To Know a Lord's Kiss Page 3

  “Don’t marry him, Prude,” she whispered. “I have it from a reliable person that he’ll ship you off to the country and only visit twice a year.”

  Prudence gave an unladylike snort. “You should leave the tricks to me, Fanny.” She rolled her eyes. “Ship me off, indeed. I know how to manage a man. I’m going to be the toast of the town.” Her condescending look grated. “If you ever try to fool someone again, pick a name, or at least a title. Claiming a reliable person is so amateurish. No one would believe that.”

  “I’m not lying. I swear. I’m trying to help you, because we used to be friends.”

  Prudence gave a high, false laugh. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you. You’re a disgrace.” Her eyes narrowed. “Just so you know, after I danced with Lord Erwin, twice, I followed your mother. I heard all about how you had a liaison with a stable hand. If you do anything to ruin this union for me, I’ll tell the world.”

  Francine stared, shocked by Prudence’s vitriol. For an uncharitable moment, she wouldn’t have minded if one of the glittering chandeliers fell right beside Prudence, close enough to scare her hair white.

  “I did no such thing,” Francine muttered. “I was only thirteen and didn’t know about liaisons yet.”

  “Thirteen? You gave away your virtue so young?” Prudence tossed her curls. “I’m scandalized, Fanny, I truly am. I’m afraid, if you don’t promise to stay away from Lord Erwin, I’ll see it as my duty to warn off any decent man who looks at you.”

  Francine didn’t want Lord Erwin, but wasn’t about to concede to Prudence. “How about, instead, I promise not to tell him about all the mean tricks you’ve played over the years? Wasn’t one of them on his younger sister?”

  “Why you little—”

  “Miss Conway,” Lawrence’s voice said, behind her. “May I have the next set?”

  Francine turned. She could feel Prudence’s ire radiating toward her as they both curtsied.

  “My lord,” Prudence said, before Francine could reply, “you don’t want to dance with her. She kissed a duke, and I heard from her own mother that she had a liaison with a stable hand, sneaking out into the garden at night with him.”

  Around them, murmurs rose. Those nearest whispered the story to each other, then to the next person. Francine watched in despair as the tale spread through the room like ripples on a pond.

  “Miss Conway.”

  She looked back to find Lawrence offering his arm. She studied his face, so familiar, yet not the same as the boy he’d been. “You don’t have to, you know,” she said in a low voice. “There’s no reason you should suffer for my tarnished reputation.”

  “She’s right, my lord.” Prudence offered a simpering smile.

  Lawrence didn’t look at her, his gaze on Francine. “Don’t you want to dance with me?”

  She did. Partnering him was the highlight of every dance she’d attended in her three and a half seasons. “I love dancing with you. I always have.”

  “You love dancing with me?” he repeated. The way he looked at her, it was as if no one else occupied the room. “Don’t you love anything more about me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I do. Everything.” She’d spent nearly half her life steeling herself against the dream of Lawrence. After all, they’d known each other for years, and he only ever danced with her once an evening. He was simply being polite. “All these years, you thought I stopped coming to the garden because I didn’t want to see you anymore?”

  “See, she was in the garden,” Prudence crowed.

  “You’d just turned thirteen. Suddenly, you talked of dresses and dances, not dragons and pirate ships. When you didn’t bring your sketches, never came back, I thought you’d left our world of dreams behind for the real one.”

  “I’ve never left our world behind, only been forced to live without it.”

  “Lawrence, you don’t want her. She’s a duke’s cast off with no virtue.”

  That officious voice belonged to Lord Erwin. He stood beside Prudence, her small features further pinched by spite. Other gentlemen and ladies clustered beyond, faces avid with interest, hungry for scandal.

  “Erwin,” Lawrence said, “I’m afraid you’re interrupting. I was asking Miss Conway to dance.”

  Lord Erwin frowned. Prudence elbowed him in the side. He cast her a glance before turning back to Lawrence. “Really, Lawrence, the girl’s been sampled. She’s beneath you.”

  Francine felt a thousand eyes on her. She clenched her teeth. A warm hand grasped hers.

  “You’re mistaken,” Lawrence said. “Miss Conway never met a stable hand in the garden. She met me. Nor did she kiss a duke, for I am merely a marquess.” He brought Francine’s hand to his lips. He gave her the barest of winks as he kissed it.

  Even through her glove, his kiss sent tingling warmth up her arm and down through her whole body. Francine stared at him, breathless with joy, and surprise. He’d lied. To the whole ballroom. For her.

  Around them, people murmured. In the back of her mind, Prudence’s horrified gasp registered, but Francine didn’t take her gaze from Lawrence.

  Lowering her hand, he gave it a gentle tug. She was mute as he led her toward the dancefloor. The way the crowd of onlookers parted for them was hardly worth noticing. It was almost as if she floated through the room at his side. She as a kite, and he the boy who ran with her, flying her high above the petty world of their peers.

  It wasn’t until his other arm wrapped about her waist and pulled her close, until he spun her into the first steps of a waltz, that she found her voice. “You lied for me. You never lie.”

  He smiled down at her. “I think you’ll find each part of my statement was true.”

  She thought about that, but shook her head. They glided across the dance floor, for Lawrence was always the perfect partner. “That doesn’t make it any less of a lie,” she murmured, still stunned. “Everyone thinks I kissed you, and I have not, so it was a lie.”

  He smiled. “Francine, do you love me?”

  “I do,” she admitted, her head spinning along with their movements.

  “Will you promise to start drawing again, and to write your stories?”

  “I promise.” Her hand shaking slightly, she brushed his too-long hair back from his forehead.

  “Then I think there is a way to save me from being branded a liar.”

  “There is?” she whispered.

  He brought them to a halt in the middle of the dancefloor. “There is.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

  There, before their peers, Prudence and all of London, Lawrence made truth out of a lie.

  Epilogue

  “There you are,” Lawrence said, entering the garden with a smile.

  His garden, their garden now, was Francine’s favorite place. In mutual accord, they had a bench placed under the old apple tree. Now, they sat there most evenings, holding hands and speaking of the world. Today, she’d come out early. She had a new set of sketches and had wanted to see them by daylight, to ensure they were perfect, before she shared them with her husband. And she had news.

  Lawrence sat beside her on the bench. “May I see?”

  “In a moment.” She closed the sketchbook.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I have something to tell you first,” she continued.

  “A good thing?”

  Francine hugged her sketchbook close, filled with joy and a touch of concern, for it had happened so quickly. They’d only been married four months. “I think so.”

  He watched her for a long moment while she sought the right words. He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “What if I tell you something?” he said.

  “Yes, all right.”

  “I saw Erwin today. He was taking his mistress for a ride in the park.”

  Francine shook her head. “Poor Prudence. If only she’d believed me.”

  “You warned her, which is more than many would have done.”

  “Well, we used to be friends.”
Francine shrugged.

  “Now, I’ve shared my news. What is yours?”

  She drew a deep breath. “You know how you’ve always said I should write down my stories, perhaps include my drawings?”

  He smiled and captured one of her hands. “I’ve said it and I mean it.”

  “Do you feel they’d make good children’s books?”

  He cocked his head to the side, thinking. His hair fell back across his forehead. Letting her sketchpad rest in her lap, she smoothed it back. Lawrence was adorable when he was serious.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “I think they would, though more than children would enjoy them. I believe those who read them to the children would as well.”

  “Like you? Would you enjoy reading them to our child?”

  “Of course,” he said, his smile back.

  “Good, because you’ll be able to by Christmas.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Slowly, he stood. He took her sketchpad and placed it on the bench, then pulled her into his arms. “By Christmas?”

  “Well before, actually.”

  A grin overtook his face. “That’s perfect.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re perfect.” He kissed her cheek. “And the three of us will live happily ever after here in our world.”

  Their lips met and Francine knew it was true.

  ###

  A Lord’s Dream

  A Lord’s Kiss

  Book Three

  Summer Hanford

  True love's kiss is sweeter than a dream...

  Liza cannot forget the one and only kiss she's ever had. Her father's protégé, the widowed Lord Thomas, doesn't remember that kiss three years ago, for he was drowning his sorrow at the loss of his wife with whisky.

  Liza can no longer wait for him to notice her. All her friends are married, leaving her behind and with few opportunities for making the acquaintance of new gentlemen. Lord Thomas may not want her, but he might take pity on her and help her find a worthy gentleman. Liza only hopes her heart doesn't break when he places her in the care of another man.

  Chapter One

  Liza stood, half hidden behind the window curtain in the front parlor, watching. Any moment, Lord Thomas would emerge from his home across the street and stroll down the steps. She waited to catch an unguarded glimpse of him.

  He never looked up, never glimpsed her peering through the window. Lord Thomas thought only about astronomy, the topic he would soon arrive to discuss with her father. Liza ran her palm along the silken curtain edge, a nervous habit she’d long ago given up trying to break.

  The door to Lord Thomas’s London home opened. Liza tensed. He stepped out into the afternoon sun, impeccably clad in dark trousers and black coat, a cream vest hinted at beneath. He carried a bundle of scrolls, pages and volumes tucked under one arm. As usual, his blue eyes, defined by charcoal lashes, held a look of distraction, and his dark hair was in adorable disarray. Heat crept up her cheeks as she studied him. Invariably, her gaze settled upon his mouth. Her fingers drifted to her lips, where the memory of his kiss lingered.

  He didn’t recall their kiss, but she couldn’t forget it. Liza released a sigh and followed his progress until he reached the street. Then she whirled.

  She knew exactly how long she could watch and still appear to be settled in the library before he arrived. Rapid strides carried her from the parlor and down the hall. When she arrived at the library, she slipped inside and silently closed the door. Quickly, she crossed to the righthand wall, near her father’s desk. She paused, drew a slow breath, and began to meander along the shelves.

  She needed something to read to complete her charade, but despite her outward composure, her gaze glossed over the book spines. Their titles were incomprehensible in her agitated state. Her treacherous pulse refused to calm.

  She tried another deep breath. Her stays tightened around her ribs. She must settle her thoughts and select a book. As usual, while Lord Thomas and her father talked, she would quietly read in her seat near the garden window. She would steal a few covert glances, for she couldn’t chance her father noticing her interest. At least, she’d have Lord Thomas’s deep tones to lull her.

  She trailed a finger along the books’ spines in an attempt to focus her attention. The story must be a fictional tale to distract her from the kiss. Perhaps a tale of pirates. She adored pirates. Pirates had dashing adventures. They marauded on the high seas. They never set foot in London parlors.

  Her stomach knotted. In two days, she was to open her fourth season with tea, in a parlor. She could think of few things more miserable. Her mamma had accepted the invitation in the hopes an intimate party might give Liza the chance to be noticed. She couldn’t know Liza didn’t want to be noticed.

  Yet she must be. She bit her lip. This, her fourth season, would be her last. She must end it wed. Even if she couldn’t have the man she wanted, she didn’t want to end up alone. Surely, if she found a decent enough gentleman, she would come to care for him. Of course, she would have the solace of children.

  She resisted an urge to lean her forehead against the shelves and cry. She knew what she must do if she wished to marry. She must exorcise Lord Thomas from her thoughts. If he wouldn’t notice her, she had to find someone who would.

  She refocused on the titles lined up before her. The first step was a book. One so interesting, she could sit in the same room with him all evening and not give him a second thought.

  Her gaze caught on Daniel Defoe’s famous story of Captain Singleton. Her heart weighed heavy. Even daring deeds on the high sea wouldn’t be enough to divert her from today’s thoughts.

  The trouble, aside from being more than half in love with Lord Thomas and four seasons in without a suitor, was that she had no way to meet eligible gentleman. She had few friends, and those she had were all wed. Emily, the first to marry, was in confinement, expecting her first child. Fanny and her husband had gone to Scotland for the birth of theirs, for the bizarre reason that Fanny swore Scotland was filled with ancient magic. Prudence, who’d married in a flurry at the same time as Fanny, had gone to the country for the summer and hadn’t returned to London, though her husband had. Liza simply didn’t have anyone to introduce her to gentlemen.

  Nor could she make new friends, even at a cozy tea. She hadn’t the knack. Mostly, because she rarely spoke. She wasn’t shy. Far from it. She’d simply learned her mother was right. When Liza opened her mouth, no good came of it. Each time she considered talking, she could clearly hear her mother’s voice in her head saying, “For heaven’s sake, Liza, don’t speak, only smile. When you speak, nonsense comes out.”

  Liza sighed and pulled free Defoe’s work. Like the books, she was all but on the shelf, and it appeared that no gentleman would ever take her down, especially not Lord Thomas. She was nearly twenty-two, after all. Ancient.

  A click and the pad of boot-shod feet on carpet caused her to turn. Lord Thomas closed the door behind him. He saw her and offered a bow, somehow accomplished without dropping the haphazard pile of research he carried in one arm. That, he crossed to deposit on the table.

  “Good evening, Miss Milton.”

  “Good evening, Lord Thomas,” she said. “Look at all that. Did you rob the Royal Society?” She left Defoe’s book by her chair and went to the table, drawn there like a doomed moth. Lord Thomas often needed assistance organizing his materials and Liza was hungry for any excuse to be near him.

  “I may have.” He shuffled papers. “Don’t tell your father.”

  She reached his side, covertly inhaled the rich scent of shaving soap, and began turning the pages nearest her face up and in the same direction. She’d gleaned a bit about astronomy over the years, but didn’t need that knowledge to understand that anyone could read notes more easily if they were arranged with the letters facing the same way.

  Normally, it would be wholly unacceptable for Liza to be closeted with a man. Lord Thomas wasn’t even wed. His wife had died over three years ago, but long befo
re he became a widower at age twenty-seven, he’d been working with Liza’s father. She’d grown up playing in the library while the two rambled on about rotations, drew star charts, and used strange devices to measure the distance between dots on pages.

  Somehow, no one seemed to notice she’d reached womanhood and should be barred from time alone with the widowed earl. Maybe the problem was her stick-thin frame. No one noticed she’d grown up, especially not Lord Thomas.

  “Thank you.” He pushed another stack over, his hand grazing hers. “I don’t know how they end up like this.”

  Trying to ignore the heat of his touch, she forced a light tone. “I daresay it’s because, at least once an evening, my father throws the lot of them in the air in frustration.” She couldn’t help but smile, for her portly sire was adorable when he lost his temper, which he only did with numbers. He would wave his arms and march about, and rant about ellipses until his face turned red, then he would collapse into a chair.

  Lord Thomas offered a return smile. His hands stilled. He stared at her for a long moment, as if to study her face, then dropped his gaze to the table. He set to shuffling pages with greater vigor.

  Liza suppressed a sigh. Lord Thomas’s mind wandered. She often caught him staring at her. She wanted to be flattered and wished those were admiring looks, but she knew better. He was still in love with his late wife. As soon as he realized his eyes had drifted to Liza, he would look away and return to his current task.

  He cleared his throat and tamped down a pile to line up the page edges. “Yes, well, he refuses to believe Carl Friedrich Gauss’s straight edge wasn’t marked. Your father can’t quite get his polygons to come out right. I suppose that drives him to mild madness.”

  “I don’t see what seventeen sided polygons have to do with astronomy,” Liza said, so she could keep listening to his voice. She put down the last few pages and hopped up onto the table. She sat on the edge, facing Lord Thomas, and swung her feet. It was another wholly inappropriate habit she’d engaged in for as long as she could recall, and another action that he overlooked.