How positively refreshing.
“It’s so lovely,” she murmured.
“As are you,” Felix responded, the words out of his mouth before he could censor them.
Her eyes widening at his compliment, Emelia slowly stood up. There was a moment where her eyes took in his lips and then had to be torn away to look into his eyes. “It’s awfully kind of you to say, my …”
“Fennington,” he murmured, interrupting her. Before she could respond, his lips lowered, their soft pillows searching to rest against hers. At the moment they touched, a most pleasant buzzing settled into his head and knees.
He wasn’t about to blame it on the champagne. Nor give it any undue credit.
Emboldened when she didn’t pull away, he dared to use the tip of his tongue to split her lips apart. When her mouth opened a bit, he captured her lips with his own and continued the kiss.
Jesus! She should have slapped him. She should have pushed him away. She should have screamed bloody murder, but he was ever so thankful she did not.
How long had it been since he had tasted a woman’s lips? How long since he had enjoyed the feel of a woman in his arms? For a moment, he couldn’t recall ever having kissed a woman quite like this.
Certainly not the mistress he had employed before he realized he could no longer afford such a luxury. With her, kissing on the lips had been verboten.
Certainly not the barmaid in Oxford who offered herself every time he visited his favorite pub during his years at university. She had only wanted a quick tumble and the payment to go with it, though.
Emelia’s sudden inhalation of breath brought him back to the present. He let go his hold on her lips, but just barely. Just enough to allow her a moment to put voice to a complaint, to a protest, or hopefully, to a plea for him to continue. When she made no sound at all—indeed, he felt her entire body nearly fall against the front of his—he resumed the kiss, his lips molding to her open mouth, suckling her lower lip before taking her mouth again and again in a kiss that was as tender as it was possessive.
He claimed her then. There could be no other word to describe how one hand moved to grip her shoulder while the other wrapped around the back of her waist, pulling her hard against him. His tongue delved into her mouth. She tasted of champagne and sweet berries. She smelled of honeysuckle. She felt luscious beneath his hands. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman, and he could do nothing but imagine what life might be like with her at breakfast every morning, with her at tea and during dinner, with her in the library for walnuts and coffee. With her in his bed every night, round with his child …
Felix blinked suddenly, rather heartened to find Emelia’s lashes still covering her eyes. When he finally pulled away, he left his forehead pressed against hers. “I know I should apologize, but I find I …”
“Do not,” Emelia whispered quickly, her breathing labored, her eyes squeezed shut.
Felix stilled himself, reluctantly removing his hands from her body when he was sure she could stand of her own volition. “Please, do not think me a rake, for I have never done anything like this before,” he murmured, his lips barely touching her forehead.
“Of course not,” Emelia replied, her eyes still shut. “It was all my fault, of course.”
Felix frowned, wondering at her words. He lifted her chin with one finger. “It is not, my lady. It simply … happened. I do not believe the heavens or the earth could have prevented it.”
Nor will they in the future, if I have anything to say about it.
Emelia’s eyes opened then, their irises blooming with bright green as her pupils became pinpoints. “I could have,” she whispered. “I should have.”
Giving his head a quick shake, Felix kissed her again, a soft, tender kiss that lasted but a moment. When he finally pulled away, he allowed an audible sigh. “If I do not return you to your mother this very moment, I shall have to take you to Scotland,” he whispered hoarsely.
Not quite sure what he meant, Emelia nodded. Her mind was a swirl of thoughts, none of them coherent. “Of course,” she managed to say, a wan smile finally appearing. “Lead the way.”
Feeling a profound sense of disappointment, Felix Turnbridge finally offered his arm and led them around the end of the hedgerow and back to a cluster of women which included her mother. He kissed the back of her gloved hand and made sure to hold on just a second longer than was necessary.
“I look forward to when next we meet,” he murmured, relieved when she finally made eye contact.
“As do I,” she said as she curtsied.
Within moments, Emelia was in the company of the Countess of Aimsley, and Felix was on his horse in the drive in front of the mansion.
His mind a whirl of plots and plans, Felix considered what to do next. Had anyone seen them kissing in the gardens, Emelia would be ruined. He would be forced to offer for her hand, a situation he realized he wouldn’t mind in the least.
He could only hope she would accept.
Chapter 2
Asking Permission to Marry Goes Awry
Alas, dear Reader, if you have ever found yourself in the throes of Cupid’s cruel trick, you will know the agony that must be endured. But you must not feel the least bit of sympathy for us. We were foolish in love and worse for we had never learned not to mix business with pleasure. ~ The editor’s final story in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
March 13, 1818, Aimsley House study in Park Lane
“You wish to what?”
Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, had barely leaned back in his dark leather chair when he suddenly pitched forward and regarded his visitor with surprise.
“I wish to marry your daughter.”
The older earl waved the other earl into the chair across from his desk. “Since when?” The two words were filled with suspicion, as if Aimsley couldn’t decide if Felix Turnbridge was playing a trick on him, or if the man was serious. He had been good friends with Aimsley’s oldest son, and heaven knew Adam was a troublemaker if there ever was one.
Felix inhaled slowly and wondered how much to admit. He pulled his chronometer from his waistcoat pocket and gave it a glance before replying, “Fifteen … make that sixteen minutes ago.”
Aimsley House was only a few doors down from the Weatherstone mansion, after all.
Aimsley slowly leaned back in his chair, never allowing his stare to leave the Earl of Fennington. “And just what happened sixteen minutes ago?”
Exhaling the breath he’d been holding, Felix decided honesty was best. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not as if Aimsley could deny him. “I kissed Lady Emelia. During the garden party at Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.”
Waving a dismissive hand, Aimsley made a dismissive sound. “Is that all? Jesus, Fenn, you had me thinking you claimed her virtue,” he complained. “Don’t be thinking you have to offer for her hand over a …” He paused as his eyes suddenly widened. “You haven’t proposed to her already, have you?”
Felix frowned. “Of course not,” he said with a shake of his head. “I wanted your permission first.”
Aimsley seemed to give off an air of relief. “Well, don’t fash yourself. I’m not going to hold a peck against you, especially one that took place in Weatherstone’s gardens.”
Narrowing his eyes, Felix wondered at the man’s unexpected response. In fact, Mark Comber’s cavalier attitude about his daughter—his only daughter—being kissed—in public, no less—had Felix feeling a bit of anger just then. “It wasn’t just a peck, Aimsley! I kissed her. Several times. Thoroughly,” he added, rather proud of how he was owning up to his unexpected rakish behavior.
After all, he chided others for the very same. Publicly, although not in his own name. Wrote damning articles and published them on a weekly basis. The earnings from his avocation were the very reason he could now afford to take a wife.
Aimsley leaned back in his chair and lifted one booted foot onto the edge of his desk and then c
rossed the other over it. His hands clasped in his lap, the earl appeared as relaxed as any wealthy man with nothing better to do. “Hmm,” he murmured. “Just like that, you kissed her?”
Felix sighed. “Yes.”
“Without provocation?”
“Well, none from her, of course.” When Aimsley aimed a frown in his direction—finally!—Felix added, “She was … regarding a daffodil at the time, holding it in her gloved hand …” He pantomimed the gesture as he spoke. “And she sniffed it, and I was …” Overcome, he almost said. “Bewitched,” he finished, one brow cocking up, as if he dared the other earl to counter his claim.
Rolling his eyes, Aimsley twiddled his thumbs for a moment. He glanced out the window behind his desk. He sighed. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to court my daughter. Properly. Take her for rides in the park—with a chaperone—have tea with her, take her to the museum. Dance with her at balls. All that rot.”
“Agreed,” Felix replied quickly, about to say more when one of Aimsley’s hands lifted as if to cut him off.
“For eight weeks.”
Felix blinked. “Eight weeks?” he repeated.
“Indeed. And you can only escort her once a week. If, at the end of that time, you’re still enamored with her, you can ask for her hand. I’m not going to force her to marry you, though. If she turns you down, you’re done.”
Not having given thought to just how Emelia would feel about marrying him, Felix allowed the sudden sense of disappointment he felt to wash over him.
Once a week?
“Why?” he whispered. “Why are you … Why are you not requiring me to marry her like any decent, vengeful, angry father would do?” he asked as his voice took on a hint of impatience. “Your reaction is entirely at odds with how you’re supposed to react to having learned your daughter—your only daughter—was kissed!”
The other earl displayed a grin Felix found rather evil just then. “You’re completely forgetting there are others we must take into consideration here.”
“Others?”
Well, there was Emelia, of course.
The Earl of Aimsley shook his head. “I have a countess. The mother of my daughter. The voice of reason in this household. The love of my life, I might add,” he said in a quieter voice, remembering how bereft she had been at his reaction when he learned his second son had sold his commission in the army. He had disowned Alistair, refusing to honor a promise the young officer had made to provide fifteen pounds a month to a late soldier’s widow.
All was well now, of course, for once Patience had made Aimsley see reason, he had made amends with their son and was seeing to the payment of the monthly pension for the widow. Meanwhile, Alistair had become a leading consultant for Tattersall’s and the head groom of the Harrington House stables, a position he had agreed to in exchange for permission to marry Julia Harrington. His first and only granddaughter had just been born from that union. “If my countess learned I had given permission for some rake to marry Emelia …”
“I am not a rake!”
Aimsley gave Felix a quelling glance. “You just admitted to having kissed my daughter—thoroughly,” he countered with a bushy brow arched up. “Anyway, I’ll let Patience know what’s happened …” He paused when he paid witness to Felix’s sudden strained face, rather enjoying just how much discomfort he was causing the man. “And consider her thoughts on the matter.”
It was at that moment that Aimsley remembered Felix wasn’t as old as he looked. This was a young man who had been friends with Adam, his heir. They had gone to school together. Patience rather liked Felix, he remembered, for Felix had tried to keep Adam out of trouble at least as much as the two were in trouble. “Take heart, Fenn. Emelia must be rather fond of you, or you would be displaying a shiner about now,” he added with a teasing grin. Then he waved his hand as if to dismiss the earl.
Wondering at the reference to a shiner, Felix gave the other earl a bow and took his leave of Aimsley House.
He had some research to do and a courtship to arrange.
“Did you enjoy the party?” Patience wondered from her side of the town coach, curious as to her daughter’s silence since leaving the Weatherstone’s gardens.
“Oh, very much,” Emelia replied with a nod, her gaze darting to something outside the window. “I can certainly understand why their balls are so popular. The ballroom is beautiful, as are the gardens.”
The countess allowed a grin. “I’m so glad Fenn was there. Why, I haven’t seen him in an age.”
Emelia was beginning to think her mother’s reference to ‘in an age’ must have applied to any amount of time more than a few months. Then she realized just who her mother meant by the name ‘Fenn’. “He seems … nice,” she offered, not quite sure what to make of a man who would kiss her senseless and then claim he wasn’t a rake.
On the one hand, she should have thought of him as a rake—she hadn’t even been in his company for ten minutes when he was suddenly kissing her. She could feel the blush creeping up her neck and blooming on her cheeks at the thought of how he had been staring at her just before his lips pressed against hers.
On the other hand, he had seemed sincere with his words even as he realized she would be hard to convince.
What had he been thinking? They had been out in the open, in front of God and who knew-how-many garden party guests just on the other side of the hedgerow!
“Nice?” her mother repeated in disbelief. “My darling, if that man were ten years older, and if I were ten years younger …” Patience suddenly stopped speaking, and for the first time in Emelia’s life, she paid witness to her mother blushing.
“He is handsome,” Emelia agreed with a teasing grin. And he kisses as if it were his sole purpose in life. To bestow those gorgeous lips on poor, unsuspecting chits who knew better but couldn’t help themselves. “By the way, what does it mean when a man says he might be forced to take a woman to Scotland?”
Patience Comber tore her gaze from a horse and rider outside the town coach window and stared at her daughter. “Did Fenn say that? To you?” The question was asked with so much hope and enthusiasm, a startled Emelia could only blink.
How should I reply? she wondered. To answer in the affirmative would let her mother know Fenn had indeed said it and said it to her. Did she want her mother knowing such a thing? Depends on what it means. “I overheard it whilst I was waiting for you,” she finally said with a shrug.
The disappointment her mother conveyed with how her shoulders suddenly sagged had Emelia wishing she had simply admitted Fennington had said it. “What does it mean?”
The countess scratched her eyebrow with her ring finger. “Elopement, my darling. It means that if a man cannot wait the three weeks for banns to be read, he’ll take his fiancée to Scotland for a quick wedding,” she explained. “Gretna Green is the closest village to the border, so it’s the most popular place to get married. To elope.”
I shall have to take you to Scotland. The words echoed in Emelia’s head. Did Fennington really mean he wanted to marry her? Or that he would have to marry her because they were about to be caught kissing behind the hedgerow?
Well, no matter. It wasn’t as if she would see the man again anytime soon. He had probably already forgotten about the kiss. Forgotten about her.
She couldn’t forget about him, though. She would be reliving the sensation of those lips on hers when she climbed into bed and attempted to sleep. She would be reliving that moment when she looked up and saw how Fennington gazed down at her. Reliving that moment when his arms were suddenly steel bands around her shoulders and waist, pulling her hard against the front of his tall body, the evidence of his arousal pressed into her belly and sending shivers of excitement up and down her spine.
That moment when he kissed her one last time. So tender. So filled with promise.
Patience watched her daughter, realizing the girl was suddenly lost in thought. Good though
ts, she hoped, for Emelia deserved nothing less. And if those thoughts included the Earl of Fennington, then all the better.
Chapter 3
A Gossip Monger Plots a Courtship
Oh, dear Reader, it’s at this point in our tale that we must admit to having made a grievous error. We were selfish, you see, and it cost us. Our goodwill coffers will be forever empty as a result of just one miscalculation. ~ Part of the editor’s farewell article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
Late afternoon, March 13, 1818, in the editor’s office of The Tattler
Donning a dark brown wig in front of the ornately framed looking glass in his office, Felix Turnbridge regarded his image and frowned. He looked awful. The hair color aged him at least ten years, and the style of the wig had him looking as if he were still living in the Georgian era. But when he added a matching mustache and a pair of wire spectacles that rested just beneath the bridge of his nose, his transformation into Mr. Frederick Pepperidge, editor of The Tattler, was nearly complete. Changing into a topcoat suitable for a clerk or solicitor ensured no one would suspect he was really a man of quality.
His office said otherwise, but then he had always thought it needed to project a certain gravitas. A hint of wealth rather than tawdriness prevailed. This was the office in which lives could be easily ruined with a pen and ink. When someone did pay a call, it was usually to provide news worthy of publication.
But there were also those who took exception to the articles that appeared in The Tattler. Once those visitors were shown to his office, they were usually too intimidated by the rich furnishings and carpet to put voice to their complaints about unfair treatment in his publication. He especially enjoyed watching the guilty realize they had been caught, fair and square. They needed to feel shame for their actions.
“Afternoon, Mr. Pepperidge,” his front office clerk said from the threshold of the main door into the office. Another door, somewhat hidden at the back and side of the office, gave the earl the means to get in and out of the building without being seen by the young man who stood before him.
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 2