Wildfire Kiss (Sir Edward 1)

As he walked down the avenue, he found himself asking what in hell he was doing. He stood a moment, leaning on his ebony walking stick, and then absently proceeded to cross the busy intersection as he assembled his thoughts. He was irritated beyond belief. What was happening to him?

He wanted Babs to the point of distraction. He even found himself doing some odd thing because something in the back of his mind told him that she would like it, as he had just now with the child.

This had to stop.

He was his own man. Courtesans of great beauty had always taken care of his needs, and that had always served him in the past and kept him satisfied, but from the moment he had met Lady Babs, he had discovered a new side to himself. It was not a side he wanted to embrace.

He wanted to be carefree.

He wanted to continue to enjoy his life in the manner he was accustomed—and now, all that was shattered!

This young, innocent chit aroused sensations in his breast he hadn’t been aware he was capable of feeling any longer. He had believed that part of him had been murdered when he was still quite young and innocent himself.

Yet … he found himself forever seeking her out. He was considered quite a catch, and yet, she kept him at bay. Why? She was not adverse to his attentions, but neither did she encourage him. She seemed perfectly content to allow the dolt of a count to escort her everywhere, and yet it was perfectly obvious to him that she didn’t mean to have the count. What was her game?

She was not even in his usual style. He favored tall, elegant ladies who were both sophisticated and worldly. She was a bit piece of bounce and jumble, a child really—but he damn well meant to wake up the woman in her. She was full of impulse, spirit, and something he could not name, and he realized that these things attracted him to her.

Still, she was also a bit too impulsive, and that he could not approve of at all. One thing was for certain, however: she was the most beautiful creature he had ever clapped eyes on …

There was nothing for it. He had admitted to himself some days ago that he had to have her, and damn it to bloody hell, one way or another and by any means, this chit would be his.

Thus it was that he set about finding everything and anything he could about her. Quiet inquiries elicited bits and pieces about her. A tease with one of her friends just the other day told him she had a serious side and enjoyed, of all things, writing. Writing? Of all the things he had expected to hear about her, he had not expected that. Intrigued, he continued conversation along that line, and her stupid friend informed him that Babs had once published (while still at school) an article of some humor. He didn’t like that at all, and it would not do in any bride he meant to have, but no doubt she had grown out of the vice now that she was in her third season on the town. And that was another thing. In her third season, and he had heard that she had turned down any number of eligible suitors. Odd. Lucky for him, but odd all the same.

In addition to these unusual circumstances was her friendship with the poet Lord Byron and his publisher, Murry.

Flitting thoughts brought his mind into focus, and he recalled the way she had run her hand over the cover of the new book everyone was talking about. As though she knew the author …

Odd … all very odd and certainly intriguing. All at once he found himself picking up the book and making up his mind to read it as soon as he reached his establishment, though he was not quite certain what this action would tell him.

Three

THE NINTH DUKE of Barrington’s black, gleaming coach was stopped in the heat of London’s busy traffic and he looked out into the hubbub, his thoughts in a tumble.

Hawkers cried out their wares and looked hopefully towards the impressive coach. One young and horribly dirty boy sidled up to the duke’s vehicle and stuck an apple up with outstretched hand to its open window.

“Bright ’n’ shiny it be … jest right fer ye, guvnor.” He grinned and displayed a mouth nearly devoid of teeth.

The duke tapped at his driver’s box, stuck his head out the window, and called to him, “Hold up there, Harly.” He turned to the boy and flipped him a hefty coin. The lad flipped him the apple in turn before calling out a parting thanks as he ran back into the hubbub of the traffic to try his luck again with another apple he produced from the ragged bag slung over his shoulder.

The duke watched the child for a moment before motioning for his driver to go on, turned to his companion, and handed him the apple. “Just the thing to keep you quiet,” his grace said, grinning widely at him.

Sir Charles Liverpool looked at the fruit with some contempt and set it aside. “I won’t be put off, Nick. It is time you reentered society. It has been more than eight months since your father’s death, eight months since you left the Peninsula and—”

“And I am in mourning,” the duke replied, cutting his cousin off with what he hoped was an end to the discussion.

“Don’t pitch your gammon at me. We both loved your father, but—and I can say this, for he was more a father to me than my own was—well, damn, Nick, he would not have wanted you to bury yourself in the wilds and forget what life has to offer.”

“Well, as to that, ol’ fellow, you can’t say I have done anything like burying myself in the wilds …” The duke fleetingly recalled the last few months. “No … wouldn’t call it that at all.”

“What, living up in your hunting box and running the countryside ragged with those hounds of yours …”

“And what of the excellent … er … dinners we had afterwards this winter? Wasn’t that putting aside our mourning?” his grace shot back, this time with a smirk at his friend.

Sir Charles paused and then sighed. “Well, they were very enjoyable little fancy pieces … to be sure, and having our old cronies join us, well, but you are evading the issue.”

The duke tipped his dark beaver top hat over his eyes, sank into his leather-upholstered squabs, folded his arms across his chest, and said softly, “Do stubble it, my dear Charles, for you weary me.”

“Weary you? Well, and so I shall until you agree to go into society with me this season. It is time you carried on the name … you owe it to your father’s memory.”