One More Kiss, page 21
“By someone other than your brothers, cousin, or sister?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She looked over his shoulder.
“Was I the first man to kiss you, Beatrice?” Her eyes flew back to his. “On the mouth?” As he spoke he looked away from her eyes, at her lips. She had pressed them together as though she was trying not to ready them for his touch.
He framed her face with his hands and leaned into her. She watched as he came closer, then her eyes fluttered closed and her mouth curved to welcome his.
Jess did his best to control the contact. This was all about giving her a disgust of him, frightening her into leaving him alone. At first he was completely in charge.
Then he felt the tip of her tongue tease his mouth.
Lust slammed through him. Instantly he forgot his purpose and took what she offered, giving in return. He ran his hands down to where her hands were still pressed to his chest. He pulled them away so that nothing was between them but the clothes they wore. Their bodies were molded together, pressed against the tree.
The first kiss ended but a second drove them on, his hands in her hair, his mind filled with the taste and feel of her, his body ready to take all she had to give.
A moan, his or hers, was a call to sanity many, too many kisses later.
He ended that last kiss rudely, without a thought to her comfort. Taking a step back he left a good twelve inches between them.
“Dear God, Beatrice,” he said, breathing hard, “this is not a contest either one of us can win.”
“A contest?” His choice of words seemed to bring her into the moment more effectively than a bucket of cold water. “What does one win? More kisses?”
He could tell by her tone that she knew that was not the right answer.
“Damn it. A broken heart, or worse.”
She stepped to the edge of the giant tree trunk and looked back toward the house.
“No one in sight.” She stepped back, took his arm. She must have felt the same slap of awareness that went straight to his manhood because she dropped hold of him almost immediately. Stepping out from behind the tree, Beatrice walked toward the path to the ha-ha and waited for him.
“You suggested a wager before, um, we were distracted, my lord. What did you have in mind?”
Since that suggestion had been made before his world was tilted on its axis, it took him longer than it should have to recall what she was talking about. He joined her and pretended he had recovered his equanimity as easily as she had, and finally he found his voice. “Yes, I was going to suggest that your sister would arrive alone but that Destry would be close behind. But now I think that is too obvious and that we might as well keep our guineas for some more meaningful wager.”
She glanced at him, eyes full of suspicion, as if wondering if there was a double meaning to his words, which there was not. So she was not as recovered as she pretended. He must remember that she was something of an actress. He tried for the blandest of expressions and waited for her to speak.
She cleared her throat and answered him.
“Yes, just as pointless as my inclination to accept the wager, but only if you agree to wager that Lord Destry will promptly say something he means as a compliment that Cecilia will interpret as an insult.”
He laughed aloud at the equally easy win and suddenly they were friends. Her demeanor changed a little and she was once again more girl than woman and eager for the next entertainment. What did it say about the rake in him that he was sorry it did not involve kisses?
“You know, my lord, chickens are not bred to race.” She danced around to the front of him and walked backward. “I mean, they are more likely to peck the ground for food than they are to run across a finish line.”
“Exactly. That will give us plenty of time to wager and enjoy one another’s company.”
She stopped and gave him a questioning glance.
“Beatrice,” he said with a tired sigh, “if I meant a double entendre you would not doubt it.”
Her expression relaxed into a smile, but instead of enjoying his company she abandoned him to inspect the racecourse. He watched her as he talked with the keeper and listened to the man’s concerns about what this activity would do to the hens’ laying potential.
Jess had assured the keeper he had the countess’s permission to use the hens, and promised to replace any that were so traumatized by the experience that their laying days were over.
The run was about forty feet long, fenced with a wall of fabric down its length on both sides. Beatrice studied it as if it were one of her favorite works of art. Jess wondered what she was really thinking about.
She walked back toward him. Her insouciance was gone, her footsteps ladylike. Cautious, that’s how he would describe her. It was amusing, but not as appealing as her curiosity.
“I wager a guinea that your sister will exclaim over the chickens but refuse to actually hold one.”
“I wager a guinea that Lord Destry will reach in and take one out to show her how innocent they are.”
It was just as well that neither accepted the other’s wager, as a moment later the newly arrived Cecilia walked over to the wooden cage and marveled at the contestants. As predicted, Des came hurrying along, almost running to stand beside her. She put her hands behind her back when he lifted a hen out for her to hold.
“A guinea that the chicken will nip Des when he tries to put it back.”
“Much too certain, my lord.”
“I am going to help whichever one of them needs help the most.” Jess gave a bow from the neck and left her laughing.
The chicken did nip Destry. Cecilia handed him a handkerchief to cover his wound, and then she walked toward Lord Jess, leaving Destry with his mouth gaping open.
Cecilia’s manner reminded Jess of his mother’s when she was disgusted with his behavior. Eventually he’d learned there was no point in trying to explain or apologize. His mother, the duchess, would decide when he was in her good graces again.
Destry was not yet in Miss Brent’s good graces. Clearly, while Cecilia’s temper might have dissipated it had not cooled completely.
“He will not stop apologizing,” she hissed to Jess, more distressed than annoyed with Destry.
They looked on as Destry sought out Beatrice, who took him by the arm and moved him beyond the racecourse nearer to the edge of the ha-ha.
Cecilia began to improvise both parts of her sister’s conversation.
“Stop apologizing to her, you imbecile.” She spoke in a breathy voice amazingly like her sister’s.
“But I am sorry.” Her manly imitation of Lord Destry was less perfect but all the more amusing for it.
“The more often you say it the less credible it is, you idiot.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know it’s true, you simpleton.”
“All right, if you think she will forgive me.”
“I never said that, you silly man.”
Jess wondered how many more innocent insults Cecilia could think up. He turned his back on Beatrice. It was the only way he could give her sister his full attention.
“Forgive him, Cecilia, and put us all out of our misery.” He waited until she looked away from Destry and directly at him. “You know he is in love with you.”
She shook her head, one sharp shake. “Nonsense. He is not in love with me. He is infatuated with my looks and has no respect for me as a person. That is not love.”
She had her back to Destry now, too.
“Look at him,” Jess said. “He is the last man in the world to judge by appearances. He has spent his whole life convincing people he is fully a man despite his lack of height.”
“He’s the heir to a dukedom,” Cecilia reminded him, obviously not at all inclined to sympathy. “The marquis does not have to convince anyone of anything.”
“He had to convince his family first and foremost.” Forgive me, Des, but desperate measures are called for. “He told me once”—he considered adding “when he was very drunk” but decided it wiser to skip that—“that when it was clear he was, despite his size, a healthy boy, his grandfather would take him riding almost every day the old duke was at Bendall Manor, their main estate. Those outings are how Des learned to ride like a madman, as his grandfather would challenge him to all sorts of races and jumps.”
“That’s easy enough to picture,” Cecilia said. “He loves a headlong gallop as much as anything else.”
“Indeed he does.” How often had she watched him? “One day his grandfather challenged him to take a jump that was quite impossible. Des almost tried it, just to prove he was a man, but then he realized that if he did not make it he would surely break his neck.”
Cecilia put her hand on her own neck, engrossed in the story.
“Destry said as much to his grandfather, who merely shrugged. In that moment, he told me, Destry realized that his death was exactly what his grandfather wanted.”
“His grandfather did not want him to inherit.” Her eyes were wide with shock.
“No.” In for a penny, in for a pound, Jess thought. “The old duke told him that he would rather have the title pass to his cousin than have Destry inherit.”
“Because he is so short?” Cecilia’s expression was incredulous. “For no other reason?”
“That’s right. I suspect he worried that Destry would taint the bloodline somehow. That all future Bendasbrooks would be short.”
She glanced over at Destry and Beatrice, who were still deep in conversation.
“So you see, Miss Brent, you must believe that Destry would never judge anyone solely by their appearance.”
“But he treated me as if I was stupid, implying I could neither count nor add.” She was all sympathy now, but still confused by his behavior.
“I ask you, Miss Brent, how anyone could think you stupid when we have seen you discuss and name plants the rest of us think of as simply green and leafy.”
Destry and Beatrice came to them. They made a foursome just as the rest of the house party arrived, except for Mrs. Wilson.
Miss Wilson held tight to Lord Crenshaw’s arm as they made their way across the lawn and Jess looked at Beatrice. Both she and Cecilia were regarding the newly matched couple with undisguised concern.
“I’d be happy to loan you a few guineas, Crenshaw, if your pockets are to let after last night’s loss.”
Destry rocked back and forth from heels to toes, his teasing good-natured, but Jess had no idea how Crenshaw would react to this most public reminder of his loss.
“I managed to find a few coins, my lord marquis,” Crenshaw replied, more formally than necessary.
“What does he mean, my lord?” Katherine Wilson asked.
In fact, Jess realized, she had not witnessed the throw of the last card. So perhaps Destry’s teasing had a point.
“Nothing!” Crenshaw’s answer was a command to silence. One that made Miss Wilson blush. Jess could tell that she wanted to move away from him but Crenshaw visibly tightened his hold on her arm. Beatrice stepped forward but before she could interfere, he did.
“Miss Wilson.” Jess drew her attention and Crenshaw’s suspicion, which was all the better. “As you may recall we are to be ladies against gentlemen. So unless you wish the ladies to question your loyalty, may I suggest you join them and move to your side of the field and leave Crenshaw to us?”
He loved the ambiguity in his words and wished Crenshaw was enough of a coward to fear him. But the baron did not shrink from confrontation, especially if it involved his fists.
With a cautious smile at Crenshaw, Katherine Wilson joined the Brent sisters and Nora Kendrick, moving to one side of the fabric wall. Jess might have been wrong but he thought she looked relieved.
Chapter Twenty-five
FROM THEN ON wagers were tossed back and forth with abandon. Several languished with no one accepting the offer.
“A guinea to the person who can name the breed of our chickens.” Lord Jess held up a coin.
No one answered until Nora Kendrick came up behind him and grabbed it.
“They are female Devon Old Pegs!”
“Never heard of ’em.” Crenshaw held up a coin. “A guinea says Mrs. Kendrick made it up.”
“My lord, they are a relatively new breed. The admiral was fond of chickens so I am more familiar with them than most ladies are.” Nora was smiling broadly and Jess could not tell if she was being honest or not.
Lord Crenshaw was convinced and admitted defeat by handing over his coin with a gracious bow.
“I think Crenshaw gave in too soon,” Belmont called out. “I wager two guineas that Nora made up that name after all.”
Mrs. Kendrick merely raised her brows and they all turned to the keeper, who rubbed his chin and then spoke.
“Cannot say I ever heard of Devon Old Pegs, my lady,” he said, “though they may exist. These are indeed a new breed but they are called Derbyshire Redcaps, madam.” He touched his forelock in apology.
“Well, at least I fooled one of you,” Nora said, not noticing the spasm of anger that twisted Crenshaw’s face before he regained control of himself.
“Let the race begin,” Lord Destry bellowed, all impatience. As restless as the chickens, Jess thought.
“No!” Beatrice objected. “First we must pick our team of hens.”
The ladies gathered by the cage as they chose their runners. Miss Wilson named them Roxie and Molly.
“Laugh if you dare,” Beatrice challenged as the ladies moved behind the fabric wall. “Roxie and Molly will race all the better for having names.”
“Not being burdened with names, ours will run like the wind,” Destry announced as Jess gestured for the fowl to be released.
“Wait! Wait!” Beatrice called out again and everyone groaned. “Can we turn them toward the finish line if they become confused?”
“Yes, but only if you are willing to touch them yourself with your own hands. No servants allowed.” Jess wondered if the will to win would overcome Beatrice’s natural wish to avoid a henpeck.
“A guinea that there will be a hen fight the minute they are released from the cage.” Lord Crenshaw won his guinea from Lord Belmont.
“Belmont obviously knows nothing about hens,” Destry said to Cecilia.
Jess noticed that while she did not ignore him, she did no more than nod.
Beatrice decided to champion Molly. Jess watched her, not the hens, and grinned at her enthusiasm, the way she wrinkled her brow at Molly’s disinterest.
“This is a race, Molly! Money is at stake. Possibly even your life!”
The four chickens responded to the boisterous shouting and encouragement, each in her own way. Molly and Nameless Number One pecked the earth, ignoring the noise. Roxie headed toward the finish line with purpose but was distracted when Lord Destry whistled.
“You can’t whistle like that!” Beatrice shouted. “That’s not fair, is it, Lord Jess?”
Jess folded his arms, and rocked back on his heels. “Whistling is perfectly acceptable.”
“Of course you say so since Lord Destry is on your team.”
“Of course,” Jess said, holding back a laugh.
She gave him a threatening look, but he was sure she saw the laughter in his eyes.
At that moment Nameless Number Two flew toward the ladies, though she could not make it over the wall. Even so all of the ladies screamed, except Nora Kendrick, but even she took a step back.
Having achieved her wish to wreak terror on the humans, Nameless Number Two settled to the ground and began a prosaic search for seeds and insects.
Molly began to move with significant speed, but in the wrong direction.
With a “No!” Beatrice lifted her skirts to a rather unladylike height and stepped clear over the wall. She grabbed Molly from behind, a move so unexpected, by the hen at least, that Molly was not able to elude her. The hen squawked with such vehemence that once she was facing the right direction Beatrice ran from the course and back to the relative protection of the wall.
Apparently Molly blamed Roxie, the hen nearest her, for the interference and a classic hen fight began. The keeper brushed them apart with a broom, urging them toward the finish line, but the two seemed set on bickering. It took another try for the keeper to separate them successfully.
Then Roxie turned her head and, with one eye, stared at Katherine Wilson. “What did I do? I didn’t do anything,” she insisted, stepping behind Nora Kendrick.
Suggestions flew back and forth on Roxie’s motivations until Lord Belmont called out. “I will pay a shilling to anyone who can stay quiet for one minute.”
Murmurs all around before silence settled on the group. Now all that could be heard was the pecking and squawking of the hens. Lord Destry picked up Nameless Number One and set her in the correct direction, a few feet ahead of her starting point.
One of the ladies protested, very quietly, but it was a sound, and Belmont held out his hand for a guinea. Beatrice handed him a marker and pressed her lips together.
As the end of the minute approached one of the chickens moved purposefully and directly for Lord Crenshaw’s boot, the toe of which was under the edge of the fabric. Everyone pressed forward and saw Crenshaw lift his foot and kick the fowl toward the center of the run, without force but without any care, either.
Jess saw Destry draw in a breath to protest, but then Cecilia put a hand on his arm and he stayed silent.
A few seconds later when Lord Belmont called the minute, Destry bowed to Cecilia. “You saved me from myself. I and my shilling thank you.”
Cecilia curtsied back to him, her eyes more thoughtful than her smile. “My lord, his anger was barely contained. I was worried about more than your wealth.” His huge smile must have made Cecilia rethink her comment. “I mean that I did not want any unpleasantness to upset us again.”
Des inclined his head, but Jess could tell by his expression that Destry felt his apology had finally been accepted.
Lord Crenshaw wagered that the ladies would lose interest before the hens ever made it to the finish line. Lord Belmont accepted. Crenshaw lost. For with the return of the noise, or perhaps it was the grain Belmont scattered at the end of the run, three of the contestants moved more or less toward the finish.
