One More Kiss (6 page)

“Come smell mine first, Bitsy,” Cecilia insisted.

“I already can. It’s in the air and it is a wonderful scent. It reminds me of you in the garden, moving among the flowers, stirring their scent so it fills the air. I do wish I could paint. It would make an exquisite picture.”
It announces there is more to you than beauty
, Beatrice thought.

Cecilia read her expression.
Thank you, dearest
, she answered in the wordless way they had communicated since earliest childhood. Then she laughed with delight.

In the dressing room, on the tall, narrow chest that held their stays and stockings, Beatrice found an amethyst-colored bottle. Her name was written on it with more curves and swoops than she had ever seen.

Doing her best to still her expectations, Beatrice pulled out the delicate glass stopper and sniffed at the fragrance. There was a floral element here, too, but a spicy jasmine and cinnamon scent dominated. It was beautiful but much too sophisticated for her.

She took the bottle into the bedchamber and let Cecilia smell it. “Why, Bitsy, it is exactly right.”

“Really? Do you think so? You know I count on you to always be honest with me.”

“It’s perfect. Truly.”

“Ladies.” Darwell interrupted them with the one word. “We are to keep country hours, so you will not have much time to rest. Come here, Miss Beatrice. Let me undo your buttons and stays so you can put on a dressing gown.”

Darwell put down the pins and comb, spun Beatrice around, and made short work of the task. Beatrice went into the dressing room and sat down on the chaise. The scent, her scent, filled the little room. She could only wish she was as intriguing as the fragrance hinted.

Pulling off her chemise, Beatrice reached for the fresh one that Darwell had set out for her.

The chemise was still in her hand when Darwell came through the door. “Do you like the dress, Miss Brent?” she asked in a loud voice and then added sotto
voce, “What are you up to, miss? You have the devil in your eyes.”

“Not the devil, surely.” Beatrice did not have to pretend insult. “I am only curious about the guests we will be meeting this evening.”

“I have worked as a lady’s maid for longer than you have been alive, and I will go immediately to your father if you do anything to upset your sister or behave in a way that would endanger her Season.”

“I never would, Darwell. Never.” She was angry now, and offended by Darwell’s harsh criticism.

“Very well, miss. Perhaps I have overreacted.”

Her contrition lasted a mere second. “Sit and let me do your hair.” The brusque Darwell was back. “What do you think of the dress I put out for you?”

“It’s quite nice, thank you,” Beatrice said dutifully, as though the maid had a direct link to the countess
and
her seamstress.

“Flounces would not suit you at all.”

“Really?” How had the woman guessed that she wanted flounces?

“No, miss. You do not have the height for them. The simple braid trim is all you need. You may be short, miss, but you are beautifully proportioned.”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised at the compliment. She wondered if Lord Jess had noticed her proportions.

Darwell left but came back momentarily with a wet cloth.

“Lie down on this chaise and put this compress on your face, not just your eyes, and try to rest. Forget all about the intrigues here.”

Beatrice nodded and lay back on the chaise, as directed, touched by Darwell’s remorse. The cloth was
dampened with more than water. It smelled of lavender and perhaps chamomile and was almost as comforting as Mama’s hand on her brow. She did doze but she had a strange dream. In it, Artemis walked through a hallway, her nose buried in a book. She was surrounded by amazing Greek statues, one of a man and the rest of women. The man’s face echoed Lord Jess’s and all of the women’s marble faces were turned toward him, some with longing expressions and others with satisfied ones. Artemis remained, engrossed in her book until the male statue stopped her progress. With an elaborate bow he spoke, “Which group do you wish to join? It is your choice, Artemis.”

Before she could decide, Beatrice woke up. She knew the answer, could feel it in her heart and lower, but was relieved that no one else could guess. She liked the idea that she was Artemis in the dream, for the goddess was strong-willed and powerful even though she had never married.

An hour and a half later Darwell pronounced them “dressed to perfection.” Hair done up, modest jewelry donned, cheeks pinched until they were pink, they were ready to make their first bow among the ton. “You are glowing, Beatrice,” her sister gushed. “Isn’t this exciting?” She paused, then added, “And terrifying at the same time.”

“Concentrate on the idea that this is but practice for the Season with a group of the countess’s friends. How can they be anything but lovely?”

The countess herself came to collect them, fussing over their gowns and general appearance amid their thanks for the perfumes.

While the countess adjusted one of the flowers in
Ceci’s hair, Darwell whispered, “Hold your head up, Miss Beatrice, and watch out for your sister. That will keep you out of mischief.”

Beatrice took the chivvying with a firm nod and descended the steps to join the party for the second time that day.

Chapter Five
 

J
ESS DID NOT
intend to be the last to join the party, but his valet had dawdled and insisted on shaving him, and then ruined three lengths of linen tying his cravat.

“Who the hell are you trying to impress, Callan? None of the gentlemen here need a new valet.”

“Yes, my lord.” Those were his three favorite words. Followed by “Thank you, my lord” on the rare occasions when he was paid on time.

“Begone. You will be late to the servants’ table.”

“Yes, my lord,” Callan said, ignoring the order and giving a final brush to the dark blue coat that was Jess’s favorite.

With Callan’s directions he found the Long Porch easily enough, following the sound of laughter as it echoed down the corridor.

He had no idea whether the countess favored a structured sort of house party or if they would be left to find their own entertainment. Destry and Belmont
could be counted on for a challenging game of cards even if Belmont did prefer more modest stakes than he did.

Were any of the ladies so inclined? The stakes would escalate when Crenshaw arrived, but for now gaming would be as cordial as the guests who were present, which meant altogether delightful.

The others were outside on the terrace. The Long Porch was not a porch at all, but a room with a wall of glass doors that opened onto a generous terrace. The stone terrace overlooked a carefully natural garden, clearly the work of Repton or one of his more talented students.

Jess had stopped at the drinks table to garner a glass of sherry when a woman emerged from the door leading to the terrace. It was Venus, or perhaps her twin.

The scent she brought into the room hinted at secrets and magic and made him want to draw her closer. This sister was even more tempting than the other. He took a step back.

“You and your sister are amazingly alike, Miss Brent.”

“Oh!” she said, raising a hand to her throat, apparently surprised by his presence. When she stepped fully into the room and saw who had spoken, her good humor returned.

“I assure you, my lord, my sister is far more beautiful than I am. As a matter of fact everything about her is beautiful.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Brent, but when I met her this afternoon, the only difference I noted is that she wears spectacles.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?”
She came up to him, a confused smile replacing the flirtatious one.

“Your twin, I met your twin earlier today.”

“You met me, my lord.” She took yet another step, as though twelve more inches would make that clear, and then added, “Though she is my twin, my sister does not look anything like me.”

“Were you able to find your extra pair of spectacles?” Her scent enveloped him, her innocent eyes urging him on. Attraction replaced caution.

“Yes, but I only need spectacles when I am going to do close work or read.”

“Ah, I see. And is close work or reading important to you?”

“Both are, my lord.” She leaned closer and whispered, “There is a rumor about that I am a bluestocking.”

A rumor she did not deny or seem to find offensive.

“Then remind me not to play any games with you.” It was just as well that he had never been attracted to overeducated women. And yet he still enjoyed standing close to her.

“You already are playing games, my lord,” she said with a directness that should not have surprised him.

He took a deliberate step back, but her scent lingered between them. “You see, that is why I find educated women so unappealing. They have no sense of humor.” He winced at the snub even though it was deliberate.

Beatrice Brent looked as though he had slapped her and he felt such regret. Surely he could have nudged her away with something less hurtful.

“I have a friend, a gentleman friend, who maintains
that educating women would double the development of new ideas and inventions.”

“Miss Brent, my greatest fear is that a woman will discover exactly how uneducated most gentlemen are.”

“Do you number yourself among them, my lord?”

“Yes, and rather proud of it.”

She looked disappointed.

“You see, I am able to live happily in my ignorance and enjoy the pleasures of life without a worry for troublesome ideas and debates.” That was better, he thought, and drank his sherry in one gulp. “While those who think and study develop wrinkles and worrisome tics and are still not able to change what is wrong with the world.”

“You do not really mean that, do you?” Her eyes were wide with dismay.

He poured himself another tot of sherry, then faced her once again. “Yes, I do. The world is what it is, and the sooner we accept our place in it the happier we will be. These endless efforts to improve ourselves, to care for the poor, and to teach everyone their letters are misguided attempts to prove that we are not innately selfish at best and little better than animals at worst.”

Beatrice blinked and slowly shook her head. “I am so sorry for you, Lord Jessup. Your life must be singularly empty. Do you have any friends?”

He slapped his glass down and was relieved when it did not break. “You were not listening. Another failure of educated women. I am doing exactly what I want to do and am exactly where I want to be. Can you say the same, Miss Brent?”

She had no answer for him. Not in words at least,
but he had hit a responsive chord. He could read it in the way she lowered her eyes from his.

Jess was sorry if he had damaged her sensibilities but he was not going to apologize. This was exactly one of the pitfalls of meaningful conversation. There was too much potential for offense. In this case that was just what he had intended.

The silence stretched between them, and in it was a more honest answer to his question than anything she could have said. He resisted the urge to soothe and comfort, to placate with winning words and honeyed charm. What he really wanted to do was draw her into his arms and show her what pleasure they could find if she would just stop thinking so hard. Of course doing that would completely upend this painful effort to put some distance between them.

The door from the corridor opened and someone came into the room. Before Jess could turn to see who it was, Miss Brent called out. “Lord Crenshaw! How lovely to see you.” She hurried across the room and curtsied to the gentleman. His equally happy welcome indicated that they were of some long-standing acquaintance.

Crenshaw took her hand and bowed over it, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

She withdrew her hand but still retained a welcoming smile equal to any she had shared with him. The minx. So she was that friendly with everyone.

“Do you know Lord Jessup Pennistan?” Miss Brent asked with guileless pleasure, apparently unaware of exactly how well the two knew each other.

“Yes, I do.”

The man’s curt answer drew a mystified glance from Miss Brent, her gaze shifting from him to Jess.

“Pennistan” was the extent of Crenshaw’s greeting.

Jess answered with a nod of his own and silence.

Miss Brent’s brow wrinkled with curiosity, but she chose to relieve the tension by taking Lord Crenshaw’s arm. “We must announce you to the countess, my lord. And Cecilia will be so pleased to see you.”

“I bask in your joy alone, Miss Brent.”

Little Venus blushed at the effusive compliment and Jess wondered if Crenshaw was courting her. An educated woman was not his usual flirtation, but then Miss Brent’s fortune might make him willing to overlook her bookishness.

That could not be permitted.

Jess watched the two of them go out to the terrace and fortified himself with another tot of sherry, doing his best to convince himself that Venus did not need to be rescued. And if she did, there was time to consider how best to save her from the bastard.

B
EATRICE WATCHED AS
the countess welcomed Lord Crenshaw. After a brief conversation she excused herself and turned to her other guests. Crenshaw scanned the small group and moved purposefully back to Beatrice’s side.