With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  Their coach, having plodded forward in a series of jolting stops and starts, rumbled to an unmistakable rest. The driver leaped down from his perch above them, let down the stairs, and pulled open the door.

  “Perfect,” Morgan announced with a smile. “We’ve arrived.”

  He stepped down, then turned and held out his hand to assist her in alighting from the coach. Julia took a moment, deliberately keeping him waiting while she went through the elaborate motion of drawing on her gloves, arranging the soft brown kid precisely to her satisfaction. Then she gathered her skirts in one hand and extended her opposite arm, allowing him to assist in her descent. Mingling into the crowds, they moved up the broad stone steps that led to the main entrance.

  “Maybe you’ll get your wish after all,” Morgan said, linking her arm through his. “Perhaps fortune will favor you, and your true love will be here tonight.”

  “Actually,” she replied coolly, “I’m beginning to suspect that’s a far better dream than reality.”

  They entered the estate and moved down a broad hallway toward the grand salon where the gala was being hosted. Candlelight flickered all around them; the sounds of the orchestra drifted out over the hushed footsteps of the guests. Julia discovered that the hall led to a plushly carpeted marble stair that descended gracefully into the ballroom. As they reached that landing, the reason for the long queue they had endured quickly became apparent. Apparently Lord and Lady Winterbourne belonged to the old school and were formally announcing each guest to the assembly, then welcoming their guests in a traditional receiving line at the base of the stair.

  As the names Viscount and Viscountess Barlowe rang out, a heavy stillness descended over the room, followed immediately by a shocked murmur of scandalous delight. Julia found herself staring into a sea of upturned faces. The combination of her jittery nerves and overly tight corset had caused her to feel slightly breathless before — now she was positively dizzy. Shooting a glance Morgan’s way, she discovered that he was not the least bit rattled by their reception. Instead, just the opposite appeared to be true. He gazed out over the crowd with an expression of cool superiority, as though he were not only immune to their stares but slightly amused by them as well.

  “Look at them,” he murmured softly in her ear. “Like sharks in murky water. Circling about in search of a tasty morsel of gossip to sink their teeth into. Shall we oblige them, princess?”

  Without waiting for her reply, he slipped his arm through hers and led her down the stairs to greet their hosts. Fortunately her manners did not fail her. Despite her state of anxiety, Julia managed a wooden smile and a graceful curtsy. They moved on, intent on losing themselves in the swirling crowds.

  Unfortunately fate, as was lately its habit, chose to amuse itself at their expense. They moved directly into the path of Lord Roger Bigelow and Isabelle Cartwright. The near collision was as unavoidable as it was mutually distressing. The other couple made no attempt to hide their discomfort at the awkward meeting. Their faces mirrored the tension Julia felt when yet another embarrassing silence fell over the crowd, as those nearby strained to catch every word of their exchange.

  Morgan was the first to speak. “Isabelle,” he said coolly, giving his former fiancée a brief bow. Turning next to the man who had once been his best friend, he greeted him with a curt “Roger.” Then he shifted his hand from Julia’s arm to the small of her back, gently pressing her near. “I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my wife,” he said, graciously performing the introductions.

  Roger and Isabelle’s gazes immediately fell upon her with looks of undisguised curiosity. Julia experienced a surge of primitive satisfaction in having chosen to wear her best gown. Affecting a serene smile, she moved slightly closer to Morgan in a tacit gesture of both unity and intimacy. Although it was a subtle movement, it didn’t go unnoticed; Roger’s expression reflected baffled disbelief, while Isabelle’s was one of possessive disapproval.

  “You look well, Morgan,” said Isabelle, breaking the stilted silence that had followed the introductions.

  “So do you, my dear.”

  And she did, Julia thought dismally. Lady Isabelle Cartwright had earned a reputation as a singular beauty, and it was immediately apparent upon meeting her that that reputation was not undeserved. Her lush figure was draped in a gown of midnight blue satin, a shade that served as a perfect complement to her dark hair and eyes while bringing out the creamy ivory glow of her complexion. Julia’s first thought was to wonder at her husband’s reaction — was he experiencing a flood of nostalgic lust and longing at the sight of his former lover? As that disheartening thought crossed her mind, she watched in appalled dismay as Isabelle’s dark eyes scanned Morgan’s face and neck, undoubtedly searching for scars.

  “Looking for something, Isabelle?” Morgan asked coolly.

  An expression of embarrassment crossed Isabelle’s lovely features at having been caught, but she recovered quickly and gave a throaty laugh. “Morgan. How you do like to tease.”

  “Yes. Don’t I.” Morgan turned to Roger Bigelow. “My congratulations on your engagement,” he said.

  Roger nodded. He was a tall, handsome man with dark blond hair and hazel eyes that emitted no warmth whatsoever. Looking coolly superior, he pulled Isabelle’s arm through his.

  A sardonic smile touched Morgan’s lips as he arched one dark brow. As the swell of the orchestra sounded behind them, he gave a gracious bow of parting and lifted Julia’s hand. “If you’ll pardon us, I promised my bride a waltz.”

  He turned and led her away, guiding her directly onto the dance floor. He pulled her into his arms as the opening strains of a waltz filled the room. They moved silently through the beginning of the dance, each occupied with his or her own thoughts.

  After a moment Morgan asked, “Can you feel him here?”

  Instantly understanding that he was referring to Lazarus, she lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I can’t say.”

  He frowned. “You mentioned yesterday that you could feel his presence.”

  “That was merely an impression, not a feat of clairvoyance that can be repeated on demand. Besides, it’s rather difficult to discern his presence when the entire room is staring at us.”

  “Ignore them. Look at me.”

  Exactly what she had been attempting not to do. It was difficult enough to maintain a sense of distance and decorum when Morgan was by her side. But doing that while he held her in his arms was simply impossible. Nevertheless she obeyed his command and lifted her gaze to his. Although he appeared perfectly cool and at ease, that was not the case for her at all. As his eyes locked on hers, a spiral of hot tension coiled through her belly. Her pulse skipped a beat and her heart leaped into her throat. Everything about him overwhelmed her senses. The smell of his skin, the feel of his body swaying against hers, the smoldering intensity of his eyes. It was all too much, she realized, wishing she had left herself some route of escape.

  Searching almost desperately for a topic that might relieve some of the sensual tension she felt, she blurted, “So that was Roger Bigelow.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Roger?” Morgan thought for a moment. “Brash, arrogant, wealthy, self-obsessed, cocky, tasteless, and immature. In short, a pompous ass.”

  “If your opinion of him is so low, how is it that the two of you were such good friends?”

  “I imagine that should be fairly obvious,” he returned. “We had so very much in common.”

  A fleeting smile touched her lips at his reply, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “And what of Isabelle?” she couldn’t resist asking. “What is she like?”

  Morgan made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Why should I mourn the loss of Isabelle when I have my lovely bride, the enchanting Julia, to warm my bed at night and heal my deepest sorrows?”

  As he already held her hand in his as they danced, it was a simple matter for him to draw it forward and brush his li
ps against the back of her glove. An innocuous gesture perhaps, but one that was profoundly intimate nonetheless. Julia stiffened and pulled back, instinctively jerking her hand from his grasp.

  A light of mocking disdain filled his eyes. “How remiss of me to forget. My bride has made it abundantly clear that she prefers phantom lovers to the embrace of her own husband.”

  “Very commendable,” she replied coolly. “You waited an entire ten minutes before using my confession against me. How trying that must have been for you.” Her scorn at his teasing abruptly turned into alarm as Morgan’s hand brushed gently over her hip, then proceeded to lightly travel up the small of her back. “What are you doing?” she demanded shrilly.

  “Touching you.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason?” When she didn’t reply, he lifted his shoulders in a detached shrug. “I thought the entire point of this exercise was to demonstrate how madly impassioned we are with each other. Difficult to make that impression without engaging in a small, scandalous display of affection, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps if we—”

  “Do you like that?” he asked, discreetly pressing his legs against hers as they moved in time to the music.

  Julia wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not. She only knew that the feel of his long, masculine thighs pressed so intimately against her skirts caused her head to spin and her pulse to double its tempo. “What would you have me say?” she stalled.

  “The truth, if you please.”

  She swallowed hard and admitted softly, “I suppose it’s not intolerable.”

  He grinned and bent slightly forward. “Careful,” he said, his breath falling in a warm whisper against her neck. “You’ll ruin me for certain with such lavish praise.”

  Julia took a deep breath to gather her wits, and then lifted her gaze to meet his. “Why do I suspect this has nothing whatsoever to do with Lazarus?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know—”

  “Is this a ploy to lure me into your bed?” she boldly asked.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether it’s working.”

  A reluctant smile touched her lips. “Are you always this horrible?”

  “Habit, I suppose.”

  His jesting reply touched off a deep insecurity that Julia hadn’t been aware of until that moment. Seducing women was indeed an ingrained habit as far as her husband was concerned. And yet he had acquiesced so easily to her request that they put off their lovemaking until they knew one another better. It suddenly struck her that his consent might have been obtained not out of a wish to please her, but simply because he didn’t find her desirable.

  Apparently sensing her shift of mood, he asked, “What is it?”

  She searched his gaze, then hesitantly replied, “I know why I asked you for three months’ time,” she said. “But I don’t know why you allowed me it.”

  Morgan studied her in silence for a long moment. Finally he said, “Is it so impossible to believe I’d like to be desired in return, princess? I want an heir, but I also want you to come to me willingly.”

  On that astonishing note the last strains of the waltz died away. He abruptly released her and stepped backward, concluding the dance with a small, polite bow. As they moved off the dance floor, an acquaintance of Morgan’s joined them. After the greetings and introductions were exchanged, the man requested Julia’s hand for the next dance. With little choice but to graciously accept his invitation, she left Morgan’s side and stepped onto the dance floor with Edward Southesby.

  She quickly discovered that her new partner was not only handsome, charming, and intelligent but a perfect gentleman as well. Yet despite her cheery smiles at the harmless bits of gossip they exchanged as they danced, Julia felt distinctly bereft. Something was missing. Edward Southesby, she finally realized, had one distinct, unalterable flaw.

  He wasn’t Morgan St. James.

  Lazarus swallowed hard, barely able to contain his joy. A bead of sweat trickled down his collar as giddy excitement seized him. She was here. Flame. His Flame. She had come. More important, she had touched him. In a gesture of undeniable significance, her arm had brushed against his as they passed each other in the hall. Contact. What exquisite torture. He had been angry earlier, but now he understood. Of course she had slipped away. She had been waiting for him to come to her once again, to show her his power, his compassion, his faith. But he had let her down, driving her into the arms of another. He had abandoned her for two years so she had sacrificed herself, taking Morgan St. James. The Beast. The man Lazarus had personally punished for his sins. The man Lazarus had forever marked with fire. Surely that was no coincidence.

  It all made sense now. It was a game. A sweet, fickle, feminine game. Flame was testing him. She had sacrificed herself in order to get to him. He watched her move through the crowd, a beacon of purity and light within the decadent interior of the grand salon. She paused in mid-step and scanned the room. As her gaze met his, a small, polite smile curved her lips. Then she turned away and continued to survey the room as though she were looking for someone else.

  But he knew better. Her look had been deliberate. She was letting him know that she recognized him. He had seen it in her eyes. It was a sign. She was letting him know that she knew what he was thinking. She understood. Together they shared a holy mission to cure London of all its evils. They alone saw the sin that gripped the city. The filth and hopelessness and despair. Tomorrow she would write about it in her column. She would write about this very room: the sanctimonious, fleshy crowd that ate fine food and smoked rich tobacco while the rest of London begged for scraps. She would describe the gluttony, the vanity, the debauchery.

  She would write about his cleansing touch.

  Lazarus experienced a blazing flash of insight. That was what she wanted. That was the reason she had sought him out. To offer him encouragement. To silently praise his judgment. To let him know that she had not abandoned him after all.

  Joy. It swelled up within him, nearly bringing him to his knees. He swayed against the wall in an ecstasy of pure bliss. He felt omnipotent. Soaring. His emotions erupted within him like a wave of pure sexual tension. His nerves tingled, and his heart tripled its rhythm. Breathless desire seized him.

  Yes.

  It would be his triumph. No one would know but the two of them.

  He thought he would explode. Now. It had to be now. Flame was right. A cleansing. The room needed a cleansing. He had to honor her trust. This was not the way he liked to do it. He liked privacy. Hours of meticulous planning. But he had no choice. She was waiting. He scanned the room, looking for just the right place. It had to be beautiful. Worthy of her.

  Then he saw it. Near the arched entryway that led from the grand salon into the dining room. A large round table covered with a damask cloth. An artfully arranged bouquet of summer flowers and a pair of sterling silver candlesticks sat atop it. Behind it hung a pair of magnificent floor-to-ceiling drapes, framing a mirror of massive scale in which the dancers were reflected. The candles’ blaze was reflected within the mirror. The tiny flames shimmered and danced, leaping and fluttering with incandescent brilliance.

  A shiver of delight ran through him. Perfect. So perfect. The room was hot, crowded, engulfed in noisy confusion. It would be worse in a moment. There would be chaos. Pandemonium. Smoke. He crossed the salon, nodding politely to his acquaintances as he moved. Their blank smiles added to his sense of private exhilaration. Amazing that no one knew… no one would ever suspect.

  At last he reached the table. He casually brushed against it, giving it a deliberate bump with his hip. That was all it took.

  The candles wavered. The left stick wobbled and tipped over. It rolled across the surface and plummeted down between the table and the wall, disappearing into the heavy folds of the drapery. Lazarus held his breath, waiting in a state of delicious tension. Had the flame flickered out? Had it betrayed him?

&n
bsp; A tiny crimson spark erupted within the rich cloth. A small puff of smoke immediately followed.

  Glorious.

  Deep satisfaction curled within him as he turned and stepped briskly away.

  All for you, my love. All for you.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Morgan was not by nature a possessive man. Nor was he in the habit of acting like an ass. Tonight, however, he seemed to be making an exception on both counts.

  Raw frustration and edginess welled within him. Focus, he thought. What mattered was capturing Lazarus. But his thoughts kept tangling, moving in a grimly repetitive circle of anxiety and unease. He wanted Julia by his side, where he could keep her safe and protected. Unfortunately that defeated their purpose entirely. In the end there was nothing he could do but leave her to mingle about the room in hopes of drawing Lazarus out.

  That did not mean that he enjoyed watching her dance with other men. Or watching those men make fools of themselves in an attempt to win her favor. Thus far, however, that summed up the entire dismal course of the evening. Julia talking and laughing, a swirling, shimmering vision in apricot silk. Morgan watching and brooding, waiting for Lazarus to leap out from behind a potted palm like some evil villain in a farcical melodrama.

  Dutifully playing his role, he scanned the room and found his bride almost at once. She was deep in conversation with an elderly couple he didn’t recognize. She caught his gaze and smiled slightly, then tilted her head, an expression of serene patience on her face as she strove to hear the elderly couple over the din of the crowds and the orchestra.

  Momentarily turning his gaze away from her, he pulled a timepiece from his pocket and gave it a cursory glance. Half past midnight. The bell for supper would be rung shortly. They would eat and drink, then the evening would drag on to its merciful conclusion. Had he forgotten how tedious these galas were? Or was this event worse than the others? Impossible to imagine that he had once enjoyed this sort of thing.