A Lord's Kiss Read online

  “One shudders to think what other acts of charity you have performed since your arrival in London.” She quickened her steps and leaned into his arm at the back of her waist as he swept her into the middle of the ballroom.

  Ethan chuckled darkly and prayed she did not notice how their fellow dancers had fanned out around them. He’d learned the waltz in the most decadent ballrooms in Paris. And the refined English miss who had not been given permission to do so was keeping up with him every step of the way. Eyes bright as jewels and pulse fluttering madly at the base of her throat.

  “What acts of charity did you have in mind, Lady Georgiana?” Ethan saw the shocked faces of those around them, those who had stopped dancing to whisper and stare. He didn’t give a damn. Suddenly he wished the waltz might never end. “I am eager to participate in whatever benevolent endeavor you desire.”

  The color faded from her cheeks. “Let me go,” she said through gritted teeth. She loosened her hands from the fabric of his coat and tried to slow her steps without stumbling.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is far too late for that, Captain Dorrill. People are gawping at us. I beg you—”

  “Smile, milady.” He danced her around the circle of rude onlookers, their voices a beelike murmur of insults and condemnation. “Never, ever beg.” The final bars of the waltz slowed and drew to a haunting close. Ethan brought their dance to a graceful halt and slowly lowered his arms, his fingers brushing the petal-soft, bare skin above her gloves. “And never,” he said into the cavernous silence. “Ask permission. A lady who waltzes as gloriously as you needs no one’s leave to stand up in any ballroom.” He clasped her limp hand and bowed over it. “Thank you, Lady Georgiana. It was a very rare pleasure.” Ethan held her gaze for a moment more and then turned and made his way back to the stairs, the crowd of silent gawpers falling back like a flock of sheep to allow him to pass. His boots echoed into the endless silence of a room now devoid of the pleasure he’d found with the lady in red in his arms.

  By the time he started up the wide marble steps, the guests had fallen back into conversation like an ancient pipe organ—wheezing and scratching until the air caught into a long, somewhat sonorous harmony—and the musicians had launched into an allemande. Ethan searched the balustrade for his sweets-loving nephew. A violent grasp of his arm stopped him several steps from the landing.

  “What the devil do you think you are doing here?”

  Ethan turned to face his brother. “Asked and answered, Ash. Let us continue this reunion tomorrow. It will give you time to come up with new questions and me time to come up with more patience.”

  “I will find out.” Ash stepped closer, his fingers crushing the velvet fabric and gold silk threads of Ethan’s coat. “I have thwarted Thomas. I will thwart you. And stay clear of Lady Georgiana. My wife’s brother is married to the lady’s sister. Eleanor holds both of Addington’s daughters as sisters and—”

  “Has your wife no sister of her own? That’s right. Her sister is dead. Thus, she must resort to borrowing sisters. Whose fault is that?” The words turned to dust the moment Ethan spoke them. He had not returned to London for this—to hurt his brother over something seven years past and no one’s fault.

  “Bastard,” Ash growled and released Ethan’s arm as if it burned him.

  “Unfortunately, not. If we had been born bastards, we’d have landed in the workhouse instead of in the hands of our grandfather. A fate dearly to be wished. Good night, brother.” Ethan bowed. “My compliments to your lovely and kind-hearted wife.” With that, he continued up the stairs.

  Peering over the balustrade, lips wreathed in the remnants of a raspberry tart, young Matthias stood, hand upraised and mouth open to speak. Ethan gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head and a wink. The boy scampered down the corridor toward a flight of stairs that probably led to the nursery.

  Ethan made his way through a crush of people milling about the wide, carpeted expanse between the doors out of the ballroom and the stairs leading down to the foyer. His arrogant smile and long strides cleared the most obvious of the curious gawpers. The word struck a warm sort of chord in the middle of his chest. By the time he started down the steps to the foyer the crowd had thinned. He needed out, out of this house, out of London, out of everything. He nearly collided with the polished front door as a footman hurriedly opened it for him.

  Once outside Farnsworth’s opulent townhouse, Ethan bent, hands on his knees, and drank in the cool night air like a Bedouin arriving at the week’s first water. When he straightened, a carriage with bright red trim and a ridiculously ornate D on the door stopped at the bottom of the steps. Ethan glanced left and right along the ribbon of empty pavement leading up and down Grosvenor Square. Just go. Start walking and never look back. Like you did ten years ago.

  A voice called to him and drew his attention to the house. “Captain Dorrill! Ethan!” His newly met sister-in-law had his brother by the arm and was attempting to drag Ash out the front door.

  You have your hands full with that one, Ash.

  Ethan raced down the steps, snatched open the carriage door and launched himself into the rear-facing seat. The coachman immediately set the horses in motion. By the dim light of the interior carriage lamps, he saw the spider who had been weaving the web of his life since he was barely eleven years old. He should have known the old man would have no patience to wait and discover his answer. Did he really think Ethan might refuse him?

  “Well,” his grandfather rasped, his rheumy eyes glittering even in the faint light. He gripped the silver raven’s head atop his cane and leaned toward Ethan like any scavenger in anticipation of a meal.

  “I’ll do it.” Ethan subsided into the seat and turned his head to watch the elegant, white house façades of Grosvenor Square pass by the window. “But I want your guarantee in writing, old man, or I’ll be back onboard the Marauder tomorrow and you’ll never set eyes on me again.”

  “There is no contract for this sort of thing, boy. You’ll have to take my word.”

  “Your word’s not worth a bucket of shite to me. Have that reptile you call a solicitor draw it up. I’m certain he’s drawn up a contract with the devil a time or two.” Ethan’s stomach began to roil. The strains of a waltz sounded faintly in the back of his mind. Eyes the blue of the Aegean and a voice like silk against his skin. And a scent he could not forget.

  “You’re certain you got the right chit, now? Tall, thin, no bosom to speak of, and a look about her certain to dry a man’s—”

  “I have the right lady.” The roar of an inferno filled his ears. His body went cold. He leaned across the carriage. “I’ll do what you asked, damn you. Without your help and without another damned word about Lady Georgiana. Do we understand one another, Grandfather?”

  Chapter Two

  Georgiana flung yet another news sheet toward the fireplace and took up her second cup of morning tea. A lady suffered few irritations in life that a hot cup of oolong might not drown into submission.

  Her name had appeared in the scandal sheets before this morning’s on-dits. Then, with enough tea and time, she’d survived quite nicely, thank you very much. She’d even concede that a duke’s daughter being jilted for her own sister by a mere merchant, even if said merchant ran one of the most successful shipping concerns in England, certainly warranted a scandal, albeit a small one.

  The rumors and innuendos in today’s scandal rags, however, veered from the ridiculous directly into the hatefully cruel. And the crude caricatures that accompanied the worst of the stories…

  She returned her cup to the saucer and began to butter a slice of toast. Well, really. If someone went to the trouble of drawing her in a compromising position, the least they might do was make her look as if she were enjoying it. She reached for the pot of strawberry jam and peered down at the nearest newssheet she’d shied onto the faded green and gold Aubusson.

  “At least this one was kind enough to give me a handsome bosom.
Even if he made my nose entirely too long and pointed.” Georgiana slathered her toast with jam and took a bite, closing her eyes in reverence to the wonderful taste of Cook’s efforts.

  “Ought not to be lookin’ at it a’tall, milady. Not fit for decent folks’ eyes.” Alma, Georgiana’s personal maid, made her way around the bedchamber gathering up the sheets and tossing them into the fire.

  “This from the woman who has asked me no less than a dozen times this morning if the pirate was as handsome a devil as everyone is saying.” Georgiana dabbed her serviette to the corners of her mouth and took up her cup to hide her sly smile.

  “Wouldn’t have to keep asking if someone who danced an entire set with him, and a waltz, at that, would answer the question proper,” Alma groused as she went to the wardrobe and began to organize Georgiana’s undergarments for the day. She made a point to shoot Georgiana a pointed glare on each of her trips back and forth to lay the various garments on the bed.

  Georgiana swallowed her tea and ate a few more bites of toast. As Alma’s footsteps threatened to pound out what little color was left in the carpets, she took pity on her. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

  “Is he as handsome as the servants up and down the street are saying?” Alma asked, clutching Georgiana’s stays to her chest, eyes alight. “Lady Hereford’s girl is sister to Lady Farnsworth’s maid and she says this Captain Dorrill is criminal handsome. With hair like a lion all tied down his back with a velvet ribbon. And eyes green as ivy.” The lady’s maid waited, breath held for Georgiana to take up the description.

  “His hair is a sort of tawny color and yes, he wears it entirely too long.” She tapped her forefinger on her chin. “His eyes are green at times.” She brought his image to mind, the image she’d been unable to keep from her dreams or her first thoughts upon waking. “Other times they are amber or brown or even grey. His hair ribbon was black velvet. As was his coat, at least the parts not covered in gold embroidery, a frock coat no less, with wide sleeves and gold braid and an even wider collar. Black breeches and boots, Alma. He wore Hessians to a ball. He is too tall, his shoulders too broad, and his manners entirely too bold.”

  “Did he wear an earring and a sword like in the papers?” Alma asked breathlessly. At Georgiana’s arched eyebrow, the maid returned to the bed and began an unnecessary inspection of the undergarments there.

  “I thought you didn’t look at the papers.”

  Alma snorted. “I said decent folk shouldn’t look at them. I didn’t say anything about me.” A brief moment of silence ensued. Followed by several minutes of unbridled laughter from both of them. Thank goodness for Alma. She had been with the family on and off for thirty years. She’d started in the kitchens at the age of sixteen. Her employment with the family waxed and waned dependent upon the duke’s fortune or lack thereof. With Abigail married now, there was money for a permanent position. Alma had declared herself too old for the kitchens, but just the right age to be elevated to lady’s maid. Especially as she would have only one girl to manage. If a woman of nearly one and twenty who had been doing her own hair for years needed to be managed.

  “What would Mama say about your choice of reading materials?”

  “I doubt your lady mother knows I can read.” Alma disappeared into the dressing room and returned with two of the most elegant day gowns in Georgiana’s wardrobe.

  “Of course, she knows you can read. With what is in those rags this morning, I daresay she wishes her own ability to read to the devil. Take those back. They’re far too fussy for a day at home.”

  “I don’t know about her ability to read, but according to Millie, Her Grace has already swooned twice and has taken to her bed with her hartshorn for the day. I think the blue.” Alma draped a lutestring day gown of deep periwinkle across the bed and went to return the other to the dressing room.

  The hair on the back of Georgiana’s neck tickled the slightest bit. “What are you about, Alma?” Something was afoot and, in her experience in this house, it never boded well for her. The tall, spare maid came out with an expensive India shawl over her arm and a collection of mother-of-pearl combs in her hand.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Georgiana took up her serviette and tossed it onto her little breakfast table. She strode across the room, took the combs and shawl from Alma and dropped them onto the bed.

  “Are you going to answer mine?”

  “Pertaining to?”

  “Your pirate? Was he wearing an earring? Is he handsome?” Alma helped Georgiana out of her robe and nightgown and handed her a clean chemise.

  “He isn’t my pirate. He wore neither earring nor sword.” She fought her way into the petticoat Alma tossed over her head. “And yes, I suppose he is handsome in a primitive, coarse sort of way. Why are you trussing me up like a Christmas turkey? Alma?” In a trice she was strapped so tightly into her best stays her breasts teetered on the edge of popping over the top of them like two pomegranates rolling out of a basket. Two small pomegranates. Alma danced Georgiana around in circles in an effort to wrestle her into the lutestring gown.

  “Will you stop?” Georgiana tried to fling the sleeves off her arms, but Alma had done this too often. She was already doing the buttons up her back and synching the light blue ribbon tightly beneath her bosom.

  “Sit down, milady.” Alma shoved her into the chair before the vanity. “I’ll have to make quick work of your hair. You’re expected below stairs at once.”

  “Below stairs? Ouch! Am I expected with or without my hair?” Georgiana rubbed her scalp, but quickly drew her hand back to avoid another sweep of the brush. “Why am I expected—”

  “The man who is not your pirate is waiting in the drawing room. Your father says you are to attend the gentleman at once.”

  “Captain Dorrill?” Her heart lurched and floundered in her chest. “He’s here?”

  “Arrived more than half an hour ago. That’s what caused your mother to swoon the first time.” Alma swept Georgiana’s hair atop her head and fixed it in place with the combs.

  A shivery forethought raced down her spine. “What on earth is he—”

  “Asked your father’s permission to court you. No time for jewelry.” Alma gripped her elbow, lifted her from the chair and tugged her toward the bedchamber door.

  “He asked to court me? And Papa said—”

  “He gave the man his blessing. That’s when Her Grace swooned the second time. Come along.”

  Georgiana stumbled a few steps in the lady’s maid’s wake until they reached the top of the stairs. She rose out of her shocked stupor and planted her feet on the landing’s edge. “Alma, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to miss my chance to see a real, live pirate because you’ve turned missish. I’ll be the envy of every lady’s maid in London.”

  Georgiana threw up her hands and started down the steps. “Of all the ridiculous reasons to dress me up like a Christmas package and… Captain Dorrill is not a pirate. However, pirate or not, no power on earth will compel me to accept his courtship.”

  “She’s right on one count,” a rich, dark voice said from the first-floor landing. “I am a privateer, not a pirate.” He came into view as Georgiana rounded the wide curved staircase. Black, mirror-shined Hessians, tan buckskin inexpressibles, rich blue silk brocade vest, white linen shirt and a carelessly tied neck cloth topped by a rich blue frock coat trimmed in gold braid. His hair had been gathered in a blue grosgrain ribbon, but hung unbraided down his back. His eyes were grey this morning. And with sharp features, a square, stubborn jaw and lips quirked in a seductive grin, he was a handsome devil. Damn him.

  “Captain Dorrill.” Georgiana offered her most insincere smile, the one she adopted when the conversation turned to her broken engagement with Daniel McCormick and his subsequent marriage to her sister. “What an unexpected…visit.”

  He winged his arm at her. She had no choice but to take it. She caught Alma’s rapt exp
ression and scowled as Captain Dorrill led her into the drawing room.

  “As to the second count,” he murmured as he bent his head to breathe against her ear, “if nothing on earth will compel you, perhaps I shall have to enlist some heavenly powers.”

  Georgiana suppressed a shiver. “Are you acquainted with heaven, sir?”

  “Intimately.”

  The word rumbled through her, down her neck all the way to her toes. She glanced over her other shoulder to find a smirking Alma stationed beside a little gilt chair next to the drawing room doors. How did she expect to act as chaperone from across the room? Conniving wench. “Won’t you sit…down.” Georgiana plopped inelegantly onto the red and ivory striped silk settee. She stared at the inlaid tea table laden with three dainty baskets and one silver tray—each filled with raspberry tarts.

  “I wasn’t certain whose tarts you might prefer,” Captain Dorrill said as he subsided into the matching red and ivory chair. He propped one booted foot on his knee. “Sir Stirling James recommended the tarts from Fortnum and Mason and three of London’s finest bakeries.”

  “Sir Stirling…” She lifted a dainty tart topped with a dollop of light, frothy cream from the silver tray. Her family’s fortunes had taken a decided downturn long ago. Abigail’s marriage to Daniel had helped, but Father’s wastrel tendencies still strained the coffers. Treats like the delectable tart from Gunther’s had gone like the silver and most of the better books in the library. She put it back. “I was not aware you and Sir Stirling were acquainted.”