One Scandalous Kiss (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

“D
INNER IS SERVED,
my lord.”

At Marleston, there’d been a gong the butler sounded before luncheon and dinner meals. It was an exotic and pleasant noise, and Jess loved the sound of it. This gentleman’s voice, whoever he was, couldn’t compare. Nasally and high-pitched, his tone commanded rather than invited. And everyone in the room responded instantly, men and women pairing off before proceeding to the dining room.

As Lord Grimsby escorted his aunt, his sister and her husband followed, and the man to whom Jess had yet to be introduced approached her.

“May I escort you in to dinner, Miss Wright?”

“Yes, of course.”

He smiled and said, “Ghastly improper, of course, since we’ve yet to be introduced. Robert Wellesley. Grimsby and I have known each other for ages. And you”—he paused and his gaze took Jess in from the top of Tilly’s elaborate hairstyle to the toes of her shoes—“are his aunt’s most invaluable companion.”

Wellesley’s manner was far too familiar and his wandering gaze brazen, but Jess felt a sense of instant kinship with the man. The way he held his mouth, something in his blue-green eyes, told Jess he didn’t feel as comfortable as he was attempting to appear.

His smile faltered as Jess studied him. Then he lifted his arm and met her gaze with one as searching as her own.

“Shall we?”

Jess took his arm and allowed him to lead her.

“Shall I call you Mr. Wellesley or something else?”

He leaned toward her as they walked. “I should very much like you to call me Rob, but that might cause a scandal. So I suppose it shall have to be Wellesley.”

“No title then?” Jess wanted to bite her tongue the moment the rude words were out. She sounded as catty as Kitty Adderly. But something about Mr. Wellesley’s manner invited her to jest.

And he wasn’t cross. In fact, his response—a belly-deep laugh so infectious she laughed too—drew the attention of Lady Stamford and Lord Grimsby as they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

Wellesley cleared his throat and stood up straight, projecting an air of solemn propriety. He whispered so only Jess could hear. “I am the second son of a second son, I’m afraid. But I assure you, Miss Wright, I wouldn’t take a title if a dozen were on offer. Too much bother. Too many rules. Doesn’t suit me at all.”

Jess believed him. Sincerity shaded every word, but then he tilted his mouth mischievously before breaking into a dazzling smile, as if honesty and solemnity were the least of his concerns.

“Besides, a title makes a man the most sought-after fish in the pond. I allow that a day will come when I can no longer slip the hook, but I don’t wish to be caught for a title. What man does?”

There were more chairs at the long dining table than seemed necessary for their small group, and Jess had no idea where hers might be. Thankfully, Mr. Wellesley seemed to know exactly where each of them belonged. He assisted her into a seat to Lady Stamford’s right and then took a chair directly across from Jess. She could barely see him over the large floral arrangement decorating the table.

Lord Grimsby was already seated near the head of the table, but not in the chair at the head itself. For the first time, Jess wondered about the absence of his father. She had yet to meet the earl. Would the gentleman the maids had spoken of so dismissively be joining them?

By the third course, Jess’s corset was protesting, though she knew from formal dinners at Marleston there would be at least two more. She sipped at her wine and listened to the conversation around her, grateful no one had engaged her in more than polite exchanges. A bit of the tension in her body seemed to melt away, and she found it increasingly difficult to resist glancing in Lord Grimsby’s direction. He was a broad-shouldered black and white form, enticing her at the periphery of her vision, and if she tilted her head just so, she could watch him as he lifted his glass to the mouth she’d kissed.

Then she’d look away and lifted her own glass, silently chastising herself for such silliness.

The dinner table conversation ranged from people Jess didn’t know to soirees she would never attend, and then back to horses. It was the only topic that tempted her to join in. She’d read Miss Sewell’s
Black Beauty
with pleasure, and Jess admired horses. They were valiant creatures that pulled omnibuses and carriages through London’s muck. Horses were reliable, and after a lifetime with Father, Jess admired reliability in man or beast more than any other quality.

The tower of flowers before her shuddered and Wellesley’s face appeared around the far edge of it. He reached out his hand and nudged the tower of blooms to his right. The arrangement now sat between them and the rest of the table, affording them a modicum of privacy, which she suspected was terribly improper.

“Have you given up on that fish?”

“I can’t eat another bite.”

“You haven’t had Cook’s custard. It’s divine, Miss Wright.”

His sincerity regarding the custard made her smile. There was no denying the appeal of good custard.

“Then I’m definitely finished with my fish. It seems I must save room for Hartwell’s renowned custard.”

“I do adore a sensible woman.”

Jess felt herself blush and silently cursed her pale skin that always gave her away, betraying her embarrassment and nervousness just when she wished to be strong and unaffected. She sipped at her wine to cool the heat and hoped no one else at the table heard Mr. Wellesley’s teasing flirtation.

Augusta’s voice, mock stern, emanated from beyond the floral arrangement.

“Your mother will be pleased to hear it, Robert. She has long believed you had a weakness for all women, but it seems if she wishes to get you married, it is a sensible one who will fit the bill. I shall pen a letter to her straightaway. Miss Wright can help me with it.”

She should have known the countess would hear. Jess had quickly learned Lady Stamford had extraordinarily keen hearing and an even more impressive ability to distinguish all the various conversations going on at once, no matter how crowded the social gathering. Jess was certain this small group posed no challenge for her skills.

Mr. Wellesley took a healthy drink of wine before replying.

“You’re too good to me, Lady Stamford.”

He leaned toward Jess, his upper body looming perilously close to the remnants of fish on his plate.

“Never allow my mother and that woman in the same room together. The way they’re always scheming, I call them the Gorgons.”

“Weren’t there three gorgons, Jessamin?” Augusta’s voice was so pleasant, Jess could almost imagine the countess didn’t know she’d just been referred to as a monster with hair made out of living snakes. But Jess knew her employer was well read and particularly loved Greek mythology.

“In some of the stories, yes, my lady.” Jess sat up straight and turned to look at Lady Stamford as she spoke.

The countess signaled to a footman, who stepped forward to remove the fragrant floral arrangement, opening up the table so that Jess and Mr. Wellesley were no longer cloistered at their end.

“Thank you, my lady. Miss Wright and I were feeling quite left out down here on our own.”

Despite his polite words, a touch of sarcasm colored Mr. Wellesley’s tone. Jess had the sense he was a bit like her, quite content to converse with one person rather than the group. His conspiratorial wink in her direction convinced her she was right.

With the view opened up, Jess took the opportunity to glance at the rest of those gathered around the table, at Mr. and Mrs. Darnley and then at Lord Grimsby. Mrs. Darnley and her husband were still tucking into their fish, but the viscount’s gaze was locked on Jess. She felt a tickle at the back of her neck and shivered.

Did he glare at everyone in that same searing way? And was everyone as unnerved by it?

If he continued to look at her like that for the next fortnight, she wasn’t certain she could be elegant or proper or help to make the house party a success as Lady Stamford desired. When he gazed at her, all she could think about was their kiss, a moment when he’d made her feel as if she was the most desirable woman in London.

The footman leaned in front of her to take her plate, blocking out her view of the viscount. She turned to the young man and thanked him under her breath. But Lord Grimsby remained a distraction in the corner of her vision. She noticed another footman refill his wine glass before he lifted it to this mouth and drank from the cut-crystal vessel until it was nearly empty again.

“But I do admit that if it’s a sensible woman you seek, my dear Miss Wright is an excellent example.”

At Augusta’s pronouncement, Mrs. Darnley spluttered, emitting a sort of wet squeak, and Lord Grimsby quaffed the last of his wine before coughing into his napkin.

Jess took a long gulp of her own wine. Her face was now well and truly red. She knew it must be because her cheeks were as hot as if they’d ignited into flames. Every sense told her to flee, to stand up and run from the room, from this house, from this world where she didn’t belong, and go back to London. She might not yet have enough money to sustain herself long, but at least she knew who she was in London. There she had a purpose. Or at least she’d had a purpose once. Surely she could find one again.

“Miss Wright is one of the most industrious and intelligent women I’ve ever met. And her knowledge of books and literature never fails to impress me. And she’s quite political too. She’s taught me a great deal in the last few weeks.”

Lady Stamford’s accolades were doing nothing for the heat in Jess’s cheeks, nor her nerves. The woman had been kind to her from the moment they’d met, yet Jess couldn’t imagine such a perceptive woman had no notion of the embarrassment she was causing.

“Of course she knows about books. She was a shopgirl.” Mrs. Darnley’s softer voice had a bit of a whine to it, as if she was bored with the subject of Jess’s merits as much as Jess was mortified by it.

“She owned the shop, Julia. She was a bookshop owner.” Lady Stamford sounded so proud of the fact. Yet why would she be proud?

Was. Was a bookshop owner.
For Jess, the reality of her failure held a potent sting.

“Well done, Miss Wright.”

Mr. Wellesley’s voice was quiet, though Jess guessed Lady Stamford heard him. Jess risked at peek at him, hoping his gaze wouldn’t lock on her flaming red cheeks. Instead, he merely shot her a sympathetic grin and she tried to return it, though her face felt stiff and immobile.

“My goodness. A shop owner. Next you’ll be telling us she’s a suffragette.”

Somehow Mrs. Darnley’s voice, referring to Jess as if she wasn’t even at the table, was far more irksome than Lady Stamford’s laudatory list of her qualities had been.

Jess’s irritation turned to action before she could think better of it. She swallowed a bit more wine and then stood up, pushing her chair back, and spoke loudly and clearly, determined to confess her transgressions for all to hear.

“Yes, I’m a suffragist. Women own shops, even if some of them lose their shops because their fathers are incurable and very unlucky gamblers. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have the right to vote.”

Jess bent a bit at the waist to resume her seat and then remembered something else that needed saying. “And women run their homes and great estates”—she pointed to Lady Stamford before remembering that pointing was a terrible blunder and letting her hand fall to her side—“as the Countess of Stamford does at Marleston. Shouldn’t they have the right to vote and help decide their fate?”

The dining room grew eerily quiet—no sound, not even the clink of silverware against porcelain. All the guests seemed to be holding their breath. Mrs. Darnley stared at her with huge eyes and lips slightly parted. Her husband stared down at his plate. Lady Stamford beamed at her, Mr. Wellesley tilted his mouth in a sardonic grin, and Lord Grimsby pinched the flesh between his eyebrows. His eyes were closed and a grimace marred his handsome face. He finally let out a sigh and she thought she heard him say, “Good God, a suffragette” as he exhaled.

Jess’s tongue felt swollen, too large to fit her mouth, and the suffusion of heat in her cheeks had now spread throughout her whole body, particularly the center of her chest. As she resumed her seat, she was grateful for the lack of motion. Even the mere act of standing and sitting made her dizzy.

Mr. Wellesley leaned toward her and whispered, “How often do you drink wine, Miss Wright?”

“Rarely before coming to Marleston. And only one glass with dinner.”

“You’ve had three tonight.”

“Have I really?”

“Mmm. It’s a defect of Hartwell, I find. These bloody footmen are far too generous.”

“Bloody footmen.”

Jess thought she was whispering as quietly as Mr. Wellesley, but every time she spoke, she saw Mrs. Darnley’s head snap in her direction as if she was a particularly annoying bee buzzing about the table.

Why did the woman loathe her so? Jess had never met her before tonight. Well, unless she counted that silliness at the art gallery. Which, of course, she would.

Would she never overcome that rash and scandalous act? She’d come to think of it as a private moment between them, but of course it hadn’t been. It had been contrived to be as public as possible, to cause Lord Grimsby as much mortification as possible. It was a wonder the man didn’t loathe her. Perhaps he did.

Jess felt suddenly drowsy, and nothing seemed more appealing than resting her head for the night, forgetting about the viscount, and giving up on trying so hard to be elegant. But even as she considered excusing herself, a footman slid a beautiful dish of custard onto her plate.

“The custard.” She smiled across at Mr. Wellesley, who’d already taken the first spoonful and scooped it into his mouth.

Jess lifted her spoon and was just about to dig into the dessert when she felt Mrs. Darnley’s chilly glare on her. The woman’s wrath spoiled Jess’s enthusiasm for the custard, and she dropped her spoon with what seemed to her ears to be a deafening clatter.

Mrs. Darnley’s eyes weren’t the only ones fixed on her. Across the table, Mr. Wellesley’s gaze had gone wide. On her left, Lady Stamford swiveled toward her and, at far at the end of the room, Lord Grimsby’s brow furrowed as he drummed his fingers on the table and watched her. The weight of their stares pressed down on her, chipping at her resolve to behave properly, to keep Kitty’s secret. She loathed secrets. Father’s secrets had ruined their lives. The truth was just there, longing to escape, and she could only think of the sweet relief it would be to let it go.