Before the Kiss: A Book Club Belles Society novella Page 2

  “Well, you can’t stay there,” Miles pointed out with his flair for the obvious. “And I can’t have you at our place for my brother has all the rooms taken for at least another week with his entourage from Town.”

  It was May, and the Bath season would soon be drawing to a close. Although the town’s popularity had waned since the Prince Regent declared Brighton to be his new favorite, it yet remained a busy place during the winter and spring months. Darius lived in hope that it would one day be entirely empty of all the noisy, irritating crowds so that he might actually enjoy an occasional stay in the house he’d inherited from his father, but it seemed as if there was little chance of it. He had arrived there that day with Miles only to find the town bursting at the seams, not only with the gouty elderly and various retired seamen who came to try “the cure” for whatever ailed them, but with rowdy soldiers on leave, giddy debutantes swathed in lace and giggles, and the gaudy remnants of a fashionable set who so far resisted the idea of abandoning Bath just because “Prinny” did. And amid all this, of course, there was the criminal element that preyed upon the untended pockets of the naive. The place was full of quackery in all its forms.

  Since Darius could not stay in his own house, the best solution, according to his friend, was a respectable little boardinghouse near Sydney Gardens. Miles admitted he had never stayed there himself, but he knew a few “good fellows” who had and found it perfectly adequate. Unfortunately, Miles regarded almost everyone as a “good fellow,” so it really was no great recommendation.

  “If you had any other friends, of course,” he said to Darius, “you might have intruded upon their hospitality, but you’re such a charmless fellow you only have me who would put up with you. You always manage to offend people.”

  “Perhaps it is they who offend me.”

  “You never want to meet anyone new. You never give them a chance. You live in a very confined, predictable world, Wainwright, and it takes all my strength to get you out of it from time to time. I declare myself quite exhausted.”

  “Then please, by all means, cease your efforts.”

  “How can I leave you to be so dour and miserable?”

  “I like to be dour and miserable. It keeps the riffraff away. We cannot all be the life and soul of the party, Forester. I beg you not to worry about me a moment longer. Go about your happy life and leave me to my sober peace.”

  “I cannot, Wainwright. It quite goes against the grain to leave a sick or wounded animal suffering.” Having said this, Miles immediately looked sorry, his ever-present smile fading at the edges. “I…didn’t mean…”

  Darius looked at him, puzzled for a moment, until he realized the root of his old friend’s concern. “For pity’s sake, Forester! For the last time—I do not suffer any sort of ailment or wound. I could hardly call myself a man if I still nursed injury over an unhappy incident that occurred when I was a boy of nineteen. Indeed, since I was saved from what might have been an even greater misjudgment, I am grateful for what happened. I bear no grudge and can think of both she who left and he who took her away with equanimity.”

  Miles looked doubtful.

  “It is called growing up,” Darius added. “It is called maturity.” He paused and then through gritted teeth reminded his friend, “It was more than a decade ago. The only time I think of it is when you bring it up.”

  “But you never want to go out and meet women.”

  “Good God, no,” he muttered, turning away. “I’ll leave them all to you, Forester. See? That is why you remain my friend when no one else wants the wretched duty. You know I would never steal your thunder, and I know you can keep the ladies entertained and out of my hair. It is a perfect friendship.” He finally allowed his lips to form a wry smirk and Miles laughed.

  “I wager you won’t escape the fillies in Bath, Wainwright. There are too many of them for me to keep all to myself. Wouldn’t be sporting!”

  “I’m sure you’ll put in a good effort.”

  Despite being promised all manner of delights in Bath, Darius had yet to see a single face he found pleasing or catch a word of stimulating, intelligent conversation. He could barely hear himself think amid the crowds of tawdry folk who appeared to be in some sort of competition to see who could be the loudest and most obnoxious.

  “You’re too brutally honest, Wainwright,” his friend exclaimed merrily. “That’s the trouble. Never quite mastered the art of polite conversation, did you, old chap?”

  “I fail to see the benefit to be gained in dishonest flattery and dull chit-chat. If I wanted to waste my breath and exercise my facial muscles with insincere smiles, I’d run for a seat in Parliament.”

  “Well, I suppose I should be grateful that I have you to tell me when I’m being an ass.”

  “Indeed,” Darius replied gravely, tongue tucked firmly in his cheek. “But you should always assume that to be the case. I will apprise you of any change.”

  Miles laughed easily, never insulted. They’d known each other too long. “Well, Mrs. Bale’s boardinghouse is all bachelors so you’ll be quite safe. No ghastly women to distress the Wainwright nerves,” he exclaimed breezily, ignoring the other man’s scowl. “The landlady’s a bit of a fussy old dear, but she keeps the rooms clean and the food is very good. I hear she makes some lovely puddings!”

  “How thrilling.”

  “You’ll enjoy observing how the other half lives, Wainwright.”

  “I am the other half,” he retorted. “But I work damn hard to live as I do now, with clean sheets in a large, comfortable house. I earned my luxuries and my place in Society.”

  “Oh, here we go again. Another of your stern lectures. Yes, yes! I know I was merely born into wealth and you were not. I never did a thing for my coin and am a useless blight on the country, yet you are one of its unsung heroes, because you and your father sacrificed so much personal happiness to build a business empire.”

  “That is not at all what I—”

  “Do you want the place or not, Wainwright? We’d better go at once and see if Mrs. Bale has a room, for at this time of year the place fills up quicker than a blocked privy after bad oysters.”

  “A charming analogy, indeed.”

  But there was no other choice at that moment. It would take at least a day for his furniture to be replaced, even if he called a halt to the painters and made them leave their work unfinished.

  So Darius allowed himself to be dragged to the boardinghouse, where he was introduced to a round, pink-faced woman with gravy stains on her apron.

  “As it happens, I do have one room free as of this evening,” she muttered, her shrewd, narrowed eyes searching Darius as a robber might scrutinize the exits and entrances of a tall house. “A soldier got called back to his regiment unexpectedly.”

  “There, see!” Miles exclaimed. “You’re in luck, Wainwright.”

  “How fortunate for me.”

  But he had no idea, of course, about the trouble to come his way that night.

  To land upon him, in fact.

  ***

  “What the devil—?”

  Having crashed directly onto the lump under the covers, Justina clung on as it heaved and bucked. “It’s only me!” she gasped.

  “Only—?”

  The quilt slipped and her hand contacted with solid muscle. Naked, solid muscle. Apparently the captain slept as nature intended. “Oh.” His hand had likewise found her body on the other side of the bedcover, his palm pressed to her breast as he tried to push her off.

  The large man under her froze for a few seconds and then he shifted frantically again like a netted pike.

  Suddenly, she was flipped onto her back and he was over her, a knee on either side of her legs, his fingers clamped around her wrists, holding them securely to the bed above her head.

  And then, in the meek light of his lantern, she realized her t
errible mistake. “Oh…you’re not him.”

  His eyes were coal black, not the warm blue she’d expected. His hair was dark as midnight, not lightened by a kiss of summer like that of sunny Captain Sherringham. His lips were not poised to laugh. The stern features of an unknown, irate man loomed over her, nothing merry whatsoever in his countenance.

  “Who the blazes are you?” he hissed, words escaping like steam from a kettle.

  She clamped her lips shut in horror.

  “Who put you up to this? I daresay Forester thought this was amusing, eh?”

  Justina remained mute. Desperately her mind scrambled for a way out of this one, but it was in such a muddle it simply seemed to get even more tangled by the second. Oh, what had she done? This was surely her worst, most ill-conceived scheme ever. She struggled to free her arms, but he gripped her wrists tighter.

  This must be what it feels like when one is about to be mauled by a tiger, she thought, terror streaking through her in hot flames. She could scream, but then who would come? The landlady. Other residents of the house. Her stupidity would be exposed. As would her intimate parts.

  Oh, her family! The humiliation.

  The only thing she could do now was appeal to the stranger for mercy. And pretend to be someone else.

  He demanded again that she tell him her name, but wild horses wouldn’t drag that out of her.

  She swallowed hard, looked up at him, and exclaimed in her best French accent, “What ’ave you done wif the fair Capitain?”

  ***

  She might have got away with it. After all, it seemed feasible that any woman capable of leaping naked on a stranger in the dark of night would have to be French, but he simply couldn’t believe that outrageous accent.

  The young woman beneath him kept her eyes wide and defiant as she spouted her impertinent lies. “I look for Capitain Sherringham. He was supposed to be in this bed. Why are you ’ere?”

  A mass of dark curls surrounded her face and spread over his pillow. A few locks even curled against his arms and hands, almost as if they tried to weave around him like bindweed.

  She must have been sent there by Miles Forester as one of his foolish jests. It was a setup—had to be. But where would Miles acquire a young woman willing to do this? She did not have the hardened face and sad eyes of a whore. He could smell no gin or brandy on her breath. Her skin was soft and smooth, well cared for. A soft fragrance of lavender swept up to his nose whenever she moved her head.

  He almost wanted to believe that she was genuinely surprised to find him there. That she was not part of a joke and an attempt to make him look foolish.

  Each time her legs moved, he felt silk ribbon garters brushing against his thighs, teasing him to look down. He did.

  She was beautifully made. Might have been crafted out of smoke and his dreams by a magician. Her breasts were full, firm, and topped by pretty, mouthwatering, erect pink nipples. Her curves seemed to undulate beneath him or perhaps it was his sight growing misty as he woke fully and the sudden yearning inside him grew. The lamplight lent her skin a soft, peachy glow as if she ripened even as he watched. A narrow waist led his eye down further to the triangle of soft curls guarding her femininity. How cleverly she had tied those pink bows around her stockings, for they accentuated her nakedness and framed the delectable treat nestled between them until he was bare moments from burying his lips there and enjoying the feast on offer.

  His body’s reaction to the naked woman in his bed was unavoidable and now there was no calming it. A heated pulse galloped through his blood, sent it rushing to his cock.

  This was not good.

  The insistent creature between his legs might think it knew what it needed, but his head and his heart were all too well aware of the dangers.

  ***

  A bead of sweat had formed on his brow.

  She was not surprised, for it was too warm in that little room. Justina’s entire body was aflame.

  The stranger’s lips hovered above hers. They were narrow, firm, angry. His nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, and she watched his shoulders heave and then settle. He closed his eyes, and she watched long, black lashes form a shadow on his lean cheeks. Then he opened his eyes again and glared down at her. But there was a different light there now, a quizzical one that fought for control over the fury. The corner of his mouth twitched and a thin, wondering line appeared above his brows. His fingers loosened their grip very slightly.

  Justina felt her fear melting away.

  As a firm believer in making the most of an opportunity, she could not prevent her gaze from wandering over the stranger’s broad shoulders, down his sculpted chest to his thickly hewn thighs. And to the item that rose up between them.

  Dear Lord.

  “What’s that?” she exclaimed.

  He squinted. “You’re supposed to be French. You should know.”

  It stretched toward her even as she stared. It thickened, lengthened—a creature curious, it seemed—about her pink garters.

  Suddenly, the man climbed off her, dragging the quilt with him and wrapping it swiftly around his lower torso. Apparently he forgot—or didn’t care—that he now left her with no covering whatsoever.

  The draft caused by the sweeping quilt and the abrupt removal of his body heat woke her from that cloudy trance. Remembering at last why she was there, Justina knelt on the bed and declared angrily, “Oh, where is the gallant Capitain Sherringham? What ’ave you done wif ’im?”

  “Captain who? Madam, you have the wrong bed. I suggest you leave at once.”

  Now he was arrogant and stiff. And not just in that one part.

  He looked around the tiny room and quickly found her garments. With one fist still holding the quilt tightly around his waist, he began tossing her clothes onto the bed while she knelt there, her heart beating out a reckless rhythm. As she watched him storming barefoot around his room, she now had a full view of her victim and realized how tall and how splendidly fine he was. His was not the sort of face one saw instantly as handsome. It was too dark and unsmiling for that. But on further inspection it had a rugged, reluctant beauty, like that of a windswept, desolate moor she’d read about once.

  “Get dressed,” he snapped at her, finally cognizant that she was not moving to gather up her things. “You can’t stay here.”

  He was right, of course. Feeling stupid, she began to dress. Whatever had happened to Captain Sherringham, he clearly was not there and her scheme of seduction had failed. It was by no means her first failure, and fortunately her spirit was such that she did not dwell upon disappointments for too long.

  “How did you even get in here?” the strange man demanded, tossing her walking boots at her.

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  He scowled, clutching the quilt tightly around his waist. “I shall complain to the landlady. This is intolerable.”

  “Then I shall tell her you brought me here and smuggled me in,” Justina replied quickly. “I can be very convincing.”

  ***

  Her French accent was no more, he noted crossly. If Miles had not sent her there for a practical joke, she was a fortune hunter out to trap him and fleece him of every penny. Therefore, it would be best to eject her from the house without alerting anyone. He didn’t want news of this getting out. Darius Wainwright had an upstanding reputation as a gentleman of honor, and he certainly didn’t care to be trapped into a hasty marriage with some wayward young woman.

  She seemed to be having trouble with her boots, so he hunkered down to help her, his long fingers working speedily over the laces which were worn thin and frayed.

  The young woman’s hem showed a dark line of about an inch and a half where it had been let down recently to accommodate a growth spurt. The cuff of one sleeve was badly frayed with no apparent attempt to mend it. Her gown was of a modest, simple desi
gn. Despite her actions that evening, there was an innocence about her. He wondered if perhaps it was not wise to throw her back out onto the street, but she refused to tell him her name or where she lived.

  “I’ll take you to Miles Forester then,” he said. “I’m sure you’re his responsibility.”

  She claimed to know nothing of his friend and flatly protested that she was no one’s responsibility.

  “Well then I shall fetch you a hansom,” he snapped.

  “I don’t want your help,” she replied, snatching her laces from his fingers. “Did I ask for it?”

  “Of course not.” He stood. “You are clearly a delinquent young woman in need of guidance. And guarding. I doubt you would ever admit you needed it, and you would certainly never ask for it. Worry not, I shan’t offer again.”

  “You have not known me ten minutes and yet you are an expert already on what I need?”

  “I have a brain and reasoning skills. I do not require expert knowledge on elephants, for instance, to know that if one is falling through the air, I should move aside with alacrity. Not try to catch it.”

  “Have you encountered many elephants falling through the air?”

  “No. They are generally more intelligent and less reckless than women.”

  She scowled and then exclaimed pertly, “I’m surprised you sleep alone.”

  He gripped his coverlet tighter around his waist. “Entirely by choice.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  Frowning, he watched her jam an ugly white wig over her hastily repinned curls and then she marched to his door. Darius decided it was best to see her all the way out of the house, so he pulled on his greatcoat and hurried after her.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded over her shoulder.

  “Putting you out.”

  “Good gracious, I’m not the cat.”

  “I don’t know what you are, madam, do I?”

  He said nothing else to her. They reached the front door, and he made certain she passed through it. Then he bolted it behind her.