Kiss Me After

by Cecilia Gray

  * * *

  Mr. C.,

  Please accept my sincere gratitude for your assistance on the day of my sister’s marriage.

  I am eternally grateful.

  A.B.

  * * *

  Miss B.,

  It was my sincere pleasure to be of assistance. I stand by as your ready servant for any future wedding-planning needs. “Eternity” is quite a long time, after all.

  Eternally your servant,

  R.C.

  * * *

  Mr. C.,

  Despite my father’s abhorrence of indentured servitude and what he deems its ill effect on a free market economy, I graciously accept your offer. I do believe this constitutes a legally binding contract in writing that I am prepared to enforce in a court of law as needed. Your duties will be made known to you shortly.

  Eternally an opportunist,

  A.B.

  * * *

  Miss B.,

  I have no doubt in regards to your intentions and consider my pledge sincere. I do believe my position as your indentured servant means I have also forfeited any right to marry without your consent. I shall inform my matchmaking mother at once so that her pleas for eventual proposals may be forwarded forthwith to your attention.

  Eternally opportunistic, as well,

  R.C.

  Chapter Two

  Alice’s account of Viscount Savage

  March 20, 1817

  London, England

  “I miss them so,” Aunt Margaret sniffled into her tea. She wore black, as if in mourning, a depressing contrast to the floral wallpaper of her tea parlor.

  Alice and Charlotte exchanged smiles over the tops of their respective newspapers. Nearly every inch of the lace tablecloth was covered in pastries, fruits, or papers, and they had spent the past few hours in decadent waste at their aunt’s insistence. Alice wasn’t sure if she could bear another hour being unproductive.

  “Don’t you miss them?” Aunt Margaret speared her lemon curd. “Oh, I don’t know if I can bear to be parted from them for much longer.”

  Aunt Margaret was referring not only to Sera but to Bridget and Dinah who had accompanied Sera on her honeymoon tour of Italy. Bridget had been swooning over the possibility of meeting an Italian count, and Dinah had promised she would keep Bridget from said swooning. They made rather ideal travel companions for their sister. What Sera’s husband made of it, no one knew.

  Still, this separation would be the longest the Belle sisters had ever endured. Aunt Margaret, however, was no stranger to time away from her nieces as she was subject to whimsy and could easily be in London one day and across the sea the next with nary a moment’s notice. As Aunt Margaret often said: what was the point of a brother-in-law like Dominic Belle who commanded a fast fleet of ships if one could not avail oneself of passenger accommodations when wanderlust struck? Thus, Aunt Margaret’s declarations, as with most of her actions, were mostly for dramatic effect.

  Or as Dinah would have said if she were present, nonsense.

  Charlotte set down her paper and piled tea sandwiches on her plate until the stack was taller than her cup. “Are you disappointed that Sera didn’t also beg you to be her traveling companion, Aunt Margaret?”

  “Hardly. I’ve decided I am too old to be traipsing about the Continent. And with Italians? They are too friendly and opinionated. At your age, I was always eager for friends, but now?” Aunt Margaret shrugged her tiny shoulders. “It’s so tiresome to meet new people. The wedding was exhausting enough. His Grace? What a pill.”

  Charlotte spat out her sandwich on her plate, earning a stern glare for unladylike behavior from their aunt. “Aunt Margaret!” she said regardless, shock etched on her face.

  With a simple, swift gesture to the kitchen maid, Alice indicated for the offending plate and its contents to be removed.

  “He was horrid,” Aunt Margaret insisted. “I barely met a friend of his worth knowing—a bunch of stuffy old men, they are. How Dominic can stand him, I don’t know.”

  “Father can stand anyone with a title of merit who might marry one of us,” Charlotte pointed out matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, he always could stand anything for your mother.”

  The m-word—mother—rarely earned casual mention in the Belle home and it dropped into conversation with the weight of a shattered chandelier in their midst. Alice tried to swallow her tea but it was caught on the lump in her throat. Not that one need say the word to remind Alice of her mother. There were reminders in every day. How Alice could never quite manage a menu as well as her mother, how the maids didn’t seem to whistle as much under Alice’s care as they did before, how utterly unmarried Alice still was. The only comfort to Alice was that her sisters were also not immune to this melancholy. Charlotte chewed on another sandwich, and their cups clinked as they all sipped in silence.

  Aunt Margaret set down her cup with a hard clank and gave a high-pitched laugh. “You young ladies don’t want to hear about my boring conversations with decrepit, old men. I’m afraid I can’t recall the night much anyhow. That ratafia was much stronger than it first presented itself.” She cleared her throat. “How about you? Did you meet anyone new and interesting at Woodbury? I was shocked at the popularity of the Abernathy men given their father’s character. If only charming men had been in such abundance in my youth.”

  Alice recalled Mr. Robert Crawford as easily as if he’d been sitting before her. Not surprising given she had managed to find a reason to conjure his image at least once a day since the wedding a month ago. Along with his friendly face and fine blue eyes, she also forced herself to remember what she’d learned of his standing. He was a mister, the seventh son of an unknown baron. Poor as a church mouse and just as modest. But also thoughtful, kind, and wry, too, with a wit that had surprised her and continued to through their correspondence. He also was, lest she forget, her self-proclaimed eternal servant. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, certain the blush was evident.

  The pages of their private correspondence beckoned from the hatbox in her wardrobe where she had hidden them, not only so they couldn’t be found but so she wouldn’t wear away the words with her constant handling. She needn’t read the letters when the contents, every loop of each letter, were imprinted perfectly in her memory.

  “I’m afraid I was so busy I barely spoke to anyone except to give orders,” Alice lied.

  “I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted,” Aunt Margaret said.

  Alice frowned. “I don’t take your meaning.”

  “Giving orders,” her aunt clarified. “A privilege reserved for the lady of the house, which Woodbury now has in Sera. I suppose you are welcome to give orders in your father’s home as there is no lady present.”

  Charlotte sniffled, making both their aunt and Alice look over at her. Water pooled in the corners of her eyes.

  “Oh no. There’s no need to be maudlin,” Aunt Margaret said. “No, dry your eyes, Charlotte. It’s this very death knell at the mention of your mother that keeps you all hostages to her memory. She was my sister, you realize. I’ve more memories of her than all of you combined.”

  It was not the first time Aunt Margaret reminded them of this irrefutable mathematical fact. While Alice was certain her aunt did not mean to be unkind, she still felt a sharp lance at the words.

  As if sensing the blow, Aunt Margaret leaned over the table and squeezed her knee. “She would have been proud of you. She would have told you that you did well in her stead at Sera’s wedding, but you must leave Woodbury to your sister now.”

  “What a thing to say! Of course I harbor no designs on Woodbury.” An itchy rasp scratched her throat. Her father had said something similar at the wedding. Is this what her family thought of her? That she would extend her welcome where she was neither needed nor wanted?

  “Sera will be comfortable in her marriage,” Charlotte said, as though she knew the discomfort of Alice’s thoughts and sought to change the subject.

  “Comfortabl
e? Is that high praise for a marriage?” She couldn’t help the words from tumbling out. Alice had seen many marriages survive on less, and yet there was the specter of her parents’ love. It was foggy as a dream, but she held to it nonetheless, as if trying to capture smoke in her cupped hands.

  “Any marriage that doesn’t end in murder seems to have merit,” Aunt Margaret muttered.

  “Is it too much to hope that Sera and Tom will find themselves as well matched in spirit as they are in financial and political connection?” Alice asked. “And should we not be on hand to advise her in such matters as her new household duties?”

  Aunt Margaret raised a dramatic brow. “For someone without designs on Woodbury, you are expert at maneuvering yourself as its mistress. If you are in such desperate need of a home to care after and refuse to indulge your father’s matchmaking, then pray, have mine. These rooms are in desperate need of rehabilitation.”

  Alice managed not to retort to her Aunt Margaret’s biting remark. Instead, her gaze swept the room, assessing the condition. “The curtains are near threadbare. The carpet well trodden.”

  “I’ve been meaning to change them, but there’s never any time.”

  Never mind that it’s hard to find time when you are constantly traveling the world.

  Still, Alice was not one to question an opportunity to busy her idle mind and hands. Before she could suggest a design concept, the butler entered the room, drawing their attention to the door. He held a calling card in one hand and announced, “Viscount Savage and Mr. Robert Crawford.” He then stepped aside.

  Charlotte’s sharp intake of breath cut through the room. Despite her clear surprise, she stood along with Alice and their aunt and curtseyed.

  Alice gave her sister a curious stare and then turned to greet their guests, only to find herself face-to-face with the infamous rake Lord Savage. The gossip had been accurate. He was a fine specimen, with keen green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth that seemed to draw even their aunt’s attention.

  Alice’s gaze passed over him appreciatively before settling on Mr. Crawford. He smiled, mirroring her own expression and feelings upon seeing him.

  Silverware clattered against a plate as Charlotte upended a pile of newspapers, righted them, and set her teacup atop them instead of back on its saucer. At this rate, the entire table was at risk of being toppled by Charlotte’s clumsiness. What had got into her sister?

  “Hello, Mr. Crawford. I recall your elegant toast from the reception. What is the nature of your unexpected visit?” Aunt Margaret asked, then pursed her lips, obviously trying to ignore Charlotte’s motions.

  “We have been charged with bringing gifts from the recent groom, Lady Newton,” Robert said. “Might I introduce my companion in this venture, Viscount Savage? Lord Savage, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lady Newton, Miss Alice Belle, and Miss Charlotte Belle.”

  Lord Savage bowed elegantly. Alice did not know if it was possible for the top of someone’s head to set one’s heart beating faster, but she was certain the tousled dark curls of his head could have evoked a pulse from a corpse.

  “It is a pleasure to meet a close friend of our new family,” Charlotte said. “However, I do not remember you from the wedding, Lord Savage.”

  “Then it is fortunate I was not invited, for I would hate to think you found me unmemorable.” His grin seemed to charm even the curtains, which swayed toward him with the breeze from the window.

  How strange for a close friend not to be invited. Or perhaps, not strange, if the potential guest was as notorious as Lord Savage and the host as stuffy as the Duke of Rivington.

  “Would you like to sit?” Aunt Margaret asked.

  “Thank you for the invitation, but alas, we cannot stay,” Robert said. “We’ve left the items in question with the butler, and even now I’m due on Bond Street.”

  “How coincidental!” Aunt Margaret inclined her head toward Alice, a sparkle in her eye that Alice did not like one bit. She knew whatever was about to come from her aunt’s mouth would not be the truth. “Miss Belle was just on her way there, as well, to purchase new drapes for my home. I would also have her procure new ribbon for me and perhaps a hat. Something in the Continental style. But you do not need my shopping list,” she said with a laugh. “Do you have your phaeton, Mr. Crawford?”

  Alice shot her aunt a horrified look. What was her aunt about? Matchmaking? She must know her father would never approve of someone like Mr. Crawford. But then she followed that gleam in her aunt’s eyes . . . to Savage.

  Oh dear. Lord Savage, on the other hand, was someone her father would approve of, but Alice had no interest in rakes—or heartbreak—at her age.

  “Of course,” Robert said. “Might I offer an escort?”

  Alice quickly chimed in to nip her aunt’s plan in the bud. “I do not wish to give Mr. Crawford any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Robert said. “Consider me your willing indentured servant.”

  She fought her grin at his reference to his letter but could do nothing about the flush to her face. She was trapped. “I’m afraid I’m not quite ready.”

  “Then we shall wait,” Lord Savage said. “Is there no worthier sacrifice a gentleman can make of his time than for a lady?”

  It was clear the gentlemen would not be swayed to go on without her, so Alice went to fetch her blue pelisse from her bedroom. Charlotte followed, clutching a handful of newspapers and making some sort of noise that resembled that of a frog.

  “Charlotte, are you quite all right?” Alice asked as they made their way to the second floor. She paused at the top of the staircase to rest her hand against Charlotte’s reddened cheek. It was hot. “You’ve been positively beside yourself. I should send for a doctor.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Charlotte said from between gritted teeth. She forced her sister into Alice’s bedroom. “This is how everyone behaves in Lord Savage’s presence, if you must know.”

  “They become ill?” Alice teased.

  “Sometimes, I swear, you are impossible.”

  Alice, flustered at being forced to ready herself for her outing without the benefit of her maid, searched through her closet for her pelisse. The hatbox containing Mr. Crawford’s letters taunted her from its corner, and it took every ounce of willpower to ignore its siren song. “That seems an unworthy remark for the occasion.”

  “Being oblivious to Lord Savage certainly merits the judgment.”

  “I am not oblivious to him.” Alice found the pelisse peeking out between her gowns, snatched it off its hook, and threw it over her shoulders. “He is a well-known rake, you know. While I understand that the Abernathys are a spirited lot, at least Mr. Robert Crawford is a sensible and calming influence on our brothers-in-law. Lord Savage is not.”

  Charlotte’s gray eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You are using the terms sensible and calm with much more vigor and favor than I believe are due.”

  “You’re being positively spiteful, by your standards.”

  Charlotte read from the top sheet of the newspapers in her hands. “‘I had the pleasure of first meeting Lord Savage in church, although one must wonder how he made it through the doors without being smitten by lightning,’” she read in an exaggerated high-pitched voice.

  Alice peered over her sister’s shoulder. “What is that?”

  “This is a gossip sheet devoted entirely to, and I quote, anonymous accounts of first sightings of the stunningly handsome lord.”

  “A direct quote?”

  “Yes. And you barely glanced at him. Must I be worried now about your eyesight? Will you need eyeglasses as Father does?”

  Alice scowled. It wasn’t that Lord Savage was unattractive. He was unaccountably so. But was it worth mentioning? Sometimes the sky was alarmingly blue. Sometimes a dress was unnecessarily low-cut. As Dinah would say, in a world of normality, there must always be something extraordinary.

  Good heavens, she was quoting Dinah. What had the world come to?

&
nbsp; Fine. She could admit it.

  Viscount Savage was extraordinary. Or at least his visage was.

  “Well, you have a story now,” Alice said, “about nearly toppling the breakfast table when you saw him.”

  “I was worried he would see the article,” Charlotte confessed. “How embarrassing would that have been? But you? You have no story. Nothing.”

  No story, nothing. Would that always be the case? Sometimes Alice felt as if she were so busy seeing to everyone else’s satisfaction that she forwent her own. She turned away before Charlotte could see the direction of her thoughts mirrored in her eyes and forced her tone to lighten. “I suppose that’s something in itself,” Alice said. She stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, my account shall be, ‘I remember the first time I laid eyes on Lord Savage, as it wasn’t memorable at all.’”

  “Blasphemy,” Charlotte said.

  * * *

  As they waited patiently at the base of the stairs in the foyer by the front door, Robert tried to ignore Savage’s smug, satisfied expression, but it was louder than any words could be.

  “Is there something you’d like to say?” Robert prodded, his tone hushed so as not to be overheard.

  Savage plucked at an imaginary piece of lint from the shoulder of his jacket. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your recent procurement of a phaeton. I could have sworn that I was the one who owned it. Are those your horses, too? Good God, I must compliment you on having a fine eye for flesh. Some might say the finest eye in the city.”

  Ah, so there was that. Perhaps he had been too hasty in offering the ride. “I’m a man of many hidden talents, Savage.”

  “Apparently. Seeing as how you’ve overcome our pesky laws of ownership and find yourself in possession of a phaeton, might I beg of you a ride home?”

  “I’m sure you’d prefer a hired hackney to make your way home.”

  “Would I?” Savage’s lips curved in a lazy smile. “Are you the only gentleman on the planet who does not know ‘the Tale of the Bayswater Belles’?”

  The metallic taste of iron tinged his tongue as he bit down, hard. “I know it.” He cursed it. Every word of it. Especially the version that had been made into a drunken bar ditty to mock the plight of five motherless girls and their rich father’s obvious attempts to marry them into polite society.