Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) Page 16

  “I understand the owner of Lark Hollow estate has the living of this parish,” Wainwright exclaimed in the unnecessary volume of someone unpracticed in speaking aloud in company. Someone, perhaps, for whom conversation was useful mostly as a conduit to business, seldom pleasure.

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Mr. Kenton. “Admiral Vyne currently owns the property, and he granted me the living when it became vacant on the death of the previous vicar. Admiral Vyne is a distant cousin on my mother’s side. I was most fortunate to—”

  “Do you know the admiral, Mr. Wainwright?” their mother interrupted. “He is a very fine, very particular gentleman, despite being a naval man. Dr. Penny is often called up to Lark Hollow to tend his health. Admiral Vyne has great respect for my husband’s skill and won’t have any other man of medicine in his house.”

  Justina and Catherine exchanged glances, both cringing at their mother’s unsubtle attempts to portray the family as one of consequence in the neighborhood. Any moment now, thought Justina, she will mention her grandmama’s tenuous connection to the Blundesons of Stoke.

  “No, I am not acquainted with the admiral,” Wainwright replied as soon as he could get a word in.

  “Well, you must pay him a visit. Lark Hollow is not five miles and in dry weather it is an easy journey. He does not go out much himself, but is always glad to entertain visitors and is a lavish host. We had one of the best dinners there, did we not, my husband?”

  “Indeed we did, my dear.”

  “Ice sculptures! Imported fruit! The largest salmon I ever laid eyes upon. We were honored to be invited there, you know, Mr. Wainwright, as he plays host only to a few local families deemed worthy.” She laughed with excruciating gaiety. “If he had any sons, I suppose he would try to get our Catherine for one of them. He has said several times how pretty she is. A man of exquisite tastes.”

  “Yes,” their father remarked, “Admiral Vyne does have an eye for the elegant and costly. One cannot help but wonder how he affords to live as he does on a navy pension.”

  “My dear, you do speak nonsense at times! The admiral made a fortune in the war. Everyone knows it to be so.”

  “Ah, then, if everyone knows it to be so, it must be true. I stand corrected. But since Mr. Wainwright knows nothing of the admiral, I’m sure we can find some other subject of conversation in which he might have a share.”

  Their mother considered alternatives for a moment and Justina cringed in expectation of the worst.

  “Pork!” was the word that shot forth. “You must talk to us of pork, Mr. Wainwright.”

  There was silence while the gentleman froze with his spoon halfway to his lips.

  She turned to Mr. Kenton and explained, “Mr. Wainwright is an expert on the subject.”

  “Is that so?” The rector smiled and looked expectantly at Wainwright, whose expression was a priceless combination of horror and confusion.

  Justina feared she might explode with laughter and have wine come out of her nose. But fortunately, having paused a sufficient time and found her guest unprepared to discuss pork, Mrs. Penny, who never liked silence at her dinner parties, forged in a new direction.

  “Perhaps you know of the Blundesons of Stoke, Mr. Wainwright?”

  For the remainder of dinner, Justina devoted herself to Mr. Kenton, who continued to be visibly surprised by the attention she heaped upon him so suddenly.

  At the end of the evening, her father sent her into his library for a book he had promised to lend Mr. Wainwright. He told her it was sitting on the desk and would be easy to find, but to her annoyance it was nowhere in sight. She spent several minutes searching until she found the book upon his shelf, and as she left the room, Justina almost collided with the borrower himself.

  “Your father sent me to find you and tell you he was mistaken,” he muttered dourly. “The book is on the shelf, it seems, and not where he told you.”

  Undoubtedly, he thought this was a deliberate ploy by her father. Anxious that Mr. Wainwright should know any mischief afoot was not of her own doing for once, she thrust the book at him, almost taking a button off his waistcoat in the process, leaving it hanging by a loose thread.

  They were in a narrow corridor leading from the wing of the house that held her father’s study and his surgery. A mere twelve feet away the end of the passage opened into the foyer where the rest of her family were saying their good-byes to Mr. Kenton. But in that slender, dimly lit space, for those few moments, they were unobserved by any other soul. And he was not allowing her to pass. Nor did he take the book she held out to him.

  “I must commend you, Miss Penny, on the arrangement of your hair this evening. It is most…remarkable.”

  “Thank you. Excuse me, sir.”

  Still he did not move.

  “Do you want the book or not?” she demanded in a terse whisper.

  Slowly he raised his hand and took it, his fingertips brushing hers in the process. A frisson of heat darted through her from head to toe.

  “You had better not tell a soul what happened between us.” It rushed out of her in a panic.

  With the same slumberous pace as he employed in accepting the book from her hand, he arched an eyebrow. “What happened between us.”

  “Yes, you know very well what I mean.”

  “Do I?” He swayed slightly toward her.

  She frowned up at him, trying to ascertain whether he was really confused or if he inferred that he would pretend not to remember. “The incident in Bath. And more recently…I’m certain you don’t want to suffer the repercussions either, should anyone find out.”

  “I see. Repercussions.” The second eyebrow now joined the first like the wings of a hawk caught on a swell of cool air.

  “Precisely.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do,” she replied firmly.

  “Your kisses were supposed to frighten me off, is that it?”

  Justina could hardly admit that she didn’t know why she’d kissed him, that it had seemed necessary at the time, and she only sought for reasons after the fact. Leap first, think later. “I hope you will be discreet, sir,” she muttered.

  “So says the woman who willingly leapt into the bed of a stranger. Where was her desire for discretion then?”

  She stared at him in the dim light of the narrow passage. “It was an unhappy mishap. The wrong bed. You weren’t supposed to be a stranger. You weren’t the man I expected—the man I wanted.” The excuses flowed hurriedly from her. “I was a mere child then.”

  “Only last year?”

  “Fourteen months ago.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Stop saying I see like that,” she whispered frantically.

  The candle flame stretching up from the single wall sconce suddenly ducked and danced. She knew the front door had swung open and the rector was leaving.

  Wainwright lifted his thumb to her mouth and ran the broad, square tip of it along her lower lip. She felt powerless to react, but she was not, of course. The sad truth was she didn’t mind him touching her and looking at her as if she was the only soul he could see. It was an indescribably wicked sensation.

  He bent his head down to her. She should have seen it coming, but it startled her that he would take the risk there and then.

  His lips touched hers, pressed them apart and claimed her shocked gasp as if it were an after-dinner cordial. Tonight his cheek was warm and smooth, with a faint scent of spice. She took a startled breath of it and then, as the kiss lingered, he dropped the book. His hands went to her back, lifting and securing her body firmly against his until her toes left the ground and she could feel his heart pulsing hard against her bosom. How strong he was, she thought in some alarm. And what did he mean to do with her? It briefly occurred to Justina that she ought to shout for help, but with her mouth otherwise engaged the idea was soon los
t.

  He did indeed consider her part of his meal, for his tongue swept over her warm cheek, tasting her with unmistakable relish. Savoring her. The wandering tongue slipped into the little dip beneath her ear, where his breath tickled and his teeth gently nibbled. A butterfly drifted from her hair and was temporarily carried on a draft. In that moment, as she watched it from the corner of her eye, it seemed as if the lovely creature was flying again as it once had. Her heart soared with it for those few seconds and then spun wildly, before both butterfly and heart came back to earth.

  Slowly her toes touched the floor again, but as she slid down his hard length, she felt every muscle, every bump.

  Wainwright the Wrong looked at her with a fiery, lusty regard that made the skin of her arms prickle and every hair on her head felt as if it had just curled itself tighter.

  It was confirmed, then; this man thought she was a light skirt. What else would he assume after the way she acted in his kitchen and his study? And after her performance in Bath last—fourteen months ago? Did he think to use her in this manner whenever he chose? Another light shiver skipped along the surface of her skin. Wicked excitement, but of a different sort to that which she usually experienced when she misbehaved. It was not in her control this time.

  Alarmed, she stumbled back and pressed her shoulder blades to the wall. “How dare you?”

  He looked surprised by her question. “I am Darius Wainwright. I dare as I please.” Then he stooped to retrieve the borrowed book, tucked it under his arm, and bowed stiffly. “Good evening, Miss Justina. Thank you for the entertainment. It surpassed my expectations.”

  She stared at his back as he strode confidently away from her. Despicable man! Her mother was right, though—he did have extremely wide shoulders. And Lucy was correct in that all his parts were on the larger side and in proportion to his height.

  For the first time in her nineteen years, Justina felt in danger of a swoon. A real one.

  But as he turned the corner at the end of the passage, his shoulder knocked into the wall. He straightened quickly, his tall form tipping upright again. It suggested that pompous Mr. Wainwright had drunk a little too much wine that evening. Justina smiled. At least she was not the only one who felt control slipping through her hands.

  Eighteen

  This morning, when I went to my duty at Midwitch Manor, Mr. W appeared to be in a worse mood than ever before. He could barely open his lips to speak, looked gray and disheveled. He left Lucy and me alone in his study for most of our visit. Very rude and unmannerly.

  Cathy’s new gown for the harvest dance is all but finished. We are to wear ribbon roses on our slippers, which seems patently ridiculous for an event to take place in a leaky barn.

  I would not bother about the state of my own gown, but Becky assures me her brother will be home in time to attend the dance tomorrow, so I shall make the effort. I would much rather dance with the captain than anyone else, and I daresay he is the only one who will ask me in any case. Not that I care a shilling about dancing.

  I’m sure I should turn anyone else down, even if they did ask. Even if they did venture down from their exalted heights to attend.

  J.P. September 15th, 1815 A.D.

  ***

  She started on the new pile of papers with a sigh so heavy that she blew a cloud of dust into the air above his desk and sent Wainwright into a sneezing fit. While he was still grappling for a handkerchief, her eyes alighted on a penned note sticking out, part way down the towering pile. It had been signed with a line of smudged crosses. Clearly not a business letter.

  Justina’s heart quickly shook off that sluggish beat.

  Could it be that here she had found one of those love letters he’d mentioned at dinner the other evening? A billet-doux between his miserable great-uncle and a secret sweetheart?

  Darius buried his face in a large handkerchief as his sneezes continued, one after the other. She glanced over at Lucy who was daydreaming by the window. No one else would know what she’d found.

  Very slyly and carefully she removed it from the pile and slid it onto her lap beneath the desk. From there it was transferred into her small reticule.

  She soothed her conscience by promising herself that she would indeed inform Mr. Wainwright of her findings. At a later date. As soon as she’d had a chance to read the contents herself and, perhaps, had discovered the identity of that mysterious lady. There would be time enough to hand it over to him then, surely.

  That evening, while pretending to write in her diary and with Cathy asleep beside her, Justina read the note.

  I wonder if I’ll ever find

  A way inside your dexterous mind.

  But if I did, I must confide

  I might not make it back outside.

  I am already trapped and bound

  Lured in too far to keep my ground.

  And I, ’tis true, would be remiss

  to claim I did not like that kiss

  I hope for more, I fear it too

  Perhaps this is unfair to you.

  But still I am a selfish man

  and keep you near how ’ere I can

  How strange that Phineas should imagine himself a poet, she mused. And yet the attempt was touching too in its fumbling naïveté. The paper was tinted pale brown with old age and crumpled as if once discarded. Perhaps he had written many drafts of the same sentiment and never given it to his lady in the end.

  There was no clue to the identity of his fancy, but Justina was eager to uncover more. Where there was one letter, there must be others.

  She folded the note and slipped it away inside her diary for safekeeping.

  The next day when she arrived at Midwitch, Wainwright wanted to know whether she’d found anything of interest yet among his great-uncle’s papers.

  “No,” she replied primly. “It is all endlessly dull.”

  “Goodness,” he muttered. “We’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?” He dropped another tall pile atop the one she had barely begun to sort. “That will keep idle hands away from the devil’s work,” he added, turning away to peruse his shelves, dismissing her with the nonchalance at which he excelled.

  That day she found two more of Phineas Hawke’s messages to his secret love—bad, sentimental poetry, just what one might expect from an old man with little practice. But if they were very ancient letters, as they appeared to be, the man who wrote them would not have been the same decrepit old curmudgeon who chased her from his house and grounds, would he? She tried to imagine Phineas as a young man. There were no portraits in the house for he was not the sort to enjoy looking at himself.

  She took to studying Darius Wainwright more closely during her visits. Perhaps, in his youth, Phineas might have borne a resemblance to his great nephew. The shape of the nose was very similar, from what she remembered, and there was something the two men shared about the jaw. Something more than the grinding that happened in her presence.

  “What are you staring at?” Wainwright demanded one day, looking up from the entrails of yet another disemboweled mantel clock. One she was quite sure he’d already mended.

  “I was comparing your grumpy face to your great-uncle’s and finding it much the same.”

  Lips pressed together, he shook his head as if mildly irritated and then got on with his work.

  “If you would like more things to mend, Mr. Wainwright,” she suggested coyly, “I would be happy to break some for you.”

  Under his breath he muttered something about her having done enough damage already, which she thought was most unjust and yet quite typical.

  ***

  “So here I find you, old chap! This is where you hide away.”

  Miles Forester swept in on a brisk whirl of cold air, his greatcoat billowing around him, that familiar, booming laugh bouncing against the wall paneling.

  The no
ise shook Darius out of his daydreams, and he hastily set down his pen, turning over the sheet of paper upon which he’d been writing moments before. “Forester? Good God, what are you doing here?” His first thought was how lucky that Miss Penny and her friend had left, for he was not prepared to answer questions about them, and Miles would, doubtless, have plenty.

  The tall, smiling man lurched across the study like a young, amiable Labrador. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought it would be jolly fun to surprise you, Wainwright. I decided to come and see what you’re up to all the way out here.”

  Mrs. Birch followed close behind, complaining about the mud he’d brought in on his heels and why didn’t he wait to be announced properly.

  “But I didn’t want to give my friend here any warning and have him dash away to hide, as he surely would! Please accept my apologies, madam.” Miles beamed warmly at the housekeeper. “I shall scrub that dratted mud from the hall tiles with my own hands!”

  Mrs. Birch, however, was perhaps the one woman Miles and his charming grin would never impress. “In future use the boot scraper by the door, if you please.”

  “I am duly chastened.” He held his hat to his chest and looked extremely sorry.

  She glanced over at Darius. “That tea must be cold by now, young sir.” She gestured at the large cup on his blotter. “Why, you have not drunk any of it, but you spilled it all over your letter again! I’ve never known a young fellow so clumsy. I shall bring you another cup.”

  “That is not necessary, Mrs. Birch, thank you.” He quickly moved the tea-stained papers, slipping them inside a drawer.

  With a shrug and another glare at the new arrival, she waddled back out again, slamming the study door in her wake.

  Miles laughed abruptly. “She’s quite a tartar. Wouldn’t like to run into her down a dark alley.”

  Darius carefully closed and locked his drawer, then got up and walked around the desk. “What on earth possessed you to come here?”

  “I did think you might be pleased to see me, old chap.”

  “Hmm.” In truth, he wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about this unexpected guest. On the one hand he always enjoyed Miles’s company. It was hard not to, despite the fact that they were two complete opposites. On the other hand, there were certain complicated matters afoot, and Miles would relish interfering and giving his “advice.”