Frovtunes’ Kiss (10 page)

He wished he could say he was sorry. But blazing hell, he'd never been less sorry in his life. And for all the indignation flaming her cheeks, he'd wager that, for an instant at least, she hadn't been entirely regretful, either.

“You're a cur, a scoundrel, a—”

“You ransacked my study. I stole a kiss.” He shrugged. “Shall we call it fair?”

“Fair?” Her black eyes snapped. “What can you possibly know of fairness, Mr. Foster? You, who has everything a person could ever want, who lives life with a devil-may-care impertinence. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She swept an aggressive stride closer. “I'll have you know I'm quite aware of your past, Mr. Foster, and I…”

At those words, his enjoyment drained like blood from a wound, leaving a cold void inside him. It must have shown on his face. Her voice faded into uncertainty, and she stood balling the hem of her apron in her fists.

Would he never escape the unearned infamy of his past? Who was this woman to come into his home—albeit, it was once hers—rifle through his belongings, and hurl accusations at him? They shared no blood relation, yet here she was, denouncing his character as blithely as the rest of his faithless family.

“Miss Hughes, I still haven't an inkling why you're here or why you abhor me, other than the kiss, and in truth, I don't believe you found it all that loathsome.” Her mouth opened on a retort that he spoke over. “Whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I am not without scruples and feel no need to apologize for how I've lived my life thus far. At least no more so than any other ordinary mortal.”

She dropped the hem of her apron; no, she flung it from her hands. “No need to apologize?”

“None.”

“Not even for dishonoring the memory of my affianced by making ill-mannered advances toward me?”

Her fiancé, Nigel Foster—how could he have forgotten? He supposed he wanted to forget, even now, especially now, with the sweet taste of her lips lingering on his. She was right. His lapse in memory showed a distinct want of respect. “Forgive me, Miss Hughes. I am indeed sorry for your loss. I didn't know Nigel well, but I certainly thought highly of him.”

Not entirely true. On the few occasions they'd met, Nigel had treated Graham with outward friendliness. Yet he'd always detected an undercurrent of condescension, a haughty awareness on his cousin's part that while Nigel constituted the shining fruit of the family tree, Graham's hold was several branches lower.

Moira didn't look appeased. “What about forcing an elderly widow from her home of twenty years—” She stopped and gulped for breath. “Mere weeks after her beloved husband's death?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Why must my mother live in a ramshackle cottage when Monteith Hall stands empty?”

“Ramshackle? Forced out? Not by me, Miss Hughes.”

“Most certainly by you, Mr. Foster. I've a certified letter to prove it.”

Anger rose at a suspicion suddenly confirmed. Why, that family of his… He tamped the thought, for the time being. He'd deal with his mother and Letty later. “Miss Hughes, I think you had better slow down and tell me exactly what it is you were searching for.”

“A codicil to my stepfather's will.” Her nostrils flared. “Do you deny knowing of its existence?”

“A codicil declaring what? From what I understand, the inheritance was straightforward and unalterable.”

She skewed up her lips on a rebuttal, which was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Damn.” Not now, not when he finally had Moira Hughes talking. He sighed. “Come in.”

Flushed and out of breath, Shaun strode into the room, then held the door for an elderly gentleman who shuffled in as if each step caused him pain. He was stoop-shouldered, in need of a haircut, and his shabby frock coat was missing a button. Yet for all his physical shortcomings, the man met Graham's appraisal with an air of confidence, even authority.

“The Honorable Mr. Herbert Doone,” Shaun announced.

Irritation prickled Graham's neck. “I told you a magistrate wasn't necessary.”

Doone regarded Moira from beneath his tightly drawn eyebrows. “Is this the offender?”

“Indeed, Your Honor.” Letty entered with an imperious rustle of petticoats, a bounce of curls. “Arrest her at once.”

“That won't be necessary.” Grasping Letty's hand, Graham gently but resolutely drew her to stand beside the desk, out of the way. Moira's pretty chin swung from one person to the next while her dark eyes grew large with worry. He caught her gaze and tried to convey an assurance that she would not, in fact, be hauled away to prison. Not yet, at least.

“This woman is a relative,” he explained to Mr. Doone. “Miss Hughes is my stepcousin and a guest in my home.”

He heard Letty gather breath to speak and tossed her a don't-you-dare scowl.

The magistrate cleared his throat. “Cousin, you say. Then why, if I may be so bold as to ask, is she dressed as a maid?”

“Ah, yes. A practical joker, my cousin. Aren't you, Moira?”

She blinked. “I, ah…yes, I am. And I'm terribly sorry—”

“This is
absurd
.” Letty pushed away from the desk and brushed past Graham's restraining arm. “Cousin or no, she's been prowling through the house without leave. Look at this room, Your Honor. I caught her rummaging through my brother's things. Red
-handed
, I tell you. And you should see all the chipped china and—oh!—the rug! You must see what she's done to the morning-room rug. She's a disaster, a menace, a—”

“Letitia.” The first time Graham had ever addressed her by her full name, it rumbled like the dire warning he meant it to be. She flinched and went utterly still but for the quivering ends of her ringlets. “Another word, Letty, and I'll send
you
off with Mr. Doone.”

She started to gasp, seemed to think better of it, and snapped her mouth shut.

“Now, see here, Graham.” Shaun's attempted forcefulness failed to attain the necessary bluster. His expression urged Graham to be reasonable, to be nice.

But it was for Moira that he calmed. She looked genuinely shaken by Letty's charges, flushed and feverish, and while he wouldn't mind being the cause of that glow, frightening the poor woman was for deuced certain not the tactic he'd use. No, much more pleasurable diversions sprang to mind.

But first he needed to clear the room.

“Mr. Doone, please accept my apologies for this misunderstanding. Mr. Paddington will be most happy to compensate you for your inconvenience.”

Shaun rolled his eyes.

“Well…if your lordship will vouch for the young lady, and if no crime has actually been committed…” The magistrate clasped his rheumatic hands and gave a satisfied nod.

“None has,” Graham assured him. “And as head of the family, I assure you I take full responsibility for Miss Hughes. I'll see to it she behaves herself and comes to no more mischief. A good paddling, perhaps—”

“Oh!” With a delightful twitch of those shapely hips, Moira pulled up straight. Had she possessed a bayonet, she'd have run him through on the spot, he felt quite certain.

“Shaun, please see our guest to the door and remember to thank him properly.” His emphasis on the last word produced a grudging nod from Shaun. Graham turned to his sister. “I'd like a word with you later.”

Without another peep, Letty darted past him and out the door. He followed her and closed it, leaving him once more alone with Moira.

She eyed him with no small amount of apprehension. “You stay away from me.”

He couldn't help smiling. “Don't worry, my dear, your backside is safe with me.” For the most part anyway, although what wouldn't he give to explore the luscious curves of that sweet little rump.

“I do, however, expect answers, Miss Hughes, and if you don't wish me to summon Mr. Doone back, you'd best be honest. Now then, explain to me about this codicil.”

She hesitated, compressing her lips as she gathered her thoughts. A little frown creased her brow. “Another matter first, Mr. Foster. You mustn't think Mrs. Higgensworth had anything to do with this. I won't have you blaming her or—”

“I ‘mustn't'? You ‘won't have me'?” Her audacity raised a chuckle. “Bold talk for a maid who nearly found herself incarcerated for theft.”

She paled, but held her ground. “I swear she had no idea—”

“That her former employer's stepdaughter had joined her staff? How much of a fool do you take me for?”

“Oh, but she didn't want to. I begged her to let me. I even threatened—”

Her sudden desperation produced a pang of guilt. Obviously her former housekeeper's future outweighed even her own concerns. However amusing he found the incident, this was no joke to Moira. “Mrs. Higgensworth's position is quite secure,” he said. “Now, about this codicil business.”

“Of course.” She smoothed her palms across her apron. When her gaze met his again, she was all business, brisk with purpose. “Before my stepfather died, he confided to me that he'd secured my mother's and my future, that he'd made provisions for our well-being. He was most emphatic about it. Thus far these arrangements have failed to materialize, and even Mr. Smythe claims to know nothing about them.”

“I know of no such provisions, either.”

Her narrowed eyes proclaimed him a liar. “Do you swear?”

The question sparked a memory, a vile one. He'd sworn his innocence at Oxford, and no one had believed him. His pulse rapped at his temples. Good God, was her goading deliberate? Did she know how sharply her insinuations stung?

“No, I do not swear, Miss Hughes, for I've learned swearing does not a believer make. I tell you I do not have your codicil. Disbelieve me if you wish.”

“But…” He'd called her bluff, and now her bravado faltered like Freddy on the foot pavement. Those exquisite obsidian eyes held him in a helpless, beseeching sort of gaze that made him regret his stern words.

Perhaps he'd overreacted. Yes, he probably had, letting past unpleasantness rule him in this instance, when Moira's foremost concern was for her and her mother's future.

He held up a hand and said more gently, “If it will make you feel better, I swear.”

“Of course, if you did have the codicil,” she tapped a finger to her chin as if figuring an arithmetic problem, “it would be in your best interest to deny it, wouldn't it, Mr. Foster?”

That went beyond the pale. The hair on his nape bristled. “Perhaps no codicil exists at all, Miss Hughes. Perhaps you resent my inheritance and have invented a ploy by which you hope to profit.”

“How dare you?” Fury frothed in her eyes. The charges that followed, “cur,” “villain,” “blackguard'—he rather liked that last one—were fair enough, he supposed. Yet when she nipped her bottom lip to stop its quivering, he felt a scrap of remorse once again for not keeping tighter rein on his temper.

“You see, Miss Hughes,” he said quietly, “accusations hurt, don't they?”

“Oh.” Her expression relaxed as understanding dawned. “You were making a point. You didn't mean it, then?” She paused, searching for confirmation. He nodded, and the last of her frown smoothed away. “Because I would never stoop to anything so deceitful—”

She stopped again, glanced down at her clothing, and continued with a rueful grin that did much to lighten his own mood. “Well, perhaps a small deceit for a good cause. But I shouldn't have accused you as I did. I'm sorry.”

“Apology accepted. And for what it's worth, I do believe that you believe a codicil exists. Perhaps together we might discover the truth of it.”

“You're willing to help me?”

“I am.”

“May I continue searching the house?” Her lips parted as if ready to smile, but not quite.

Ready for another kiss in his opinion, though that was best kept to himself. He smiled and gazed at the shambles she'd made of his study. “If you promise not to tear it apart bit by bit.”

“I won't. I promise. Oh, thank you…” She swept forward, reaching out with both hands. Petite, delicate, they fit smoothly into his palms, her grasp almost childlike but with a warmth that proclaimed her very much a woman. Just as his body's response to her touch, to her nearness, was male in every way.

He wanted to pull her to him and savor another sweet, virginal, yet ever-so-promising kiss while pressing her tight to his arousal. Yes, he could have spent the remaining afternoon hours doing just that.

Did his inclinations show on his face, or had she simply realized what she'd done, hurrying to him and grasping hold as she had? With a jolt, she reclaimed her hands and retreated, leaving him with the unsettling impression they were engaged in a bizarre kind of waltz, back and forth, side to side.

And perhaps they were. Despite his reassurances, he wasn't entirely convinced of her codicil story. If Everett Foster had made such provisions, why didn't anyone know of them? Why the devil would a man hide such an important change to his will?

Unless he hadn't hidden it, and someone else had already discovered it. His family had already taken up residence here before his arrival in England…

Would they stoop so low? They were a covetous bunch, to be sure. His father's legacy of debts had made them so, but Graham had alleviated that problem years ago with profits from his Egyptian finds.

Even so, they had claimed Monteith Hall without his authority, and without a thought for the women they displaced. And now, perhaps, a codicil went missing…his blood ran cold at the thought. He'd soon have a talk with his family.

“Tell me about this ramshackle cottage I've supposedly forced you and your mother into.”

“Ah, yes, that.” To his surprise, her cheeks burned bright. She drifted to the bookcase and became inordinately interested in straightening a row of volumes. “I exaggerated. The cottage is lovely, really, quite comfortable. It was a difficult move for my mother, I'll admit, but—”