More smoke. Black, billowing smoke. Heat. Burning, savage heat, surely worse than hell.
He scanned the room. Nothing. Too late. He was too late. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. His lungs were charred, shrunken, useless. Sweat and ash blinded him. As he lifted his arm to wipe his eyes, a flaming motion caught his attention. His shirtsleeve was on fire. He ripped the cloak from his back to smother the flames, then realized that that garment was on fire as well.
He was on fire.
He dropped to the ground and rolled back and forth to extinguish the flames. Gasping and choking, he came to a stop in the center of the floor, struggling to catch his breath.
Then he saw it.
A tiny, whimpering figure huddled in a tight ball beneath a corner cot. A child. Alive. Dazed elation surged within him. He lunged across the room and pulled the quivering, terrified body into his arms.
Clutching the child against his chest, he crawled toward the attic window. He knocked out the glass, thrust his torso through the space, and peered below.
People. Mobs of people swarmed beneath him, their shapes lost in the fog and smoke. He heard cries of “Jump!” and thought he saw a blanket stretched out between them. Could they see what he held? He tried to call out, but his voice was nothing but a raw, hoarse whisper. He had no choice. Saying a silent prayer, he released the child and ducked back into the room.
Where were the rest of the children? Where were Markum, his wife, the babe?
His vision blurred. The world seemed to quiver and spin, and then the edges went red. He knew he was losing consciousness. Not yet. Not yet. He took a step forward. Not yet. He had to find them.
He scanned the room. His gaze stopped at a bright, shimmering flame that seemed to dance in one corner, to leap and sway with a life all its own. Strangely captivated, he moved toward it. Then he heard the screaming.
High pitched. Agonized. Ceaseless.
Hideous understanding flooded through him, locking him in a paralysis of frozen horror.
The screams were coming from within the flame.
Before he could move, a thundering crack! filled the room. A ceiling joist broke free and swung down from the rafters. The smoking beam struck him directly in the chest, sending a sharp, searing pain radiating through him. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet and propelled him backward, knocking him through the window.
Morgan reached out to grab hold of something to arrest his descent, but he couldn’t stop.
He was falling. Falling and falling. Falling forever.
Then blissful black nothingness.
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1857
The woman was putting on one hell of a show.
Morgan St. James’s gaze drifted back to the redhead for perhaps the third time that hour. She stood by herself at the foot of the trente-et-quarante table, betting consistently on black. Her stack of chips had increased since she had started to play, but her winnings were not substantial. At least not enough to draw his attention. What caught his eye — and that of several other men in the room — was the manner in which she played.
She wanted to be noticed. Her motions were too deliberate and dramatic to be interpreted any other way. It was an altogether unnecessary performance. Her presence alone was enough to command attention. One couldn’t help but notice her — for several reasons.
First and foremost was her appearance itself. Every inch of the woman was dazzling feminine perfection, from the top of her elaborately coiffed hair to the tips of her black high-heeled slippers. Her skin glowed like cream; her eyes were as rich and intoxicating as warm brandy. And her body — sculpted as though every inch had been deliberately crafted to satisfy a man’s most vivid fantasy. Her lush curves were wrapped in a rich, mouthwatering shade of pink satin that made Morgan think of a sugary peppermint confection.
He took a moment to study her hair. It wasn’t a soft, golden-red titian or a rich, russet-tinged auburn but a bold, brazen red. Flame red.
Another thought occurred to Morgan as he watched her place her bets. The woman had money. She played with the calculated expertise of a seasoned gambler, yet she had the bold nonchalance of someone for whom winning or losing was a matter of little concern. In other words, someone whose wealth was vast indeed.
All of which begged one simple question: Who was she?
The fact that neither he nor any of the men with whom he was seated could answer that struck him as nearly unprecedented. The room in which they had gathered was London’s notorious Devonshire House. Given the ever-increasing crowds drawn to London for the Season, something had to be done to distinguish between the high life and the rabble. Thus the establishment of an exclusive chamber to which admittance was gained solely on the basis of wealth and social status. It was the best of all worlds: an intimate club where the players could mingle freely with their peers, where only the finest champagne was served, and where fortunes that had taken twenty generations to amass were routinely won and lost on the turn of a card.
But this woman was an outsider to the rarefied atmosphere of their little club. Granted there were other women present, but their presence could easily be explained. The Boston heiresses who came to barter their wealth and virginity for an honorable British title, the dowager duchesses who sat gossiping together in one corner, the Season’s Incomparables with their pretty little pouts and low cut gowns, the French courtesans who clung to the sides of their latest paramours like pampered, well-heeled pets.
The redhead belonged to none of those cliques, yet she seemed somehow essential, as if the assembly would be seriously bereft without her. Morgan’s gaze returned to the woman as if drawn there by magnetic force. She had won again, he noted, watching as the croupier pushed a thick stack of chips toward her ever-increasing pile.
His pleasure at watching her was abruptly diminished as he saw Jonathan Derrick, Earl of Bedford, cross the room and move toward her. The lust shining in his gaze was as clear and bright as a lighthouse beacon at midnight. Pompous ass, Morgan thought, battling a surge of possessive irritation. But to his considerable amusement, Jonathan Derrick proved no threat to the mental claim he had staked on the woman. As though aware of Derrick’s amorous intent, the redhead lifted her gaze and watched him approach. Although her expression didn’t change, the warmth in her brandy eyes turned to winter. She tilted her chin and turned pointedly away, giving the earl the cut direct.
Morgan applauded her silently. Brava. Nicely done. Derrick was the fourth man to approach her since she had arrived, the fourth man to be coolly rebuked. Very well. Let the fools rush in. All good things to those who wait.
He suddenly stopped himself, shocked at the train of his thoughts. Idiot. What was he thinking? He knew better. The woman was not for him. Never for him. Foolish even to entertain such an idea. He gripped the rich glass of burgundy sitting on the table before him and let out a low, steadying breath, fighting back a wave of tension. Let it go. Let it go.
Forcing his thoughts away from the woman, he turned his attention back to his companions and the conversation at hand.
“Did you see the Review today?” demanded William Conor, fifth Earl of Gravespark. He was young, excitable, and unable to handle the bourbon he drank in regrettably copious amounts. “What did I tell you? It’s official now. They’re engaged. Lady Isabelle Cartwright and Lord Roger Bigelow. Didn’t I say it was only a matter of time before she—”
“That’s enough, Gravespark,” interrupted Edward Southesby curtly.
William Conor stared at Southesby with a confused frown. “What? It’s right here in the paper. I don’t see why… oh.” He swung his head around, and his bloodshot eyes fastened upon Morgan. “Sorry, old man.”
Morgan lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the paper.
The London Review was an upstart paper, one that dared to challenge the authority and prominence of The Times. In all likelihood it would have failed miserably, were it not fo
r a single column called “The Tattler,” which was currently the rage among society. Mostly a gossip column, its anonymous author made occasional forays into the realm of social injustice and reform, thus giving the work a luster of moral righteousness.
He skimmed the column and felt curiously… flat. Nothing. As though he were reading about complete strangers, rather than a woman he had nearly married and a man he had once considered his best friend.
“She could have at least shown the decency to wait three years,” asserted Conor. “I mean, really.”
A sardonic smile curved Morgan’s lips as he folded the paper and passed it back. “I believe that’s the customary period for mourning. Contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t die.”
“No, of course not,” Conor stammered, his face flaming. “Of course not. It’s just that…” His gaze traveled to Morgan’s hands and wrists. He studied the scars there with a look of undisguised horror. “Do you ever wonder what might have happened if—”
“No,” Morgan replied, his voice steel. “Never.”
An uneasy silence fell over the group. Morgan could almost hear the thoughts running through his companions’ minds. Although his forays into polite society were few, he was not deaf to the rumors that circulated about him. As might be expected, the effects of the fire had necessitated a long period of recovery. In the aftermath of the tragedy, his self-imposed seclusion had led to vivid speculation among his peers. It was rumored — not entirely unjustly — that he had been grossly disfigured, a man whose hideous scars aptly reflected the true nature of his character.
The Beast.
After a long minute Edward Southesby cleared his throat, announcing in a strained voice, “I understand there’s a bill before the Commons proposing to raise the tobacco tax once again.”
A reply was duly offered, a contrasting opinion gamely expressed, and thus the conversation lurched awkwardly on, moving conspicuously away from the topic of Morgan’s past.
Morgan leaned back in his chair and toyed absently with his glass. He shouldn’t have come. After months of cajoling, he had buckled to the pressure of his few remaining friends who had insisted he take a night out, but he wouldn’t do so again. It was a mistake to be here.
He swallowed his wine in one gulp, his eyes returning to the mysterious beauty he had been watching earlier. He sought nothing more than a brief, cursory check that she hadn’t yet left the room.
Instead he found her gaze locked on him.
For a moment he was jolted to a stunned stop, his wineglass arrested in midair. Then instinct took over — an instinct he thought had vanished with the smoke and ash that had turned his life upside down. But old habits died hard. He set down his glass. He tipped his head in cool acknowledgment of her stare as his mouth curved into a smile of seductive greeting.
The woman didn’t respond at all. Instead her expression remained curiously flat. Sitting there with a fool’s grin on his face, Morgan was struck by the appalling certainty that he had completely misread her look, that he had made as big an ass of himself as Jonathan Derrick had only moments earlier.
Just as he was about to turn away, the redhead coolly returned his nod. Although her expression still didn’t change, a Mona Lisa smile touched her lips; secretive and slightly superior. It was a silent yet unmistakable invitation, leaving him with the distinct impression of a she-wolf who had bestowed upon him the honor of entering her sacred lair — if he dared to accept the challenge. So be it.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to the table at large, “it appears I’m being summoned.”
He rose and strode across the room, feeling the stunned gazes of his companions — of the entire room — upon him. It was unavoidable. The woman’s presence was too dramatic not to have been noticed, particularly in a company that devoured gossip, scandal, and titillating speculation — all the more so if they could witness it for themselves. The fact that she had singled out Morgan St. James, Viscount Barlowe, for her attention, was nothing short of astonishing.
He paused beside a white-gloved waiter and removed two tall crystal flutes of sparkling wine from his tray, then presented himself at the woman’s side at the trente-et-quarante table.
“Champagne?”
She smiled softly and took a glass from his hand. “Yes, I believe I will.”
Lovely, he thought. Not so much her words, but the timbre in which she spoke. Never had he heard a voice so full of seductive promise. Low, smooth, and feminine, yet entirely confident and assured. It occurred to him that he might even enjoy this. The woman — whoever she was — was Christmas come early. He smiled as his gaze moved over her body once again. And wrapped in such a lovely package. Peppermint pink. Delicious.
She took a small sip from the delicate crystal champagne flute, and then tilted her head toward the tall glass doors that overlooked the gardens. “They say the view from the balcony is lovely this time of night.”
Exactly what he was about to suggest. Privacy. Evidently she was as cognizant of the curious eyes upon them as he was. He took her arm and wordlessly ushered her outside. Once they reached the sanctuary of the balcony, they stood silently against the intricate wrought-iron railing, staring out over the deep blue waters of the Thames. Moonlight bathed the gardens beneath them, casting long shadows over the neatly manicured shrubs and meandering stone pathways. The fragrance of rose, jasmine, and lavender wafted through the air. An unseen fountain gurgled nearby, setting the scene to the music of the trickling water.
Morgan took that all in with one sweeping glance, then turned his attention to the woman beside him. Incredibly, her beauty was even more astounding as one drew closer, for the details were more apparent. He noted for the first time the lushness of the lashes that framed her eyes, the delicate bridge of her nose, the sculpted curve of her cheek, the tantalizing fullness of her lips.
Disbelief tore through him at the fact that she had selected him. Then he noted that her gaze was moving over his skin, eyeing the scars that marred his neck and hands. Bitter understanding took root. In his rare social forays following the fire, he had discovered that certain women derived a queer pleasure from the sight of his scars and the notoriety of his reputation. Evidently this woman had the distinction of belonging to that select group. For a moment he hated her, hated her with an even more virulent loathing than he hated himself. Beauty in search of the Beast. So that was it. Very well. He could play that game. Lord knew he had done it before.
He watched as she drew one delicate hand absently along the balcony rail, imagining those long, slim fingers moving over his skin. Would she touch him? Was that part of her game? Or would she draw back in appalled horror once she saw—
Before he could pursue that demeaning line of speculation, a casino clerk stepped out onto the balcony to deliver her winnings. The stack of chips she had abandoned at the betting table had been dutifully exchanged for a thick wad of pound notes. With a word of gracious thanks, she peeled a five-pound note off the top and passed it to him. Then she dropped the remaining bills into her pink satin reticule.
“Do you always walk away from a lucky streak?” he asked.
“When it suits me.” She gave a light shrug, and then tipped her face up to his. “What about you?” she asked. “Have you been playing the tables tonight?”
“Not tonight. I’m afraid my partner failed to make an appearance.”
“Oh? With whom do you prefer to play?”
“Tyche.”
“I see.” Adopting an expression of grave commiseration, she said, “She’s deserted you this evening, has she?”
Morgan nodded, silently impressed. Whoever she was, the woman was obviously well educated, for she understood his somewhat obscure reference to Tyche, the goddess of good fortune. “Until you arrived,” he replied gallantly.
A mocking smile touched her lips, as though the mundane banalities and false compliments of nascent romance were beneath them both. Clearly she neither wanted nor expected such coquet
tish tripe.
As her gaze moved slowly over his form, her expression changed, becoming unguardedly curious and candid. It wasn’t a look he was accustomed to receiving from women — or men, for that matter. It was a look of open assessment, as though she were taking his measure and defining him against some nameless inner standard.
“Morgan St. James,” she said at last. “Or do you prefer Viscount Barlowe?”
His surprise at hearing his name on her lips must have been visible, for a look of knowing amusement showed on her features. “You don’t remember me at all,” she said. There was no reproach in her voice. It was a simple statement of fact.
Morgan frantically searched his mind. Had he taken her to bed? Surely he would remember that. He would remember something about her. Her hair, her eyes, her body, her voice. But nothing came to him.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvan—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, abruptly dismissing the topic as though irritated she had brought it up. “It was long ago.”
How long? Morgan wondered. A year? Five years? Ten?
His eyes moved briefly over her body, searching for some small clue that might jar his memory. But he found no blemish, no mole, no mark of any kind that would serve as a reminder of their past meeting. Nor could he distinguish her in his memory by the jewelry she wore — only by its rather startling absence. Unlike most of the patrons of the Devonshire House, who delighted in using their bodies to display their wealth, the woman was not draped in jewels. The only ornament he could discern on her person was a delicate gold chain that hung about her neck, from which was suspended a small gold medallion.
“Looking for something?” she asked. A faint hint of amusement colored her tone.
He returned his gaze to hers. “Yes.”
She arched one perfectly shaped auburn brow and waited.
With This Kiss Page 2
