After The Kiss
AFTER THE KISS
Dell Historical Romance
(Captive Hearts series)
March 1997
ISBN 0-440-22201-X
THE INNOCENT
Too tall and entirely too outspoken, Miss Eliza Sherringham grew up thumbing her nose at polite English society. So when Captain Lord Marcus Wharton, called The Beau for his stunning good looks, set his rakish sights on her, Eliza thought nothing of rejecting his advances. Until a stolen kiss swept her into the arms of a man too dangerous to love.
THE BEAU
Called to battle, Marcus left behind the woman who had captured his heart— and the scandal ignited by their kiss. His brother's disappearance made him Duke of Blackthorne, guardian of twin nieces who were rumored to be his own daughters. Badly scarred in battle, The Beau had become The Beast of Blackthorne, a wounded animal destined to spend his life hiding in a shadowy wing of Blackthorne Abbey.
THE BEAST
When Eliza Sherringham showed up on his doorstep proposing herself as governess for the incorrigible twins, The Beast demanded marriage as the price of the job. He knew she could never love him. Surely his looks would drive her away—now that he hungered for her more than life itself. . .
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An Excerpt...
C H A P T E R TWO
At the advanced age of seventeen and a half, Miss Elizabeth Sheringham was running away from home. It was the only solution she could find to an intolerable situation. Her cousin Nigel, Earl of Ravenwood, with whom she had lived since the death of her father two years before, had made advances tonight that left no doubt as to his ignoble intentions. She was certain Nigel's wife, Agnes, would be gravely disappointed if she knew of them.
Eliza had broken a pottery vase on Nigel's head in the conservatory and made her escape. Her cousin was bound to be furious when he recovered, but she would not be there to hear him ranting.
Eliza's greatest regret was having to leave behind her aunt, Lady Lavinia Sheringham, her father's spinster sister. Unfortunately, Aunt Lavinia was too old to think a long gallop on horseback was a grand adventure. She would more likely complain about the discomfort and the cold.
It was too bad. Eliza would have welcomed the company, she had a deathly fear of being alone in the dark. Aunt Lavinia was always a comfort at such times because, though she had been blind since birth, she managed to find joy and light in her perpetually dark world. Eliza had left a message for Aunt Lavinia with Cook, promising to send for her as soon as she was settled in London.
Eliza knew she would be missed at the house party being given by the Duke and Duchess of Braddock scheduled to begin on the morrow, but that could not be helped. Her friend Charlotte, Countess of Denbigh, who had arranged the invitation for her, would understand why she had run away.
In any case, her absence was probably for the best.
Eliza could not seem to control her tongue with strangers. As a Child of Scandal, she had learned to expect unkindness. At first the thoughtless remarks and occasional downright meanness had left her in tears. She had grown a tougher hide, and learned to take the sting from such insults by turning the malicious comments back upon their author.
People either laughed when her barbs hit home, in which case the evening would be enjoyable. Or they turned their backs on her entirely, at which point she went to work with a will, sending scathing--and remarkably well-aimed--insults at those who, without good cause, considered themselves her betters.
Eliza was sometimes invited to a dinner or musicale to provide the other guests with an interesting topic of conversation. In those cases, Eliza felt obliged to give her hostess what she expected. She had sent many a matron home with the vapors and had once constrained her hostess to retire upstairs with the headache.
Eliza did not care whether Society approved of her or not. At least, that was the appearance she gave. Beneath the tough exterior was a lonely woman who ached to be loved and accepted.
She had thought Cousin Nigel understood her feelings. But he had seen her disdain of Society and assumed a lack of honor. After all, like father, like daughter.
"Surely one more scandal cannot matter," he had said, as he grabbed her and pressed his dry lips against hers.
Eliza had experienced a nauseated panic when she caught the acrid scent of his pipe tobacco. From that moment onward, she had fallen into a black void of terror so deep it was difficult to believe even now that she was safe.
Cousin Nigel had deserved to have a flower pot dumped on his balding pate. If it were not for the sob caught in her throat at the time, she might have laughed at the ridiculous picture he had made with a mountain of petunias growing from his head.
Eliza quietly shoved open the stable door at the White Ball Inn, searching for the stallion the Countess of Denbigh had arranged to have boarded there for Eliza's use.
"I will not be riding much for the next few months," the countess had said, "and I want Mephistopheles to be well exercised."
It had not taken much effort on Eliza's part to figure out that the countess was in expectation of a happy event. Eliza was glad for Charlie. She would like to have a houseful of children herself . . . someday.
But she had known since she was old enough to understand the whispers, that no eligible gentleman was likely to offer for her. They considered her as free and easy as Cousin Nigel had. All except for Nigel's younger brother, Major Julian Sheringham. Julian had been different from the first. He had always treated her with courtesy and respect.
Her cousin had recently returned from duty on the Continent and was on leave in London. She was counting on him now to rescue her from Cousin Nigel's clutches.
She had no doubt he would. Unlike others, Julian treated her just as he would any other young lady of quality. He had shown by his behavior toward her that the scandal surrounding her father did not matter to him. That was fortunate, because Eliza had fallen hopelessly in love with Cousin Julian when she was fifteen.
He had come home to Ravenwood for the first time after Cousin Nigel inherited the title from her grandfather wearing a dashing blue hussar's uniform, with red cuffs and gold lace trim. He was so kind and so handsome, she could not help but admire him.
But at fifteen, her lovely female endowments had been nothing more than wishes on her chest. Her face had been a collection of odd features--sharp cheekbones, wide-spaced, strangely golden hazel eyes, and a dash of freckles over a nose that seemed entirely too large. She had been every bit as tall as she was now but as gangly as a newborn colt.
She had followed Julian around the entire two weeks he stayed at Ravenwood, mute as a doorknob without the acid comments that usually sustained her conversation. He had laughingly--and lovingly, she thought,,called her "Brat" and "Pest" and "Troublemaker."
He might as well have been calling her "Dear" and "Darling" and "Sweetheart." She knew that at fifteen she was too young to be seriously courted. She suspected he was being careful not to offend her tender sensibilities.
But two years had passed since then. She was seventeen--old enough to be a wife and mother. Experienced enough to converse with ease. But Julian had never returned to court her.
Eliza had no choice except to go out and find him.
Her plan was simple. She would disguise herself in some of Julian's clothes, find the hotel where he was staying in London, and convince him to marry her.
Immediately after Cousin Nigel's attack, she had dressed in one of Julian's lawn shirts, with one of his neck cloths done up in the precise Mathematical she had often tied for her father. She had placed her father's gold watch in the pocket of a lavender brocade waistcoat because she could not bear to leave it behind. Rags were stuffed into the broad shoulders of Julian's mulberry jacket to fill it out, while his buckskin breeches fit her snugly in the hips.
Wearing Julian's clothes, including a brand new pair of Hessians that had just been delivered to Ravenwood, and with her waist-length chestnut hair hidden under a gentleman's hat, she hoped to be mistaken for a boy if she was spotted on the road.
Her height would help--she stood a head above the average male--and she had bound her breasts to hide their fullness. Her voice was gravelly sounding from a childhood riding accident, and she could lower it even more if she tried. With such manly traits to aid in her disguise, how could she fail to deceive?
Eliza breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the warm glow of light in the corner of the stable at the White Ball Inn. She had dreaded entering what she had supposed would be pitch blackness inside. It did not occur to her to wonder why a lantern should be burning in a place supposedly empty of human inhabitants.
Mephistopheles's head appeared over his stall at the sound of her bootsteps, and he whickered at the sight of her. Once insde the door, she dropped her cloth traveling bag, which contained several clean shirts and underthings and a dress in which to meet Julian, and headed toward the stallion.
"Easy there, boy. We are going for a long ride," she soothed as she approached the huge beast. "I haven't any carrots or apples for you, but--"
One second Eliza was reaching out a hand toward the stall, the next her back was pulled up tight against a muscular male body. An impossibly strong arm lay pressed against her throat, and the point of a cold sharp knife actually pierced her skin beneath her ear.
"Make a sound, and you're dead."
She bit her lip, fighting the urge to scream. The warm drop of blood crawling down her neck tickled her, making her shiver. Any second she expected to feel the knife dig farther into her flesh. Her muscles tensed in anticipation of the pain.
They stood frozen in that deadly pose for endless moments, like some awful statue.
Eventually, despite her captor's warning, fear loosened her tongue. "You're plucking the wrong goose. I have nothing worth stealing," she croaked.
"Oh, my God," he whispered.
She felt the hold on her neck easing. She was afraid to move, afraid he would stab her the instant she tried to run. But this might be her only chance to win free.
She whirled and lashed out with a balled fist, planting him a facer exactly as her father had taught her--after one too many boys had teased her--hitting as hard as she could. The villian's head barely moved to the side at the sickening thwack of her knuckles on flesh, but a dark, horizontal streak appeared high on his cheekbone.
She cried out in pain and cradled her bruised knuckles in her other hand. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" It felt as though she had rammed her hand into a stone wall.
The man careened into her, his shoulder hitting her stomach and slamming her to the ground. He landed on top of her and clamped her hands fast in the dirt on either side of her head.
She was too stunned to do more than lie there and stare up at him. Until she realized she had to breathe.
She gasped in a lungful of air and felt her breasts surge against his chest. Which was when she realized the binding had slipped. And her hat was gone.
His fingertips feathered lightly through the long, tangled locks that framed her face and spread out around her on the hay-littered surface. She saw the dawning realization in his eyes as he gathered a fistful of curls the rich reddish-brown of unroasted chestnuts in each hand.
"A woman," he muttered.
© 1997 by Joan Johnston
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