The Kiss (16 page)

"Yer Grace, I 'ope ye'll
forgivez-moi,"
the dressmaker began in her atrocious melange of accents and languages, "'is lordship insisted, 'e insisted on changin' all
lay cooleurs
o' yer frocks, 'cept the countess's."

Grace beamed and shook her head. "He kept saying something about it being another
adventure
for all of us."

Georgiana's heart leapt. She scanned the chamber for the gray silk she had requested to replace the frayed ball gown she owned, also in pale gray silk. Her gaze came to rest on the only unclaimed garment on a nearby chaise.

It was gold—a heavenly shade, with an ethereal sea-green pattern that was exposed when it caught the light. Seed pearls were embroidered onto the perilously tiny bodice. She turned the gown and gasped when she discovered ivory buttons shaped like bees. Whorls of stitching about the buttonholes gave the appearance of flight.

Oh... oh, it was the loveliest gown she had ever seen. And so unlike anything she had ever owned. Surely, it was not hers. She quickly glanced about, only to meet the bemused expression of Elizabeth Ashburton, who held up a deep-blue-and-white gown in fine gauze for inspection.

"Well, Georgiana," Elizabeth said, her dimples on full display, "I guess we shouldn't be surprised. You did tell us your husband loved practical jokes more than anything. I suppose that trait runs in the Fortesque family."

Grace giggled. "I do hope everyone doesn't mind. I'll admit that Quinn suggested it to me in private and I concurred wholeheartedly. None of you would have agreed if we'd asked you. But it really is time for all of us to stop hiding behind our widowhood."

"You're right of course, Grace," Ata said. "Sometimes I fear we have all become so content and at such ease with one another that we're retreating from the rest of the world. It was my intent when I formed the club to help each of you make a new start. Well..." She broke out into a huge smile. "I, for one, will be wearing this dress and I
order
you all to do the same."

Elizabeth Ashburton whispered archly to Georgiana, "Not that Ata ever did limit her color choices."

For the first time that day, Georgiana laughed. Ata's outrageous gowns and high heels were one of the club's favorite topics.

"What's that, Eliza?" Ata harrumphed. The petite dowager's hearing was excellent. "As I was saying, the
Barely Bereaving Beauties
are to mingle with the rest of the
beau monde
tonight. And I expect detailed reports tomorrow. I would like each of you to kiss at least one gentleman if you can manage it. And there'll be none of that watery ratafia for us tonight. We'll meet in here for a few glasses of my French Armagnac after supper. You'll find it quite
bracing,
I'm sure."

"Ata!" Sarah exclaimed in shock.

"No, Sarah. I expect both you and Georgiana, especially, to each kiss someone. Of all of us, you two are the most retiring and the most inclined to industriousness. I want you to enjoy yourselves. Grace, I assume you will accomplish this order with the least difficulty"—and here Ata winked—"I am very happy for you, my dear. No one is more deserving."

Georgiana felt slightly ill. But not as ill as she felt later that evening as she donned the most beautiful gown she had ever beheld.

And as she argued with the mantua maker over the impossibly low-cut, shimmering bodice, and lost the fight to retain her old gray shawl when the French-pretending dressmaker literally ripped it from her fingers, little did Georgiana know that of all of the widows, she would do much more than comply with the outrageous order the dowager duchess had made.

And she would do it
willingly.

Of all the unholy ridiculousness of it, the club's new name had taken root. Ata had whispered it to Rosamunde while she made the last touches to the flower arrangements. And the dangerously beautiful duchess had whispered it to her devilish husband, who had barked with laughter. By the time it reached Mr. Brown's ears, the Barely Bereaving Beauties Club was forever etched upon the minds of its members. And it had suffused the widows with a sense of merriment that had been lacking for a long time, Georgiana admitted to herself while she wended her way from her father's old chambers to Ata's.

The name seemed to give the widows permission to enjoy themselves once again. After all, each of them had been widowed at least a year or two at a minimum. They
should
be searching for happiness, Georgiana rationalized.

But no amount of inner debate could remove her sense of dread.

She didn't like change. Never had, never would.

She brought a hand to her bare bosom again as she approached the dowager's door. This wisp of a gown was as fragile and delicate as a honeybee's gossamer wings and left her feeling altogether indecently exposed. She had always worn durable, heavy fabrics in dark colors—much more practical and made for longer wear.

"Psst . . . Georgiana." It was the Duchess of Helston, lurking in the shadows.

"Rosamunde?" she replied uncertainly.

"Shhh. Come along. I told Ata we would meet them at the top of the stair. The guests can't be counted on to arrive in the late fashion of town. But Ata refuses to observe country hours, as I'm sure you're aware." Rosamunde clutched her arm and pulled her along the corridors at a dizzying pace. "And by the by, you are ravishing. You should always wear light colors."

"Yes, well—"

"Georgiana, we don't have time to bandy about the bush. I wanted a moment alone with you." The duchess's magnificent jewels glittered in the dim candlelight emanating from the sconces. "What are you going to do about your sensibilities concerning Quinri?"

Georgiana stumbled to a stop, forcing Rosamunde to do the same. "I don't know what you mean. I—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Georgiana. We've known each other long enough to speak plainly. More so than sisters, even. And well, I can't watch this much longer. I have good reason. You know I do. I can't bear to see you suffer, and almost worse—to know that Grace might suffer all over again."

Georgiana held one of Rosamunde's slim gloved hands and studied the elegant lines of the duchess's fingers as opposed to her own chapped and callused hands effectively hidden by new gloves. "You haven't anything to fear. He's made clear his preference by his attentions to her. He holds Grace in highest regard, Rosamunde, as he should. He defers to her ideas, while I've never been more to him than a very dear childhood friend at best. Everyone knows that love cannot suddenly blossom between two old friends who used to splash mud at each other."

"Oh, Georgiana ... I'd had such hopes for you and he."

She hated the sadness in Rosamunde's eyes. "Really. It's all right. I've grown used to it." She had to change the subject to force the tightness from her throat. "Actually, I'm glad for the opportunity to talk to you in private. Rosa, you would do me a great favor if you would speak to the duke and ask if he knows of a cottage my family could possibly consider purchasing near the sea, for my mother's happiness. It must be modest, but with land enough for a kitchen garden, small pasture and perhaps a small barn for one horse, one milking cow, and a few chickens, and—"

"Georgiana," Rosamunde's eyes searched her face, "don't say anymore. You have such courage."

"Not really. I'm just practical."

Rosamunde stroked her cheek. "But didn't the marquis say your family could stay in Little Roses for as long as he lives?" The duchess lowered her voice. "Your father is ill, dearest, and you don't need to remove at this time. It might be too much, too soon."

"I
can't stay here much longer, Rosamunde." She stopped when she felt her voice might falter.

"Well," Rosamunde continued smoothly. "I happen to know he's arranged a very generous pension for your father as I'm certain he will do for you, so you'll be able to afford something much grander than you've described."

"No. I won't live off such generosity. We'll be very comfortable on the amount Quinn arranged for my father. But it feels wrong to accept huge sums of money simply because I was married to Anthony for less than a day."

"Pride is a very costly thing, dearest," Rosamunde said brushing a tendril of hair from Geor-giana's face. "I spent a decade living off the effects of pride and I can tell you firsthand it can be a sad, sad business. Trust me on this." She paused and squeezed Georgiana's hand. "Well, I have another idea for your future happiness and security."

A gleam appeared in the young duchess's eye as she began to drag Georgiana to the reception area at the top of the second landing.

"But Rosamunde, really, if you would just speak to the duke, ask him if—"

"I will speak to Luc if you agree to dance with each of my brothers tonight."

"What? But you have
four
brothers. This is truly—" She stopped when she noticed the implacable look Rosamunde had learned to use within a month of marrying His Grace. "Oh, all right. But I don't dance very well, you know that." Geor-giana had always refused to talk about her bad leg. She had worked so hard for so long to correct the limp that had plagued her childhood that few knew of the frequent pain she suffered. Dancing had always been difficult and so she avoided it as much as possible, preferring conversation at all gatherings where there was dancing.

Georgiana saw a swirl of color out of the corner of her eye and noticed the other widows descending the stairs above her. But it was Quinn, resplendent in elegant evening dress, who fully occupied her attention when she spied him. His brown hair had always ever been tousled in an imperfect yet perfectly irresistible fashion—which was completely unfair, given the amount of time ladies endured to make their hair presentable. Yet tonight his hair was wet and ruthlessly tamed by severe combing. It made his impossibly elegant, sculpted features all the more evident. His stark hazel eyes appeared larger, more discerning, and his midnight-blue evening wear perfectly complemented Grace's pale pink ball gown.

At the bottom of the stair, Grace pinned a pink rosebud to Quinn's coat and he leaned down to whisper something, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

He didn't appear to have even noticed Georgiana standing next to Rosamunde.

"You haven't forgotten, have you? You will honor me with the opening set?" Quinn asked Grace at the bottom of the stairs.

The pretty countess beamed. "Of course I haven't. I would be delighted, but what about Ata?"

"I had a word with Mr. Brown and I do believe he will make an effort in that corner."

"Quinn! You are becoming worse than Ata in your matchmaking efforts."

"Not at-at"—he stumbled over his words as he caught sight of Georgiana—"all. Matchmaking is much better left in the hands of women."

Grace giggled and it took all of his effort to resist the urge to look toward Georgiana again.
Why, she was virtually unrecognizable.
Quinn regained his senses and bowed to Grace before escorting Ata to Georgiana.

She appeared extraordinarily fragile in that flimsy ball gown with a bee theme he had asked Grace to design. He'd never seen Georgiana in anything except the shapeless, dark garb of every country miss. He now realized he had utterly failed to see behind the practical facade Georgiana wore so easily.

He noticed the tiny rosebuds in her lustrous brown hair, then glanced at her huge, dark eyes, which were like a caged lion's, wary and golden with the wisdom of the ages in their depths. He had opened his mouth to utter a nicety, when he chanced to observe the low cut of her gown. His mouth went dry.

"Georgiana, are ... are you chilled? Surely you would like me to get you a shawl." Why, he could see every curve of her bosom and even a hint of the tightened tips of her breasts. He hadn't known she was so perfectly proportioned. Another half inch lower and he would be able to see the rosy edge of—his groin reacted in a thoroughly predictable manner and he smothered a groan. Of all the impossible things.

"Thank you, but no. The dressmaker hid every last one of them," she said archly. "I'm sorry. I know this gown is indecent. I told Grace—"

The lady in question leaned forward and tsked. "Botheration, Georgiana, my gown is much more daring than yours. I've told you the gown would be considered positively spinsterish in town. Enough of this foolishness. Tell her to stand straighter, Quinn." The countess made her way to the duchess as the first guests entered the great hall.

Quinn tore his eyes from Georgiana's form and tried to ignore the unbrotherly feelings she inspired. His body pulsed with desire and he hoped she didn't notice the heat radiating from him. He turned slightly, glad to give himself over to the endless tedium of being a charming host to the arriving hordes, kissing the air above the many gloved fingers and bowing and presenting Georgiana and the rest of the widows. Yet his body refused to forget the vision of Georgiana beside him in that revealing gown.

He swallowed.

He was determined to make a statement to all those in attendance tonight. Since every last member of nobility and gentry alike residing in Cornwall, and many from London too, were there, he knew his actions would have an impact. Everyone would see he had accepted Georgiana as a rightful member of the Fortesque family. She was the newest Marchioness of Ellesmere. And he could sense the relief in many guests' expressions when he presented Georgiana as such and they finally knew how to address her.

As the person of highest rank, the Duke of Helston had been asked to dance the opening minuet with Georgiana. Quinn only hoped she was up to the task. He wasn't even sure she could dance, but a discreet query to Ata had settled the matter. He worried about the pain it might cause her leg.

Oh, she hid it well. But Quinn knew how much it probably cost her. He also knew better than to discuss it with her. She would only lie and say she suffered not. But anyone who had been with her that fateful day when she had fallen from that pine tree next to the cliffs knew differently. He shoved away the unpleasant memory.

"Quinn?" Grace plucked at his sleeve.

"My dear?"

"That's the last of them, I think. Shall we open the ball, then?"