To Know a Lord's Kiss Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  A Lord’s Dream

  More books by Summer Hanford

  About the Author

  To Know a Lord’s Kiss

  A Lord’s Kiss

  Book Two

  Summer Hanford

  A Scarsdale Publishing Half Hour Read

  To Know a Lord’s Kiss Book Two A Lord’s Kiss Series

  Copyright © 2017 by Summer Hanford

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: R Jackson Designs

  Cover Art: Period Images

  SP

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  A Lord’s Dream

  More books by Summer Hanford

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Francine sailed into the ballroom in a frilly mint-green gown and a haze of triumph. The previous evening, Baron Erwin Bailey had danced with her, twice. Then, that afternoon, he’d called with a bouquet of hothouse flowers and the assurance he wished to dance with her again tonight. By tomorrow evening, Francine expected to be engaged. As she was halfway through her third season, the baron’s attention was a keen source of relief. After all, no one else seemed to want her…especially not the one man she wished did.

  She glided through the glittering ballroom, leaving her proud mama behind. Lords, ladies, misses and gentlemen turned to observe her. Francine couldn’t hide her smile, but marshaled her lips into a sublime curve. A victorious smile would be a bit premature, and a touch vulgar. Something her schoolmate, Prudence, would do, not Francine.

  A few of the gentlemen guffawed. Behind lace fans and gloved hands, feminine titters rose. A thread of unease stirred, coiling through her. She glanced about, suddenly needing the reassurance of her childhood friend to debase her of the notion she was being laughed at, but Lawrence was nowhere to be seen. She strove not to frown. Lawrence attended every event she attended. His absence doubled her unease.

  The crowd parted. Across the room, standing beside one of the sweeping columns that held the gold painted ceiling aloft, she sighted Baron Erwin. Dressed in a daring combination of puce and silver that brought out the sallowness of his skin, he was turned toward her, frowning. Firming her smile against a tremor of worry, she went to meet him.

  He watched her approach, but made no move to intercept her. When Francine reached him, she dipped in a low curtsy. She leaned forward on her descent, as she’d observed other women do. It was common knowledge men liked to avail themselves of the view the obeisance offered. That was likely the hidden origin of the act.

  Popping back up to her full height, an ungainly four inches over the acceptable five and a half feet a woman should dare achieve, Francine offered a carefully sublime expression. She wondered if the baron appreciated that she’d worn her coppery locks in dangling curls, not piled atop her head, so as not to appear taller than he was.

  “Lord Erwin, how lovely to see you,” she said brightly. “Thank you again for the flowers.”

  He cleared his throat and lifted his dun-colored eyes from the view to meet hers. “Yes, well, about those. I’d prefer you don’t mention them. In fact, forget I brought them.”

  Francine blinked. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “The flowers. A mistake, that. Terrible one. Shouldn’t lead a girl on, I know. My apologies. Best forgotten and put behind us.”

  “You’re--” Realizing that contraction came out as a loud squeak, garnering looks, she marshaled her shock and began again, low and quiet. “You’re breaking it off with me?”

  “Nothing to break off.” He dusted invisible lint from his coat sleeve. “If you believe I was showing an interest, you’re mistaken.”

  Francine stared, disbelief devouring her triumph of moments ago. “But, why?” was all she could think to ask. They’d been getting on so well. She’d done nothing improper during his visit that afternoon. She’d been everything convivial, correct, and drilled into her head by her mama.

  He shifted weight from foot to foot, a scowl overtaking his narrow mouth. “You know why.”

  She did? “I confess, my lord, I have no idea.”

  He leaned close. “That kiss.”

  Francine could only gape at him. Kiss? “I’ve never been kissed.”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Fanny,” he muttered, using her hated nickname, coined by Prudence when they first met at school. “I heard all about how you kissed a duke last season, yet here you are, unwed.”

  Despair wrapped about her like a sodden shawl. She shook her head. Maybe she could rattle her brain back into place, for a displaced mind was the only explanation. She couldn’t be hearing correctly.

  “If you aren’t good enough for a duke, you aren’t good enough for me,” Lord Erwin continued quietly. “Not that I’d take what another has sampled, even if he hadn’t found you lacking.”

  Francine had to suppress a slightly mad giggle at the inanity of that statement. “But I didn’t kiss anyone,” she whispered, her words edged with an infant kernel of anger.

  His haughty features twisted into a sneer. “You must have. Everyone says you did.”

  “Who is this duke?” She resisted the urge to stomp on his foot. This was her third season. She was practically on the shelf, and Baron Erwin was her only offer. Not what she’d dreamed of in a husband, to be sure, but a man who would make her a lady. If Francine couldn’t have the man she wanted, at least she could make her mother proud.

  “It would be impolite to name him.” His disdainful tone caused her to ball her fists at her sides.

  “You don’t know,” she snapped. “You don’t have a name, because it isn’t true.”

  He eyed her for a long moment. His expression eased into pity, effectively dousing her ire. “You’re correct,” he said. “I don’t have a name, but it doesn’t matter. If everyone believes you kissed a duke, they’ll condemn me as a fool for pursuing you. I’m sorry, Miss Conway. I’m sure you understand.”

  Francine managed a nod. He turned and walked away, taking with him her chance at a match, her chance of making her mother proud. More titters sounded, decidedly vicious now. Francine looked about. Everyone stared at her, but not in the dreamy, envious way she’d hoped for earlier.

  Her temples throbbed. The ballroom was hot, overcrowded. Too noisy, with too thick a press of bodies. She needed to get free of it, if only for a moment.

  Dropping her gaze to the elaborately inlaid floor, she hurried along the edge of the room, desperate to escape the whispers and condemning eyes. She suppressed a groan. Her mother would hear. Any moment now, some well-meaning, or vindictive, fellow mama would whisper the ugly rumor into her mother’s ear.

  The ruffles of a familiar cream dress appeared from behind one of the columns. Her head popped up in time to take in Prudence’s guilty look, quickly smoothed into false concern. Francine froze, her anger returning tenfold. Prudence was always playing
tricks on the unsuspecting. Would she have started the rumor of a kiss? She’d flirted with the idea once, but actually carrying through with it seemed too cruel, even for her.

  Then again, Prudence was the reason everyone in the world called her Fanny. Even Francine’s mother used the hated nickname. Only Lawrence seemed to understand how much she despised it. Only he knew her well enough to see the annoyance it sparked.

  As well he might. Years ago, he was her closest confidant. If only he would appear now and stay by her side, she could endure this ball. But much as she wished it, she knew he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. They were no longer children. He couldn’t attend her all evening, warding off pitying and malicious looks. Now, they could only speak briefly at each event, and dance one fleeting dance, lest they start rumors.

  She wouldn’t have minded the word marriage whispered about her and the tall, broad-shouldered marquess, but he would. She could tell by how careful he was to dance with her only once each evening. To never linger by her side, though she wished he might. She wished she could keep Lawrence with her always, and be Francine, and happy. Instead, for all the other hours of her life, she’d become Fanny, thanks in great part to Prudence.

  “Fanny, I heard.” Prudence’s commiserative tone grated, her insincerity ill-concealed. “I’m so sorry. I know you had your heart set on Lord Erwin.”

  Francine eyed Prudence, seeing not her blonde schoolmate, but a squat, grimy toad of a person. The sort of creature you found half buried in loose dirt, waiting to hop out and startle you when you bent to pick a flower.

  “Why?” Francine asked.

  “Why what?” Prudence replied, false-innocence unable to completely obscure her glee. “You seem distraught, Fanny dear. Maybe some punch?”

  “Why did you put it out that I kissed a duke last season?” Francine wondered if this was her punishment for standing aside while Prudence toyed with other young women. She hadn’t approved of Prudence’s pranks, but usually they were embarrassing, not harmful. Not worth fighting with Prudence over, to be sure. “This isn’t the same as tricking me into angering my mother, or making me look foolish. You’ve ruined my chances with Lord Erwin. Possibly with any gentleman. What were you thinking?”

  “I’m sure I didn’t start that rumor, if indeed it isn’t true,” Prudence said, the haughty note in her voice a near mirror of Lord Erwin’s. “I’ll admit to repeating it once, last season, but Liza and Emily were there. Likely, one of them told me.”

  “Neither of them would do such a thing,” Francine snapped. Liza, who attended the theatre, was her dear friend. Their former schoolmate, Emily, was far too busy with her new husband. Besides, neither had such cruelty in them. “I know you did it, Prudence. I want to know why.”

  Under her curls, Prudence’s eyes narrowed into reptilian slits. “As soon as Lord Erwin put out he was in the market, you pushed your scrawny, too-tall self into his face.” She tossed her head. “I am prettier than you. I have a more pleasing figure. My family is wealthier. If one of us is going to become a lady, it should be me.” Her lips stretched into a flat smile. “But I will never admit to starting that rumor.”

  Francine gaped. “We both danced with him,” she stammered.

  “Yes, but with your great big, gawky frame, your breasts are practically in his face,” Prudence snapped. “How can someone as delicate and virtuous as I compete with that?”

  Francine shook her head. She couldn’t believe a schoolmate, a girl who’d stood beside her for three and a half seasons, commiserating over their shared goal of finding husbands, would sink so low. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Not when it comes to this,” Prudence said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a baron to comfort.” With another flip of her curls, she marched away.

  The throbbing in Francine’s temples intensified. The snickers grew louder. She made out a man’s voice mumbling something crude. Another so-called gentleman chuckled in reply. Her face heated. Across from her, an arched doorway opened to a corridor leading from the ballroom.

  She set a rapid pace in the direction of that hall. She didn’t know where it led. She knew it was rude to wander off. She even realized what sneaking about alone would mean to the tattered remnants of her reputation. She didn’t care. She couldn’t remain there, her face heating, while a roomful of her peers laughed at her.

  Chapter Two

  Francine passed several doors and rounded a corner. She slowed, realizing she didn’t know where she was going, or what good getting there would do. She let out a long sigh, taking in the rows of family portraits stretching away before her. Ancestors of every sort gazed endlessly at each other from opposite sides of the hall. Would she ever have a husband and children to paint?

  Behind her, nearing the turn in the hall, footsteps sounded. Panic shot through her. She couldn’t be found wandering alone and have her reputation further ruined. She had to hide before whoever approached turned the corner and saw her. She darted toward the nearest room, a door halfway down the hall.

  As she slipped inside, she had the quick impression of space and sofas. The door’s lock held no key, and a frantic inspection of the small tables to either side didn’t yield one. The footsteps drew near enough to hear through the carved wood. Frantic, Francine grabbed the knob in both hands and held it as tightly as she could. Maybe, if someone tried it, they would think it was locked.

  The footsteps halted just outside. Had she been spotted? She bit her lip, squeezing the knob tighter. A knock sounded. She blinked. Who would knock?

  “Francine?” a man’s voice called. “May I enter?”

  She went limp with relief. Lawrence. With Liza absent and Prudence turned Judas, Francine needed the comfort of someone she trusted. Especially him.

  She opened the door. “Get in here before someone spots you,” she whispered. The last thing she wanted was to reward Lawrence’s friendship by allowing them to be seen together. That would force him to offer for her. He peered past her, trying to see into the dim room. Frustrated by his inaction, she grabbed his cravat and yanked.

  Lawrence stumbled forward. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and kept the two of them from colliding as she stumbled back a pace. He stood for a moment, looking down at her, then jerked his hands away.

  “Don’t worry. No one followed me.” He quirked a dark eyebrow. “Some of us check behind ourselves when we sneak from a ballroom.”

  Francine shrugged, trying not to miss his brief touch. She reached past him and closed the door. He strode to the hearth. She turned to watch him at the fireplace, broad back straining against his well-tailored black coat as he stirred the coals. She let out a sigh and crossed to the nearest sofa, then plopped down onto the plush cushion. The room brightened as Lawrence coaxed flames to life. He leaned the poker against the stone, then came to sit on the sofa’s far end.

  In a nervous gesture she knew well, he pushed too-long dark hair out of his eyes. “Look, Francine, we need to talk about something. I know it’s awkward, and it’s years since we were, well, really close, but…” He shrugged. “We need to talk.”

  Odd, though they’d given up secretly meeting in his garden nearly seven years ago, she still considered them close. It hurt to realize he didn’t. He really had moved past their friendship, leaving her to wish for more.

  “So, you’ve heard,” she said. She knew her voice revealed her pain. Let him think it was over losing Lord Erwin. “I didn’t do it.”

  His brow creased, bespeaking of his confusion until his hair fell forward again to cover the wrinkle. He pushed it back. “Do what? Heard what?”

  He didn’t know? Well, she didn’t want to tell him. “No, it’s nothing. What did you want to talk about?”

  “It’s...” He rose. He paced several steps, then returned to stand before her. He pushed at his hair.

  Francine stood. Obviously, he needed help. When he reached toward his hair again, she caught his hand in both of hers. “You’re going to make yourself bald.”
/>   That’s what she always told him when they were young. His father was bald, and always rubbing at his head when he was agitated. Francine knew, for she’d spied through the window of his father’s office often enough when Lawrence took the blame for something they’d done. A broken windowpane. Cutting all the fur from the tail of his father’s prize English Setter. Using important documents to make a kite, and unraveling a sweater knitted by his mother for the string.

  When punishment was meted out, she’d winced in sympathy with each strike of his father’s cane against his backside. Through all the times, Lawrence never brought up her name, even if she was generally to blame for suggesting their escapades. Somehow, while protecting her, he also never lied.

  His free hand closed over their clasped ones. He looked down at her, serious. “Francine, you can’t marry Lord Erwin.”

  She blinked, a painful hope flickering to life in her breast. Could Lawrence possibly have someone else in mind for her? Had her engagement made him realize he couldn’t bear to see her with another?

  “When did you arrive at the party?” she asked.

  “A moment ago. When I reached the ballroom, I saw you leaving out the other side.” He looked around the parlor. “Why are you here?” He pulled his hands away, his features hardening into disapproval. “Are you meeting him?”

  “Meeting him? Goodness no.” She would have laughed were her mother’s dreams not shattered moments ago. “Why do you think I can’t marry him?” He started to step away. She caught his arm. She had to know. “Stand still and tell me.”

  Lawrence stared down at her hand on his arm for a long moment. Muscles bunched beneath her palm. “I shouldn’t. I’m not a gossip, and I have no right to interfere in your life. No claim on you, save what we used to share as children.”

  Francine squeezed his arm, hiding another wave of disappointment at his assertion that he had no place in her life. “We spent too many nights in the garden talking under the stars for you not to have a place in my life. You know me better than anyone else. If you think there’s something I should hear, tell me. Please.”