Page 2 of Kiss the Scoundrel Farewell
“Please.” Had she said please? Oh heavens, what am I doing?
Then all thoughts flew from her head as his lips brushed hers. Meg closed her eyes and reveled in the softness of his mouth, her hands moving of their own accord to clutch his waistcoat. He moaned and pulled her closer, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips. She parted them in surprise, tasting the faint lingering whiskey as he swept inside her mouth.
Her body trembled, her stomach took flight, and her heart was lost. When he leaned his head back, a smile on his handsome face, he said, “Hound’s teeth, but I’ve wanted to do that since the first time we met.”
She blinked, unable to form words. Her pulse raced, thudding in her ears. If her mother called for her now, she’d never hear. Lord Hayward tucked her hand back into the crook of his elbow and led her back to the balcony. Just as she entered the ballroom, her father found her.
“There you are, child. Come, your mother has a megrim.” He took her arm, propelling her through the crowd as she tried to see Lord Hayward over her shoulder. But he was lost behind a sea of bodies.
The next day, Lord Drake made a call. He disappeared into her father’s study, then reappeared to join her and her mother in the parlor for tea. As he flipped the tails of his coat up and sat, that familiar smirk upon his face, he said, “I’m happy to announce, Lady Tarlton, the banns will be read on Sunday for your daughter and me.”
Meg dropped her teacup, the china crashing to the floor into a thousand pieces along with her heart.
CHAPTER 1
January 1821
Just outside London
Margaret, Lady Drake finished signing the banknote and leaned back in her chair. The weather was dreary, another cold rainy day. The library, with its dark furniture and bookshelves, added to the gloom. She replaced the stopper on the ink bottle and slid the pen into a drawer, wondering what she should read on the drive home.
There was a knock on the door, and Katherine, Dowager Countess of Wyndam entered. The sapphire on her mahogany cane gleamed in the firelight as she entered. She was a founding member of the Widows’ League and highly respected by all its members.
“Meg, dear. It’s good to see you.” The countess moved briskly for a woman of her enduring years and took a leather wingback chair near the hearth. She smoothed back her silver-streaked dark hair and looked at Margaret expectantly.
“Your note said you would arrive this afternoon. It sounded urgent.” Margaret joined her with a smile, wondering what had brought her out on such a bleak day. “I just took care of my dues for the Widows’ League,” she said, nodding to the butler who appeared at the door.
Mr. Smith was immaculate as always. His dark hair sprinkled with gray was combed back, the black waistcoat, pants, and jacket without a wrinkle or unintended crease. “I assume you will want tea, my ladies?” he asked.
Margaret looked to the countess for confirmation.
“Not yet, Smith. I will have a rest and unpack first. Have Cook prepare shortbread to be served with it.” Lady Wyndam’s gaze returned to Margaret, her shrewd blue eyes taking in the length of Meg. “You look well. Ready to return south?”
“I am, ma’am,” Meg said, thinking of Drake House and its occupants. She preferred the quiet life on her small southern estate in Hampshire. She enjoyed her role as baroness, helping the tenants and villagers. Her life there was full there, with few worries.
Her month-long stays here, just outside London, added the needed spice to her life. A smile pulled at her lips, remembering the gentleman she had kissed a few nights ago in the dark.
“Still masquerading?” asked Lady Wyndam, her dark brows raised.
“Occasionally,” she answered, her head snapping up at the countess’s tone. “Why?”
“My grandson heard a certain viscount bragging about a conquest, a masked beauty who would be his next mistress. I thought of you.” The older woman leaned forward. “Lord Belten has quite a temper and may be dangerous when crossed, especially toward women. And he seems quite determined to uncover this paramour’s identity. I’ve heard he’s dicked in the nob, so please be careful.”
A tremor of foreboding passed through Margaret. “Why do men feel the need to lie about their feats with women? I appreciate the information and will keep that in mind. Fortunately, I’m returning home tomorrow.”
“Which leads us to the reason I’ve come,” began the countess. “It seems Lady Winfield is betrothed and will not be taking her turn occupying the house next month. As you know, weddings end a membership with us.”
Margaret grinned. “I heard rumors but didn’t know whether to trust them. Is it true she’s marrying her first love?”
“I’m happy for her. However, we must find someone to stay for the month of February. I can be here for a week at most…” Lady Wyndam’s voice trailed off as her meaning became clear.
The manor was a haven for widows who found themselves in need of assistance, physically or financially. The membership dues allowed the Widows’ League to help widows find shelter, pay rent or taxes if needed, escape harmful situations, or provide discreet legal advice. The members took turns staying at the manor, so someone was always available.
“I realize you don’t like to reside in London during the Season. With the weather, it will be a slow start this year. I thought, perhaps, just this once?”
The countess rarely asked for favors. Without the League’s help, Margaret would have lost her home, an unentailed estate left to her according to her husband’s will. His son from his first marriage had tried to nullify the transfer of the deed to her. Without funds to hire a solicitor and bring the case to court, she would have had to return to her parents’ home—and been married off again—or been destitute.
With a sigh, she nodded. “Of course. If you don’t mind giving me a week to take care of a few things at Drake House, I will come back for the remaining three weeks.”
