One Kiss From You: Switching Places #2

  CHRISTINA

  DODD

  One Kiss From You

  Dedication

  To my mother, Virginia Dodd—you’re the best mother in the world, my only parent, and words can’t convey how much I appreciate your sacrifices, your kindnesses and your constant support. I cherish and love you.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Dear Reader

  Chapter 1

  The coach belonging to the duchess of Magnus…

  Chapter 2

  Whatever confusion Eleanor had felt on seeing…

  Chapter 3

  Trapped.

  Chapter 4

  Eleanor stared in frustration at the flint she usually…

  Chapter 5

  The dining room was the perfect example of …

  Chapter 6

  As Eleanor furtively hurried out the back door…

  Chapter 7

  Two henchmen stepped around Mr. Knight…

  Chapter 8

  That evening, Remington sat in the drawing…

  Chapter 9

  “What a crush!” Pink with excitement, Lady…

  Chapter 10

  As Eleanor stared into Mr. Knight’s cold, clear…

  Chapter 11

  Lady Shapster, Eleanor’s stepmother, waited to…

  Chapter 12

  At three o’clock in the morning, Eleanor sat on a…

  Chapter 13

  The stable was warm and quiet. The morning…

  Chapter 14

  His duchess rode like a woman born to the…

  Chapter 15

  Eleanor shifted uncomfortably beneath Mr. Knight›s…

  Chapter 16

  Remington strode along the gallery above the…

  Chapter 17

  As Eleanor absorbed Mr. Knight’s announcement,…

  Chapter 18

  Alone, Remington bade farewell to the last…

  Chapter 19

  At two in the afternoon, a crack of thunder…

  Chapter 20

  The next morning, Remington stood on the steps…

  Chapter 21

  “Then come.” Mr. Knight offered his arm and…

  Chapter 22

  “Sit down, dear.” Lady Gertrude relaxed on the…

  Chapter 23

  Eleanor woke with a start and lay staring into the…

  Chapter 24

  Eleanor’s heart began a slow, strong thumping.

  Chapter 25

  Blasted by lust, Remington lay with one foot…

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, Eleanor opened her eyes to…

  Chapter 27

  On their return the next week, Eleanor had…

  Chapter 28

  Two evenings later, Remington danced the…

  Chapter 29

  “You’re the luckiest girl I’ve ever heard of.” Horatia…

  Chapter 30

  Remington raced through the London traffic.

  Epilogue

  “My favorite part of the whole brawl was when…

  About the Author

  Books by Christina Dodd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dear Reader,

  Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be Cinderella? To go from being a lowly companion to being a wealthy duchess, with men fighting for your hand in marriage? I know I’ve thought about it. I’ve imagined myself dressed in the finest gown, poised at the top of the ballroom stairs, while below me, everyone marvels at my beauty. Then reality intrudes, and I realize I get nervous when people stare at me, then I get clumsy, and I would probably fall down those marble stairs and knock myself silly.

  Reality is overrated.

  Which is pretty much what shy Miss Eleanor de Lacy discovers when she changes places with her cousin, Madeline, the duchess of Magnus. Madeline’s father has lost her in a card game to a rogue by the name of Mr. Remington Knight, so Eleanor travels to London to confront Remington. She finds herself facing a handsome, heartless man who believes her to be the duchess and intends to marry her. He ruthlessly romances her, dresses her in great clothes, takes her dancing every night, and what’s worse, Eleanor likes it. She likes him. She wants to keep him—and she’s lying to him about who she is. Did I say reality was overrated? So is being Cinderella.

  I hope you enjoy.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1806

  The coach belonging to the duchess of Magnus pulled up to the tall house on Berkley Square, and an imposter stepped out.

  The imposter’s long, sturdy traveling cloak covered plain, dark, modest traveling clothes. Like the duchess, she was tall and well-rounded, and she spoke with the duchess’s aristocratic accent. Also like the duchess, she wore her black hair smoothed back from her face.

  Yet for the discerning eye, the differences were obvious. The imposter had a sweeter, rounder face, dominated by large blue eyes striking in their serenity. Her voice was husky, warm, rich. Her hands rested calmly at her waist, and she moved with serene grace, not at all with the brisk certainty of the duchess. She was slow to smile, slow to frown, and never laughed with glorious freedom. Indeed, she seemed to weigh each emotion before allowing it egress, as if sometime in the past every drop of impulsiveness had been choked from her. It wasn’t that she was morose, but she was observant, composed, and far too quiet.

  Yes, a knowledgeable person would recognize the differences between the duchess and the imposter. Fortunately for Miss Eleanor Madeline Anne Elizabeth de Lacy, no such person was in London at that moment, with the exception of her groom, her coachmen and footmen, and they were all devoted to her cousin, the real duchess, and to Eleanor, the duchess’s companion. They would never betray Eleanor’s mission.

  They would never tell Mr. Remington Knight the truth.

  Eleanor’s heart sank as Mr. Remington Knight’s stern-faced butler made the announcement into the large, echoing foyer. “Her Grace, the duchess of Magnus.”

  To hear herself presented in such a formal manner made her want to glance about for her cousin. If only Madeline were here! If only she hadn’t turned aside from this mission for a more important task!

  If only Eleanor hadn’t agreed to impersonate her.

  At the far end of the room, a liveried footman bowed, then disappeared into an open doorway. He was gone only a moment, then returned and inclined his head to the butler.

  The butler turned to Eleanor and intoned, “The master is busy, but he will receive you soon. In the meantime, ma’am, I’m Bridgeport. May I take your cloak and bonnet?”

  Although noon had passed, the mists outside subdued the sunlight into a wash of gray. The light of the candles couldn’t illuminate the dark corners of Mr. Knight’s enormous entry, an entry built to communicate, in the surest way possible, the owner’s wealth.

  Eleanor’s nostrils quivered with scorn.

  Bridgeport jumped a little, as if anticipating her ripping at him as a substitute for his master.

  Of course Mr. Knight would take this house; he wanted everyone to know he was rolling in riches. He was, after all, nothing more than an upstart American who dreamed of marrying a title.

  Yet the entry was decorated with velvet draperies of evergreen and gold, and with a profusion of cut glass and beveled mirrors in marvelous good taste. Eleanor comforted herself with the thought that Mr. Knight had bought it in this condition and was even now planning to gut it and install gilt in the Chinese fashion, a style fully as vulgar as—Eleanor’s mouth quirked with humor—as vulgar as was adored by the Prince of Wales himself.

  Bridgeport relaxed and returned to his stolid demeanor.

  He wa
tched her much too closely. Because he thought she was the duchess? Or because his master had so instructed him?

  She removed her bonnet, stripped off her gloves, placed them in the dark bonnet, and handed them to the butler without a trace of outer trepidation. After all, what was the point of showing trepidation? It would merely be another proof that, although Eleanor had traveled across war-torn Europe as the duchess’s companion, she hadn’t acquired the verve and confidence that characterized Madeline’s every move. This wasn’t from lack of trials; the two women had faced trials aplenty. It was because—Eleanor sighed as she allowed the butler to take her cloak—Eleanor was born timid. She never remembered a time when her father’s shouting hadn’t paralyzed her with fright, or when her stepmother’s narrow-eyed glare hadn’t had the power to turn her into a bowl of quivering blancmange. Which is why Eleanor cultivated a serene facade—she might be a coward, but she saw no reason to announce the fact.

  “If you would follow me, Your Grace, to the large drawing room, I will order refreshments,” Bridgeport said. “You must be tired after your long journey.”

  “Not so long.” Eleanor followed him through the tall door off to the left. “I stayed at the Red Robin Inn last night and spent only four hours on the road this morning.”

  The butler’s impassivity slipped, and for a moment an expression of horror crossed his countenance. “Your Grace, if I might make a suggestion. When dealing with Mr. Knight, it’s best not to tell him that you failed to obey his instructions with all speed.”

  Turning from her contemplation of the elegantly appointed room, she raised her eyebrows in haughty imitation of her cousin and gazed at the butler in a frigid silence.

  It must have worked, for Bridgeport bowed. “Your pardon, Your Grace. I’ll send for tea.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanor said with composure. “And more substantial refreshments, also.” For she suspected Mr. Knight intended to keep her waiting, and it had been five hours since breakfast.

  Bridgeport left Eleanor to scrutinize her grandiose prison.

  Tall windows let in the timid sunlight, and the candles washed the walls with a pleasant golden glow. Books lined one wall, reaching all the way to the twelve-foot ceiling, and the furniture was stylishly striped in an austere pattern of crimson and cream. The Oriental rug was crystal blue and crimson flowers on a cream background, and crimson roses nodded in the tall blue-and-white Oriental vases. The scent of leather bindings, fresh carnations, and oiled wood blended to create a familiar smell, a smell that seemed to Eleanor to be uniquely British. This room had been created to put a guest at ease.

  Eleanor would not relax. Such a lack of vigilance could not be wise, and in truth, when she thought about meeting Mr. Knight, her stomach twisted into knots. But neither would she dance to Mr. Knight’s tune. He no doubt imagined she would grow more anxious the longer she waited.

  Well, she would, but he would never know.

  With every appearance of airiness, she wandered to the bookshelves and examined the titles. She found the Iliad and the Odyssey, and sniffed in disdain. Mr. Knight was a barbarian from the Colonies and therefore unschooled. Probably the former owner had left the books. Or perhaps Mr. Knight had acquired the books so he could sniff the richness of their bindings.

  Yet a worn title caught her eye, a book by Daniel Defoe. Robinson Crusoe was an old friend, and she reached up, trying to pull it down off the shelf just over her head. She couldn’t quite touch the spine, and, glancing about, she found a library stool. Dragging it over, she took the long step up and in triumph retrieved the book.

  This book had been read, and read again, for it fell easily to the page where Robinson found Friday. That was Eleanor’s favorite part also, and she couldn’t resist reading the first few lines. And the next few lines. And the next, and the next.

  She didn’t know what dragged her from the lonely island where Robinson survived and despaired. She heard nothing but experienced a sensation that prickled along her spine like a warm touch caressing her skin. Slowly, with the care of prey beneath a predator’s survey, she turned her head—and met the gaze of the elegant gentleman lounging at the door.

  In her travels, she had seen many a striking and charming man, but none had been as handsome as this—and all had been more charming. This man was a statue in stark black and white, hewn from rugged granite and adolescent dreams. His face wasn’t really handsome; his nose was thin and crooked, his eyes heavy lidded, his cheekbones broad, stark and hollowed. But he wielded a quality of power, of toughness, that made Eleanor want to huddle into a shivering, cowardly little ball.

  Then he smiled, and she caught her breath in awe. His mouth…his glorious, sensual mouth. His lips were wide, too wide, and broad, too broad. His teeth were white, clean, strong as a wolf’s. He looked like a man seldom amused by life, but he was amused by her, and she realized in a rush of mortification that she remained standing on the stool, reading one of his books and lost to the grave realities of her situation. The reality that stated she was an imposter, sent to mollify this man until the real duchess could arrive.

  Mollify? Him? Not likely. Nothing would mollify him. Nothing except…well, whatever it was he wanted. And she wasn’t fool enough to think she knew what that was.

  The immediate reality was that she would somehow have to step down onto the floor and of necessity expose her ankles to his gaze. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t look. He was looking now, observing her figure with an appreciation all the more impressive for its subtlety. His gaze flicked along her spine, along her backside, and down her legs with such concentration that she formed the impression he knew very well what she looked like clad only in her chemise—and that was an unnerving sensation.

  Well. She couldn’t keep staring at him. She snapped the book shut. In a tone she hoped sounded serene, she said, “Mr. Knight, I was indulging myself in your formidable library.” Very calm. Immensely civilized. She waved a hand along the wall. “You have a great many titles.” Inane.

  Still he said nothing. He failed to respond to her conversational gambit by word or gesture.

  His silence made her lift one shoulder defensively. If he was trying to intimidate her, he was doing a first-rate job. Just when she was going to say something else—she didn’t know what, but something that would crush this beast and his pretensions—he started forward.

  At once she realized she had named him correctly. He was a beast. He moved like a panther on the prowl, all smooth and leggy—and he prowled toward her. The closer he got, the bigger he seemed, tall and broad at the shoulder. He seemed an element of nature, a rugged mountain, a powerful sea—or a beast, a huge, ruthless beast who kept his claws hidden until he chose to use them.

  In a moment of panic, the imposter thought, My God, Madeline, what have you let me in for?

  Then he was beside her. Eleanor looked down into his face, framed with hair so pale it looked like a halo around his rugged, tanned features, and wondered if he would use those claws on her now.

  Slowly, he reached up and wrapped his big hands around her waist. The touch was like the heat of a fire after a long bout of winter. No man ever touched her. Certainly not a beast of such epic proportions, a man of ruthlessness who imagined he could buy his way into the tight-knit heights of English society. Yet he did touch her, pressing his hands into her flesh as if measuring her for fit, and from his expression, he found the fit acceptable. More than acceptable, enjoyable.

  And she…her senses absorbed him with an eagerness that left her embarrassed and gratified. She found herself breathing carefully, as if too deep a breath would cause her to spontaneously combust.

  The scent of him added to her discomfort. He smelled like…oh, like the crisp, still air at the top of the Alps. Like a cedar grove in Lebanon. Like a man who could give pleasure…. and how did she know that? She was as pure as the driven snow, and likely to stay that way to the end of her days.

  Men did not wed twenty-four-year-old companions who had no dowr
y and no chance for one.

  Tightening his grip, Mr. Knight lifted her off the stool.

  Incredulous, Eleanor dropped the book. Grabbed for it. Almost overbalanced.

  The book landed with a thud.

  He tipped her body against his.

  Reeling and operating totally by instinct, she clutched his shoulders. Shoulders immovable and strong as a boulder in a storm.

  Slowly, gradually, he allowed her to slither down him, as if he were a slide and she an artless child. But she didn’t feel like a child. She felt…she felt like a woman, confused, overwhelmed, driven by an absurd desire for a man whom she had never before seen. A man she knew to be a scoundrel of extraordinary audacity. She, who had been so careful to steer clear of those very emotions!

  Just before her toes touched the floor he stopped her and gazed into her face.

  His eyes, she saw, were a pale blue, like chips of frozen sky. They disconcerted her in their directness and lavishly complimented her without him ever saying a word.

  She blushed. She knew how very well her fair skin showed color, and she must be positively crimson. Embarrassed, intrigued, and in more danger than she’d ever faced in her life, she tried to think what the duchess would do in this instance. But the duchess, direct, brisk and managing, would never find herself in such an iniquitous position.

  In the dark, smoky voice of a veteran seducer, he said, “Your Grace, welcome to my home.” He let her slide down those last few inches and waited, as if to see if she would run away.

  Instead, she stepped back with the self-possession of the real duchess.