Page 23 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

“Never mind that,” said Mrs. Hogg. “I’ll put it by for tomorrow.

” She swallowed the first piece of marzipan and immediately popped another one into her mouth to suck.

“I sh’pose I ought to thank you, Miss Bel, that you didn’t bring the vicar to sh-ermonise over me this time.

” She gave a fierce cackle. “And this one’s handsh-omer by far. Who is he?”

Nigel gave an involuntary smirk. He was pleased that Mrs. Hogg would compare him favourably to the vicar who was ten years his junior.

“He’s a visitor to the neighbourhood.”

“Oho! The Audeleys’ duke, I’ll wager. How do you like our little hamlet, your gorgeous grace?”

“Er, very much,” said Nigel, taken aback by her words.

It was the same nickname that the incorrigible Lady Maltrousse used for him, but on the wrinkled lips of this leering termagant, it took on a far different character.

He wondered if this gummy-mouthed creature was a picture of what Callista Fernley would look like in thirty years—or twenty years, if he was being honest, for it was harder and harder for the hardened temptress to keep up a youthful appearance.

“Well, go on then,” said Mrs. Hogg, applying herself to the sweets once again. “You’ve done your errand of mercy, and you can leave me be.”

“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hogg,” said Miss Morrison, laying a hand on the old woman’s shoulder in farewell.

“Hmph. Sh-tuff and nonsense,” replied the woman, but her eyes softened a little as she looked at her landlady .

Nigel opened the door to let Miss Morrison back out into the piercing wind.

He felt the capes of his greatcoat swish about his shoulders as they walked back toward the manor house.

His companion’s skirts fluttered as well, but her sturdy straw bonnet remained safely fastened to her head.

A pity he had tied those ribbons so tight, for he would have been happy to see that bonnet blown to the four winds.

“She was not very appreciative of your kindness,” remarked Nigel.

“If we only base our actions on appreciation, we should have precious few good deeds to our name,” replied his fair partner—for the longer that he spent in her presence, the more convinced he was that she was as fair as the meaning of her name.

Somehow—imperceptibly, incrementally, and irrevocably—this drab-gowned, brown-haired, gentlewoman farmer had captured his imagination and captivated his desires.

“I daresay you have far more good deeds to your name than I have to mine.”

“A matter you could remedy if you wished.”

“Do you realise,” said Nigel stopping in the lane, “that you have never once flattered me or pitied me in the whole of our acquaintance.”

“I daresay you find me hard-hearted.”

“On the contrary, I find you refreshing. You make me wish I were a better man, Miss Morrison.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”

“Point taken. I can’t make myself a better man by wishing.”

“You can’t make yourself a better man by staying in Derbyshire. ”

Nigel sighed. “I know. But I promised myself I’d keep Christmas here at least—and permit myself the Boxing Day ball for my memories.”

They began to walk again, this time their pace unaccountably slower as if neither wished for the walk to come to an end. “Ought we to check on the animals in the stable?” asked Nigel. “With the servants all gone, the horses may need—”

“I’m sure the horses have plenty in their feeding trough,” replied Miss Morrison, but she allowed him to steer her towards the stone barn.

They ducked inside to the lowing of cows and the nickering of horses, with just enough light left in the sky to make out the dark shapes of the creatures through the open door.

“Well?” said Miss Morrison, turning to face him.

“Well?” he repeated.

“Well, I suppose you had better kiss me,” said Miss Morrison. “That's why we’re loitering in the barn, isn't it?”

“Er, yes,” said Nigel, more nervous than he'd ever been in his life.

It was like being sent in a post chaise, all alone, to Eton all over again, with his mother refusing to get up early enough to say good-bye and only Mrs. Grenville and Mr. Randall outside to see him off.

He had kissed a dozen ladies in the last year alone, but suddenly, he had no inkling of what to expect.

He swallowed. “The thing is, I'm not sure you'll like me kissing you...at least, afterwards, when you think back on it.”

“What is that supposed to mean? I'm too much of an antidote to experience pleasure?”

“No, not at all. I mean that if you find the kiss pleasurable you will despise me for having had too much previous practice. And if you find the kiss otherwise…well, then you will despise me for being inept at kissing. ”

“Hmm,” said Miss Morrison, “then I suppose we are at an impasse. Who would have known that a rake could be so introspective about his kisses?”

Nigel could not tell if there was disappointment hidden behind her lightly ironic tone.

“I suppose if I'm not to receive a kiss, we had better go back inside the house. It’s getting dark, and—”

He put a hand on her arm, staying her presence, delaying her departure. “Promise me you won't hate me afterwards.”

“No,” she whispered.

He did not know if that was an agreement to his terms or a refusal to make a promise she could not keep.

Perhaps she knew she would despise him. Perhaps she hated him already.

But Nigel could tell from the way her body slightly inclined toward him, from the way her lips slightly parted, from the way her eyes played over his face that now, in this moment, she wanted his lips on hers.

He obliged. A soft, tender kiss, kept carefully in place by the narrow confines of her bonnet. He felt her lips push back fiercely against his own. As he had expected, Bel Morrison did nothing by halves. A look of intense desire came into her eyes.

Gathering her in his arms, he began to kiss her more fervently until the edges of the narrow straw bonnet began to scratch at his face. Blast that bonnet! He reached for the ribbon beneath her chin, and his fumbling fingers tried to untie it.

“Mmm, I think that’s quite enough,” said Miss Morrison, pulling away. Her lips were halfway parted, and her breath came more quickly than before, but apparently, the loosening ribbon had rung an alarm in her head. She straightened her shoulders and took a step backwards.

“Is this your only bonnet?” Nigel demanded .

“Why?”

“Because it’s dashed ugly, and it covers up far too much of your face. I ought to buy you a new one—”

“With what money, your grace? Or have you forgotten your financial woes?”

Nigel grimaced. “Always practical, Miss Morrison. So kind of you to mention my debts at this juncture.”

The cow nearest to them let out a forlorn moo. It was the exact sound that Nigel’s heart was making.

“You’re welcome,” she said pertly, turning to leave the barn.

Nigel followed her, his senses still tingling with the nearness of their encounter and his amour propre still smarting from what had followed.

As he had expected, she already despised him for causing her practical self to succumb to desire—but, oh, what a kiss that had been!

If only she would let him put his lips on her again.

He walked beside her to the door of the stone farmhouse, neither of them willing to link arms even though the wind was increasing. When they reached the steps, she turned around, arms folded across the chest of her pelisse.

“I’ll make your farewells to Aunt Lucy. I think it would be better if you didn’t come inside.”

“I think you’re right,” he said stiffly.

A movement caught his eye, and from the corner of the house Magpie appeared. The cat came closer and began to purr against the side of his boot. Nigel nudged the feline away. He was not in the mood for sympathy from any creature. “Good night, Miss Morrison.”

“Good night, your grace.” She bent down and clapped her hands and the cat, with tail held high, minced toward her and deigned to have its chin scratched. The creature purred again. Miss Morrison looked up at him consideringly, her fingers rubbing in circles over the cat’s white chest.

“I didn’t hate it,” she said brusquely.

“You didn’t?” Nigel was unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

“No, in fact, I liked it so much that I think it would be better for both of us not to repeat the experience.”

He grinned at her, his nervous tension dissolving like a spoonful of sugar in tea. “I can’t promise to listen to that advice.”

“I thank you for the warning,” she said, lifting that tantalizing brown eyebrow, an eyebrow that he would love to kiss if it were not for that blasted bonnet. “Good night again, your grace.”