The Kiss (21 page)

She stared up at him, her eyes deep pools of regret. "Well, then, we shall just have to pray that a child has not been conceived. At the very least you are absolved of any responsibility until we know if there are consequences." She flexed her hand away and turned, walking quickly through the overgrown brush.

"Georgiana ..." But she was already gone. And he didn't have it within him to go after her.

It was only many minutes later when he broke free of the thicket, his outer clothes in hand, that he remembered she had said there were
two
reasons she wouldn't marry him but had only mentioned one reason—her great love for Anthony.

Then he did the very thing he had forbidden his daughter. He dove into the dark water of Loe Pool and swam toward the island in the center, the cold numbing his senses. His lungs heaved with exhaustion and his mind ached with misery.

It seemed every major event in his life would end in tragedy. Each time he offered himself, he was unacceptable, rejected, and usually with a double dose of disaster on the side.

After his family died, his aunt and uncle had taken him in with some reluctance and many admonitions. He was two years older than Anthony, the heir, and he was instructed to remember his place, his subservience, his unimportance. But his two immediate friends, Anthony and Georgiana, were very successful in making him forget his uncle's unwelcoming words.

It was only when he had tried to protect his best friend, scrape-grace Anthony, during that awful afternoon when disaster struck, that he was awakened to his cousin's true character. He learned yet again the grand illusion of fellowship. Anthony, without knowing that Quinn could hear every word on the other side of his uncle's study door, wrongly faulted Quinn for the accident, lying to the marquis that Quinn had goaded them to climb the half-dead pine next to the cliff, all to retrieve a nestling Quinn supposedly wanted from a falcon's scrape in the cliff face.

In his shock, Quinn had accepted the blame without a word. His uncle caned him brutally, and promptly removed him from the family by enrolling him in the notoriously grim and barbaric Collager program at Eton.

"It's where you'll fit in best—with the other forgotten boys," his uncle had said sternly. "Perhaps it will finally teach you your place. At the very least you will learn how it feels to be bullied, as you have done to your cousin and my poor steward's daughter, who will bear the scars of your impudence for the rest of her life. No man will ever marry her. I shall pray for your soul."

His uncle would have been pleased to know that Quinn had learned his lessons well. Semi-starvation and being locked in at night with the other Eton Collagers had given him bitter food for thought on his value in this world. Poor Cynthia had taught him the rest.

It was paramount to close oneself off to humanity and not trust a soul. The reverse only bred disappointment or worse. And the very best method to face life was to remain detached. Charming, witty, and detached.

The most amazing part about adopting this attitude was that others seemed drawn to people possessing these traits. There was something about a reserved, remote character with occasional doses of kindness and wit that lent an air of mystery, thereby ensuring curiosity. It had worked wonders in diplomatic circles and with the feminine sex.

As he dragged himself onto the tiny island and the glass-walled lake house, he felt more alone in the world than at any other time in his life. Georgiana had refused him, and Anthony would always be first in her heart.

He was within an inch of sealing himself from the rest of humanity when he went to open the door and realized it was locked. Since when had this door had a lock? And suddenly this bolted entrance, for which he should possess the key— since he was the owner—represented everything that had been locked away from him in his life: familial security, connubial fidelity and devotion, fellowship, and ... love.

Something long simmering possessed him in that moment and he gripped a nearby rock and heaved it against a small pane beside the lock on the glass door, shattering it.

He reached through the gap and unlocked the door. Stepping past the shards, he struck a flame from a tinderbox to light a candle. He'd never been here at night and was almost instantly calmed by the solitude. The sounds from the sea—Neptune's gentle roaring—on the other side of the sand spit slowly eased the pain from his chest and he took in his surroundings.

It seemed someone visited the place often, given the neatly made pallet without a trace of dust. There was little else, save for a stack of blankets he well remembered from his youth. He lowered himself onto the hard cot. Before giving in to his desire to lie down, he noticed the glimmer of a small bauble on the cool slate floor. He picked it up and turned the brooch over. It was a piece of ladies' jewelry, one of those unusual mourning brooches featuring the eye of a lost loved one, a Lover's Eye.

In the faint, flickering candlelight, he realized it was very familiar. Why, it was obviously a miniature of Anthony's eye, with the distinctive For-tesque slant. He remembered seeing Georgiana wearing it on occasion, half hidden by shawls or fichus.

He dropped it on the cot's pillow suddenly, as if it had burned his hand. Was he to be always surrounded with memories of his deceitful cousin? Yet he told himself resolutely again that he would never dare blacken Anthony's image in Georgiana's eyes. Why deprive her of illusions that gave her comfort? She should be allowed every tiny portion of happiness she could find in her harsh life.

She had given herself to him, and he would do the best he could by her—only interfering in her life if fate decided to intrude in the form of a tiny infant. It was simply unfortunate that fate had a way of being extraordinarily fickle in its attentions when one was adrift in the pickling air of Cornwall.

Chapter 11

Georgiana awoke in her tiny bedchamber at her parents' cottage full of newfound resolve and energy despite having slept in the most patchy fashion. She had tiptoed into Little Roses since it was the only place she knew she wouldn't encounter Quinn. As she sipped the tea the maid had brought to her chamber and reviewed her list, she wished for the day she could go to bed each night in a room she could call her own.

As the blackness of night had given way to the smallest glimmers of a new day, Georgiana had felt a peace she had never known wash over her. Something had changed. The heavy weight of her obsession had finally lifted, leaving her strangely calm. She had spent three quarters of her life thinking about Quinn Fortesque and it was a relief to put her dreams on the shelf.

He did not love her.

He never had and he never would.

She was his great friend and that was all. If she had but known how immense her relief would be with the absolute knowledge, she would have forced herself to reveal her feelings long ago. But wasn't hindsight always annoyingly insightful?

Well, she was leaving Penrose—and she would do it with her parents—even if it meant dragging her mother away, kicking and screaming. It shouldn't be that hard, really. Her mother might be mollified by the promise of a beautiful dwelling overlooking the sea—her long-held dream. And her father's health appeared to have taken a slight turn for the better.

It was hard to admit, but Quinn had been right. With the strain of Penrose's stewardship removed from his frail shoulders, her father had improved, his face taking on better color, and he had appeared to regain a little of the weight he had lost.

She would talk to the Duke of Helston today about finding a cottage, and she would put the word out elsewhere.

But before everything else, she must get through today, the day of the festival. And she would enjoy every moment of it. It had been so long since the people in this corner of Cornwall had celebrated the ancient tradition.

She squirmed in her hard wooden chair against the sting of her loss of innocence. It had been a great shock. She had thought when Anthony had entered her body on their wedding night that the discomfort had meant they had well and fully consummated the union. Oh, but how wrong she had been. Last night... She hadn't known a man could penetrate a woman so profoundly. Well, she had suffered far, far greater pain in her life. This was nothing. She would heal and get on with her life, as it were. And fate would not be so cruel as to punish her further with a child.

What had happened with Quinn in the hidden dell was pure possession, the most intimate experience of her life. It was as if he had touched her soul, known the very essence of her. And now she felt horribly exposed, for she had revealed all, only to find not a single corner of his heart engaged.

She could never hate him. He had shown too much compassion for her, for her deformities, and she in return had proved to him he was loved. She tried to feel altruistic about her unrequited love, but she had never possessed a martyr's bone in her body. She abruptly forced herself to stop these thoughts, the thoughts that had been sweeping 'round and 'round her head all night.

She cleared her throat and brought the delicate teacup to her lips, glad no one was in her bedchamber to see her trembling hand.

She would live through this. She would.

She turned in her chair at the sound of a light tapping at the door. Well, at least she wouldn't have to face him today without a festive crowd to hide behind.

"Grace," she said with surprise. "I thought you were my mother. You're up early."

The Countess of Sheffield smiled her warm, sunny smile and arched a brow. "I was awakened by a little girl unwilling to wait a moment longer for the big day to begin. Your mother, bless her heart, is occupying Fairleigh below stairs with an amazing assortment of cakes. But be warned, Fairleigh was quite determined to find you to get permission to clang the bell to start the events." Grace's face turned serious. "Ata and the others were very worried about you last night. And then we couldn't find you this morning."