One Tempting Proposal (27 page)

“Worst of all, I'm prone to pettiness. I can wound with a few words.”

Her words were beginning to feel like agony to him too, though he had been the one to tell her she should talk as much as she liked.

“Darling, Kat. All of us have regretted our words at times. We can't always bite our tongues when we should.” At the moment, he had other notions about tongues and how they might use them.

“You can forgive me?”

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing in her delicious scent, savoring the way her loose strands of hair tickled his skin.

“I have forgiven you, love. Pippa has forgiven you. As soon as we're able, I plan to make you my wife. Now, will you kiss me?”

She slid her fingers up to his shoulders, clasping her hands around his neck, pushing up to balance on her toes and leaning in to let him take her weight. She didn't answer him. No words were necessary as she lifted her mouth to his, carded her fingers in his hair, and pulled him down to deepen the kiss.

He let himself revel in the kiss, the wonder of having her back in his arms. He let the past fall away as he held onto Kat and embraced the here and now. He'd never wanted to savor a moment more, and yet he'd never looked with more eagerness toward the future. Their future.

 

Epilogue

Two months later

“
I
DON'T SUPPOS
E
you'd ever forgive me if I throttled him.” Sebastian stood near the vestry room door in the Roxbury parish church and tried not to look directly at Kat's father as he said the words. The man was already drawing too much attention to himself. They both suspected he'd imbibed before coming to the church. Either that, or he had thoroughly taken leave of his senses.

He'd insulted the vicar, started a row with two of the local barons, and accidentally sat on the village doctor's wife's hat. Seb knew how much women loved their hats.

Kat watched her father's antics a moment before answering, lifting her hand to slip it under and around Seb's arm. “Oh, I probably would, but if you choked him, it would make family gatherings rather awkward going forward.”

Seb quirked a brow. That didn't sound half bad. “He might visit less.” Flexing his fingers, he imagined them wrapped around Clayborne's throat, and then found placing them over his wife's hand and stroking her warm supple skin far preferable to violence. “It would satisfy me immensely.”

“I thought that's what I did.” With a few words, she had him hot and aching. She did satisfy him, and so much more. She thrilled him, challenged him, and helped him improve upon every single day.

“You do, love, and exceedingly well.”

She cast a glance back toward the vestry door. They were waiting for Lady Clayborne to emerge, the sign that Hattie was ready to begin the bridal procession. Seb had already done his best man duty of attempting to allay Ollie's nerves, and Kat had been sequestered half the morning assisting with Hattie's last-­minute preparations.

Seb took a step to move an inch closer to his wife. He relished the heat of her body pressed against his.

Kat responded by pressing in nearer, and he craned his neck to look ahead and scan the church entryway.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, turning to gaze in the same direction.

“The groom. The sooner this wedding is over, the sooner I can take you home and undress you.”

Kitty laughed, a low throaty sound, and squeezed his arm. “Have you forgotten? We're hosting the wedding party at Roxbury. Most of these ­people will be coming with us when we leave, and half of them are staying in our home.”

Seb dipped his head and leaned toward Kat, aching to kiss her and taste the lavender-­vanilla scent of her skin. He whispered near her ear. “Can't we reconsider and send them all away to the local coaching inn for lodgings?”

He skimmed his mouth across her cheek before lifting his head.

“You're beginning to sound as unsociable as my father.” Kat put up her other hand and fully embraced Seb's upper arm.

“Why
is
your father in such a state today? He gave his consent for this wedding. And your cousin is marrying Ponsonby next month, so he gains him as a family member as well.” The notion of a familial connection to the earl didn't thrill Seb, but anything was better than seeing Harriet married to the man. Or Kat. He glanced at his wife again and a languid, warming contentment spread through him. It was a new sensation, but one he was learning to embrace.

A moment later, Oliver took his place at the altar. Hattie's groom vibrated with energy and his mouth continually twitched into grins he seemed unable to contain.

Mama finally emerged through the vestry door and swept past Seb and Kat, her tear-­filled gaze seeking her husband. She captured Papa's attention and urged him toward the door she'd just exited. His turn had come for a few moments with Hattie before leading his middle daughter down the aisle. Kat watched as her mother reached up to offer him a soothing pat on the arm, and her father's shoulders sagged. He'd admit the truth to no one, but Kat suspected how difficult this day would be for him. Relegating oneself to the marital machinations of three daughters was far preferable to having no daughters to marry off at all.

“I think I know what's brought on Papa's behavior,” she whispered.

“What is it? Has he failed to make someone cry today?” Sebastian was used to her father's garrulous behavior and no longer sought reasons or excuses.

Kitty tipped her mouth in a grin. “Violet.”

She'd come to visit Roxbury ahead of their parents to help prepare for Ollie and Harriet's wedding and had quickly won over Seb and his sister. Violet was clever, witty, loved books, and was fiercely forward-­thinking. More so now that she had begun to idolize Pippa.

“How could Violet have caused his outbursts?” Seb knew as well as Kat did that her father needed very little provocation.

“She announced to Papa this morning that she does not wish to marry. She told him she wants to be what he is.” Kat watched her husband, eager for his reaction.

“A grumpy old man?”

“A soldier in the British Army, or a member of parliament.”

Seb burst into a chuckle and then whistled quietly between his teeth. “My goodness, she will be a modern woman. Well done, Vi.”

He looked toward the church entryway again. “Where is Violet anyway?”

“She decided she would be the flower girl after all, since Pippa is to be a bridesmaid. She's leading the bridal procession.”

Kat had been in a state of euphoria for most of her own wedding, but today, for Hattie's sake, she'd worked to remain levelheaded, except for the temptation of her husband by her side. Still, a brew of feelings boiled just under the surface.

She glanced up at Seb and all of it washed over her as a tear welled up at the corner of her eye. Turning away from him, Kat swiped it away as daintily as she was able. Papa had taught her not to cry, and if Sebastian saw her tear, he'd rush to fix the trouble. But she wasn't suffering from weakness or distress. The tear was simply the bubbling over of too much joy.

Though her days of silly schemes were behind her, she'd never felt more gratitude than she did for how this one had turned out. Marriage, hers and Hattie's, and she didn't even loathe the word now. From the moment she'd met Sebastian, he'd been overturning her expectations about men and upending her beliefs about herself, and each day, in countless ways, he showed her that marriage needn't be about possession or control. He'd redefined it in her mind as a union of two hearts and minds, a partnership of love and respect and unimaginable pleasures.

They'd even managed to achieve a bit of peace with Alecia. With a helpful nudge from Aunt Augusta, Lady Naughton confessed that jealousy and a desperate need for funds had driven her to concoct the tale of Sebastian fathering her child. Ever practical, Papa had insisted on obtaining the woman's admission in writing. Most importantly, Aunt Augusta assured Seb and Kat that Archie had never been privy to his mother's scheme.

The organist began the bridal chorus, and Kat drew in a shaky breath as everyone in the church pews rose to their feet.

Violet walked up the aisle first, strewing rose petals ahead of her. She performed her role perfectly, and then winked at Kat.

Pippa came next. For a young woman who eschewed marriage as Kat once had, she seemed to have caught the blissful energy of the wedding day and smiled at her brother and Ollie before taking her place between Violet and Kat.

Finally, Hattie started up the aisle, her arm clasped tight around their father's.

“She looks beautiful,” Kat enthused.

Her sister looked extraordinary, glowing with joy from the inside out. Pride and happiness welled up again, hot pinpricks at the corners of Kat's eyes. When she caught Hattie's gaze, she smiled, trying to convey all the love and well wishes in her heart.

The wedding guests seemed to hold their collective breaths as Hattie and Oliver exchanged their vows, and then broke into a chorus of giggles when Oliver fumbled the ring before getting it settled on Hattie's finger. With a sweet overlong kiss they sealed their vows, and Kat's sigh matched those of other ladies in the church.

As Hattie and Ollie proceeded back up the aisle, Seb drew near and slid his hand around Kat's waist.

“They will be happy,” Kat whispered.

“As happy as we are, love?”

She leaned toward him and turned her head, her mouth inches from his. “I'm not sure anyone could be as happy as we are, but let's wish it for them just the same.”

He kissed her then, one lingering taste, and she heard two older ladies from the village gasping as he lifted his head.

“You'd think a duke would know a bit more about propriety,” one whispered to the other.

Seb looked out among the pews and offered the ladies a charming grin. “Forgive us, ladies. Despite my wife's admonitions, I fear I do lack social graces.”

“Yes, and my husband loathes etiquette.”

To prove how much, Seb kissed Kat once more.

 

Keep reading for an excerpt from the first in Christy Carlyle's

Accidental Heirs series,

ONE SCANDALOUS KISS

When a scheming marquess's daughter offers her one hundred pounds to publicly kiss a nobleman, a desperate Jessamin Wright agrees. She believes the money will save her failing bookstore and finally free her from her father's debts. But when Jess bursts into an aristocratic party and shocks the entire ton, she never expects to enjoy the outrageous embrace she shares with a grim viscount.

Lucius Crawford, Viscount Grimsby, has never met, or kissed, anyone like the beautiful suffragette who unsettles him with a single touch. He has always strived for control and avoided passion at all costs. Lucius is determined to protect his title and restore the estate he's unexpectedly inherited, but Jess's appearance in his life poses a threat to his plans and his heart.

After a country house party brings them together once more, neither can resist temptation, and both find that one scandalous kiss just isn't enough.

Available Now from Avon Impulse

 

A
N
E
XCERPT
F
ROM

ONE SCANDALOUS KISS

T
HE ROOM WAS
sweltering. Who knew a gallery event in Mayfair would attract such a crush? Lucius Crawford, Viscount Grimsby, darted his gaze from framed portraits to lush landscape pieces, fully expecting the paint to start melting off the canvases. No one could deny the colors were extraordinary and the compositions pleasing, but couldn't they have found someone with a better eye to hang the pieces? The arrangement of art was irritatingly haphazard, small and large side by side, some frames just inches apart and others an arm's length, or two, away from each other. Despite the impulse to find a ladder and impose order on the chaos, Lucius found focusing on the paintings preferable to meeting the eyes of those around him.

Glancing around a crowded room could be dangerous. Too often he'd find himself snared by a questioning look here, a disapproving frown there. They wondered about his father, of course, especially now that he had withdrawn from London society completely.

Lucius was prepared to admit his own lack of aristocratic tendencies—­he was far more interested in discussing business than horse racing, technology than teacakes—­but none of his faux pas or successes since becoming heir to his father's earldom eclipsed Maxim's infamy. The man had been so querulous and apt to initiate feuds with fellow noblemen that they'd dubbed him the Dark Earl of Dunthorpe.

Would the gossips be any kinder if they could see the frail, doddering man Maxim Crawford had become? Lucius doubted they would, and he had no intention of giving anyone the opportunity for either pity or pardon. Sheltering the earl from rumormongers was one of the duties that had fallen to him.

So he would learn to tolerate the speculative gazes and whispers. Eventually. But they still set his nerves on edge and made him wish for the haven of his study back at Hartwell. Never mind what else awaited him at Hartwell. Leaky roofs and crumbling masonry didn't daunt him. And regardless of the pain he'd experienced within its walls and the resentment that swelled and ebbed between him and his father as regular as the tides, the family estate in Berkshire was home now.

He'd accepted that it was no longer the home of his childhood, that idyllic Hartwell he'd longed for and missed with a searing, stubborn ache all the years he'd been away. The real Hartwell, a pile of wood and stones—­some rooms as old as the Dunthorpes' Tudor ancestors, others as new as those Lucius had refurbished the previous year—­was a bit of a mess. A mishmash of architectural styles, just as the estate itself had seen a mix of care and indifference over the years. Father's neglect had caused the most damage, and neither his ailments nor his obsessive love for Mother excused his poor stewardship. Lucius was determined to do better by the estate than his brother, Julian, or his father ever had.

Turning his head, he snagged the gaze of an elderly matron, her eyes as beady and hungry as those of any crow he'd ever seen. He acknowledged her with a minute nod, and she reared her head a fraction, as if utterly taken aback. And that, exactly that, her reaction and his failure to exude one tenth of the charm required to engage in any sort of social repartee, was why he came into town and mixed in society rarely. Even without an infamous father, he would have found the social rounds daunting.

So let them talk. Let them watch him tug at his neckcloth like a man on the gallows might claw at the noose, and straighten and restraighten his waistcoat, running a finger down the four buttons at the bottom to make sure they formed a perfect line. This visit to London was necessary and would, if his aunt could be believed, allow him to settle his future—­to meet Father's demands that he marry a woman with money and impeccable breeding and ensure the estate's future with an heir. Stability had always eluded him, and the notion of a settled future seemed as unlikely as a happy one, but if anyone could achieve such a coup, it was Aunt Augusta.

She'd been the one constant in his life, writing and visiting after Father shipped him off to Scotland, guiding him after Julian's death and the news he'd become heir to Hartwell, and comforting him when his own mother could not. She'd been as much a parent to him as either of his own.

“You look a bit seasick, my boy. But unless someone has failed to inform me, I don't believe Mayfair has set sail.”

Aunt Augusta tucked herself into the space between him and the scowling crow woman. She lifted a glass and he took the crystal flute with a nod of gratitude.

“How long must we stay?”

“I believe the hostess is going to give a brief speech. It would behoove us to linger until then.”

He sensed her eyes on him, assessing his discomfort, looking out for him as she always had.

“You will be attending many more social events once you marry. Get in as much practice as you can.”

“Didn't you promise to find a candidate who'd be content to do the social rounds on her own?”

“Independence is one thing. Being forever without one's husband is another matter entirely.”

Lucius closed his eyes a moment and imagined a life of house parties, elaborate dinners, and sitting room musicales. The prospect made him shudder. He opened his eyes, still avoiding Aunt Augusta's inspection, and took in the canvas before him—­a man on horseback with a verdant English landscape stretched out behind him. It looked a bit like Hartwell's meadow, and though he'd been away only a week, longing for the place gnawed at him. In this hot, congested space of too many colors and a cacophony of voices, he missed Hartwell's spacious rooms, familiar scents and textures, and labyrinthine floor plan, so well-­known to him he could navigate it blindfolded.

“She certainly enjoys London more than you do.”

She?
She
was very specific. Far too specific. He'd come to London to discuss the possibility of marriage. No, more than that—­the necessity of it. And to seek Augusta's help in securing the perfect candidate, a woman with an ample dowry to keep Hartwell afloat, enough connections to earn his father's approval, and such a rabid desire to be a countess that she might not notice how ill-­suited he was to be an earl.

The notion that she'd found a match so quickly, and that the young woman might be here among the crush of attendees . . . that he did not expect. And in Lucius's experience, the unexpected never heralded a pleasant turn of events.

“Does she? I wasn't aware you'd settled on anyone. Is she here tonight?”

He looked around, scanning one perspiring feminine face after another. None of them stood out. None of them stopped him short and made him wish to continue to look, to learn what lay beyond a flushed cheek or bright, smiling eyes.

“Not tonight, no. She is traveling at the moment.”

That finally earned his attention and he turned to question Augusta further just as an older woman approached and embraced her, gushing about how long it'd been since they'd last seen each other.

As Aunt Augusta allowed herself to be pulled away to join a lively conversation, his sister, Julia, and brother-­in-­law, Marcus Darnley, approached. Marcus and Lucius exchanged nods. Julia merely sipped at the liquid in her glass as she watched him, much as his aunt had moments before. But Julia's was a different gaze. Her eyes narrowed, not out of concern, but in judgment.

“Do stop glaring at everyone, Lucius. ­People will think you as frightful as Papa.”

His sister's tone held a note of irritation along with the command, and he allowed himself a slight twitch of his mouth that none but those who knew him best would ever mistake for a grin.

“He must continue glaring, love. I believe he enjoys nurturing his grim reputation.” Marcus Darnley leaned in to whisper the words to his wife, though Lucius didn't care who heard him. His sister's husband tweaked him as often as she chastised him. And though he would never admit it, he found as much enjoyment in Marcus's teasing as he did in his sister's scolding. He and Julia had missed out on years of sibling squabbles as children, and he didn't mind catching up now.

But Lucius would never apologize for being discerning about how he spent his time and whom he took into his confidence. His reputation as one of society's most dour bachelors served him well. It kept giggling debutantes, scheming mothers, and nearly everyone else at bay. Marriage was necessary—­he accepted it as his chief goal for the year. But not the game, the silly business of inane conversations, coy flirtation, and stolen kisses on balconies. Lucius was quite content to leave such carrying on to rogues like his friend Robert Wellesley and allow Augusta to find him a sensible, practical, and exceedingly wealthy bride.

Time was too precious a commodity to waste on games. Managing Hartwell, a task he loved but had never been groomed for, consumed his days and nights. But Julia played on his sense of obligation and had urged him to help make Delia Ornish's gallery gathering a success. Mrs. Ornish's friendship with their late mother had indebted them both to the wealthy social butterfly.

Marcus stood close to Lucius and leaned in to speak confidentially. “There are some lovely young women in attendance tonight. Don't you agree, Grimsby? Surely one of them must strike your fancy.”

His sister and her husband were unaware of Augusta's matchmaking efforts.

“Yes and no.” Lucius lifted the flute of champagne to his mouth and sipped.

Marcus quirked a brow at him, begging explanation.

“Yes, there are lovely women in attendance. No, none of them strikes my fancy.”

The women in the crush of attendees were stunning in their finery. Every color and shape one could desire. But none of them stirred him.

Marcus wouldn't be deterred. “Are you never lonely, old chap?” His brother-­in-­law turned his eyes to Julia as he spoke.

Lucius caught the look, and an ember of loneliness kindled in his chest. He didn't desire any of the women before him, yet he did envy the easy companionship that his sister and brother-­in-­law shared. He could envy it but never imagine it for himself. Even if Aunt Augusta's scheme was successful, it wouldn't be a love match. He'd seen the results of what such an attachment had done to his father, a man whose adoration for his wife became a destructive obsession, sparking jealous rages that drove her—­and Lucius—­from their home.

He wouldn't lose himself in that kind of passion. Now, with the responsibility of Hartwell laid on his shoulders, he couldn't spare the time for it. Let his father indulge in maudlin sentimentality; Lucius had an estate to run.

“I haven't the time for loneliness.” He lied easily and ignored the look Marcus shot him, fearing he'd read pity there.

A fracas near the gallery's entrance offered a welcome distraction. Turning away from Marcus, Lucius craned his neck to spot the cause of the ruckus. The room was so full of bodies it was difficult to see the front of the building, despite his height. But whatever the commotion, it caused a few shouts mingled with cries of outrage.

Then he saw the trouble. A woman. A bluestocking, more precisely, wearing a prim black skirt and plain white shirtwaist, spectacles perched high on her nose, pushed her way through the throng of ladies in colorful evening gowns and men in black tails. She looked like a magpie wreaking havoc among the canaries, though her hair was as striking a shade as any of the finery around her. The rich auburn hue shone in the gaslight, and though she'd pinned her hair back in a severe style, several rebellious curls had escaped and hung down around her shoulders.

As he watched the woman's progress, a gentleman grasped her arm roughly, and an uncommon surge of chivalry made Lucius consider interceding. But in the next moment the woman proved she needed no rescuer. Stomping on the man's foot, she moved easily out of his grasp and continued on her path—­a path that led directly to Lucius.