One Kiss to Desire

Excerpt from One Kiss to Desire

(c) 2024 Grace Callaway. All rights reserved.

When it came to misfortune, it never rained but poured in Xenia Loveday’s life.

Six weeks ago, she’d fled London after losing the man she’d thought she loved. Despair and self-doubt had nipped at her heels. No matter how diligently she worked, how hard she tried, her past always caught up to her and reduced her present to shambles. She’d forced herself to carry on, repeating her personal motto.

Pretend until it’s true.

She’d felt hopeful when her motto seemed to be working. She’d found work at the Nunnery, and her performance as Sister Sirena was proving a success. She wasn’t good at much, but she could spin a tale, and she had started to think that things might turn around. She might be able to save the money she desperately needed—enough to travel to and live on the Continent, where she’d finally be beyond her enemy’s reach. Where she’d finally be free.

She ought to have known better.

The Nunnery had caught fire. Luckily, no one had been hurt, but the old church that had housed the brothel was now beyond repair, and the Abbess would have to reopen in a new location. Until then, Xenia was out of a job and the room and board that came with it. The bawd had generously offered ten pounds to tide her over…and to secure her promise that she would return as Sister Sirena once the business was up and running.

Even though a part of Xenia had hesitated—she didn’t like to be in debt to anyone, least of all a cunning madam—she’d taken the money. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere better to go, and she was tired of shuffling from one place to the next. Pastures always looked greener from afar, and whatever problems one thought one left behind had a way of following. During her childhood, her mama had dragged her from place to place, and trouble had greeted them everywhere. She’d never stayed anywhere long enough to make friends. Even if she had, her shady origins had guaranteed that she would be an outsider, respectable folk giving her and her kin a wide berth.

“You’re lucky to be a part of my gang,” Mama would snap, “and you ought to focus on gaining some family talent. You’re good for nothing—as worthless as your papa. I blame him for coddling you. For turning you into a useless twit who doesn’t pull her own weight.”

Xenia shut out her mother’s voice. She’d left that life behind for a good reason, and she had more pressing matters to deal with—namely, securing a roof over her head. The Nunnery had been strategically located near a cluster of villages where she could look for temporary lodgings and maybe even a job to build up her reserves. As it was a sunny summer day, she’d decided to investigate the two closest options on foot.

Ambling along the well-worn path, she tried to distract herself by whistling a bawdy tune. Even though she’d darkened her hair and concealed her figure with a shapeless frock, and she was on a country road surrounded by trees and rolling green hills, fear plagued her like a pesky insect. Would she ever be able to stop looking over her shoulder? Would she always be haunted by her past?

Will I ever feel safe?

Unbidden, her princely patron floated into her head. Although they’d only had the one encounter, he lingered in her awareness. He’d paid for the fantasy, yet their interaction had felt inexplicably…genuine. Real, as he’d requested. Even though they didn’t know what the other truly looked like…or sounded like, for that matter. Nonetheless, for those rare moments, she’d let go of her worldly concerns and surrendered to her own desires.

And that is the danger of dealing in fantasy.

She told herself that what they’d shared had been a paid transaction. If she’d felt something, it was because she was lonely and still grieving the loss of Tony, the only follower she’d ever had. Not that Tony had been hers to grieve. While she’d fallen head over heels for his green eyes and writer’s soul, he’d only been using her.

Back in London, she’d worked under the stage name “Scheherazade,” and he’d charmed her into performing the erotic stories he’d penned. Because of her readings, his books had sold out several printings. Those tidy earnings hadn’t been enough to save him, however. His debts had led him to take money from dangerous people. Although she’d tried to help, he’d ended up dead anyway, and she’d endangered herself.

She’d learned from her mistake. From here on, she was not getting attached to anyone or anything. She would focus solely on her own interests…namely, staying alive and out of her enemy’s reach.

A shadow fell upon her. Startled, she looked up and saw that clouds had enveloped the sun. The breeze that stirred the tattered ribbons of her bonnet had a damp, warning chill.

Just my luck.

She hastened her pace as the sky turned stormy and grey. Cold droplets began to pelt her. Her worn soles slipped against the increasingly slick path, and she nearly missed the fork in the road. Panting and soaked, she had to dash water from her eyes in order to read the signpost.

The top sign pointed to the path on the right, the words “Chudleigh Crest” engraved in elegant lettering. The lower sign was angled to the left and, by her best guess, had once read “Chudleigh Bottoms.” A mischievous hand had crossed out the second village’s name in black paint, replacing it with “Chuddums.” The rebaptism was accompanied by a crude drawing of a derriere, a dollop of excrement beneath.

The last thing I need in my life is more poop.

Chudleigh Crest it was. As she was about to head down the right path, a boom sounded. The skies opened, releasing buckets of water. Sputtering, she cursed and gripped her sodden skirts, trying to hurry along, the mud sucking at her shoes with each step. Then a miracle appeared: an approaching carriage drawn by six noble chestnuts.

Surely any decent person would help a woman caught in a storm.

She waved eagerly, and the carriage came toward her…and sped by. Its large wheels churned up a wave of muck. She gasped as it engulfed her, coating her with cold, slimy mud.   

An instant later, she recovered her wits.

Shaking her fist, she yelled, “Watch where you’re going, you blooming idiot!”

The carriage pulled to a stop. A few heartbeats later, the door opened, and a tall figure dressed in black alighted. When he advanced toward her in a purposeful, long-legged stride, she didn’t know whether to stay put or run. Her breath hitched when she saw him up close.

Odds bodkins, the stranger was…arresting.

He appeared to be in his thirties, and beneath the brim of his hat, his pale, stoic features looked sculpted from marble. His vivid gaze was the violet-blue of a flame yet gave the impression of coldness. His nose was straight, his mouth pulled into a taut line above the elegant knot of his neckcloth. He had thick raven hair which, paired with the dark scruff on his jaw, made him look like a rebel poet.

His double-breasted frock coat flaunted his broad shoulders and lean torso while his trousers accentuated his long legs. He wielded an umbrella in his gloved hand with masculine grace. Of course, it was easy to look graceful when one was not dripping wet and covered in mud. When one was shielded from the rain which, by the by, was deluging her.

He perused her, his expression brooding. “Do you require assistance?” he asked curtly.

The man was unbelievable. Anger swelled in her breast, and the sky seemed to agree with her, rumbling on her behalf.

“I did not need anyone’s help,” she said through gritted teeth. “Until you drove by in your blasted carriage and covered me with mud!”

“My apologies.”

He did not sound sorry. He seemed irritated, his gaze focused on some point in the distance as if she wasn’t important enough to warrant his attention. At the various jobs she’d held, she encountered her share of arrogant bluebloods, and she knew his sort.

“Well?” he said. “Do you want my help or not?”

I’d rather eat my shoe than take anything from you, you unfeeling lummox.

Yet she reined in her temper, hating that she couldn’t afford the luxury of giving in to her feelings. Outrage was for the rich and free, not the poor and dispossessed. She had survived this long by keeping her head down. She was not about to risk the ire of some local toff who had the power to make her life miserable. In the past, her complaints to employers about rude and even abusive patrons had fallen on deaf ears.

As much as Xenia hated her powerlessness in this moment, she knew better than to make things worse. One day, when she had money and security, she would live on her own terms. She would tell this selfish, ill-mannered cove and others like him where to go. Until then, she would have to stand in the freezing rain and comfort herself with sarcasm.

“Thank you for your kindness.” She aimed a saccharine smile at him while muddy rivulets slid down her face. “I would not wish to detain you from your obviously urgent business.”

The tiniest of furrows marred the space between his straight brows. She had the fleeting hope that he might have discovered his humanity after all.

“Suit yourself.” With a brusque nod, he turned and strode back to his carriage.

The callous nodcock!

Fuming, she watched as his driver smoothly navigated the equipage, taking the turn that led to Chudleigh Crest. After the carriage vanished from sight, she let out a yell of frustration that rivaled the boom of thunder. Picking up her heavy skirts, she stomped toward the other path, the one that led to Chuddums.