Page 17 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

She’d never kissed anyone before Frederick and had assumed he was a master of the art, but Conall’s kiss—so different—consumed her in a way Frederick’s never had. Conall cupped her face in his hands, pressing, tasting, encircling her mouth with his tongue.

She could sense his emotions through the reactions of his body. He was keen to keep his feelings in check, but she knew from his touch and the heat of his lips that he wanted her with an intensity that overwhelmed him. Yet still he fought it, fought himself, exercising a restraint Frederick never had.

Thus, it was no great surprise when he pulled away from her, rubbed the thumb of his good hand over her lips, and apologised.

That he could have any interest in her at all, knowing what she’d done and what she was, was a revelation. But what would come of it was impossible to say. Frederick, and the spectre of Josephine, stood between them. And now she’d been cruelly used by one man, she was not overly keen to put herself into the power of another. No matter how compellingly attractive he might be.

“You are forgiven.” She sounded like a prim schoolmistress as she edged out of his embrace.

He smirked at her, a feral expression on his face that made her quiver.

“What is it?” Was he laughing at her?

“If I had any doubts about the mistress part of your story, they are gone. No untutored Miss could kiss a man like that. No, don’t be cross. I enjoyed it. But there is much to do before we can ponder on the significance of that kiss. I must find Mama and make some excuse to her about leaving so abruptly, and you must go and pack your trunk. You and I are going to Bath, and we will square things with Mr Frederick Ebbworth once and for all.”

She nodded, despite the panic that invaded her breast. Even though she knew she no longer loved Frederick, she had no idea how she would react when she saw him. Nor did she have a clue what she would do if things became heated between the two gentlemen.

God forbid they should take it upon themselves to duel again.

Chapter 10

As Conall handed Hestia out of the carriage in front of No. 66 Great Pulteney Street, Bath, a shaft of anticipation speared through him.

He was to meet his enemy at last—but not to fight. The young woman clutching his arm had spent the entire journey convincing him of the value of forgiveness. It would not come easy, however. Internally, he was incandescent with rage at the way Frederick had bullied and threatened Hestia.

He’d steeled himself to do what he could to smooth things over and bring about an outcome satisfactory to all parties. It could only be done with a cool head. That wasn’t an easy thing to achieve when the feel of Hestia’s fingers on his arm kept threatening to send his thoughts into deep wells of wickedness.

While Hestia let herself in with a key, he commanded his coachman to stable the horses at the White Hart and await further instruction. He’d brought the footman Gaisford with him to keep the coachman company up on the box, and to assist with Hestia’s luggage. Gaisford, too, was sent off to enjoy a pint of ale at the nearby inn.

As Conall followed Hestia up several flights of stairs, he wondered what her life here had been like. He’d learned during their journey that she’d taken the name Ebbworth, and as far as anyone in Bath knew, she was respectably married. But she had gone out but little, and made no friends, too afraid someone would discover her subterfuge, and make her a social pariah. Poor girl. She had wasted almost a year of her life masquerading as Frederick’s wife, in self-imposed exile. If only he had found her first, he’d have made sure her existence was very different.

“Here we are.” Hestia, a little out of breath, had reached the top of the stairs and stood beneath the skylight, key in hand. Her face was pale, and he detected a tremor in her lip. No matter. He could be strong enough for them both.

“It might be wise not to let yourself in. It would put Ebbworth at a disadvantage if we both burst in on him. I don’t think he’d react well to that.”

She nodded, but her knock at the door produced no response. Conall felt a mixture of relief and frustration. Although he didn’t want to put off meeting his nemesis, it meant he’d have Hestia to himself a bit longer.

As she looked at him for direction, he tilted his head towards the door. “We may as well go in and wait for him.”

“I feel ashamed, letting you see where I’ve been living.”

He squeezed her hand. “Foolish girl. I’m not proud. I’ve been known to get on my knees and grovel in the pigsty when the sow’s farrowing. I don’t imagine your rooms can be any worse.”

He was rewarded with a chuckle, a deep, throaty sound that sent spikes of heat down his back. Dear Lord, but this woman had him completely enslaved. And they’d shared no more than a kiss. Perhaps he’d been under her spell since the first moment he saw her. No, surely not. That was not how ‘Mr Facts’ behaved. He was laughing at himself as he followed her through the door.

Once they were inside the somewhat gloomy living room, he helped her off with her pelisse, then placed the wooden box of IOUs on a circular table, before divesting himself of his coat.

“Do you have a maid?” He gazed around, noting how neat and tidy everything was. Not that there were many objects to be tidied—aside from the necessary furniture, the room was sparse. His fault. By depriving Ebbworth of income, he’d forced Hestia to live on nothing too.

“The landlady provides a maid to clean for us.” Hestia popped her head into a side room, then came out and looked in through another door. He could tell from the flatness of her voice she was unhappy.

“What about cooking?” he called, as she disappeared into the kitchen.

“I do that myself. I enjoy it. Especially anything with sugar in, when we can afford it. I love making sweetmeats and preserves.”

He followed her into the tiny kitchen—again, spick and span, with a small range in the chimney-corner. This room, too, was spartan, containing only the necessities. Guilt clawed at him. Hestia clearly had not had the opportunity—or the funds—to put a feminine stamp on the place. If they were married, he would give her free rein.

If they were married?