This Perfect Kiss Read online

  This Perfect Kiss

  Melody Thomas

  Dedication

  For Thomas, Brent, Ross, and Shari.

  You are my heart. I love you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  By Melody Thomas

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  1775 Blackthorn Castle, Scotland

  Golden Masquerade Ball

  From the gilt-edged balcony overlooking the grand ballroom, she watched him move among the bustles of silks and satins that shifted like sunlight through polished glass.

  Camden St. Giles, heir to the Carrick dynasty, was easily recognizable in the crowd of revelers. No wig covered his head. His dark hair, his height, enhanced by his royal blue wool uniform, set him apart from the other dignitaries and aristocrats surrounding him. He slowed as a young white-wigged woman stopped him. His head inclined toward her in a manner of ease as he listened to something that made him smile. But like the others who had tried before her, she failed to hold his attention for long, and soon he moved past her toward the glass doors.

  His entrance into the ballroom earlier that evening had been as dramatic as that of two months ago, the day he had sailed his ship, the Royal Navy’s Endurance—the flagship to the British vice admiral himself—dressed in full seagoing rig into full view of the shoreline.

  She braced her hands on the polished balustrade and glided down the stairs.

  A feather-adorned mask covered half her face and wrapped around her jaw like the golden talons of a hawk. Her cropped blond curls were tucked neatly beneath a tall pompadour wig. This one evening, she was part of her grandmother’s aristocratic world, every bit a princess, as yard upon yard of frothy golden taffeta whispered with each step down the stairs and out onto the garden terrace.

  For some, gold was the color of warmth and summer. For others, ’twas the color of great wealth. But for Christel Douglas, gold was the color of enchantment, a pair of shiny slippers and a magical spell cast by the strains of music drifting like light over the night.

  All around her, the parkland twinkled with party lanterns set up along walkways and in the gardens. People milled around the lights and in the shadows, and footmen circulated among the revelers, offering trays of sweet wine and cakes. She snatched a glass of bubbly wine from a passing footman’s tray and savored the large plump strawberry on the edge of the glass, all the while trying to keep a casual eye on her handsome quarry as he made his way down to the lower terrace away from the crowd.

  Her heart raced. Would her intentions and desires be too obvious if he turned and saw her now? Would he recognize her? Christel knew only that if she left Scotland without telling Lord Camden everything in her heart, she would never have another chance. In another few weeks, he would choose his bride and be gone from her life forever.

  She had just swallowed a bite of strawberry when a whisper touched her neck. “I know who you are,” the owner of those warm lips said, bringing her around with a gasp.

  “Leighton!”

  Lord Leighton was Lord Camden’s scapegrace younger brother, two years older than Christel. He wore a black mask with slits to reveal his eyes.

  “I thought that was you up on the stairway,” he said.

  His discovery of her identity suddenly left her uncertain. Grams was already terribly disappointed in her, and the last thing she wanted was for her antics to publicly embarrass her grandmother again.

  But realizing she was losing Lord Camden into the night, she edged around Leighton, only to be stopped as he wrapped his hand around her arm. “Why are you here? Surely you are not one of those addlebrained females running about hoping my brother will choose you for his bride!”

  “Go away, Leighton,” she whispered. “If you want to be concerned about someone, go visit Saundra. She is in bed with a sprained ankle and could not come tonight.”

  He dropped his grip on her arm. “Does she know you are here?”

  Christel stepped away from him. “Why should she not? This is her mask.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or did you think I was she when you placed your lips on my neck?”

  “You should not be here, Christel,” Leighton said softly. “Your grandmother has already summoned your uncle to fetch you away. Do you want to be banished forever from Scotland?”

  “Since when do you care about my banishment? Or anything but your own interests?”

  The emotion seemed to drain from him. Perhaps she had been too harsh. Didn’t everyone look after their own interests first?

  A group of men stood at the edge of the yard. One held a jug and waved him over. “ ’Tis your pride,” he said dismissively, at the same time acknowledging the men’s invitation with a lift of his chin. “As for me, I am off to enjoy other pleasures this night and shall leave you to yours.”

  “You are going to the cove? Are you—?”

  “If I tell you, I will have to invite you. Give Saundra my love.”

  Watching him go, Christel did not understand why he just did not ask Saundra to marry him and have done with it.

  With Leighton finally gone, Christel whirled and took the path leading to the lower terrace. Yet as she walked farther and farther away from the music, it soon became evident that she had lost Lord Camden to the night. In frustration, she stopped at the stone wall to look out at the cove, wishing the evening had not ended for her so soon. But she dared not return to the ballroom lest someone recognize her. What did it matter that she had not waltzed even once?

  It mattered because tonight she was as beautiful as the twinkling lights. Her cousin and closest friend, Saundra, had oft said Christel could be quite “the rage” if she wanted. And until now, Christel had been content with not wanting to be anything like her beautiful cousin or half-sister, for it gave her a certain amount of independence to go unnoticed in the public’s eye. She dressed the way she pleased and ventured where she pleased, even if it did displease Grams.

  Then three weeks ago, she had accidentally met Lord Camden while she had been on the beach exploring the cove. He’d thought nothing of passing a young lad on the beach, so she’d been hidden in plain sight. He went to the cove every day on his wild stallion to swim. And she went every day and watched him. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever glimpsed rising from the spumelike mist, like some sea god carved from coral and flesh.

  Tonight, she wore not the rags of an urchin, and she was not hiding behind lichen-encrusted rocks; she was dressed as a woman and was as beautiful as her cousin.

  Out of sight of the gardens, the stars were alive in a velvet sky, a bit of silver in a golden world. She extended her arms and twirled, making her dress bell out like one of the plump roses that climbed the stone wall behind her. She had made this dress herself. One day, she would make something of herself, too, and be something more than a disappointment to Grams.

  The scent of larkspur and juniper touched her nostrils. She smelled roses . . . and something else more elusive, mixing with the scent of earth and sea.

  Tobacco.

  Alerted to the presence of another, she instinctively ducked bac
k into the protective shadows of a tall potted evergreen. Her heart beat so hard that she could scarcely breathe against the tightly laced corset, which lifted her small bosoms dramatically and made her waist nearly hand-span small. Catching her breath, she looked behind her into the shadows of ivy-covered stucco.

  She could see little in the misty darkness, and she might not have seen the man at all amid the plant life except that she glimpsed his movement and knew he was leaning against the rock wall watching her. Lord Camden!

  “Do not stop. I am rather enjoying the show.”

  Amusement laced his deeply masculine voice. His words were perfectly spoken, with just a hint of Scottish intonation for sensual flavor. He was a man who had been well educated, was someone comfortable with authority.

  She did not move as he stepped out of the darkness into the circle of torchlight flickering in the breeze. The torchlight gave him a disreputable air that was in accord with his attire. He had removed the blue button-up outer jacket of his uniform and was dressed in a high-collar white shirt and button-up white waistcoat and white breeches.

  He looked over his shoulder into the darkness, as if expecting that she was awaiting a rendezvous.

  “I was on my way to the beach,” she lied.

  “Lord Carrick’s gamekeeper is particular about trespassers on his beach,” he said. “Especially if they go near the cove.”

  “He has a most vile reputation. The gamekeeper,” she hastily confirmed. “Once he threatened to shoot a person just for chasing a rabbit onto his beach.” She neglected to say that the alleged poacher had been herself and she had been ten at the time.

  “Did he?”

  “Aye, he is most particular. I think ’tis fortunate he did not wander down to the beach yesterday or he might have been shocked by the, uh . . . quite naked man emerging from the surf.”

  The tip of a cheroot glowed orange, brightened, then faded. Then she saw it drop onto the damp stones before the heel of his boot crushed it out. His gaze held a lazy aura of amusement, even as a hint of white flashed in the shadows of his face. “And you are?”

  She lifted her chin. “I am Madam Pompadour, sir.”

  “You were on the beach yesterday?” He looked over the ledge of the wall to the pit of blackness below. “What were you doing down there . . . Madam Pompadour? The only people familiar with that cove are urchins and smugglers.”

  “On occasion, I do wander down there after a storm with the hope that I will find a great treasure.” But the only thing the sea has coughed up on its shore is small intriguing bits of shells and glass and an occasional naked man swimming in the surf. “Once someone found a silver sorcerer’s cup,” she said, then blushed. “They say Merlin hails from Scotland. Have you ever heard of King Arthur? ’Tis my favorite childhood tale.”

  “You are a fan of tragedy?”

  “ ’Twas only a tragedy because Guinevere fell in love with a man she could not wed.”

  “Some would consider her adultery the only tragedy.”

  She kicked at a pebble. “Perhaps you have never been in love.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.” It wasn’t a total lie. She would be eighteen in two months.

  “Ah, that explains it then.” Folding his arms, he perched against the wall and seemed to study her with more than curiosity. “You are acquainted with Lord Carrick’s family?”

  She was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on maintaining an air of sophisticated detachment. “Who does not know the earl? A masquerade is held every year in honor of his birthday. This year it is also a celebration to honor his eldest son. He is a great hero.”

  The corners of his mouth crimped. “Humph. I am told the chap thinks rather highly of himself.”

  “The father or the son?” she asked.

  “The son.”

  She covered her mouth with a gloved palm and laughed, for she had heard the same thing on occasion from Leighton. “He is only twenty-two, not so old, I think. And any man who has received a medal for valor in his service to the Crown cannot be too vain. He is the youngest captain of a ship of the line in the Royal Navy. All the Carrick earls have done their duty by the people and the Crown, most having served as captains and admirals for generations. ’Tis a very noble family.”

  “Indeed,” he said, straight-faced.

  He didn’t know that she knew everything about him or that she had first met him through his portrait hanging prominently in the foyer, or that for years she had listened to his grandmother talk about him on the days the dowager would visit Grams at Rosecliffe.

  He didn’t know that the urchin he’d passed on the beach these past few weeks was she.

  His gloved hand suddenly lifted her chin. “Madam Pompadour, you have been following me all evening. Why?”

  No one had ever touched her quite like he did now, tenderness and possession at once, as if such a hand had been capable of holding the world.

  “When I saw you yesterday looking out at the sea,” she said, “you looked . . . alone. Nay, you looked solitary.”

  “I was alone,” he teased in a low voice.

  “There is a difference between being alone and being solitary.”

  She understood solitary.

  Tipping her chin up, he gazed deeply into her eyes, and she saw that there was so much more that was a part of him he kept tucked away from the world. “Then your presence here at my side has nothing to do with wanting my body.”

  She raised her fingers to his jaw. “You looked very nice swimming, Lord Camden. Captain.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “You spoil me with so much flattery.”

  Their gazes held, and he smiled at her. The first true smile she had seen from him. “You have me at a disadvantage, Madam Pompadour. You know who I am, but I do not know you.”

  “Perhaps if you were wearing a mask like everyone else, I would not have the advantage.”

  “Dance with me,” he said suddenly.

  An invisible gauntlet thrown, a subtle challenge. Something swelled inside her chest, making breathing difficult. He had not danced all night, and to do so with her would draw the attention of a thousand guests. Rumors would circulate. People would want to know who she was. Suddenly her desire to reveal herself to him was no longer so simple when it included the rest of the world knowing.

  Turning away from her, he dragged up his coat and shoved his arms into the sleeves. Full-dress blue cloth coat with one row of epaulettes on the left shoulder, gold lace around the lapels. “A wager then, my lady Pompadour.”

  She pulled her gaze from the gold buttons on his jacket. “A wager?”

  “I will kiss you. If you enjoy my kiss, you owe me a dance for the pleasure.”

  “And if I do not . . . think your kiss pleasurable?”

  “I owe you a dance.”

  She had to tilt her head to look up at him as he drew her into his arms. “That is no sporting wager, sir,” she barely breathed the words. “You win the prize either way.”

  Conscious of the heat of his hand through the layers of her ribbed bodice, she could not ignore the feel of him as he held her provocatively against him. “Then you admit you are a prize worthy of the game,” he replied.

  No one had ever called her a prize before.

  “Do we have a wager, my lady Pompadour?”

  “I need no wager to let you kiss me, my lord.”

  Cupping her cheeks with his palms, he looked into her face. Her lashes drifted downward in expectation. His soft chuckle opened her eyes. “I usually know the name of a woman before I kiss her,” he said.

  A scar stretched the length of his hairline to his temple, but it was noticeable only with his hair swept off his forehead. Like now. “Do you? Always?”

  “Always.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “What else do you know about me?”

  She could barely think. He was not known as “the Barracuda” for no reason. For years, his exploits had been a bane to pirates and French privatee
rs alike. He was a topic of much gossip and speculation, and though his charm was still evident in an occasional smile, he seemed to have bored long ago of the ton. He rarely came home. He was home for the summer now only to take the requisite bride.

  But she said none of this. Instead, she smiled and said something purposefully provocative. “I like the way you look without a shirt.”

  She was cognizant of the heavy thudding of his heart. Or was that hers sending the blood rushing through her veins?

  Then, as if in slow motion, he lowered his head and his mouth covered hers.

  The kiss did not scream passion as much as it whispered pleasure. Feather light at first, like the softest touch of moonlight brushing her lips. She made a sound in the back of her throat, then lifted on her toes to better drink in the strange and wondrous sensations, only to feel him pull away as if he was slowly, deliberately testing her response.

  His warm breath brushed over her lower cheek. “You taste like strawberries.”

  Where his formidable authority had lent him only certitude moments ago, she now heard something else in his voice.

  The pads of his thumbs pressed into the curves just beneath her jaw. Her lashes fluttered open and she stared into eyes that were dark and dangerous. “You have never kissed a man before,” he murmured.

  That much about her was true. Men that she actually cared to meet were in short supply.

  “I apologize if I have offended you with my wagers and games,” he said against her mask.

  He wasn’t sorry. She could tell by the satisfied look in his eyes that he was pleased with her response. Her lips felt thick and hot. Unfamiliar. “You have not offended me,” she said, and there was a rusty catch in her voice.

  A subtle shift and he brought his mouth down on hers with a tender savagery that tightened his hand around her nape.

  Then he was deepening the contact, dragging her headfirst into a sensual tide so primal that any sense of will to protest was swept away by the roaring in her veins. His tongue slid past her parted lips, filling her with the taste of his heat and whiskey, the piercing intimacy of it igniting a hunger from deep inside her. Her half groan of surrender teetered on the brink of gasp, and lost beneath the sensuous assault, she arched instinctively against him. He seemed to want to inhale her. When he came up to breathe, she pulled air into her lungs, too.