About a Kiss: A companion story to About a Rogue

life without you. I want to marry you, if you fancy me enough for that.”
She blushed. “Mr. Lawrence!”
He waited, grinning like an idiot, his heart thumping madly.
“I do fancy you, more than enough for that,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Yes, I will.”
With a whoop he swung her off her feet—a little too hard, as they ended up sprawled in the heather, laughing in each other’s arms. It seemed a perfect moment for a kiss, although neither could say who kissed whom first.
“Kit,” said Jennie sometime later, as they lay contentedly in the warm grass, “we’ll have to ask—”
“I know.” He grinned. “And I already asked your father and your mother if they approve of me, which I thought a far higher bar than getting Mr. St. James’s permission. He’s in a benevolent mood right now, if you haven’t noticed.”
Jennie smiled, her cheek on his shoulder. “If Mam approves of you, the rest will be easy.”
He kissed her again, then helped her to her feet. “I intend to ask Mr. St. James tonight.”
When he heard the door a few hours later, Kit was still grinning. He winked at Jennie and loped up the back stairs. Mr. St. James had always been generous and fair to him. Mrs. St. James was very fond of Jennie as well. Surely neither of them would be opposed, if he and Jennie both wished it.
He reached the landing upstairs before his employer, and instantly knew something was off. It was his step, heavy and slow on the wooden stairs, as if he had to work to put one foot in front of the other. Kit paused, his confidence suddenly shaken.
Then St. James came around the bend in the stairs, head down, and Kit’s heart plummeted. God’s eyes. Something was very wrong.
The man looked up, and for a moment their gazes met before St. James looked away. Now Kit’s heart nearly stopped. He’d seen that expression before. Lord Percy had looked at him just so, after that disastrous night in Vauxhall.
His face carefully blank, St. James nodded and went into his bedchamber. He stopped so suddenly that Kit, following behind, almost ran into him. He stepped neatly to the side, saving the collision, and spied what had stopped St. James.
There was a chocolate cup on the bureau. Madam must have brought it up this morning, after breakfast.
That happened regularly now. Kit and Jennie had learned to avert their eyes and their attention whenever the St. Jameses went upstairs together. But both he and Jennie had missed clearing away that cup, and now the master was looking at it with stricken eyes. Kit silently cursed.
Quickly he moved forward and snatched it from the bureau, hiding it behind his back. “So sorry, sir. Will you—?”
“No,” said St. James, sounding strangled. “I won’t need you tonight, Lawrence.”
Damn. Kit’s bad feeling promptly burst into full-blown dread. “Not at all, sir?” he asked, praying to be told no, it was only a headache or a problem at the factory, and his employer would want a bath or a glass of port later.
“No,” St. James repeated, his face averted. “Not at all. Take the evening free.”
Kit let himself out and closed the door. For a moment he just stood there, clutching the wayward cup. His mind ran in a dozen directions at once, none of them happy. What had happened? Was it something he’d done? The trouble over Mrs. Croach seemed to have blown over, and the St. Jameses had been happier than ever—Kit had quickly learned never to enter a room without tapping and getting permission, to avoid interrupting a romantic moment.
Slowly he went back down the stairs. Had they fought? Had something happened to Mrs. Croach? Where was Mrs. St. James?
“Well?” Jennie demanded eagerly, eyes shining, as he stepped into the kitchen. Her question made him start, and then it almost made him sob.
“Something’s wrong.” Gently he set down the cup.
Jennie jumped to her feet, her mending falling on the floor. “What? Is Mr. St. James injured?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. In here.” He touched his chest.
Jennie blinked, her brow knit in that endearing puzzled way.
Mary looked up, interested now. “’Tis his heart? Has he suffered a fit?” she asked in surprise.
Kit shook his head. “Not that kind of hurt. He looks . . . devastated.”
“Oh no,” exclaimed Jennie. “Perhaps Mr. Tate refused to produce that new Fortuna pottery—you know how much both of them have been working at it. Or perhaps his aunt suffered a relapse . . .”
Kit closed his eyes. He just knew it was neither of those things. The poor fellow looked shattered.
Jennie’s arms went around him. “There now, Kit,” she cried softly. “You look fair stunned! Sit down.” She urged him into the chair next to hers and gave Mary a stern look. With a roll of her eyes, the maid gathered up her mending and left the room. “What happened?”
Kit looked into her dear, beautiful face. Perhaps he could beg a position in the factory. There wasn’t much other employment in Marslip, but he would take anything—anything at all—to stay nearby. The innkeeper at the Two Foxes in Stoke was a decent chap, perhaps he needed someone to tend the taproom. “I think I’m going to be sacked,” he told Jennie.
Her dark eyes widened. “What? No! Why would you be?”
Kit shook his head. “The look on his face. Something terrible’s happened, and the last time a master looked at me that way, I was on the street the next day.” Without wages, he didn’t add. Please God at least let Mr. St. James pay his wages due.
Jennie sat bolt upright, still gripping his hands. “What? Never! I’ll go to Mrs. St. James, she won’t let that happen.”
Kit looked at her. Mrs. St. James was made of stern stuff, but if Mr. St. James left, no one would need a valet at Poplar House. “Jennie . . . would you marry me anyway?”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly, Christopher Lawrence. You’re not going to be out on the street.”
“If I have to take employment in