With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  Julia looked appalled. “Yet you agreed to leave your companions and follow me?”

  His eyes locked on hers. “The truth is, princess, I would have followed you anywhere.”

  She shook her head. “Had you known what I intended to lead you into, I suspect you would have run screaming into the night.”

  “Had I known then what I know now,” he replied firmly, “I would have run directly into your arms.”

  Julia searched his gaze for a long moment; her brows drawn together in a troubled frown. “I lied to you.”

  “Did you?”

  “You asked me once if I harbored any anger or resentment toward my father for his actions, specifically the fact that his drinking and consequent bad judgment led to my future being placed in the hands of my Uncle Cyrus. At the time I denied it, but of course that wasn’t true. I was furious at my predicament — particularly because my choices were so limited that I had no option but to approach you with the outlandish and rather humiliating proposition that we wed.” She smiled and shook her head. “Strange, isn’t it? Were my father here today, I would thank him profusely.”

  He pulled her even more tightly into his embrace. “So would I.”

  “You say the oddest things,” she remarked, studying him with an expression he couldn’t define.

  A pang of regret spiked through Morgan. “Perhaps they wouldn’t sound so odd if I said them more often.”

  The steps of the dance led them to cross the path of Roger Bigelow and Isabelle Cartwright. The other couple sent them a cool nod as they swayed past, looking supremely beautiful and staggeringly self-aware, their gazes moving around the room as though searching for the most prestigious guests to which they could attach themselves.

  As Morgan returned his attention to Julia, he found that she had also been watching the other couple as they swayed past. But rather than share his amusement, an expression of profound sadness was etched on her face. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Lord Bigelow and Miss Cartwright.”

  “What about them?”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, as though struggling to find the words she needed. At last she managed, “When I think of the circumstances that brought us together, I imagine you must be consumed with regret at what might have been. I don’t blame you a bit. I’d be angry, too, if I had to settle for—”

  “Settle? You cannot mean to apply that word to yourself.”

  “Then you mean you don’t wish that Miss Cartwright—”

  “I don’t wish anything.” He ran his hand lightly down her spine, his gaze locked on hers. “What I am consumed with, princess, is a profound sense of awe and undeservingness at the wealth of gifts I have recently been given.”

  Tilting her face toward his, she searched his eyes. He could almost pinpoint the exact moment her disbelief was transformed — first to wary hesitancy, then to joyous acceptance of his words.

  Before he could speak again, a sharp bolt of lightning illuminated the horizon. A rolling boom of thunder immediately followed, silencing the orchestra. As the music came to an abrupt and awkward halt, so did the waltzers. A sharp gust of wind rattled the windows as it swept through the room, extinguishing the vast majority of candles that illuminated the hall. Startled, nervous laughter sounded among the guests, followed by a scattering of applause that built to a hearty crescendo as fat drops of rain began to fall. The storm had broken at last.

  A second bolt of lightning split the sky. Whether it was by fate or by chance Morgan would never know, but in that instant, as lightning lit up the room, his attention was turned away from Julia and toward a back wall. To his surprise he found his gaze locked on Thomas Fike. The young artist stood by himself near a narrow flight of stairs that led toward the upper floors. His darkly brooding expression was immediately transformed to one of startled dismay at having been caught staring at them. He quickly turned his back on Morgan without so much as a nod of acknowledgment.

  The lightning faded, and the ballroom darkened once again. As Jonathan Derrick’s servants busied themselves rushing about the room relighting the candles, Morgan’s gaze remained fixed on Fike. No longer alone, he was leaning toward a woman Morgan couldn’t identify, whispering something in her ear. The woman tilted back her head and emitted a shrill peal of laughter, flirtatiously rapping Fike on the arm with her silk fan. Fike propped one booted foot upon the staircase and leaned closer to the woman he was evidently intent on seducing. Even from the distance at which Morgan stood, his choice of footwear was clear. Fike was wearing Hessians.

  “Morgan? What is it?”

  He slowly returned his attention to Julia. “Thomas Fike,” he replied. “It appears as though he’s been watching us most intently.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that,” she returned offhandedly, absently smoothing down the folds of her gown. “It’s rather disconcerting, isn’t it?”

  “Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

  She studied him with a small frown. “I didn’t think it significant,” she replied. “According to Lady Whitcomb and Lady Ausprey, he makes a habit of surreptitiously studying his clients whenever they are not formally posed. He claims that enables him to capture the true essence of one’s personality, rather than the stiff expression one fixes on one’s face when sitting for a portrait. From what I’ve heard, his work bears that claim out.”

  Perhaps, Morgan thought, perhaps. A reasonable explanation. And yet… something about Thomas Fike wasn’t right. Whether it was his instinct that caused him to form that impression, or his irritation at the man for having flirted so blatantly with Julia, Morgan couldn’t say. He knew only that he wasn’t quite ready to dismiss him from his mind.

  As the orchestra lifted their instruments to begin another waltz, he took Julia’s arm and escorted her from the dance floor. Morgan’s longtime friend Edward Southesby joined them as they resumed their previous place in the crowd. After greetings were exchanged, Southesby remarked, “Do you realize, Morgan, that the evening is half over, and I have yet to enjoy a waltz with your beautiful bride? I wonder if she might favor me with that exquisite honor?”

  Receiving Julia’s assent to a waltz, the two moved away to join the other guests who filled the dance floor. Morgan watched them for a moment, unable to shake the brooding sensation of unease that gripped him. Satisfied that Julia was in good hands with Southesby, he returned his attention to Fike. The artist was once again standing alone, sipping from a drink.

  Morgan scanned the crowd, looking for the woman with whom Fike had been speaking. While she seemed to have disappeared entirely, he was surprised to note that Home Secretary Chivers was in attendance. As the waltzers continued their graceful promenade around the dance floor Morgan moved across the room to speak with Chivers. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he remarked.

  “Actually, I arrived only a moment ago,” Chivers replied. He gave a light shrug. “I don’t normally mingle in society, but I thought it prudent that the Yard make its presence known until this Lazarus person is apprehended. One never knows what one might learn. As I’ve said before, luck favors the prepared mind.”

  “I imagine carrying a loaded pistol doesn’t hurt much, either.”

  “You noticed that, did you?” Chivers pulled his jacket closer to his body. “And here I thought I was so discreet.”

  “Expecting problems?”

  The Home Secretary hesitated for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. At last he replied, “Given the number of years I have spent in this line of work, I’ve acquired what my mates at the Yard have come to refer to as a nose for trouble. That intuition led me here tonight. Of course, I’m wrong as often as I’m right, but still—”

  “What do you know of Thomas Fike?” Morgan asked directly.

  “The artist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not a great deal, but I am privy to the latest gossip. He’s rumored to be quite the ladies’ man, is he not?”

  “So I’ve heard. I’ve a
lso noted that he seems to have developed a particular interest in my wife — one that strikes me as rather excessive, given our present circumstances.”

  Chivers frowned. “I see. He’s here tonight?”

  “Yes. Over by the —” Morgan nodded at the rear stair, then stopped abruptly as he discovered it deserted. Fike was nowhere in sight.

  “Viscountess Barlowe?” Chivers asked immediately.

  Morgan looked toward the center of the room. But the previous waltz had ended, and a new group of dancers had assumed the floor. Southesby and Julia were gone as well. His heart in his throat, he scanned the room. It wasn’t possible. They couldn’t have disappeared. Not that quickly. Damn it. Where the hell was Southesby? Where was Julia? Why hadn’t he been watching her?

  As his gaze returned to the rear stairway, a feeling of ominous dread spread through his veins. Morgan moved instinctively toward the stairs, taking them two at a time as he rushed toward the upper floors. Chivers followed without a word. On the second level they found a long, dimly lit hallway filled with a series of closed doors. They stopped for a moment, studying the doors as they gained their bearings.

  Then Morgan heard it. The shrill, piercing sound of a woman’s scream filled the darkened hall.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  For a long while, by sheer will alone, he had dominated the fire. He had controlled the blaze that raged within him. But no longer. Now it was getting out of control. Conquering sin alone wasn’t enough. He had made no sacrifice. There had to be a sacrifice, or the flames would bellow out of control, eating away at him until they destroyed him completely.

  It was already happening. The world was spinning around him, events moving too quickly for him to grasp. The dream kept coming back, terrorizing him night after night. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function. He was inadequate, fumbling, and confused. It was getting noticeable; people were beginning to remark upon it. Something had to be done. He turned and gazed across the room. There was only one sacrifice that would be worthy.

  Flame. His beloved Flame.

  She had started the fire that consumed him.

  Her death was the only thing that would end it.

  Julia stepped from the ladies’ retiring room, the small tear in the hem of her gown adequately repaired. Edward Southesby was a lovely man and a charming conversationalist, but perhaps the most awkward partner with whom she had ever shared a waltz. Spying him standing outside, enjoying a pipe with another gentleman, she sent him a smile that she hoped would convey the inconsequential nature of the damage. The poor man had been horrified at his clumsy misstep.

  Receiving his polite bow in return, she considered the matter closed and moved discreetly through the ballroom, searching for Morgan. Unfortunately her husband was nowhere to be found. Thus she drifted somewhat aimlessly about, feeling ridiculously alone and conspicuous. Soon, however, she was rescued from her abandoned state by the host of that evening’s gala.

  She greeted Jonathan Derrick with a warm smile. “My sincerest congratulations.”

  He looked momentarily puzzled by her words, as though he had been occupied with some deep inner contemplation. Then understanding broke across his features. “Oh. I see. You mean this marriage business. Yes, yes. It’s about time I took care of the matter. I suspect Miss Prentisse will do very nicely, don’t you?”

  “I’m certain you’ll be very happy together.”

  “Yes. I’m certain we shall.” He hesitated, a look of pained consternation on his face as he lumbered along beside her. “There’s been some talk of the unseemly speed of our courtship. Perhaps I should have waited a month or two before offering for her hand.” He gave his head a helpless shake. “It was not my intent to cause your family embarrassment by pressing my suit with undue haste.”

  Julia sent him a reassuring smile. “Perhaps people will assume you were so swept away by the depth of your emotions for Marianne that you could not contain yourself another day.”

  His puzzled expression returned, then he gave a startled bark of laughter. “Ah, an impetuous love match. That’s very amusing. Very amusing indeed, Lady Barlowe.”

  Julia’s smile slowly faded. “You sound so flippant.”

  “Flippant?” He echoed, looking stunned by the suggestion. “At four and forty years of age, I can hardly be expected to play the part of the lovestruck swain, now can I?” He shook his head. “No, I am merely being realistic, my dear. Your uncle is a pious man, and he has raised two lovely and virtuous daughters. I believe that Miss Prentisse and I will suit each other. All I can hope is that we share a few years of comfort and companionship.”

  “I see.”

  A small smile appeared beneath his bushy mustache. “You sound as though you disapprove.”

  “It’s not my place to either approve or disapprove.”

  Despite her words he gave a small shrug and continued. “The lower one’s expectations, the less chance that one will be disappointed. I far prefer a ship with stable moorings to one that has been swept away upon a passionate sea. Not all marriages can be love matches like yours. Not everyone has the temperament for it.”

  A love match, Julia thought. Was that how she and Morgan were perceived? That notion — no matter how misdirected — sent a quiet thrill racing down her spine. A love match, she repeated silently to herself, savoring the phrase. Perhaps she wasn’t so ridiculous to believe that something in Morgan’s touch, something in his gaze, reflected a new depth of feeling between them. If others saw it as well, perhaps it truly existed.

  Catching sight of her cousin across the room, holding court and preening before a flock of well-wishers, Julia reluctantly redirected her thoughts to the conversation at hand. “You’ve certainly made Marianne very happy.”

  “I’m glad. She’s been generous enough to forgive me this fiasco.”

  “What do you mean? The party is lovely.”

  “You’re too kind,” Jonathan Derrick replied absently. He took her arm as they walked, leading her across the room. “Do you remember last Season? A visit to Madame Tussaud’s was all the rage. I thought it would be dreadfully clever to engage her services for this event. But this atrocious weather is conspiring against me.” He cast a despairing glance at a pair of melting wax lovers and gave a deep sigh. “I can only hope that the unfortunate condition of the figurines is not as apparent to everyone else.”

  “I’m certain it’s not,” she returned politely.

  As they moved past a pair of doors that led to the dining salon, the earl’s expression of troubled anxiety returned. He stopped for a moment, watching his servants bustled about the great hall as they made the final preparations for the evening meal.

  “We’ll be serving a lamb stew,” he muttered. “Dreadful. No one serves lamb stew. I should have remained firm in my decision to serve some sort of fowl. People enjoy fowl, do they not?”

  “I’m certain the lamb will be—”

  “I’m not any good at this sort of thing,” he interrupted, almost as though speaking to himself. “But it is obligatory. Always taking, never giving back. Not the thing at all. One must host in return. Particularly when one has an engagement to announce. My mother was a lovely hostess. Lovely. Do you see the alcove about the stair? The one with the Roman statue?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I was a small child, I used to hide there and watch the galas my parents would host. That was forty years or so ago, of course. Everything was different then. This hall would be filled, always a veritable crush. But I could pick my mother out instantly. She would float across the room dressed in a gown of vivid silk, like some sort of beautiful butterfly. Her hair was almost your color, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Perhaps in the future Miss Prentisse will take care of these matters for me. But then, of course she will. She’ll be the new Lady Bedford, won’t she?” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him. He shook his head, an expression of grave befuddlement on his face. “How very s
trange.”

  Julia experienced a sudden urge to comfort the man. Morgan had labeled the earl as merely socially inept, but to her his ramblings struck a deeper chord. Although he seemed to mean well, Jonathan Derrick exuded a perpetual air of lost innocence and confusion. He reminded her of one of those unfortunate souls who went through life with an expression of bewildered pain in his eyes, like a shaggy puppy who didn’t understand why he was repeatedly kicked.

  The earl looked at Julia and gave a sudden start, as though surprised to find her still standing beside him. “Well,” he said, forcing a choppy laugh, “well, now. That’s enough of that.”

  He had taken her arm a few minutes earlier. At the time she had assumed that it was nothing more than an absentminded gesture of politeness on his part. But as they stepped away from the main ballroom and moved toward an outside terrace, it became evident that he was steering her in a particular direction. Julia came to a firm stop, regarding him with a puzzled smile. “Where are we going?”

  He blinked in startled surprise. “Forgive me, Lady Barlowe. I thought I had mentioned it.” He gestured across the vast lawns toward a building that was barely visible through the thick summer foliage. “I have an engagement gift waiting to be presented to Miss Prentisse after supper — a rather large painting of a mother and child that I thought she might enjoy.” He paused, an embarrassed blush staining his cheeks as he admitted, “The truth is, I transformed the boathouse into a private studio and painted it myself. But now I’m not at all certain whether it’s worthy of Miss Prentisse. The last thing I wish to do is to embarrass her further. I wonder if I could trouble you to view the piece and render your honest judgment of it. I shall not be offended in the slightest should you suggest that I wait for a more private moment to present it.”