A Lord's Kiss Read online

  “Farnsworth introduced us this morning. A singular gentleman, Sir Stirling, but a knowledgeable one.”

  “At least when it comes to raspberry tarts,” Georgiana observed. She folded her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for one of them. The drawing room was the largest space in the house, but it grew smaller with every moment Captain Dorrill sat within its walls. He dwarfed the chair in which he sat. He dwarfed the threadbare Turkey carpets. He even dwarfed the carved marble mantle pieces on either end of the room. How was that possible?

  “Do you not wish to try the—”

  “Why are you here?” Georgiana blurted.

  He sighed dramatically. “Why is it everyone I meet asks that of me? If I were a less stalwart fellow, I might take offense.” He erupted from his chair and extended his hand. “Come with me.” His tone, and a darkening of his eyes, struck her. She did not doubt his strength, but he was not as impervious as he wanted her to believe.

  “Come with you?” Georgiana rose slowly and gave the tarts one last, lingering glance. “Sir, I hardly know you. Where would I—”

  “I have a new phaeton and pair. Come for a drive with me. Hyde Park will be empty at this hour and you will not suffer the embarrassment of being seen with me.” He turned to Alma, watching attentively from across the room. “What say you, Miss Repton, isn’t it? Fetch bonnets and such and we’re off.”

  Georgiana barely opened her mouth before Alma was off the chair, out the doors, and up the stairs. “I don’t know what my father told you, Captain Dorrill, but I see no reason to embark on this farce when I have no intention of accepting you or any man.”

  “If you are so certain, Lady Georgiana, what harm can there be in a simple ride through the park long before the rest of Society have left their beds?” He remained, hand extended and a dare written in his expression. A dare and, for a single moment, a wisp of uncertainty.

  Her hand stole into his, almost of its own volition. He wore no gloves. His hand was rough, strong, warm, and deceptively gentle. He drew her arm through his and escorted her out of the drawing room and down the wide staircase to the entrance hall. The patter of slippered feet announced Alma’s precipitous flight down the steps from the second floor. She grabbed Georgiana’s free arm and shoved it into her blue muslin pelisse. Captain Dorrill, wise man, stepped further back, out of the way of the frantic maid as she poked Georgiana’s other arm into the pretty, floor-length garment. Alma dropped an abbreviated straw bonnet with a wide brim onto Georgiana’s head and set about tying an elaborate bow under her chin. Georgiana snatched the gloves from the maid’s pocket. She dreaded to think how Alma might go about getting her into those.

  Captain Dorrill took his own gloves from Reeds, the butler, who made no effort to hide his disdain for her supposed suitor. Irritation tapped at the back of her neck. She stepped between them.

  “Shall we go?” She opened the front door, forcing Reeds to back away.

  “As Her Highness commands.” Captain Dorrill swept his arm to indicate that she and Alma precede him.

  “I am no princess, sir. My mother is a duchess, by virtue of my father’s title. I am merely a duke’s daughter. Nothing more.” Georgiana left the house and observed a shiny, new phaeton with bright yellow trim and a pair of beautiful matched bays in the traces. A young boy in new clothes, loose on his thin frame, stood at the horses’ heads.

  “A man’s title does not make a woman a duchess or a princess or even a lady. She makes herself one. A wise man can recognize a princess when he sees one.” Captain Dorrill strolled a few steps behind Georgiana and Alma. “But if you insist, we will make do with my lady.

  “Please do.” Georgiana put one foot in front of the other and refused to look back. If she did, she feared his face might reflect the conviction in his voice. Then she might well be lost.

  “He knows my name,” Alma whispered as they reached the carriage.

  “He—”Georgiana clamped her mouth shut as the privateer lifted her into the phaeton. Alma nodded at him pointedly as he helped her onto the footman’s bench at the back. The maid grinned, inordinately pleased he knew her name. Georgiana rolled her eyes.

  Captain Dorrill took up reins and the young boy scurried to the back of the phaeton and leapt onto the seat next to Alma.

  “Hold tight, miss,” the boy warned the maid.

  Georgiana looked over her shoulder. The lad’s face had gone white. He gripped the rail that served as back and sides to the footman’s seat.

  “Hold tight,” he mouthed at her, eyes wide and expression grim.

  She had only enough time to face forward. The captain gave an incoherent shout and a smart snap of the reins. The bays took off at a run. Georgiana closed her mouth against a frightened shriek. She wrapped one hand around the side rail next to her seat and the other around Captain Dorrill’s upper arm. Thank goodness Alma had tied her bonnet on so securely.

  Wind whipped by as hackneys and crossing sweeps careened out of the way. Her escort fumbled a bit with the ribbons but managed to guide the phaeton around slower conveyances and, in spite of a few near misses, did not bring them to grief.

  “Have you had many occasions to drive a phaeton, Captain?” Georgiana inquired as they drew near the gates of Hyde Park. She wanted to believe her breathless tone denoted fear. In truth, it was excitement. When had she ever experienced the thrill of a complete lack of decorum, of control, of care about how she might be seen? It was a heady mix, like too much brandy and laughter.

  “Actually, my lady, this is only the second time I have driven a phaeton,” he said, his face as at ease as if they waltzed about a ballroom. “The first occasion was from Tattersalls to your home this morning.”

  Her blood ran a bit cold. What had she landed herself and Alma in this time? “I beg your pardon?”

  He turned the carriage through the Grosvenor Gate and Georgiana slid across the bench into him. His body was hard, muscular, and the heat of him pressed through the muslin of her pelisse and the fabric of her dress.

  “Frightened?” he inquired with a devilish grin.

  “Of course not.” She reached over and gave the reins a firm tug, whilst she made soothing sounds to the horses. The lively beasts slowed to a walk, tossing their heads. She placed her hands in her lap and sat up straight, her back not touching the abbreviated squabs of the seat. “But a slower pace might be advised within the confines of the park. Nannies and children are about at this hour.”

  “As you wish.” Captain Dorrill took the ribbons in one hand, leaned back, and layered his arm across the back of the seat.

  “How is it you have never driven a phaeton before today?” Georgiana glanced behind her. She pressed three gloved fingers to her lips. Alma’s bonnet hung around her neck in front of her. Her windblown hair framed a pale, terrified face. The poor lad, the captain’s tiger, she assumed, looked no better. Captain Dorrill followed her gaze. Georgiana’s eyes met his. They both faced forward immediately and tried desperately not to laugh. They failed.

  “I have never owned a carriage,” he said once their laughter subsided. “Sir Stirling took me to Tattersalls this morning and helped me pick out the phaeton and horses. Did he do well by me or is his taste in horseflesh no better than his taste in raspberry tarts?”

  “Raspberry tarts? If today’s offerings are any example, I can assure you, he has most excellent taste in both horses and tarts.”

  “But you did not eat one,” he observed. “A tart, not one of the horses.”

  “I had already broken my fast when I was informed of your arrival. The ride here has given me an appetite. I predict I shall eat nothing else today save raspberry tarts.” A pleased smile broke like the sun across his face, and she could not help but smile just a little in turn.

  The phaeton made a slow progression through the park. Swans glided along the surface of the Serpentine in the distance. They encountered no other carriages due to the hour. It was not yet noon. Clusters of nannies stood beneath the trees and watche
d their charges play on the grass lawns. The day was warm for September, with a gentle breeze teasing the leaves in the trees. Georgiana caught the scents of grass and horses, oak and maidenhair. Above all, the subtle mix of sandalwood soap and something she suspected she might only ever remember as him filled her senses. It would be so easy to become accustomed to the ease and hum of life this man imbued.

  Her heart froze and turned over in her chest.

  “You are quite pretty when you smile, Lady Georgiana,” Captain Dorrill said as he nodded a greeting at two elderly dowagers taking an early morning drive in an open barouche.

  Georgiana cringed. Lady Preston-Bowles and the Countess of Leiston. Who knew women of their age were capable of craning their necks so quickly? If they stayed in that position, they’d do themselves a mischief. At least, she hoped so. The news would be all over Town by luncheon.

  “But I prefer your laughter.”

  She turned to face him. His eyes were a bright green now. Her laughter? Oh, for goodness sake! “Because I am beautiful when I laugh,” she parroted the phrase she’d heard again and again before her suitors discovered her father had no money and she discovered she had no charms other than money to recommend her.

  A murmured conversation between Alma and the young tiger rose and fell behind her in a soft counterpoint to the wind in the trees and the jingle of the horses’ harnesses.

  “Not at all. When you laugh, you look free.” He returned his attention to the horses.

  Free?

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I am free. Whether I laugh or not. We are both creatures of free will, Captain Dorrill. What a silly thing to say.” Irritation crept along her skin. She shifted on the phaeton bench. “And as a creature of free will, I wish to go home now.”

  The conversation at the back of the phaeton ceased.

  He reined in the horses. His face—tanned, sharp-featured, and unreadable—struck her. She’d seen that expression before, knew what it meant. He held her gaze a moment more. “As my lady commands,” he said softly. He raised the reins to start the horses. She covered his hands with hers.

  “I wish to go home, but there is no need for haste,” she offered.

  “Please,” Alma murmured.

  “Amen,” the tiger seconded.

  Georgiana shook her head at the comments behind them. Captain Dorrill feigned indignation. “As our companions have impugned my driving skills, you will have to take the reins.” He lifted her hands from her lap and closed them around the new leather straps.

  “I cannot possibly… A lady does not…” She clutched the reins in spite of her protestations.

  “Then I suppose it is up to me—”

  “No!” Alma and the boy cried together.

  Georgiana arched a brow and pursed her lips in a short, sharp whistle. The horses trotted forward smartly. Captain Dorrill propped one boot on the front of the phaeton, clasped his hands behind his head, and reclined against the back of the seat. She guided the horses skillfully around the carriageway and back out the Grosvenor Gate. The streets were more crowded now, but she had no fear, only…a quiet joy. She urged the horses into a quick trot and moved forward to perch on the front of the bench. A distinctly male chuckle drew her attention to Captain Dorrill for a moment. She glanced back to find him staring at her, a self-satisfied hint to his expression.

  Arrogant arse.

  She turned her attention to the London streets and the beautifully matched bays under her command. He knew. Somehow, against all she’d ever learned of men, he knew she’d enjoy the power and, God help her, simple freedom driving his carriage brought to her. He wanted to court her. Why? Her father had no money to offer him. Her dear brother-in-law would never offer a Dorrill money, not as an inducement for marriage. Daniel had made peace with Asherton Dorrill because he had to in order to keep his sister Eleanor happy. He’d never do anything so underhanded as select a suitor and bribe him to court her. His wife and his sister would not allow it. What did this man want with her? Her mind continued to turn it over, a puzzle box she wanted to solve. What prize might she find inside?

  With great reluctance, Georgiana pulled the phaeton to a stop outside her family’s townhouse. She wrapped the reins around the brake pull. Captain Dorrill leapt from his seat and came around to help her down. Alma, having been assisted down by the boy serving as the captain’s tiger, scurried up the walkway and up the steps into the house. Traitor! The boy came round to hold the horses’ heads. His master grasped Georgiana’s waist and lowered her slowly to the pavement. Her skirts fell over the tips of his Hessians. Heat seeped into her body where his hands still rested on her waist. She studied his vibrantly colored waistcoat.

  “You can let me go, sir,” she said, an annoying catch in her voice.

  “Can I?”

  She raised her head. He was staring at her lips. The noise of the street receded like an outgoing tide. The quiet—the living, breathing, alive quiet of his presence—enticed her. Drew her. She stepped back and his hands slid away.

  “I appreciate the honor you do me, Captain Dorrill,” she started.

  “Do you?” He did not appear angry, merely…bemused.

  “I don’t know what my father has told you, but I prefer not to be courted by you. Or any man, for that matter. Thank you for a lovely morning.” Georgiana dipped a hasty curtsy and turned to go.

  “What must I do, Georgiana? For I fully intend to court you. As you are against all men, and not me alone, I stand at least the same chance as any other man in London. Tell me what to do. I give you my word, I will do anything you ask to make this courtship palatable to you.” The words, spoken in his rich, dark tones, vibrated in her chest.

  “Why?” she asked, still not looking back at him.

  “I haven’t the faintest notion. Sometimes, a sailor must point his ship at the horizon and hope for the best.”

  Georgiana turned her head to study his face.

  “I am utterly beneath you. I am no gentleman and have no notion as to how to court a lady. I am at your mercy. Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

  Damn him. She did not know him well enough to discern if he was earnest or simply calculating how best to persuade her to surrender.

  Suddenly, she was angry, and hurt. She wanted to scream or weep. She wanted her calm, boring life back. She wanted…

  “Very well. I will think on it. You have said you will do anything?”

  “Absolutely. Name the day and time.”

  “We shall see. I will send a note round. Good day, Captain Dorrill.” She offered him her hand, which he took. He touched his lips to her kid glove-clad palm.

  Alma pounced on her the moment she entered the house.

  “Well?” the maid barked as she took Georgiana’s pelisse, bonnet, and gloves and hurried up the stairs behind her.

  “You are a poor chaperone, Alma. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “You don’t need a chaperone. You need someone to shove you into that man’s arms.”

  “You do, and I shall have him take you up in his phaeton and drive you all the way to Brighton.”

  “Are you going to allow him to court you?” she demanded as they entered Georgiana’s bedchamber.

  “I am indeed,” Georgiana replied, warming to the idea that had struck her as she’d listened to Captain Dorrill plead his case. She flipped through the stack of invitations on her desk and found the one she sought. She handed it to Alma. “And you are going to help.”

  “Help?” Alma tilted her head, utterly confused. Until she glanced at the invitation in her hand. “Oh, milady,” she gasped. “No. Not this.”

  Georgiana smiled.

  Chapter Three

  Ethan flinched and bit back a curse. For the twentieth time. Sir Stirling James, who had delivered him into the hands of the sadistic torturer masquerading as a tailor, glanced up from his newspaper.

  “Something the matter, Dorrill?” the Scottish aristocrat inquired.

  “Other than
your man here turning my hide into a sieve, not a thing.”

  “Come now, Captain. It cannot be as bad as all that.” Sir Stirling folded his newspaper and rose to make a slow circuit around Ethan and the tailor kneeling at his feet.

  “I have fought pitched battles at sea and shed less blood than this fitting for one suit of clothes.” He shifted slightly to ease the fit of the knee britches. Which elicited a sigh from his torturer. “Beg pardon,” Ethan muttered.

  “One suit of proper clothes,” Sir Sterling corrected. He lifted the note Ethan had received the previous evening. “Lady Georgiana’s instructions are quite…specific.” He brushed a hand across the shoulders of the snugly fitted evening jacket. “An excellent cut, Weston, as always.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” the tailor replied as he got to his feet. “The gentleman is most fortunately proportioned, if a bit more muscular than most of my patrons.”

  “He has spent most of his life at sea,” Sir Stirling replied. “It makes for a more robust physique.” The hint of a smile curled one side of his mouth.

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “A physique better suited to my own clothes.”

  At the tailor’s nod, he stepped into a curtained area and allowed the valet waiting there to help him out of the carefully pinned breeches, jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. He dismissed the servant with a generous vale and a wave of his hand. Ethan was perfectly capable of dressing himself, especially in his customary buckskins, loose shirt, and brocade frock coat. He did so with haste and stepped back into the fitting room.

  “Apparently,” Sir Stirling said as he returned Lady Georgiana’s note, “the lady finds your own clothes objectionable.”

  “Which is why I agreed to purchase new ones. She has agreed to accept my courtship if I agree to do as she asks.” Ethan folded the missive and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. He signed the order Mr. Weston presented to him and murmured his thanks.

  “One wonders what the lady may ask of you next,” Sir Stirling mused as they stepped out of the tailor’s shop onto the pavement beside the cobblestones of Bond Street.