Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society)

by Jayne Fresina

  Stop it! Stop thinking about it, you ridiculous little fool!

  Thrusting aside the hovering image of imperious Mr. Wainwright the Wrong, she greeted Lucy with more warmth than ever before, as if that excessive gesture would block him from her thoughts.

  All three young ladies stopped outside the haberdasher, the one and only village shop—which also happened to be the established stop for the mail coach—and there they admired some new printed muslin on display. With the harvest dance only two weeks away, their conversation turned to dresses and decoration for the hair.

  “I am to have a new gown,” Lucy told them. “Mama is most anxious I should look my best this year. She is lending me her good pearls.”

  “Yes,” replied Justina morosely, “we too are being trussed up like pork loins.” Aware of her sister’s frown, she hastily amended the comment. “Not Cathy, of course. She will look beautiful as ever and does not need the frills and embellishments a sad, drooping creature such as I must suffer to be noticed.”

  “Poor Diana,” said Lucy, “to have given her best taffeta silk away and just as a new man comes to the village. Although she is engaged now and has no need to catch anyone’s eye. Still it must smart to know she has only her old green muslin to wear. I would never barter my ball gown for a book.” As they all stood looking in at the shop window, she added, “I suppose Mr. Wainthrop will attend?”

  Before she could think better of it, Justina had muttered a surly, “It’s Wainwright. And I hope not.”

  The faces on either side turned to look at her. “Why should he not?” The sharp tone in Cathy’s voice suggested her sister might have done something terrible to prevent the fellow ever leaving his house.

  Justina began to wish she had.

  “I merely meant it would be best if he did not.” Finally tending to the open buttons of her coat, she threaded them hastily through the braided frogs. “I wish he would go back to London where he belongs. Strangers never fit in here.”

  What if he felt obliged to tell someone what had happened between them? Not just in his kitchen, but in Bath? In his bed? Just because she liked to see how much she might get away with didn’t mean he was the same. Her mother and father would demand a wedding at once, as soon as they were recovered enough from the shock. She’d really outdone herself this time.

  Suddenly she had a stitch in her side, as if she’d just run down the length of the street without stopping.

  “Have you seen him yet, Lucy?” Cathy was asking casually. “We heard he dined at your father’s tavern on Friday and stayed in the guest room.”

  “No, I have not,” came the sullen reply. “I was so late home Friday”—here Lucy shot a quick scowl in Justina’s direction—“that I was sent directly to bed. I didn’t even get a glimpse. But Martha Mawby says he is exceedingly handsome.”

  “I’m sure he is also wretchedly proud,” Justina snapped, adding quickly, “Gentlemen from London always are.”

  “He is a very rich man, so they say. As such he is allowed to be proud. I could overlook pride and any number of shortcomings in a man that rich.”

  “Lucy Bridges,” Catherine gently admonished the younger girl, “it is indelicate to speak of money in such a fashion. It makes you sound mercenary. I’m sure it should not matter how much wealth he has, as long as he is of good character and sensible.”

  Justina looked at her sister. “I suppose you are already thinking of him as your Mr. Darcy, Cathy.” It amused her to see how the other young ladies fell into palpitations over that obnoxiously proud, meddling, smug character in Pride and Prejudice. In real life, if they had any wits about them, they would give a cold, judgmental man like Darcy a wide berth, no matter how much money he had.

  Her sister’s cheeks flamed a brilliant cherry wine. “I have not given any such consideration to Mr. Wainwright,” she protested, clutching her muff tightly to her bosom.

  Oh, poor, innocent Cathy, she thought, feeling so much older and wiser. With a head already turned by the fantasy of Mr. Darcy, her sister was ready to fall, moon-eyed, over the first man who bore a slight resemblance to the character.

  Romantic novels had much to answer for.

  While she pondered her sister’s naïveté, they were joined on the path by Rebecca Sherringham, who was in a merry mood. “I have had a letter from my brother at last, and he hopes to return in time for the harvest dance!”

  All spirits were lifted by this information. With spare young men in such short supply, the arrival of another in time for the dance was manna from heaven. Captain Sherringham, handsome, witty, and an energetic dancer, was generous with his charm. For Justina especially this was wonderful news, and she began to feel there was something to which she might look forward. The sky was now far less gray. Had the captain ever known about her foolish escapade in Bath, of course, she would never be able to look him in the eye again, but now they had nothing to complicate the friendship and again she quietly celebrated the twist of fate that landed her on the Wrong Man’s bed.

  “Aren’t we all late?” Rebecca exclaimed suddenly. “Diana will scold us, as she so loves to do. Oh”—her eyes narrowed upon sight of the window display—“new muslins!”

  Suddenly Lucy pinched Justina’s arm, and she looked up to find the Wainwright person’s critical gaze once again assessing her, this time from horseback and across the distance of that narrow, muddy street.

  Lucy gasped, “That must be him.”

  Quickly Justina looked away. “Get a hold of yourself,” she snapped, her pulse beating an even faster rhythm. “He’s not the Duke of Bloody Wellington.”

  She prayed—with far more fervor than she ever did in church—that he would be struck with sudden, enduring memory loss and never tell another soul about her leaping upon him in his bed.

  How she wished she could walk away, but the mail coach horn was heard already, and this might be the day she had her answer from the publisher. Justina could be on her way to becoming a woman of independent means. Therefore she had no choice but to stand and wait.

  Eleven

  The rules of etiquette dictated that he could not approach the cluster of young ladies on the other side of the street, for he had not been formally introduced, so Darius merely slowed his horse. Although there were four women in the group, his eyes were drawn to one in particular, as they would be to any stain or thing out of place. Anything bothersome and in need of correction. She was scowling, visibly agitated by her dawdling friends.

  Nellie Pickles, indeed.

  Someone, as Mrs. Birch had said, ought to put a stop to her.

  Darius had negotiated with some of the most uncompromising traders in the world; he’d sailed for weeks on ships that were barely seaworthy; he’d managed a team of mercenary, work-shy, and bone-idle step-relatives without so far murdering any; and he’d served dutifully as his niece’s guardian since he was nineteen and she only four. He should long since have left that socially awkward boyhood behind.

  But for Darius, women remained a terrifying entity. They so seldom made sense, rarely thought in practical terms, and often seemed to prefer a quarrel to a reasoned debate.

  He hesitated, poised to urge the horse forward.

  She might be impertinent to him again. Although he had dealt with her before and answered her with a tongue that surprised him by not stumbling much at all, Darius balked at the sight of so many other ladies in her company. A murder of crows hovering in the stark branches of wintering trees would have less sinister appearance. The beat of his heart was distressingly uneven and his stomach felt hollow. He wondered if he should have eaten some of Mrs. Birch’s game pie before he left the house, after all.

  Just then he caught the Penny woman glancing his way. Her lips were set in a very obstinate moue, her eyes narrowed in a fierce glare, attempting to warn him off. Unbeknownst to her, it had the opposite effect. This reckless creature, acc
ustomed to getting away with her antics, thought she could kiss a gentleman and cause him a vast deal of trouble without suffering any consequence. He would be extremely surprised if there was any such man as that Captain Whatshisname—the gentleman she claimed to be expecting when she leapt onto his bed last year. Darius was inclined to believe her sights were set upon him and his fortune. When her first attempt failed, she tried the slightly more subtle approach of setting light to the Upper Rooms to get his attention.

  Well, now she had it.

  The coat she wore today was too small for her, the hooks straining to embrace the pleasing fullness of her figure, the sleeves ending too far before the wrist, and the hem, although showing a darker stripe where it must have been let down recently, finishing several inches above her muddied walking boots. Clearly she needed a new coat, but the expense, or perhaps her stubborn nature, meant that she could not part with the one she’d outgrown.

  His shoulders relaxed. On this occasion, he decided, the rules of introduction could be bent for once. After all, he did have some acquaintance with her already, however unfortunate and unwelcome it might be.

  But before he could steer his horse across the street, the mail coach clattered around the corner, a bulky, creaking, swaying vessel with boxes, packages, and people clinging to the outside with the bouncing resilience of fleas on a dog’s back.

  It came to a halt between him and the group of young ladies. There was a general ruckus while a man with a large sack alighted. Darius handed over his letters, as did several others gathered there in wait. Then the coach prepared to depart and the villagers dispersed. He watched curiously as Miss Penny darted around the snorting horses, demanding to know whether the sack had anything else in it to be delivered there. When informed there was nothing, she accused the poor fellow of not checking his mail bag sufficiently and even offered to do it for him.

  “Nothing else for Hawcombe Prior, madam,” he replied again, clutching his bag out of her reach and leaping up onto the back of the coach.

  A few seconds later they were off again, horse hooves and wheels splattering mud at her coat as she stood forlornly watching it pass. The cold wind kicked up its pace, and she gripped her bonnet with one hand to keep it from flying after the coach.

  As she rejoined her friends, shoulders drooping, head bowed, Darius steered his hired horse across the street toward them and placed himself directly in their view. When the troublesome young lady finally looked up, he tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Penny.” One of the ladies in the rear of the group blushed prettily as her friends turned to look at her. He belatedly realized there must be more than one Penny in the bunch.

  “Miss Justina Penny,” he corrected, looking hard at the scowler in their midst. “We meet again. Alas.”

  Now the other three faces turned to her in surprise. Wind tugged on their hems and bonnet ribbons. She seemed resolved not to speak, but the auburn-haired woman standing directly behind her must have poked her in the back, for she jumped as if woken from a trance and reluctantly replied, “Mr. Wainwright.” The way she exhaled his last name was like two iron doorstops dropping with a thud at his feet.

  Today she was aloof and haughty, but the higher she raised her pert chin, the more Darius was reminded of his tongue traveling swiftly over the pulse at the side of her neck, and thus he recalled the sweet taste of her skin.

  Before she could move her friends around his horse, he said, “I hope my pears were put to good use.”

  In the rear of the group, the young lady who had blushed when he first approached now gazed at the miscreant with wide, saddened eyes.

  “Should you desire additional fruit, or anything more from my grounds and store cupboards, I trust you will ring the bell at the front gate next time,” he added. “Save yourself the trouble of scaling the wall.”

  Miss Justina Penny replied with the insolence already familiar to him. “I shan’t bother you again, sir. Your fruit is quite safe from me. I’m sure it is rotten and maggoty anyway.”

  “You’ll require a key to the store cupboards if you want the silver and gold plate too, as it is locked away for safekeeping.”

  “Thank you for the warning. Good day.”

  “By the by…you left an item in my orchard.”

  Now the small, fair-headed girl on her right looked fearfully at her, almost losing the hood of her red cloak when the wind gusted.

  The villainess stared up at him, her eyes heavy and dark.

  “I thought you would want it back by now,” he added.

  “No, we haven’t anywhere to put—”

  Her little friend nudged her arm.

  “—whatever it might be,” she finished hastily.

  “Your bonnet, Miss Justina Penny. That is what you left behind. I found a confused pigeon pecking at its cherry embellishment.”

  She blinked. “Oh. Yes. I forgot that old thing.” Her gloved fingers fumbled over the braided frogs that barely closed the front of her coat. “It is of little consequence to me.”

  “So it seems.” He cleared his throat as he watched the progress of her hands and remembered the arousing sensation of her bosom against his chest when he held her and kissed her. After she put her lips upon him first, devilish temptress! “Like good manners,” he added huskily, “and ladylike behavior.”

  When he finally looked at her face, hot spots of color tinted her cheeks, but he doubted they were the result of embarrassment. Her eyes were the color of deep ocean, and today there was apparently a storm at sea. When he gazed into her eyes, he felt unsteady, as if he stood upon the rocking deck of a ship and struggled to keep his footing.

  She made no move to introduce her companions, but Darius did not wish to make their acquaintance in any case. She was the only one of interest, damn her.

  The storm in her eyes was clearing and darts of light became visible, like schools of fish through that blue shaded water. Suddenly gathering together they burst to the surface, catching on a patch of new sunlight. It was a shining color absent from the real sky above them today, but she—this lively creature—somehow had it at her disposal. He gripped his reins tighter.

  “We were just talking of the harvest dance, Mr. Wainwright,” she said coyly. “Will you attend?”

  The very idea caused Darius a chill of terror. “No. I have…anything else to do.”

  The other three faces now looked up at him, their lips moving as one, drawing in a quick rush of indignant breath.

  “Oh, but you really must come, Mr. Wainwright. We need all the dancing partners we can get,” she exclaimed, blinking, tilting her head to one side. “Times are hard for single ladies.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he muttered. “You seem…resourceful.”

  Justina gave a broad, triumphant smile. “I thought you were going back to London. You promised you weren’t staying.” These words, brusque and accusatory, shot out of her, it seemed, while she was still celebrating whatever victory she thought she’d just enjoyed at his expense.

  Her companions reacted to this impolite outburst in three different ways. The small one in the hooded cloak stared at the ground; the tall redhead looked at Miss Justina Penny with bemusement and curiosity; and the apparent elder sister glared with somber disapproval at some distant trees. Meanwhile, the culprit herself raised a fidgeting hand from her coat buttons to her lips, and Darius—much to his distress—relived the sensation of sinking into their softness and warmth. He vividly recalled the sweetness of their taste as they parted, surprised, uncertain, and yet curious under the demanding force of his returning kiss. He was still trying to understand why he’d allowed that to happen. It was most troubling to find there existed a pair of lips he would allow to insult him and yet still want to kiss immediately afterward.

  The horse under Darius became restless, as if it sensed his unease. “I changed my mind, Miss Penny. A matter came up that
dictates I remain a while longer at Midwitch Manor.”

  “Something unexpected?”

  “Very.” She had no idea how unexpected.

  “Such a pity your plans must be changed. You were so eager to leave. I believe you said there was nothing here to entertain you.”

  He could not tear his eyes from her lips. They were pouty this afternoon and very pink. Bee-stung might be an eloquent description, he mused with an unusually poetic drift of thought. “I stay for a kiss…ness matter”—a hot flush swept over his face—“business matter. Not for entertainment.”

  Now she overflowed with politeness. “Let’s hope your business does not keep you long here in this mud rut of a village.”

  He paused, studying her self-satisfied countenance and then the tattered ends of her bonnet ribbons as they fluttered in the wind. “Yes, Miss Justina Penny. It is a pity indeed, but it seems you must tolerate me a while yet. Good day.” Turning his horse, he rode away, anxious to remove himself from the temptation of looking at her too long. He was suddenly painfully conscious of one side effect of paying her too much attention in public. It was an uncomfortable development, especially when astride a saddle.

  Twelve

  On the third pull of the bell cord, the door opened and a petite woman wedged herself in the gap, peering up at him in quick annoyance and slight confusion, as if her body was one place, her mind in another.

  “Dr. Penny will not see patients today, sir. Come back tomorrow unless it is a matter of urgency.” But as her blue eyes focused finally, her mouth softened. “Oh, goodness! You must be the new—”

  “Wainwright, madam. I came to introduce myself and to discuss a matter of private business with the doctor.”

  “Private business?” Her lashes lowered demurely. “Of course, do come in, Mr. Wainwright.”