The Kiss (4 page)

Georgiana's shoulders sagged at the sight of the pigsty. They really were going to have to do something about that new man they'd hired. The reworked trough was an abomination. It was uneven; the bottom quite obviously had a gaping edge. Slops were piling under it and the pigs appeared underfed.

There was no use trying to find someone to help her. She had sent everyone home early as the wind was up, the barometer down, and an ugly storm brewed on the horizon.

There was nothing to do but manage it on her own. Wasn't that the way it usually went anyway? She refused to acknowledge that was the way she preferred it.

Grabbing the heavy tool basket, she stepped into the deep muck of the pen, her skirt catching and tearing on a rusted nail. She muttered her annoyance and slogged past the jumble of sleeping pigs half-buried in the mud. The gown was for the ragman now—not even the lowest scullery maid would want it. She shrugged. Her gowns seemed to have shorter and shorter lives these days.

Carefully, Georgiana balanced the tools on the end of the trough and reached for the hammer. She eased out the bent and poorly placed nails in the rotting wood and one side of the trough fell heavily, awakening all the swine. She had but a minute or two to reposition the wood and hammer it correctly in place before squeals of piggish delight heralded a small stampede toward her.

Inquisitive wet snouts searched all around—beneath the fixed trough, the edge of a bucket, even under her pinned-up skir—

Her last thought as she teetered and lost the battle to keep her balance was that even the ragman wouldn't want her gown after this. She looked down to find that almost every inch of her was covered in the delightfully greenish-brown sludge that smelled so strongly of porcine elements that it brought tears to her eyes.

And of course, to add to the final humiliation, Gwendolyn—Georgiana hadn't been able to resist giving her mother-in-law's name to the largest and most intimidating sow—used her prodigious snout to tip over the tool basket, sending the heavy, blunt end of an ax right onto Georgiana's leg. Her
bad
knee.

"Ohhh," she moaned, grabbing her limb. "Damn you, you, idiotic, pathetic excuse for a ham. I'm personally carving the bacon off your condemned sides today, Gwendolyn." Georgiana finished her rant with a blasphemous slew of words that had taken two decades to learn from the laborers on the estate. She was quite proud of her considerable skill at swearing a blue streak in private.

A sudden movement caught her attention. She looked up to find
him
standing right in front of her.

Quinn.
Quinn Fortesque.

Good Lord.
It was he. She opened her mouth to speak, but not a word came to her lips. She was sure he could see her heart pounding in her chest. She had typically acted like an imbecile when he was about, and it seemed fifteen years hadn't changed that. In fact, it was going to be far worse for her now, for he had fully grown into the impossibly handsome man she had known he would become.

He was looking as coolly collected, as perfect, as impeccably dressed as a Marquis of Ellesmere should look. Without a hair out of place he stood there, his shoulders ridiculously broad, his stance wide, his hands on his hips. He appeared as permanent and as ageless as the great oak on the front lawn of Penrose as he took in the full majesty of the mucky scene.

And yet there was something different about him. It was his eyes ... or rather, his expression—the one thing about him she'd known she'd never be able to forget. Now there was none of the open warmth she remembered. Instead there was shadow.

"Well," he said, "that was an education. Although I'm not certain pigs can actually do what you suggested." His gaze never wavered from her own as a glimmer of amusement broke through his reserve at last.

"A person, a proper person at least, does not sneak up on a body," she muttered, hating to sound so defensive. She tore her gaze away from his before she made an utter fool of herself. "I'm completely justified—"

"It's good to see you too, Georgiana," he murmured.

She closed her eyes, the echo of his deep baritone warming her insides despite the clammy mud. His voice reminded her of hot brandy on a cold night. At least that hadn't changed.

Oh, this wasn't going at all like she had planned. Would life ever unfold the way she envisioned? She made timetables, she outlined, she prepared, and it never, ever went the way it should. Just one time—

"Let's see. I think a plank will work, if you'll just wait one moment," he said, turning to a nearby pile of lumber.

She began to mutter to herself, a lifelong habit she had never been able to conquer. "I'm fine, really. I don't need any help, unless you want to fetch a nice, long, sharp knife for that" —she almost said a most unladylike word— "vile, horrid piece of pork."

"Such language." He seesawed one board away from the rest of the pile. "Didn't your father always say, 'You can take the swine out of the barnyard, but you can't take the barnyard out of the swine?'"

"That's not at all how the saying goes," she sputtered. "Did you just call me a
pig?"

"Not at all. I was referring to that poor sow over there. You did just call her by my dear aunt's name, didn't you?" And then he finally relaxed his face fully and loosed that huge, deep, warm laugh that had always affected her breathing. Quinn shed his midnight blue coat and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his fine lawn shirt.

"No," she protested. "I won't be the cause of another ruined article of clothing." Georgiana rolled her hip to ease herself up, using her less-injured leg.

She had to stop staring at him; yet it was impossibly difficult to look away. It had been far too long, and she wished time would stand still so she could drink in the sight of him. Instead she forced herself to glance down and blow at a strand of hair caught in her mouth. No woman on earth could be less appealing than she at this moment. Thank goodness there were two undisturbed buckets of water nearby, and she quickly doused her arms, face and torso.

If she could just keep up the vaguely insulting banter the way good friends always did, he would never guess how much seeing him affected her. She had prayed so hard and for so long to be able to forget him, that the mesmerizing power he held over her would evaporate. Well, quite obviously the angels were having a good laugh right now.

She took a step toward the fence and forgot to do it with care. Her knee buckled and she grabbed onto the trough to avoid sliding back into the morass of slippery mud. She groaned before she could stifle the sound and closed her eyes against the pain radiating from her limb.

Suddenly she was hauled up by strong arms and she knew if she opened her eyes it would be Quinn. And she knew she would make a complete fool of herself if she allowed herself to drown in the depths of his gaze, his left eye slightly darker than his right, which had a wider band of mossy green surrounding the amber center. Oh, she had to collect herself, had to fortify herself against this. He had only ever held her once before, and at that time she had been almost unconscious from the pain and he—

"You smell—" he began.

"I know, I'm sorry," she interrupted, her head down, eyes firmly screwed shut.

"I was about to say that you smell
wonderful.
Rather like home," he said, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'd forgotten Penrose's sage and honey. Of course the muck and delicate aroma of slops ruins the effect, but then one can't be too particular when returning home."

His strength and deep voice lulled her and she forgot to keep her eyes shut—his unbearably handsome face was now inches away. The perfect symmetry was more starkly evident now that his innocent boyishness had given way to the thirty-one-year-old man he had become. The flesh of youth had disappeared, leaving prominent cheekbones and a jaw which served to emphasize the hollows of his beard-darkened cheeks. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, as if they had seen too much and slept too little. Mysterious masculinity made him even more remote than he had been before. She longed to touch his brown hair, which was cropped shorter than the last time she had seen him.

Oh, the feelings he evoked were worse than she remembered.
Far, far worse.
She couldn't have said another word while he held her if her life had depended upon it.

Oh God.
It was Quinn.
And he was home after fifteen long years. And he was carrying her in his arms.

Before she could stop, her hands acted on their own volition, creeping up and around his neck while she rested her cheek on the crest of his shoulder. A shoulder that was so much larger than it had been when he had been a boy and she had been a young girl. She almost trembled as the warmth of his body wound its way past the mud and the linen between them.

She couldn't stop from burying her nose in his shoulder and inhaling the warm cedar and rosemary essence that was impossible to smell unless she was against him like this. She had pined for this scent, always searching the village shops for a hint of it. She became lightheaded when her body flushed from the remembrance of the aroma.

He gripped her more closely as he lengthened his stride. "How bad is it?"

"It's just fine, really. Barely hurts at all. Set me down. I can walk now that we're on firm ground."

"But the ax fell on the same leg as before."

"Oh, I'd forgotten."
Right.
As if he of all people would believe that. The entire situation released a flood of bad memories.

"If it's all the same, I think I'll carry you up to the house,
Lady Ellesmere."

Her breath caught. "Don't call me that," she whispered.

He raised his brows.

Gusts of wind wrestled with leaves in the nearby trees, changing direction as a few fat raindrops landed on them. Within moments an avalanche of rain poured forth from the gray, rumbling clouds above. There was no point in hurrying the pace; they would be drenched to the bone by the time they reached the great house.

And suddenly it was too much—the banter, his closed expression and demeanor so unlike before, and yet all the while his poignant scent invading her senses. Worse, his arms around her meant nothing to him and everything to her.

"Put me down. I can continue on my own. I'm far too heavy. And I know why you're here. You really didn't need to bother." She had to almost shout to be heard above the rain shower. "I don't want a portion from the Fortesque coffers. I married Anthony because I loved him."

He paid no heed to her, only tightened his arms despite her squirming, and kept his thoughts to himself.

Georgiana finally wrenched herself from his grip and stumbled to the ground in front of the folly on the hill. A flash of lightning illuminated the dark sky and Quinn nearly fell trying to hold on to her.

Georgiana took the last few steps to the domed gray marble structure surrounded by Ionic columns, trying as hard as she could not to limp and failing abysmally. She swung around awkwardly and faced him.

Rain coursed down the harsh contours of his face, pausing at the hint of a cleft in his chin. His expression was murderously calm. He raked his fingers through his rain-slicked hair to comb it out of his eyes. "Look, Georgiana, you're hurt, and this is neither the time nor the place to discuss anything of importance."

"Actually, now that I think about it, perhaps this is the perfect time to discuss why you're here."

"Never let it be said that I would refuse a lady," he replied without a hint of ire. It was as if nothing could irritate him. "Why don't you tell me why I'm here, since you're certain you know."

"Lady Gwendolyn Ellesmere has sent you to toss the presumptuous marauder and her family of low connections from Penrose's hallowed grounds so that her ladyship can reassume her throne here."

She had to hand it to him. Not a muscle in his face twitched.

"No, no, Georgiana, you have it all wrong. I'm to kick you and your upstart family all the way to Wiltshire and have you tarred and feathered if at all possible. Yes, I do believe I will be given the honor of my dearest cousin Henrietta's hand in marriage if I manage it." As if to punctuate the ridiculous remark, a barn owl that had taken up residence in a nearby hollowed-out tree hooted its displeasure at the storm.

Georgiana's throat ached with a horrid combination of hurt and hollow humor. It was so unfair that he could almost make her laugh when she wanted to be annoyed. Henrietta was not only seven years Quinn's senior, but she was also the most mannish female alive and had the added attraction of being mean as well, which was ideal as it relieved everyone of having to like her.

"Well, since I seem to have lost the ability to make you laugh, shall I tell you the main reason I've come?"

He looked at her and tilted his head in that way Anthony also had used to do, and it made the ache in her throat triple in intensity. She nodded mutely.

"Mr. Tilden—I think you know the steward in London?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "During the course of reviewing all of the Fortesque holdings, he showed me the correspondence from Penrose for the last year. And—"

"And there is a considerable increase in the expenditures. I know, and I can explain—" She halted in mid-defense. There was something so calm in his expression, so patient and soothing, as if he could bear the weight of the world. He had always been like that, so unlike everyone else in that regard.

He said not a word, just looked at her, obviously thinking of something—of what, she had not a clue. She never could figure out what he was thinking. He had always been alone with his thoughts, letting others make fools of themselves by flapping their lips.

Oh, and all she could see was how deeply green the edges of his irises were in the mist left by the sudden rain. When had the rain ceased? "You were saying?" she said, trying to hold on to her shrinking dignity.

He cleared his throat. "I came here first and foremost to find out why the handwriting has changed on the reports from Penrose."

Her throat locked up.

"... Why it became wobbly a year ago and then changed altogether to someone else's hand several months ago. Is your father well, Georgiana? And now that I'm here, I'd like to know why the apparent newest Marchioness of Ellesmere is fixing a trough in the pigsty."