Twelve Kisses to Midnight: A Novella (The Oxenburg Princes) Page 2

  “You’re out if you think that will impress her. She’s the only daughter of a prudish, better-than-thou earl, and she’s already spoiled beyond belief.”

  “Perhaps she is worth spoiling. Or at least”—Nik added, a wolfish sparkle in his eyes—“bespoiling.”

  Her grace sputtered. “Do you forget I am here?”

  He sighed. “I had indeed. And a glorious, lovely moment it was, too.”

  “Pah!” She rose to her feet, her black shawl fluttering. “I am leaving. Do not try to stop me, because I wish for pleasanter company, or at least someone with some good gossip.” With a sniff the grand duchess hobbled off, her cane thumping with each step.

  Nik said, “Good. Now we are free to speak to the intriguing Lady Montrose and— Chyort, she is gone!”

  Marcus looked around. Kenna was nowhere to be seen. A pang of regret pressed against his chest, one so deep that it surprised him and made his heart sink yet more. Damn it, it’s too late for regrets. Ten years too late.

  “Where did she go?” Nik said. “I must find her.”

  The supper gong sounded, and the assemblage began to move toward the door.

  Nik sighed. “I suppose we will find her at the masquerade later this evening, nyet?”

  Marcus smiled politely, though he had no intention of looking for Kenna Stuart. She belonged in his past, and he was determined that was where she’d stay.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “That is nae a costume,” Marcus announced.

  Nik looked down at the gold sash and dozens of colorful medals that hung across his red military-style coat, which complemented his black breeches and shiny boots. “This is a very fine costume.”

  “You wear that coat and that sash and those medals to every formal event in Oxenburg. ’Tisna a costume if you wear it all the time.”

  “Perhaps, but beside you, who wear no costume at all, I’m as dressed as a peacock.” Nik captured two flutes of champagne from a servant walking past with a tray and handed a glass to Marcus before peering around the room at the bejeweled and bedecked guests. “Have you seen the lovely Lady Montrose? I cannot locate her in this madness. There’s scarcely any light—bloody hell, can the man not afford more candles?”

  “Stormont thinks the dimness adds to the intrigue.” Marcus grimaced. “What it does is make the room as dark as a bloody cavern.”

  “We’ll never find Lady Montrose,” Nik said mournfully.

  “Nay,” Marcus said baldly. “We dinna know what costume she’s wearing, so ’tis unlikely we’d recognize her even if we could see through this gloom.”

  Which was far better for them all. Despite his best intentions, Marcus had found himself looking for Kenna throughout supper. It should have been an easy task, for there were fewer than fifty people in the dining room, but Stormont had packed the guests so closely that they could barely bend their arms to eat, much less lean out to see down the long table. It hadn’t been until the fifth course that, by chance, the line of people had moved as if one, and Marcus had finally caught sight of the gentle curve of Kenna’s cheek as she turned to say something to her companion.

  It had been but a glance, and the only one he’d been allowed during the entire two-hour-long supper, but for some reason that lone sighting had left him pestered with yet more unsettling memories.

  After supper the women had all moved to the sitting room, where after-dinner refreshments were to be served, while the men had joined Stormont in his study for cigars and whiskey. The two companies wouldn’t reassemble until the masquerade at ten, so Marcus was left on his own to fight off the old, irksome memories as best as he could.

  Later, while dressing for the ball and half listening to his valet repeat the gossip heard belowstairs, Marcus had decided that his curiosity—for it was no more than that—was totally normal. He and Kenna had been close once, and they hadn’t seen each other in years. It was only natural that he was curious about her. And the best way to end his curiosity would be to speak to her for a few moments, to free himself from any lingering thoughts about what used to be. Then he would finally be free from this irritating tendency to dwell on things he hadn’t thought about in years.

  That decided, he’d made his way to the ballroom. But as Marcus stepped through the festively decorated doorway, he’d found himself facing hordes of mysterious masked women, none—and all—of which looked like Kenna.

  He said in a sullen tone to Nik, “Och, we’ll never recognize anyone in this mess.”

  “It’s impossible,” Nik agreed. As he spoke, several costumed women sauntered past, arms linked as they sent Nik and Marcus sultry smiles, protected from discovery by their glittering masks.

  Marcus blew out his breath in irritation. “Bloody hell, why must Stormont throw a masquerade ball every blasted Christmas? ’Tis in poor taste.”

  “Perhaps he likes the drama. These masks and the lack of light—he is setting the stage for debauchery.”

  “He is a fool.”

  “Da. At supper, he could not stop talking about the pleasures he’d gotten from the hunt today. He was so obnoxious that I wondered if he was actually talking about the hunt, or something else.”

  A woman dressed in a Greek goddess costume floated past and eyed Nik seductively. He glanced at her blond hair and offered her nothing more than a vague nod before looking over her head at the others in the room. Her smile faltered and, with narrowed eyes, she left.

  Nik didn’t seem to notice as he scowled at the room. “I cannot find Lady Montrose and you cannot find Lady Perth. Neither of us can be with the women of our dreams, which is an insufferable state of affairs.”

  “They are all dressed alike, too. From where I stand, I can count nae fewer than nine Greek goddesses, twelve Egyptian priestesses, and fourteen befeathered swans.”

  Nik sighed. “At least with Lady Perth, you have a clue. She was to be in a silver gown and wait beneath some mistletoe, correct? I have seen two dozen swans, but none dressed in silver and— Oh! The one by the fireplace. Is that your Lila?”

  Marcus shook his head. “The gown is silver, but that swan has light brown hair. Lila was to wear a black wig. Even knowing she will be standing under mistletoe is of nae help as every bloody door in this house has been decorated with the stuff.”

  Besides, he’d rather find Kenna first. He’d keep his tone casual, ask her a polite question or two—perhaps about the health of her father and if she were enjoying the house party; the types of questions faint acquaintances burdened one another with. She would answer in the like, polite and distant, chilly and disdainful—he remembered her expressions far too well—and those few sentences would confirm what he already knew: that there was nothing more between them. Not one spark, not one flicker, not one hope.

  “Silver dress, black wig, and mistletoe,” Nik murmured as he leaned to one side, then the other, peering over the heads of the guests. “I do not see Lady Perth at al— Wait. In the doorway to the sitting room.”

  Marcus turned to look. The woman standing beneath a wide swath of mistletoe faced away from them, but he could see black curls that fell to one side, and a trim figure enclosed in a silver-gray gown. She turned her head, and her black and silver swan mask came into view. “That must be her.”

  Nik nodded thoughtfully. “That gown . . . I approve.”

  Marcus had to agree. Lila wore a gown from an earlier era, when the female form was more on display than today’s draped fashions allowed. The silver-gray material clung low on her shoulders and hugged her full breasts to her corseted waist, before spilling across two side panniers and falling to the floor in a dramatic flow. The long black curls cascading down her bared shoulders complemented her creamy skin, and she looked deliciously decadent, the feathers of her mask brushing her delicate neck every time she moved her head. Perhaps I am a fool to be thinking of Kenna when Lila is here.

  “Go to her,” Nik advised. “Stormont is trying to make his way to her side. I must admit, I dislike our host more and mo
re. It is only his lavish entertaining that makes him palatable.”

  “That, and he possesses some of the finest hunting lands in England.” Marcus finished his champagne. “If nae for that, I doubt anyone would attend his house parties at all.”

  “Then go rescue your lady. I shall wait and see if I can spy Lady Montrose. But if you see her first—”

  “I’ll bring her here for an introduction. Of course.” Of course not. Marcus placed his empty champagne flute on a nearby table and, with a bow, left to join Lila.

  As he approached her he caught sight of Stormont, whose progress had been halted by a pair of determined women who, judging from their black wigs and the heavy kohl lining their eyes, were dressed as Egyptian priestesses.

  Excellent. One less obstacle. Marcus reached the doorway just as Lila moved to the side, half hidden now among large pots of palm fronds hung with holly and festive red bows. It seemed as if she had no desire to mingle with the other guests, but he knew her too well to believe that. Lila was many things, but shy was not one of them. She must have seen me coming and thought to give us some privacy.

  He came up behind her, stepping between her and a broad potted palm, and slipped an arm about her waist. With an insistent move, he pulled her against him and then moved deeper into the privacy afforded by the palm pots. With a few steps they were completely hidden from sight.

  Marcus murmured in her ear, “There you are, under the mistletoe, just as you promised.”

  She held still, though her breath quickened visibly, the feather near her mouth fluttering. “Rothesay?” she whispered.

  “Who else?” He chuckled and slipped his hands from her waist up her front, finding her full breasts.

  Her hands closed over his and she gasped, shivering in delight.

  “Mmmm, I have been thinking of this—of you—all evening,” he murmured into her delicate neck and increased his ministrations.

  A deep sigh shuddered through her and she pressed back against him, tilting her head to give his lips better access to her neck. Her scent tempted and teased him.

  “A new perfume,” he whispered. “From an admirer? Should I be jealous, my lovely swan?”

  In answer, she quickly turned in his arms, slipped her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. The second his lips touched hers, a wild, savage heat raced through him and his heart thundered in his ears in a reaction so swift, so furious, his breath disappeared. Damn, I haven’t felt this since—

  He opened his eyes. Instead of Lila’s light blue eyes, smoky brown ones met his. Can it be—?

  He broke the kiss, tightened his arm about her waist, and lifted her off her feet, holding her prisoner against his chest while he yanked free the bow tied behind her ear. With a twist of his wrist, he jerked the mask free.

  And there she was, bare-faced, her body held to his, her thickly lashed eyes wide with fear and something else, her lips but an inch from his. “Kenna!.” It was more a moan than her name, for even as he was furious at her deception, his body ached to taste her again. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  “Marcus, I—I didn’t realize you were—” She grasped his hands where they held her and tugged futilely. “You must release me or—”

  “Damn you! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She cast a glance behind him and hissed, “Shush! People will hear—”

  He kissed her. It was the last thing he should have done, for he didn’t wish anyone to see them. But she was here, in his arms, and all of his fury and pain from years long gone burst to the surface and would not be assuaged with anything less than possessing her, tasting her, silencing her every word with firm, possessive kisses.

  For a startled moment she was still beneath his onslaught, but then her arms slid once again about his neck and she curved into him, her face tilting to his as she opened her mouth to him. His body exploded into passion as pure desire engulfed him and he, trying so hard to be the master, became the slave to her soft lips, her intoxicating scent, her slender arms that held him so tight. He deepened the kiss, taking a small step back to steady himself—

  A pot met the back of his knees.

  He staggered.

  Kenna’s eyes flew open and she instinctively tightened her grip about his neck, throwing him even more off-balance.

  He twisted, trying to regain his footing, but it was too late—with a muffled curse he fell backward over the huge pot, through the palm fronds, to land on the ballroom floor, scattering the dancers and causing an instant outcry. Kenna, pulled with him, was splayed over his chest, her voluminous skirts flipped over their heads. Yet though their faces were shielded from sight, someone recognized them, for somewhere in the darkness a man’s deep voice boomed over the orchestra’s fading notes, “My God, Rothesay has seduced Lady Montrose!”

  Chapter Two

  “Lord love ye, lass, ye’ve done it now.” MacCready shook her head, her mobcap fluttering as she handed Kenna a fur-lined bonnet. “Ye’re in the suds guid and weel, ye are.”

  “Nonsense. I shall come about.” Kenna smiled at her maid, though she felt like doing anything but. “Father will help.” I hope. She instantly chided herself for doubting. Of course he will. “He will join us here at Stormont’s and act as if last night’s unfortunate incident doesn’t deserve any attention. If anything will silence the gossips, it is Father’s disregard.” Which was why she was going to ride out to his home now to ask him to help.

  Such was the power of her father, the stern, unyielding, always correct, and often chilly-toned Earl of Galloway. Father was known far and wide for his rigid standards, lauded for his self-control, and held up as an example for his perfect sense of decorum.

  “I dinna know,” MacCready said in a doubtful tone. “Yer father isna one to take oop a cause, and ye’re askin’ him to just tha’.”

  “I’m not a ‘cause’; I’m his daughter. And I’m only asking him to join me here this morning and remain a day or two. Besides, he likes Lord Stormont and will be eager to assist.”

  Truth be told, Father liked the earl far more than she did. Lately Father had been demanding she accept Stormont’s repeated offers of marriage, which she’d been steadily rebuffing over the last year.

  Father seemed to think this was her last opportunity to marry well, and perhaps it was. Fortunately for her (according to Father), Stormont already had several sons by his late wife and had no interest in having more. All he wanted was a well-bred lady to serve as a hostess and give him access to a considerable dowry, and Kenna met both of those requirements.

  Stifling a sigh, she hooked the loop of her riding-habit skirt over her wrist and shook out the long skirts. “I hope this coat and cloak will be warm enough. ’Tis icy this morning. The windows were frosted when I arose.”

  “Aye. Cook says there’s a snowstorm brewing, but hopefully ’twill nae come fer a day or two.”

  “Good, for I’ve no wish to get caught in it.” She smoothed the sleeves of the fitted coat. “Please have a gown ready when I return. If all goes well, I’ll be taking lunch with both Father and Lord Stormont.”

  “Aye, yer ladyship.” MacCready gathered Kenna’s reticule, grimacing at the weight. “Are ye certain you want to take this? ’Tis heavy.”

  “I’ll need it. Father will only travel in a coach, and I’ll wish for something to read on the ride back.” She was fairly certain he’d be too angry to speak. Father loathed scandals and she was neck deep in one. She could already imagine his icy stare, and she absently rubbed her chest, where a familiar sense of dread pressed. It seemed she’d spent her entire life avoiding that stare.

  Catching MacCready’s concerned gaze, Kenna forced a quick smile. “I’m reading a very good book right now. ’Tis about a lass who is kidnapped by pirates and goes upon a grand adventure. I’ll read some to you tonight before bed, if you’d like.”

  The maid beamed as she handed the reticule to Kenna. “Och, yer ladyship, I would like tha’ verrah much indeed.”
<
br />   Kenna hung the reticule on her arm, the weight of the book affording her some comfort. If Father assisted her, he would expect a payment of some sort. That was how he did things—nothing was free. She could only hope Stormont was so disgusted with her oh-so-public fall from grace that he would refuse to reopen his offer for her hand.

  Which is highly unlikely. Before last night’s embarrassment, she’d overheard various people whispering that Stormont was deeply in debt and could no longer hide it. If that was true, there was little chance he’d walk away from aligning himself with her. Not only did she have a handsome jointure from her mother’s estate, but her late husband had left her several properties as well as a large per annum for her expenses. On top of that, Father had “sweetened the pot,” as he’d called it, by offering the earl some of the rich pastureland that resided between their conjoining estates as a bridal gift.

  All in all, their marriage would be a fiscal relief for the expense-laden Earl of Stormont, and a pragmatic move for her. But I’ve been pragmatic before. This time I want more. Much more.

  Right now, though, she had to rescue herself and Rothesay from this mess. “Thank you, MacCready. That is all for now.” Kenna threw a thick cloak over her arm and removed her fur-lined gloves from the pocket of her heavy pelisse.

  “Verrah guid, my lady. I’ll have the blue silk gown ready on yer return. Yer father has always been partial to tha’ one.”

  “Thank you.” Kenna smiled and then left, hurrying down the hallway to the grand staircase, the thick rug masking the clip of her booted feet.

  It was only seven in the morning, far too early for the masquerade revelers to be up and about, for which she was thankful. The person she most wished to avoid was Rothesay. After their disastrous fall, she’d been too embarrassed to look at him. It wasn’t until later in the evening, when he’d caught her gaze from across the room, that she’d realized the extent of his fury.

  She couldn’t blame him. The situation was untenable, which was why she’d decided to ask for Father’s help. Of course he’ll help. How could he say no? He will be as desirous to avoid a scandal as I am. Still, her stomach ached with uncertainty as she hurried down the main stairs into the empty foyer. Damn my impulsive nature for this mess. I can’t seem to think straight, especially where Rothesay is concerned. He always muddled my sense of decorum and prudence, ever since—