The Kiss (28 page)
"Would you mind if we rested for a moment, here?" Grace asked. A very old, crumbling stone bench, overlooking the lower gardens, was in front of them. "It's so hot today."
"Of course not," he replied, grateful for the shade of the beech tree beside them.
She looked off into the distance, unconsciously exhibiting her elegant profile. "Quinn . . ." she murmured shyly, "I've received a letter from a dear friend in town—the Duchess of Kendale."
He breathed in as slowly and evenly as possible to ease the ache blistering his mind.
"And she has invited me to a house party at the duke's magnificent estate just twenty miles past the outskirts of London."
"Kendale Hall?"
"Yes, that's the one." She smoothed a wrinkle in her gown. "And Christina mentioned that she would be sending an invitation to you as well. The invitation is for five weeks from today."
"And you would like to go." It was not a question.
"Why, yes, I would." She hesitated and continued softly, "With you."
His head was ready to explode and he closed his eyes to lean against the coarse bark of the tree. A vision of Anthony's face rose up, his innocent grin taunting him. And suddenly all Quinn wanted to do was forget. Really forget the past. Start anew. With someone who was not in any way connected—someone who was dignified and untouched by complication, someone who could truly offer a life of friendship and quiet companionship.
"Grace," he said, "I would be honored to accompany you. I will arrange for two carriages. Will Ata and the others join the party?"
"Actually, no." A flush bloomed on her cheeks. "I was thinking we might take only one carriage."
What?
Her smile was forced. "Quinn, I know we've not known each other a long time. But since the day we met I sensed we were very much alike—of one mind, so to speak. We, both of us, might enjoy the quiet contentment an arranged union could bring." Her small hands were fidgeting in her lap. "But then I should not presume you feel the same way I do. It's just that in the past year or so, I've decided that life is too short to waste time waiting and wondering."
"My dear Countess," he replied. "Are you honoring me with a proposal of marriage?"
"No." She laughed. "I'm not so bold. But I will go so far as to say that I would not reject you if
you
were to ask."
She was so pretty, sitting there, patiently waiting for him to ask her to marry him.
"My dear," he said gently lowering himself from the bench and reaching for her slim hand. The pain slammed back into his head as soon as his knee dropped to the ground. "You do me a great honor, Grace. And I would be the happiest of men if you would, indeed, agree to consider becoming my bride. But to be fair, I feel it necessary to remind you that it would include taking on the role of stepmother to my, ahem, scrape-grace daughter."
Grace was smiling, the flush of embarrassment gone. "Well, I suppose I should also tell you that I am an only child and do not have any living relatives. I would hate for your daughter to be as alone as I was as a child. I would hope to provide her with a sibling, if you agree." She hurried on. "And there is just one last thing ..."
"Whatever you desire."
"I would prefer that we not announce our engagement until we depart for the house party."
"Why ever not?"
"Because I have also learned not to make hasty decisions. I admit I wanted to know if you desired to remarry one day. But now that we've been honest with each other, there is no rush."
She was everything rational and good. "Grace, I'm not certain I deserve you, but I shall endeavor to always ensure your happiness, my dear."
She fingered her pearls and smiled. "I feel precisely the same way," she murmured.
"We shall do very well together," he said, and then kissed her fingers. They were so soft, so unlike Georgiana's in every possible way.
His head pounded viciously, and he was irritated that he had thought of Georgiana at this moment.
His head continued to pound intermittently for the next week. The pain finally receded at dinner one evening while he watched Grace radiating with happiness to his left and Ata needling his aunt to his right. Georgiana always sat at the opposite end of the long table, obscured by a large arrangement of flowers.
Tonight the Duke of Helston was at table and kept staring at him as though he wanted to debone Quinn with the silver carving knife. His bride appeared ready to follow up with tar and feathers. Thank the Lord for Mr. Brown and Sarah Winters. The former ensured joviality at every turn, while the latter added a measure of civility.
When he could stand it no further, Quinn rose and dropped his napkin on the table. "If you will excuse us, ladies, His Grace and Mr. Brown are invited to retire for a few moments to my study. If you agree, Georgiana, we shall rejoin all of you in the front salon shortly."
Luc St. Aubyn didn't wait for her answer. Instead he growled and removed from the room. Mr. Brown followed suit after a wink at Ata, who pretended not to notice.
"What the bloody hell are you doing, Elles-mere?" Luc St. Aubyn seethed with ill humor while he prowled around the edges of the book-lined study.
Mr. Brown laughed. "This is all so familiar, I feel like I'm watching a Shakespearean comedy."
"This is no comedy, old man," Luc muttered. "It's a bloody tragedy of epic proportions, and he's playing the villain to perfection. Well, Ellesmere?"
"I believe I owe you a formal apology, Helston." Quinn moved next to his desk and looked down at the floor. A large number of bottles stood there. "We agreed on French brandy. Five cases. I secured ten. And a case of Armagnac for your grandmother."
Mr. Brown rubbed his hands together. "Oh, well done, my lord."
"Don't you dare show him an inch of gratitude, Brownie," Helston said, still frowning. "I'm sorry for the day I suggested you for his employ."
"That's all right, Luc," Mr. Brown replied. "It was worth it—monetarily and for the diversion. Lord Ellesmere is proving even more entertaining than you were."
Quinn stiffened. "I don't know what you find so amusing, Mr. Brown. Would you care for some brandy?"
"Armagnac, if you please."
Quinn raised his brows. "I'm sorry, but I only have the brandy. Ata hid all the Armagnac, for some odd reason."
He poured two glasses of brandy and then turned to the gentlemen—one tall and menacing, the other portly and bald. He lit a cheroot for himself and raised it in mock salute. "To your health, gentlemen."
"We certainly won't drink to yours," the duke muttered, while John Brown's lips twitched.
"Come now, Luc, I've never seen you so unforgiving," Mr. Brown said. "But then I've always found that when one encounters one's mirror image, absolute disgust is inevitable."
Luc sputtered. "If you dare to suggest I'm anything like this, this dandified diplomat, I might have to kill you. After I kill him." The duke unleashed his obvious fury and crossed the space that separated them to stand toe-to-toe with Quinn. "Ellesmere, what makes you think I'll stand by and watch you toy with Grace Sheffey's affections while you dishonor your cousin's widow? You are nothing but a damned dog dressed up in finery." Luc retrieved his gloves from a pocket. "And since Anthony Fortesque isn't here to protect his wife's honor, I shall just have to stand in for him."
Every muscle froze within Quinn.
Mr. Brown had stopped laughing. "Luc?"
"Do you deny it, Ellesmere?"
"No."
"Well?"
Honor compelled Quinn to remain silent.
Helston slapped his gloves across his face. "Pistols or swords?"
Mr. Brown cleared his throat and looked at Quinn. "So, lad, it appears congratulations are in order. Which lass will you be escorting down the aisle before getting yourself killed?"
"Swords," Quinn said, quietly.
"Answer Brownie's blasted question, you bastard."
He resisted the urge to punch Helston, if only because the desire to maim himself was greater. "Grace—but I'm honoring her request to remain undeclared for the next few weeks."
"And Georgiana?" Helston barked.
Quinn paused, his hands clenched behind him. "I would ask for your aid."
"What?" Helston appeared ready to explode. "Do you think anything could tempt me to help you?"
"Now, Luc. Hear him out," pleaded Mr. Brown. "There's clearly something more at stake here than you know."
"I don't care if all the stakes in China are involved. The only question is how to dispose of his body when we're through, old man."
Quinn had considered every option and hadn't been able to think of another plan that didn't involve the duke. "She won't accept what I've arranged," he said quietly.
Finally, blessed silence.
"I've found a suitable property for her—one overlooking the sea in Godrey Towans. A second, smaller property adjoins it. I know she was intrigued by the smaller property, for I observed her perusing the documents describing it. This morning I purchased the larger estate for her and the adjoining property for her parents. The properties combined contain several hundred acres of pasture and farmland and a few acres of woodland. There is a good mill—Trehallow mill—nearby, and—"
"Good Lord," whispered Mr. Brown. "He's gone and purchased Trehallow for her. Why, it was once the most prosperous estate in all of St. Ives. Granted, the great house might need a bit of refurbishing—it hasn't been inhabited for many years, I don't think, since the Earl of Crowden died without issue. This is extraordinary—"
"I told you not to condescend to him, Brownie," Helston said gruffly.
"As I was saying, she would never accept it from me. I want you"—Quinn forced himself to relax his fists and expression—"to tell her you've arranged it all. I'm certain you can think of a suitable excuse, Helston. Frankly, I don't care what you tell her and her father. I was able to overcome the legal barriers, and managed to have her name listed on the deed. The smaller property which will eventually devolve to Georgiana's brother, Grayson Wilde, is in Mr. Wilde's name."
Helston looked at Mr. Brown with disgust. "Observe the man before you, Brownie. Here stands a man willing to pay through the nose to save his neck."
The duke then turned toward him. "I suppose you think this relieves you of ingesting metal before breakfast tomorrow?"
"I find I cannot deprive you of enjoying the reality of your great imagination, Helston."
"Now, now, lads," Mr. Brown murmured. "If you think I'll allow either of you near a sword or a pistol, you're out of your minds. You may be hotheaded young bloods fueled by a misguided sense of honor, but I'm a practical old man who always thinks of the consequences." He scratched his bald head. "Luc, your grandmother would fry my liver for supper if I let either of you near a dueling ground."
"Brownie, you're a bigger coward than he is."
"You're absolutely right."
Helston turned his black gaze on Quinn. "If either Grace or Georgiana ends up hurt, I will hunt you down and—"
Quinn held up his hand wearily. "Look, are you willing to meet Mr. Wilde and Georgiana to discuss the transfer of the property or not?"
"It appears I have little choice in the matter." Helston held out his hand for the documents. "I'll see to reviewing these and meeting the Wildes tomorrow morning."
"They should not consider removing before the end of the month," Quinn continued. "I've arranged to have some improvements made before then."
"Come along, Brownie," Luc said, crossing to the door. "Perhaps my grandmother will allow you to strain her tea if you ask nicely enough. Shall I fetch you a mobcap and an apron?"
"Laugh all you like, lad. It's taken four decades to learn the proper way to court your grandmother and I don't have another forty in me to win back her favor should I lose it again." Brownie grinned. "And perhaps you've forgotten that if I get her in the proper mood, she might even offer up a bit of her Armagnac."
"Don't hold your breath, old man." Quinn stubbed out the forgotten cheroot, and hoped Luc St. Aubyn was a man who knew how to lie convincingly when necessity demanded it. Grudgingly, he thought he might be able to count on the barbarian. In fact, Luc St. Aubyn might just be one of the few people he could trust in this damned world. And wasn't that just one more ironic proof that there was no sense of order in the universe?
