A Kiss to Remember Page 9

Laura glanced around the shadowy bedchamber, keenly aware of the cozy half-tester with its rumpled bedclothes that still bore the imprint of his big, warm body. "We are, I suppose. But you wouldn't dare kiss me with Lottie right down the hall and Cookie downstairs."

  He arched one golden eyebrow. "Oh, wouldn't I?"

  As he slid his hands beneath her elbows and drew her into his arms, she realized that, heaven help her, she half hoped he would.

  But as he gazed down into her face, the sparkle fled his eyes, leaving them oddly somber. "Was I kind to you, Laura? Was I considerate of your feelings? Did I make you happy?"

  She drew in an uneven breath, finding his intensity even more disarming than his charm. "You were most considerate. You wrote every single week without fail and twice on the week of my birthday. Since you weren't here to bring me flowers, you would sketch clever little bouquets in the margins of your letters. When you did visit, you always brought back some small gift for Lottie and George."

  As the lies came tumbling effortlessly from her lips, Laura realized she was describing the man of her dreams. A dream made flesh right before her eyes.

  "In your letters, you always spoke of how happy we'd be once we were wed. How we'd sip chocolate in bed every morning and take long walks as twilight fell. At night, we'd gather in the drawing room with the rest of the family to play cards and sing songs around the pianoforte. You would read to us in front of the fire until we all grew drowsy." She lowered her eyes, beset by sudden shyness. "Then we'd retire to our bedchamber."

  Nicholas's eyes had clouded as if that idyllic image was somehow painful to him. "And I never gave you cause to regret your pledge to me?"

  Laura shook her head. "No. Never."

  Urging her closer, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. The melting sweetness of his kiss caught her off guard. But before she could fully surrender to it, he had drawn away, his expression unreadable. "Then I can only pray I never will."

  As Nicholas slid into the family pew after Laura and her siblings, he decided that the entire population of Arden would have had to be born blind not to notice how out of fashion he was. Despite the fact that he couldn't remember anything of his former life, he was reasonably sure he'd never felt so ridiculous. The knee breeches should have been humiliation enough, but Laura had compounded his misery by providing him with striped silk stockings, buckled shoes, an embroidered waistcoat, and a scarlet coat with shiny brass buttons. He would have been perfectly at home in any drawing room—of a generation ago. If he'd had a powdered wig to complete his ensemble, he could have applied for a position as the king's footman.

  He pinched his twitching nose, comforted by the fact that the old stone church smelled slightly mustier than he did.

  George slouched at the end of the row, putting as much distance between himself and his family as the long, narrow pew would allow. Lottie perched on the other side of Laura, the cherubic innocence of her countenance spoiled by the fact that her squirming reticule kept trying to leap out of her lap.

  Nicholas stole a glance at Laura's serene profile. She appeared to be as oblivious to his discomfort as she was to the warm press of his thigh against hers. Her white-gloved hands were folded demurely around her prayer book, her face tilted attentively toward the mahogany pulpit set high in the chancel from which the rector was deigning to offer them his blessing. As the opening strains of "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing" flooded the nave, she nudged him to stand. Her voice wasn't the airy soprano he expected but a throaty alto that sent a shiver of raw desire through him. He cast a rueful glance heavenward, half expecting the Lord to strike him dead with a thunderbolt for entertaining such lascivious thoughts in His house.

  While they were standing, he became aware of a strange prickling at the nape of his neck. He batted at his collar, fearing some unfortunate moth had become trapped there, but the prickling persisted. Glancing behind him, he discovered a man with a single bushy black eyebrow draped across his forehead glaring daggers at him. As he turned back, he caught sight of another glower, this one directed at him from across the aisle by a pockmarked fellow whose face looked as if it could use a good scrubbing. The man returned his cool stare for less than a minute before sheepishly lowering his eyes.

  Baffled, Nicholas returned his attention to the altar. Given his ludicrous attire, perhaps he was just being overly sensitive, misinterpreting curiosity as hostility.

  As the congregation sank into their seats, the white-haired rector launched into a droning sermon that soon had Nicholas fearing he was going to lapse back into his stupor.

  He was just beginning to doze off when the rector's ringing voice jolted him awake. "… my privilege to publish the banns of marriage between Mr. Nicholas Radcliffe and Miss Laura Jane Fairleigh. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking."

  Nicholas wasn't the only one caught off guard by the rector's words. Instead of the expectant silence that traditionally greeted the reading of the banns, an unmistakable rumble swept through the church. Nicholas stole a look to the left, then right. Several men were glaring at him now, making no attempt to hide their resentment. Nicholas could not help but wonder if one of them might be educated enough to have penned the note he had caught his fiancée burning, and eloquent enough to stir her passions to such a fever pitch.

  Laura continued to stare straight ahead, the color high in her cheeks. Her body had gone rigid, drained of the melting softness she had offered in his arms last night.

  As the rector launched into the offertory, Nicholas took her gloved hand in his, and whispered, "You might have warned me this was coming."

  Her nose crinkled in a nervous ghost of a smile as she whispered back, "It's only the first reading of the banns. You still have two more Sundays to declare your opposition to our union."

  He ran his thumb over her knuckles in a possessive caress. "And why would I want to do that when I'm obviously the envy of every man in the village? From the looks I'm getting, I gather that mine wasn't the only proposal you received."

  "But it was the only one I accepted," she reminded him.

  "So was our engagement a secret one or have all your other suitors lost their memory as well?"

  "Sshhh," she said, drawing her hand from his. "The time has come to ask God for forgiveness of our transgressions."

  As they stood along with the rest of the congregation, he leaned close to her, deepening his voice to a husky murmur. "And what sin could an innocent like you possibly have to confess?"

  There it was again. That flash of fear in eyes that should never have to know even a shadow of distress. "Perhaps you've forgotten your Scripture as well, sir. There is no one among us who is without sin. Not even one." As Laura slipped to her knees, the curved brim of her bonnet shielded her face from him.

  He gazed down at her creamy nape for a long moment before awkwardly kneeling beside her. He would have sworn that he wasn't a man accustomed to kneeling in front of anyone—not even God. Although he dutifully closed his eyes, he could only pretend to pray. The words that seemed to come so effortlessly to Laura's soft, pink lips were denied him, along with the conviction that anyone who cared might be listening.

  "They make a pretty pair, don't they?" George grumbled, swatting a speckled butterfly away from his face.

  "I don't think they suit at all." Lottie dragged her nose out of the well-worn copy of The Murderous Monk she had smuggled inside of her prayer book. "He's much too tall and disagreeable for her."

  Brother and sister perched on the stone steps of St. Michael's, glumly watching throngs of well-wishers cluster around Laura and Nicholas in the sunny churchyard. Although many of the men who had once courted Laura themselves hung back, the rest of the villagers surged forward to bask in the excitement of the upcoming nuptials and the novelty of having a mannerly stranger in their ranks. The charm Nicholas had boasted of to Lottie was well in evidence
as he accepted hearty slaps on the back from the married men and fawning smiles from their wives. Even sour old Widow Witherspoon was reduced to simpering like a schoolgirl when he brought her bony hand to his lips.

  "So did you ask God to forgive you for the murder you were planning to commit?" George asked.

  Lottie snapped the book shut. "I prefer not to think of it as a murder but as a rather well-timed mishap."

  "A mishap is misplacing your spectacles or forgetting to button your boots, not falling down dead an hour after your own wedding. Have you given any real thought as to how you might carry out the dastardly deed?" George watched Laura smile up at Nicholas, her face radiant. "I was rather hoping for the pleasure of shoving his smug face into the bride cake and smothering him."

  Lottie shook her head, stroking the fuzzy, bewhiskered face that had emerged from her reticule. "Too obvious, I fear. In Mr. Walpole's The Castle of Otranto, Conrad was found crushed to death by a giant plumed helmet. But I'm rather partial to poison myself."

  "That's fortunate since I doubt there are many giant plumed helmets floating around the parish."

  "Of course, I haven't completely ruled out accidental gunshot or drowning. I plan to conduct several experiments in the next two weeks to seek out the most plausible method of ridding oneself of an unwanted bridegroom."

  "And what will you do if none of these experiments yield the results you had hoped for?"

  George followed Lottie's gaze as she tilted her face skyward. A stone angel was perched high on the parapet of the bell tower above them, its weathered wings unfurled. Local legend had it that the angel's mission was to ward off the evil spirits in their midst. Her plump cheeks and pointed chin bore a rather startling resemblance to Lottie's.

  Lottie heaved a dreamy sigh. "Then we shall simply have to look heavenward for some divine inspiration."

  Laura wondered if it were a sacrilege to be standing in a churchyard dreaming of a man's kisses. Although she managed to smile and nod and squeeze the hands of the villagers who crowded around to congratulate her on her good fortune, all she could think of was a moonlit drawing room and a stranger's intoxicating kisses.

  That stranger stood beside her now, the slightest brush of his elbow against her arm making her tingle with awareness. Although she had feigned attentiveness during the rector's sermon, it had been impossible to keep her mind on his words with Nicholas so near. While the rector had been preaching about the virtues of self-control, she had been reliving those delicious moments when she had nearly lost hers.

  Betsy Bogworth, the tanner's daughter, whose pronounced overbite and tendency to wiggle her nose made her look like an overgrown rabbit, clutched at Laura's sleeve. "Shame on you for keeping such a secret! Why didn't you tell us you were engaged, you wicked girl?"

  "It was actually Mr. Radcliffe's idea to keep our betrothal to ourselves until he was free of his military obligations," Laura replied.

  "It was?" Nicholas's innocent expression was at odds with the mischief glittering in his eyes.

  Laura's smile tightened. "Of course it was, dear."

  Betsy's sister, Alice, a pale wisp of a girl, clasped her hands beneath her chin. "A secret engagement! How thrillingly romantic! How you must have longed for his return!"

  "Oh, I did." Laura stole a look at Nicholas, her gaze lingering on his lips. "I kissed him more than you'll ever know."

  Alice's flaxen eyebrows shot up. The crowd fell into a sudden silence while Nicholas cleared his throat and scuffed at the ground with the toe of his shoe.

  Laura could feel herself turning bright pink. "I mean, I missed him more than you'll ever know."

  Betsy turned to Nicholas, her nose twitching. "Every eligible man in Arden has tried to win our Laura's heart at one time or another, but failed. How is it that you succeeded when we never even saw you visit the manor to court her?"

  Nicholas smiled pleasantly. "I believe I'll let my fiancée answer that question."

  Although she didn't dare look at him, Laura could feel his expectant look on her. "The first year of our engagement, his visits to the manor were too short and infrequent to allow for outings into the village. And in the past year, the bulk of our courtship has been conducted through correspondence. It was his letters that truly won my affections. He can be very persuasive with his mouth." Laura gritted her teeth. "I mean, with his words."

  Her rescue came from a most unlikely place. Halford Tombob was using his cane to battle his way through the mob of well-wishers. The old rascal refused to wear spectacles, but insisted on dangling an enormous quizzing glass from the buttonhole of his waistcoat.

  A hush fell over the crowd as he lifted the glass to his eye in one liver-spotted hand and peered up into Nicholas's face like a one-eyed grasshopper. After an awkward moment, he lowered it, and announced with utter conviction, "I know that face."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Sometimes I wonder if

  you even remember me…

  Laura's heart stopped, then stuttered into an uneven beat. The old man must be mistaken. As far as she knew, Halford Tombob hadn't left Arden since George II had sat on the throne.

  "I mean no disrespect, Mr. Tombob," she said, tucking her gloved hand in the crook of Nicholas's arm, "but that's quite impossible. This is my fiancé's first visit to the village."

  Tombob's papery brow crinkled in a frown. "Are you quite certain? Why, that's most peculiar. I would have sworn…" He shook his woolly, white head. "My mistake, I suppose. Neither my eyesight nor my wits are what they used to be." Still shaking his head, he started to turn away.

  "Wait, sir." Despite his respectful tone, Nicholas's command rang with an authority that was impossible to disobey. The old man turned back to find Nicholas peering into his face. "Can you tell me why you thought you knew me?"

  Tombob planted the tip of his cane firmly in the grass. "You put me in mind of a boy I once knew. Can't remember the lad's name. But he was a generous and good-natured soul—not an ounce of cheekiness in him."

  A smile slowly curved Nicholas's lips. "Then the lady must be right. I cannot be that boy."

  Both Tombob and the crowd burst into laughter at Nicholas's jest. Laura tugged at his arm, certain her nerves had suffered enough shocks for one day. "Come, Mr. Radcliffe. We really mustn't dally any longer. Cookie will be waiting lunch for us."

  When their battered barouche came rolling into the manor's cobbled drive a short while later, it wasn't Cookie but Dower who was waiting for them, fresh from his expedition to London. Since the old man possessed only two expressions—grim and grimmer—it was impossible to tell if he bore good tidings or ill.

  Before Nicholas could offer a hand to assist her down, Laura came spilling out of the barouche, nearly shredding her hem in her haste. "Welcome back, Dower. Have you any word on that ram we were thinking of purchasing for our flocks?"

  "I might," he said cryptically.

  "We've been getting along perfectly well without a new ram." George shot Nicholas a sullen look. "I don't see why we have need of one now."

  "Unless we can roast it over a nice hot spit," Lottie concurred sweetly.

  "Come, Dower," Laura said, smiling through clenched teeth. "Since it's livestock we'll be discussing, it would probably be best if we conducted our business in the barn."

  Before the children could further stir Nicholas's suspicions, she started for the barn, dragging Dower along behind her as fast as his bandy legs would allow. She'd barely gotten the barn door closed and latched before she whirled around to face him. "What have you learned in London, Dower? Is there any word of a missing gentleman?"

  "Don't 'urry me, gel. Give me time to catch m'breath."

  Despite her impatience, Laura knew there was no rushing Dower when he didn't want to be rushed. Cookie had once nagged him into carrying a freshly baked mince pie to one of their neighbors only to have it arrive a week later with three pieces missing and a moldy crust.

  She ste
wed in silence while he propped one foot on an overturned bucket, drew a pipe from his pocket, lit it, and took a leisurely draw. Just when she thought she might start tearing at her hair or his, he pursed his lips, blew out a mouthful of smoke, and said, "There's a missin' gent, all right."

  Laura sank down on a bale of hay, her legs going weak. "Well, that's it, I suppose. We're all going to prison."

  Dower took another deep draw on the pipe. " 'E went missin' less than a week ago. Started out for one o' them fancy gambling 'ells, but never arrived. 'Is wife's been screamin' foul play ever since."

  "Oh." Laura hugged her stomach, feeling as if one of the cows had just kicked her. It seemed that Nicholas wouldn't be needing a wife after all. He already had one.

  A leer twisted Dower's thin lips. "Of course, there's some wot say 'e mighta sailed to France with 'is mistress."

  Laura's head flew up. "He has a wife and a mistress?"

  Dower shook his head admiringly, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "You got to 'and it to the bloke. 'Eaven knows I've enough trouble keepin' one woman 'appy, much less two."

  Remembering the husky endearments Nicholas had whispered in her ear and the delicious heat of his mouth against her skin, Laura could not quite keep the bitter note from her voice. "I'm sure he knows just what to do to keep a woman happy. Such skills come very naturally to some men."

  She rose from the hay bale and began to pace between the stalls. It was hardly fair of her to condemn Nicholas's character when her own was so lacking. She ought to be heartsick with guilt, not heartbroken. "His poor wife. How she must be suffering wondering what terrible fate has befallen him!"

  Dower nodded his agreement. "I daresay them squallin' brats o' 'ers is more of a trial than a comfort."

  Laura halted, then slowly turned to face him. "Brats?"

  "Aye. Five of 'em, there are, each more sticky and shrill than the last."