Her face flooded with color, her eyes wide.
He pulled his hand from his mouth, noting the blood dotting his fingers. “What in the hell was that?”
Dahlia had to gasp to keep from weeping. She clasped her hands together, her heart slowing to a sick thud. “I—I—” She didn’t know what to say. Blood seeped from his bottom lip, and he was limping, too, grimacing when his weight rested on his leg. Good God, I’ve almost killed the man. “Your lip is bleeding.”
“Of course it’s bleeding,” he snapped. “You jammed your mouth against mine as if you were a starving hermit and I was a sugar cake. Blast it, woman, who taught you to kiss?”
Dahlia’s face felt as if it might burst into flames. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” In the thousands of times she’d imagined her first kiss, she’d never once worried about injuring her partner. Fighting rising tears, she managed to gulp out, “I don’t know how that happened. I just . . . reacted.”
He touched his lip gingerly. “You’ve split my lip. You didn’t do my knee any favors, either. Good God, what were you trying to do?”
“That’s— I wasn’t— I—I—I—” She covered her face and turned away.
Kirk saw her face an instant before she turned, his irritation fleeing before the tears that spiked her long lashes. “Dahlia, don’t—”
“No! I—I didn’t want to kiss you, anyway!”
His sense of irony made him shake his head. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh!” She grasped her skirts and whirled toward the salon.
“Dahlia, don’t—” He grabbed her arm and held her in place. “Please. Just listen. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t. The kiss—even talking to you—has been a mistake.” She jerked her arm free, her cheeks stained with a deep blush. “I’m returning to the salon.”
Kirk caught her arm again. “No.”
She sent a pointed look at the place where his hand encircled her arm.
He ground his teeth and released her. “Dahlia, please. Be reasonable—”
“Reasonable? Since when have I been anything else? You’re the one who is overreacting!”
“Me? I’m not the one stomping my foot.”
“That’s only because you can’t, or it would hurt your knee. Now, I’m going back into the salon. I shouldn’t be here alone with you, anyway. Someone could come along at any minute.”
“No one is coming along, and if they did, the door is wide open. Besides, the music just started and they’ll all be dancing.”
“Which is what I want to be doing, too.”
He regarded her somberly. “You want to dance.”
“What woman wouldn’t want to be swept about a ballroom in the arms of a graceful man?”
He looked down at his injured leg. “I will never be able to dance.”
For a second her expression softened, but apparently the memory of their kiss flooded back, for she flushed and then her gaze hardened yet again. “I think we’ve injured each other enough for one evening, Lord Kirk. I’m returning to the salon.”
“Wait. Dahlia, that kiss. It should never have happened like that. I take full responsibility for it. I thought you were more experienced and—”
“Oh! So you thought I was ‘experienced’?”
“No, no. I didn’t mean it that way. I just—” He rubbed his temple where an ache was building. Good God, how do I keep getting myself into these situations?
Her chin couldn’t be held any higher. “The kiss was a mistake and should never have happened. I would appreciate it if you forgot it, which is what I intend to do.”
“Dahlia, you took me by surprise, so I wasn’t braced for your full weight and—”
“My full weight?” She couldn’t stand any stiffer if she’d been a plank of wood.
“No, no,” he said hastily, cursing his unwieldy tongue. “I just meant I wasn’t prepared to lift something as heavy as—”
“Oh!”
“No, no! As heavy as a person. That’s what I was going to say!”
“Humph. Whatever you were going to say, let me assure you that I will never, ever kiss you again. Ever!” Her voice was as icy as morning frost. “And while you’re cowering in the corner, afraid someone might attempt to kiss you again when you’re ‘not ready,’ I’ll be in the salon dancing with every man who will ask me—because that is why I came to the duchess’s. For romance, Kirk. I came here to experience a grand passion, to kiss someone who won’t cringe when I do so, and to dance until I can’t dance anymore—all of which I shall do without you!” With that, she marched back into the salon, her back stiff with disapproval.
Kirk glared at the empty door, rubbing his throbbing knee. Bloody hell, could he have handled that any worse? He didn’t think so. But good God, she hadn’t given him a chance! Now she was so angry . . . how did one speak to a furious woman, anyway? Was there a right way? Things were so complicated, so—
A cough sounded behind him and he turned to find the two footmen had returned. They were both staring straight ahead, their expressions impassive.
“How long have you been there?”
“We jus’ returned, me lor’,” said one.
Kirk realized that the man was discreetly holding out his hand, palm up. Scowling, Kirk dug into his pocket and grabbed the coins he found there and dropped them into the man’s waiting hand. “Split that between you.”
The footman glanced at his palm and then gulped, his eyes widening. “Me lor’, tha’ is far too much—”
“Keep it.”
“But me lor’, ’tis—”
“Damn it, must everyone argue with me? Keep the damn coins. I don’t want them.” And with that, cane clutched in his hand, his temper boiling over, Kirk made his way to the stairs and limped his way to his bedchamber.
* * *
Kirk slammed the door and tossed his cane into the corner. The cane bounced off the wall, hit the rug, and then rolled under the bed.
From where he stood just inside the water closet, MacCreedy stopped adding bath salts to the large copper tub that occupied one corner and peered into the room. He eyed the cane where it was partially hidden under the bed. “Tha’ is no a guid sign.”
“Pack my bags. There’s no use in my staying a moment more.”
The valet’s bushy brows rose. “Did some’at happen, me lor’?”
“It was a horrid mess. The whole damn night was an unmitigated disaster. All of it.”
MacCreedy nodded thoughtfully and added a touch more of the salts to the bath before replacing the container on a small table under the window.
“Did you hear me?”
“Och, indeed, I did, bu’ I canno’ see the benefit in wastin’ guid hot water. Can ye?”
The bath did look inviting, and the throbbing in his knee seemed to be growing by the moment. “Fine. We’ll stay tonight. But we’re leaving first thing in the morning.”
“O’ course we will, me lor’.”
Too angry to sit still yet, even in a hot bath, Kirk limped to the window and leaned against the frame, staring outside with unseeing eyes. He rubbed his chest, where a dull ache seemed to have settled. It felt as if his heart had been stabbed—and it had been, by his own stubborn foolishness.
“Ye look as if ye’ve lost yer last friend.”
Kirk’s throat tightened. In some ways, Dahlia seemed as if she were exactly that—his last friend. Bloody hell, when had that happened?
“May I ask wha’ occurred? Surely it canno’ be so bad as ye think it.”
“Whatever you might imagine, it was worse.”
“Ye knocked a candle o’er on Miss Balfour and set her afire,” MacCreedy said without hesitation. “And she, panicky like a rabbit, ran outdoors and down the drive, ne’er to be seen again.”
Kirk gave a bark of laughter, his despair fading a bit. “Fine. That would have been worse.”
“There ye go. Wha’ever happened, so long as it wasna’ a fi
re and she dinna’ run away, then we can repair it.”
“Not this, I fear. I made the gravest of all errors.”
“And wha’ was tha’, me lor’?”
“I kissed Miss Balfour.”
MacCreedy looked impressed. “Did ye now? And how is tha’ an error?”
“It’s an error when she threw herself upon my neck and nearly strangled me, and bloodied my lip in the process.”
The valet chuckled. “Enthusiastic, were she? I’d say tha’ was a guid thing.”
“Yes, but during her kiss, I not only yelled in pain, for both my lip and knee were afire, but I—” God, he hated to say it aloud.
“Ye?” MacCreedy prompted.
“I asked her what in the hell she thought she was doing. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I pushed her away.”
The valet winced. “Och, tha’ might well be as bad as a fire.”
“I warned you. I didn’t mean it, of course, for I was pleased she’d welcomed my kiss. I truly was.”
“O’ course ye were.”
“But she took me by surprise, and my knee twisted and it felt as if knives were being shoved into it, and then she banged her mouth into mine and split my lip, and so—” Kirk absently touched his swollen lip. “Damn my temper. It shall be the death of me yet.”
“When ye explain all tha’ happened, ’tis no wonder tha’ ye reacted poorly.”
“Yes, well, explain that to Miss Balfour, for she wouldn’t hear a word from me afterward. And frankly, I don’t blame her. Bloody hell, the whole thing was horrible.”
Kirk couldn’t bring himself to mention the hurt he’d seen in her eyes. That had been the worst part. “I ruined everything, MacCreedy. There’s no chance now.” His voice was as bleak as his heart. Damn it all, why can’t I learn to speak with more gentleness? I want to be kind to her, but I can’t seem to find the way to be so. “She would be right to never speak to me again.”
Sighing, Kirk looked out into the dark courtyard. It was pitch-black, lit by only a faint yellow streak that escaped from a window hither and yon, yet it was no darker than his spirit.
“And the miss, me lor’? Did she say she ne’er wished to speak to ye again?”
“Among other things, yes.” Kirk turned from the darkness and made his way to the fire, limping heavily. Once there, he added some wood to the flickering flames. “The entire conversation was a wretched display of my temper, and her reaction to it. I did, however, receive some clear direction from Miss Balfour. She was very forthcoming about her intentions in attending this house party; she is here for one reason and one reason only—to find romance, and I’m not to interfere with her plans.”
“Did she tell ye all o’ this after ye rejected her?”
“I didn’t reject her.”
MacCreedy’s thick white brows rose.
Kirk flushed. “I’m sure it seemed to her as if I did, but it’s not how I intended it. Damn it all, I’d pay good money for another kiss from her!”
“Ye’d pay?”
“Yes, not that she’d accept it or— Damn it, that’s not the point. The point is that although I sounded and looked as if I were rejecting her, I was doing no such thing. I was merely in pain. That’s all.”
“Aye, me lor’. ’Tis interestin’ tha’ she announced why she’s here, after ye said wha’ ye did.”
“ ‘Interesting’ isn’t the word I’d use. Her words brought me to a standstill, for I can’t offer her what she wants.”
“No?”
“No. I wish I could, but it’s not in me. I find such silliness abhorrent and, damn it, she knows that. She wishes to meet someone who will sweep her off her feet, recite poems, bring her flowers, swirl her across the dance floor—I can do none of those things. I’ve never written a poem in my life. I suppose I could bring her flowers, but I can’t dance with this weak leg and— Damn it, it’s just not possible.”
“Och, dinna say so.” The valet tested the heat of the huge tub and then returned to the bedchamber, where he placed a towel over a chair near the fire to warm. “I doubt things are as bad as ye think.”
“I find that difficult to believe.” Kirk undid his cravat and threw it on the bed. “At least now I can get out of these ridiculous clothes.”
“There ye are, me lor’. Find the bright side o’ it. Why dinna ye take yer bath and ha’ a nice think whilst ye soak yer leg. Wellington used to say a guid bath was the best place fer strategizin’, and it seems tha’ is exactly wha’ ye need to be doin’.”
Kirk tugged his shirt over his head. “Strategy? You talk as if the entire thing were a chess game.”
“Och, no. ’Tis no’ a chess game but a war, me lor’, the oldest war known to man: the one betwixt the sexes.”
“At this point, it feels more like a very long, very difficult chore, like mucking out the stables—after the horse has kicked one in the teeth.” Kirk sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his shoes.
The valet chuckled quietly. “I daresay it do. But ye’ve come this far, me lor’. It’d be sad to quit now.”
To be honest, as much as Kirk wanted to pack up his belongings and go back to his peaceful existence at Fordyce Castle, he was quite aware that he couldn’t—and damn well wouldn’t—walk away. If he did, it would leave Dahlia in a castle full of potential suitors. Just this evening, he’d noticed the way that fool—Dallon? Dalton? Something with a “D”—had been ogling Dahlia when Kirk had approached her in the salon before their argument.
While Kirk didn’t care for romance, he understood passion very well and there could be no mistaking the purely physical interest in the callow youth’s eyes. I’ll be damned if I leave Dahlia alone to be taken advantage of by such fools and gapeseeds. She’s never properly chaperoned, which is something I should discuss with the duchess.
He tossed his shirt aside and stepped out of his breeches, and limped to where the hot water beckoned.
MacCreedy chuckled when Kirk sighed happily on slipping into the scented water. “Better already, eh?”
“Some.” Kirk liked the big tub, which was longer than the one he had at Fordyce Castle. The warm water eased the pain in his knee, although it did nothing to help him stop thinking about Dahlia and his predicament.
He leaned his head against the headrest and slid down until the water covered his shoulders. How could he fix things between them? And while it was certainly true that the duchess wasn’t chaperoning Dahlia sufficiently, now that he thought about it, he might be the one to suffer if he mentioned it.
No, better to leave things as they were, but take charge of her chaperonage himself. He’d have to be subtle, but it could be done.
Of course, none of that addressed the real problem—which was how to overcome the breach that had arisen between them after that damned kiss. He didn’t even know where to start. He rubbed water over his face and brushed his hair from his forehead. “Women are indecipherable.”
“Tha’ they are. Some more tha’ others.” The valet sent him a curious look. “Ye were married afore, were ye no’, me lor’? Did ye learn somethin’ of value fro’ tha’?”
“No, Elspeth was very different from Dahlia. And so was I, back then. We married young—too young. Because of that, we were both given to drama, and our relationship, while based on love, was stormy.”
“Tha’ can wear a body oot.”
“Yes, it can. Fortunately, I’m far too old for such silliness now.”
“So ye dinna think Miss Balfour the type given to drama.”
“I know she’s not. Or I thought she wasn’t.” He frowned. “I always knew she had a proclivity toward romance, but a normal amount, not this grand”—he threw out an arm—“whatever it is.”
“I dinna know a woman no’ given to romance.”
“Perhaps it was naïve of me to think her different. I just . . .” He struggled to find the words. Finally he said, “There’s a peaceful quality to Dahlia, a spirit that’s at ease when all is quiet. It makes being with h
er very easy.” And a complete delight. “Elspeth was never that way.”
“Bu’ it dinna cause ye problems?”
“I loved Elspeth very much, so I suppose I didn’t mind her dramatics the way I would now.” He thought about this. “But I’m quite different now, too, especially since the accident.”
“When ye lost yer wife.” MacCreedy collected Kirk’s discarded cravat from the bed. “Mayhap ye dislike the drama now because it reminds ye o’ yer first wife and the pain o’ losin’ her?”
Was that it? Was emotion distasteful to him now because it reminded him of Elspeth, and for so long, he’d wished to think of anything but her? “I suppose it’s possible that at one time my dislike of this romance nonsense was because it reminded me of Elspeth, but now . . .” He considered his life, and the things he loved. “Now I think I’m simply too used to my own company and my own ways to go back to that silliness.”
“Och, ’tis bad to become too used to yer own ways. Ye need people about ye, and tha’ means compromise, or ye’ll ha’ a sad and lonely life.”
That was true. He had been lonely, and hadn’t even realized it. After the pain of Elspeth’s death, and brought low by his physical wounds, it had taken him years to overcome his own despair. Later, however, having immersed himself in his books and music, and having accepted his scar and limp and all that came with them, he’d finally found peace and had been satisfied with his life.
Or he had been, until Miss Dahlia Balfour had appeared. After her visits, he’d found himself enjoying her refreshing look at life, the way she passionately delved into every book she read, her bold honesty and all that went with it. Soon he found himself missing her when she wasn’t present, thinking about her constantly, and—eventually—admitting he wanted her in his life.
After their argument over his well-meaning but ill-worded marriage proposal and her subsequent refusal to speak to him again, he’d missed her far, far more than he’d expected.
He sighed and idly picked up the soap from where MacCreedy had placed it beside the tub. “Miss Balfour is not your average female. She’s a woman of considerable intellect and curiosity, and yet—as contrary as it seems—when it comes to courtship, she apparently possesses a strong nonsensical streak.” He soaped the wet cloth, his mind now thoroughly engaged in the trouble at hand. “That’s where I made my error before, not recognizing that shortcoming.”