Kiss Me, I'm Gorgeous

by Alexandra Benedict

  KISS ME, IM GORGEOUS

  BY ALEXANDRA BENEDICT

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  KINDLE EDITION

  KISS ME, I’M GORGEOUS

  Copyright © June 2018 Alexandra Benedikt

  Cover Photo Copyright © kladyk/Bigstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  www.AlexandraBenedict.ca

  KISS ME, I’M GORGEOUS

  London, 1821

  Lady Fiona twirled in front of the full-length mirror. Her shimmering, peach stain gown with a tier of delicate lace complimented her fair complexation, rosy lips and dark sable curls.

  Her french maid clasped her hands at the reflection. “Tu es magnifique, ma dame!”

  “Merci,” she retuned in a flat tone, for she was always being praised as “magnifique” or “belle” or “charmant” by her servant, and while the complements had charmed her in the past, they seemed rather mundane now.

  A knock at the door.

  “Enter,” said Fiona.

  Her Papa, the Duke of Wakehurst, stepped inside the dressing chamber wearing his dapper garb and regal medallions. As soon as he capped eyes on his only child, his features brightened, and that warm cheer never failed to delight Fiona.

  “You look so much like your darling mother,” he whispered.

  Her mother had died when Fiona was a child: a devastating time in her life she never dwelled upon.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  He presented her with a velvet trimmed box. “I have a gift for you.”

  “Oh, Papa.”

  He always offered her a resplendent jewel before any majestic occasion; it had become a custom between them.

  Fiona accepted the small box with a tickle of anticipation before she opened the hinged container.

  She gasped.

  Nestled on a small black cushion was a band of newly minted white gold that shined in the lamplight like a brilliant star. A sparkling topaz gem was the center head, while diamond accent stones bedecked the shoulders.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Like you,” said the duke, taking the ring from the box and slipping it over her middle finger. “Shall we?”

  Fiona cupped his offered arm and headed toward the ballroom—for yet another ball—but at the age of five-and-twenty, she was practically a spinster. Her doting Papa, however, refused to give up hope that she would one day meet her “prince charming.”

  As they made their way through the passages of the palatial manor, the duke patted her hand in encouragement. “It will be different tonight, my dear. I know it.”

  But Fiona had stopped dreaming long ago. Still, she squeezed her father’s hand in gratitude. He never failed to think the best for her.

  When she and Papa entered the ballroom, the myriad guests curtsied and bowed, soon forming a line to greet their host and hostess.

  For almost an hour, Fiona welcomed the ton with the same social banality since her debut ball many moons ago. And then, she spotted her neighbor, Michael Hale, Viscount Blackstone, and the tedious event livened—as did her heartbeat. The fine hairs on her arms also prickled with arousal at his confident approach across the ballroom.

  He was too devilishly suave and handsome; it was truly a sin. Tall and fit with wide shoulders and ever so muscular legs. He loved to ride; it was his favorite pastime—or so she had heard, for she wasn’t spying on him. A lock of his wavy black hair dangled across his brow in the most provocative way, verily begging a woman to brush the stray strand aside to reveal his ever-piercing grey eyes … and then continue to skim her fingers over his temples, his smooth cheeks and firm jaw.

  Fiona flicked open her fan and batted at the stifling air.

  According to rumor, Blackstone was an infamous seducer who could bring a woman to her knees with just a kiss. She had no experience in the matter, though. She had never been kissed or courted; no brash youth had even snatched a peck on the cheek in her youth. She was purported to be the most beautiful woman in London, and yet she had never known passion of any sort.

  She sighed with longing as Blackstone grew ever closer. At one time, they were almost betrothed. Their mothers, the dearest of friends, had been negotiating the wedding contract when Fiona’s mama passed away from scarlet fever, and the betrothal arrangement had come to naught.

  At last, Blackstone stopped to offer his respects, greeting the duke. He then turned toward her, his features inscrutable—and bowed. Why, he didn’t even take her hand for a ceremonial kiss! In truth, he had never so much as offered her a charming smile. Was Papa really so revered that no man, not even a rakehell like Blackstone, dared socialize with her?

  And like that, their brief encounter ended. Blackstone returned to the ball, disappearing among a throng of tittering young ladies, while Fiona remained at her father’s side—feeling lonely despite the three hundred guests swarming around her.

  In time, she spent the tail end of the evening dancing with eligible men who maintained the strictest of protocol. They waltzed with her at arms length and never looked her in the eyes. What the deuce were they afraid of? That they’d turn to stone? And they only conversed about the weather, never anything of consequence, not even a bit of harmless flattery!

  Tired of being paraded like a fragile porcelain doll, Fiona vowed this would be her last ball. Though she adored her papa for his steadfast optimism, she would not endure any more seasons, watching witless debutantes, devoted bluestockings and even wallflowers land husbands while she remained on the shelf. It was downright humiliating.

  Instead, she would retire as a gorgeous heiress even if it wounded her papa. At least, as an older woman of means, she could take back some control of her life and not wait upon a brave “prince” to sweep her off her feet.

  After the last of many insipid dances, Fiona needed fresh air and flounced off the dance floor without granting her dull partner so much as a curtsy. She was irritated with the bores, the cowards and the ninnies. Gracious, even her substantial dowry didn’t attract a worthy suitor! Had ever good man disappeared from London?

  Perhaps not, she mused, as she entered the garden, her gaze falling on Blackstone. He stood on the terrace, a glass of wine in hand, conversing with a male acquaintance, and Fiona discretely settled on the bench behind the fragrant, flowering shrubs, listening to the coterie. She just cherished the sound of Blackstone’s low and titillating voice; it always made her shudder with pleasure.

  “Another tedious night, eh Blackstone?”

  “I’m afraid so,” returned the viscount in a dry voice.

  “When will the duke see reason and accept no sane gentleman will ever marry his spoiled daughter?”

  Blackstone shrugged. “The duke is a hopeless romantic.”

  “A bit dotty, perhaps.”

  “Careful,” growled the viscount. “The duke is an honorable man.”

  “You’re right, Blackstone. It’s not the duke’s fault his daughter is a brat. I hear she cries at breakfast if she doesn’t get a diamond with her porridge.” A chortle. “Gads, a man would be penniless in a year with her for a wife. A new silk dress ever week. A diamond for breakfast. And a tiara for dinner.”


  “I pity her at times,” said Blackstone.

  “Gads, whatever for?”

  “It can’t be easy embarrassing herself season after season, searching for a mate.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing your betrothal to her fell apart or you’d be in the poor house right now.”

  “A fortuitous boon, indeed. Besides, I don’t intend to be leg-shackled anytime soon. And I certainly don’t intend to be leg-shackled to the narcissistic Lady Fiona.”

  As the men clinked glasses and returned to the ballroom, Fiona remained rooted to the spot, her blood turning cold as their cruel words impaled her with wicked force, knocking the breath clear from her lungs.

  A spoiled, narcissistic brat?

  Fiona suddenly wanted to vomit.

  She staggered to her feet, the pain in her head throbbing beyond measure. She cupped her brow, her breast, wandering the garden like a delirious island castaway.

  When will the duke see reason and accept no sane gentleman will ever marry his spoiled daughter?

  Is that the reason no “sane” gentleman ever offered her a bashful smile or flirtatious wink or comely compliment? For fear he might attract her attention? Invite the “dotty” duke’s blessing? Get trapped in a courtship? Or, perish the thought, become leg-shackled to her?

  At the ache in her chest, Fiona gritted her teeth to stem the surge of tears welling in her eyes.

  I pity her at times. It can’t be easy embarrassing herself season after season, searching for a mate.

  She swallowed the bile in her throat. Pity her? That blackguard? She would brook no charity from him—from any member of the ton. Oh, no. Fiona would not wail over her upturned bowl of porridge and welcome sneers from the gentry. She saw red. And she intended retribution.

  After she dabbed at her eyes and fisted her palms a few times, she rallied her composure and entered the ballroom, shoulders staunch, spine stiff as a board. She maintained an aggregable expression as she searched the crowd for Blackstone.

  The moment she spotted the ruthless rogue, she sensed her blood rushing through her veins, the roar deafening in her ears, and it took several breaths before she tamed her suffocating emotions.

  In smooth yet brisk strides, she maneuvered through the crush until she paused at the villain’s backside.

  “A waltz, Blackstone? Why, of course!”

  He had turned around before she’d finished the remark, glaring at her. The rest of the guests, meanwhile, had hushed and stared at the couple with incredulity.

  Fiona lifted her arms, and the viscount grasped her without a single misstep, preventing a blunder in etiquette, as she’d suspected. The two twirled across the dance floor in perfect harmony, though the viscount still stabbed her with an ever-sharpening stare.

  Strange, she thought, that the heat in his eyes still made her shiver in the most pleasing way. After his heartless comments in the garden, she had believed his touch, his gaze would churn her belly in disgust … but it seemed, after years of adoring the man, it would take more than a vicious insult to quash her feelings for him—and that irked her beyond words.

  At least she was a “narcissistic” brat.” Surely, her sentiments for the viscount were flighty. She’d forget all about her longing for the man by sunrise, no doubt.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this dance, Lady Fiona?” he wondered in a strained vein.

  “We are neighbors, Blackstone. Friends since birth. Is it really so unusual that we should dance?”

  “And yet we’ve never dance before, my lady.”

  “A pity, that. I’m so glad you rectified the oversight tonight.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You asked me to dance, Blackstone.”

  “The devil I did.”

  She tsked. “That’s an ungracious manner, my lord.”

  “I never asked you to dance, Lady Fiona.”

  She lifted her slender brows in feigned coyness. “I heard you, Blackstone. The guests heard you. And now here we are, frolicking arm in arm.”

  The fury in his countenance softened. “Aye, the guests heard you. What is the meaning of this ruse?”

  “A ruse, my lord? Tut. Tut. Such slander. After all, the narcissistic Lady Fiona would never abase herself with fool-hearted deceit.”

  His flushed. His grip tightened. And his voice dropped to a feral rumble. “Vengeance, my lady? I would have thought it beneath you?”

  “I wasn’t aware rakehells had morals?”

  His luscious mouth formed a taut smile. “Very well, Fiona. Have your requital.”

  As the dance swayed to an end, she perched on her slippered toes, almost brushing his steaming lips. “Oh, no, my lord. I am far from satisfied.” She then stepped away, curtsied, and raised her voice again: “Riding in Hyde Park? Tomorrow at ten? Sounds delightful, Blackstone!”

  His gaze narrowed on her in the most threatening way.

  She beamed and sashayed from the ballroom, relishing in the delight of it all … while the surly viscount remained fixed in the middle of the dance floor, murder in his eyes.

  ~ * ~

  He was late, the scoundrel.

  It was ten minutes passed the hour. The ton had come out to witness the curious ride between the notorious viscount and the duke’s spoiled daughter. Another man might be coward enough to avoid the outing, leaving Fiona stranded with her chaperone and humiliated. But she wasn’t worried about Blackstone crying off. She was miffed at his tardiness, aye, but the viscount would appear, she was sure. After all, she had known him her entire life, and she knew how much he respected Papa. He would not desert her, thus disgracing the duke.

  At the murmur of more and more whispers, Fiona maintained her poise. She was dressed in a resplendent plum-purple riding habit and matching cap. Her hair was twisted in a chignon. She looked every bit the fashionable lady. And she behaved like a proper one, too, her shoulders back, her spine straight. She sensed every pair of eyes ogling her, just waiting to catch her crumble and cry or throw a tantrum.

  Instead, she retained her steely resolve, denying the vipers even the slightest on-dit. In truth, she intended to spoil their morning, for they’d gathered to see a show, and she’d no intention of giving them one. No. Her wrath was reserved for one man—Blackstone.

  Soon she heard the easy clip-clop of horse hooves. She knew it was Blackstone. She sensed the fire in his eyes burning into her backside. And damnation, she still shuddered at his heated expression!

  He fell in step beside her and together they trotted down the lane, her stable hand trialing a discrete distance.

  “You’re late, Blackstone.”

  He yawned. “A rakehell like myself has an aversion toward mornings.”

  She glanced sidelong at the rogue. He was dressed in a taut riding coat and breeches with knee-high, black leather boots, looking every bit the handsome gentleman.

  “Rutting all night, were you?”

  “Tut. Tut,” he admonished. “Such slander, Lady Fiona.”

  He then winked at her. She resisted yet another vexing quiver. Clearly, she still yearned for the blackguard more than was proper. But if he thought to unnerve her with scandalous inuendoes and end their “ruse,” he had sorely underestimated her fury. After his callous remarks in the garden, there was nothing more he could say that would shake her resolve for retribution.

  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said with a stiff smile.

  “Let us do away with false pleasantries, shall we?”

  “Very well, Blackstone. What would you like to discuss?”

  “You know damn well, Fiona?”

  He had dropped all pretense of propriety in private. And was that a vein throbbing in his neck? Splendid.

  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you mean, my lord. After all, you invited me to ride in Hyde Park. I assume you have a matter of great import to discuss with me.”

  “Do not be obtuse, woman. State your terms.”

  “My terms?”

  His nos
trils flared. “To end this vengeful charade, of course. What do you want? Money? Jewels?”

  He would assume her so shallow, so soulless that a pricy bauble would stamp out the hurt in her heart: her very foolish heart. Why, he didn’t even offer her an apology!

  “A golden ball,” she quipped. “I like shiny, pretty things.”

  “Done.”

  She gasped. He believed her serious? “Do not toy with me, Blackstone.”

  “Toy with you? Are you mad?”

  “Sane, I assure you.”

  He mumbled, “Hell truly hath no fury …”

  “What was that, my lord?”

  “Enough, Fiona! This must end, I insist.”

  “And it will, I promise.”

  A pause, then, “Why does that promise sound so ominous? If you think to trap me in matrimony—”

  She laughed. “Do not be absurd, Blackstone. I would never marry you.”

  I’d rot in everlasting poverty first.

  “And why the devil not?” he demanded, almost peevish.

  Heavens, had she wounded the popinjay’s pride?

  “You are not a worthy catch, my lord,” she said in the end, deflecting anymore questions, for there had been a time when she would have married him, most willingly.

  “Then end this ruse before anyone believes we’re courting.”

  “Even if rumors of a courtship surfaced, I’d deny them outright. Fret not, Blackstone. You escaped marriage to me once before, and I would not be so cruel as to trap you in it again.”

  A dark moment of silence. “What are you talking about, Fiona?”

  “Our almost-betrothal, of course.” Her chest tightened in an unexpected way, making her wince. “You must have been so happy when my mother died and the betrothal contract between us fell apart.”

  “Fiona,” he said in a hushed tone, “I did not dance at your mother’s funeral.”

  “In public, no, but in private? I’m sure you toasted with your chums at your auspicious escape.”

  Blackstone swivelled his horse round, blocking her path, forcing her to yank her stead’s reins to avoid a collision. Her mare whinnied and sidestepped in alarm, but Fiona swiftly regained control.