Frovtunes’ Kiss Read online

  “The former, my lord,” she returned as flames leapt to the tips of her ears.

  “You know this creature?” His sister flashed an incredulous look that turned speculative in the next instant. “Moira Hughes? Isn’t that our…”

  Miss Foster’s question died on lips gone suddenly and alarmingly chalky. Her hand clawed at her throat as her mouth widened in terror.

  Moira clapped her hands over her ears as Letitia Foster let loose a fresh round of screams that far outdid her earlier ones. The room once more dissolved into a confusion of voices and movement. The younger Mr. Foster scrambled away while their houseguest raised his voice in an explanation no one could hear.

  To her own indescribable horror, Moira discovered the source of the uproar. It was…good heavens…the most hideous thing she’d ever seen in all her life. A spider, but bigger, thicker, uglier than any she’d ever imagined, a monstrosity from deepest, darkest nightmare, with fearsome clawlike pincers and furry brown legs that bent and stretched with a leisurely grace that made it all the more grotesque.

  The leaded casements dug into her spine as she tried to shrink from that dreadful, hairy, revolting creature creeping along Graham Foster’s coat sleeve.

  And yet… .he regarded it as calmly as you please. He even—ugh, Moira looked away, then couldn’t help peeking—allowed the monster to crawl into his palm.

  “Letty, do stop that infernal shrieking,” he said with a weary roll of his eyes. “Isis is merely an African sun spider. She’s quite harmless, completely tame, and certainly nothing to warrant permanently deafening the lot of us.”

  Letitia’s mouth closed. She stared. Blinked. Swallowed with a gulp that echoed through the room. “Isis?” she whispered. “It has a name? It’s a pet?”

  “Of course, she’s a pet.” He smoothly deposited the creature into his coat pocket. “And I’d thank you not to terrify her in the future.”

  Letitia’s head wobbled slightly as she nodded.

  With an expression that made her spine tingle, Graham Foster’s attention returned in full measure to Moira. “Now then, Miss Hughes, perhaps you’d care to explain why you’ve rearranged my study in this most charming manner? And why you’re masquerading as a maid in my employ? Or have you, indeed, joined my staff?”

  Before Moira could answer, Miss Foster pivoted to glare at her. “Better she saves her explanations for the magistrate. I’ll have Mrs. Higgensworth send for one immediately. “

  “If you’ll allow me, Miss Foster.” The houseguest pulled himself up with a flourish that might have made Moira laugh under different circumstances. “It would be my pleasure to be of service.”

  “Hm.” Miss Foster regarded him down the length of her slender nose. “Yes, Mr. Paddington, thank you. Do hurry.”

  “There’s no reason to summon anyone,” Graham Foster said, but too late. His friend had set off at an eager trot. He glowered at his sister, who produced a self-satisfied shrug.

  “Leave us, Letty,” her brother commanded. When she pouted and voiced a protest, he ignored her and turned to his brother, who had all but disappeared into the wallpaper at the far end of the room. “You, too, Freddy. Finish sobering up. Letty, did Mother accompany you home?”

  “Mama’s still at the museum, I suppose.” The young woman tossed her curls. “I grew bored staring at all your relics, Monteith, so I begged a ride home with the Sanfords.”

  “Sorry to have disappointed you.” His steely gaze traveled back and forth between his siblings. “Leave us, and don’t either of you get into trouble.”

  Frederick Foster pushed away from the wall and sauntered into the corridor. His sister followed, after flinging one last derisive look at Moira.

  The door closed behind the pair, leaving her quite alone with their perplexing older brother.

  Yes, most perplexing, indeed. He stood staring at her, his arms folded across his chest. His dimples taunted while an infuriating half smile played about his lips. He strolled out of Moira’s vision, and a moment later she heard the familiar creaking of the desk chair.

  “Well, Moira Hughes, won’t you come out from that recess?”

  She much preferred not to. The very suggestion emphasized the utter foolishness of her behavior. Her maid’s uniform didn’t help. The plain blue dress and starched apron smoothed away individuality and all the grace of femininity, leaving only the drudgery and burdens of being female. And in this instance, it lent Graham Foster one more seeming advantage over her, besides the obvious fact that she had trespassed in his home.

  But with a deep breath she raised her chin and remembered who she was. Moira Hughes, stepdaughter—no, daughter—of the late Everett Foster, Lord Monteith, and every bit as good as the man confronting her. She walked out from the embrasure and stood tall before the desk.

  It was a large block of carved mahogany, dark, imposing, impressive. Or so she’d always thought. Graham Foster almost dwarfed it. Even sitting, he met her eye levelly and made her feel small and defenseless and very much alone.

  Through the window behind him, slanting sunshine burnished the top of his head. He was all golden light, deep shadow, and brilliant smile as he regarded her.

  A devil in a halo. She must not forget what he’d done, how her mother had suffered loss upon loss because of this man. Estella Foster had been not only widowed—well, not his fault—but thrown out of her home—most assuredly his fault—within a few short months.

  “Now then, Miss Hughes.” He closed two of the books she’d left open on the desk, moved them aside, and leaned forward, his face expectant and still so damnably amused. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  The scoundrel made her feel like a child. Saw her vulnerability and made full use of it. Holding her chin steady when it wanted to slink into her collar, she mustered the dignity of knowing she, in truth, was the injured party here. “What I have to say, my lord, you might not like to hear.”

  He held up the flat of his hand. “I’d much prefer you not call me my lord.”

  “Very well, then, Mr. Foster—”

  “Will you not call me Graham?”

  “Most assuredly not.”

  “Because I’d like to call you Moira.” Again that grin, those dimples. And that unsettling sensation that traveled through her and curled tight in her belly.

  “You may not, sir.” She squared her shoulders and glowered, then wished she hadn’t displayed any emotion at all when his eyes flashed with mocking humor.

  “A pity.” He sighed, compressed his lips, and made a show of appearing uncertain. “Tell me, Miss Hughes, have I again departed the dictates of propriety?”

  “You don’t need me to tell you that, Mr. Foster.”

  “Perhaps not.” He slid closed several gaping desk drawers. Before closing the topmost one, he reached into his coat pocket and dropped something—she could only assume that it was the repulsive spider—inside. After shutting the drawer gently, he flattened his palms to the desktop and pushed to his feet. His amusement melted away as he circled the desk, and with it went the boyish impertinence she’d come to associate with him. Suddenly he was every inch a lord, and very much in command.

  She wanted to back away, thought with longing of the safety of her window recess. He came closer despite her willing him to stop a suitable distance away. He filled her vision. She had to look up and up to see the top of his sun-kissed head while the room disappeared behind the broad, hard curve of his shoulders. Waiting, she drew an unsteady breath that filled her with the taste of him, warm and exotic, a sun-drenched wilderness.

  “What I need,” he said when they stood nearly toe to toe, “is for you to tell me why you’re here and what it is you want of me, Moira Hughes.”

  Goose bumps rose at the sound of her name, spoken in rumbling notes that grazed her lips and cheeks like a lover’s gentle kiss. It left her trembling, confused. Frightened. How could the man make her feel seized and kissed without ever laying a hand upon her?

  Abandoning subtle
ty and even pride, she backed a step away. So what if he deduced her need for safety? This man bewildered and alarmed her. His effect on her called for extreme measures.

  She looked him directly in the eye. “I want what’s mine and my mother’s, Mr. Foster. Nothing less will suffice.”

  “You believe I have something of yours?”

  “I do, Mr. Foster. And before I leave, I mean to have it.”

  He leaned closer still—much too close—and raised his hand to the sensitive skin beneath her chin. His fingertips barely skimmed her, yet commanded every nerve in her body to quiver at attention. “What makes you think, my dear cousin Moira, that I’ll allow you to leave?”

  Before she could form a reply, he tilted her chin and trapped her lips beneath his own.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Shaun Paddington rushed along the foot pavement until a thought brought him to a dead halt. Where would he find a magistrate? Must he go all the way to Bow Street near Covent Garden? That would take considerable time. Or did every London neighborhood boast such an official, occupying convenient offices identified by bold lettering above the front door?

  He glanced up and down the street, detecting nothing but the facades of Mayfair’s lavish residences.

  He had to admit he’d rushed off without giving the task proper consideration. Perhaps he should go back and seek assistance. But what would Miss Letitia think of him then?

  Letitia Foster. Miss Letitia, of the golden brown hair and desert-sky eyes, sleek, willowy, a pharaoh’s treasure. She was taller and a little more angular than most women, but he especially liked that about her. He adored the slender silhouette of her hips, the delicate lines of her collarbones, the grace of those long, lean arms. Ah, she fired his every instinct to protect, provide, good heavens, lay down his life.

  She irritated Graham, but only because he didn’t understand her spirit. He misinterpreted the spark and called it temper. But Shaun saw it—felt it—like the desert sun, bright and glorious and utterly without mercy.

  Graham was right about one thing, though. Her name, Letitia, didn’t suit her. Not at all. Too fussy and overdone, like hothouse flowers. But Letty—yes, that was pretty, vivacious, full of life. Just like her.

  Letty. Let. He could just hear himself. Morning, Let, shall we have a walk, or, Come give us a kiss, my Let.

  Or even, perhaps, Marry me, Let.

  He groaned. Thus far the girl hadn’t shown him the slightest regard. Better he returned to raiding tombs. That’s where he was at his best, where he shined. He thoroughly enjoyed fooling sheiks into believing he was the king’s ambassador. But with a woman like Letty…Shaun sighed. There could be no pretending.

  Where the devil would he find a magistrate?

  The king’s ambassador. That gave him an idea.

  Moira Hughes’s lips were all Graham had imagined. Soft, sweet, and as unpracticed as he had expected. And hoped. But certainly not without curiosity. Not without adventure.

  He felt her astonishment in a gasp that filled the interior of his mouth. He breathed it in and pressed for more, refusing her time to think. She went as rigid as a startled rabbit, but lingered rather than pulled away. Then her lips moved against his with a shy taste, an exploring nip. No other part of their bodies touched, but even at that, or because of that, he experienced an immediate rise in his trousers.

  Knowing she’d at any moment regain her ladylike sensibilities, Graham slipped his tongue into her mouth. He savored a moment of sheer bliss, fiery heaven, sweet sinner’s paradise, before she broke away with a shove that resulted in a full stroke of his tongue against the entire length of hers. A lifetime’s pleasure in one fell swoop.

  Her hand shot up. It started for his face, but then, oddly, fell to her side.

  It puzzled him, for he undoubtedly deserved the full force of her lovely hand.

  Her eyes glittered volcanic fury. “How dare you?”

  He wished he could say he was sorry. But blazing hell, he’d never been less sorry in his life. And for all the indignation flaming her cheeks, he’d wager that, for an instant at least, she hadn’t been entirely regretful, either.

  “You’re a cur, a scoundrel, a—”

  “You ransacked my study. I stole a kiss.” He shrugged. “Shall we call it fair?”

  “Fair?” Her black eyes snapped. “What can you possibly know of fairness, Mr. Foster? You, who has everything a person could ever want, who lives life with a devil-may-care impertinence. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She swept an aggressive stride closer. “I’ll have you know I’m quite aware of your past, Mr. Foster, and I…”

  At those words, his enjoyment drained like blood from a wound, leaving a cold void inside him. It must have shown on his face. Her voice faded into uncertainty, and she stood balling the hem of her apron in her fists.

  Would he never escape the unearned infamy of his past? Who was this woman to come into his home—albeit, it was once hers—rifle through his belongings, and hurl accusations at him? They shared no blood relation, yet here she was, denouncing his character as blithely as the rest of his faithless family.

  “Miss Hughes, I still haven’t an inkling why you’re here or why you abhor me, other than the kiss, and in truth, I don’t believe you found it all that loathsome.” Her mouth opened on a retort that he spoke over. “Whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I am not without scruples and feel no need to apologize for how I’ve lived my life thus far. At least no more so than any other ordinary mortal.”

  She dropped the hem of her apron; no, she flung it from her hands. “No need to apologize?”

  “None.”

  “Not even for dishonoring the memory of my affianced by making ill-mannered advances toward me?”

  Her fiancé, Nigel Foster—how could he have forgotten? He supposed he wanted to forget, even now, especially now, with the sweet taste of her lips lingering on his. She was right. His lapse in memory showed a distinct want of respect. “Forgive me, Miss Hughes. I am indeed sorry for your loss. I didn’t know Nigel well, but I certainly thought highly of him.”

  Not entirely true. On the few occasions they’d met, Nigel had treated Graham with outward friendliness. Yet he’d always detected an undercurrent of condescension, a haughty awareness on his cousin’s part that while Nigel constituted the shining fruit of the family tree, Graham’s hold was several branches lower.

  Moira didn’t look appeased. “What about forcing an elderly widow from her home of twenty years—” She stopped and gulped for breath. “Mere weeks after her beloved husband’s death?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Why must my mother live in a ramshackle cottage when Monteith Hall stands empty?”

  “Ramshackle? Forced out? Not by me, Miss Hughes.”

  “Most certainly by you, Mr. Foster. I’ve a certified letter to prove it.”

  Anger rose at a suspicion suddenly confirmed. Why, that family of his… He tamped the thought, for the time being. He’d deal with his mother and Letty later. “Miss Hughes, I think you had better slow down and tell me exactly what it is you were searching for.”

  “A codicil to my stepfather’s will.” Her nostrils flared. “Do you deny knowing of its existence?”

  “A codicil declaring what? From what I understand, the inheritance was straightforward and unalterable.”

  She skewed up her lips on a rebuttal, which was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Damn.” Not now, not when he finally had Moira Hughes talking. He sighed. “Come in.”

  Flushed and out of breath, Shaun strode into the room, then held the door for an elderly gentleman who shuffled in as if each step caused him pain. He was stoop-shouldered, in need of a haircut, and his shabby frock coat was missing a button. Yet for all his physical shortcomings, the man met Graham’s appraisal with an air of confidence, even authority.

  “The Honorable Mr. Herbert Doone,” Shaun announced.

  Irritation prickled Graham’s neck.
“I told you a magistrate wasn’t necessary.”

  Doone regarded Moira from beneath his tightly drawn eyebrows. “Is this the offender?”

  “Indeed, Your Honor.” Letty entered with an imperious rustle of petticoats, a bounce of curls. “Arrest her at once.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Grasping Letty’s hand, Graham gently but resolutely drew her to stand beside the desk, out of the way. Moira’s pretty chin swung from one person to the next while her dark eyes grew large with worry. He caught her gaze and tried to convey an assurance that she would not, in fact, be hauled away to prison. Not yet, at least.

  “This woman is a relative,” he explained to Mr. Doone. “Miss Hughes is my stepcousin and a guest in my home.”

  He heard Letty gather breath to speak and tossed her a don’t-you-dare scowl.

  The magistrate cleared his throat. “Cousin, you say. Then why, if I may be so bold as to ask, is she dressed as a maid?”

  “Ah, yes. A practical joker, my cousin. Aren’t you, Moira?”

  She blinked. “I, ah…yes, I am. And I’m terribly sorry—”

  “This is absurd.” Letty pushed away from the desk and brushed past Graham’s restraining arm. “Cousin or no, she’s been prowling through the house without leave. Look at this room, Your Honor. I caught her rummaging through my brother’s things. Red-handed, I tell you. And you should see all the chipped china and—oh!—the rug! You must see what she’s done to the morning-room rug. She’s a disaster, a menace, a—”

  “Letitia.” The first time Graham had ever addressed her by her full name, it rumbled like the dire warning he meant it to be. She flinched and went utterly still but for the quivering ends of her ringlets. “Another word, Letty, and I’ll send you off with Mr. Doone.”

  She started to gasp, seemed to think better of it, and snapped her mouth shut.

  “Now, see here, Graham.” Shaun’s attempted forcefulness failed to attain the necessary bluster. His expression urged Graham to be reasonable, to be nice.