All Jennie’s predictions came true over the next few days. The St. Jameses stayed at Perusia Hall with the poor woman, who was called Mrs. Croach. Ellen persisted in thinking her mad, but Jennie’s mother wasn’t so sure. And either way, the St. Jameses were reconciled, so Kit’s position looked secure once more.
He proposed a few days later, in the afternoon while their employers were at the factory. With Cook’s assistance, he lured Jennie out into the meadow beyond the stone wall of the yard, where the sun shone brightly and the field was lush with wild heather.
“What is it?” she kept asking. Kit just smiled and led her onward until they reached the large poplar tree that gave the house its name.
“Here’s what it is,” he told her, taking her hand and clasping it against his heart. “I love you, Jennie. I can’t imagine life without you. I want to marry you, if you fancy me enough for that.”
She blushed. “Mr. Lawrence!”
He waited, grinning like an idiot, his heart thumping madly.
“I do fancy you, more than enough for that,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Yes, I will.”
With a whoop he swung her off her feet—a little too hard, as they ended up sprawled in the heather, laughing in each other’s arms. It seemed a perfect moment for a kiss, although neither could say who kissed whom first.
“Kit,” said Jennie sometime later, as they lay contentedly in the warm grass, “we’ll have to ask—”
“I know.” He grinned. “And I already asked your father and your mother if they approve of me, which I thought a far higher bar than getting Mr. St. James’s permission. He’s in a benevolent mood right now, if you haven’t noticed.”
Jennie smiled, her cheek on his shoulder. “If Mam approves of you, the rest will be easy.”
He kissed her again, then helped her to her feet. “I intend to ask Mr. St. James tonight.”
When he heard the door a few hours later, Kit was still grinning. He winked at Jennie and loped up the back stairs. Mr. St. James had always been generous and fair to him. Mrs. St. James was very fond of Jennie as well. Surely neither of them would be opposed, if he and Jennie both wished it.
He reached the landing upstairs before his employer, and instantly knew something was off. It was his step, heavy and slow on the wooden stairs, as if he had to work to put one foot in front of the other. Kit paused, his confidence suddenly shaken.
Then St. James came around the bend in the stairs, head down, and Kit’s heart plummeted. God’s eyes. Something was very wrong.
The man looked up, and for a moment their gazes met before St. James looked away. Now Kit’s heart nearly stopped. He’d seen that expression before. Lord Percy had looked at him just so, after that disastrous night in Vauxhall.
His face carefully blank, St. James nodded and went into his bedchamber. He stopped so suddenly that Kit, following behind, almost ran into him. He stepped neatly to the side, saving the collision, and spied what had stopped St. James.
There was a chocolate cup on the bureau. Madam must have brought it up this morning, after breakfast.
That happened regularly now. Kit and Jennie had learned to avert their eyes and their attention whenever the St. Jameses went upstairs together. But both he and Jennie had missed clearing away that cup, and now the master was looking at it with stricken eyes. Kit silently cursed.
Quickly he moved forward and snatched it from the bureau, hiding it behind his back. “So sorry, sir. Will you—?”
“No,” said St. James, sounding strangled. “I won’t need you tonight, Lawrence.”
Damn. Kit’s bad feeling promptly burst into full-blown dread. “Not at all, sir?” he asked, praying to be told no, it was only a headache or a problem at the factory, and his employer would want a bath or a glass of port later.
“No,” St. James repeated, his face averted. “Not at all. Take the evening free.”
Kit let himself out and closed the door. For a moment he just stood there, clutching the wayward cup. His mind ran in a dozen directions at once, none of them happy. What had happened? Was it something he’d done? The trouble over Mrs. Croach seemed to have blown over, and the St. Jameses had been happier than ever—Kit had quickly learned never to enter a room without tapping and getting permission, to avoid interrupting a romantic moment.
Slowly he went back down the stairs. Had they fought? Had something happened to Mrs. Croach? Where was Mrs. St. James?
“Well?” Jennie demanded eagerly, eyes shining, as he stepped into the kitchen. Her question made him start, and then it almost made him sob.
“Something’s wrong.” Gently he set down the cup.
Jennie jumped to her feet, her mending falling on the floor. “What? Is Mr. St. James injured?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. In here.” He touched his chest.
Jennie blinked, her brow knit in that endearing puzzled way.
Mary looked up, interested now. “’Tis his heart? Has he suffered a fit?” she asked in surprise.
Kit shook his head. “Not that kind of hurt. He looks . . . devastated.”
“Oh no,” exclaimed Jennie. “Perhaps Mr. Tate refused to produce that new Fortuna pottery—you know how much both of them have been working at it. Or perhaps his aunt suffered a relapse . . .”
Kit closed his eyes. He just knew it was neither of those things. The poor fellow looked shattered.
Jennie’s arms went around him. “There now, Kit,” she cried softly. “You look fair stunned! Sit down.” She urged him into the chair next to hers and gave Mary a stern look. With a roll of her eyes, the maid gathered up her mending and left the room. “What happened?”
Kit looked into her dear, beautiful face. Perhaps he could beg a position in the factory. There wasn’t much other employment in Marslip, but he would take anything—anything at all—to stay nearby. The innkeeper at the Two Foxes in Stoke was a decent chap; perhaps he needed someone to tend the taproom. “I think I’m going to be sacked,” he told Jennie.
Her dark eyes widened. “What? No! Why would you be?”
Kit shook his head. “The look on his face. Something terrible’s happened, and the last time a master looked at me that way, I was on the street the next day.” Without wages, he didn’t add. Please God at least let Mr. St. James pay his wages due.
Jennie sat bolt upright, still gripping his hands. “What? Never! I’ll go to Mrs. St. James, she won’t let that happen.”
Kit looked at her. Mrs. St. James was made of stern stuff, but if Mr. St. James left, no one would need a valet at Poplar House. “Jennie . . . would you marry me anyway?”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly, Christopher Lawrence. You’re not going to be out on the street.”
“If I have to take employment in Stoke, would you still marry me?”
Her laughter faded, and she grew somber. “Yes,” she said. “You know I would.”
The tightness in his chest eased. He smiled. “Then I’ll be fine,” he told her. “As long as you’ll still have me.”
From the front of the house came the sound of the door being flung open, and footsteps running upstairs. Mrs. St. James was calling her husband’s name. Kit gripped Jennie’s hand, hoping they made up, fearing things were about to get worse.
“I’d better go see if she needs me.” Jennie pulled loose and darted to the stairs.
“No!” Kit lunged after her, but she was already on her way up, skirts in both hands. Despairingly he ran after her, trying to keep his steps quiet. “I don’t think she’ll want you just now,” he whispered as he caught her at the top of the stairs.
Jennie put a finger to her lips and pressed open the door a few inches. Mr. St. James’s bedroom was only a few feet away, and raised voices were clearly audible from it.
“God help me,” breathed Kit, slumping against the wall. A furious quarrel with his wife would hardly improve Mr. St. James’s mood.
Jennie turned and put her whole hand over his mouth. To his astonishment, she was grinning, her
eyes sparkling. “Listen to ’em,” she whispered.
Kit heard shouting. He’d never heard Mr. St. James shout.
His beloved put her cheek against his. “All will be well, Kit,” she breathed in his ear. “Miss Bianca clears the air with a good row.”
He pulled her hand away. “He looked miserable.”
She grinned again and put her arms around his neck. “Aye, and listen to what they’re saying to each other.”
Kit fell silent and strained his ears. “. . . and if you think you’re going to invalidate our marriage, you’re mad, and I’ll fight it ’til the end of my days because we belong together!” That was Mr. St. James, roaring louder than Kit had ever heard him. Mary in the kitchen could probably hear him.
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight!” was his wife’s equally loud reply.
And then there was silence.
Jennie kissed him. “Let’s go back down. We’re really not wanted now.”
Kit grinned and let her take him by the hand back down to the kitchen.
Mary stood clutching her mending, looking upward in amazement. “Are they fighting?” she asked in wonder.
“Not anymore,” said Jennie saucily. “Don’t go up unless someone rings, aye?”
Mary choked on a laugh. “Bless me, no! Not for anything!”
Kit pulled her around the corner, into the hall, out of sight of the kitchen. He took her in his arms and kissed her—just as, he strongly suspected, his master was doing upstairs to his own beloved. “Have you got a dress to be married in?”
She blushed, her hands clasped at the back of his neck. “I do. Miss Bianca gave me her beautiful burgundy gown. She said she’d got so many new ones in London, she wanted me to have that one.”
“You’ll look prettier in it than she does,” he declared. “I love you, Jennie. Are you really going to marry me?”
“As soon as the banns are read.” She kissed him. “You’re my heart’s desire, Kit Lawrence.”
In the end, she wore an even better dress to her wedding. When Kit finally spoke to Mr. St. James, the day after the furious shouting argument that ended in promising silence, Mrs. St. James had exclaimed that Jennie must have a new gown of her very own if she was to be married, and helped her choose the fine pink fabric. Three weeks later, Jennie came down the aisle on her father’s arm, happier than any person had a right to be, to stand beside Kit and recite her vows.
Both the St. Jameses declared themselves delighted and gave Kit and Jennie time free for a honeymoon trip. Kit told her he had one planned, but he refused to reveal where.
“Trust me,” he said as he started the gig.
Jennie rolled her eyes, waving her whole arm at her parents, her neighbors, her employers, her cousins—including Ellen, whose demeanor had markedly improved once Miss Cathy returned. Now Miss Cathy was Mrs. Mayne, the curate’s wife, which had restored Ellen’s pride and good humor. “You’re a terrible tease,” Jennie told her new husband.
“I want to take you on an adventure,” he protested. “It can’t be to Spain or America, but we have to start somewhere.”
They were leaving Marslip. Not forever, but it did feel like the two of them were embarking on a grand adventure, together. She put her hand in his pocket and leaned against his shoulder. “Anywhere with you is a grand adventure for me.”
He laughed. “Anywhere you are, I’m home.”
It was the happiest honeymoon ever enjoyed in Liverpool.
About the Author
CAROLINE LINDEN was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Since then the Boston Red Sox have won the World Series four times, which is not related but still worth mentioning. Her books have won the NEC Reader’s Choice Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, the NJRW Golden Leaf Award, and RWA’s RITA® Award, and have been translated into seventeen languages. Join her newsletter to get advance previews of new books and a free short story exclusively for members.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Caroline Linden
When the Marquess Was Mine
An Earl Like You
My Once and Future Duke
Six Degrees of Scandal
Love in the Time of Scandal
All’s Fair in Love and Scandal (novella)
It Takes a Scandal
Love and Other Scandals
The Way to a Duke’s Heart
Blame It on Bath
One Night in London
I Love the Earl (novella)
You Only Love Once
For Your Arms Only
A View to a Kiss
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction
What a Rogue Desires
What a Gentleman Wants
What a Woman Needs
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“About a Kiss.” Copyright © 2020 by P. F. Belsley.
about a rogue. Copyright © 2020 by P. F. Belsley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition JULY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-291363-0
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-291362-3
Cover design by Guido Caroti
Cover photograph by Glenn Mackay
Cover illustration by Allan Davey
Additional photographs © Deklofenak/Depositphotos (shelves); © Ravven/Depositphotos (windows); © kodoruk/Depositphotos (flooring); © Reinhold Leitner/Shutterstock (texture)
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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