Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society)

by Jayne Fresina

  He’d barely allowed her time to dress before hauling her down the stairs of the house and putting her out. As if she was the cat.

  But that was not the end of it.

  The next evening, she and her sister attended a public ball at the Upper Rooms, chaperoned by their aunt who introduced them to as many partners as possible. Catherine was much in demand, naturally, but Justina was left like the last loaf on the baker’s tray to stand at her aunt’s side, trying not to look bored. Eventually she’d slipped away into the crowd and sought other entertainments. That was when she spied him again. A tall, pompous fellow who did not dance with anybody, he seemed to think himself above the event and superior to the other attendees.

  She’d meant to avoid him and the evening might have passed without incident, had she not suddenly spied a mouse running about the ballroom floor.

  Excessively bored and deciding—in her tipsy state—to rescue the creature before it was squashed, Justina had crawled on her hands and knees through the crowd. But before she could find her target, the haughty gentleman, known to her by then as the Wrong Man, stepped on her fingers and shortly thereafter all hell broke loose. Her indignant howls startled the gentleman so much that he spilled his drink and stepped back, knocking into another man, who subsequently lost his monocle and possibly also some spare coins, down the seldom-troubled cleavage of the exceedingly short and stout Dowager Countess of Somewhere Very Important. Justina supposed that, in the confusion of the moment, the fellow’s immediate instinct had been to retrieve his property before it fell too far into the abyss to be recovered, but his efforts resulted in the indignant lady letting out an ear-piercing squeal that stopped the music. Pandemonium swept the ballroom. People fell like dominoes, not knowing if an escaped circus tiger had somehow appeared in their midst or the place was on fire. As it very nearly was when a candelabra tumbled and flames licked up the wafting pleats of a supper tablecloth. Fortunately someone had the instincts to stamp out the fire and smother it before much damage resulted.

  When Justina was apprehended as the origin of all the commotion, Wainwright the Wrong looked down a yard of nose at her and exclaimed, “You? Again?”

  Justina had advised him to seek the humorous side to it all, but he quite failed to find any.

  “I’m sure mischief earns you a satisfying amount of attention,” he’d muttered, wincing as he backed away from her. “With no beauty at her disposal a young lady must find other ways to be noticed.”

  Having insulted her before the entire room, he then left the place immediately, also taking his handsome friend who had been dancing with Catherine.

  Now here they were again, and she doubted he would find anything remotely funny about this either. Perhaps it would be best not to mention they were already acquainted.

  Six

  From a distance he’d mistaken her for a child. She was not very tall, and he certainly would never expect to find a young lady climbing a wall to steal fruit. But the moment he drew closer Darius realized she was most definitely not a little girl. Whether she knew or recognized this fact herself was another matter. The large tear in her skirt—although exposing a portion of undergarments—apparently caused her no embarrassment and was only inconvenient as it prevented her escape. Evidently she was undisciplined, ill-mannered, and a rotten fibber. Under no circumstances was she leaving his property until he found out who she was. Then he would return the woman to her lax guardians and give them a stern lecture about her wild behavior.

  He knew things were different in the country, but he hadn’t expected an encounter with a bonnetless savage in his own orchard.

  Darius had never carried a woman in his life, and this one was a wriggling, noisy creature, causing him to vow silently that such a circumstance would never occur again. But there was something familiar about her.

  Walking with his customary, determined stride through a thickening mist, he made the monumental mistake of turning his head to look at her again.

  He slipped on a softened pear, lost his footing and balance, tripped over a mossy stump while trying to right himself, and finally fell backward, landing with his unwieldy burden sprawled across his torso.

  There followed a shocked moment of silence while he tried to find his bearings again, and then, much to his further indignation, she began to laugh. Rolling off him and onto her knees, she laughed as if she was filled with the noise and had to let it out before it crushed her lungs.

  He groaned, sitting up, clutching the small of his back. “Glad I am you find this amusing.”

  She exhaled another gust of rippling laughter. “Let me help you up.”

  Stubbornly refusing her hand, Darius made an attempt to get to his own feet, but the grass was wet and slippery. He went down again, causing yet more chuckles from the villainess.

  “Oh dear!” She grabbed his sleeve. “We are quite an accident-prone pair, it seems.”

  A young woman like this, he thought crossly, was probably accustomed to getting away with all manner of travesty. One bat of her sinister lashes, one dimpled, artless smile, one merry, hearty laugh, and she must have all the men hereabouts at her mercy. Well, she wouldn’t have Darius Wainwright falling at her feet.

  Not in any way but the literal.

  Reaching for a nearby tree trunk, he pulled himself upright. To his surprise, and more than slight horror, she did not relinquish his arm, but as they limped through the lowering mist toward the house, she hung onto his sleeve with her damp and muddy fingers. He moved his arm several times to shake her loose, but she clung on, apparently not noticing his attempts to get free.

  A few struggling steps later, they passed through the side door into the kitchen of the house. She found a chair, sat him down, and then hurried off to locate the tinder box, complaining about the chill in the house. Her ankle did not seem to trouble her much now. She moved about that kitchen as if it was her own, with a great deal of bustle, but not much efficiency. Disrupting everything she touched.

  Darius watched her shadowy shape exploring the kitchen. The strange weather that afternoon had brought dusk early and it felt much later than it must be. He fumbled for his fob watch to make certain of the time, needing to see it. The eerie mist had unsettled his day. So had she.

  She must have caught him glancing at her muddy fingerprints on the sleeve of his superfine jacket, for she laughed yet again—this time with a hint of scorn. “A dandified town gent like you, all dressed up fine and pretty, oughtn’t be left alone in the country. You could injure yourself permanently, sir.” Another guffaw followed this statement, and then she resumed her uninvited exploration of the kitchen.

  Darius struggled, thinking of what to say, whether to speak at all. As a boy he’d watched his elder brother consistently win over the pretty girls with his rakish charm. Lucius was like a gusty storm that blew through a room and left it transformed. He would tease Darius. “It takes you so long to say anything, Handles, we’ve all stopped listening by the time you’re only halfway done!”

  As a consequence, Darius developed a stammer and then finally stopped talking at all unless it was absolutely necessary. Better to say nothing than be ridiculed and mocked. Instead he remained in the background while Lucius made all the noise and frequently, with a careless, unrepentant glee, got himself into trouble. Whatever he did, Lucius always landed on his feet—or perhaps it seemed that way because he was never still enough to be caught, and managed to avoid consequences by disappearing when it was expedient. He did not earn the nickname “Lucky” for nothing. Darius, shy and withdrawn, often had the sense that no one would even guess they were related. Until, of course, someone was required to pay Lucky’s debts and shoulder his burdens.

  He rubbed his damp palms on his thighs and checked his watch again, as if the steadily clicking cog wheels inside the gold case might give a hint of how to manage this event.

  Soon the would-be thief had a
small fire crackling away in the hearth, and from that she lit a candle, placing it carefully in a lantern on the table beside him. The warm glow cast upward over her small face and gave him a clearer view of her features, particularly the slight dent in her chin and the uneven quirk of her lips that made them seem ever poised to smile.

  He supposed he was still in shock. That must be why he sat without protest and allowed her to wipe a small cut on his forehead with a dampened handkerchief. Not that she asked his permission in any case.

  “You’ll live,” she proclaimed. “It’s just a scratch, after all, perhaps from the bark of a tree as you went down.”

  He took a breath of her scent—roses and honey. She stood very close, almost stepping on his toe, requiring that he part his feet to let her between them. Although it was vastly improper to be alone with her and to let her touch him, it was too late now. When her torn gown brushed the inside of his knee he felt perspiration break through the skin under his shirt. Darius rested his knuckles on his thighs and squeezed his fingers tightly until they were almost numb.

  Finally she moved away again, much to the relief of his shattered nerves.

  Before he could ask any questions of his own, she had one for him. “What have you done with Sir Mortimer Grubbins?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sir Mortimer is our pig. I sincerely hope he’s come to no harm at your hands, sir.”

  “A pig?”

  “We have no home for him at present, and since this place was supposed to be empty, we put him in the orchard.”

  Darius could not make sense of anything: what she said, why she was there, or why he hadn’t chased her off his property. But then he remembered the night before. Aha! A pig. Two figures rushing away in the rain carrying a pig between them after sending his carriage into the ditch. That must be why she looked familiar.

  “He’s quite harmless,” she was saying, her behind propped on the edge of the table. “Sir Mortimer Grubbins, that is. The pig.”

  “Well, he cannot stay in my orchard, young woman.” Darius looked her up and down, appalled by her casual manners, still unsure how best to deal with her.

  “You’ll like Sir Mortimer.”

  “No, I will not.”

  “He’s very friendly.”

  “But I am not.”

  She frowned. “Yes, I had noticed you’re not very civil.”

  “Civil?” He strongly objected to being lectured on civility by a thieving hussy. “If you mean I don’t like being trifled with or taken advantage of, you are correct, madam.”

  “Don’t you like animals?”

  “I am not a swineherd.”

  Shaking her head again, she pushed herself off the table. “Of course not. I suppose your hands are lily-white and soft as a babe’s backside under those riding gloves.”

  Darius angrily removed his gloves to prove her wrong, although why he bothered was a mystery to him. “I am no stranger to physical labor, madam.” He had worked on the loading dock of his family’s shipping business while he was still a boy, long before he took over on the death of his father.

  “But you fell flat on your back when you tried to carry me.”

  “I merely underestimated your heft when I lifted you.” That wiped the smug grin off her face. Good. Darius began to recover his balance and his bearings. “Now, you will tell me your father’s name, young lady, and I will confront him tomorrow before I leave.”

  “Leaving already? Ha! Another weak-kneed dandy, afraid of a little country dirt on his clothes. I might have known.”

  “I am only here to dispose of my great-uncle’s house.” Oh, why was he giving her any explanations? Conversing with her had encouraged the forward girl to think she could stroll about his kitchen, touch his forehead, and generally take charge of things.

  She’d touched his forehead. He could not get over it.

  Had she touched something else of his? Odd, but somehow it felt as if she had.

  He slapped his riding gloves furiously at the dirt on his knees, but since it was not yet dry, this was a disastrous effort and only succeeded in smearing it further. “The sooner I get away from this mud rut of a village, back to London and civilization, the better.”

  “Mud rut?”

  Darius scowled. “The place is primitive, the people unsophisticated, mostly uneducated, and vastly annoying.” When trying to find the village, he’d discovered that most folk in that district had a hard time distinguishing right from left, and they couldn’t give any sort of meaningful direction, even if they appeared to be sober.

  “Take the third turn before you come to the ford” was one of the most useful directions he’d received. Along with “Follow this ’ere road until it stops, and then take a left or right.”

  On his journey he’d been chased by swans, eyed by an angry bull through a flimsy gate, propositioned by a blacksmith’s lusty wife, stung by a wasp, and harassed by a flock of wild children. And that was all in one morning.

  She folded her arms. Another unladylike gesture. “I’ll have you know, sir, that Hawcombe Prior is a very pleasant place to live. We may not have all the modern conveniences of Town, but we have plenty of what we need. We are just as content here as you and your fancy London friends are on any day of the week.”

  “Well then, I am happy to leave you to it.”

  “Splendid. The last thing we need is someone like you around.”

  She turned away, humming carelessly, looking through the window at the thickening mist. Finally, although he knew it would do him no service to ask, he did. He had to. She’d touched his forehead. “Do elaborate, madam.”

  “Someone who takes ownership of the manor, but has no interest in the place or the people here, spends most of his time in London, and never participates in village life.” She looked at him again. “Nose in the air. Stick up the posterior.”

  He could hardly believe his ears. What place was this, where young ladies ran about unchaperoned, climbed walls to steal fruit, perched on tables, touched the foreheads of strange gentlemen, and used words of that nature without a solitary hint of blush?

  “The case against you continues to mount, Miss Pickles,” he muttered. “I begin to think you try my temper deliberately.”

  “Why, pray tell, would I do that?”

  Darius studied her from the corner of his eye, almost afraid to look fully at the creature. Usually he avoided conversation with young ladies and would walk the long way around a room to avoid a noisy, impertinent one. Since he was generally accused of saying the wrong thing anyway, he found it easier simply to remain silent with females who were not part of his immediate acquaintance. A silent man could seldom be made a fool.

  But he was soon leaving the place and need never see this one again. He decided, therefore, it was safe to answer. Just this once.

  “Perhaps because your mind is unchallenged in this village. You haven’t yet found a way to safely expend your energy. There is no one, it seems, to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Good luck to anyone who tries,” she exclaimed in a terse rush.

  “Certainly. He deserves a medal.”

  “And why should it be a he?”

  Darius sniffed and brushed down his sleeves again. Her question was unworthy of an answer, and he’d already engaged her in enough conversation.

  “I suppose you believe every woman needs a man to keep her in her place.”

  “How astute of you to know my mind.”

  “My father keeps dead butterflies under glass, sir, to examine them. Your mind is just as transparent to me.” Her eyes were a dark, velvety blue, he noted, and now that her temper was up, little sparks spat and fizzled in their depths. He wondered why she hadn’t run away yet.

  “Am I an interesting study, madam?” Something must be keeping her there, arguing with him. Perhaps he was a novelty
to her, as she—with her forward, easy manner—was to him.

  But she denied it. “Certainly not. Good Lord, I can meet folk ten times more interesting than you in Hawcombe Prior any day of the week. I have been in your presence for one quarter of an hour and I might safely say it is the dullest fifteen minutes I ever spent.”

  This response was no more or less than he expected, even though he’d known her for such a short time. Her bold impertinence was palpable before she’d even opened her mouth. The moment he saw her tear that skirt rather than remain trapped by a tough, thorny climbing rose when she climbed over his wall, he knew she was reckless, determined. Possibly a very dangerous creature.

  Suddenly he closed his eyes and saw a flash of stockings with pink silk garters. A woman, naked but for those items, flinging herself at him in the dark.

  Dear God. It couldn’t be. Not again.

  He opened his eyes. She was watching him, hands on her waist.

  It was her. The lunatic assailant of Bath.

  “I’m sure you think, sir, that our entertainments in this village are few and unfashionable, but I can assure you they are not. We have a book society and an amateur players group. And a magician once came all the way from the Orient. Or Brighton.”

  Plainly she waited for a response. So he gave her the best he could manage. “I see.”

  Sometimes, when he was in danger of being overtaken by nerves in the presence of a troubling female, it was easiest to settle for those two small words. At least he was in no danger of faltering over them.

  But this seemed to incense her further. She breathed harder now, ready to burst with indignation. Since she’d discarded her pelisse in his orchard, she wore only her ripped frock, made from thin material. Probably too thin for the time of year. Although it was sewn in a modest design, the mist-dampened cloth clung to her shape and drew his gaze to parts of her that he should not notice. Parts he’d seen before and haplessly admired, despite the impropriety and the sudden shock of having them land on his head just as he tried to get to sleep.