by Mary Balogh
Judith had been attracted to a handsome face and to a practiced charm, and she refused to admit what she must know deep down. He was sure that that was the truth of the matter. If he could only prevent her from doing something quite foolish, like eloping with Powers or allowing him to draw her into such a compromising situation that she would be forced to marry him, then soon surely the truth would be as plain to her conscious mind as it must already be to the unconscious.
But patience was not his best virtue. And patience on such an evening would have been almost impossible to achieve anyway. There were two irritants that would be almost beyond the endurance of a saint.
First were the almost incessant jokes wherever he turned. By suppertime he felt that it was altogether possible that he would do dreadful violence to the next person who mentioned umbrellas or dogs in his hearing, wittingly or unwittingly. It would be marvelously satisfying to level one of the jokers and to watch blood well from the fallen victim’s nose. Instead of which, he had to smile and counter as best he could with witty repartee.
Second was the presence of Daisy Morrison in the room. Her smallness, her daintiness, her bright smiles, her prettiness, all seemed to multiply the jokes against him. He still felt that strong compulsion to wring her neck.
Perhaps the only blessing of the evening was the fact that the first set had passed without any incident more serious than a single stumbling step she took while talking to him. He had thoroughly convinced himself that she would succeed in doing something during that dance to make him feel conspicuous and foolish. But it was not so. He was going to escape further embarrassment from her for one night anyway, he was thinking some time after supper as he stood and talked with Lord Doncaster and a few more acquaintances who seemed finally to have run dry on witticisms concerning his experiences of the past week.
But the evening was not to be without event, he thought ruefully as he noticed Judith and Powers waltz past half the doors leading out into the hall and through the other half. Drat the girl! He did not wish his friends to be aware of what was happening. He waited for all of a minute for there to be a lull in their particular line of conversation before excusing himself and strolling in leisurely fashion around the edge of the floor and out into the hallway.
By that time, of course, his sister and Powers had disappeared. He spent several minutes strolling from anteroom to anteroom and finally downstairs to the main salon, an office, and a smaller room of indeterminate function. As he approached another room, a little figure stepped out through the door, collided with him, and shut the door firmly behind her. Lord Kincade did not even have to look down to know who it was. It was, inevitably, Miss Morrison.
And how he found himself a mere few seconds later in another, empty room with her, the door shut behind them, he did not know. But there he was, standing inside the door while she had whisked herself over to the fire to warm herself. Except that there was no fire. One quickly learned to notice nothing strange about such a fact when Miss Morrison was involved. But her manner was agitated. Embarrassment only at having walked in on a couple in the middle of an embrace? He doubted that Daisy Morrison was capable of embarrassment.
“What are you up to, Miss Morrison?” he asked suspiciously.
She turned around and smiled dazzlingly as he walked closer to her. “Up to?” she said. “Nothing.”
“I am in search of Judith,” he said. “She has disappeared with Powers. That in itself would be enough cause for concern. But Powers is not a savory character, Miss Morrison. I mention that because I notice he has been paying some attention to your sister, who is, I believe, a wealthy young lady. Powers has a weakness for wealthy young ladies. Now, if you will excuse me.”
“Oh,” she said, catching at his arm, “I daresay that Lady Judith will be back in the ballroom by now. I am sure you have nothing at all to worry about. Is it not pleasant to be away from the noise and the motion for a minute?” She smiled a smile that was as false as any he had ever seen.
“That was Judith and Powers in the next room, was it not?” he said, frowning down at her.
The smile held for a moment and then faded a little. “But you must not be unduly cross with her,” she said. “I do assure you that no harm was done, for I was there as chaperon. And, really, you know, she is such a very young lady. It is easy for you and me to be sensible and wise. We are much older and have had more experience with life. Lady Judith is at an age when she sees with the heart. She must be saved from such as Lord Powers, of course, but gently, my lord, and with patience. And I did promise that I would not get her into trouble.”
Lord Kincade’s eyes had narrowed. “You are telling me from the wisdom and experience of your age how I should treat my sister?” he said with ominous calm. “You are stepping within the bounds of my life again to solve my problems? You recommend gentleness and patience?”
Daisy smiled. “I don’t mind,” she said. “You must not feel that my evening has been spoiled, you know. I am only too glad to have been of some help. I am a woman, you see. Perhaps I can understand Lady Judith a little better than you.”
Lord Kincade felt every force within him that made him a gentleman snap. If he could not—because he was a human being as well as a gentleman—lift his hands and encircle her neck with them, he could certainly blister her with his tongue. Enough is enough. More than enough is intolerable. He opened his mouth and drew breath.
It was several hours later before he had leisure in which to try to reconstruct the events of the next few minutes. At the time he seemed to act from pure instinct, though he realized afterward that his mind must also have worked at lightning—and utterly mad—speed.
The door opened behind him, and he heard simultaneously the voice of Lady Hutchinson, one of London’s most notorious gossipmongers, in conversation with someone else. He realized a few seconds later that it was Mrs. Whittaker, a woman to whom the same description would apply. They would immediately see him and probably know him even from a back view. They would not see Miss Morrison because she was standing directly in front of him.
And they must not see Miss Morrison. Not alone with him in a room far removed from the ballroom. It would be bad enough for them to see him with any lady in such compromising circumstances. But definitely not Miss Morrison. He would never in all his days live down the gossip. Yet in a moment they would see her. He would be compelled to turn around, and they would see her. Or else she would open her mouth and they would hear her even before he turned or they advanced.
There was only one thing to do, and he had only perhaps a second after the opening of the door to make his decision. He wrapped his arms around Daisy Morrison, drew her slim body against his own, and brought his mouth down on hers—open so that her own mouth was safely imprisoned by his lips.
“Oh!” Lady Hutchinson said. “Sorry, I am sure.”
“Who...” Mrs. Whittaker said in her rather shrill voice. “Oh, dear.”
And yet, for all the embarrassment their words suggested, it seemed an age before the door finally closed. They had obviously been looking their fill.
And it was at that point—when the door closed—that the truly mortifying part began. Mortifying because he did not immediately jump back, as he expected to do, as if he had been shot from a cannon. In fact, he did not jump back even almost immediately.
He went on kissing Daisy Morrison, becoming aware of her slim, warm body fitting itself to his, her hands moving up to rest on his shoulders, the fragrant, seductive scent that clung to her hair, letting one hand run down her back to her waist and lower, tasting her mouth with his own, reaching with his tongue for a deeper taste of her.
And thus and otherwise making an utter idiot of himself, he realized several seconds or minutes or hours later when he began to come to himself and discovered that he was enjoying a thoroughly intimate and indecorous embrace with Daisy Morrison! He lifted his head and relaxed his hold on her.
She looked up at him with uncomprehending eyes for
a few moments, her hands still resting on his shoulders, her body arched to his. “Oh,” she said at last, “why did you do that?”
“To save your reputation, ma’am, ” he said, knowing the lie, knowing that it had been his own reputation that had concerned him far more. “It would have been in shreds if that particular pair of tabbies had seen you alone here with me.”
“Oh,” she said, “how kind you are. You felt yourself in my debt again, although there was no reason to do so, and you have repaid it already. Thank you, my lord.”
“Please do not mention it, ma’am,” he said. “I shall return you to the ballroom,”
He spoke from instinct. He did not know what he said. He had just noticed the mirror over the mantelpiece. The two gossipmongers must have had a quite perfect—and lengthy—view of both Daisy Morrison and the openmouthed kiss he had given her for the protection of both their reputations.
Chapter 8
“So.” Lord Kincade examined his Hessian boots, which were resting—with his feet inside them—on the desk in his library. He noted absently that there was one spot at the level of his inside left ankle that did not shine like a mirror. “What am I to do? Do I have to marry her?”
The words sounded like a death sentence indeed when they were finally verbalized. He twisted his feet the other way to see if there was any other spot on his boots that had suffered since his valet’s loving care of them the night before.
Lord Doncaster and Arthur Fairhaven sat on either side of the fireplace, looking rather like judge and jury. Lord Kincade thought—or God and St. Peter, or the executioner and the chaplain. The three of them had mulled over his problem during a morning ride in the park and during the almost half an hour they had been shut up in the library since.
“I still think not necessarily so,” Arthur said. “I like Miss Morrison, as I said before. She has a splendid courage and is very good-natured. But the truth is that for some reason you do not like her, Giles. And I cannot think that holy matrimony would be appropriate under those circumstances. You would both be unhappy.”
“Here we go, talking in circles again,” Lord Kincade said wearily, rubbing his eyes with a finger and thumb and wincing a little as he touched the bruised one. “But the fact remains that I have compromised her. And the story was certainly exaggerated by the time those tabbies had finished with it. I practically had the woman naked and half-ravished. And how can I protest? The more I do so, the more the masses will believe what they want to believe. And it is too, too delicious to know that the woman I was so voraciously ravishing was the same who paid my whore a week ago. Sorry, Arthur.”
“I still think this decision you are bursting your brains over is an academic one, Giles,” Lord Doncaster said. “From my observations, I would say that Miss Morrison has considerable character. The chances are that she will refuse you, you know.”
“Yes,” his friend said, “but I can’t make her an offer on that assumption, Peter. I have to make it—if I have to—with the firm conviction that I am taking on a life sentence.”
“I am not sure I would mind a life sentence with that particular female,” Lord Doncaster said with a grin. “She really is a delight, Giles. And remarkably pretty for a woman who should be past her first bloom. It is my guess that you will not know a moment’s dullness with her as your wife.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” Lord Kincade said gloomily.
“Perhaps I could marry her, Giles,” Arthur said hesitantly. “She would make a quite splendid helpmate to a clergyman, I am sure. She has great energy and much cheerfulness.”
“Good heavens!” Lord Kincade scrambled to his feet. “I would not wish such a fate on my worst enemy, Arthur. Absolutely not, though it is just like you to make the suggestion. No, if Miss Daisy Morrison is to be married—and I know deep down, avoid the truth as I may, that she must—then it must be by me. And may the Lord help both of us. I shall doubtless throttle her before the first week of our marriage is out and have the hangman do the like for me soon after."
“Oh, come now, Giles,” Lord Doncaster said, “it is not as bad as that. The woman is kindhearted. She likes to help other people. It is a singular misfortune that her efforts during the past week have all worked to your disadvantage. She has not meant you harm. And kissing her last night, by your own admission, was entirely your cork-brained idea.”
“Thank you,” his friend said, sinking back into his chair again. “I really need to be reminded of my lack of intelligence this morning.”
“But you did it for a noble reason,” Arthur said gently. “You wished to protect the lady’s reputation, Giles, and for that you are to be honored. It was unfortunate about the mirror.”
“So,” Lord Kincade said again, “what am I to do? No, don’t answer. I know the answer. And I am keeping you both. Peter, you were on your way to White’s. The morning papers are waiting for you there. Arthur, you were on your way to visit...whom? The home for destitute mothers, was it, this morning?”
“The home for sick chimney boys,” his brother corrected. “I visited the mothers yesterday, Giles, and had the happiness of seeing one of them depart for the country with her child, where her brother is to take her in and set her to weaving with his wife.”
“And presumably you are the one who wrote to the brother and arranged it all,” the viscount said.
Arthur smiled sweetly. “It was the least I could do,” he said. “I know how to read and write, Giles. You would be surprised to find just how many people cannot do either.”
“Well, Arthur,” Lord Doncaster said, standing up and stretching, “Giles wants to be rid of us, I can see. He wants to contemplate the horror of his situation unencumbered by our words of comfort and encouragement. Are you riding my way?”
And Peter was right too, despite the facetiousness of his words, Lord Kincade thought as he closed the library door behind them and returned to his former position at the desk. Damnably right.
He could not quite believe that he was sitting there contemplating marriage with Miss Daisy Morrison. His bad dream was turning into a nightmare, and he could not shake himself free of it, try as he would. He had not even known the woman until a week before—eight days to be exact—and since then she had been the plague of his life. And yet he found himself now in the position of having to offer her marriage.
The world had gone mad!
As he had expected the night before as soon as he saw that mirror, the story of his encounter with Miss Morrison had preceded them upstairs and was already raging around the ballroom when they returned. And as he had expected, the story was quite inaccurate. Even then, it would have been bad enough. He had kissed her openmouthed, and had pulled her body against his own so that they had touched at all points, two things that he had never even dreamed of doing with a lady before. But in the story, Daisy had also been half-unclothed and his hands had been lost inside the half that was still covering her. Indeed, general belief seemed to be that the two fortunate dowagers had only just succeeded in reaching the safety of the hall outside the love nest before he lowered Daisy to the carpet to have his lustful way with her.
For himself, he had had to endure only more of the interminable teasing that was becoming a way of life to him. Indeed, he seemed to have risen in the esteem of some very young bucks, who gazed at him for the rest of the evening with admiration bordering on awe.
For Daisy Morrison, matters had been worse, of course. Ladies shunned her as pointedly as they could. Only one notorious rake and one of the very young gentlemen and Arthur had danced with her afterward. Peter had left, or he certainly would have done so too, he had protested that morning. Whether Miss Morrison was very upset with the turn of events, Lord Kincade did not know. He had stayed as far away from her as possible for the rest of the evening.
He must marry her. Her reputation would never recover unless he did. But how could he stomach doing so? Daisy Morrison was one of the few people he had ever thoroughly disliked. He could not stand h
er, the forward, interfering baggage. He would be driven insane in a week. He had been driven insane in a week.
Physically, of course, she was attractive. Despite his first impression of her as some strange apparition, probably from hell...What on earth had she had on her face that morning? And how long was her hair when unbraided, for goodness’ sake? He had found in the week since that she was extremely pretty and had a slim, attractive body. And he had certainly lost his head over her for a few minutes the night before when he had found her unexpectedly warm and yielding, her mouth enticingly soft and inviting. Indeed—horrid admission—there had been a few moments during which he had had nothing else on his mind but laying her down and possessing her.
But that had been only at the most mindless moment of the embrace, when he had forgotten that she was Daisy Morrison. It was a mortal shame that such a fiendish, unfeminine character had to be housed inside such a very feminine and delectable body. But the body would be small consolation to him when he married her. Because with the body he had to take the person inside. God help him!
Lord Kincade crossed one booted foot over his knee and rubbed at the dull spot on the ankle. He would have to go to Julia’s in the afternoon to see how she did. Ambrose was convinced that her time was very close, though the doctor said there were all of two weeks to go yet. And he must talk to Judith, try to get her to see sense without blowing up at her or sentencing her to another jail term. That had certainly not been a good idea of his. He had a great deal to learn about the handling of young people.