He released the medallion. “Most women find diamonds consistently appropriate.”
Her smile faltered for a fraction of an instant. “You would have been better off with a more sophisticated woman.”
“Would I?”
Her sherry gaze searched his face. “Why did you marry me?”
“To find Lazarus. And because I found you breathtaking.” Sensing she was looking for a reply a little less shallow, he continued with an honesty that surprised even himself. “And because you possessed an inordinate amount of spirit and courage. That much was clear from the very beginning. You did not simply bemoan your fate or berate your uncle for the predicament he put you in, although you certainly had every reason to do so. Instead you fought back.”
She slowly nodded her head, as though surprised and pleased by the depth of his observation. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I married you?”
“You made it abundantly clear that night,” he said with a shrug. “You had no other choice.”
“One always has choices.”
Morgan hesitated. Feeling like a man who is about to lose his wallet to a consummate swindler in a shell-and-walnut game, he said, “Very well. I’ll ask. Why did you marry me?”
“Because you were my phantom lover in the garden that night.”
He froze, stunned by the admission. The jealousy he had experienced earlier at hearing of the man she had lain in bed dreaming about was replaced by a surge of overpowering sadness. “I’m afraid that man no longer exists, princess.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Morgan regarded her in silence. In that instant he was vividly aware of everything around him. The barefoot children dressed in rags, the odors of gin and rotting fish brought in by the tide, the drunks snoring in alleyways.
Yet despite their desolate surroundings, the air seemed to crackle with possibility. Not beauty, but abundance. Life. There was a richness here that he had never experienced, despite his ample wealth. The recognition brought him a sense of heightened perception. He noted the way the sun brought a glow to Julia’s skin and a sparkle to her eyes. Unable to stop himself, he lifted his hand and drew it gently across her cheek, fighting a sudden and ridiculous urge to pull her into his arms and renew the kiss they had shared a few days ago.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”
A soft smile curved her lips. “Funny, I was about to remark on how you look today.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. You look like a man who is about to kiss somebody.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Merely an observation.”
He gathered her against him, reveling in the taste of her lips against his. In the past Morgan had always considered a kiss a prelude to seduction. He wouldn’t have considered sharing such an intimate moment in so public and unseemly a place. His courtships had all been meticulously prescribed: the right wine, the right flowers, the right glow of moonlight, the right trinket to be bartered to sate his lust. Now he had something entirely different, something that threw that petty little formula completely askew.
Julia.
The right woman.
As Morgan slanted his mouth over hers, he felt something open deep within him, as though a hint of lightness had managed to work its way into the darkness of his soul. A sense of wonder he hadn’t known since he was a child swept over him. In complete disregard for propriety, he crushed her lips beneath his, ravaging and plundering her mouth, desperate to assuage a hunger he had barely known existed. Her touch opened a great, vast gully of need that rose up within him, choking off all other thoughts and emotions.
She locked her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a sweet fervency that nearly made him groan aloud. He pressed her tightly against him, clutching her thighs and rear, kneading her flesh, as though attempting to absorb her strength, her goodness, her generosity of spirit. A slight trembling erupted between them, but he couldn’t tell if its source was him or her. It didn’t matter.
In that instant his lust was transcended by something else, something he vaguely recognized as more powerful and rare than anything he had experienced. His scars were forgotten, his past was forgotten. He was lost in the sweet healing redemption of her embrace.
He supported her in his arms, taking all her weight. She felt so incredibly light and fragile, and yet he had experienced firsthand the iron strength of her will. He brushed his fingers along the tops of her breasts, then, unable to stop himself, lowered his mouth to explore that lush swell of erotic flesh. Her skin felt softer than rose petals against his lips and carried the intoxicatingly feminine scent of powdered talc and lavender soap. Gently moving his hands along, her spine, he felt her shudder and lean into him, as though surrendering entirely to the mastery of his touch.
His desire to take her right there and then rose to almost unmanageable proportions. But the echoing shouts of the children playing nearby brought him to his senses. With a feeling of intense regret — coupled with a determination to continue where they had left off at the earliest opportunity — he broke their embrace, gently setting her away from him.
Julia took a moment to gain her bearings, then gazed up at him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were slightly cloudy, her lips were swollen from their kiss. In a word, she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
“You have the oddest look on your face,” she observed softly. “What are you thinking?”
He took a step backward, establishing a safe distance between them. “I was thinking that if we don’t return soon we’ll be late. Mr. Chivers recommended that we continue to make an appearance at various social events. There is a ball this evening at Viscount Trycore’s that we should attend.”
His wife was not good at schooling her emotions. An expression of bewildered disappointment shadowed her features at his abrupt change of mood, then brave acceptance swiftly followed.
“What should I wear?” she asked.
An easy question. Simple. One he could handle.
“The color of fire, my love.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brilliant red.
Not dark ruby, not purple-tinted garnet, not warm cherry. Rich, fiery crimson. Shocking scarlet. Yards of the shimmering red silk swirled around Julia as she moved.
Although she had worn the gown for Lazarus, it had seemed to cast a spell over her and Morgan as well. Rather than feeling like a pawn in a madman’s game, she had experienced a strange sense of power and direction. For a while it had been a night of magic. Viscount Trycore’s gala had been not merely a chore to endure but an actual pleasure.
She recalled the way Morgan’s hands had slid over her body with a lover’s touch as he had guided her through dance after dance. The way his eyes had smoldered with smoky intensity as his gaze had locked on hers. The way he had held her tightly and whispered in her ear. At the viscount’s midnight supper, he had even selected the choicest morsels for her to eat.
As a result Julia had glided through the evening in a state of blissful sensual suspense. She had been intoxicated by her husband’s touch, by the candlelight, the dancing, the champagne. Secure in the knowledge that they were taking steps to conquer Lazarus, she had relegated the arsonist to the back of her mind. Her focus had been centered entirely on Morgan. There was something in his touch, some thrilling combination of possessiveness and pride that she had never felt before. She had felt it in the kiss they had shared earlier that afternoon as well — the longing and quiet desperation, the sensation that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
There had been a radiant, dreamlike quality to the evening that she thought wouldn’t end. Thus when their coach had drawn up in front of Morgan’s estate and he had handed her down, she had been so certain he would renew the kiss they had shared earlier on the docks that she had almost pursed her lips in anticipation. Instead he had merely escorted her to her bedchamber door and pol
itely bidden her good night.
Even then Julia had not believed that he truly meant to part from her. In time, however, her expectation that he would return dissolved into pure frustration, her light champagne intoxication soured into a dull headache, and her confidence shattered. She relived his every touch, his every smoldering look, his every word, but to no end. Inevitably she had to face the truth. Morgan was not coming to her room.
She emitted a soft sigh and cast a glance at her bed, but that promised nothing but endless hours of tossing and turning. Even if she weren’t plagued by feelings of sheer unrequited frustration, the night was far too warm to expect a restful sleep. Furthermore, the thought of languishing alone in her bedchamber with nothing but her own thoughts to occupy her held absolutely no appeal.
Acknowledging the fact that she seemed destined to gain little sleep that night, she looked about her room for something else to occupy the hours until dawn. Spying a book that sat on a comer table, she went and lifted the small leather volume. A scientific survey. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Deciding to return the volume to Morgan’s library and search for something more to her liking, she left her room and quietly padded down the broad stairway that led to the main floor.
Silence greeted her as she stepped into the room. Beams of silvery moonlight filtered in through the parted drapery, but they didn’t provide enough light to adequately read the tides of the volumes that filled the massive floor-to-ceiling shelves. She lit a small lamp and turned the wick down low, then moved to the bookshelves.
“Decided to join me, princess?”
Julia released a startled gasp and spun around, searching the shadows for Morgan. At last she found him. He sat in a tall wing chair that had been positioned in a far corner. On the table beside him rested a silver tray, a crystal decanter, and a set of squat crystal glasses. Like her, he had yet to change from his formal attire, though he had relaxed somewhat. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his cravat was loosened, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, allowing her a glimpse the dark bronze skin of his chest.
Conscious of having intruded on his privacy, she sent him a small smile and said, “I couldn’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us.”
His tone was neither welcoming nor curt. He studied her face with a watchful gaze, as though attempting to divine her thoughts. She shifted awkwardly, uncertain what to say next. It wasn’t that she necessarily felt nervous, just strangely disconcerted. She had no idea how to interpret his mood — a mood that was so very different from the warmth and intimacy they had shared at Viscount Trycore’s. Remembering the book she held, she crossed the room and set it on the table beside him. “I believe this was mistakenly left in my room. I hope you weren’t looking for it.”
Reluctantly removing his gaze from her, he gave the slim leather volume an indifferent glance. “Birds,” he said flatly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The book.”
Her eyes returned to the volume. Staemon’s Complete Ornithological Survey. “Oh. Yes.” She clasped her hands together and sent him what felt like a patently false, overly bright smile. “Does the subject interest you?”
“Not particularly.” He raised the crystal tumbler he held and abruptly drained it of its contents.
A shiver of apprehension ran through her as she watched him. “Are you drunk?”
“I have had a drink. I am about to have another. But no, I am not drunk.” He splashed a generous amount of amber liquid into the glass he held, then tilted it toward her. “Can I pour you one?”
“No. Yes. Thank you.” She sent him a faltering smile, then crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her hands briskly over her forearms, as though warding off a chill. She took the glass he offered her and drank deeply, then grimaced and shuddered, staring in horror at the contents. “That’s ghastly. What is it?”
“Hundred-year-old scotch.”
“No wonder it tastes so vile. Do you have anything more recently brewed?”
A small smile touched his lips. “I’m afraid not.”
“Oh.” She frowned at the glass, unaccountably disappointed. Yet even as she did so, a relaxing warmth filled her belly, softening the edge of her nervousness. She took another small sip.
Returning her gaze to Morgan, she watched as his eyes moved over her body with smoky intensity, as though committing her every line and curve to memory. “Stunning,” he said. She ran her hand over the brilliant red of her gown. “It’s French.”
“I’m referring to what’s underneath.”
Having no idea how to reply to that, Julia didn’t attempt it. At a loss for any other suitable topic, she abruptly decided to abandon all attempts at pretense and move directly to the heart of what was on her mind. Summoning her courage, she said in a rush, “I’ve been thinking about our bargain.”
“Oh?”
“It seems rather foolish now, doesn’t it?”
“As I recall, you wanted a three-month reprieve.” He lifted his shoulders in a cool shrug, then took a sip of his drink. “Although little else good might be said about me, I am generally reputed to be a man of my word.”
“Indeed. You’ve been very patient. Very honorable, as well.”
A small, cynical smile curved his lips. “Not exactly the words I would have chosen.”
“No?”
“‘Cuckolded fool’ comes to mind.”
Seizing his statement as an admission that the wait might have become as difficult for him as it was for her, she said, “In that case, if you have no objection, I thought we might commence our marital duties.”
He regarded her in silence for what felt like an eternity. “May I ask what brought about this remarkable change of heart?”
Julia’s courage began to crumble. She had anticipated a reaction of gratitude on his part at being released from their bargain, but she realized in that instant how exceedingly vain an expectation that had been. She hesitated, lost in her uncertainty, feeling both embarrassed and profoundly unprepared for the question.
Perhaps she would have been better served to stick to her original decision and give them a full three months to develop a more natural intimacy. Unfortunately it was too late to change her course now. It was all too easy to imagine the shame of fleeing from the room now that she had come this far. But she was determined to spare herself further embarrassment. Therefore, rather than admit the longing that kept her up at night — a longing that evidently went unshared — she searched for a reasonable excuse to abandon the terms of their bargain.
Suddenly remembering the newborn babe they had seen earlier that week at Lord Attmark’s party, she said, “You made it quite clear that you wanted an heir. I hadn’t given the matter much thought until I saw the Earl of Reardon’s child. Now it occurs to me that you’re quite right. There’s no sense in waiting any longer, is there?”
Although the excuse sounded coolly plausible to her own ears, she was surprised to see Morgan’s features darken as an expression that looked almost like disappointment flashed across his face.
“Ah, so that’s it.”
“Don’t you want a child of your own?”
He finished his drink and set it aside, then stood and moved toward her. “Gilding the lily, aren’t we, princess?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You needn’t dangle a carrot in front of me. You are ample lure by yourself.”
Unable to meet his eyes, she fumbled with her glass, surprised to find it empty. Although she didn’t remember drinking the last of it, she suddenly wished for more. Morgan now stood less than an arm’s length away, but still he made no move to touch her. She swallowed hard and released a nervous, tremulous laugh. “It’s funny,” she said.
“What is?”
“I didn’t imagine it would be like this.”
“Like what?”
“This,” she said, indicating the distance between them. “This formal, this stilted. I thought one was supposed
to be swept away by passion, as though lost in a tumultuous sea. Not dragged there as though one’s coat were caught beneath the wheels of a railcar.”
Morgan released a shocked bark of laughter. Her words, and her obvious distress, knocked him out of the stupor that had befallen him. He forced himself to set aside his disappointment that it wasn’t him she wanted as much as a child of her own. She had come to him, and that was all that mattered. If the fire had taught him nothing else, it was to appreciate life on its own terms. Every miracle counted, no matter how small.
For just an instant logistics filled his mind. The room was too warm, too harshly lit. While there was nothing he could do about the heat, he had no desire to dampen what little ardor she had managed to kindle for him by subjecting her to the sight of the odious scars that marked his body. He could at least spare her that. Yet while cognizant of his wife’s delicate sensibilities, he did not want to rob himself of the pleasure of seeing Julia naked. In the end he settled upon a compromise position. He crossed the room and lowered the wick of the lamp, leaving nothing but a warm amber glow to fill the room.
Turning back to Julia, he hesitated once again. Like a skittish deer that had picked up the scent of the hunter, she stood poised to flee at the slightest provocation. He could take her upstairs to his room, but he didn’t want to risk having her change her mind before they arrived. The chair in which he had been sitting was out of the question. The rug was undeniably plush but struck him as slightly primitive for their first encounter. At last his gaze lit upon a burgundy velvet chaise that occupied one corner. Although he had never considered the piece with a decidedly carnal purpose in mind, he realized at once that it would serve nicely.
Their ultimate destination decided, he moved to stand before her. He pried the empty glass from her hand and set it on a nearby table. Then he ran his hands along her upper arms, attempting to soothe the tense rigidity he felt in her limbs. She stubbornly avoided his gaze, but Morgan was in no hurry. He waited until she tilted her face up to his, then gently asked, “How do you know that I’m not madly overcome with lust at this very moment?”
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