With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  Within the dim recesses of Julia’s mind came awareness that something was wrong. She pulled back slightly, distancing herself from the heady rush of sensation that had engulfed her only moments earlier. It was all happening too quickly. Morgan had moved from coaxing to taking. There was no roughness in his touch — her husband was too experienced a rake to make that mistake. But neither did she feel a lover’s tenderness. Instead he exercised a seductive mastery over her. Moreover there was a harshness in his kiss, as though she were an enemy that had to be conquered rather than a lover to be wooed.

  What she had wanted most was missing. In her mind, she realized, she had imagined this moment before. She had imagined taking the place of the other woman in the garden. She had imagined Morgan’s touch, soft and gentle and coaxing. In surrendering herself, she had longed to fill the emptiness that had existed between them. She had ached for abandonment, losing herself in his touch. Instead she was acutely aware of his every movement. They shared mutual lust but nothing deeper.

  She stiffened slightly, resisting the very touch she had craved only moments earlier. It was as much her fault as it was his, she realized. She had come to him wanting something, needing something, and now she would turn him away because it wasn’t quite right. Knowing that if she did so, the cycle of estrangement and frustration that existed between them would only deepen and worsen. Or she could suffer through it and not come to him again. Neither was a very palatable option.

  She had simply expected too much from him. Or had she? The thought suddenly struck her that that wasn’t the case at all. Occasionally she had seen glimpses of a different man. A man who wasn’t harsh and cynical. A man who touched her with tenderness, who spoke to his servants with respect, and who laughed with his friends. Surely there was some part of him she could still reach. Some remnant of his former self that hadn’t been completely destroyed by the fire.

  To that end she decided to throw caution to the wind and show him what she wanted. After all, she had rehearsed her response so many times in her dreams. What harm could it do to ignore the reality of what he was offering and touch him as she wanted him to touch her? With that in mind she drew back slightly, turning away from his kiss. She ran her hands over the breadth of his chest, experiencing a heady thrill of sensual power as she felt his muscles stiffen beneath her fingers. She stroked his body with a soft, healing touch, intent on learning the rugged beauty of his frame.

  Continuing her bold exploration, she leaned forward and touched her mouth to his neck. A light film of salt brushed her lips, a taste that was both highly erotic and evocative of the swordplay she had witnessed. Thrust, parry. Advance, retreat. A game with a rhythm so like their own. Moving ever forward, she kissed the red, puckered scars that marred the skin at the base of his neck. She felt him stiffen beneath her and try to pull away, as though experiencing an unwelcome jolt of surprise.

  But Julia refused to retreat. She kissed his neck, his cheek, his chin, then pressed her lips against his. Exercising the same mastery he had shown, she gained entrance to the warmth of his mouth. Their kiss deepened and grew, moving from lustful conquest to searing intimacy. She felt Morgan respond, giving a low moan of approval as his hands moved caressingly down her spine and over her buttocks.

  Julia abandoned her original purpose of deliberately gentling her husband’s touch. She was no longer leading, nor was he following. Instead they had come together to establish a scorching rhythm all their own. One sensation melted into another. Desire built within her, engulfing her in a wave of selfish pleasure. The more he gave, the more she wanted. She was aware of nothing but his hand on her thigh, the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest, and the heady intensity of their kiss.

  It was as though Morgan had tapped into some rich vein of feeling she had never known existed. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the carnal bliss that surged through her. The masculine scent of his skin, the strength of his arms, and the rock-hard solidity of his thighs — everything about him enticed her completely. She felt overwhelmed, yet had no desire to stop. She could almost feel herself sliding down a steep slope into a mysterious morass of pure feeling and sensation.

  Then, like a strident noise interrupting a blissful dream, a steady knocking encroached upon their embrace. Julia willed herself to ignore it, but the annoying sound wouldn’t go away. Morgan must have been aware of it as well, for after a moment he drew back, ending their kiss. He gently set her off his thigh, holding her for a moment while she regained her balance. She swayed slightly, stunned and disoriented at her own wanton abandonment. Yet she also experienced a certain amount of satisfaction, for she had felt Morgan respond to her — if only on a physical level. She might not have succeeded in destroying the barriers that existed between them, but at least they had been fractured a bit.

  The knocking continued. Polite, but persistent.

  Morgan turned toward the door. “Enter.”

  Julia hastily smoothed down her gown as Maxwell, the head footman, stepped inside. Staring straight ahead, he regally intoned, “A Mr. Thomas Fike to see you, my lord.”

  “You may inform him that we shall be along directly.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Maxwell nodded and retreated.

  As the door closed softly behind him, Morgan said to Julia, “I believe we discussed this earlier. I’ve engaged the man’s services to execute our wedding portrait for the main hall.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I remember.” She hesitated, not sure what else to say. Surely some remark on their newfound intimacy was in order. But his tone had been cool and perfunctory, so totally unlike the heated embrace they had just shared that it left her speechless.

  Morgan bent to gather his sword and glove. “I do hope the man’s artistic ability surpasses his sense of timing.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” she demanded at last, indignant that he would attempt to trivialize what had passed between them with such mocking indifference.

  He studied her in surprise, and then arched one dark brow. “Thank you?”

  “Thank you?”

  “Apparently your charity knows no bounds, princess. Granting me a taste of the forbidden fruit — how very generous.”

  Swallowing her anger, she brought up her chin, regarding him with a look of icy disdain. “My generosity has limits,” she replied tartly, “as does my patience.”

  “Indeed? In that event I shall do my best not to excessively tax either one.” He gave a low bow, then extended his arm. “Shall we?”

  Refusing his arm, Julia swept by Morgan. Despite the inner turmoil that gripped her, she schooled her expression into one she hoped would reflect perfect domestic tranquility. The household servants could be relied upon for their discretion. But she knew all too well that a stranger might not be. The last thing she needed were rumors floating about touting marital discord between her and Morgan.

  Thomas Fike stood waiting for them in the main foyer. He was younger than she had expected — and far more attractive. The artist was tall and muscular, with dark blond hair that had been secured at the nape of his neck by a slim leather thong. His gloriously chiseled features looked as though they had been copied from a Roman coin; his chocolate brown eyes were deep and soulful. He wore a white ruffled shirt, with a crimson scarf knotted about his throat to provide a dashing touch. On any other man the clothing might have appeared effeminate. On him it was merely dramatically flamboyant.

  According to the rumors Julia had heard about the man, he had been gifted with talent, beauty, and intelligence. In sum, everything but wealth and a title. She wondered vaguely if the other rumors that swirled about him were true — that he had seduced the majority of women whose husbands had paid him to paint their portraits. Regardless of the veracity of the gossip, it was enough to cause her to speculate as to why Morgan had hired him. It was either a bold demonstration of his trust in her, a blatant show of his lack of concern for her affairs, or more likely a simple acknowledgment that Thomas Fike
was the most coveted artist of the day and therefore no one else would suffice.

  At the sound of their approach, Fike greeted them with a low bow, and then returned his attention to the ancient portraits that lined the hall, studying them intently. “Marvelous,” he said. “Simply marvelous. Each tells a story.”

  “Indeed,” remarked Morgan. “I hope you will be able to provide us with a work of similar distinction.”

  Fike’s gaze moved immediately to Julia. “With a subject of such natural radiance, I would be ashamed to deliver anything less,” he said, favoring her with a bold smile.

  The look was entirely improper under any circumstances, but even more so given that Morgan was standing a mere two feet away. Julia shot a questioning glance at her husband, surprised to find him looking coolly unperturbed. Apparently he had deduced, as she had, that Fike’s smile amounted to nothing more than sheer habit on his part. He was probably so accustomed to seducing the bored wives of the nobility that it didn’t even occur to him that he was doing it.

  Nevertheless, she kept her reply distinctly businesslike. “My husband and I are fortunate to have engaged your services so quickly.”

  Fike gave a small shrug. “Lord Barlowe’s secretary offered me four times my normal rate to drop my other commitments.” He paused, favoring her with another seductive glance. “Had I known how beautiful my subject was, I would have offered my services gratuitously.”

  “And given the term starving artist a new life, no doubt,” Morgan remarked dryly. That said, he gave a brusque nod and turned in the direction of his study. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.”

  “Should we not discuss the manner in which you and your wife would like to pose?” Fike asked.

  Morgan shook his head. “On considering the matter, I have decided not to sit. As you have so gallantly pointed out, my wife generates enough beauty and radiance to fill the canvas on her own.”

  “But that’s never been done before,” Julia protested.

  Morgan shrugged. “Does that signify?”

  “Of course it does. Everyone who sees the portrait shall think that I am vain.”

  “They shall think,” Morgan corrected solemnly, his eyes meeting hers, “that you are exquisite.” On that note he turned and strode away, pausing only long enough to toss over his shoulder, “Don’t be too long, princess. We should leave within the hour. You were so anxious to attend Lord Attmark’s boating party. It would be a shame to miss it.”

  “I daresay…” Thomas Fike began, watching with an expression of utter confusion as Morgan left the room, “I had heard… why, he’s not a beast at all.”

  Julia took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. In a rebuttal so soft it could not be heard, she replied, “Looks can be deceiving.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Morgan’s driver had stationed the coach beneath a row of tall cypress trees, on the circular drive that fronted his home. It was there that Morgan paced as he waited for his wife to make an appearance. Although the shade of the cypress provided a modicum of relief from the heat, it was a sweltering day nonetheless. He had removed his jacket, but the heavy humidity caused the light linen of his shirt to cling to his chest and back.

  It seemed as though everything he encountered of late was nothing but a huge conspiracy against him. The weather. Lazarus. The impudent young pup of a painter who had shown the audacity to flirt with his wife while he stood a mere three feet away. And then there was Julia’s kiss: a fleeting, coquettish sample of what he was missing night after night. If it had all been a trick of fate to test his patience and disposition, he had failed miserably. His mood, he recognized grimly, could only be termed as foul.

  The problem, he thought, was control — the cornerstone of every intelligent action and logical decision. The path to righteousness, reason, and lucidity. Control. Something he lacked completely at the moment. He could no more control the weather than he could control Lazarus’s next move or the way his body responded to his wife. The realization was galling.

  He remembered the agonizing days following the fire. His skin peeling off his back, engulfed by pain so intense, no drug could free him of it. Pain that made him feel as if he were bordering on the edge of madness. Every touch, every breath, every movement had been an agony. And when it wasn’t the pain that had threatened to destroy him, it was the memories themselves. The knowledge of what had happened, of what he had been directly responsible for. But somehow, through sheer will and rigid control, he had not died. He had kept himself sane and alive. He needed that same instinct for self-preservation now.

  Morgan paced a bit more, battling his emotions. He had always prided himself on his rationality. But at the moment his nerves were too close to the surface. After the blaze that had destroyed his servants’ quarters, he felt everything more intensely. Literally. Heat burned his skin. Cold rubbed it raw. Did the damage that had been done to his body cause those heightened sensations, or had coming so close to dying given him a new awareness of life?

  He twisted his copy of the London Review in his hand, tapping it against his thigh as he walked. Julia’s column was right there. A dare. A direct challenge for Lazarus to show himself once again. The man would. Of that Morgan was absolutely, instinctively certain. With that knowledge came the intuitive recognition that the danger they faced was external, not internal. If he was strong enough, he could protect Julia and protect himself. He could avoid any recurring disaster.

  If he was strong enough. But he had failed once before, and the memory of that failure haunted him still. Perhaps if he were a wiser man, a braver man… but he wasn’t. As always, that realization struck him as a particularly difficult truth to come to terms with. The irreversible finality of failure. His gaze drifted toward the boxwood gardens. Visions of children laughing and playing instantly filled his mind’s eye. Patty-cake, patty-cake…

  The sound of a heavy door closing drew his attention to the wide wooden porch that spanned the front of his estate. He looked up to see Julia, dressed in a gown of softly billowing blue muslin. Her hair was swept up and tucked beneath a broad straw hat from which trailed a cluster of peach and blue ribbons. She paused and scanned the grounds, one hand resting on the intricately carved balustrade. Spotting the coach, she caught her skirts and moved gracefully across the lawn toward him. With her broad straw hat trailing ribbons and her skirts floating around her, she looked the picture of graceful summer beauty.

  The expression on her face, however, belied the impression of serene warmth and tranquility she made at a distance. At his words of greeting, she favored him with a cool nod, silently refusing his assistance in entering the coach. They settled themselves opposite one another. At Morgan’s command the driver gave the reins a sharp tug, and the team pulled out, moving with a sprightly step toward the sprawling estate Brynmoore, home of Lord Attmark, Duke of Connelly, host of that afternoon’s gala.

  Although Morgan’s coach was not immodest, neither could it be considered overly grand. There was an inescapable intimacy within the confines. He had somewhat accustomed himself to the gentle jostling of the vehicle, despite the fact that the steady, rocking rhythm struck him as profoundly sexual in nature. He had could even feign a certain indifference to the teasing sensation of Julia’s knees rubbing against his as they rode. But he could not ignore his wife altogether.

  The scent of her skin drifted around him. She wore a soft floral perfume, coupled with a light touch of powdery talc. Casting a surreptitious glance her way, he noted that a stray lock of her hair had escaped the tight confines in which it had been pinned. The fiery tendril curled about the nape of her neck. The bodice of her gown was modest, revealing but a glimpse of the shadowy cleft between her breasts. He perceived a faint outline of her hips and thighs through the lightweight muslin of her gown. Her arms were bare; her skin looked pale as porcelain and unimaginably silky.

  Morgan had grown to enjoy his wife’s company — her quick wit, her glowing smi
les, her obscenely optimistic view of life. But at the moment her presence amounted to little more than pure sensual torture. Unfortunately his passion did not appear to be reciprocated. In fact, just the opposite was true. She was doing everything she could to withdraw into her seat so that contact between them would be minimal.

  Breaking the silence that hung between them, he finally offered as a small gesture of atonement, “It’s warm today.”

  His wife, however, was having none of it. “Quite,” Julia agreed, her tone clipped and curt, her gaze firmly fixed out the window.

  It did not require a great deal of analysis to deduce that she was waiting for an apology for his boorish behavior following their embrace. Moreover, he could readily admit that one was in order. But he couldn’t determine how to offer one without an admission that her touch had affected him far more profoundly than he was willing to let on. And acknowledging that weakness was simply too damned sloppy and sentimental to be endured. Hell, it was embarrassing to even consider. Therefore he stubbornly decided to let the issue drop, relying on her generous nature to put the matter aside.

  Thus they made their journey in silence, leaving the crowded, sweltering streets of London behind as they moved in a southwesterly direction, following the Thames toward Windsor. As the miles passed, Morgan felt his foul mood slowly dissipating. To his surprise he wasn’t entirely dreading the event. In fact, he was actually looking forward to it, if only because it offered a welcome reprieve from the constant worry of Lazarus.

  At last the coach drew up to a sprawling estate more than triple the size of his own. A centuries-old castle, looking ridiculously like something one might find in a child’s storybook, sat high atop a verdant hill that rewarded its occupants and guests alike with magnificent views of lush countryside. A liveryman directed their driver away from the main entrance of the keep and around to the back of the estate. There they found vast, rolling lawns, gurgling fountains, and formal gardens deluged with massive summer blossoms. Brilliant tents dotted the gently sloping hillside. The sounds of laughter, blaring trumpets, and strolling musicians drifted out to greet them.