Of all the rooms in Morgan’s estate, Fike had selected the vast, empty ballroom as the ideal site for the portrait he had been commissioned to paint. He had declared that the light and staging were best here, and that the open doors and windows would allow the fumes from his paints to dissipate somewhat. To Julia the ballroom had been an odd choice, but she had bowed to his artistic caprice and acquiesced. Morgan had not voiced an opinion on the subject at all, short of remaining steadfast in his decision not to take part in the portrait — a fact that seemed to bother her far more than it did Mr. Fike.
She glanced about the room. Notwithstanding the fact that she and Morgan had shared their first true kiss here, to her mind the chamber remained slightly melancholy, redolent of romantic defeat. Perhaps that was why the room appealed to him. Mr. Fike had spent a considerable amount of time studying the portraits of Morgan’s ancestors. No doubt he was determined to have his own work as reflective of the true state of their relationship as were the paintings that filled the front hall.
To that end she had felt the young artist’s gaze on her and Morgan whenever their paths chanced to cross at various balls and late night suppers. He had watched them with a stare that was intent and judging, as though taking measure of their relationship. He seemed to have formed some conclusion, for he moved his paints and easel into their home with a bossy imperiousness, as though he knew exactly what sort of mood he wanted to achieve and would settle for nothing less.
“Now that,” said Fike, “is exactly the sort of expression I am hoping not to see on your face when I paint your portrait. You look decidedly vexed.”
“What sort of expression would you like to see?”
He absently waved one thickly laden paintbrush in her direction. “The usual. Something dreamy, subtly mystifying, sensual. As though you’re a goddess and the honor of your touch will bestow life upon mortal man. Think of Cleopatra. Helen of Troy. Aphrodite.”
Julia smiled and arched her brows skyward. “That’s quite a look.”
“I have every confidence in your ability to deliver such a look. In fact, I suspect you shall put your sister seductresses to shame.” He regarded her with a smile that was blatantly suggestive, his deep brown eyes smoldering with dramatic intensity, as though she were the only woman in the world. Then, as quickly as one might extinguish a candle flame, his gaze sobered and he returned his attention to his canvas. “But don’t bother now, because I’m still working on the background.”
She regarded him with amusement. The more time she spent with Thomas Fike, the more she understood why London’s foremost hostesses coveted him as a guest. With his soulful chocolate eyes, thick blond hair, and seductive manner, he was the unparalleled rake of the Season. Furthermore, he had a stature and self-assurance that few men possessed. In many ways he reminded her of her husband. Yet unlike Morgan’s sleek elegance, there was a blunt edge to Fike’s beauty, a coarseness that seemed to lurk just beneath his smoothly polished surface.
“Now that,” he commented absently, furiously spreading paint across the canvas, “is a far more interesting expression.”
“Is it? Hmmm. I was thinking of your reputation.”
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the canvas before him. “Most of the rumors you hear are gross exaggerations.” He paused, sending her his most provocative smile. “I would hardly have time to paint at all if everything that was said about me were true.”
Julia sent him a look of cool reproof. “I meant as an artist in demand.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “In that case the rumors are quite authentic. In fact, I find that my talents in that area are actually underestimated.”
“I see,” she replied, smiling at the unabashed vanity on his part.
A movement near the doors caught her eye. Morgan strode into the room, moving directly to where Thomas Fike had set up his paints and easel. In a show of deferential grace, the artist stepped aside to allow his patron to examine his work.
A frown darkened Morgan’s expression as he gave the canvas a cursory glance. “If you’ve finished for the moment, Mr. Fike,” he said brusquely, “my wife and I have an engagement this afternoon.”
“Very good, my lord.” Fike gave a low bow, then wiped his hands on a nearby cloth and deposited his brushes in a solution of turpentine. He made his way toward the broad doors, turned, and nodded. “Until tomorrow, Julia.”
Aware of her husband’s sharp — and unquestionably disapproving — look at the use of her Christian name, she nodded and sent Fike a faltering smile. “Yes, until tomorrow.”
She waited until he had left the hall, then stepped down from the podium on which she had been posed and moved to Morgan’s side to study the canvas. As Thomas had mentioned earlier, at this stage the work consisted of nothing but broad brushstrokes that suggested the background of the piece. There was nothing there to cause the intense frown she had seen on his face. Surprised at the harsh tone Morgan had taken with the man, she said, “Your dismissal was rather abrupt, was it not?”
“It was my understanding that there was a depth to Fike’s work, that he was possessed of a singular ability to capture the essence of his subjects. That is why I hired the man. I am not paying him to seduce my wife.”
Morgan, jealous? While the idea seemed ludicrous, there was no mistaking the edge to his voice. Even more ridiculous was the distinctly feminine surge of pleasure she felt at learning that she was capable of arousing such an emotion within him. “Actually,” she rejoined lightly, “he reminds me of you. Or rather, the man you used to be. The irrepressible rake, out to conquer any female who had the misfortune to cross your path.”
“‘You shall put your sister seductresses to shame,’” he mimicked in disgust. “What utter rubbish.”
“I seem to recall your saying something in the vein of…” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Now what did I overhear you say in the garden that night? How the glory of the moonlight paled in comparison to the radiant luster of the young lady’s alabaster skin?”
He winced and pulled her into his arms. “No need to be cruel, princess.”
She tilted her head back to study his eyes. “Then give me credit for having a bit more sense than to take his words to heart. I suspect his only intent was to provoke an expression of smoldering desire on my face.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
His dark frown instantly returned. “It did?”
“Absolutely,” she averred with a smile. “I was thinking of you.”
“Ah.” He let out a satisfied sigh and tightened his embrace. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.” He captured her lips with his own, bestowing a kiss of heated passion and infinite longing, a kiss that warmed her to the very soles of her red satin slippers. At last, with a display of obvious reluctance, he pulled back.
Julia studied him through a haze of unfulfilled lust, struggling to reclaim her wits and say something intelligent. At last recalling what he had said when he had interrupted the painting session, she remarked, “I wasn’t aware we had an engagement this afternoon.”
“No?” Morgan regarded her with a puzzled frown. “I’m certain we did. In fact, I had my secretary make a note on my calendar, lest I forget. It’s a new addition to my schedule, but one of which I hope you’ll approve.”
“You’re already so busy as it is,” she said. “What with fencing lessons, daily business affairs, morning rides, the House of Lords…”
“True. But I’m confident I can make room for this latest task.”
“Oh?”
“Every Thursday afternoon: make love to Julia.”
She arched one delicate auburn brow. “Just Thursday afternoons?”
“As it happens, I find that marriage has made me remarkably more flexible in regards to my time. I also have Thursday nights available, as well as Friday mornings, Friday afternoons, Saturdays…”
“My, my. You certainly are accommodating, aren’t you?”
With a rakish smile he reached
for her hand and placed it on the straining bulge between his legs. “Unfortunately, princess, the same can’t be said for my trousers.” He bent down and lifted her into his arms in one smooth, effortless motion. “Shall we?”
Morgan carried her through the main floor and to the upper level, blithely ignoring the shocked gasps and knowing smiles of the servants they passed. Although a deep blush heated her cheeks at the brazen, blatant manner with which he proceeded through the house, Julia didn’t object. Nor did she object as he kicked the door to his bedchamber shut behind them and gently deposited her in the center of his bed.
All things considered, it was a rather pleasant way to pass a Thursday afternoon.
He was here. Lazarus was here. Morgan could feel his watchful, hovering presence so close at hand, he could reach out and touch him if he so desired. In fact, he probably already had. The more he thought on it, the more convinced he grew that he knew the man. With that in mind, he gazed about the room at the guests who had assembled in Jonathan Derrick, the Earl of Bedford’s, home, determined to identify him once and for all.
It was a relatively minor event, having drawn only one hundred or so attendees. That paltry sum could be directly attributed to two factors. The first was Derrick’s bumbling social incompetence. Although his rank and tide served to make up for a great many of his shortcomings, the man seemed to drift about in a perpetual fog. The second factor was the dreadful heat and constant threat of arson, the combination of which had driven a good portion of better society out of the city well in advance of the end of the Season.
Nevertheless, a good number of hearty souls remained, and of those most had chosen to attend Derrick’s small gala. Morgan mentally composed a suspect list in his mind, weighing the threat that each man posed. There was Cyrus Prentisse, of course. Roger Bigelow. And all three of Julia’s original suitors, each of whom had offered for her hand: Lord Edward Needam, whose current mistress exhibited a subtle but distinct bruise at the nape of her neck. Sir William Bell, already drunk and stumbling, despite the early hour. The Honorable Peter Trevlin, who was in the midst of flirting with a pretty young servant boy who looked no older than fifteen. A wretched group, to be sure, but was there a killer among them? Doubtful, Morgan conceded. So who was he overlooking?
The light touch of Julia’s hand on his arm drew his thoughts back to her. “Have you seen Aunt Rosalind and Uncle Cyrus?” she whispered, nodding her head at a spot across the room. “They look positively beside themselves with glee.”
He followed the direction of her nod across the room. Sir Cyrus Prentisse and his wife sat on a low, carpeted podium in a pair of grossly ornate, thronelike mahogany chairs that would have looked ostentatious had they been occupied by Albert and Victoria. Given that it was Cyrus and Rosalind seated within, they looked patently ridiculous. A slim trickle of guests filed by, dutifully offering best wishes and good fortune on the occasion of their daughter’s betrothal to the Earl of Bedford, an event that had been formally announced just moments earlier.
“It appears as though society is finally paying Cyrus Prentisse his rightful homage,” he remarked.
“For the moment,” Julia returned, releasing a soft sigh. “But I suspect that by this time tomorrow he will be simmering in a stew of resentment once again, mentally compiling a list of all the imagined slights he suffered tonight.” She shook her head and said, “But I am happy for Marianne.”
Morgan’s gaze shifted to Marianne Prentisse and Jonathan Derrick, watching as they strolled arm in arm through the sparse crowd. Not a bad match, despite the gap in their ages. They were both blond and pale, but they complemented each other in unexpected ways. Marianne’s sharp features and piercing gaze countered the air of shaggy dim-wittedness that constantly hung over the Earl of Bedford. In return, the earl’s simpleminded state of befuddlement served to make his young fiancée look somewhat less haughty and less concerned with rank and prestige.
“Not exactly a love for the ages, but they do appear remarkably content,” he said. The rueful smile that curved Julia’s lips told him that she understood at once to what he was referring.
Apparently deciding to enlarge upon the announcement of his betrothal as a theme for the party, Derrick had leased a score of richly detailed wax figures from the House of Madame Tussaud. Placed conspicuously throughout the hall were life-size replicas of famous lovers. Romeo and Juliet embraced near the buffet. The legendary King Arthur and Queen Guinevere reigned over the champagne fountain. Samson and Delilah stood at one end of the dance floor, Antony and Cleopatra waved from another.
Unfortunately the earl had not taken the weather into consideration when making arrangements for the display of the carved figurines. Or perhaps he had simply underestimated the heat that would be generated by a hundred or so bodies milling about. In any case thin rivulets of wax had begun to drip down the faces of the fabled lovers, giving one the unhappy impression that they were dissolving in tears.
Julia shook her head. “The poor man. Imagine going to all this trouble, only to have everything go to ruin like this.”
Morgan shrugged. “Perhaps the weather will change.”
“I do hope so.”
A storm had been brewing all day, but it had yet to break. Instead the heavy clouds that loomed overhead served only to intensify the heat, as though compressing it into an even denser, muggier mass. Even the gusty breeze that stirred through the trees did nothing but pitch the hot air about, causing men to chase after their hats and ladies to clamp down their skirts.
The storm seemed to bring with it a mood of simmering tension as well. Tempers were short everywhere. Hackney drivers hurled insults at each other as they jostled for position in the streets, shopkeepers argued with their clerks, servants were berated by their masters, and packs of dogs snarled over bones. Perhaps it was this atmosphere that had inspired Morgan’s conviction that the city could not stand much more of the constant heat — nor the constant threat of arson. He had the distinct impression that things were coming to a decisive head. Lazarus was here, and he was preparing to strike again.
“For such a happy occasion, you look decidedly grim,” remarked Julia.
“My apologies.” He forced a smile and turned toward her. “I was just thinking of—”
“I know,” she said, somber understanding filling her eyes. “But let us put him behind us for one evening, shall we? Let’s be selfish just this once and claim the night for ourselves. We’ll worry about him tomorrow.”
Unable to resist her gentle entreaty, he nodded and gazed about the room, searching for a suitable diversion for them both. “Where would you like to begin?” he asked. “A glass of champagne? A plate of smoked oysters? A tour of the gardens?”
She smiled softly and shook her head. “A dance, if you please.”
He gave a low, formal bow. “It would be my honor,” he replied, offering his arm as he escorted her onto the dance floor. As the opening strains of a waltz filled the room, he pulled her into his embrace, holding her far more closely than what was dictated by the convention of the dance. Yet to Morgan his grip on her still wasn’t tight enough.
He could not banish the fear that they had somehow come full circle. As though the events of late were entirely surreal, merely the beginning and ending to a dream. He would wake up tomorrow, and it would all be over. Even the gown Julia wore served to reinforce that worry. She had selected the shimmering, peppermint pink satin she had worn on the night they had met at the Devonshire House. While it seemed impossible to believe that she might leave his life as abruptly and as dramatically as she had entered it, fate had taught him how very fragile even the sturdiest foundations to one’s life could sometimes be.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
His eyes moved slowly over her face, as though memorizing every delicate feature. “Have I told you yet how beautiful you look tonight?”
She smiled and brushed her hand over the fabric of her gown. “You remember this?”
&
nbsp; Unwilling to ruin what was obviously a happy reminiscence for her with his own gloomy trepidations, he smiled and replied, “Very well.” Defying the rules of convention and decorum, he boldly followed the path her hand had taken, tracing his palm over the smooth curve of her hip. “I remember thinking when I first saw you that you looked like a cross between a luscious, sugary confection and a stunningly wrapped gift.”
She arched one slim auburn brow. “That was your first impression of the gown?”
“No. As flattering as the gown is to your beautiful body, my first impression of the garment was that I would have far preferred to see it pooled at your feet.”
Although his reply obviously pleased her, she clucked her tongue in mild reproof. “I thought you were supposed to be a reformed rake.”
“A reformed rake?” he echoed, keeping his tone deliberately light. “What a ghastly notion. Isn’t that rather like praising a stallion for behaving like a gelding?”
A slight, preoccupied smile touched her lips. “What was your initial impression of me?”
“Aside from the fact that you were the most stunning creature I’d ever seen in my life?”
“Aside from that,” she returned, as a faint coral blush colored her cheeks.
Morgan thought for a moment, swaying in time to the music as he led her across the dance floor. “I had a variety of impressions of you,” he finally replied. “But to my great relief, not one of them proved to be true. I suspect they were more a product of my own experiences and cynical expectations than anything you projected.”
“That sounds rather dire.”
“To begin with, I thought that Mr. Randolph was your husband.”
“Mr. Randolph?” she echoed, giving a choked, horrified laugh. “He’s old enough to be my grandfather.”
“That’s not so uncommon. A young, beautiful woman marrying a wealthy man with one foot in the grave and the other resting on a banana peel. From what I’m told, those marriages can be remarkably contented — so long as the husband allows his wife enough freedoms and liberties. Particularly those meant to compensate for certain inadequacies that might occur in an elderly man’s bed.” He paused, giving an indifferent shrug. “That was my initial impression of you. That you were a married woman searching for a mildly amusing diversion. And on that particular evening, it appeared as though a rousing game of Beauty and the Beast suited your fancy.”
With This Kiss Page 31
