The Kiss (8 page)

If Georgiana had known how awkward it would be to not own a name, she wouldn't have insisted after Anthony's death that everyone continue to address her as they had before her marriage.

Now everyone was confused. They didn't know whether to address her as "Miss Wilde," or to go against her wishes and use "Lady Ellesmere." The latter reminded Georgiana too much of her mother-in-law.

The housekeeper, servants, and laborers hedged their bets by sprinkling the bland "ma'am" in their responses or the more formal "madam" in the presence of others. The situation was worse than the endless stream of nicknames she had endured in childhood. She was Georgiana, Georgia, Miss G, and even George, to her younger brother when he was annoyed with her supervising ways. At least all the widows had adopted the use of her Christian name without hesitation. And she was grateful as she surveyed the powder keg of varying personalities assembled in Penrose's formal drawing room before dinner that evening.

The Duke of Helston, Luc St. Aubyn, paced before a raging fire in the massive fireplace. He had a sour look on his face as he addressed his host. "Well, I knew this was a monumentally bad idea. Is this the best you can do, Ellesmere?" He glanced in his wife's direction and shuttered his eyes. "Caroline and Henry will freeze in here, my dear."

His ravishing duchess, Rosamunde St. Aubyn, grasped his wrist to stay his incessant steps. A small bundle swaddled in lace and linen befitting a prince lay in the crook of her arm. The beautiful sleeping infant's tiny smile trembled in sweet dreamland. "Luc," she said softly, "Henry is perfectly content."

"Well," he responded, "perhaps. But Caro is chilled."

Ata cradled the other sleeping babe on her lap, a look of complete rapture on her wrinkled face. She appeared not to have heard a word. Indeed, she had stopped talking entirely when the duke and duchess had arrived with the twins.

"I said," Luc repeated, "Caro is
chilled,
Ata."

His duchess, silent, seemed to know better than to confront a lion protecting his pride of cubs.

Ata refused to meet her grandson's eye. "You can't have her. It's still my turn. I was to have fifteen minutes. And really, I think it should be thirty since I haven't seen her in so long."

The duke sighed heavily and took out his frustration by waving away a footman and then throwing a massive log on the burning timbers, which only served to send a dazzling amount of sparks up the flue. He grabbed the poker and began poking and muttering something about "infernal turns."

Georgiana smothered a laugh and glanced at Quinn under her lashes. He had the knowing look of a man well amused.

"It would seem," Quinn said without a glimmer of emotion, "Your Grace has not yet perceived the benefit of having a ready supply of arms. You might reconsider this shortly. There is nothing quite so exhausting as a new baby, or babies in your case."

"And it would seem you know little about the matter, Ellesmere," Luc said, frost emanating from his every pore. "But then I've always said that about diplomats. Always willing to advise, but never willing to
do.
The doing is always left to sailors or soldiers, true men willing to face death instead of—"

"Luc!" Rosamunde interrupted with horror and then directed her attention to her host. "Please excuse him, my lord."

The rest of the widows—Grace, Sarah, and Elizabeth—had retreated from such fireworks to admire the vast display of art gracing the walls surrounding them.

"That's quite all right, Your Grace. There must be some latitude given to new fathers," Quinn said with amusement to Rosamunde. "And I've always observed there is a reason God divides temperaments. There will always be those who lead by calm, rational, intelligent example and those who think fear and brute force inspire loyalty. And then there is the force of nature called fatherhood. Your husband displays that force—quite well, if I may be allowed to say."

Luc growled.

Ata looked up finally. "My dear Quinn, you simply must see Caro's face. She looks just like me."

Georgiana smiled to herself as she watched Quinn go to Ata's side. Surely that had to be the hundredth time Ata had uttered those words in the last few weeks. The baby woke with a start and began to cry. Luc St. Aubyn appeared as if he was going to snatch the baby from his grandmother and head for the hills of Amberley, eight miles distant.

"No, Luc," his wife said softly, catching his tightly clenched hand again. "I need your help with Henry." The twin had woken, hearing his sister's distress, and his tightly clenched little fists matched his father's. Luc clasped the infant to his shoulder and began the smooth pacing every parent seems to learn within minutes of their offspring's birth.

Tiny Caro cried most pitifully and Ata began to look a little frantic. Quinn interceded with his perpetual grace and calm. "Will you allow me the pleasure of holding her?"

Ata looked at him warily, very unwilling to give up her great-grandchild.

"I want to examine her likeness to you," he said.

"Oh yes, do. See how her eyes are wide apart, and she has the dearest widow's peak, and—"

Georgiana watched as Quinn expertly took the baby in both hands and rocked her while crooning into her tiny ear a lullaby about bunting and hunting. The baby immediately quieted and reached out to grab a lock of his shorn brown hair. He smoothly transferred her to his shoulder and stroked her head.

Was there anything more attractive than a man willing and able to soothe a crying infant? Georgiana realized that her yearning for Quinn had reached a new level. What she would give to have him stroke her head and whisper anything in her ear—even if it involved lambs and nappies. She glanced at the other widows and realized, by the looks on their faces, they were all thinking the same pathetic thought. Georgiana shook her head and made her way to the new duchess's side.

"Rosamunde," Georgiana whispered as the others continued to converse amongst themselves. "Shall we dine as we did at Amberley—in shifts?"

"He's very handsome, Georgiana," Rosamunde said softly, ignoring the question.

"Yes, I know."

"How long ago did his wife die?"

"Rosamunde!"

The beautiful duchess, her ethereal pale aquamarine eyes sparkling, smiled shrewdly. "You're in love with him," she said very quietly, knowingly.

Georgiana quickly glanced around to make sure no one had heard the outrageous statement.

"I absolutely am
not."

She cocked a brow. "So it doesn't bother you that Grace, as well as Elizabeth, and even shy Sarah are looking at him as if they would all be delighted by the chance to become a marchioness? Didn't Grace confide she's determined to arrange a marriage of convenience this year? Hmmm. He has such charm, such restraint, not at all like the fiery Helstons. In fact, if I wasn't already married" —and here she glanced at the darkly devilish duke and smiled, giving away her game—"why, I do believe I'd be very tempted to—"

"Stop," Georgiana said. "I'm well aware of his effect on our sex."

Rosamunde brushed aside Georgiana's lace fichu and stared hard at the small brooch all the widows had seen and commented on from time to time. Georgiana always wore the tiny Lover's Eye she had painted ages ago and framed in the jeweled brooch she had inherited from her father's family.

The duchess smiled slowly. "You mentioned Quinn is very much like your husband. I would say he looks almost
exactly
like him—or at least his eye—if this is any indication."

"Please, Rosamunde . . ." Georgiana begged softly. Oh God, Rosamunde always had been the most perceptive of all of them.

Rosamunde stroked her hand. "Come, help me up. I'm still embarrassingly weak. I only came tonight because I wanted to smooth over Ata's hurt feelings." She called out to her husband, "Luc, dear, shall we retreat to the other chamber with the infants while the others dine? And then we shall have our turn."

"How many, many,
many
times do I have to tell everyone that dukes do
not
take turns," he said more loudly than necessary.

The widows dared to giggle.

"I shall have a footman bring you plates, Your Grace," Georgiana insisted, forgetting, in the heat of his blast, the usual informality they shared.

Luc approached Quinn and with a single disdainful glance dared him to refuse to hand over the twin.

Quinn smiled. "Do you always get your wish, Helston? I find your ways singularly extraordinary."

Luc, he of the most devilish smile in all of Christendom, looked ready to do murder as he placed his other baby on the opposite shoulder. "Diplomats never can stand the heat of the cannon, Ellesmere. But if you can muster enough of your infamous charm to keep my grandmother and the gaggle of her friends away from Amberley for the next month or six, I shall pretend to think better of you than I do."

"I shudder to think of the alternative," Quinn replied with the hint of a smile.

With that, Luc St. Aubyn, better known as the Devil of Helston, exited before a footman ushered the other guests from the room, leaving Georgiana and Quinn momentarily alone.

"This is the gentleman under whose roof you stayed for a portion of the past year?" Quinn asked.

"When I was not needed here, yes. Ata and the other widows staying at the Helston estate were a great comfort to me after Anthony died," she murmured. "And the duke is actually a very good man. In fact, the best of men."

"Your ability to judge a man's character has deteriorated."

Georgiana stiffened. "No, not really." She gazed at him steadily. "If I have a flaw it is that once I form an acquaintance, there seems to be little the person can do or
not do
to shake me from my original opinion and feelings." She stopped suddenly, horrified at having had the audacity to admit something that cut so close to her heart. She searched his face in vain for the minutest indication of his understanding of the state of her heart, but his eyes were still mesmerizing pools of secrets and timeless mystery. She tried to ignore the discomforting silence.

Her gaze dropped to her dull gown and fingered the frayed edge of a pocket. The old silk mourning gown matched her mood—dark gray, and dreary to the very edges.

"Georgiana," he said quietly. "It's been a year. I think you might consider wearing colors again."

He was always so perceptive. Why couldn't he see her heart? But then again, and perhaps worse, he did and only pretended he didn't in order to allow her to save face. "I've never worn colors. Browns and grays are much more practical."

"It won't do for you to be beyond the fringes of fashion. I shall arrange for a dressmaker from town to attend to you." He cleared his throat. "You would do well to confer with the Countess of Sheffield on the style and colors that will suit you."

"But I'm not at all like Grace Sheffey, and never will be," she whispered.

"She seems very kind, and I'm certain she would be willing to help you."

"Yes, but—"

"How long has she been a member of your little circle?"

Oh . . . her heart plummeted. It was as Rosa-munde had suggested. In less than a day some sort of interest had formed between Grace and Quinn. "Are you asking me how long the countess has been a widow?"