Susan Johnson: Perfect Kisses

London, April 1829

Her pulse racing, Claire Russell pulled the hood of her cloak lower over her forehead, pushed her auburn curls farther out of sight and knocked on the door of the private residence. She dearly hoped the doorman wouldn’t require an invitation since she had none.

She needn’t have worried. After opening the door, the liveried footman merely nodded and bowed her in. Apparently, the guest list for the private masquerade was unrestricted.

Actually, Viscount Ormond was not so democratically disposed. His servants had been instructed to admit pretty ladies regardless of rank, but others were not welcome save if they carried a chit from him.

Claire knew nothing of the viscount’s particular style of hospitality, but had she known, it would have only confirmed her jaundiced opinion of him. James Bell, Viscount Ormond, heir to an earldom that would soon be his if the present earl continued drinking to excess, was an unabashed rake, infamous for his dissipation and amorous pursuits. That he was, unfortunately, also famous for his vast wealth, stunning good looks, and prodigal charm was the reason Claire had come to this den of iniquity.

Her silly younger sister had fallen under the viscount’s spell and foolishly labored under the illusion that his recent flattering attentions were genuine. Harriet viewed the viscount’s gifts and posies, the strolls in the park when they’d chance to meet, and his billets-doux as a bona fide courtship.

Not that their equally foolish aunt, who served as their guardian, wasn’t all atwitter as well that a peer of Ormond’s rank and fortune was paying court to Harriet. As if a man of Ormond’s dissolute repute was interested in more than an amorous fling with a frivolous young beauty like Harriet with no family of distinction and even less wealth.

Claire’s cautionary warnings, however, had gone unheeded.

Her aunt’s responses always followed a similar vein: “Just because you’re quite on the shelf, my dear,” her aunt would admonish, “is no reason to thwart dear Harriet’s matrimonial prospects. Ormond is vastly enamored of your sister.” Mrs. Bellingham would then smile smugly at Harriet as if giving her blessing to the union.

Harriet’s comments had been less spiteful, but equally dismissive. “Now, Cleery, sorry as I might be that you were jilted by George Porter, you can’t wish for me to suffer the same fate? And when I become viscountess, I shall be able to offer you any number of eligible men as suitors. Just think of it,” Harriet cheerfully asserted, “we shall all live in splendor.”

But illusory matrimonial hopes aside, Harriet’s response to Ormond’s masquerade invitation was the height of folly. Although, Harriet had slipped out tonight, Claire suspected, with their aunt’s approval.

And now she, the only prudent member of their family, had arrived on the scene to save her sister from the viscount’s sordid designs.

The sounds of revelry were readily apparent as Claire moved up the stairs to the reception rooms-waltz music conducive to intimate contact, boisterous explosions of laughter, the occasional high-pitched female squeals gave evidence that the festivities were well apace.

As Claire came to rest in the doorway to the ballroom a few moments later, her very worst fears were realized.

The guests in their dominoes and masks were dancing in shockingly friendly embraces. Some couples were walking from the room hand in hand, in search of more privacy she didn’t doubt. A tipsy young woman of the demimonde from her appearance was making a spectacle of herself, twirling wildly so her skirts flared high revealing her shapely legs.

Claire literally gasped as one young buck caressed his dance partner’s breast right before her eyes.

Clutching her cloak tightly, as if it would serve to shield her, she nervously scanned the room, searching for her sister.

Neither she nor Harriet were so fine that either of them possessed a fashionable black domino, so she surveyed the crowd for a glimpse of Harriet’s blue silk cloak. It was sky blue like her sister’s eyes; it should stand out in the throng of black cloaks if she was still here. At the thought, Claire’s heart sank.

What if she were too late?

What if the viscount’s renowned seductive skills were already in play?

Her young sister would be ruined.

Claire stepped into the room, determined to brave the raucous crowd for the sake of Harriet’s future. Threading her way through the throng, she avoided those groups most in their cups, dodged the occasional importuning hand, on two occasions offered such a forbidding look and set-down to lewd invitations, that the young men jumped back as if burned.

Her piercing gaze, sharp tongue, and air of command had it advantages.

Finally, just as she was about to despair of finding her sister, she saw Harriet and the notorious James Bell near one of the far windows overlooking the street. The viscount was leaning back against the narrow wall of the alcove, floor to ceiling French doors to his right, the ballroom to his left, and Harriet in his arms.

Her face was raised to him as though waiting for his kiss.

Taking his cue, he did exactly that. He kissed her.

For so lengthy an interval that Claire was able to approach them unheeded.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Claire said, keeping her tone severe even as she grappled with the powerful impact of the viscount’s outrageous beauty. “My sister is not allowed at entertainments such as this. Come, Harriet. I’m here to take you home.”

The viscount had looked up lazily when Claire had first spoken, but had neither moved, released Harriet, nor altered his expression. “And you are?” he finally drawled, his heavy-lidded gaze surveying Claire from head to toe before coming back to rest on her face.

“I am Claire Russell, Harriet’s older sister and I must insist that you release her immediately. It is wholly inappropriate for her to be in attendance here. As you well know, Harriet,” she added, turning to her sister.

“Auntie said I could come,” Harriet mutinously retorted, her pretty mouth pursed in a pout.

“Our aunt was no doubt mistaken about the style of entertainment.” Claire refused to admit that her aunt would stoop so low in order to snare a man like Ormond. Although, from the viscount’s sudden amused expression, she rather thought he already knew.

“Why don’t I have a servant see your sister home,” the viscount graciously offered, pushing away from the wall and easing Harriet back a step. “I’ll take you riding in the park tomorrow, poppet,” he added, smiling to assuage Harriet’s frown. He lifted his hand in a negligent gesture and was immediately acknowledged by a footman, the man seemingly materializing out of thin air. “There, now, my sweet,” the viscount said, brushing Harriet’s cheek with his finger. “Jordan will see you home. And I shall call on you tomorrow at four.”

Harriet glared at her sister. “You are ever so vexing, Cleery. Do go away,” she pettishly said. “I am not a child you can order about!”

Ormond nodded at his footman and a look of understanding passed between them. “Now, now, don’t chide your sister,” the viscount calmly murmured. “She’s merely concerned with the-ah…environment. And on second thought, I believe she’s right.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” Claire replied, coolly. “Come, Harriet.” Fully expecting to be obeyed, she turned to go.