“You think I’m pretty?” Mariah was clearly surprised.
Kit was as surprised as she was. Was it possible? Could a girl as lovely as Mariah Shaughnessy not know how beautiful she was? He stared into her eyes, and the words that tumbled out of his mouth were sudden, unguarded, and completely honest. “No,” he whispered, leaning close, giving into the urge, touching his lips to hers. “I think you’re beautiful.”
His kiss was soft. A mere brush of his lips against hers. An exchange of breath, like the brush of a fairy’s wing against her mouth. It was a light, reassuring kiss—one meant to assure her of her attractiveness, but it was in danger of blossoming into something more. Kit knew he should pull away and put distance between them, but he didn’t. Instead of pulling away, Kit closed his eyes and allowed himself to luxuriate in kissing her.
Mariah’s heart pounded in her chest. She gasped at the heat and the pleasure his kiss gave her. It wasn’t her first kiss. Her first kiss had come from a boy named Kit when she was six. Lord Kilgannon’s kiss wasn’t her first one, but it was, without a doubt, her best. The pleasure was greater.
Mariah hesitated only a moment before she placed her arms around his neck. He kissed her again. Once. Twice. Nibbling at her lips, seeking permission to explore further. She granted it, parting her lips as he slipped his tongue through and began to taste the warm recesses of her mouth.
Heat surged through his body as Mariah moved closer.
Suddenly Kit was stretched out on the floor beside her, surrounding Mariah with his arms and his firm masculine body. She molded herself against him, enjoying the taste of his mouth, and the slight abrasion of his chin against the sensitive skin of her face, and the warm, citrus scent of oranges and male.
Kit groaned aloud. Mariah pulled away from him, gasping for breath. She was lightheaded, giddy, and completely immersed in the sensations his kisses created. She opened her eyes and found herself staring up into Kit’s brown ones. Mariah smiled at him, and Kit leaned down to plant a line of kisses from her forehead to her lips. “Mariah,” he breathed. “Sweet, beautiful Mariah.”
She closed her eyes once again and whispered his name. “Lord Kilgannon.”
She called him by his title instead of his name, and her words acted like a splash of cold water in his face, instantly cooling his ardor. Kit was dismayed by his behavior. He’d meant to comfort her, not to seduce her and yet … In the few hours he’d known Mariah Shaughnessy, he’d conveniently managed to disregard a lifetime of gentlemanly manners and ethics. Kit broke off his kiss and reached up and gently unwrapped her arms from around his neck. He pushed himself to his feet before helping Mariah off the floor and onto the settee. “All better now?” he asked.
Mariah stared up at him, and Kit read the confusion in her eyes.
“Yes, of course.” She pulled herself to her full height, straightening her back and stiffening her shoulders, draping herself in all the dignity she could muster. “Your kiss proved to be hugely medicinal, Lord Kilgannon. I’ve quite recovered now.”
Kit tightened his jaw. “My apologies,” he said. “My question was thoughtless and stupid, but I meant no offense by it.”
“I was not offended by your question.” She lifted her chin a notch higher.
Kit raised his brow in query. “You can’t mean to tell me that you found my kiss offensive?”
She didn’t answer.
“I know better.” Kit snorted in disbelief at her stubbornness. “The exchange we just shared wasn’t my first kiss.”
“Nor mine,” she retorted.
His eyebrow inched a bit higher. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.” She dared him to challenge her.
“Forgive my ignorance,” he said. “But I was under the impression that placing a girl in a convent generally prevents her from gaining the sort of carnal knowledge you claim to have.” Kit smirked. “But I forget that you’re betrothed …”
“I’ve never even met the squire,” Mariah protested. “Much less kissed him.”
“If not the squire, with whom did you experiment?”
She wasn’t going to tell Lord Kilgannon about Kit. She would simply make up a name and do penance later. “With a young man named—”
“Kit?” Dalton opened the door of the salon. “What the devil is keeping you? You said you were coming right back.”
Lord Kilgannon turned to his friend. “I’ll be right there.”
“You said that three-quarters of an hour ago,” Dalton complained.
“And three-quarters of an hour ago you and Ash were going to try out the billiard table,” Kit said.
“We have tried it out,” Dalton informed him. “I owe Ash a considerable amount already.” He stepped inside the salon, then pulled up short when he saw Miss Shaughnessy. “Oh, I say, I do apologize for interrupting. I thought Miss Shaughnessy had already retired.”
“It’s all right.” Kit waved Dalton away. “Miss Shaughnessy was just saying good night. Weren’t you, Miss Shaughnessy?” He turned to look at his ward as Dalton withdrew from the salon and pulled the doors closed behind him.
Mariah’s heart had leapt at the sound of his name. She could barely hear his question over the roaring in her head. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination or a memory from long ago. He was real. A living, breathing, grownup version of the boy who had given her her first kiss. And his kisses had improved with age. “Your name is Kit?”
Kit chuckled. “It’s a pet name. My given name is Christopher. Christopher George, twenty-ninth earl of Ramsey and the twelfth earl of Kilgannon. Only my family and close friends call me Kit. Everyone else calls me by my title.”
“What does your betrothed call you?” Mariah asked.
“I don’t have a betrothed.”
Her long-held hopes died a horrible death, and her heart seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces in the space of a sentence. “What about me?”
Mariah hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words aloud until Kit replied, “As you are an unmarried woman and my ward, you should address me by my title.”
“Even while you’re kissing me?”
Kit had the grace to blush. “No. But I won’t be kissing you again.”
“Why not?” Mariah demanded. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”
“Of course I enjoyed it,” Kit answered. “But that is beside the point.”
“It is exactly the point,” Mariah told him.
“No,” he said. “The point is that I am your guardian and you are my ward and you’re betrothed to another man, at least for the moment.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “The point is that I refuse to become the sort of low-minded gentleman who would take advantage of our current circumstances.”
“What are our current circumstances?” she asked, in a low, throaty whisper raw with tears. “Because I was all of those things when you kissed me. The only thing that has changed is that I’ve learned your given name.” Mariah stared into his eyes. “And the way you taste when you kiss.”
Her words stabbed at him like a knife to the gut. She had accused him of being the hypocrite he was fast becoming, and Kit didn’t want to be reminded of it. “I suggest you forget about that,” Kit said firmly. “I intend to.”
“You can try, Kit.” With those last words Mariah turned and walked away.
Once again she managed to contain her tears. This time she made it as far as her bedchamber before she began to cry. Mariah threw herself upon the bed, buried her face in the pale green satin coverlet, and cried until she could cry no longer. But this time her tears were born of anger rather than anxiety and embarrassment.
She had lived on hope for nearly fifteen years. She had lived on the dream that one day Kit would come riding up to the gates of St. Agnes’s and rescue her. In her dreams he had swept her up in his arms, placed her on his horse, and taken her to Telamor Castle, where they lived happily ever after. That dream and the memory of his promise had sustained her through the years of loneliness and hardship. Kit had been her
savior. Her knight in shining armor. Her wonderful, magnificent dream.
But the truth was that the reality of Kit grown into manhood was so much better than her dreams. Nature had done what her imagination could not. It had formed sinew and muscles, lengthened and strengthened his body, deepened his voice, refined the lines of his face, and dusted his jaw with the shadow of a beard. He was taller, stronger, and more handsome than she had ever imagined he could be. And the way he made her feel when he kissed her had been the stuff of fairy tales for hundreds of years.
Mariah sat up and wiped the remnants of her tears away with the back of her hand. She jerked the feather pillow from beneath the satin spread, folded it in half, and punched it with her fist as hard as she could.
All those years at St. Agnes’s, she had believed in his impetuous promise to come back and marry her. For all those years she suffered Reverend Mother’s punishments—the birchings with rod and ruler, scrubbing walls and floors, washing mounds of clothes and dishes, cooking, cleaning, ironing, weeding the garden—she had never doubted that the promise of discovering Kit waiting for her at the tower ruins was worth the pain and hard work. And she had never faltered, never revealed their secret. Because believing in Kit had been her only purpose in life.
Everything had been for Kit, for the promise he had made. She had become a baker of sweets—of cakes and biscuits, pastries and confections because she dared not eat them. All the years she was growing up, she still heard Kit’s voice saying: You’ll get fat if you eat cake every night, and if you get fat eating cake, no prince will marry you. She had repeated the sentiment at supper, but Kit hadn’t recognized it as his own.
She had remembered and believed in him. He had been her secret. The only person in the world who belonged solely to her, and the only person in the world to whom she belonged. She had loved him with all the love she had to give. But Kit didn’t love her. He didn’t belong to her. And he didn’t remember.
But he would, she promised herself. He would.
Chapter Thirteen
Think in the morning. Act in the noon.
Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
—WILLIAM BLAKE, 1757–1827
Mariah entered the kitchen at half past four the following morning.
Ford looked up from his tea and toast. “You should not be here, miss.”
“Why not?”
“Lord Kilgannon instructed that we were not to allow you access to the ovens.” His answer was firm and unequivocal.
Mariah inhaled, lifted her chin a notch, and looked the butler in the eye. If she was going to learn to be a lady, she might as well get started. “Then whom, may I ask, is going to bake His Lordship’s bread?”
Ford glanced at Cook.
Cook shook her had. “Oh, no, Mr. Ford. I know how to bake, of course, but Rory and I don’t have the time now that we’ve guests in the house.”
“We have bread every day,” the butler pointed out.
“Of course we do, sir,” Cook agreed. “But that is because we’ve been buying it from the convent for the past two years.”
Cook’s pronouncement was news to Mr. Ford. “Who authorized that?” he demanded.
“I did.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Kearney, entered the kitchens, her ring of household keys jingling from the belt at her waist. “I am authorized to purchase household goods, and it was cheaper to buy the bread than to hire additional staff to help bake it.”
“Has Sister Mary Lazarus delivered your order this morning?” Mariah asked.
Mrs. Kearney looked at Cook.
Cook shook her head. “She delivered a half dozen loaves and a letter from the Reverend Mother explaining that the convent had lost its chief baker and that they would be unable to provide bread for the castle until further notice.” She took a folded slip of paper out of her apron pocket and handed it to the housekeeper, who in turn, handed it to Mr. Ford.
“I thought as much.” Mariah made a clucking sound. “I wasn’t the only baker at St. Agnes’s. Sister Mary Joseph taught the three of us—Sister Mary Benedict, Sister Mary Lazarus and me—how to bake bread. But I showed the most talent for it. I assisted Sister Mary Joseph until I became proficient, then I took over the baking, and Sister Mary Benedict and Sister Mary Lazarus assisted me. My departure from the convent was rather abrupt, and Sister Mary Joseph is getting older, so I suppose it will take the sisters a day or two to get back on schedule.”
Mrs. Kearney nodded. “That is exactly what the Reverend Mother said in her note.” She turned to Ford. “I was just coming to consult with Cook about a change in the breakfast menu for this morning and to ask you if you think Lord Kilgannon’s instructions regarding Miss Shaughnessy might be overlooked for one morning? We use a half a dozen loaves of bread for tea and toast for the staff each morning. That number won’t begin to cover breakfast for His Lordship and his guests.”
Ford debated, clearly divided between his loyalty to his new master and the efficient operation of the castle. He glanced at Mariah and hesitated. “I should go to the master with this …”
“At this time of morning?” the housekeeper asked.
Ford frowned. Lord Kilgannon and his friends had still been engaged in conversation when His Lordship dismissed him at half past midnight. “He gave explicit instructions.”
“That’s true,” Mariah said. “But at the time His Lordship did not realize his daily bread would not be forthcoming.” She appealed to the butler. “I am an exceptional baker.”
“You are a lady, miss,” Ford protested. “His Lordship did not bring you here to work.”
Mariah frowned. “I baked tarts the whole of yesterday.”
“Without Lord Kilgannon’s knowledge or permission. And when the master learned that you had labored in the kitchens all day in order to prepare the tarts served at supper last evening, he instructed that you not be allowed to do so in the future. He expressly stated that from now on, you should only engage in ladylike recreations such as painting, needlework, musical studies, charitable work, and the like.”
“And there you have it, Mr. Ford.” Mariah brightened. “My baking is charitable work.”
Ford looked down his nose at her. “Lord Kilgannon is not a charity case.”
“No, he’s not,” Mariah agreed. “But the castle does contribute baskets of food for the poor on Saints Days.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Mariah glanced up at the wooden perpetual calendar hanging on the side of the cupboard and struggled for the name of some obscure saint or a holiday. “Today is Saint Elizabeth’s Day. I’m certain that it is celebrated somewhere, and since that is the case, I shall be baking bread for food hampers for the poor and for Lord Kilgannon’s table.”
Ford hesitated for a moment longer before asking, “If he asks, which Elizabeth are we remembering?”
Mariah took a deep breath. “Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia. Someplace exotic and far away from Ireland, Mr. Ford. I understand that Lord Kilgannon is Church of England. I doubt that he is intimately acquainted with all the Catholic Saints.”
“Lord Kilgannon appears to be a most unusual and well-educated young man. He may be Church of England, but he may also be acquainted with the teachings of a variety of religions. He may question the veracity of our claim.”
Mariah smiled at the butler. “We shall hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it should come to pass, I suggest you invent a traditional celebration day for Telamor Castle.”
“I beg your pardon, miss?” Ford was astounded.
“He can’t know everything there is to know about Telamor Castle or its traditions. Lord Kilgannon surely won’t be acquainted with every celebration day.” She paused to tie on the apron Rory handed her. “I’m not suggesting that we necessarily deceive Lord Kilgannon. All I’m suggesting it that we find a credible reason to give hampers of food to the poor.”
Ford thought for a moment. “I seem to recall hearing that years ago Telamor Castle celebrated the change of the guard from one
earl to another with tithes and gifts of food baskets for the poor. We shall take it upon ourselves to reinstate the tradition to honor the new Lord Kilgannon.”
“Truly?” Mariah was surprised.
“Yes, miss.” Ford, Mrs. Kearney, Cook, and Rory all nodded their heads.
“Very well, then,” Mariah pronounced. “I’ve a lot of charitable work to do before seven o’clock mass.” She rolled up her sleeves, washed her hands, and began assembling the ingredients she would need to bake two dozen loaves of yeast bread and a double batch of soda bread.
“Very good, miss,” Ford capitulated. “Mrs. Kearney and I shall see that the food hampers are made ready with gift of preserves, butter, clotted cream, soup, and sausages.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ford,” Mariah said.
“Not Mr. Ford, miss,” he corrected. “Just Ford. And you needn’t worry about meeting His Lordship for seven o’clock mass. No one in the peerage goes to early mass.”
She lifted the large wooden bread bowl from the shelf, then turned and favored the butler with a warm smile. “What time shall I be ready Mr.—I mean—Ford? When do the lords and ladies go to mass?”
“No earlier than nine, miss. And most don’t bother to go before eleven. But Lord Kilgannon instructed me to see that you were awakened in time to prepare for nine o’clock mass.”
“But that means they must lie abed until seven or eight o’clock in the morning.”
Ford fought to keep from smiling. “Or later, miss.”
“Really?” Mariah was astounded. “I’ve never heard of such indulgence.”
“Members of the peerage keep late hours, miss.”
“How late?” She kept late hours herself, compared to the other residents of St. Agnes’s, most of whom went to bed with the chickens, but keeping later hours was essential when one sneaked out in order to gaze at the stars from the ruins of the tower.
“His Lordship and his friends were wide awake when I retired at half past midnight this morning.” Ford told her. “In London, supper parties generally begin at nine in the evening so supper can be served at midnight. So it’s quite common for those of the peerage to sleep until noon.”