The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “No, no, no!” Coquette begged. “It was nothing! It was so long ago, and…and Billings happened upon us in the garden and—”

  “Tell me he did no more,” Valor growled, taking her chin in one hand, glaring down into her face. “Though it is enough reason to kill him!”

  “Tell me you will have William make for Roanan Manor House, and…and I will tell you the length of it,” she said. Valor was fierce! She could see the fury in him. In those moments, he meant to cross swords with Lord Springhill, and she would not see his life in danger for any reason, especially for her part.

  “I will slit his throat!” Valor said, his eyebrows raised in warning.

  “You will take us home,” Coquette said, pushing against his broad shoulders with her small hands. “I will tell you of it then—once we are on our way once more.”

  “Milord?” William called from the coachman’s seat outside the conveyance. “Is all well?”

  “All is well, William,” Coquette called as she reached over and closed the coach door once more. “I thought I had neglected something, but I have it here. Please make for home. With haste.”

  “Yes, milady,” William said.

  Valor was infuriated! Yet he remained seated, glaring at her in silence.

  “That is my mouth he endeavored to taste!” Valor growled. “You belong to me! All of you!”

  “It was not your mouth then,” she reminded him. “You did not want it then, and that is beside the point.”

  “Your mouth has always belonged to me,” he growled, reaching out and taking her chin in hand once more. “And it is ever I have wanted it!”

  Coquette scarcely had time to gasp before his mouth was sealed to hers, moist, heated, and ravenous. Yet there was something more—an unfamiliar trembling in him. What it was she could not fathom, though it felt akin to fear.

  “Tell me!” he demanded, breaking their kiss. “For I am mad with the fear of knowing all of it.”

  “He…he simply came upon me in the garden,” she began, for she felt desperate to ease the fear in his eyes. “He said only, ‘My mind is obsessed of you,’ and then he…he took hold of me and forced his vile kiss on me. I struggled, tried to free myself, but he was so strong. Billings came into the gardens then, and Lord Springhill released me. He left, and I have not seen him since.”

  “That is all. Do you swear it to me?” Valor asked.

  “He ever made utterly lewd implications before that day…yet I have not seen him since, and it was…it was the only time he ever attempted to…” she hesitated.

  Coquette noted the beads of perspiration on Valor’s forehead, the trembling of his hands. Fury still threatened to overtake him, but he sat back in the coach seat and said, “You will tell me if ever you lay eyes on him again. I feel in the deepest regions of my soul that I should confront him now. But you do not wish it. Either that or you do not think I may truly best him.”

  “You would easily best him, milord,” Coquette said, for she did not doubt it. “But he is not worth your attention.” She looked away from him, a heated blush crimson on her cheeks as she said, “And he cannot have mistaken your display at dinner. He must think you would champion me…that you would kill him for ever trying such a thing again.”

  “I would kill him,” Valor said.

  “It is, all of it, in the past,” Coquette said. “I do not wish to discuss it further, if you please, milord.”

  “As you wish, milady,” Valor grumbled, returning his attention to the darkness without the coach.

  Coquette breathed a heavy sigh. Fear still caused her innards to tremble—fear that Valor would confront Springhill and be injured somehow. Yet his fury over Springhill’s assault buoyed her hope as well. She sensed it was more than merely Springhill’s having touched her, Valor’s possession, that drove him to such fury. And as she remembered his display at dinner, whether for the benefit of the witnesses or not, it gave her flesh cause to erupt into goose pimples. The beast Lord of Roanan was in danger of being vanquished at Valor’s hand, she was certain—as much in danger as Lord Springhill would have been had Coquette allowed the coach to return to Lord Dickerson’s.

  The Whispered Kiss

  “Victoria!” Valor called as he entered the kitchens. Victoria was where she usually was in the late hours—in the kitchen enjoying a book of poetry and a pastry.

  “Milord?” she asked as he entered.

  “We have arrived home,” Valor said.

  “I see that, milord. Was it a nice dinner party?” she asked.

  “I am very fatigued, Victoria,” came his answer. “Would you be so kind as to bring me some of your warm spiced milk when you come to tend to milady?”

  “Milord?” Victoria asked.

  He could see the worry and trepidation on her face. “Not to worry, Victoria,” he said. “I’m simply tired. Just milk and nutmeg warmed, if you please. No additional ingredients, you understand.”

  “Yes, sire,” she breathed with relief.

  “But please do tend to milady,” he added as he turned to go. “The evening was wrought with discomfort for her, I believe.”

  As Valor entered his chambers, stripping the cravat from his throat, he thought on the events of the evening. Springhill! He should have returned to Dickerson’s and called the villain out. His mind burned with fury at the thought of Springhill’s having even looked at Coquette in the past, but to know he had laid hands on her, pressed his foul mouth to hers—his mind and body could barely endure the knowledge.

  Furthermore Godfrey’s words, spoken prior to Dickerson’s party, echoed through his mind repeatedly. She will prove herself to you, milord, Godfrey had said. One day, milady will display her true feelings for you. It may be subtle, for she has little reason to hope you will accept her, but one day she will prove unguarded, weaken, and if your eyes are wide instead of blinded as they are now, you will see her heart belongs to you…as ever it has. Then, with the opportunity of redemption before you—then you must find the courage to take her heart into yours once more. Over and over again these words echoed through his consciousness, and he could not send them to silence.

  As he removed his shirt, as his mind recalled certain measures of the experience at Dickerson’s—Coquette’s perceptible jealousy of Juliann’s displayed affection to Valor, her clinging to him for security and protection when Springville had appeared, her willing acceptance and return of his kiss in front of the dinner party. It was scandalous, what he had done at dinner to convince Springhill of his passion for Coquette. And yet scandalous or not, she had involved herself in it. Something in him, something weak and hurt, something once damaged, whispered Godfrey’s words to his mind over and over, and he began to wonder—was Godfrey correct? Had Coquette indeed, as Godfrey foretold, proven herself to yet harbor strong feelings for him? A throbbing ache began to take root in his stomach and chest as if something were trapped in him and battling to get out.

  He needed sleep. He was tired—too tired to think with any amount of rationality. He would drink Victoria’s warm nutmegged milk, void of tonic, and sleep hard. Perhaps in the morning all would be clear. For the moment, however, there was only the sickening ache in his body, the painful fatigue in his mind, the sweet taste of Coquette’s kiss on his tongue.

  There came a knock on his door, and relief washed over him.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Victoria entered carrying a silver tray and chalice. “This should soothe you, milord,” she said as she offered the chalice to him. “And Godfrey asked me to bring this to your attention as well,” she added, handing him a letter that lay on the tray.

  Valor accepted the chalice. “No tonic?” he asked, accepting the letter as well.

  “Just milk and spice, sire,” Victoria said. She frowned as she looked at him. “You look overly fatigued, milord. Though these dinner parties of Lord Dickerson’s do seem to wear on you.”

  “It was a night not to be taken lightly,” Valor said as he sipped the warm mi
lk and frowned as he studied the seal on the letter.

  “I leave you then, milord—to your rest,” Victoria said.

  “Thank you, Victoria,” Valor said. “Please be certain milady is well looked after.”

  “Yes, sire,” and she was gone.

  Again the pain in his gut ached, and he fancied he labored to draw breath. His limbs also felt weak. For all appearances and sensations, he wondered he had not been fighting some great battle.

  Once more his thoughts lingered on Coquette, her clinging to him, her willingness to toss propriety to the wind and receive his kiss at the dinner party.

  She will prove herself to you, milord, Godfrey’s voice echoed in his mind. With the opportunity of redemption before you—then you must find the courage to take her heart into yours once more.

  “What heart do you speak of, Godfrey?” Valor asked the air as he drank for the chalice. “For mine is cold as stone and—”

  He was interrupted by a sharp twinge in his chest, in the vicinity of his heart. Uncomfortable it was, and he wondered if Lady Dickerson’s menu had not agreed with him.

  Sitting down on the side of his bed, he drank from the chalice once more. The warm milk soothed the pain in his chest a bit. He liked Victoria’s concoction, even without the tonic. Setting the chalice aside for a moment, he broke the seal on the letter and began to read.

  “And how was the dinner party, milady?” Victoria asked as she carefully placed Coquette’s emerald slippers in the nearby wardrobe.

  “Fine,” Coquette answered.

  Yet Victoria was suspicious. Had something unusual taken place at the dinner party? With milord looking so fatigued and milady so rosy-cheeked, she could but wonder.

  Victoria’s mischievous nature took hold then, and she said, “I have just come from the master’s chamber.”

  “Oh?” Coquette inquired.

  Victoria smiled, for curiosity was bright on the young woman’s face.

  “Yes,” Victoria said. “He asked me to bring him the nutmegged milk.”

  “He did?” Coquette exclaimed with a gasp.

  “Indeed,” Victoria answered, however not offering any further information. She knew milady assumed the milk was laced with the tonic. It was what she wanted her to assume.

  “But why?” Coquette asked. “Why did he ask for the milk?”

  Victoria shrugged, feigning ignorance. “I suppose he was overly tired and wanted the soothing drink to help him sleep. Oh, and there was the letter Godfrey delivered.”

  “A letter? From whom?”

  “I’m not certain, milady. Although, I could swear I’ve seen the manner of writing on it before. Definitely a woman’s hand…but I can’t recall why it seemed so familiar.”

  “Excuse me, Victoria,” Coquette mumbled, hastening toward the door. “I…I must see milord before he…before he falls asleep. There is…there is something I’ve forgotten to ask.”

  “Then you best hurry, milady,” Victoria said. “For he did indeed look greatly fatigued. I’m sure sleep will find him quickly.”

  Rushing across the hallway, Coquette was heedless to all else except speaking with Valor before the medicine of the nutmegged milk overtook him. She cared not for the fact she had neglected any slippers, had not even properly refastened the bows at the back of her ball gown. What woman had sent him a letter? She must know!

  Without even knocking, she burst into his chambers to find him sitting upright on his bed reading the letter.

  His eyebrows raised, his eyes widening as he saw her. Next to him, on a tiny table, sat a silver chalice.

  “Milord,” was all she could say. It was only then she realized she had no excuse to offer—no excuse as to her sudden and rather rude appearance in his chamber.

  “Yes?” he asked. He did appear overly fatigued, nearly weak somehow. His eyelids looked heavy, his hair tousled.

  “I-I neglected to…to…”

  “Neglected to what?” he prodded, laying the letter on the small table and taking hold of the chalice.

  “I neglected to thank you for your display at the dinner table this evening,” she managed at last. “I know it was for Lord Springhill’s sake.”

  “It was for the sake of all,” he said, still holding the chalice. “Actually, I’m not certain I’m in earnest in saying that.”

  “What?” Coquette asked. Surely he meant to let Lord Springhill know there was no doubt of his loyalty to Coquette.

  “I think I did it for my own selfish reasons,” he said, sipping from the chalice.

  “No!” Coquette said, dashing toward him and attempting to take the chalice from his hand. “That is to say…I’m sure you did it for no other reason than to—”

  “I did it for reasons I reason to be good reasons,” he said.

  Coquette released a heavy sigh. She was too late. He had partaken of the nutmegged milk and would soon be lost to deep slumber.

  “Very well, milord,” she mumbled. “I will leave you to your respite. Good night, sire.”

  “But wait,” he said, and Coquette paused in leaving him. He tipped his head toward the small table on which the letter now lay. “Your sister Elise—Elise has written to me in her own hand,” he told her. “She’s written pleading with me to allow you to attend Inez’s wedding five days hence,” he said.

  Coquette drew in a quick breath as she watched him raise the chalice to his perfect lips, draining it of its contents. No! She did not wish for him to be unconscious! She wanted to be with him—in his presence and he fully aware.

  “I have little wish to go, milord,” she told him. For it was true. She had no desire to leave him, even for a short time.

  “You do wish it. Furthermore, I am inclined to allow it,” he rather mumbled as he stood and rather unsteadily walked to the fire. “You…you are Lady of Roanan. Not a prisoner of it.”

  “And what of you, milord?” she ventured. “Do I travel alone to Bostchelan?” Oh, how desperately she hoped he would accompany her! How victorious it would be to see the expression on her father’s face when he realized Valor was the Lord of Roanan. How glorious it would be simply to travel with him!

  “I will remain here. I have no wish to return to Bostchelan. Godfrey will see you safely there,” he said.

  Coquette’s heart landed solidly in the pit of her stomach. She had little wish to go to Inez’s wedding and even less wish to go without Valor.

  Valor frowned as he gazed into the fire. Elise had written directly to him, and how could he refuse such a heartfelt plea? Furthermore, his heart was beginning to speak to his head, and it told him he should allow Coquette to return to her family. She’d been miserable in his company, and although her family was the worst of shallow-minded fools, he knew she loved them, even her cowardly father. For a moment, he wondered if Victoria had indeed included the tonic in his milk, for his thoughts were most unselfish. Still, he was no less aware than he had been before he had drained the chalice. He would send word by carrier—affirmation he would allow Coquette to attend the wedding.

  “I see you’ve consumed Victoria’s nutmegged milk,” Coquette said.

  “Yes,” Valor admitted. “I knew sleep would elude me tonight.” He exhaled slowly as he sensed her moving closer to him, as the mischief in his mind won over his good sense. Coquette knew the milk had been tainted before. Why should she believe otherwise now? An opportunity had presented itself. Valor realized in feigning the symptoms induced by the tonic, he might indeed be privy to conversation and events he might not otherwise be.

  “Then…then you are…you are overly relaxed, I assume,” she said.

  Valor was puzzled, curious. Coquette’s easy approach, her reference to the nutmegged milk, it intrigued him. Never had he known exactly what had passed between them on the occasion of the turn of the chalice—the night he had consumed the tonic meant for Coquette. He had revealed to Coquette the fact of their marriage having never been consummated. Beyond that, he remembered nothing of what had transpired, and now
his mind was alive with more than mischief: it was alive with deception. Deception—it had become a part of him and yet lingered, and he would make pretense of having consumed the tonic. In that moment, Valor was determined to witness similar to what had transpired the night the chalice had been turned.

  “Yes,” Valor said. “I grow more weary with each passing moment.”

  “Do you, milord?” Coquette asked. In the next moment, he felt her close behind him, felt her hand alight on his shoulder. “Then perhaps you should sit—make yourself more comfortable.

  Yes! Much would be revealed this night. Valor sensed it with every inch of his flesh, every measure of his mind and soul.

  “Perhaps,” Valor said, turning from the fire and to Coquette. Upon seeing her again, he wondered, doubted he could continue the farce. Donning the emerald dress she’d worn to Dickerson’s, her eyes flashed with mischief. She was entirely enticing, completely alluring. Simply by standing in the room she weakened his resolve to resist her, and yet…the mischief in her eyes was too tempting. He would play out the game.

  Cautiously and feigning fatigue, he allowed her to lead him to the chaise lounge near the fire. He watched the mischief flicker in her eyes as she knelt beside him, never taking her gaze from his.

  Coquette was delighted. The tonic—Victoria’s delicious, wonderful tonic! It would melt away Valor’s resolve, vanquish the beast. Oh, how she cherished the memories of the night Valor had consumed the tonic instead of she—how she yet reveled in the remembered feel of his affections. Silently she prayed the tonic would not lead him to deep slumber too quickly, while simultaneously she hoped it would defeat his defenses as it had before.