The Kiss (24 page)

The older man scratched his head. "And what, pray tell, happened to the glass?"

"I'll double your first-quarter wages if you do it by first light."

The older man raised his thick, gray eyebrows. "Fisticuffs, breaking windows . . . what will be next? I thought you were a fancy-word diplomat." He shook his head. "Are you certain you're not a sailor?"

Quinn rolled his eyes before grasping Grace's arm and escorting her to a table filled with refreshments.

A quarter of an hour later, they made their way toward Georgiana.

"Fairleigh refuses to stay in bed, Quinn. Mrs. Killen is rebraiding her hair, and she's to rejoin us in a few moments," Georgiana said when they walked up to her.

"Somehow I'm not surprised." Quinn shifted his gaze between the two ladies. There was no doubt who was deficient in appearance. Georgiana had a bit of straw in her hair, and her petticoat was slightly torn from the earlier race. There was a stain of something that looked like cherry pie on her gray gown, and there was a bit of dirt, too, on the other side, no doubt due to checking horse's hooves during judging. Grace had not a flaw on her person. The day had brought a pretty glow to her.

"Georgiana?" Grace asked, "Shall we go refresh ourselves? Do allow me to remove that bit of—"

"No," he said before he could stop himself. "She's lovely just the way she is. Reminds me of past festivals, when all the young girls and their mothers made corn dollies, and bits of straw were everywhere." He'd forgotten all about it until now.

"Why, you're exactly right. Georgiana is lovely—straw and all," Grace demurred.

"I believe it's time to start the bonfire, in any case," he announced.

"What happens after?" the countess asked.

"Everyone is free to walk about looking at the prize-winning articles and animals," he replied. "Some tour the estate or go to Loe Pool for boating. Others toast cheese at the fire. Everyone is at liberty until the fire burns out and the vicar sends up a final prayerful plea to the harvest gods for good weather and bountiful crops."

"I think I'd fancy a short row on the lake, Quinn," Grace said, with a smile. "And Georgiana could go with Miles. Shall we?"

He
loathed
the idea, of course. But he didn't want to disappoint Grace. Georgiana refused to meet his eye.

"It would be my pleasure," he replied.

"That would be lovely," Georgiana said at the precise same moment and became flustered.

"It's agreed, then." A smile lit Grace's face.

He bowed and extended an arm toward each lady, escorting them to a mock arrangement of druid stones, set in an ancient circular pattern. Enormous logs and sticks clogged the center, piled to the height of a small cottage. It was the one part of the festival he had seen to himself. He wanted it to be a sight everyone would remember—a fire so immense it would dwarf all previous harvest-festival bonfires.

And so it would be.

Grace's arm lightly rested atop his, her pale-pink-gloved fingers on the lace extending beyond his coat sleeve. He glanced at Georgiana's bronzed bare arm, which rested heavily on top of his other arm, her fingers grazing his, skin to skin. Her legs, or her knee, were obviously paining her. She of course said not a word.

He signaled to a footman to ring a peal to announce the lighting while he extended the small torch to Georgiana.

"Absolutely not," Georgiana said. "It's your duty."

"It's always been the task of the marquis and marchioness."

"No, it's the task of the marquis and
his wife,"
she insisted.

He stared at her, remembering what had passed between them late last night in the dell.

"I'm sorry to intrude, my lord." A red-faced footman trotted up, very embarrassed. "But the Dowager Marchioness of Ellesmere has arriv—"

"There is no need to introduce me, you dolt," Lady Gwendolyn Fortesque barked as she made her way to Quinn's side. "What in heaven's name is going on here? Never say it's a harvest festival. I didn't believe Mrs. Killen. Why ever didn't you write to me of this, Quinn?"

The dowager marchioness suddenly noticed the torch in his outstretched hand and Georgiana beside him. His aunt snatched it from his grasp before he could stop her.

"You weren't going to let her light the bonfire, were you?" Gwendolyn said, shock lacing her words. "I'm glad I got here in time. Why terrible luck and misfortune would have befallen the countryside if—"

"Are you related to Augustine Phelps?" Quinn muttered under his breath.

She obviously heard him. "Why, yes, indeed. Lovely girl. She's my goddaughter. Is she here? Oh, I long to see her."

Quinn glanced at Georgiana out of the corner of his eye. She was very pale.

His aunt seemed to recollect herself. "Come along, Quinn. Let's get on with the lighting before I greet Augustine and everyone else. Then I have a matter of the utmost importance to discuss with you. It's the reason I'm here. Traveled in a most uncomfortable fashion, day and night." Gwendolyn turned her glare on Georgiana. "Are you still here? Well, you, miss, had better go pack your bags. You've outstayed your welcome."

A slew of shocked gasps erupted all around. There was not a proper Cornishman, woman, or child who was not thoroughly versed in the fine art of eavesdropping. And the echoes of whispers coiling through the mass of people gathered proved that gossip was their next most beloved sport.

"I beg your pardon, madam," Quinn said stiffly. "Would you care to reconsider and rephrase your words more carefully? I'm certain the marchioness"—he glanced at Georgiana—"who has always been extraordinarily forgiving, will consider favorably your apology." Quinn grasped his relative's arm. "And then we'll retire to my studv"

The older lady dug in her heels and refused to budge. "I absolutely will not apologize to that scheming girl. She must have some sort of mysterious pull on your sex—women like her often do. Although what her allure is, I've never understood. She has had the audacity to insinuate herself here and—"

He hated to make a scene. Hated scandal. He'd had enough scandal with Cynthia to last him all his days. "Madam," he interrupted her loudly, and then dropped his voice, the ironlike force tightening around each syllable. "You have apparently forgotten who is the head of this family—perhaps from the fatigue of your long journey." He heard her shocked intake of breath. "Now, if you would kindly repair to the house immediately, I shall be delighted to continue this discussion in my study—after
Lady Ellesmere
and I light the bonfire." He strengthened his grasp on Gwendolyn's arm to encourage her retreat.

"Impossible! Georgiana Wilde was never legally married to my Anthony," the grand dame nearly shouted in her vexation. "And I have the proof of it right here. Mr. Tilden, finally proving of some use, made an inspired discovery—after you agreed to continue the inquiry."

"I never agreed to—"

"I always said you were bright. I told my husband you were. And Henrietta always thought you showed poten—" She finally stopped.

With each word the crowd had eased closer, silently, suffocating them. Quinn noticed Grace had drifted to Georgiana's side and was gripping her waist with one hand and her fingers with the other. Georgiana appeared rooted to the spot, like a fawn caught in the mesmerizing glow of a fire at nightfall.

And he felt equally caught in this god-awful nightmare. He moved to within inches of his aunt's face and stared at her, daring her to utter another word. He leaned down slowly and whispered, "I shall cut your annual portion in half if you utter one more wretched word. I told you I would hear you out—if only because Tilden is involved—but not now, not here. You shall turn around and repair to the house—to my study, to be precise—or go back to London. But there is one thing you will
not
do, and that is to remain here for one more bloody moment."

His aunt opened her mouth and then closed it quickly. Money always had been her soft, fleshy vulnerability. He resisted the urge to begin counting.

The dowager backed away slowly, absolute fury building on her sallow, aged face.

Quinn moved to Georgiana's side to say quietly, "I realize ordering you to do something is tantamount to ensuring a refusal. So I'm begging you to take this torch and light the bonfire. If you do not, in the eyes of every person here, she will be proved right and you wrong."

"How does she know?" She asked the question so hollowly he barely heard her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you continue the inquiry? I thought you said you weren't going to. You said—"

"I said I would end it. Now please, please take this torch. If not for me, then for
Anthony."
His stomach clenched in pain, but he forced himself to continue. "He would have wanted you to."

He noticed the growing buzz of conversation all around him. Snatches of phrases reached his ears.

"Maybe she shouldn't light it" . .. "Bad luck" ... "Wouldn't take the chance" ... "It's our livelihoods" . . .

"Well, that was a bloody poor display of your infamous diplomatic skills, old boy," Luc St. Aubyn said, leaning in closer from the skirts of the crowd. "But then I expected no less of you after last night's farce, for which you will
never
be forgiven no matter how prettily you ask."

"You're such a comfort, Helston. I don't know how I managed without you before."

Quinn turned to the crowd. "Your attention, please, everyone. I fear the dowager marchioness has been ill advised and is under a great misapprehension. I ask you all to have patience while this misunderstanding is sorted out. And . . ." Quinn paused when he felt sticky little fingers worm their way into his tight fist, and he glanced down, surprised to encounter the questioning expression of his daughter. An idea captured his mind. ". . . And I've a new tradition to begin today. I've long thought the harvest gods have been having their way with us—actually laughing at us mere mortals below—while an ancient stream of Elles-mere lords and ladies lit the bonfires through the generations. Yet, in all the tales I've read, the gods have always preferred the offerings of innocent young girls."

He heard Fairleigh giggle beside him. He looked down at her and stroked her soft, blonde curls, so unlike her mother's auburn hair.

"You're not going to sacrifice me in the fire are you, Papa?"

Bellows of laughter resonated in the late-afternoon light.

"I
won't if you promise not to eat any more sweets tonight."

"Oh, Papa, I think I can promise to never eat another sweet my entire life."

He handed Fairleigh the torch and directed her toward the pyre. "Careful, my darling," he whispered in her ear. "There now, light the nearest branch."

Firelight danced along a thin, dry reed, feasting on the material before racing to the branches above. Within a few moments a shower of sparks erupted, licking the larger timber.

Quinn glanced at all the hundreds of people surrounding the blaze. Firelight glowed on the awed faces of humanity. Quinn's cursed cynical outlook on life—something he tried to keep in check always—enveloped him. It served them all right, these lemmings, willing to believe an old harridan's rantings against one of their own. Georgiana was worth more than the lot of them any day of the week.

As he gazed down at Georgiana, who was instructing Fairleigh to toss in the torch, he wondered what all these ridiculous, superstitious folk would think if they discovered there was not a drop of his blood in his daughter's veins.

Not one drop.

He ruthlessly pushed back the thought—surprised he had dared to examine something he had buried so long ago. She was his daughter and he would kill anyone who dared to say a word otherwise. It was the very reason he had accepted the post so far away from London, away from the past—away from the extraordinary, ugly truths he'd been forced to face in his marriage.

"Fairleigh," he said, kneeling down to his beautiful child, "I want you to stay with Mrs. Winters and Mrs. Ashburton, here." He nodded to the two widows, who bobbed their acquiescence to his request.

He looked at Georgiana, who had drawn a shroud over her usually open expression. "I won't allow her to insult you."

Before she could reply, the tiny, wizened form of Ata appeared beside Georgiana. "Well, I won't let her face that woman without me."

"Nor without me," Grace said softly.

"This is ridiculous," Georgiana said.

"Luc?" Ata poked her grandson.

"Bloody hell. This is Ellesmere's problem, not mine. The man is nothing but problems, if you ask me."

Ata stamped her cane on his foot.

Quinn was amused to note how well Helston hid his discomfort.

"Delighted to help, Grandmamma.
Always enjoy a good debate. And Lady Gwendolyn should provide much entertainment, if recent history is any indication."

Quinn wasn't sure why he allowed the large group to accompany him and Georgiana. He typically preferred to sort out problems by himself. A prickle of uncertainty had pounded in his chest at the idea, and he held back a demand not to intercede.

It was quiet as the group walked toward the house in the lengthening shadows of twilight. Only the
en-onk, en-onk
of a
V
of geese above drew their attention. They appeared like skeins of brown and black wool unraveling across the rose-tinted sky. A drift of sapphire dragonflies skimmed along in the air currents in front of them, searching, always searching for less-fortunate creatures to capture.

Lady Gwendolyn sat beside the fire in the study, directing two footmen to use bellows on the blaze, as she was chilled.

"I suppose you've brought in your friends to argue against me." His aunt sniffed. She extracted a sheaf of papers from an old leather portfolio next to her. "But I'm actually grateful for the audience, for the sooner everyone knows the truth, the better.

"Georgiana Wilde left this parish for ten days to attend a fair during the critical period before the purported wedding ceremony." She shifted in her seat. "If one takes the time to carefully read the rules governing a Common License—"