With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  Leaving his study undisturbed, she wandered down the plushly carpeted halls, moving from empty room to empty room. She smiled politely at the servants she encountered but refrained from asking if they knew of Morgan’s whereabouts. Although it was probably nothing but her own insecurities fueling her reservations, there seemed something vaguely pathetic about a bored and lonely wife searching for her husband.

  She passed a long hallway that led to a massive salon. She had been inside only once, but she remembered the interior well. Designed for grand receptions, the room boasted ornate plaster ceilings, intricate moldings, gilded mirrors, glittering chandeliers, gleaming mahogany floors, and a podium large enough to accommodate a full orchestra. Certain she would find it empty, Julia began to move past the salon when the discordant sound of metal striking metal echoed out to her.

  Swordplay? Impossible, she thought with a frown, moving cautiously toward the room. The sound grew louder, even more intense. Her curiosity piqued, Julia drew open the doors and quietly slipped inside. She found two fencers, their concentration locked on the duel in which they were engaged. Each man wore the gloves, mask, padded jacket, and white breeches the sport required. They were nearly identical in height and build. Nevertheless she had no trouble identifying her husband.

  Each duelist was clearly a master at the sport. She watched them advance and retreat across the grand ballroom in a riveting spectacle of swordsmanship. She had heard that it was impossible to hide one’s temperament and personality when fencing. That once behind a weapon, a fencer will reveal his character, his mental capacities, his very essence. As she witnessed the sharp clash between the two men, she recognized the truth in that.

  The man she didn’t recognize fought with a technical expertise that was stunning to watch. His every movement was carried out with orchestrated precision: a thrust and lunge, a deft feint, then a straight attack. Powerful, impressive moves, executed with grace and finesse. But Morgan’s swordplay was even more breathtaking. In a style that was highly erratic, he moved before his opponent like a caged animal, coolly deflecting the other man’s blows. He toyed with his partner with an almost teasing playfulness, then lunged forward in an attack of disturbing ferocity. Back and forth the two men swayed, locked in an intricate dance of clashing steel. At last the mesmerizing play came to an end. Morgan executed a flawless counter-riposte, resulting in a lightning-quick flash of sword and a satisfying tick-tack of metal. Not about to lose the momentum of his attack, he lunged forward and lightly stuck his opponent just above his heart, scoring what was evidently the last point of the match.

  Breathing hard, both men drew back and pulled off their masks. Morgan shared a few words with his fencing partner. Although she couldn’t hear what was said, a burst of good-natured laughter immediately followed. Julia was shocked to realize that that was the first time she had seen Morgan truly laugh. She had become accustomed to his sardonic grin, his blatantly seductive smile, and even the look of cynical amusement he sometimes wore when they were together. But this was a smile of pure enjoyment, a flash of brilliant white teeth against the rugged bronze of his skin. An expression that instantly seared itself into her mind and her heart. For a moment Morgan St. James hadn’t changed at all. He was the same dashing, carefree rogue she had seen in a moonlit garden years ago.

  But the smile vanished as soon as he turned and saw her. He stiffened slightly as a look of guarded surprise fell over his features. His partner murmured something — likely a word or two of parting, for he immediately moved away, giving Julia a polite nod as he exited past her.

  Feeling like a henpecking wife, she said to Morgan as he approached, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  He shook his head. “We were just finishing.”

  “For a man who is rumored to be so reclusive, you’re rarely here.”

  “I’m here, merely occupied.”

  “So I see,” she replied softly, wondering if that was meant to be a subtle admonition for her not to bother him. Was there a curtness in his voice, or had her own guilt at intruding caused her to imagine it? As usual where he was concerned, her emotions were far too near the surface for her to trust her perceptions.

  Putting the matter aside for the moment, she watched as he stepped toward a small table with two chairs — the only furniture in the massive room — and tossed his fencing mask upon it. His glove, padded jacket, and sword quickly followed. Once he had stripped himself of his gear, he reached for a tall silver tumbler and took a long draught. Julia heard the ice clinking within the glass and saw the frosty droplets drip down the side. He drank in deep, thirsty gulps, his head tilted back, managing to convey a masculine elegance in even that simple motion. But then she seemed to find something smoothly attractive in everything he did, no matter how commonplace the gesture.

  “Your life is so very scheduled,” she said lightly, determined to force her thoughts in a different direction. “A daily ride. Monday morning business affairs with your secretary. Tuesday morning burning of refuse. Wednesday morning fencing lessons. What do you schedule for Thursday mornings?”

  He lowered his tumbler and studied her with an unfathomable smoky gaze. His face was slightly flushed from the exertion of fencing, his body damp with perspiration. The fabric of his fencing garments clung to his skin. Unable to draw her eyes away, her gaze moved slowly over his form. His broad chest and flat stomach were boldly defined, as was the raw strength in the bulging biceps of his arms. His waist and hips were sleek and narrow. His legs were long, his thighs rock solid.

  “What would you suggest?” he asked.

  Make love to your wife. The thought popped into her mind before she could stop it. She immediately pushed it away, feeling as flushed and warm as if she had spoken aloud. It was all Morgan’s doing, she decided. Something about his gaze caused shamefully wanton thoughts to leap into her mind. Something about his presence caused a room as vast as the one in which they stood to feel shockingly intimate. Then there was the scent of his skin—

  Enough, she thought firmly. She turned away, almost desperate for something — anything — to engage her attention. Spying his sword lying atop the table, she lifted it in her palm, idly testing its weight. Turning toward an imaginary opponent, she stabbed and slashed the air.

  He watched as she executed a clumsy parry. “You enjoy fencing?” he asked.

  “My father was fond of the sport,” she said. “We attended the exhibitions at Vauxhall Gardens every year.” She attempted the parry again, amazed at how foreign and awkward the motion felt. It had looked ridiculously simple when Morgan had performed the identical maneuver.

  After a moment he reached for the sword and gently removed it from her grasp. “A bit redundant, don’t you think, princess? You’re dangerous enough without a weapon in your hands.”

  A small, fluttery smile touched her lips. She searched for a witty retort, but she was too conscious of the feel of his fingers brushing hers as he removed the sword from her hand for her mind to properly function. Although she considered herself logical and rational, her thoughts seemed to tumble in flustered disorder whenever he was near.

  “Anything wrong?” he inquired.

  “No. I’m merely bored.”

  “In that case why don’t you do what all other women do when they find themselves at loose ends.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Spend their husbands’ money. I understand a French seamstress recently opened a shop on Bond Street. Apparently she’s all the rage.”

  Julia frowned. “Expensive as well.”

  “I can afford it.”

  “Evidently.”

  He arched one dark brow and said with a smile, “Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction in your reply?”

  She shrugged. “I’m unaccustomed to all this.”

  “All what?”

  “Luxury. Wealth. Time. Having my every whim so thoroughly catered to. It feels decadent. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

  “Not yet,” he o
bserved coolly. “But the clock is ticking, isn’t it? Where are we now? Two months, ten days to go, I believe. Would it flatter you if I told you I’ve been counting the hours? I haven’t, but I could assign that duty to my secretary. He’s very efficient in that sort of thing.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “But in the meantime…” He paused, giving a light shrug. “You’ll suffer through somehow. Within a month I wager you’ll be complaining about the decor in your bedchamber, the color of the draperies in the front hall, the wretched state of your shoes and clothing. Your jewelry will simply no longer do. Then you’ll need a coach of your own, and a driver, and so on and so forth.”

  “Is that so?”

  Evidently he didn’t miss the affront in her voice. “Ah, that’s right,” he said with a smile. “I married a woman who prefers dressing in rags and hobnobbing with servants, didn’t I? A woman with character.”

  “That sounds remarkably like regret.”

  “Merely an observation.”

  He took another long swig from the silver tumbler, then set it down. Bringing one knee up, he rested it upon a chair, leaning forward in a posture of casual indolence. He regarded her in silence, clearly waiting for her to speak.

  Abruptly recalling her purpose, Julia gestured to the copy of the London Review she had set on the table while watching the swordplay. “I came to show you this,” she said. “My column appears today.”

  Morgan glanced at the paper but didn’t pick it up. “Our message to Lazarus?”

  “Printed exactly as requested.”

  His expression darkened for an instant, then he gave a tight nod. Lifting his sword, he began polishing the blade with a thick cotton cloth. “Tell me about your column,” he said. “What glorious causes have found favor with you this week?”

  “The conditions in the workhouses on Garner Row are deplorable.”

  “The workhouses,” he repeated. “Not exactly original material, but admirable nonetheless.”

  She tilted her chin. “Will ignoring the plight of the poor make them go away?”

  He gave an indifferent shrug. “Apparently not. That’s what the better half of London has been attempting to do for centuries, but the poor keep proliferating, don’t they? Their numbers grow larger and larger by the decade. The ever-rising souffle of poverty.”

  “Why does it feel as though you’re constantly mocking me?”

  He released a sigh and slid his sword into an embossed leather case. “Because I mock everything and everybody, princess. Myself included. You should know better by now than to take offense.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  His tone was flat and curt, devoid of any emotion. Obviously preparing to leave, he gathered his possessions without another word. But Julia wasn’t quite ready to be dismissed. As she searched for a way to fill the awkward silence that followed, her gaze moved about the room. At one time the cavernous chamber had undoubtedly held such glorious promise. Now it reflected only barren expectations: unilluminated chandeliers, empty mirrors, hollow echoes, sparkling floors that had never been trodden upon. Yet the chamber appealed to her nonetheless. There was a romantic futility to the room that seemed sadly appropriate to their circumstances.

  She looked back to find him watching her.

  “Why did you come here?” he asked.

  Gathering her courage, she ventured hesitantly, “If you’re not too busy, I thought we might do something today. Together. As man and wife.”

  He released a bored sigh. “What did you have in mind, a waltz? Ordinarily I’d indulge your whim, but as you can see, the orchestra has temporarily abandoned its post.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  The statement hung in the air between them. Morgan studied her face for a long moment. “There is a term in fencing for toying with one’s opponent.”

  “Are we opponents?”

  “Are you toying?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  “Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe. I’ve never met a more purposeful woman in my life.”

  A small smile touched her lips. “Is that good or bad?”

  “What do you want, Julia?”

  She couldn’t remember him ever using her name before. The sound of it rolling off his tongue sent an unexpected rush of pleasure racing through her. Idly wondering if his reaction would be the same if she spoke his name, she said, “I thought it might be nice if we spent a little time together, Morgan.”

  She saw something flash in his eyes, but the emotion, whatever it was, vanished too quickly for her to properly define. “Ah. So that’s it.” A small, cynical smile curved his lips. His gaze moved over her body with scorching intensity, as though he were able to see right through to her drawers. He straightened and glanced around the empty room, then back at her. “Interesting timing.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t you.”

  “Certainly not. Must you always be so base?”

  “You’re the one who came to me.”

  “With the simple proposition that we attend Lord Attmark’s boating party this afternoon,” she said, seizing upon the sudden inspiration. “That’s all I had in mind.”

  “Lord Attmark’s boating party?”

  “I thought it would be quite diverting.”

  “Floating along a river that smells like rancid sewage in this sweltering heat. That’s what you came to see me about.”

  “Yes.”

  A knowing smile curved his lips. “Liar.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Liar,” he repeated softly.

  The word brushed against her hair, as warm and silky as the lightest of caresses. Advancing with every retreating step she took, he moved closer and closer until she felt the wall against her back. Panic tumbled with excitement as his body loomed mere inches away from hers. Although she hadn’t consciously acknowledged it until that very moment, she had wanted more from him than mere companionship. Was he truly so experienced that he could read her thoughts with such amazing accuracy, or was she embarrassingly naive and inexperienced? An interesting question, but one she would have to ponder at length some other time. At the moment it didn’t matter. She relaxed back against the wall, closed her eyes, and arranged her lips in what she hoped was a seductive pout. She tilted up her chin and waited, ready to receive his kiss. When she felt no response, she opened her eyes in bewildered disappointment.

  His smoky gaze searched hers. “Why the sudden change of heart, princess?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It shouldn’t. But I have an analytical streak in me that is difficult to quiet.” When she didn’t reply, he continued coolly. “Let me see if I can guess. You were lying alone in your bed, dreaming of your phantom lover again. Alas, fate has torn him away from you. Now that that’s nothing but a hopeless dream, you’ve decided to content yourself with me.”

  “Jealous?” she returned, looking for some indication that he might have come to care for her, however petty and possessive that indication might be.

  “You do like to invent your little dramas, don’t you?”

  “Is it so hard to believe that I might want you?”

  He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yes, beauty, it is. But don’t worry. I won’t let that stop me.” Wrapping his arm around the small of her back, Morgan pulled her to him. His touch was light at first, a mere whisper of a caress that made her breath catch in her throat. He skimmed his fingers up her thighs, over the smooth curve of her hips and the tight band of her waist. Then he drew his hand over her ribs and gently cupped her breast in his palm. Julia drew in a sharp breath, astonished at the feelings that ricocheted through her at his intimate touch. His embrace was entirely shocking, and yet somehow appropriate. A mere prelude, she suspected, to what was yet to come.

  No sooner had she recognized that when Morgan shifted slightly. He slipp
ed his thigh between her legs, gently pulling her body forward so that she was straddling his knee. She grasped his shoulders for support as he moved his leg up and down between hers, softly rocking her against him. The steady, rolling motion between her legs set off a chain of reactions within her. Heat radiated through her belly as her breath came in short gasps and a series of small tremors shot down her spine.

  His hands moved over her body once again, but no longer with the light, gentle caress she had experienced earlier. Instead he touched her with a fierce possessiveness, as though he was a master sculptor and she was made of clay. He boldly massaged her breasts, her hips, her waist. He ran his hands down her spine, cupping her buttocks and pulling her ever closer to him, until she could feel the shocking length of his erection against her thigh.

  She had barely accustomed herself to that sensation when he leaned forward, pressing his lips against the satiny skin exposed by the bodice of her gown. He kissed her breasts, her collarbone, and the nape of her neck, using his mouth to explore the very places his hands had caressed only moments earlier. Julia tossed back her head to allow him greater access, running her fingers through his dark, silky hair as he nuzzled his cheek against her skin.

  Lifting himself slightly, he murmured into her ear, “With the right lover a woman can realize her passion over and over again, one time after another. Have you ever experienced that?”

  “No,” she managed breathlessly.

  “Then we have a goal, don’t we, princess?”

  Giddy arousal collided with nervous anticipation at his words. He tightened his grip on her body, as though intent on melding them into one. Her dress was made of lightweight cotton, a fabric so thin, she could feel the heat of his skin through her gown. The barrier it provided between them was almost nonexistent. In fact, it quickly proved to offer no protection at all. Morgan slipped his hand beneath her skirts, running it up her leg until he reached the smooth expanse of thigh exposed between her stocking and her drawers. Letting out a low murmur of appreciation, he began to rhythmically stroke the velvety band of flesh.

  She stiffened instinctively at his bold touch, but Morgan didn’t retreat. Instead he lowered his head, slanting his lips over hers. Applying the slight pressure of his jaw, he coaxed her lips apart and slipped his tongue inside her mouth. Rocking her against him once again, he established a swelling pulse to their kiss, one that mimicked the soft sway of their bodies. Then he returned his hand to her breast, gently kneading it beneath his palm.