Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) (22 page)

Fortunately the rain had slowed to a fine drizzle. At that moment he did not particularly care what the weather did in any case. It might have snowed and he would have still enjoyed her performance. Not to mention her comeuppance.

Darius set a chair in the grass, flipped out the tails of his coat and sat.

Today, it was her turn to be mortified.

She dangled in midair, her skirt hooked up on the trellis, a pair of stockings and drawers on full display. “Tell me, madam, have we met before?” he called up to her. “You look familiar, in an odd way.” He pretended to think hard, rubbing his chin.

“For pity’s sake,” she hissed, her voice muffled by the ivy. “Help me down, you fool.”

“Hmmm. Let me consider it. Perhaps, for once, you ought to be polite to me, and respectful. For once. Or else you can hang there until Easter.”

“Suit yourself, then! I can make my own way down.”

“Shall you swing from my chandelier as an encore?” he asked politely, greatly enjoying the show.

She resumed her escape without his aid, accompanied by the slow, torturous sound of ripping. If she was not careful, she would soon fall the remaining distance and land on his head.

Miss Lucy Bridges was watching from the window, hands clasped in anxiety, but apparently not so concerned that she would brave the rain to come outside.

“We do have doors you know, Miss Penny,” Darius shouted. “Several of them. That is the customary method of exit, even here in the country, I believe.”

But in all the excitement he had not heard carriage wheels approach, and just a few moments later a tall, angular figure came around the corner, followed by a second, shorter and rounder lady in a very large bonnet.

“Darius?” the tall one demanded. “What are you doing out here in the blessed rain?”

Damn!
His family never could leave him in peace for very long.

He stood hastily. “Mary.”

“Since you decided to be so dreadfully rude and stay in the country, I thought I’d better—”

His stepsister must have caught sight of the slender, stocking-clad legs making their way down his ivy and a hand flew to her lips. The woman standing with her turned to a cooked shade of lobster under her enormous hat.

Fortunately, Miles trotted into view soon after, carrying a ladder and with Lucy Bridges trotting after him. As always, Miles was smiling, not in the least troubled by events. When he saw Mary he greeted her as if there was nothing odd occurring in their view.

Darius took the ladder from him and set it against the house. The half-undressed young woman was still several feet from the ground and seemed to be searching for a new foothold, while the trellis bent away from the wall and wet leaves of ivy shook and shuddered ominously.

“Stay there,” he shouted up to her. “I’m coming to get you.”

“No!” she shrieked. “I can manage perfectly well without you.”

He began to climb the ladder with no further ado, before she took it into her head to jump and break a leg.

“I suppose it would be the height of stupidity to ask what you’re doing up there?” he muttered as he climbed the rungs toward her. “Did you find anything worth stealing?”

Her cheek flat to the wall, one gloveless hand clinging to the ivy, she exclaimed, “I can make my own way down, Wainwright.”

Ignoring that, he reached over, meaning to guide her hands to the ladder. She struggled against him, of course, endangering his balance, so he was obliged to grab hold of the nearest item—which just happened to be her drawers.

“The trellis won’t hold you up forever, woman!” he muttered under his breath. “Step onto the ladder. Just this once, do as I say. It shouldn’t hurt too much, as long as you don’t make a habit of it. And I doubt there’s any danger of that, do you?”

At last she stepped from the trellis to his ladder and then they were eye to eye, she with her foot two rungs above his. Darius felt his heart sputtering away like a candle struggling in a fierce draft.

“Fine day, Miss Penny, is it not?” he managed.

She blinked slowly; her eyes showed confusion, her lips slightly parted so that a little ghostly mist escaped into the frigid air. “No. It’s a horrid, horrid day.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said softly. “Recently.” He couldn’t help himself, wanted her to know how she’d wounded him. She thought him without feeling, which was partly his fault. He would not make the same mistake again.

“Are you sure this ladder will hold us both?”

“Best start down, to be on the safe side,” he muttered. He still had hold of her drawers, but she seemed not to notice and stared intently at his mouth instead.

Darius wondered why she wasn’t moving. She stayed there beside him on that narrow ladder, her mouth only inches from his, as if she deliberately tormented him. His wrist was on her hip, his knuckles resting against the soft curve of her bottom, the silky flesh all too evident through her rain-dampened linen drawers. He cleared his throat. “Shall we proceed, madam?”

***

Proceed? In that moment she had no idea what he meant. Proceed with what?

She could smell the spiciness of his shaving soap and a faint whisper of cider. Beneath it all was the scent of a man. It stirred something inside her; like a tiny drop falling into a rain barrel, it left rings echoing through her mind and her heart.

Justina could not resist running a hand over the front of his chest, pretending to seek a steadying hold.

“Oops.”

Her fingers had ripped a button right off his waistcoat. He didn’t seem to have much luck with his waistcoats, poor man.

Her gaze followed the button all the way to the grass below and then she said, “We can hardly stay here like this forever, I suppose.” She decided to be very polite and formal now, as if somehow that would cancel out the awfulness of appearing on his trellis, exiting his bedchamber, and exposing her drawers to the elements.

They began their slow and careful descent back to earth.

Miles Forester was chatting amiably with the two ladies watching. “What a surprise to see you here, Lady Waltham! I’m sure Darius will be thrilled to have your company.”

The tall woman with a long, horse-like face was staring hard at Justina without the minutest attempt to conceal her curiosity. “It looks as if he has company already,” she snapped.

“But one can never have too much! The more the merrier, I always say,” Miles exclaimed.

Justina felt the eyes of the two women sternly inspecting her dishabille. “Well, really!” came one shocked gasp. “Have revolutionaries come to Buckinghamshire already?”

“Did you see how her drawers are patched, your ladyship, with very clumsy stitches?”

“That she wears drawers at all, Augusta, is most distasteful and the sign of a fast woman. I do not agree with drawers.”

“Oh, I am quite of the same opinion, your ladyship. Quite.”

The two women discussed her openly, as if she was an exhibit in a circus tent and too stupid to understand.

Justina muttered under her breath, “I rather think those two fine ladies ought to be glad I
am
wearing drawers, or they might have had quite a sight, far more offensive to their sensibilities than some patched linen.”

Since Darius was the only one who could possibly hear her, she expected her sentence to go unacknowledged, but to her surprise he replied gravely, “Quite so, Miss Justina. An eyeful for them, perhaps, and a perfect handful for me.”

She looked up at him in amazement.

“Uh”—he turned red—“by handful I meant you are one. Not that your….in my…”

“Please say nothing more, Mr. Wainwright.” As he became hotter, so did she. All hope of collecting some composure, she knew, would soon be lost if they didn’t both pull themselves together.

Mortified, Justina meant to dash off the moment her feet touched the grass. Certainly, she couldn’t imagine he wanted her to meet his grand friends. But Darius caught her by the arm and held her tightly. His eyes were focused on the new arrivals and when he spoke again, it came from the corner of his tight lips. “Do stay and be introduced properly.”

“Why? I don’t care to—”

“This is Miss Justina Penny.” He talked loudly over her complaints and presented her to the other women, not even giving her time to adjust her torn skirt over her undergarments. “The local doctor’s daughter. Miss Justina, this is my stepsister, Lady Moore, Viscountess Waltham.”

She was astonished that he thought it necessary to introduce her and had fully expected Wainwright to pretend he didn’t know her at all, especially in the presence of his noble family.

Lucy was also introduced, but the new arrivals were far more interested in Justina’s curious appearance.

“It would seem you are an excellent climber, Miss Penny,” exclaimed the fashionably attired, well-groomed horse.

“Only as a last resort,” she muttered. “When one is locked in a bedchamber, one must save oneself somehow.”

Lady Waltham reared up and showed her gums in a high-pitched neigh. “
Locked
in a
bedchamber
?”

“His. I was locked in.” In her agitated state and with the familiar eagerness to find excuses, she spurted this news out before she realized how it might sound.

“Miss Justina Penny,” he clarified steadily, “likes to explore and pry into a man’s things when he is out and not expected to return.” He kept his hand around her arm, holding her hard to his side. “She is also the mistress of exaggeration. She was not locked in at all.”

“Indeed I was! The handle would not turn. And I was not prying. I was doing the job you asked of me. It was your idea to have me here. I would rather not have come at all.” Oh dear. She bit her tongue. So much for polite and cordial.

He reminded her coolly, “You owed me the favor, Miss Penny. I help you with Sir Mortimer and you help me. That was our arrangement. And you’ve been avoiding your duty these past few days.”

“I had other things to do.”

“What more important things could you have to do than come here to me?”

His stepsister’s face seemed to lengthen even further, and her gaze sharpened on his fingers until he finally released Justina’s arm. “Favors?” Lady Waltham sputtered. “Arrangements?”

Sir Mortimer Grubbins could suddenly be heard grunting contentedly in the distance as he scratched his back on the fence of his sty, making it creak and bang in a slow rhythm. There suddenly seemed to be something very naughty about that sound and the happy grunting only made it worse.

“You have torn your gown,” the other woman exclaimed abruptly from beneath the brim of a bonnet that was almost as large as the rest of her.

“This is my companion, Miss Augusta Milford,” the horse whinnied, gesturing at her friend with a limp hand. “I’m sure you must remember her, Darius.”

He looked blankly at both ladies.

Justina was amused to find that his treatment of all women was much the same. Only she had been singled out for a different sort of notice, she thought with a little pinch of appreciation for that fact.

“We’d better go in, Darius,” his stepsister exclaimed. “It is raining, although you appear not to care. It seems you have too much else upon your mind.” Not waiting for an invitation from her host, she trotted her friend back around the corner of the house and proceeded to bellow at the coachman, warning dire punishment if he damaged her luggage. From the heaving, banging, and muttering going on, there must be a great deal of it to be managed.

“Your guests plan to stay a while,” Justina remarked. “Does Lady Waltham not know you are leaving?”

“Not yet,” he replied.

She squinted up at him, raindrops spitting on her face. “She does not know yet, or you are not leaving yet?” Immediately annoyed with herself for asking and making it seem as if she cared, she added in haste, “If you mean to stay longer, you ought to get that bedchamber door handle fixed, sir. Or you might get shut in one day too. The trellis won’t hold your weight as it did mine.”

“If I became stuck, I could always have the door taken off its hinges.”

“Oh. I suppose so.”

“Because I wouldn’t have been in there illicitly—prying through someone else’s belongings—and need have no fear of discovery, therefore no need to climb through the window like a thief.”

She backed away, folding her arms tightly over her shawl, under which she hid that bundle of letters.

“I suggest you wait for an invitation next time,” he added, a new, decidedly wicked gleam lighting his gaze. Miles was laughing softly, even though he had turned away, pretending not to listen.

She sensed that Wainwright was trying to make her flustered again. It was odd to see him in this mood. It was almost flirtatious.

“Did you just suggest, sir, in front of your friend, that I might await an invitation into your bedchamber?”

At last there was a smile. A very shocking, full smile. “No, Miss Justina. I suggested you would never wait for one.” He bowed his head toward her. “Neither would I expect you to. I shall be prepared, next time, for the assault.”

Her mind spun faster and clumsier than a wooden spoon in heavy-handed Clara’s fist.

Rebecca Sherringham’s suggestion was right, she thought, he
was
devastating when he smiled. She was tempted to smile back.

His gaze slipped downward to where she folded her arms over her bosom, and then slowly it drifted back up again to her face.

Was that a wistful look in his eye? Did he have any idea what he did to her with that rarest of smiles? A playful Wainwright was a very dangerous thing. She’d sensed it from the first hint of a twinkle. But he looked that way at
her
, and no one else as far as she could tell.

He raised a hand to his hatless, rain-dampened head and ran his fingers through the dark hair. He’d allowed it to grow out a little more since arriving in the village, she noted now. It was beginning to show that curl she’d always suspected was there.

“Did you find anything of interest today, Miss Penny?”

“Any…anything of interest?” She squeezed her arms even tighter across her knitted shawl. “No. Why?”

“Because if you did, it belongs to me, remember?”