the curtain rose, Stephen’s attention was drawn to Miss Westgate, who was rubbing her arms. “Dear God, do they have they no heat in this theater? It’s positively glacial in here.” She turned to Stephen. “Would you be so kind as to fetch my cloak?”

  He turned to relay the message to Miss Pearce, but Miss Westgate stopped him with a squeeze to his arm. “Oh, don’t dispatch Miss Pearce. People will assume I sent her away to be alone with you. You don’t mind going, do you?”

  He nodded stiffly. “Of course not.”

  By the time he’d retrieved her cloak and returned, the play had begun. He draped her cloak over her shoulders and settled back into his seat.

  Minutes later, Miss Westgate leaned over to him. “I am rather parched.”

  Christ. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  She smiled up at him innocently. “That would be heavenly.”

  He glanced behind them, toward the doorway. Where were the damn attendants when one needed them? Likely with the reduced crowds, the theater had employed fewer of them this evening. He held back a frustrated sigh. “I won’t be a moment.”

  Not a half hour later, she was feeling “peckish,” then she was too hot and required a fan—an item she failed to bring with her. He purchased one for a healthy sum from a woman in the gallery below.

  Halfway through the play Miss Westgate declared she was restless and in need of exercise. They spent thirty minutes wandering the theater, engaged in frivolous conversation, Miss Pearce trailing behind them. Would the weather worsen? Did he prefer yellow silk or burgundy muslin? Perhaps she should commission jackets be made for her spaniels on account of the frosty weather…

  By the end of it all, a headache pounded in his skull. Not twenty minutes had passed in the course of the entire evening when she did not make a request of him. He was exhausted and in need of a drink. Several drinks.

  Is this what his life would be like as Miss Westgate as his wife—her barking commands and him fighting the desperate urge to strangle her?

  “Our carriage is waiting,” Stephen said as the curtain fell on the final performance. The thick red velvet had not yet touched the stage floor before the words were out of his mouth.

  She laughed. “I daresay our carriage is stuck behind a dozen others. It’ll be a good while before we are picked up. ”

  “I took the liberty of calling for it when I left to retrieve your reticule from the gallery.”

  In her enthusiasm for the performance, she had managed to fling her reticule over the banister and into the lap of some poor woman below. Again, there had been no attendant in sight and he had been dispatched to remedy the situation. It was while he was on that fool’s errand that he’d called for the carriage, intent on putting an end to this evening as quickly as possible.

  “Before we go, I must speak with Miss Taylor. Lord Herstad offered for her hand and she refused him, can you believe such a thing? I will tell you something; she will not receive a better offer. Not with her lack of connections.” Her voice took on a scandalized tone. “Her grandfather owned a shop in Blossom Street. It’s positively scandalous.”

  “How unfortunate,” he said flatly as they made their way out to the saloon. “As much as I would like to linger, I fear we must be getting back to Durham House . My mother was quite unwell and may require Dr. Locke’s attentions.”

  “Your concern does you credit,” she said. “But I’m certain all is well.”

  Dear God, she was persistent. “Nevertheless.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Very well,” she huffed. “Though I must say, Lady Durham owes me a great deal for bringing such a premature end to my evening.”

  Thank God.

  He offered his arm. “The debit is mine to pay.”

  Her eyes narrowed for a split second before she smiled and accepted his arm. “Very well, I believe I shall enjoy having you in my debt.”

  As he escorted Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce out to the waiting carriage, he turned his thoughts to what must be done. There was no sense in waiting. He must propose.

  Tonight.

  Emily sat in a chair by the fire with Pride & Prejudice perched on her lap, open to page one. She stared down at the words, but failed to digest any of them. Her mind was occupied elsewhere—on the painful reality that Stephen was at the theater, enjoying Miss Westgate’s company.

  She glanced up at the timepiece on the mantel. It had been several hours since Stephen had left and it wasn’t difficult to imagine what he must be doing. At this moment, he was sitting in a theater box with Miss Westgate while she fluttered her eyelashes at him, recounting her many and varied accomplishments. Illustrating in words why she would make him the perfect wife.

  She snapped the book closed and tossed it onto the table beside her. She couldn’t just sit here and wait until Stephen deigned to visit her again. If her happiness and that of her child were to be secured, then it was she who must bring it about.

  The trouble was, he had all the advantage. He was wealthy, powerful and she was nothing but a former maid without even a farthing to her name. The scales were tipped deplorably in his favor.

  She needed to find something that would redress the balance. But what might that be? She couldn’t even begin to speculate. She needed more information—ledgers, correspondence, anything that might offer insight into his business affairs. And she knew precisely where to find such an item. A gentleman’s study was his escape from the world, his sacred space and with any luck, keeper of his secrets as well.

  Minutes later, she was nipping down to Stephen’s study, dodging servants on her way. She pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside, then blinked. All four walls were lined with books—thousands of beautiful leather-bound tomes that had likely been passed down from generation to generation. The cost of just one of these books could feed a small family for weeks.

  The furnishings were of a masculine style. Gold leaf, dark mahogany and blue brocade were dominant, which gave the space an overwhelmingly antiquated feel.

  The creak of a floorboard brought her back to the moment and reminded her of the urgency of her task.

  Quickly, she hurried to Stephen’s desk and glanced over the debris that covered the surface. She sifted through bank notes, invoices, newssheet clippings… until something of interest caught her eye—a sealed letter, the word urgent scribbled in bold letters on the front. She tore it open. It was dated the week previous.

  Lord Devon,

  I have now arrived in Dublin and have interviewed many of the residents—with the utmost discretion, of course. There is a woman by the name of Eudora Atwood, who claims to be the wife of the Earl of Durham. She is quite addled, but I was able to uncover a license of marriage that gives evidence to her claim. The lady was not agreeable to parting with the original, but a duplicate was penned and I have enclosed it for your scrutiny.

  I am sorry to relay what must be distressing news, but if you can uncover any inconsistencies in the copy I have enclosed, we may have cause to claim the marriage null and void at the time of your father’s second marriage.

  I will remain in Dublin and await your response.

  T. Morris

  Emily blinked down at the words. The rumors were true. Stephen was illegitimate.

  Emily cast her mind back to the days just before Scotland. Lady Evelyn had confided in Emily about Step
hen’s predicament. She had revealed that her brother, the Duke of Arlington, had uncovered something unsatisfactory in Stephen’s pedigree. This was obviously what the Duke had uncovered. And it was doubtless he who had propagated the rumors.

  Emily’s gaze alighted on two small newssheet clippings. Just as she reached out to pick them up, voices echoed in the corridor.

  She froze, her hand suspended in mid-air.

  It was Stephen’s rich baritone entwined with the unmistakable lilting of a woman’s voice. The voices grew stronger with every breath that passed and she feared they were headed toward the study.

  Quickly, she shoved the letter and license into her bodice and scrambled to find a suitable place to hide. Just as she ducked behind the drapes, one of the study doors opened to admit Stephen and his companion.

  “You are being quite secretive, my lord. What do you wish to speak to me about?” Miss Westgate’s voice, smooth and sultry.

  Stephen didn’t answer her question, but instead asked if she would care for refreshment.

  “Perhaps a touch of brandy,” she answered. “Miss Pearce thinks I have gone down to the kitchen for a bite to eat. If I am not in bed shortly, she will come in search of me.”

  From behind the heavy brocade drapes, Emily heard the clink of crystal as Stephen poured Miss Westgate’s drink.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Emily’s strained to hear what was happening just beyond the curtain. If only she could see what was happening, but venturing a glance would undoubtedly betray her presence. So she remained pressed against the window, forcing each breath out slowly.

  “I must thank you for this evening,” Miss Westgate said coyly. “I have not been to the theater since the Season ended and I find I’ve been quite depressed without it.”

  “I am happy to provide whatever diversion you may require.”

  Miss Westgate’s voice took on a husky tone. “You are very attentive,” she said. “Exceedingly so. Indeed, I have felt the benefit of your marked attention quite keenly.”

  “I am at your service, ma’am,” he answered stiffly. Emily searched his comment for meaning, but couldn’t be certain. His tone was flat, unreadable, as it was with most anything he discussed.

  “My guardian wields a great deal of authority and influence, as I am sure you are aware. And I have impressed upon him your exceptional capacity for intellect.”

  “I assure you I am no academic, Miss Westgate,” he replied.

  “And yet your family’s fortunes improved in the year since you’ve taken the reigns.” Emily imagined Miss Westgate smiling. “I see you are surprised to find me so educated.”

  Emily hugged both arms to her chest to make herself as small as possible and turned her head to further aid her hearing.

  “I have an aptitude for sums and an interest in farming, for which my family’s coffers rely a great deal.”

  “Mmmm,” she cooed. “How fascinating.”

  Stephen cleared his throat. “Miss Westgate, you can hardly doubt my reasons for wishing to speak with you alone this evening. Indeed, I have brought you here with the explicit hope that—” He paused and Emily’s heart wedged in her throat. At length, he continued, “What I mean to say is that I would be very honored if you would consent to be my wife.”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. Yes, yes, yes.” Her voice was high-pitched and animated. “I cannot begin to tell you how happy you have made me.”

  Emily’s heart had dislodged from her throat and sunk to the pit of her stomach. She felt ill. It was one thing to know he would be engaged and it was quite another to hear the proposal with her own ears.

  “I shall write to Judge Addams directly,” Stephen said.

  “Shall we have a Michaelmas wedding? Imagine me, a viscountess! Oh, Miss Taylor will be positively envious.” Her words ran together in her enthusiasm. “I daresay I will not sleep for all my excitement.”

  Emily waited for Stephen’s reply, but it never came. Instead, there came a long, agonizing stretch of silence, followed by the rustle of clothing.

  What was happening? She simply must see with her own eyes. Slowly, she lowered her arms and leaned forward to peek out from behind the drapes. As she shifted her weight, the floorboards beneath her creaked and she froze, breath held.

  Blast this old house!

  “Did you hear that?” Miss Westgate’s voice was mildly alarmed. “Do you suppose someone is spying on us?”

  Emily squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard. If Stephen discovered her here…it didn’t bear thinking about. She could only pray he wasn’t compelled to investigate Miss Westgate’s suspicions.

  “It is nothing, I assure you. This house is ancient. Strange sounds abound at any given hour.”

  “Your explanation does not comfort me in the least. If not a spy, then perhaps a prurient ghost.”

  There was another long, alarming stretch of silence. Carefully, Emily ventured a glimpse from behind the drapes and stifled a gasp—just barely—when she saw Miss Westgate in a yellow gown, on tiptoe, kissing Stephen.

  Emily blinked at them, unable to move. This was the woman he’d chosen to be his wife, the woman who will soon share his bed and his most intimate thoughts.

  She was elegant. Connected. Perfect.

  Everything Emily was not.

  Swallowing the white-hot ball of pain that rose up from her chest, she forced her gaze away and searched for a route of escape. The door was not twenty steps away, but reaching it would require her to abandon the relative safety of her hiding place.

  At this point, she would happily wade through hot coals if it meant she could flee this wretched room.

  Amidst the grating sounds of lips connecting, Emily straightened and moved quietly toward the door. Deftly, she sidestepped a table, then a chair, before finally reaching the door. With her hand on the knob, she paused. It took every drop of determination not to turn around to steal one last glance at Stephen.

  With a deep breath, she left the room, a renewed desire for freedom burning hot in her breast.

  It was several minutes before Stephen was able to forcibly extricate himself from Miss Westgate’s death-like grip. Taking her by the upper arms, he firmly pried her body away from his. Her lips were the last to break contact.

  “Miss Westgate, I must ask you to restrain yourself,” he said coarsely.

  “We will soon be husband and wife.” Her smile brightened, her brown eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Why should I not kiss my intended?”

  He swallowed. A headache was forming just beneath his left temple. If he felt indifferent toward Miss Westgate, it was only natural. Their union was not created of passion, but of mutual necessity.

  Passion is what he shared with Miss Michaelson. Indeed, he could still taste her on his tongue—sweet, like ripened strawberries. He could still feel her soft body braced against his. And when she gasped…

  He shifted in his chair, his cock suddenly at full attention. She had been reluctant to kiss him, but when she had, dear God. She was a siren, tempting and dangerous. She could lure a man to his death with that lilting voice and those dewy pink lips…

  “So.” Miss Westgate squeaked and clapped her hands together, the curls at her temples bouncing with the movement. “When shall we make the official announcement?”

  All thoughts of Emily were extinguished and his cravat felt ungodly tight. “Once we secure Judge Addam’s blessing, it is my desire to announce as soon as possible.”

  She sidled up to him again and placed her hand on his chest, a smile on her red-hued lips. Her cheeks were a touch more flushed than was natural, which hinted at artifice. “Is that your only desire, my lord?”

  He cleared his throat. There would be a time, shortly, when he and Miss Westgate must become intimate, but he found he had no desire to sample her prematurely.

  Removing her hand from his chest, he pulled the watch from his pocket. “It is well past midnight and we have a personal invitation from Mr. Bullock to tour the Egypti
an Hall in the morning.”

  “Surely we can steal a few more moments alone before retiring for the night.” She pouted as she moved to the side table. “One more glass of port, at least? Will you not oblige me?”

  He calculated the odds of her abandoning her quest and deemed it unlikely. Unfortunately. “One glass and then I must insist we retire.”

  All he must do was keep her hands off him for the length of time it took to swallow a glass of brandy. How difficult could that be?

  He took the glass she handed him, then made a sweeping gesture with his free hand, indicating one of the two ornate chairs situated in front of his desk.

  With a slight nod, Miss Westgate took the chair to the left, lowering herself into it gracefully. Though she’d been orphaned when she was young, it was evident her uncle had provided her with all the sparkle and trappings of the upper classes. She was educated, accomplished, and carried herself like a lady born into the Ton.

  “When we are married, I shall insist on purchasing our own house in Town. We will spend a great deal of time here, I imagine. The country is nothing to the diversions of London.”

  “The city does not agree with me. I much prefer the country.” The fresh air, the wild landscape. His childhood was spent in such a place, the forests and meadows of Durham. His chest constricted with the weight of the memory.

  “I have it on good authority that Surrey House is for sale. Perhaps it would suit,” she said.

  Were they already discussing which house he might purchase? Dear God. “Surrey House is far too ostentatious for my tastes. In any event, we shall return to the family seat as soon as the Earl is recovered.”

  “Your estate is in the County of Durham. That is two days ride by carriage. Surely you don’t wish to settle at so far a distance from London.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I do not see why.” She took an agonizingly small sip of her port. “The city has so much more to offer by way of entertainment. Society can be scarce in the autumn and winter months, but there is still plenty to divert one’s attention.”