Barbara Pierce (10 page)

She had been kissed before. Her parents’ summer house parties had provided opportunities over the years for daring young gentlemen to steal a kiss or two from her in the gardens. Those kisses had been sweetly innocent. Archer’s drunken assault in Ealkin’s library by comparison had made her sick to her stomach.

The duke’s kiss on her inner wrist was a new experience
entirely. He had taken what should have been an innocent kiss on the hand to new heights. As he pulled away, the light fluttering in her stomach expanded as the sensation ascended into her breasts. She wanted to lift herself up on her toes, and see what it felt like to have those searing lips pressed against her mouth.

Grunting his satisfaction, the duke curtly bowed over her hand. His green eyes had a feverish cast to them. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Come with me. I want to finish this in a soft bed.”

Kilby whipped her head up, wide-eyed and staggered by his offer. The man was assuming a great deal from one little kiss. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your lovely invitation. Nonetheless, I must respectfully decline,” she said, keeping her voice even. There was nothing she could do about her blush. If Darknell guessed what the duke had indecently proposed, the viscount would have felt obligated to call the man out.

“Does your refusal have anything do with my father?” The Duke of Solitea smirked, giving her a shrewd look. “I assure you, I am not bothered in the least that he had you first.”

“How very tolerant you are,” Kilby said, blinking in mock admiration. The pleasure she had felt from his kiss dissipated with the understanding that he viewed her as no better than a doxy. She resisted the urge to rub the spot where his hot breath and lips had caressed her wrist. “I still must decline. You asked me for the favor. The only one you shall have from me is gripped in your hand. Good day.”

Kilby walked away, pretending not to see Darknell’s censuring stare as she passed him. The viscount stepped in front of the Duke of Solitea, a clear warning that he was not to follow.

Fayne let her escape. Pursuing her meant taking on her guard dog, Darknell, and he was still hurting from his fight
with Hollensworth. “Run, Lady Kilby Fitchwolf.” He raised her scarf to his nose and inhaled the subtle scent. “I have claimed one favor from you, and I hunger still. I shall not be appeased until I have tasted all of you.”

“Did you enjoy your afternoon outing with Lady Lyssa?” Lady Quennell asked Kilby several hours later. Grimacing, the viscountess braced her hands on a chair and sucked in her stomach as two maids behind her tugged on the lacings of her corset. Priddy was an attractive woman with an enviable, shapely body. She was too pretty to live the remainder of her life as a widow. Slightly taller than Kilby, she had vivid light blue eyes and short dark brown hair, which she often wore curled. There was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, revealing her joy of the outdoors. Whereas most ladies her age were beginning to glimpse the aging lines of time, the viscountess’s oval face was still youthful.

Kilby had sought Priddy out, directly after she had returned from the fair. Her chaperone had retired upstairs in her bedchamber, preparing for the evening. Tonight they were spending part of the evening at the Sans Pareil Theater. Afterward they were having a late supper at Lord Guttrey’s town house.

“Very much so,” Kilby said, sitting down on one of the chairs the viscountess had scattered about her boudoir for entertaining close friends.

Once the maids had finished securing the ties of Priddy’s corset, she straightened and gingerly exhaled. “This morning you mentioned that you and Lady Lyssa were contemplating visiting Mrs. Ripley’s literary circle? Did you attend?”

Kilby had debated if she should confess that she and Lyssa had spent part of the afternoon at the fair. If her friend’s family viewed Lord Ursgate as a disreputable character, she assumed the viscountess would be equally distressed by the notion of Kilby casually conversing with the gentleman. “Our plans changed somewhat. We met up with Lord Darknell and decided to visit one of the fairs outside London.”

Priddy made a face. “Heavens, a rural fair. What was Lord Darknell thinking?” She made a soft disapproving noise with her tongue. “We need to tread carefully. If people were to learn that you were alone with the Duke of Solitea when his heart failed him . . .”

Kilby lowered her head and played with the lace at her wrist. In hindsight, she viewed her encounter with the new Duke of Solitea as potentially disastrous. She had rejected his insulting invitation. What would she do if His Grace took his revenge and broke his oath, thus revealing her connection to his father? If anyone recognized her as the lady he had demanded a favor from this afternoon, she doubted there was any hope of the quelling speculation.

As she noticed her young charge’s utter misery, the severe expression softened on the viscountess’s face. She raised her arms and held still while one of the maids pulled the dress over her head. “Kilby, dearest, I must caution you about such amusements. These lesser fairs are always popping up like mushrooms on the outskirts of town.” Her
head and arms appeared through the openings. Giving her skirts a shake, she helped the maid smooth the fabric into place. “They are generally organized to give young gentlemen the opportunity of participating and wagering on a multitude of sporting events.”

Kilby could not disagree with the viscountess’s opinion. “Well, there is no call for concern. Lyssa and I had Darknell to protect us,” she said, hoping to reassure her. “Besides, we noted numerous stately carriages, some bearing ladies of distinction.”

Priddy cocked her head in her direction, on odd expression on her face. Moving away from the maid who was buttoning the back of her dress, she laid her hand affectionately on Kilby’s cheek. “What is this? You speak as if you stand apart from these ladies,
ma petite
.”

Kilby gently touched the viscountess’s hand. Priddy had been so kind to her since her parents’ deaths. “You told Archer that I needed the polish only London could provide. When I compare myself to the other ladies of the
ton,
I feel like a duck among swans.” Kilby was aware she lacked the sophistication and confidence she had noted in other ladies close to her age.

“Nonsense.” Priddy took Kilby’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Guiding her to the cheval mirror in the corner of the room, the viscountess stood behind her. “You are a beautiful young woman with a respectable pedigree. When I spoke of your needing polish, I was telling Archer what he needed to hear so he would agree to this trip.”

It had taken the viscountess several visits and countless discussions with Archer to gain his consent. Afterward, her brother had, up until the day she had left Ealkin, threatened to forbid Kilby’s departure. Eventually, he had let her go because he knew Kilby would return home for Gypsy’s sake. “Archer was becoming . . . difficult. I cannot fathom how you convinced him. Nevertheless, I am grateful.”

Priddy’s brilliant light blue eyes knowingly met Kilby’s gaze in the mirror. “We both are aware that it is time for you to permanently leave Ealkin. You need a home of your own, and a husband’s protection. With your cooperation, I vow to accomplish the deed before the season’s end. It is the least I can do for the daughter of my dearest friends.”

Although she had not revealed Archer’s cruel accusations about her mother, the viscountess had deduced that Kilby was not safe in her brother’s care. And what of Gypsy’s fate? Archer was not denouncing their blood ties, but Kilby feared he was fully capable of locking his young sister in a lunatic asylum. She felt like one of the rope-walkers she had seen at the fair. A single misstep could lead to her downfall.

Kilby gave Priddy a strained smile, and the hint of tears sparkled on her dark lashes. The notion of marrying a stranger just for protection sounded as frightening as returning to Archer. “Marriage. I think Mama and Papa would approve.”

“Word reached me, Mother, that you were on your deathbed,” Fayne said, entering her drawing room confident that his casual stride would not betray the injuries he had received from Hollensworth.

His mother was sitting on the sofa, stuffing a generous piece of cake in her mouth. His sister, Fayre, was standing at the rectangular tea table pouring tea into a cup. The fraud! “For a soon-to-be-corpse, you seem quite animated.”

After the surgeon had cleaned and bandaged the worst of his wounds, Fayne had returned to his house, hoping to medicate the stiffness setting in with brandy. The wish had been futile. On his arrival, his manservant had presented him with a distressing note from the duchess claiming that
she had collapsed. Sensing a ruse, Fayne had remained at his house long enough to bathe and dress before he drove to the family town house.

Fayre’s brows came together as if she disapproved of his bizarre humor. Unlike their mother, who was wearing a cheerful green and yellow striped dress, his sister was looking properly tragic in mourning black crepe. “Stop it, Fayne. You are deliberately being provoking.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “And spoil all my fun? God forbid!” he mocked, winking at his mother. The duchess understood and accepted his jocular disposition.

Fayre, by Carlisle standards, was a tad too staid, though his sister had showed brief spirited flickers of the family’s outrageous tendencies. Two years ago, she had managed to stir up the family when she had given her heart and body to an ambitious scoundrel who seduced her for nefarious reasons. The family had been recovering from the scandal when she abruptly announced that she intended to marry a wealthy commoner, Maccus Brawley.

Unremorseful, the duchess now beckoned Fayne to join them. She put her plate of cake aside and opened her arms so she could embrace him. “Come here, you ungrateful rogue. You ignored all my other notes. I was left with no choice but to resort to desperate measures.”

Fayne bent over and pressed the side of his face firmly against her dark cinnamon tresses bound up into a fussy knot. She felt fragile in his arms. He pulled back and studied her face. The spark of mischief, so akin to his own, still gleamed in her bluish-green eyes. Even so, the duke’s death had marked her face. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed pinched from lack of sleep. Despite their odd marriage, Fayne was positive his mother was mourning the duke in her own unique manner.

“You look healthy,” he lied.

The duchess responded by poking with alarming precision the stab wound Hollensworth had delivered with his singlestick. He yelped and placed a protective hand over his chest.

“You, on the other hand, do not,” his mother said smugly.

Concerned by his sudden paleness, Fayre pushed him down onto the sofa beside their sadistic mother. “Are you hurt?” she asked, her green gaze searching him from head to toe for additional signs of injury.

Fayne glared bitterly at his mother. Someone had already told her about his fight with Hollensworth. “Vicious harpy, how did you know?”

“Know what?” his sister demanded, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “No. Not again.”

Magnificent. Now he would have both Carlisle women bullying him. This was the main reason why he had been avoiding his mother in the first place. “Again? Listening to gossip, dear sister? When do you find the time? I thought Brawley kept you on a tight leash these days.”

Fayre’s face flushed almost as brightly as her cinnamon-colored curls. Her mouth tightened at his taunt. “According to my husband, you are the one who needs a leash, Fayne,” she said tersely, using his given name instead of calling him Tem as was her preference. It was a clear indicator of her annoyance. “Or the lash.”

“Dueling,” the duchess moaned, retrieving a lace handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her gown. She dabbed the corners of her eyes. “How many have you fought? Three? Four?”

The duchess had such a pathetic expression on her face. He refused to allow her to reprimand him as if he were still a boy. “Are we counting the number of duels I have fought in my life, Mother, or just the tally this week?” he sarcastically quipped.

The duchess held her chin up, appearing brave. “I wish
your father were alive. I evidently do not understand this violent aspect of you, my son.”

His father, had he lived, would have been proud. The duke had fought a fair amount of duels in his youth. The Carlisle men were taught from the cradle to fight for what they wanted. Glancing from his sister to his mother, he sensed no amount of arguing would convince them of the necessity of violence.

Still, he could not resist trying. “Would it ease your mind, Mother, if I told you that each gentleman I fought deserved it?”

The duchess furiously dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. If she was truly mopping up actual tears, she was going to need to wring out her handkerchief soon. “No, I do not believe it does, Tem.”

“Good heavens,” Fayre exclaimed at his impudence. “That is the best you can do?”

He glowered at his sister’s interference. “Why don’t you go home? Isn’t Brawley waiting for you at home?”

“No, he is not. Maccus is at the ’Change.”

“Perhaps you should leave anyway. You are upsetting the duchess.”

The duchess saw where her children were heading, and the inevitable explosive finale. “Tem . . . Fayre—really—”

“Me?” Fayre replied, her voice thick with outrage. “I am not the one who is treating dawn appointments as if he were paying social calls. How many wounds are you concealing underneath your coat, Fayne? How many times has a surgeon bled you?”

Sometimes his sister saw too much. “My business, not yours, sister mine,” he growled.

“It will be our business if you get yourself killed!” she yelled back at him. It was so rare for Fayre to raise her voice in anger that Fayne found the experience rather disquieting. “We just laid our beloved father to rest. How soon
before your recklessness obliges us to mourn you, as well?” she demanded.

Fayne winced at her genuine tears. “No. None of that,” he ordered, feeling something akin to panic. Fayre’s lower lip quivered before she started sobbing. “Aw, hell, Fayre.”