The Marquis' Kiss (The Marvelous Munroes Book 3) Page 21

  That wrung a chuckle from him. “Are you a talented physician as well?” When she put her hands on her hips, he shook his head and complied, pointing to his lower left rib. Margaret’s frown deepened.

  “That doesn’t look like your heart to me. It looks like your stomach.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve had an upset stomach once or twice in my life. This is nothing like that, I assure you.”

  Margaret continued to eye his gut. “Let us try an experiment.” Before Thomas knew what she was about, she took both hands and pressed against his stomach. The pain shot up again, but this time, what erupted was a loud belch.

  Thomas colored. “I beg your pardon.”

  Margaret laughed, throwing her arms about him in relief. “Oh, Thomas, don’t apologize. You aren’t dying! I daresay you’ve never done anything in excess your entire life, so you would not know the symptoms of dyspepsia. I would also hazard a guess that each time these attacks occurred, you had treated yourself to an overdose of Mrs. Tate’s fish chowder.”

  Thomas accepted her hug, stunned. Could it be so easy? “Dyspepsia? Is that all?”

  She released him, grinning. “Don’t sound so disappointed. I’m thoroughly glad you’re not ready to stick your spoon in the wall just yet. Perhaps we might still have time to work out our differences.”

  Seeing the expectation in her eyes, he almost wished he could use the excuse of his near demise. He had to confess his fears, even though he knew she already had proof. He had put his heart into his kiss, as he had never done before. Feeling her willing response, as free and giving as the lady herself, had set his blood on fire. For a moment, he had dreamed of a true union, mind, heart, and soul.

  Then Margaret had laughed.

  He had always admired her laugh. But the sound if it then had scored him to the bone. It could only mean that she found his kiss no more than amusing. He had failed yet again. Only this time, there would be no recovery. This time, he had lost not only his dignity and pride but his heart.

  She stood waiting, her look a challenge. For the first time in his life, he considered running. But too much hung in the balance.

  “You deserve better,” he said.

  Margaret’s brows shot up so high they were nearly lost in her silver-veined hair. “Better?” She started to laugh, and he flinched. “Better? Thomas, who could possibly be better than you?”

  He bowed his head. “I am not perfect, Margaret. I cannot resist a challenge, no matter what it may cost me. And, as you noticed tonight, I have a nasty temper. It takes a lot to goad me, but once goaded, I behave no better than a maddened bull. I do and say things I find abhorrent afterward.”

  “I cannot believe you would beat me,” Margaret protested.

  “No, never!” The very idea repelled him. “I promise you, Margaret, I will never raise a hand to you. My voice, however, is another matter.”

  She shrugged. “In truth, it is an annoyance. But I am fully capable of giving as good as I get, or of deflecting the criticism if it is unwarranted. As long as you show me you love me in other ways.”

  There lay the rub and the challenge. He straightened. “If you insist, I will kiss you whenever you like.”

  “If I insist?” She frowned. “You make it sound like an onerous chore.”

  “It is,” he replied, watching her, “for you.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded. “Thomas, I’ve been brazenly begging for your kiss for weeks. What makes you think I don’t like it?”

  “I have had…reports…that my kiss is less than delightful.” There, he had said it. He waited for her agreement.

  “What idiot told you that?” she asked. “Oh, let me guess. Lady Janice Willstencraft. Was that her test? A kiss?”

  “Test?” Now it was Thomas’ turn to frown.

  “She has a test she administers to gentlemen who propose,” Margaret explained. “She would not tell me what it was, for fear of her reputation. She must have exhaustingly high standards, for she refused nine others before you.”

  Thomas shook his head, afraid to hope. “But your cousin Allison felt the same way.”

  “Really?” She looked surprised. “Well, I suppose that is to be expected. She was in love with someone else.”

  “Would that make a difference?” he asked with equal surprise.

  “Oh, Thomas,” she replied, sighing wistfully, “of course it makes a difference!” When he still looked perplexed, she turned thoughtful. “Though I daresay it does not make a difference for some. Certainly the ladies at Comfort House would vouch for the fact that a good kiss does not require love. Yet I think any act is more enjoyable if you put your heart into it.”

  “I would like to put my heart into it,” Thomas murmured, “if you would let me.”

  She swallowed, nodding, and held out her arms. He walked stiffly into them, feeling a bit as if he was going to his execution. But the smile and the light in her eyes was so tender, he knew he had come home at last. He pulled her close and kissed her.

  It was some time before either could speak again.

  Then Margaret laughed, and Thomas joined her, free and loving merriment lifting to the stars above in a prayer of thanksgiving as old as time.

  “You see?” Margaret smiled at him. “The reason you kissed badly, my lord, is that you were kissing the wrong women.”

  “You appear to be right,” he replied, returning her smile and smoothing her disheveled hair. “You have my heart and my love. I’ve never met anyone like you, Margaret.”

  She laughed again. “Well, of course not. I am an Original. Now, show me again how you intend to kiss me once we’re married.”

  So Thomas granted her request, and she surrendered herself to the joy of the marquis’ kiss.

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for reading Thomas and Margaret’s story. She is one of my more unique heroines, but one close to my heart. If you missed the marquis’ first attempt at courting, check out Catch of the Season.

  If you enjoyed the book, there’s several things you could do now:

  Sign up for a free e-mail alert with exclusive bonus content so you’ll be the first to know whenever a new book is out.

  Connect with me on Facebook, Goodreads, or Pinterest.

  Post a review on a bookseller or reader site to help others find the book.

  Discover my many other books on my website.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of the first book in the Lady Emily capers, Secrets and Sensibilities. When art teacher Hannah Alexander accompanies her students on a country house visit, she never dreams of entering into a dalliance with the handsome new owner David Tenant. But one moment in his company and she’s in danger of losing her heart, and soon her very life.

  Blessings!

  Regina Scott

  Sneak Peek of Secrets and Sensibilities, Book 1 in the Lady Emily Series

  Hannah knew she should sit back in her seat and not gawk like her charges, but she had never seen such grandeur. Majestic oaks crowded on their left, and an emerald meadow dotted with jonquils swept away on the right. The meadow led up to the placid waters of a reflecting pond, which mirrored the front of a rose brick great house. The drive led up over a white stone bridge arching the stream that fed the pond and onto a circular patch of white gravel encircled by a shorter wrought-iron fence with gold balls on each post. A gate from the drive opened to a garden-edged path that led up to the porticoed porch of Brentfield.

  Hannah stared. The wings of the house led off in each direction, three floors full of huge, multipaned windows edged in white. Liveried footman as smartly dressed as the house strode out to assist the girls in alighting. Grooms sprang forward to hold the horses. The girls crowded past her, giggling and chattering. Hannah was so mesmerized that she didn’t even realize they had all left until a footman peered into the coach and started at the sight of her.

  “Can I help you down, miss?” he asked. Hannah blinked, then offered him her hand. Her half boots cru
nched against the snow-white gravel. She gazed upward, holding her straw bonnet to her head with one gloved hand, staring at the three golden urns that topped the pedimented porch.

  “They tell me,” said a warm male voice, “that the house was designed to mimic Kensington Palace.”

  “I was thinking of Olympus, actually,” Hannah replied. She glanced at what she had thought was another footman and froze. Standing beside her was a gentleman who took her breath away. A Modern David in the Field, her artist’s mind supplied, noting the tweed trousers and jacket. She wondered whether she’d brought enough brown with her to capture the warmth of his thick, straight hair. She’d need red for highlights too, or perhaps gold. No, she’d paint his eyes first, a deep, soft blue that would change, she would wager, with what he wore. And she would have to find a way to immortalize that welcoming smile, tilting more at one corner as if her wide-eyed stare amused him.

  And she was staring, she realized, although she couldn’t seem to help herself. She wanted to commit every detail to memory, as she did before painting a subject. She wanted to remember that his lower lip was more full than his upper lip, and both were a seashell pink. There were a dozen other things she needed to catch if she was to capture the man on canvas.

  “Are you all right?” he asked when she remained silent in study.

  He spoke with an accent, a twang that softened his speech. She had heard French, German, and Gaelic at the school, but she did not think this accent was a result of their influence.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she managed. She glanced about and found that the footmen were tossing down the luggage from the top of the carriage and the boot. The man beside her appeared invisible to the servants, who bustled past with loaded arms. He was equally invisible to the groomsmen who held the horses. None of them met his gaze as he glanced about. She wondered suddenly whether her bemused brain had conjured him, like a fairy from a mushroom circle, to grant her wish to paint. But no fairy she had ever read about dressed like a shepherd.

  “You’re the chaperone from the Barnsley School?” he asked politely.

  He was making conversation, and she was gawking again. She forced a smile. “Yes. I’m the school’s art teacher.”

  A light sprang to his eyes, making her catch her breath anew. “You’re an artist? What medium?”

  “Oil painting,” she replied a little surprised at his interest. “Although I like charcoal as well. There is a way of shadowing that gives the subject depth.” Realizing she sounded as if she were lecturing, she blushed.

  “Do you prefer landscapes, objects, or people?” he prompted eagerly.

  “People,” she answered.

  “Classical or portrait?” he quizzed.

  She was beginning to feel like the student for once. “Classical,” she responded before she could think better of it. Then, knowing how scandalous that confession was, she quickly corrected herself. “That is, I hope to one day paint portraits.”

  “Have you studied, then?” he asked. “Would you know a classical piece if you saw one?”

  Was this some kind of interview? She seemed to remember being asked such questions when she had arrived at the Barnsley School.

  “I am self-taught,” she told him proudly. “My family did not have the funds to send me to school. But I can assure you I know the Masters.”

  He grinned. “Then maybe I could show you a few of the Brentfield pieces.”

  She looked him askance, still trying to determine why he was so interested. She had met few who were interested in her painting, even among those she painted. “Are you an artist, too?”

  His smile deepened. “I’ve been called that a few times. But I work in leather, not paper or canvas.” He held out his hands, which she saw were stained brown. His smile faded. “Although my badge of honor looks like it’s wearing off. The mark of a gentleman, I guess.”

  Even with his gentle voice and accent, he made it sound as if being marked as a gentleman was a shameful thing. He shook himself and offered her a smile that was a pale copy of his original. “I’d love to see your work. And I do have a project that I’d like your help on. You’ll be staying until Easter, I hope?”

  “As long as the girls need me,” Hannah replied. Belatedly, she glanced up the drive after her charges. Not a single girl was in sight. She rolled her eyes at her own ineptitude. Her first assignment as a chaperone, and she hadn’t even escorted them into the house!

  A tall, elderly dark-skinned gentleman in tan knee breeches, navy coat, and the undisguisable air of command, was making his way toward them. Othello Coming to His People, her bemused brain suggested.

  “I’m in trouble now,” her companion murmured. “Derelict in duty once again.” He heaved a sigh, but the twinkle in his eye told her he was hardly sorry.

  “You’re needed inside,” the older man intoned with a nod. Hannah wondered why the Tenants would have use for their own in-house leather craftsman, but she felt a shiver of pleasure that she would be able to see him again during her visit. Perhaps she might find a moment to help him with his work here.

  The older man turned to her with a bow. “You’d be the Miss Alexander for whom the young ladies are searching?”

  “She’s still beside the carriage, so they can’t be searching very hard,” her David quipped. “Now, don’t glare, Asheram. You wouldn’t want to reduce me to a quivering pulp in front of Miss Alexander, would you?”

  “Perish the thought,” the man replied.

  “Good. Earn your keep and introduce me the way you tell me these Brits insist on.”

  The older gentleman rolled his wide-set eyes. “If you would be so kind as to tell me your first name, Miss Alexander?”

  Her David leaned forward as eagerly as when he had asked about her painting and set her blushing again. “Hannah,” she murmured.

  “Miss Hannah Alexander,” the man said solemnly. “May I present David Tenant, Earl of Brentfield?”

  Learn more.

  About the Author

  Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has more than thirty published works of warm, witty romance.

  She and her husband of more than twenty-five years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott has dressed as a Regency dandy, driven four-in-hand, learned to fence, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn more about her at her website.