A Kiss to Remember

Laura groped behind her for the hay bale, forced to sit again.

  Dower drew a crumpled broadside from his pocket and held it out to her. "They been circulatin' these all over town in the 'opes o' findin' out wot 'appened to 'im."

  Laura took the broadside from Dower, bracing herself to study a sketch by an artist who couldn't possibly do justice to his subject. Surely not even a master like Reynolds or Gainsborough could have captured the roguish slant of her fiancé's smile or the winning way his eyes crinkled in the bright sunlight.

  She smoothed the broadside over her knee to find a pair of small, piggy eyes set deep in fleshy pockets squinting up at her. She leaned closer to the sketch. A bushy set of side whiskers did little to disguise the man's ample jowls. His brow was crowned by a head of black curls so lush as to be almost feminine.

  Laura recoiled from the sketch. No artist, not even a blind one, could be that inept.

  Springing to her feet, she shook the broadside at Dower. "This isn't him! This isn't my Nicholas!"

  Dower scratched his head, looking genuinely baffled. "Never said it was, did I? You just asked me if there was a missin' gent."

  Laura didn't know whether to kick him or kiss him. She compromised by throwing her arms around his neck. "Why, you wretched, wonderful old man! What would I ever do without you?"

  "Steady now, gel. If I want the life choked out o' me, I'll go provoke me wife." Squirming out of her embrace, Dower stabbed the bowl of his pipe at the broadside. "This still don't prove that young gent o' yours ain't goin' to murder us all in our beds in the dark o' night."

  A curious flush traveled through Laura's body. She might not know Nicholas's real name, but she did know that if he came to her bed in the dark of night, it wouldn't be with murder on his mind.

  But Dower's words succeeded in putting a damper on her relief. She'd been so overjoyed to learn that her fiancé wasn't a philandering husband and the father of five squalling brats that she'd momentarily forgotten they still hadn't a single clue to his identity.

  "You're absolutely right, Dower. You'll simply have to return to London in a few days and make more inquiries. If I'm to be married on the Wednesday before my birthday, we haven't much time." She threw open the barn door, flooding the shadows with sunshine, and stood gazing wistfully up at the second-story window of Lady Eleanor's chamber. "I can't imagine why no one has missed him. If he were mine and I lost him, I'd search day and night until he was safely home again."

  "Your cousin has gone missing."

  For eleven years, Diana Harlow had waited to hear that voice.

  Had dreamed of the moment when its owner might stroll through the door of whatever room she happened to be occupying at the time. She had imagined a thousand different variations of her reaction from gracious welcome to aloof dismissal to withering disdain. But she had never dreamed that when the moment finally came, she would be powerless to do anything but continue to stare down at the ledger in front of her on the desk, even as its neat columns and rows of numbers blurred to an indecipherable jumble.

  "Your cousin has gone missing," her unannounced guest repeated as he crossed the study and halted before the desk. "Have you any notion of his whereabouts?"

  Diana slowly raised her head to find herself looking into the crisp green eyes of Thane DeMille, the marquess of Gillingham and Sterling's most devoted friend. Although time and the self-indulgent excesses expected of any high-living young buck had stamped their mark on his boyish features, his hair was still the same rich russet she remembered. His shoulders and limbs had lost their gangly awkwardness, nicely filling out a gray cutaway coat, a silver-and-burgundy striped waistcoat, and a pair of fawn trousers. He balanced a top hat and walking stick in his elegant hands.

  She returned her attention to the ledger, keenly aware of the limp strand of hair that had escaped her chignon and the smudges of ink on her fingers. "My cousin has never made his whereabouts a matter of my concern. Have you made inquiries at all of his usual haunts—Almack's? White's? Newmarket?" She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to inscribe another neat row of figures. "If he's not to be found in any of those places, I suggest you try the drawing room of the sisters Wilson."

  The Wilson sisters were notorious Cyprians, their fondness for wealthy gentlemen of the ton surpassed only by their skills at pleasuring them.

  If Thane was shocked that she knew the name of such an establishment, much less was bold enough to mention it in mixed company, he hid it behind a mocking smile. "It just so happens that I spoke with Miss Harriette Wilson only last night. She hasn't seen Sterling since he returned from France."

  Diana's pen slipped, turning a zero into a nine. She slowly closed the ledger and peered up at Thane over the top of her spectacles. "I sincerely doubt that there's any great cause for alarm. Like you, my cousin is a man of varied interests and a low tolerance for boredom. He's probably just off indulging one of his many appetites."

  Thane's mouth tightened. "I might be inclined to agree with you if it weren't for this."

  Striding to the door, he slipped two fingers into his mouth and let out a most ungentlemanly whistle.

  Sterling's mastiffs came padding into the room, their enormous heads drooping and their eyes downcast. They bore little resemblance to the magnificent creatures that had trotted into the study at their master's heels only a few short days ago. They milled about the room aimlessly, as if lost without Sterling's voice to guide them. Not even the small white cat napping on the hearth could stir their interest.

  "Down, Caliban. Down, Cerberus," Thane commanded.

  The dogs spared him little more than a morose glance before wending their way to the window. They nudged aside the brocade draperies and settled back on their hindquarters, pressing their noses to the window as they gazed down upon the fog-shrouded street.

  "I don't understand," Diana said, frowning.

  Thane threw himself into the leather wing chair opposite the desk.

  She had forgotten that about him. He never sat. He always sprawled. "They've been moping about in this manner ever since Sterling disappeared. They won't eat. They won't sleep. They spend half the night whimpering and whining." Scowling, he flicked a brindle hair off of his lapel. "And they shed abominably."

  Diana couldn't quite bite back her smile. "Perhaps you're in need of a competent valet, not a duke."

  Thane leaned forward, fixing her with a penetrating stare. "Have you ever known Sterling to go anywhere for any length of time without those two beasts at his side? Even the French called them his chiens de diable—his devil dogs—and swore they'd been sent to escort his soul to hell if he should fall on the battlefield."

  As Diana considered his words, she felt her first tingle of apprehension. She shuffled a stack of papers to occupy her unsteady hands. "Just how long has he been missing?"

  "Nearly a week. Thursday morning around ten o'clock he informed one of my grooms that he was going for a ride in Hyde Park. It was the last anyone has seen of him."

  "Surely you don't suspect he's been the victim of some sort of foul play?"

  "As disagreeable as it may be, I fear we must consider the possibility."

  Diana fought her growing panic. Despite their constant quibbling, she adored her roguish cousin as much as he adored her. He might play the devil for the rest of the world, but to her, he would always be the guardian angel who had borne the brunt of her father's displeasure so she wouldn't have to.

  "There's no need to fear the worst, is there?" she asked. "He could have been the victim of a kidnapping."

  "A likelihood I considered myself. But there have been no threats, no demands for ransom. And besides, if someone were foolhardy enough to abduct your cousin, they'd probably end up paying us to take him back. Why, that scathing tongue of his alone would break the spirit of even the most dastardly of villains."

  Diana was too worried to be cheered by his grim humor. "But who would seek to do Sterling harm? Does he have any enemies?"

  Thane arched a
n eyebrow, making her realize just how ridiculous her question was. "Well, let me think," he said, drumming his fingernails on the arm of the chair. "There's the two hapless young fellows he winged in recent duels before they could even get a shot off. Then there's Lord Reginald Danforth, former owner of a charming country estate in Derbyshire that now belongs to your cousin thanks to a winning hand of whist. Oh, and I nearly forgot his passionate dalliance with the lovely Lady Elizabeth Hewitt. To Sterling's credit, he didn't realize the lady in question was married until after their liaison. But I'm afraid her husband didn't appreciate the distinction. He would have called Sterling out himself if he hadn't heard about the earlier duels and feared suffering a similar humiliation."

  Sighing bleakly, Diana slipped off her spectacles to rub the bridge of her nose. "Is there anyone in London who wouldn't wish him ill?"

  "You and I."

  Thane's soft-spoken words stung her. For eleven years, the two of them had been linked only in the minds of the most persistent gossips who had never forgotten the night their engagement—and her heart—had been irrevocably broken. Gazing at him without her spectacles made her feel as if her eyes were as unguarded as her memories.

  She slipped them back on with a brisk motion and began to scribble notes on a fresh sheet of stationery. "Then you and I must be the ones to find him. I shall hire a detective while you question all of Sterling's acquaintances. It might be best to keep our inquiries discreet until we have some leads. We wouldn't wish to cause a panic." She glanced up at him. "Does that plan meet with your agreement?"

  "I'm simply flattered that you bothered to consult me at all. It's not been a habit of yours in the past."

  Although his stinging challenge whipped heat into her cheeks, she refused to be drawn into a duel of words she could not hope to win. "If we are to work together for Sterling's good, it might be best if we forget the past and concentrate on the future—his future, to be exact."

  "As you wish, my lady." Thane rose, taking up his hat. "I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon so we can discuss our progress." As he started for the door, one of the mastiffs let out a plaintive whine.

  Diana grimaced as the animal drooled on one of her father's priceless Turkish rugs. "Aren't you forgetting something, my lord?"

  "Hm? Oh, of course." His expression utterly innocent, Thane returned to the chair to tuck the walking stick beneath his arm.

  "I meant the dogs," she said icily.

  His mocking grin was just as infuriating as she remembered it to be. "Ah, but they're your dogs now, my lady. If you require the services of a competent valet, I'd be happy to recommend one." Sketching her a crisp bow, he left her the way he had found her.

  Alone.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Although I don't deserve it,

  God has blessed me with a new family.

  Laura Fairleigh was a woman of her word.

  Nicholas hadn't guessed he would come to rue that particular virtue, but as the days passed and she made good on her vow never to be alone with him, he began to wish she would suffer another lapse in moral judgment. Although his headaches were fading nearly as fast as the lump on his skull, he considered feigning a setback purely in the hope that she might attempt to kiss him back to life.

  She had obviously enlisted others to assist her in her mission. If he was so fortunate as to enter the drawing room and find her alone, they would barely have time to exchange the most impersonal of pleasantries before Cookie would come bustling in, trailing a length of white crepe for her young missie's approval or an experimental batch of almond icing for the bride cake that she would beg them both to taste. If they happened to meet on the landing outside their bedchambers, Lottie would materialize like a puckish sprite, waving a short story or poem she'd just written.

  And he always managed to find Laura sipping her tea alone at the kitchen table at the precise moment George would come banging through the door with an armload of firewood, his cheery whistle making Nicholas want to choke the lad.

  If this kept up, he would soon be reduced to brushing past his fiancée on the stairs, trying to steal a whiff of her hair.

  She'd done nothing to stir his suspicions since the day she'd rushed off to meet with Dower in the barn. Since he was reasonably certain she wasn't cuckolding him with the grizzled old man, Nicholas had almost succeeded in convincing himself that he simply possessed a mistrustful and jealous nature he'd do well to curb.

  He managed to do just that until Thursday afternoon when he saw her start down the lane on foot with a mysterious burden tucked beneath her cloak.

  Nicholas watched her go through the lace of the drawing room curtains, torn between instinct and honor.

  Dower had set off at dawn with his flocks and Cookie was puttering about in the kitchen, humming beneath her breath. Lottie and George were in the study, quarreling over a noisy game of spillikins.

  While George accused Lottie of blowing his jackstraws into a most unmanageable pile when he wasn't looking, Nicholas slipped out the front door of the manor and started after Laura, walking just fast enough to keep the slender, bonneted figure in sight without overtaking her. The day was overcast with a northerly wind and a snap in the air that made it feel more like autumn than summer.

  Laura set a brisk pace, which didn't surprise him. In the past few days, he had learned that his betrothed was no delicate flower of womanhood content to dabble in needlework and watercolor.

  She was just as likely to be found perched on a rickety ladder dusting the crown molding as she was practicing a new piece on the pianoforte. While Cookie reigned over the kitchen with a flour-dusted rolling pin as her scepter, Laura tended both the flower and the herb gardens with an enthusiasm that frequently left her cheeks flushed with exertion and a charming dab of dirt on the tip of her nose.

  She had nearly reached the outskirts of the village when she made an abrupt turn toward the church. Nicholas hung back, watching her every move from behind the trunk of a stately old oak. Although he felt like the worst sort of scoundrel, he couldn't make himself turn back. Not when he might discover what secret had cast the shadow of fear in those sparkling brown eyes of hers.

  He could only hope he wasn't about to realize his own worst fear. Had some man supplanted him in her affections? And if so, would she be so bold as to rendezvous with him in the village church?

  But she ignored the stone steps of the church, passing instead beneath the gabled lych-gate that led into the churchyard. Nicholas followed, but hesitated just outside the gate. Despite Laura's assurances of his devout nature, he still didn't feel quite welcome on hallowed ground.

  As Laura disappeared over a grassy knoll, he slipped into the churchyard. A burst of chill wind sent dead leaves whipping around the gravestones in a crackling frenzy. Some of the stones were so old they sat at awkward angles in the ground, their inscriptions half-buried or worn away completely by wind, rain, and time.

  He found Laura kneeling between two well-weathered stones on the far side of the cemetery. He halted, watching in silence as she drew her mysterious burden out from beneath her cloak.

  It was a great armful of flowers—larkspurs, chrysanthemums, marigolds, irises, lilies—all freshly cut from the garden she tended with her own hands.

  As she placed a colorful bouquet at the foot of each stone, arranging the stems with tender care, Nicholas collapsed against a crumbling tomb, feeling like the most contemptible of villains. Laura had come to this place to pay tribute to her parents and he had stalked her as if she were a common criminal. If he had even a shred of decency in his soul, he would creep back to the manor and leave her to grieve in solitude.

  But his desire to be near her was stronger than his shame. So he lingered, watching as she turned away from her parents' graves and carried the remaining flowers to a nearby pair of stones. She didn't spare the first marker so much as a glance, but she knelt reverently beside the second. The stone was new, without even
a hint of lichen to mar its rough-hewn surface. Although the summer grass hadn't had time to blanket the raw earth, a small alabaster angel kept vigil over the grave, its chubby little hands folded in prayer.

  Oddly enough, it wasn't the fresh grave but the angel that sent a shiver through Nicholas's soul. He found himself moving forward without realizing it, inexorably drawn toward that forlorn guardian.

  Laura had removed her gloves and begun to tug at the weeds around the edges of the grave. She was so focused upon her task that she didn't even hear him approach.

  He didn't stop until he was near enough to read the inscription carved into the stone—an inscription that was both stark and elegant in its simplicity.

  Eleanor Harlow, Beloved Mother.

  "Who was she?"

  As Laura dropped her handful of weeds and turned her head, she was surprised to see Nicholas standing over her, his handsome face closed and still.

  She pressed a hand to her thudding heart, despising the guilty conscience that made her so jumpy. "You gave me a terrible fright! I thought you were a ghost."

  "Were you expecting one?" he asked, nodding at the grave.

  It took Laura a second to divine his meaning, but when she did, she shook her head. "I can't think of anyone less likely to go about haunting someone than Lady Eleanor."

  Nicholas reached down and drew her to her feet. Her knees had grown stiff from kneeling and she stumbled against him for a fraction of a moment, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was no ghost, but flesh and blood. Hot blood surging beneath warm, masculine flesh.

  "Who was she?" he repeated, gazing down into her eyes.

  Dragging both her hand and her look away from him, Laura bent to gather up the remaining flowers. "Most people would call her our guardian. I prefer to think of her as our guardian angel. She was the one who offered my father his living as the rector of Arden." Laying a white lily atop the stone, Laura smiled wistfully. "After our parents died, she took us in and gave the children and me a home."