A Kiss to Remember

  "That bit of news will warm the heart of every ambitious belle and matchmaking mama in the city. So tell me, what brought on this sudden yearning for home and hearth?"

  "I'll soon be requiring an heir and unlike dear old Uncle Granville, God rest his black soul, I've no intention of purchasing one."

  A bone-chilling growl swelled through the room, almost as if Sterling's mention of his uncle had invoked some unearthly presence. He peered over the top of the desk to find the mastiffs peering beneath it, their tails quivering at attention.

  Diana slowly leaned back in her chair to reveal the dainty white cat curled up in her lap.

  Sterling scowled. "Shouldn't that be in the barns? You know I can't abide the creatures."

  Giving Sterling a feline smile of her own, Diana stroked the cat beneath its fluffy chin. "Yes, I know."

  Sterling sighed. "Down, Caliban. Down, Cerberus." As the dogs slunk over to the hearth rug to pout, he said, "I don't know why I bothered going off to war to fight the French when I could have stayed here and fought with you."

  In truth, they both knew why he'd gone.

  It hadn't taken Sterling long to discover why his uncle wasn't averse to a show of spirit in a lad. It was because the old wretch took such brutal pleasure in caning it out of him. Sterling had stoically endured his uncle's attempts to mold him into the next duke until he'd reached the age of seventeen, and like his father before him, shot up eight inches in as many months.

  Sterling would never forget the cold winter night he had turned and ripped the cane from his uncle's gnarled hands. The old man had quailed before him, waiting for the blows to begin falling.

  Sterling still couldn't say whether it was contempt for his uncle or for himself that had driven him to snap the cane in two, hurl it at his uncle's feet, and walk away. The old man had never laid a hand on him again. A few short months later, Sterling had left Devonbrooke Hall, rejecting the grand tour his uncle had planned in favor of a ten-year tour of Napoleon's battlefields. His stellar military career was punctuated by frequent visits to London, during which he played as hard as he had fought.

  "You might consider coming home to stay," Diana said. "My father's been dead for over six years now."

  Sterling shook his head, his smile laced with regret. "Some ghosts can never be laid to rest."

  "As well I know," she replied, her eyes distant.

  His uncle had never once caned her. As a female, she wasn't worthy of even that much of his attention.

  Sterling reached for her hand, but she was already drawing a folded, cream-colored piece of stationery from beneath the blotter. "This came in the post over five months ago. I would have had it forwarded to your regiment, but…" Her graceful shrug spoke volumes.

  Proving her judgment sound, Sterling slid open a drawer and prepared to toss the missive onto a thick stack of identical letters—all addressed to Sterling Harlow, Lord Devonbrooke, and all unopened. But something stilled his hand. Although the fragrance of orange blossoms still clung to the stationery, the handwriting was not the gently looping script he had come to expect. A strange frisson, as subtle as a woman's breath, lifted the hairs at his nape.

  "Open it," he commanded, pressing the letter back into Diana's hand.

  Diana swallowed. "Are you certain?"

  He nodded curtly.

  Her hand trembled as she slid an ivory-handled letter opener beneath the wax seal and unfolded the missive. "'Dear Lord Devonbrooke,'" she read softly. "'I regret to inform you that your mother has passed from this world to a much kinder one.'" Diana hesitated, then continued with obvious reluctance. "'Although you chose to ignore her repeated pleas for reconciliation over the past few years, she died with your name on her lips. I trust the news will not cause you any undue distress. Ever your humble servant, Miss Laura Fairleigh.'"

  Diana slowly lowered the letter to the desk and drew off her spectacles. "Oh, Sterling, I'm so sorry."

  A muscle in his jaw twitched once, then was still. Without a word, he took the letter from Diana's hands, dropped it in the drawer, and slid the drawer shut, leaving the fragrance of orange blossoms lingering in the air.

  A smile curved his lips, deepening the dimple in his right cheek that always struck dread in his opponents, whether across the gaming tables or the battlefield. "This Miss Fairleigh sounds less than humble to me. Just who is this cheeky chit who dares to reproach the all-powerful duke of Devonbrooke?"

  He waited while Diana consulted a leather-bound ledger. His cousin kept meticulous records on all the properties that had once belonged to her father, but now belonged to him.

  "She's a rector's daughter. An orphan, I believe. Your mother took her in, along with her young brother and sister, seven years ago after their parents were killed in an unfortunate fire that destroyed the estate's rectory."

  "How very charitable of her." Sterling shook his head wryly. "A rector's daughter. I should have known. There's nothing quite like the righteous indignation of some poor deluded fool who fancies she has God fighting on her side." He whipped a sheet of stationery from a teakwood tray and slid it in front of Diana. "Pen a missive at once. Inform this Miss Fairleigh that the duke of Devonbrooke will be arriving in Hertfordshire in a month's time to take full possession of his property."

  Diana gaped at him, letting the ledger fall shut. "You can't be serious."

  "And why not? Both my parents are dead now. That would make Arden Manor mine, would it not?"

  "And just what do you plan to do with the orphans? Cast them into the street?"

  He stroked his chin. "I'll have my solicitor seek out situations for them. They'll probably thank me for my largesse. After all, three children left too long to their own devices can only arrive at mischief."

  "Miss Fairleigh is no longer a child," Diana reminded him. "She's a woman grown."

  Sterling shrugged. "Then I'll find her a husband—some enlisted man or law clerk who won't mind taking a cheeky chit to bride to curry my favor."

  Diana clapped a hand to her breast, glaring at him. "You're such a romantic. It warms my heart."

  "And you're an incorrigible scold," Sterling retorted, tweaking her patrician nose.

  He rose, the casual motion bringing the mastiffs to attention. Diana waited until he'd crossed to the door, the dogs at his heels, before saying softly, "I still don't understand, Sterling. Arden is nothing but a humble country manor, little more than a cottage. Why would you wish to claim it for your own when you have a dozen vast estates you've never even bothered to visit?"

  He hesitated, his eyes touched by bleak humor. "My parents sold my soul to obtain the deed to it. Perhaps I just want to decide for myself if it was worth the cost."

  After sketching her a flawless bow, he closed the door behind him, leaving her to stroke the cat in her lap, her brow furrowed in a pensive frown.

  "Soulless devil! Odious toad! Truffle-snorting man-pig! Oh, the wretched nerve of him!"

  George and Lottie watched Laura storm back and forth across the drawing room in slack-jawed amazement. They'd never before seen their even-tempered sister in such an impressive rage. Even the rich brown hair that had been gathered in a tidy knot at the crown of her head quivered with indignation.

  Laura spun around, waving the letter in her hand. The expensive stationery was woefully crumpled from having been wadded up in her fist numerous times since it had arrived in the morning post.

  "He didn't even have the common decency to pen the letter himself. He had his cousin write it! I can just see the heartless ogre now. He's probably rubbing his fat little hands together in greedy glee as he contemplates snatching the very roof from over our heads. It's no wonder they call him the Devil of Devonbrooke!"

  "But Lady Eleanor died over five months ago," George said. "Why did he wait so long to contact us?"

  "According to this letter, he's been abroad for the last several months," Laura replied. "Probably off on some Continental tour, no doubt gorging himself on the shameless pleasures of a
ny overindulged libertine."

  "I'll bet he's a dwarf," Lottie ventured.

  "Or a humpbacked troll with broken teeth and an insatiable appetite for ten-year-old brats." George curled his hands into claws and went lurching at Lottie, eliciting a squeal shrill enough to send the kittens napping beneath her petticoats scattering across the threadbare rug. Lottie never went anywhere without a herd of kittens trailing behind her. There were times when Laura would have sworn her little sister was spawning them herself.

  Laura was forced to make an awkward hop to keep from tripping over one of them. Rather than darting for safety, the yellow tabby plopped down on its hindquarters and began to lick one paw with disdain, as if their near collision was solely Laura's fault.

  "You needn't look so smug," she informed the little cat. "If we get evicted, you'll soon be gobbling down barn mice instead of those nice, juicy kippers you fancy."

  Sobering, George sank down beside Lottie on the settee. "Can he really evict us? And if he does, what's to become of us?"

  Laura's laugh held little amusement. "Oh, we've nothing to worry about. Listen to this—'Lord Devonbrooke begs your forgiveness,' " she read with contempt. " 'He sincerely regrets having been lax in his duties for so long. As the new master of Arden Manor, he will gladly shoulder the responsibility of finding new situations for you.'" She crumpled the letter again. "Situations indeed! He probably plans to cast us into the workhouse."

  "I've never cared much for work. I do believe I'd prefer to be cast into the streets," Lottie said thoughtfully. "I'd make a rather fetching beggar, don't you think? Can't you just see me standing on a snowy street corner clutching a tin cup in my frostbitten fingers?" She heaved a sigh. "I'd grow paler and thinner with each passing day until I finally expired of consumption in the arms of some handsome, but aloof, stranger." She illustrated her words by swooning onto the settee and pressing the back of one plump little hand to her brow.

  "The only thing you're likely to expire of," George muttered, "is eating too many of Cookie's teacakes."

  Reviving herself, Lottie stuck her tongue out at him.

  George sprang to his feet, raking his sandy hair out of his hazel eyes. "I know! I'll challenge the blackguard to a duel! He won't dare refuse me. Why, I'll be thirteen in December—nearly a man."

  "Having no roof over my head and a dead brother isn't going to make me feel one whit better," Laura said grimly, shoving him back down.

  "We could murder him," Lottie suggested cheerfully. A precocious reader of Gothic novels, she'd been dying to murder someone ever since she'd finished Mrs. Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho.

  Laura snorted. "Given the unfeeling way he ignored his mother's letters for all these years, it would probably take a silver bullet or a stake through the heart."

  "I don't understand," George said. "How can he toss us out on our arses"—catching Laura's warning glare, he cleared his throat—"on our ears when Lady Eleanor promised us that Arden Manor would always be our home?"

  Laura moved to the window and drew back one of the lace curtains, avoiding her brother's shrewd gaze. "I never told you this before because I didn't want either of you to worry, but Lady Eleanor's promise possessed certain… stipulations."

  George and Lottie exchanged an apprehensive glance before saying in unison, "Such as?"

  Laura faced them, the truth tumbling out in a rush. "To inherit Arden Manor, I must marry before I reach my twenty-first birthday."

  Lottie gasped while George groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  "You needn't look so appalled," Laura said with a sniff. "It's rather insulting."

  "But you've already turned down a dozen proposals from every unmarried man in the village," George pointed out. "You knew Lady Eleanor didn't approve of you being so persnickety. That's probably why she tried to force your hand."

  "Tooley Grantham's given to gluttony," Lottie said, ticking off Laura's reservations about her potential suitors on her pudgy little fingers. "Wesley Trumble's too hairy. Huey Kleef slurps when he eats. And Tom Dillmore always has little creases of dirt in the folds of his neck and behind his ears."

  Laura shuddered. "I suppose you want me to spend the rest of my life with some hulking bear of a man with no table manners and an abhorrence of bathing."

  "It might be better than spending the rest of your life waiting for a man who doesn't exist," George said darkly.

  "But you know I've always dreamed of marrying a man who could carry on Papa's work in the parish. Most of the men in the village can't even read. Nor do they care to learn."

  Lottie twined one long golden curl around her finger. "It's a pity I'm not the older sister. 'Twould be a great sacrifice, of course, but I'd be perfectly willing to marry for money instead of love. Then I could take care of you and George forever. And I wouldn't have any trouble catching a rich husband. I'm going to be quite the Incomparable Beauty, you know. Everyone says so."

  "You're already an Incomparable Bore," George muttered. He turned his accusing gaze on Laura. "You might have mentioned needing a husband sooner, you know. While there was still time to find you one who meets your exacting standards."

  Laura plopped down on a creaky ottoman and rested her chin in her hand. "How was I to know that anyone but us would even want this run-down old place? I suppose I thought we could simply go on living here as long as we liked with no one ever the wiser."

  Unshed tears stung her eyes. The sunlight pouring through the east windows only served to underscore the genteel shabbiness of the drawing room. The petit-point roses embroidered on the settee cushions had long ago faded to a watery pink. An unsightly mildew stain marred the plaster frieze over the door, while a moldy stack of leather-bound books was being used to prop up one of the broken legs of the rosewood pianoforte. Arden Manor might be a humble country house that reflected only a shadow of its former glory, but to them it was home.

  The only home any of them had known since they'd lost their parents over seven years ago.

  Slowly becoming aware that her brother and sister's dejected faces mirrored her own, Laura rose, forcing a smile. "There's no need for such long faces. We've an entire month before this Lord Devil arrives."

  "But we've only a little over three weeks before your birthday," George reminded her.

  Laura nodded. "I realize the situation seems hopeless, but we must always remember what Papa taught us—through prayer and persistence, the good Lord will provide."

  "What should we tell Him to send us?" Lottie asked eagerly, bouncing to her feet.

  Laura pondered her answer for a long moment, her pious demeanor at odds with the determined gleam in her eye. "A man."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  It seems an eternity since I last

  laid eyes on your sweet face …

  Sterling Harlow was going home.

  When he had summoned Thane's groom and ordered his mount to be readied that morning, he would have sworn he was simply going for a ride in Hyde Park. He truly believed he had no more pressing expectations for his day than to flash a lazy smile and tip his hat as he engaged in a series of mild flirtations with any lady who happened to catch his eye. That was to have been followed, as it invariably was, by a hearty lunch, an afternoon nap, and a night of gaming with Thane at the tables of White's or Watier's.

  Which didn't explain why he had driven his horse into a feverish canter and was already leaving the congested alleys of London behind for the open country lanes.

  The hedgerows and stone fences flew past, framed by the ripe green of the rolling meadows beyond. The summer sky was a dazzling blue with clouds grazing like fluffy lambs across a field of azure. Fresh air flooded his lungs, driving out the city soot, and making him feel drunk and more than a little dangerous.

  He rode hard for nearly an hour before he recognized the emotion seething through him.

  He was angry. Angry as hell.

  Shocked by the discovery, he slowed the mare
to a trot. He'd had twenty-one years to perfect the chill detachment suitable for a man of his station. And it had taken one sanctimonious country miss two minutes to destroy it.

  He had tucked her letter away in the drawer of Diana's desk three days ago, never to be seen or read again. But her voice still echoed through his head—prim and waspish in its attempt to prick a conscience deliberately dulled by years of indifference.

  Although you chose to ignore her repeated pleas for reconciliation over the past few years, she died with your name on her lips. I trust the news will not cause you any undue distress.

  Sterling snorted. How difficult was it for Miss Laura Fairleigh to appoint herself his mother's champion? After all, his mother had given her a home.

  She had cast him out of one.

  It was only too easy to imagine the self-righteous little prig ensconced in the cozy drawing room of Arden Manor. She had probably sat at the rosewood secretaire to write the missive, tucking the pen between her pursed lips while she searched for a scathing turn of phrase with which to damn him. He could even see her smug siblings hovering at her elbow, begging her to read the letter aloud so they could make sport of him.

  Perhaps after she'd sealed the letter with a tidy wafer of wax, they had all gathered around his mother's beloved pianoforte in the gentle glow of the lamplight to sing hymns and thank God for making them so morally superior to an unforgiving wretch like him.

  The image brought him yet another astonishing realization.

  He was jealous. Ridiculously, pathetically, ragingly jealous.

  The emotion was utterly foreign to him. While he might covet a beautiful woman or a fine piece of horseflesh that belonged to another man, he had never suffered any particular hardship on those rare occasions when he was denied what he admired.

  But he was jealous of the children who lived in the house that had once been his home. He hadn't even allowed himself to think of Arden Manor for years, but suddenly he could almost feel the prick of the thorns on the tangle of roses climbing up the whitewashed bricks. He could smell the piquant tang of his mother's herb garden and see a fat yellow cat drowsing on the back stoop in the noonday sun.