Frovtunes’ Kiss Read online

  “Benedict Ramsey, the bishop of Trewsbury, of course,” she replied, and watched his face transform in ways that made her breath catch.

  Could a man be likened to an ocean storm? A black fury of cloud and wind and wave that takes sailors by surprise and only by the smallest margin leaves them with their lives? If so, that was Graham Foster for the briefest instant. Then he gave a visible shake that brought the tempest under control.

  “Benedict Ramsey…a bishop? Blazing hell. I suppose I might have known he’d wangle his way to the top.”

  Taken aback, she frowned. “He’s a respected clergyman.”

  Graham’s simmering animosity could have burned a hole in the seat facing them. “I cannot accompany you inside, Moira.”

  “But…why ever not?”

  “Because I would not be welcome, nor would I wish to be.” He drew a sharp breath. “You would do well to beware of him.”

  “Nonsense. Besides being a relative, Benedict Ramsey was Papa’s oldest and dearest friend.”

  “He’s no friend of mine, I assure you.”

  “The bishop is an elderly man and half-blind. What could he have done to make you so bitter toward him?”

  “He wasn’t always so elderly, or so blind, Moira. Once he was a deacon in his prime, wanting very much to rise in the ranks of the clergy. Ambition consumed him. So much so, he was willing to sacrifice a member of his own family.”

  Misgiving sank like sodden bread in her stomach. “You?”

  He nodded, lips compressed. “Do you understand why I left England years ago?”

  She hesitated. Beneath his exaggerated calm, rage pulsated, making her afraid to answer, afraid not to. “The…incident at Oxford?”

  “Yes, my expulsion. My disgrace. Are you aware of how the bishop took sides against me in order to win the favor of a wealthy nobleman?”

  Where were the dimples? The mockery? The flirtation? As much as she had wished them gone previously, she longed for them now. Preferred them to this sense of having committed some unpardonable sin beyond her comprehension.

  “Graham, please—”

  “Ah, you don’t wish to speak of it, and I can’t say I blame you. Unpleasant business, all of it.” He turned away, knocked once on the ceiling, and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Go, Moira. I’ll wait for you here.”

  The coach listed as the driver descended from the box. A moment later, he opened the door and let down the step. Without a word and with an odd sense of loss dragging at her heart, Moira slid away from the almostcousin twice removed who now seemed more a stranger than ever.

  Moira hadn’t been gone five minutes when Graham booted open the coach door. Standing thankfully out of the way, his driver flinched but remained unharmed.

  “Sorry,” Graham mumbled and strode past.

  At the base of the front steps, he stopped and considered the double front doors looming above. A portico supported by fluted white columns ran the length of the facade and wrapped around either side, allowing a view into the first-floor rooms. He loped up the stairs and, stepping to the right, gazed through the first set of tall windows. Behind sheer curtains he spied what appeared to be a waiting room furnished with uncomfortable-looking gilt chairs ranged along the walls. Detecting no movement and no fire in the hearth, he moved on.

  It wasn’t until he crossed to the left of the front entrance that he came upon Moira and the bishop. After nearly being spotted by two footmen rearranging furniture in the dining room, he darted around the corner and heard Moira’s voice drifting on a billowing wisp of curtain from an open window.

  He hugged the wall beside the wide window that began at his shins and rose well above his head. The blowing curtain afforded him the advantage of peeking inside with little risk of detection.

  Moira and Benedict Ramsey occupied armchairs several feet away. With a good view of his relative’s face, Graham noted that the years had been less than kind. The once-energetic if parsimonious deacon had given way to a wizened, overweight bishop who squinted at Moira as though dazzled by the sun.

  Yes, Graham found her dazzling, too.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” he heard her say. “I should have sent my card first…”

  “Nonsense, child. I only wish I’d been at home when you called last week.” Graham’s temple throbbed at the sound of Benedict’s voice. So cordial. So mild. Not at all as he remembered from years ago. “You must give me all the news of your dear mother.”

  “She’s very well and sends her regards. She’s enjoying our new home…”

  And so the conversation went, with Moira doing her best to convince yet another individual how well she and her mother were doing. That made Graham angry all over again. Was there no one she felt she could turn to? If Benedict Ramsey had been Everett’s closest friend, why couldn’t she tell him the truth?

  He heard tears in her voice. “We miss him terribly.”

  She was speaking of her stepfather.

  “And now with Nigel gone, as well…”

  The fiancé. Ah, Moira. She had endured so much. Graham experienced a stab of guilt. He tended to forget the tragedy in her life, tended to think of her simply as an enticing young woman he’d like to know better.

  No wonder she held him at arm’s distance.

  “I know you saw Papa the last time he came down to London,” he heard her say now. “Did he speak to you of matters concerning my mother’s future?”

  “Why, no, he didn’t.” The bishop’s eyebrows rose, etching paternal furrows across his brow. “But at the time, there was no reason to believe Estella’s future might be at risk. Everett seemed in the best of health, while you, my dear, were engaged to his heir, may he rest in peace.”

  She lowered her face, fingering a stray thread or piece of lint on her skirt. When she looked up, her features were taut. “And Papa never mentioned any changes to his will? He never discussed his intentions of doing so?”

  Graham watched the bishop brush his hand back and forth across his flaccid chin. “Not that I recall.”

  “Are you quite certain?” A note of desperation clung to the words. Moira sat back—collapsed almost—in her chair. “I don’t understand it. He was most particular on this point. Emphatic. He insisted he’d made changes to ensure the well-being of his family. Those were his words. He said we need never worry about anything.”

  “Are you, my dear? Worried, that is?”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t that.” She straightened and pasted on a smile that shouldn’t have fooled anyone, unless that person wished to be fooled. “I only mean to see that Papa’s wishes are executed accordingly.”

  The bishop patted her hand. “Have you asked Mr. Smythe?”

  “He claimed ignorance of the entire matter. In fact, he hurried me out of his office as quickly as possible so he could return to a more important client.” Bitterness edged her voice. “The new Baron Monteith.”

  The first time Graham saw Moira in Smythe’s office, she had been crying, or nearly so. And he had made a devilish sorry joke of it. Damn his bones for that.

  The old man settled back with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Have you had any contact with Graham Foster?”

  Graham leaned closer to the window, ears pricked.

  “As a matter of fact…” Moira sighed. “I’ve been invited to stay at Brook Street.” After a pause, she said, “He’s rather an enigma, isn’t he? What do you know of Graham Foster?”

  “An unpredictable sort, I’ll say that much.” Graham’s blood simmered as Benedict hissed a breath through his teeth. “I saw potential in him once, but potential isn’t always enough. Not nearly so. A man must have character, integrity. A sense of honor. I’m afraid events proved the young man lacking in all three. A pity. Perhaps it would be best, my dear, if you declined his invitation. You are always welcome here.”

  She didn’t immediately answer. Was she considering the wisdom of Benedict’s suggestion? She’d been hesitant in accepting Graham’s hospitality
, and it didn’t take a fool to see that her trust in him was as tenuous as London sunshine.

  Don’t be fooled by the old snake, Moira. Don’t look into those half-blind eyes and be blinded to the truth.

  As he strained his ears to hear her reply, whistling echoed in the garden below. An instant later, a groundskeeper appeared from around a row of hedges, a rake propped on his shoulder. With nowhere to hide, Graham leaned his back to the wall and crossed one ankle over the other, trying to appear as though he belonged there. Just a guest of the bishop, out for a breath of air. He even rummaged through a coat pocket, pretending to search for a cheroot, which, of course, he didn’t have.

  The gardener glanced up, saw Graham, and touched a finger to his cap. Graham offered a nod and straightened his coat as if preparing to reenter the house. The gardener continued on his way, soon out of sight.

  Upon turning back to the window, he received a shock that nearly sent him backward over the terrace rail. Moira stood just inside, one hand reaching to grasp the fluttering curtain. He considered slinking away along the wall, but her gaze lighted on him. Surprise elicited a gasp, which he diffused the quickest way he could think of—by flashing his most charming, disarming grin.

  And there it was, the familiar, fluttering shiver across her shoulders. She tried to hide it, tried to dismiss him with a quelling look and retreat from the window.

  Ah, not so fast.

  He caught her hand and tucked it inside his coat, pressing her palm flat against his chest above his heart. By heaven, it felt good there. Soft and slight, yet warm, steadying. Infinitely female, the sort of hand that held the power to change a man’s life, turn a vagabond into a knight, a charlatan into a prince. God, the potential encompassed within that small hand. It made him want to promise her…ah, he didn’t know. Things.

  All that from a single touch. Moira, Moira. He breathed, and her fingertips moved, sampling the shape of him beneath his shirt. Her dark eyes glimmered.

  Something inside him stirred. Something beyond simple attraction or seduction. Something far more dangerous.

  He raised his other hand and pressed a finger to his lips, making a game of it. Sh, Moira, don’t give me away. That broke the spell. He felt the pull in her arm as she tried to reclaim her hand. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, censure. Her lips skewed with disapproval. He smiled and shrugged, playing the jester while an unexpected urgency knifed his insides.

  Don’t trust that old cobra over me, Moira. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t believe his lies.

  And, ah, Moira, please Don’t take your hand away.

  Moira tried to tug her fingers free. Why on earth was Graham skulking like a burglar? And why did he squeeze her hand with such insistence while looking at her with that silly expression, as though this were nothing more than a schoolboy prank?

  She had a good mind to yank him through the window right into the room, depositing him onto the floor at her feet. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to hear his explanation to the bishop.

  She knew she wouldn’t. She’d keep his presence a secret in spite of, or perhaps because of, the way he was looking at her. And because of how his chest felt beneath her hand.

  His heartbeat filled her palm and traveled through her, blending with the racing beat of her own heart until she couldn’t tell which set the pace, his or hers. But wasn’t that how Graham Foster always made her feel—overwhelmed and breathless and unsure of her own feelings?

  He kept flashing those dimples just to confuse her, she was certain, and prevent her from knowing quite what to do. Fiend.

  Behind her, Benedict Ramsey said, “The more I consider it, Moira, the more I believe it would be best if you stayed here while in London. I simply don’t relish the idea of you being in that house alone with Graham Foster. It’s no place for a young single lady.”

  She should have agreed with him; should have jumped at his offer. After all, wasn’t Graham at this moment proving those words true with his outlandish behavior? Yet she surprised herself by replying, “Oh, have no fears on that account. His mother and sister are present in the house. There’s Mrs. Higgensworth, too. I’ll be well chaperoned.”

  “Still, the man is a rake. Do you wish to be beholden to a—Moira, where are you going?”

  Where, indeed? Graham was backing away from the window and towing her along with him. His grip allowed no choice but to either step over the sill, luckily no higher than her shin, or topple flat on her face onto the slate terrace floor.

  “Stop it,” she hissed. “What are you doing?”

  Those brilliant dimples vanished within a scowl. “I’ve heard my character defamed quite enough for one day, thank you, and so have you. We’re leaving.”

  “Moira?”

  Uncle Benedict’s puzzled face poked out the window just as Graham reached the corner of the house. With her hand firmly secured in his, he scooted out of sight. “Better come up with a plausible excuse fast,” he whispered, “or we’re done for. How the devil will you explain my spying at the window? He’ll think you were in on it from the start.”

  “Cad.”

  “I prefer blackguard.”

  “You’re absurd.” Craning to peer over her shoulder, she formed a smile while doing her best to conceal the evidence of her imminent abduction. Graham was right. By not immediately exposing him, she’d become his unwitting accomplice.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle, I suddenly remembered a prior engagement.”

  “Good heavens, child. Do you always take your leave by jumping out windows?”

  “It’s the fastest route to my carriage. I really must be going or I’ll be late. It’s a very important appointment. I promise to call again soon.” She smiled and waved, backing away until Graham gave a final tug that propelled her around the corner to the front of the house, and smack up against his chest. His arms went around her, holding her tight.

  “Phew. That was close.” The warm vibration of his whisper caressed her cheek and took possession of her senses, her thoughts. She breathed in the tingling starch of his cravat and experienced a moment’s dizziness. “Ah, but what fun, eh, Moira?”

  She shoved at his shirtfront. “You’re insane.”

  “Oh, go on, admit it. You’d grown weary of the old snake.”

  She managed to create an inch or two between them, but he stubbornly held on, his arms locked like iron bands around her while his fingertips fondled her back, gingerly exploring the cloth buttons on her gown and eliciting a quivery-cool scattering of goose bumps.

  “Aren’t you secretly glad I rescued you?” His voice dipped, a warm ocean eddy over rock and sand. He began pressing the buttons up and down her back, playing them like notes on a pianoforte. “Surely you didn’t credit his wretched opinions?”

  “Stop that.”

  But he didn’t. He only summoned the dimples to distract her. And distract they did with their boyish mischief, their mockery.

  Tipping her head back to scowl at him, she discovered something else lurking behind the laughter in his eyes. Something that slipped out at an unguarded moment, not at all lighthearted but—goodness—vulnerable. Downcast. Needful. Her scowl eased as she considered this.

  Yes, he very much wished her to concur that perhaps the bishop was wrong, that Graham Foster was not the rogue the family believed him to be. This heretofore unexposed side of him rather touched her heart, albeit she could have boxed his ears for his antics.

  She was about to reassure him with some small show of faith that wouldn’t also inflate his ego or give him untoward ideas, when footsteps on the drive caught her attention. Stretching to see over his shoulder, she beheld a young dark-haired man who had just descended from a coach parked behind theirs. He carried a leather portfolio in one hand and two or three slender ledgers in the other. A pair of spectacles flashed in the sunlight as he climbed the front steps.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Pierson?” she asked, pointing. “From Mr. Smythe’s office.”

  Graham turned to follow h
er line of sight. “I believe it is. Wonder what the devil he’s doing here.”

  “A legal matter, I suppose.” Moira shrugged. Pierson didn’t notice them, half-hidden as they were behind one of the portico’s wide columns. “The bishop is a client of Smythe and Davis just as Papa was. Just as you are.”

  They heard the front door open and close. Graham said absently, “Mm, suppose you’re right. Come. Let’s go home.”

  Home. How easily he spoke the word. How naturally it fell from his lips as he offered his arm to escort her down to the carriage. The house on Brook Street—once her home, now his. But certainly not theirs. Yet he said it with the sort of familiarity he so often bandied about, as though home and family were nothing special, nothing to be cherished or defended or valued above all else in life.

  It was this—this lack in him—more than anything the bishop of Trewsbury might have said about Graham Foster that disturbed her most. What did this man, this adventurer, know of home? What did he know of family? Or of the pain in her heart at having lost both?

  CHAPTER

  10

  Moira awoke early the next morning determined to perform a task put off since her arrival in London. Going to the clothes-press in her dressing room, she opened the top drawer and rummaged through the undergarments she had unpacked the night before. There she found the lacquered wooden box that held paper, ink pot, pen, and sealing wax.

  She arranged these items on the bedside table. Slipping back beneath the bedclothes, she propped the crisp paper on a closed book and frowned in concentration, preparing to write a detailed letter to her mother. Of course, a great deal of those details would come straight from her imagination.

  Having a lovely time in London. Catching up with old friends. Attended a brilliant ball last week. Have positively been adopted by the Mrs. Augusta Foster and family.

  This last would let her mother know where to direct her correspondence without raising her concerns for Moira’s welfare. After all, Augusta Foster was Everett Foster’s second cousin by marriage, or some such relation, and it would not be at all unusual for the woman to take Moira under her wing. Even if, in truth, she hadn’t.