The Kiss (14 page)

Since yesterday's kiss, they'd been forced to be in the same room only once, at dinner last night. And it had been appallingly easy to refrain from speaking to him since Ata and the rest of her friends could always be counted on to carry on no less than three conversations at any given moment. Quinn was at the head with Ata to his one side and Grace Sheffey to his other, while Georgiana sat at the foot with Mr. Brown to her left and Sarah and Elizabeth on her right.

It had not missed her notice that Quinn did not look at her once during the evening meal, and she had pleaded a headache soon after the ladies retired to the main salon before Quinn rejoined them. There seemed an unbreachable gap between them, and she imagined he was probably counting his lucky stars that the ladies of the club were proving to be such an effective diversion. But then again, Georgiana was too. It was just too painful to continue the madness.

Their passionate interlude on the shingle spit had left her ill with longing. Unfortunately, it was quite clear that what Quinn felt for her was most likely something entirely different. She was no fool. The male of their species was born with an unquenchable thirst for females. Hadn't Tony admitted that, and told her many times over that men's carnal needs often ruled their actions? And her father had often warned there were reasons the proprieties had to be observed and had never allowed her to oversee laborers or go about the estate without a trusted brawny groom or three.

What she had seen in Quinn's eyes was emotionless lust, not the love she held in her heart. He would never love her as she loved him. If he did, he would have shown restraint and courted her properly, and offered words of love. He was simply participating in what she had so blatantly offered. He would never dare do something so base with someone such as Grace Sheffey.

One particularly dark thought kept nudging her mind—that he had kissed her the second time in an attempt to prove she was pretty or desirable, which was a lie and they both knew it.

He pitied her.

It was warm and the smoke from the chafing dish billowed around her; the bees instinctively gorging themselves on honey with the threat of fire. Predictably, they soon became sweetly intoxicated, content, and almost harmless.

What must he think of her? She had very nearly bowled him over with her absurd, inelegant fashion. She had likely disgusted him with her wildly bold actions.

She would have to go away. She rearranged the folds of the veil covering her face. Oh, she had known when he'd first arrived that she would have to leave if he did not. And it appeared he was in for the duration. He was separating her and her family from Penrose as effectively as useless chaff from wheat.

And as if to prove the point, destiny intruded in the soft light of early morning, when Georgiana spied through the smoke haze a vision of the future coming toward her: Quinn and his daughter, her little hand locked and swinging in Grace Sheffey's.

"There you are, Georgiana," the countess said, the beautiful warmth of her smile spreading across her fine features. "We'd just about given up finding you, but I insisted we keep looking."

Georgiana rose and set aside the smoking pot and was grateful for the hat and veil that partially shielded her.

"What are you doing?" Fairleigh asked.

"Uncapping the hives, darling," Quinn said. "Georgiana is probably trying to keep up with that sweet tooth of yours." He turned his attention toward her finally, but Georgiana noticed he was actually gazing slightly beyond her shoulder in an awkward fashion.

"Georgiana," the countess continued, "Ata has had the mad notion that we hold a ball at Penrose. But, of course, we couldn't possibly consider it without your approval."

Quinn chuckled and looked down at his daughter. "Grace is being diplomatic. It was actually this one's idea."

"Well," Georgiana replied quietly, carefully removing her hat and veil. "You don't really need my approval, do you? If Quinn agrees, then of course we shall plan a ball. It's a lovely idea."

"I told you Georgiana would agree to it. She's always ready for anything fun," Fairleigh piped in generously while looking into the radiant expression of the countess. "She even dug worms for me and taught me how to fish."

"It will be very little work, Georgiana," Grace said stroking Fairleigh's curls. "I'm certain Rosamunde would be willing to arrange the flowers—you know her gorgeous creations. And I've a notion to import an orchestra from town, if you would like."

"It appears it's all arranged. There is nothing for me to do then," Georgiana said, forcing a smile to her lips. "I can't thank you enough, Grace."

There was an awkward silence as Quinn's eyes finally rose to hers and studied her. "Actually there is something more. We need you to organize the daytime activities."

"What activities, Papa?"

"Why, for Penrose's annual harvest festival."

"What?" Georgiana said, disbelief threading her voice.

"Don't tell me you've discontinued the tradition of the festival?" he replied.

"Well, yes. The last time was a decade or so ago, when Anthony's father was still alive."

"What activities?" Fairleigh said with excitement. "You never mentioned anything beyond a ball, Papa."

His eyes locked with Georgiana's, and discomfort knotted her stomach.

"Well, I'm thinking a little bit of
adventure
would do us all some good here. Don't you agree, Georgiana?"

"Adventure is always a good idea," she murmured, touched that he had remembered her advice.

He looked down at his pretty daughter. "Penrose was the seat of a festival at the start of the harvest. It was to celebrate the bounty of the summer months and apparently in ancient times to make an offering to the gods of wheat and corn. There's a huge bonfire, and contests of skill, and judging vegetables, and jams, and honey, and—"

"I should very much like to judge the honey making, Georgiana," Fairleigh cut in.

"And so you shall, if your father agrees."

"What do you think, Grace?" he said, smiling at the countess. "I think I shall allow it if you are able to wheedle Fairleigh into finishing that pretty embroidery the two of you started."

His daughter pulled a face.

Grace laughed. "My dearest Fairleigh, you are simply like any lady. You need a proper incentive. And I shall offer it." Grace lifted her impossibly long lashes and winked at Georgiana. "We shall just have to make sure there is an embroidery contest. And I shall offer the prize. Hmmm. How about that lovely strand of pearls from my collection you admired?"

Fairleigh's eyes widened and she grabbed the countess and began dragging her away. "Come on. We've got work to do. You said you'd show me how to do French knotting and ..." The little girl's voice drifted and meshed with the countess's lovely laughter as Grace tried unsuccessfully to halt their hasty departure.

"Quinn and Georgiana, do forgive me," Grace called back. "I shall see you both at dinner to report our progress."

Only the hum of the bees filled the stillness.

"Well," Quinn began, "I suppose I should go after them before Fairleigh tries to talk Grace into throwing in the matching pearl ear bobs."

Georgiana ignored her veiled hat and quickly turned to pick up the chafing dish again. Her back was to him. "Of course." She was at least grateful he was not apologizing for yesterday's events. She didn't think she could bear it if he did.

But she heard not a single fading footfall. The air was as thick with tension as it was with the smoke emanating from the pot she stoked with more peat.

Georgiana lifted the top board from the box hive, dousing the bees again with pungent smoke and exposing the combs for her inspection. She lifted the first from its crusted slot, but it jammed at the top, most likely because she couldn't seem to make her limbs move gracefully when he was standing behind her, observing her.

A second pair of hands grasped the comb below her own and helped ease the board away. "Allow me to help you. Where is the scraper?"

"You'll get stung."

"Maybe," he said with a shrug. "But probably not, if they're anything like the bees in Portugal."

She finally looked up to meet the intense green of his gaze. The brown elements of his irises had retreated as his pupils enlarged.

"I let a cottage with Cynthia one summer to give Fairleigh a taste of the country. The one caveat was that we had to tend the gentleman's bees, his passion."

She handed him the scraper and set a pan underneath the comb. "And you were never stung?"

"Apparently the bees didn't mind my scent."

Of course not.
He smelled of rosemary and everything bees loved. "You've not spoken of your wife before. I've been remiss in not telling you how sad we all were to hear of your bereavement. I understand she was a most beautiful lady, and very devoted to you." She bit her lower lip. "I—I'm very sorry, Quinn."

He finished scraping the honeycombs from the rack and replaced it. "How many more?"

His avoidance of her condolences said everything he did not. Clearly he still pined for his wife. "All but the last two," she replied while applying more smoke to the combs.

"The hives in Portugal were cylindrical, fashioned from the rinds of cork trees and covered with earthenware. Perhaps I could have some made for us to try."

"If you like," she said carefully. She was at least grateful they could converse with relative straightforwardness.

The strained atmosphere continued as they pilfered the honey from under the drowsy bees' notice. "And perhaps," he said, "you'll tell me more about beekeeping."

Thank God he had pushed forward a topic of conversation to fill the void. "Well, you probably already know about the division of labor in a colony," she replied.

"Didn't Shakespeare say, Tor so work the honeybees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.'?"

"It's a very self-sufficient life. There are the worker bees—all females, of course—who collect honey and pollen and nurse the young. The males—the drones—are altogether idle. All they do is—" She stopped abruptly and stifled an embarrassed laugh. When, oh when would she stop to think before blurting out everything?

"Oh no. You've obviously got to the best part. Spill it, or else." His eyes were full of the mirth she remembered from their days of youth.

"Well, I think your threat is fairly empty since even you know enough not to move quickly and raise the ire of thousands of bees. But I shall tell you, for"—she laughed here—"you deserve to hear it now. The drones do little but sit around getting drunk on nectar."

"That's it? Or are you just too shy to tell the truth of the matter?" He lowered the lids of his eyes and looked at her knowingly.

And suddenly she realized he knew everything about beekeeping. Probably more than she did. And she knew a lot. "Why don't you tell me then?" she said quietly.

"The drones accompany the queen on her
bridal tour,
shall we say? And in doing so they sacrifice their lives." His voice had become a whisper. "I think we can forgive them for drinking a bit too much, don't you agree?"

It was obvious he was now talking about something entirely different from bees. She straightened abruptly. He
knew.
Somehow he knew about Tony and what had happened on their wedding night.

She had to get away from him. Beekeeping etiquette forgotten, she tore off her gloves. A few bees rose up and clouded her vision.

Abruptly, she strode away without looking back, only to feel a sting on the tender flesh of the inside of her elbow. She broke into a run, vaguely hearing a clatter of boards behind her. And the voice of the man who had haunted her dreams for almost two decades calling after her.

Footsteps thrashing the tall grasses followed her. She knew she appeared foolish but could not gather the courage to stop and face him. She dog-legged to the left and entered the hay barn.

The scent of sweet, dry clover filled the air, and dust particles drifted in the single shaft of light from the double-wide doorway. His hand appeared on the edge of the entrance and he swung around to the inside, panting and resting his hands on his knees.

"What was that all about?" he asked, his breathing ragged.

"I think you know," she said, hurt still oozing 'round her mind.

"Well, the thought occurred that perhaps you misinterpreted my words. I hesitate to ask if this has something to do with your marriage. I don't want to pain you. Georgiana, let me see your arm."

She looked down to where she gripped her elbow. "I'm perfectly fine," she said.

"You're obviously not fine at all." He stretched out his hand and it hung in the space between them.

"I want you to leave," she whispered.

"Where?" Quinn asked slowly. "Here? This barn? Or is it Penrose?"

"Here. Obviously, I'm not in a position to ask you to leave Penrose," she said. "Oh, I told you I don't want the silly title. I just want you—everyone—to leave it alone." She stopped.

"How did Anthony die?" he asked quietly.

And God help her, she knew she would tell him. She would do the one thing she had sworn she would never do.

"In my arms," she answered, raw pain filling her eyes that were so dark they appeared black in the shadows of the barn. Her lips twisted in grief. "He drank to celebrate our marriage and probably puffed on that horrid opium pipe and then he drank some more. And then we retired, and his mother intruded, and . . . and then she left, and we ..." She closed her eyes and Quinn could see she was trying to collect herself. "And he died.
In my arms.
And I couldn't move, couldn't budge him off of me. And then I couldn't revive him. I think it was a weakness of his heart. There. Now you know. It's what you've wanted to know since you got here, isn't it? Now you can stop the bloody questions. And you could also try to stop being kind and concerned one moment and distant the next."

"I'm sorry, Georgiana." He felt wretched. "I don't want to cause you more pain—far from it. But I did need to know, if only to help you deflect scandal. No one believes the story you concocted about him choking and collapsing during a late supper."