With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  He folded his arms across his chest, regarding her with undisguised amusement. “You’re determined to save everything you come into contact with, aren’t you, princess? Even the flowers.”

  “Almost,” she replied, studying him with an expression of cool intractability. “Not everything is redeemable.”

  The implication that she was referring to him was unmistakable. Instead of taking affront, his smile only widened. “Wise of you to come to that understanding so quickly.”

  Without commenting further, he took the basket from her arm and carried it for her. Rather than returning directly to the house, he escorted her on a more circuitous route through the gardens in order that they might enjoy a bit more privacy. “It occurs to me that we may have made a fundamental error in our strategy regarding Lazarus,” he said after a moment. “Receipt of his letter is quite encouraging, but it is not enough. If we intend to prod him into making his presence known, we must dangle a bit of bait. Unfortunately, that bait is you.”

  “Yes.”

  “To that end I have directed my secretary to accept every invitation we receive. We must flaunt the fact that you, Lazarus’s true desire, have taken refuge in my arms. You rejected him for me. With any luck that will serve to further flame his fury.”

  “That seems logical.”

  “If we hope to be successful, it will require that we appear disgustingly happy and in love. Positively enraptured with one another.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, her expression giving nothing away.

  “I thought we might begin this charade tomorrow night, at Lord and Lady Winterbourne’s affair.”

  “Very well.”

  She was taking it so matter-of-factly that Morgan doubted she fully understood what he was driving at. As they approached his home, he paused beneath the shade of a tall cypress to finish their conversation. Intent on making himself as clear as possible, he lifted his hand and lightly stroked it against her cheek. “I take it you can list persuasive acting skills among your considerable accomplishments?”

  While she didn’t flinch, neither did she give any indication that his touch was welcome. “We made a bargain,” she said. “I understand what needs to be done.”

  He felt himself go cold. “How very commendable,” he said with a tight smile. “A woman of her word, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.”

  “You know how fond I am of lost causes.”

  “Indeed.” Deciding it would be pointless to pursue the matter further, he let the subject drop and guided her up the front steps. “By the way,” he remarked as they stepped into the foyer, “my congratulations on the formidable wrath of your pen. I conducted an informal survey this morning and discovered that my secretary’s mother has ceased purchasing Matthews and Hornsby soap.”

  “Has she? That’s wonderful.”

  “Apparently there is a method to your madness after all.”

  An unmistakable glint of victory entered her soft sherry eyes. “Wise of you to come to that understanding so quickly.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Julia leaned back against the plush leather squabs of Morgan’s coach, listening to the rhythmic drumming of the horses’ hooves as they journeyed to Lord and Lady Winterbourne’s. The crowded streets made their movement slow, negating any chance they might have had for stirring a breeze through the open windows. Although she had taken a cool bath less than an hour earlier and thoroughly dusted herself with a sweet-scented talc, the effects of her ministrations were already beginning to lessen. She felt warm and damp, her nerves as strained and excitable as those of her Aunt Rosalind.

  In an effort to distract her thoughts from the coming evening, she turned her attention to her gown, running her fingers over the intricate pleats to prevent their wrinkling. She had selected a deep apricot silk with cap sleeves, a square bodice, and a full bustle that gave an elegant sway to her movements. Her elbow-length brown kid gloves, made to match her shoes and reticule, rested in her lap. She wore her hair piled high, with just a strand or two left to curl softly against the nape of her neck. The gown was too tight to be comfortable, and as a result she found herself constantly fidgeting with the fabric, gently tugging at it in a vain attempt to gain a bit more room.

  “You needn’t fuss with your gown,” Morgan said after a moment. “You look lovely.”

  Julia instantly stilled her hands, unaware he had been watching her.

  “An interesting color,” he continued. “I wouldn’t have selected it, but it suits you well.”

  She felt a gentle bump. Their movement, sluggish as it had been, abruptly halted. “We’ve arrived?” she asked breathlessly.

  He glanced out the window. “No,” he replied. “There’s a queue. Blocks long, by the looks of it.” He released an impatient sigh. “One of the reasons I’ve taken to hiding behind my gates, as you so eloquently put it. Rarely does the effort required to attend an event equal the enjoyment one receives once arrived.”

  She made a noncommittal noise and shifted her gaze to the long line of coaches. “Do you think he’ll he here tonight?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand who she meant. “Lazarus?” he said, lifting his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “Possibly.” Returning his full attention to her, he observed, “You’re nervous.”

  The note of condescending amusement in his voice was unmistakable. “Hardly,” she replied.

  “Then it must be the prospect of being introduced to all of London as my bride that has you aflutter.”

  She stiffened her spine, arranging her posture into one of prim disapproval. “Contrary to what you obviously believe, not everything that occurs in life directly revolves around you.”

  Smiling broadly, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his right leg over his opposite knee. “Is that what I believe, princess?”

  Something in his voice caused her to raise her eyes to his. Unable to stop herself, her gaze moved assessingly over her husband. His scars notwithstanding, he was still a strikingly beautiful man. He wore a black formal suit of lightweight wool. Having removed his jacket before entering the coach, he sat opposite her in a shirt of starched ivory linen, his cravat tied in an intricate knot that managed to simultaneously suggest a careless yet fashionable air. It wasn’t simply the elegance of his attire that made him appear so compellingly regal, however. He seemed to project an air of aloof, aristocratic authority, as though he were watching and judging from afar — a Greek god surveying the petty mortals from his seat upon Olympus.

  “You’re amused by this,” she said.

  “What?” he asked, arching one dark brow. “The Season? Society?” He waved his hand in a coolly dismissive motion. “The lords and ladies of the peerage taking turns making a spectacle of themselves fawning over one another, parading about like the naked emperor of legend, each convinced his robes are the richest in the land. Perhaps Lazarus is right to set us all aflame.”

  His words seemed vaguely prescient. The darkness of that intuitive recognition caused a chill to run down her spine, doing little to ease her nerves. Deliberately choosing to steer their conversation to a somewhat brighter tone, she said, “It’s all fairly new to me. I’ve never had a Season.”

  “Not even a coming out?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  She managed a light shrug. “My parents wanted me to have a Season, of course. That’s what this gown was intended for, as well as the others you’ve seen. They were all ordered for my eighteenth birthday, in anticipation of my grand debut in society.” She paused, sending him a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the gowns are all a bit tight now. Apparently I don’t enjoy the same lithesome, girlish figure I did when I was eighteen. Particularly —” She lifted her hand to indicate her bosom, then stopped abruptly, horrified at her gaffe.

  But she was too late. Following the path of her gesture, his gaze had come to rest directly on the creamy expanse of skin revealed above her bodice. Molding her bod
y to the hourglass shape dictated by the gown had necessitated the use of an almost painfully tight corset. As her lungs were already tightly constricted, the unavoidable chore of breathing could only be accomplished by lifting her breasts and pushing them out and upward. Although the gown remained well within the bounds of fashion and modesty, Julia felt dreadfully exposed. Particularly now, when she could feel the heat of Morgan’s smoky gaze on her skin as clearly as if he were touching her. The breathless tension she had experienced when he had shocked her with his kiss at Tom’s Rest ran through her again.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice like dark silk, “so it would appear.”

  She cast about for something to say to relieve the awkwardness of the moment, but her mind refused to cooperate. “My mother abruptly fell ill,” she said, doggedly continuing her story, “and my Season was cut short after just one night.”

  “What about the following year? You could have made your coming out at nineteen.”

  “Perhaps. But my heart wasn’t in it. It seemed like such a frivolous waste. And my father…” She hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. “He was never quite the same after my mother passed away. He had always been so competent, so strong. But he began drinking heavily, and his business affairs fell apart. Then there was that awful scandal, the smuggling and the trial that followed…” She paused, toying for a moment with a beaded fringe that hung from her reticule. “We lost everything: our money, our reputation, our home.”

  “Did you hate him for it?”

  Her shocked gaze flew to Morgan. “My father?”

  “Most women would. He owed you more than that.”

  “No,” she replied softly. “No, I didn’t hate him.”

  He searched her face for a moment, as though judging the truth of that statement. Apparently satisfied or perhaps merely indifferent to the true state of her emotions, he shifted his posture, extending one long arm along the seat back. “So you had just the one night,” he said. “One brief night to glory in the wonder of London’s exalted society. Tell me about it.”

  “It was crowded.”

  “Come now, you can do better than that,”

  “I don’t underst—”

  “I’ve yet to meet a woman — any woman — who hasn’t experienced an impassioned epiphany on the eve of her first Season. I believe it’s practically a requisite. Surely some dashing Lothario managed to sweep you off your feet and fill your head with dreams of romantic nonsense.” Although Julia didn’t reply, the blush that heated her cheeks must have been evident, for a triumphant smile curved Morgan’s lips, “I thought so.”

  She looked pointedly away. “It’s a silly story.”

  “Did you fall madly in love?”

  Julia considered her reply. Harboring the vague hope that if she opened up a bit to him, he might be coaxed into doing the same thing, she answered honestly, “Yes. Or at least I imagined myself so. For an entire week.”

  He smiled. “As long as that?”

  “An eternity when one is eighteen.”

  “True. So who was your mysterious Lothario?”

  She shook her head. “His name doesn’t matter. He was dashing, wealthy, self-assured; a rake and a bounder as well. He moved through the room with an air of utter domination, as though the gala were being held solely for his amusement. At the same time he was completely captivating. One couldn’t help but watch him. You know the kind.”

  “Pompous, self-indulgent asses, the lot of them.”

  She smiled. “That was my father’s opinion as well. But I thought he was wonderful.”

  “What happened? Did your eyes meet across the room? Did he shower you with praise for your delicate beauty, claim your every dance, steal you away to a secluded corner for your first real kiss?”

  Julia hesitated, debating the depths of her honesty. But as Morgan apparently had no idea they were discussing him, she felt safe in replying, “Not exactly. Our hostess introduced us, but evidently I made little impression upon him. He barely noticed me.”

  “Foolish man.”

  “Yes,” she replied, regarding him levelly. “Foolish man.”

  “So that was all it took,” he said, his expression registering his disgust. “One brief, meaningless introduction and you were thoroughly smitten with this strutting ass.”

  “As was every other woman in the room.”

  “I believe there’s a moral to this tale, isn’t there? Something about casting pearls before swine.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not.” A soft smile curved her lips. “For all his swaggering, there was something magnificent about him, more than just his appearance or his wealth. He seemed to project a kind of inner beauty… nobility that separated him from other men.”

  “Nobility,” he echoed. “I imagine your Lothario would be astonished to find himself thus labeled.”

  “I imagine he would be.”

  An unexpected pang of sadness washed over her. Perhaps Morgan had been right in calling it an epiphany of sorts, for on that night everything had seemed possible. She remembered the warmth that had filled the air, her first intoxicating taste of champagne, the gentle flirtations of the men with whom she danced, and the way the soft swishing of the ladies’ ball gowns seemed to create a music of their own. She recalled laughing with her parents, and her unwavering conviction that life would go on that way forever. On that magic night the future had held nothing but bright promise.

  Lost in her reminiscence, she continued softly. “I saw him in the gardens later that same evening. I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and found myself meandering down a stone path. I was alone and occupied with my own thoughts — so much so that I paid little attention to my direction. I wandered past a tall hedge and nearly stumbled into him. He was with a beautiful woman. They had no idea that their privacy had been violated. Perhaps it was the wine I had been drinking that rendered me motionless, for I found myself transfixed.

  “There was so much beauty and intimacy between them. I remember their soft laughter, their murmured whispers, the way he lightly brushed his body against hers. I watched her defenses melt away as he swept her up in a torrid embrace. It was just as I had always imagined it should be between a man and a woman. I turned away, of course, but the image stayed with me. That night and every night that followed for a week, I found myself lying in bed, wishing that he would come to me. That he would lock me in that same embrace, touch me as he had been touching her, that he would kiss me with all the passion and fervor that he had been kissing her.”

  Morgan said nothing, but his expression had changed. He regarded her with a look of raw intensity, a light she couldn’t define smoldering within the depths of his gray eyes.

  Abruptly recalling herself, she shrugged, sending him a small, embarrassed smile. “I warned you it was a silly story.”

  “That’s the ending?”

  “Yes,” she said definitively. “That’s the ending.”

  An odd, intimate silence hung between them. Julia once again experienced the discomforting sensation of being too exposed, almost naked to his sight. With nowhere else to look, she directed her attention to the beaded fringe that hung from her reticule. Looking anywhere was better than meeting her husband’s eyes at the moment.

  At last, unable to bear the silence or the memories any longer, she announced with forced brightness, “Very well, I’ve confessed. Now it’s your turn. Time to plumb your emotional depths. Shallow waters, granted, but let us attempt it nonetheless.”

  He leaned back into his seat. “This should be entertaining.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  His cool, slightly superior smile returned. “I take it you mean with someone other than myself.”

  “You were once engaged,” she pressed, ignoring his sarcasm.

  “The lovely Isabelle.” His tone was completely flat, devoid of any semblance of emotion.

  “She’s to be
married soon — to Lord Roger Bigelow.”

  “Indeed. I seem to recall reading that enlightening bit of information in your column. Tucked in between various rantings against the cruelty of the poorhouses.”

  Refusing to have her temper baited or to be otherwise thrown off track, she persisted. “I imagine they’ll be in attendance tonight.”

  “I imagine so.”

  In a sudden burst of comprehension, Julia came to a bittersweet understanding. His flat responses weren’t mere sarcasm on his part, but a desire to keep his true emotions hidden. Feeling a sudden burst of sympathy, she asked gently, “Will it be very awkward for you to see them?”

  His gaze moved over her features for a moment, then he released a short, harsh laugh. “Lord, you are a romantic, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are you looking for, princess, heartbroken dejection? Shall I rail against the cruel twist of fate that tore my love from my side? Rue the treachery of my best friend? Will that satisfy you?”

  “You misunderstand. I was merely—”

  “Prying.”

  Julia opened her mouth to protest, and then abruptly closed it at the dark amusement dancing in Morgan’s eyes. So much for her attempt to grow closer to the man she had married. It had been foolish on her part to even think it possible. From all indications it would be easier to scale the gates that circled his estates than to breach the walls of his heart.

  Yet even as that cynical thought took root, she couldn’t help but feel that her initial instincts about him had been right. There was more to Morgan than what he let on, a depth of emotion that lurked just beneath the surface. Given time, she just might be able to draw that out. Or — more likely — fail miserably in her attempt to do so. The hope that he might one day come to care for her was undoubtedly ridiculous. Despite that knowledge, however, she knew she had no choice but to try. She released a small sigh at her own stubbornness. There was no greater fool than a woman who looked at a man and saw what he might be rather than what he actually was. But nothing died harder than a bad idea.