A Kiss to Remember Read online

  He gripped the edge of the table, waiting for them to steady. Not quite ready to face the mirror, he studied the surface of the dressing table instead. There was an air of charming disarray about it, making it appear that a lady had just finished her toilette and might wander back into the room at any time. A paper of pins lay open, their pearl heads spilling across a thin dusting of rice powder. A silver-backed hairbrush still held several threads of auburn hair interwoven with gray. He lifted the stopper from a bottle of scent. The heady scent of orange blossoms filled him with an ineffable sense of loss.

  Spilling out of a lacquered box was a gold locket inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He drew it into his hands, fumbling with the delicate hasp. A lock of blond, baby-fine hair had been tenderly tucked inside the graceful oval. He wondered if anyone had ever cherished him enough to preserve such a memento of his innocence. Snapping the locket shut, he dropped it back in the box.

  He couldn't avoid the man in the mirror forever. Drawing in a shaky breath, he leaned forward, desperate for any glimmer of recognition.

  A stranger gazed back at him.

  He wanted to recoil, but couldn't. He was too fascinated by the wild-haired, wary-eyed satyr who inhabited the mirror. He possessed a face most of society would call irresistibly handsome if they didn't mind the hint of arrogance in his brow or the sardonic slashes framing his mouth. It was the face of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, the sort of face that would wield power in this world, not by virtue of its goodness or character but because of the sheer physical force of its fluid planes and angles. He had to admit that it was a remarkably compelling face.

  He just wasn't sure it was one he cared to wear.

  Regardless of what Laura claimed, it did not appear to be the face of a man who behaved with perfect decorum toward his betrothed.

  "How do you do," he said to the man in the mirror. "My name is Nicholas. Nicholas… Radcliffe." He frowned. The name felt as strange and thick to his tongue as a foreign language. "I'm Mr. Nicholas Radcliffe," he repeated forcefully, "and this is my fiancée, Miss Laura Fairleigh."

  There. That felt a bit more natural. Her name rolled off his tongue with the familiarity of a well-loved song.

  He ran a hand over the golden whiskers stubbling his jaw. What on earth had those two dim-witted servants been thinking to leave an innocent girl at the mercy of a man who looked like him?

  If she was innocent, that is.

  With that faintly snubbed nose that crinkled when she smiled and the smattering of freckles across her sun-kissed cheeks, she certainly looked the part. The thick brown hair piled atop her head had held just a hint of curl while her sable eyebrows arched over eyes as rich and sweet as a vat of melted chocolate.

  She was no beauty, but she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. "Bloody hell," he muttered, glaring at his reflection, "for all you can remember, she's the only woman you've ever seen." Unless you counted the harpy with the hatchet and the faint shadow of a mustache on her upper lip—something he most certainly wasn't inclined to do.

  The glint in the eye of the stranger in the mirror was unmistakably cynical. He would advise a woman to lie to such a man only at her own peril.

  So why was Laura Fairleigh willing to take the risk? He couldn't even say why he was so sure she was lying to him. Some instinct deeper than memory seemed to be warning him. Perhaps she wasn't lying so much as not revealing the whole truth. Was their betrothal an arranged one, lacking in true affection? Or had they had a nasty quarrel before he last went off to battle? His next thought left him feeling strangely cold.

  Perhaps she had been unfaithful to him in his absence. Perhaps she'd grown weary of waiting for him to return and sought solace in the arms of another man.

  Guilt would explain her stammering, her reluctance to meet his eyes, the way her pulse had raced beneath his fingertips when he had caressed the silky skin of her wrist.

  But so would shyness. If they'd been apart for as long as she'd implied, it would only be natural for his physical nearness to intimidate her. Perhaps, like any maiden, she was simply waiting for him to woo her back into his arms with pretty words and chaste kisses.

  Remembering the way the rosy pink muslin of her gown had clung to her rosy pink skin, he was forced to admit that he just might enjoy devoting himself to such a task. His fiancée might be as slender and long limbed as a colt, but her curves possessed a woman's alluring grace. He'd learned that in the moment they'd tumbled into the bed together and her high, firm breasts had come to press against his side. He adjusted the quilt, discovering that it wasn't as much of a relief as he'd hoped to have something other than his head throbbing.

  "Well, Nicholas, my man," he said to his rueful reflection. "Until your memory returns, I suppose you've no choice but to bide your time and get to know both yourself and your young bride-to-be."

  His fiancée might be hoping to trap him in a web of lies, but one undeniable gem of truth hung in its glistening threads—Laura Fairleigh would not be a difficult woman to adore.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Missing you has driven me

  nearly mad with grief…

  "Have you lost your wits, child?" Cookie wailed, plopping down on a bale of hay. "You can't just up and marry a stranger."

  George pounded his fist on the splintered bench he was straddling. "She certainly can't! Because I'm the man of this family and I damn well won't allow it!"

  "Don't swear, George," Laura said automatically.

  Dower reached down and gave George's ears a gentle box. "You 'eard your sister, lad. Don't swear. It ain't Christian. And besides, if anyone round 'ere is to stop 'er from marryin' the swivin' bastard, it'll be me."

  Laura sighed. Taking into account George's tendency to be overprotective, Lottie's inability to whisper, and Dower's colorful vocabulary, she had decided to call a family meeting in the barn, well out of earshot of the object of their discussion. After she'd outlined her plan with what she believed was the perfect mix of brilliant ingenuity and irrefutable logic, they had all erupted with varying degrees of disbelief and outrage, proving her instincts sound. Even the aged milk cow hanging her head over the stall Dower was leaning against blinked her liquid brown eyes and let out a reproachful moo.

  From the nest she'd made for herself and her kittens in the hayloft, Lottie began to sniffle, the usual precursor to noisy sobs. "What will happen to us if he finds out we've lied to him? Suppose he summons the authorities and has us hung?"

  "Hanged," Laura corrected gently.

  Dower snorted. "And 'ow's 'e to bring the hauthorities down on our 'eads when 'e's prob'ly a fugitive from the law 'isself? A clever gent loik 'im ain't goin' to risk gettin' 'isself 'anged."

  "He'll never believe us," George predicted glumly.

  "Of course he will," Laura insisted. "You just have to get into the spirit of the thing. It won't be one whit different from the theatricals Lady Eleanor helped us put on for the village children every Christmas. Why, everyone has always said that Lottie's portrayal of the Baby Jesus was wrenching enough to bring a tear to the eye of even the staunchest heathen."

  "It brung a tear to my eye," Dower said. " 'Specially when I 'ad to tote a babe wot weighed over five stone to the manger." He rubbed at his lower back. "Me lumbago's been plaguin' me ever since."

  "At least you didn't have to try to convince them village brats you was a virgin," Cookie said. "When I gave that fancy speech 'bout never havin' known a man, Abel Grantham laughed so hard he fell off his donkey into the manger and nearly crushed poor Baby Jesus."

  Laura remembered the incident only too well. She had been the one who had rushed forward to drag a sputtering Abel off a howling Lottie. No amount of frankincense and myrrh could have covered up the stench of whiskey on the Wise Man's breath.

  Reluctant to remind them of the other disasters that had occurred during their amateur theatricals, such as the time Dower's smoldering pipe had set George's turb
an afire or the night the flocks had escaped their shepherds and wandered bleating through the aisles of the village church, Laura pasted on a cheerful smile. "That's exactly how you should see our latest endeavor. As naught but a harmless bit of playacting."

  Cookie shook her head sorrowfully. "What you're proposin' ain't playactin', child. It's lyin'. And no good ever come from lyin' to a man." She shot the barn door an uneasy look. "Especially a man such as that one."

  Laura's cheery smile vanished. "That may be true, Cookie. But I'm fully convinced that even less good can come from telling the truth."

  They all stared at her, taken aback by the steely edge in her voice.

  As Laura began to pace between the stalls, the only sound that accompanied her was the fluttering of the swallows that roosted in the eaves. "As I see it, we're running out of choices. Since I have no intention of marrying one of the men from the village and being miserable for the rest of my life, our only other option is to entrust our future to the hands of Sterling Harlow. And I doubt they call him the Devil of Devonbrooke for naught. The last thing I wanted to do was frighten you, but have any of you really stopped to ponder what manner of situations a man like that might arrange for us?"

  Resting her hand on a splintery post, Laura peered up into the loft. Her sister's eyes glistened down at her from the shadows. "Lottie, I don't think it's uncommon for girls of your age to be banished to the workhouses. To labor from dawn to midnight until their spirits are as broken as their backs."

  "I shouldn't mind," Lottie said fiercely. "As long as you didn't have to marry that ill-tempered troglodyte."

  "But what would become of your fine, soft hands? And your hair?"

  Lottie touched a trembling hand to her curls. They all knew that the only thing she remembered of their papa was that he used to call her his little Goldilocks. "I could wear it in braids, I suppose."

  Laura shook her head, hating herself in that moment nearly as much as she hated Sterling Harlow. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible. Once the lice got hold of it, they would have no choice but to crop it all off."

  George surged to his feet. "He wouldn't dare put me in such a place! I'm old enough to run away and join the navy!"

  Laura turned to him, her expression as regretful as her tone. "As much as you like to fancy yourself a man, George, you're not one yet."

  Her brother flung himself back down on the bench, refusing to look at her.

  Laura moved to kneel before Cookie, peering up into the old woman's stricken face. "And what about you and Dower? How long do you think this duke will keep you in his employ at your age? If Lady Eleanor hadn't considered you members of her own family, she would have put you both out to pasture years ago."

  "This old ram's still got a bit o' fire left in 'is 'orn, 'e does," Dower proclaimed.

  Laura reached up to cradle one of the old man's knobby hands in her own. "During the summer months, perhaps. But what about those cold winter nights when your knuckles swell and crack and bleed until you can hardly bend them? You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Cookie? You've heard him pacing the floor at all hours of the night because he was in too much pain to sleep."

  As Cookie looked away, avoiding her gaze, Dower pulled Laura to her feet. "It don't matter if we all end up in the work-'ouse with broken backs and bleedin' knuckles. We still think too 'ighly o' you to let you sell yourself to a stranger on our account."

  Laura snatched her hand from his, her desperation growing. "That's precisely what I'm asking you to do—think of me! Have any of you stopped and asked yourselves what will become of me if this duke claims Arden Manor for his own?"

  Dower scratched his grizzled head. "You're an educated gel, ain't you? You could become one o' them there gov'nusses wot teaches the gents' brats."

  Laura sighed. "I know this is going to come as a shock to you all, especially to Lottie, who has always fancied herself the Incomparable Beauty of the family, but there's a reason all the men in the village want to marry me."

  They stared at her blankly.

  "I'm pretty." Laura spoke as if it were the gravest of shortcomings. "Far too pretty to be a governess. Even if a lady would welcome me into her home, which I doubt, it would only be a matter of time before one of the males of her household—her brother, her son, or perhaps even her own husband—cornered me on the back stairs. Then I would lose not only my situation but my reputation as well. And in this world, once a woman's reputation is lost, she becomes prey for all manner of scoundrels and rogues."

  She swept a somber look over them all. "And that's not even the worst of it. There's one other possibility we must consider. Suppose the duke himself takes a fancy to me and decides to make me his mistress?"

  Dower bit off a blasphemy and Cookie made the sign to ward off the evil eye as if Laura had suggested becoming a concubine to the devil himself.

  "Who's to stop a man with his wealth, power, and social connections from forcing his attentions upon a penniless country girl? Why, there are even those in the village who would claim that I should be grateful for his protection." Despite the blush warming her cheeks, Laura lifted her chin defiantly. "I might be selling myself to a stranger with this scheme, but at least it will be to a stranger of my own choosing."

  Her proud words hung in the air, shaming them all.

  Dower ran a hand over his throat. "If it's that young ram you mean to 'ave, then I's'pose I've no choice but to 'elp you 'erd 'im into the shearin' pen."

  Laura threw her arms around the old man, pressing a kiss to his prickly cheek. "Bless you, Dower! I couldn't do it without you. First thing in the morning, you must set off for London to consult with some of your old cronies. I want you to try to find out if there's been any word of a missing gentleman in the past few days."

  "Or an escaped convict," Dower muttered beneath his breath.

  "I'm rather hoping he'll turn out to be the orphaned second son of a second son with no inheritance and even fewer prospects." Laura began to pace again, her steps much lighter than before. "If we're to marry before my birthday, the banns must be published in the church on three successive Sundays, beginning day after tomorrow. That means I have less than three weeks to make sure he doesn't already have a wife tucked away somewhere." Given the brief duration and nature of their acquaintance, Laura was surprised by how much that thought pained her.

  "I'm relieved to learn your scruples won't let you stoop to bigamy," George drawled. "But just what do you mean to do if Dower finds this man's family… or his wife?"

  Laura sighed. "Then I suppose we'll have no choice but to return him to his rightful owner."

  "Loik a stray sheep," Dower provided.

  "Or a lost pig," Lottie added spitefully.

  "What if you marry this fellow," George asked, "and then someone from London comes to Arden and recognizes him for who he truly is? What then?"

  "And when's the last time our humble village received a visitor from London?" Laura's question silenced even George. In truth, none of them could remember.

  But her brother seemed determined to prove he could be as ruthless as she could. "What if he signs the marriage register under a false name? Will you truly be married in the eyes of the Crown?"

  Laura paused in her pacing, having not considered that fact. Swallowing back a lifetime of spiritual instruction, she faced her brother, head held high. "We'll be married in the eyes of God, and as far as I'm concerned, His are the only eyes that matter."

  Without a word, Cookie rose from the bale of hay and started toward the door.

  Laura had managed to hold on to her composure through Dower's grumbling and George's skepticism, but if good-hearted Cookie denounced her again, she feared she might just burst into tears. "Where are you going?"

  Cookie turned, her broad face wreathed in a tender smile. "If I'm to stitch you up a weddin' dress before your birthday, I can't be dawdlin' in the barn all day with the cows and the chicks. I do believe Lady Eleanor left some white crepe stashed away in the at
tic for just this day." The maidservant dabbed at her damp eyes with the hem of her apron. "I wish our dear lady was goin' to be here to see you stand up at the altar with that handsome young buck. It was one of her fondest dreams, you know."

  Laura blinked back her own tears. There was only one dream Lady Eleanor would have held more dear—the dream that someday her son would come striding down the lane and into her arms.

  Laura linked her arm in Cookie's. "Do you think she would mind if we filched a bit of Brussels lace off the curtains in the drawing room to trim the sleeves?"

  As she and Cookie drifted out of the barn, chattering about posies and bride cakes, Dower trailed after them, shaking his head in disgust. "They should a' stayed in the barn where they belonged. There's nothin' loik a weddin' to make a perfectly sensible gel go all calf eyed."

  A long, silent moment passed after the others had left. Then George exploded into motion, springing to his feet and lashing out to kick a tin feed bucket. Grain sprayed through the air in a golden arc. The bucket landed with a metallic clang that echoed like a lightning strike in the taut stillness of the barn.

  "She says she's doing it for herself, but she's not!" he shouted. "She's doing it for us. She's doing it because I'm too damn young to provide for my own family." He collapsed against a post, his hands clenched into impotent fists. "God in heaven, if I were only half a man…"

  Above him, Lottie sat cross-legged in the hay with no sign of the histrionics he had expected. Her little round face was pale and still, her voice oddly calm. "We simply can't allow her to do it. We can't allow her to sacrifice her virtue on our behalf. She deserves better than to endure a fate worse than death at some scoundrel's hands."