“Wise of you.”
She did not miss the threat veiled within his silky tone. “Not because I am intimidated by you,” she shot back, sending him a significant glare. “But because I thought it more prudent to the future of our marriage that we make a bargain, you and I.”
“It was my understanding that we had already made a bargain.”
“Yes, in general. I believe we have a basic understanding—”
“I believe we have an explicit understanding,” he corrected firmly.
“You want an heir.”
“Yes.”
“Very well. I am not disputing my obligations in that regard. I am simply asking for a little more time to get to know each other before we undertake such an… intimate endeavor.”
“How much time?”
“I’m not certain. How long does it take a husband and wife to truly get to know one another?”
“It has been my impression that most married couples try to avoid that at all costs. Particularly those who wish their marriages to be bearable.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Nevertheless, he considered her question and gave an indifferent shrug. “Years.”
“Years,” she repeated, a slight frown touching her lips. “I see.”
Silence followed as she sipped her tea and mulled over his reply. Morgan wasn’t certain exactly what he had expected from her; perhaps a tearful scene begging his forbearance, dramatic vows of apology and reconciliation, or even outright disdain at his attempts to press his marital rights. In some ways her reaction was infinitely more degrading. Instead of fighting him with female hysterics, she chose an entirely pragmatic approach, as though the burden of bedding her husband was one that could be overcome with a little logical thinking.
“Well,” she said at last, “perhaps expecting you to wait years until we consummate our vows is asking a bit too much.”
“Remarkable. I would have reached the same conclusion.”
Anger flashed in her eyes at his mocking tone. “There is no need for sarcasm. I was hoping we might resolve this problem amiably. I am simply attempting to be reasonable.”
“By what folly of logic did you convince yourself that I would be reasonable in regard to this problem — as you so expressively put it?”
“Because it is to both our benefit that we come to a mutually satisfactory resolution.”
“A mutually satisfactory resolution. How very civilized.” He lifted the butter knife from the table and absently toyed with it, brushing the dull edge against his thumb. Then he fixed his gaze on her. “But what you sound like, princess, is a woman who has made an unhappy bargain and is attempting to renege on her word.”
Julia bristled. “I can assure you that is not the case at all.”
“Isn’t it?”
Overcome by a sudden impatience with their conversation, Morgan sprang from his chair and moved to stand beside the tall bank of windows that overlooked the gardens below. He had never been embarrassed by his sexual drive before, but now he felt vaguely shamed by it — as though he were an ogre hiding in wait for a beautiful maiden upon whom he could pounce and unleash his carnal desires. The Beast. Ridiculous. And yet even as that assertion formed in his mind, he couldn’t quite banish the image of Julia on their wedding night, trembling in disgust as his fingers had traced her skin. She had looked so fragile and pale in the moonlight, like a porcelain doll that might shatter at any moment. Granted he could have forced her, but he had never sunk so low in his life and had no intention of starting now.
He considered their predicament for a long moment, then turned to his wife and carefully asked, “Is the thought of our making love so horrific to you?”
A small, sad smile touched her lips. “Therein lies the crux of our problem. Why do men persist in calling it lovemaking when there is no love in it at all?” Before he could reply, she shifted her chair and leaned forward, asking with an expression of eager earnestness, “What do you feel for me? Answer honestly, if you please.”
The question surprised him — all the more so because he had no ready reply. It was not a matter to which he had given any thought. She was simply a means to an end. A way to capture the man who had set his servants’ quarters on fire or, failing that, a way to provide him with an heir to his estate. But what did he feel for the woman herself? Another time he might have said lust, but that didn’t seem entirely appropriate in this instance. For with lust came the vague hope that one might be desired in return. Certainly he had no expectations in that regard.
He hesitated, giving the question deeper consideration. He pictured her as he had first seen her, standing at the Devonshire House, looking like a cool confection in peppermint pink as she placed her wagers. Then later at the rundown warehouse, as she faced him with the audacious proposal that they marry. All fluttery nerves while she introduced him to her aunt, uncle, and cousins. The raw panic in her eyes as they had exchanged their wedding vows. A broad variety of images, but none that gave him a clear notion of Julia herself or helped him define his feelings for her.
Finally he replied, “A base attraction to your beauty. A limited amount of curiosity.”
She nodded slowly, considering his words. “But nothing deeper,” she said. “Nothing that might convey any sort of warmth or caring.”
She didn’t seem to be searching for any false assurances, so Morgan didn’t offer her any. “No,” he said flatly. “Nothing.”
Glowing approval showed on her face. “Very good. I appreciate your honesty, Lord, er… Morgan.”
“I assume you wouldn’t define your feelings for me as warm.”
“Not at all,” she replied promptly. Color suffused her cheeks as she immediately realized her gaffe. Lifting her shoulders in a light shrug, she said, “I would define my feelings for you as wary.”
He frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Look at our respective positions,” she said, clearly working into the heart of her argument. “You hold all the power. Granted, you have been a gracious host — last night notwithstanding, of course. But with that singular exception, I would say you’ve been most kind.”
Morgan folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to continue.
“Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel that were I to acquiesce to your base needs immediately, I would be nothing in this household but an object you had acquired, an object that has very little value once Lazarus has been uncovered. From that point forward, what would we have between us to last the rest of our marriage?”
“Much the same as any other husband and wife.”
A thoughtful frown touched her lips as she rose and moved to stand across from him. “That does not satisfy me,” she said. “Nor do I believe it would satisfy you. I realize the circumstances that brought us together were rather unusual, but we ought to make the best of our arrangement. It has been my observation in life that one should begin a relationship at the level where one means to continue it. In short, I would like to attempt to establish a precedent of mutual caring and respect before we” — she hesitated, a rosy blush staining her cheeks, then bravely raised her gaze to his and finished — “commence the intimate work of creating an heir.”
“I see.”
“That may be too lofty a goal, it may in fact elude us completely, but I would like to try nevertheless.”
He regarded her in silence, impressed despite himself. Had she defied him entirely, he might very well have forced the issue, seducing her that very night despite her resistance. Instead, Julia had made the astonishing argument that refusing him was for their mutual good. All in all, it was not a bad argument. He cringed as he thought of his own approach — entering her bedchamber slightly drunk, grimly determined, and profoundly inept. In retrospect he felt like a boorish oaf. He knew better. But years had passed since he had courted a woman, and the thought that there might be anything between them had simply not occurred to him. Now that she had presented her position, appealing to his s
ense of honor and chivalry, it would be exceedingly difficult for him to refuse her.
“Nicely done,” he said. “It occurs to me that I have taken a bride who is entirely too shrewd. Remind me never to sit opposite you at a negotiating table.”
A look of cautious pride showed on her face — a look he immediately eradicated by saying, “Very well, you shall have three months’ reprieve. At the end of which time I expect you to have developed enough warm feelings toward me that we may — how did you put it? — commence the intimate work of creating an heir. Does that satisfy you?”
A look of prim disapproval curved her lips. “I am not under the impression that it is supposed to.”
True, but that wasn’t the point. “I want your word,” he said sternly. “Three months and no more. At the end of which time I will expect you to uphold your end of the bargain and assume your wifely duties. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes,” she said stiffly, “We are in agreement.” She turned away, focusing her gaze on the gardens below. As she did, a strand of fiery hair slipped out from beneath her ridiculous cap to curl softly against her temple. Morning sunlight streamed in around her, revealing the shadowy outline of her body through the drab brown linen. As she lifted her hand to trace one finger along the sparkling glass pane, her bosom strained against the pleated bodice of her gown. The sight, and the unexpected pleasure it brought him, made Morgan wonder if perhaps she had received the better end of their bargain. In that instant three months seemed a very long time to wait to claim his bride.
He shifted slightly, impatiently banishing the thought. Aloud he said, “Very good. Now that that issue has been dispensed with, let us move on to the matter of your absurd attire. I assume there is an explanation?”
Julia seemed as relieved as he was to drop the intimate topic and move on. “I mentioned that I am in the habit of talking to servants in order to procure the various tidbits of gossip I use in my weekly column. Naturally, if I wish to be spoken to freely, I can’t appear as a lady who might carry their stories back to their employer.”
“Hence the mobcap and stained apron.”
“Yes. A rather dreary disguise but effective nonetheless. I’ve yet to be taken for anything but a common housemaid.”
“So you intend to continue that ridiculous column.” She looked startled at the suggestion that he might think otherwise.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugged. “You no longer need the income.”
“My motivation in writing the column was never financial. It’s the moral satisfaction I receive in exposing society’s ills that makes me continue.”
A slight frown touched Morgan’s lips as he considered her words. From what he had seen of her work, it was composed of scandalous gossip and very little else. Writing “The Tattler” might amuse her, but the pastime was one he considered eminently unsuitable for his wife. Testing her reaction, he said, “And if I were to recommend that you discontinue the column, it being an inappropriate occupation given your new station as Viscountess Barlowe?”
“I would recommend you not do such a thing.”
“You would disobey me?”
She smiled sweetly. “Without hesitation.”
Morgan stiffened. “As your husband, it is my responsibility to determine what pastimes are fit for my wife.”
“And as your wife, it is my duty to accommodate your wishes. I will attempt to do so — within reason.”
“Whose determination is it if my requests are reasonable?”
“Mine, of course.”
A small tremor of alarm shot through him as he perceived a dangerous trend, one he had heretofore overlooked. She had defied her uncle in finding a suitor of her own choosing. She had defied convention in earning an income of her own by leasing her father’s warehouse space. Now she was openly defying him. He had relented in the matter of his nuptial rights, but he would not indulge her whim on every issue. Better she learn now who commanded the household.
He leaned one broad shoulder against the window frame, eyeing her coolly. “I’m afraid you overestimate your influence in this matter. I need only send word to the editor of the Review, informing him that you are my wife and that I wish for him to cease publication of your column immediately.”
Heavy silence filled the room. “Yes, you have that authority,” she agreed at last. “But if you do, I will resent you for it and that resentment will fester between us for the remainder of our married life.”
“Perhaps that is a risk I am willing to take.”
She returned his stare with one of glacial self-assurance. “While I cannot prevent you from doing so, I can assure you it would be a mistake. I ask that you consider what you will have gained, for it will accomplish nothing but my undying hostility. Furthermore, it was my understanding that the primary goal of our union was to find Lazarus. How do you expect to accomplish that if he can no longer contact me through the Review?”
Damn. Morgan scanned his memory but could not recall a single instance when he had blundered so thoroughly. Had he thought the matter through, rather than reacting on emotion, he would have come to the same conclusion. Instead, his response had been both idiotic and embarrassing. But rather than admit that directly, he temporized. “Has it occurred to you that we may have driven Lazarus away by uniting openly? He had perceived you as a partner; our alliance may be seen by him as the ultimate treachery.”
A worried frown knit her brow. “Yes,” she conceded with a sigh. “I did consider that.” She paused, and then continued hesitantly. “But there was something in his communications, something that gave me confidence he would not do so. I may have read too much into them, but his letters seemed to indicate that he had formed a rather profound attachment toward me — an attachment he would not easily abandon.”
Morgan nodded. After viewing the man’s letters, he had reached the same conclusion.
Setting that issue aside for the moment, she continued. “It has occurred to me that Lazarus may not have been working alone. I thought our first step in uncovering his identity should be to determine exactly whose body was discovered among the ashes of Lord Webster’s fire. If the two men were working in conjunction, his corpse may very well lead us to the identity of Lazarus himself.”
“A laudable goal, but as no one was able to identify the man at the time, and two years have since passed, I would imagine those ashes have grown even cooler.”
“Very likely, yes. Nevertheless, I suggest we begin our search by eliminating the loose ends.” She retrieved a worn vellum notebook from the pocket of her skirt and flipped through the pages with a concentrated frown. “Yesterday I reviewed the notes I took at the time of Lord Webster’s fire, and—”
“You took notes?”
“I always take notes. In writing my column, it’s vital that I capture exactly what is said. A word or two repeated in error can change the entire nuance of a sentence. I was particularly careful in getting down all the details of the events described by Lord Webster’s servants, especially as they pertained to the night of the fire.”
“What did you discover?”
“At first glance nothing unusual,” she replied, her tone brisk and businesslike. “No strangers lurking about the grounds, no sudden dismissal of any of the servants, no unexpected visitors. Lord Webster was preparing to host a large party, hence the household was somewhat hectic, but there was nothing to indicate the disaster that was to come.”
Just as it had been at his own home, Morgan thought.
“It was how the servants reacted when they were questioned after the fire that caught my attention,” Julia continued.
“What do you mean?”
“They were uniformly distraught, naturally, having lost all their worldly goods as well as their source of income. But there was one woman who appeared more shaken than the rest — a Miss Sarah Montgomery. She had been employed as a housemaid at the time of the fire. I recall seeing her days afterward at a pub where Lord Webst
er’s servants frequently gathered. She was ashen and inconsolable, breaking into tears at the mere mention of the fire.”
“An understandable reaction, I would think.”
“Yes,” Julia agreed, but it was clear in her expression that she wasn’t quite convinced. Her next words confirmed it. “Something in her manner disturbed me,” she said. “Miss Montgomery wasn’t simply upset. She was nervous and frightened, as though she had a secret she was terrified might be found out. I had made a note to myself to question her later, but she left London before I had a chance. Apparently her sister had found her employment in Sussex.”
“What of Mr. Chivers at the Yard? Did he find her behavior suspicious?”
“Not at all. Aside from being so distraught, she was very cooperative. Like everyone else, she reported seeing nothing unusual the day of the fire, nor did she claim to know the identity of the man found among the ashes. Furthermore, she received a letter of high commendation from Lord Webster himself.”
Morgan shrugged. “I would think that would settle the matter.”
“Perhaps it might have, had Lazarus remained buried in the ashes of that fire. But as he has resurrected himself, I thought I ought to begin my search where I left off two years ago. Short of waiting for Lazarus to come to me — or worse, waiting until he sets another fire — it seemed the most prudent course of action.”
Logical enough, he supposed. Yet still… “You intend to travel to Sussex to question her?”
“Fortunately, there’s no need for that. Evidently Sussex was not to Miss Montgomery’s liking. She returned to the city after an absence of only seven months. She is presently working as a kitchenmaid in Lady Escher’s employ. I’ve done a bit of research into her habits and discovered a tea shop she frequents once her morning marketing is finished.”
With This Kiss Page 8
