Although they looked very much alike, Morgan and his half brother, Neville, had very little in common. Morgan’s Welsh mother had been the old duke’s housekeeper, before Neville’s mother had taken her place as the Duchess of Camberton. Nine-year-old Morgan and his mother had been banished to a crumbling lodge on the far edge of the vast estate Camberton Park, where the new duchess need never lay eyes upon either of them.
When Her Grace had died delivering a stillborn sister for five-year-old Neville, the old duke relented on the separation of his sons. Morgan’s mother held her ground, refusing to take up residence in the manor house, but she sent Morgan off daily to benefit from the tutors and governesses brought in for Neville.
Morgan had never resented that his younger half brother was duke while he himself was no more than a ship’s captain in the fleet owned by the family. In fact, he’d felt a bit sorry for him.
While he was very fond of Neville, Morgan still thought of him as an inexperienced boy. When Lord Oliver had labeled Neville’s lady love a gold digger, Morgan trusted his uncle’s judgment completely. Marriage to a bastard seemed a fitting punishment for such a creature, Oliver had pointed out, and Morgan need not trouble himself about her once wed. After all, he could simply sail away.
Although he’d only been home for a day now, Morgan twitched at the thought of the sea. A man could breathe at sea the way he couldn’t do in filthy, congested London.
No, Neville could have the dukedom and Camberton Park, and all of England, for that matter! Morgan had what he most desired.
He wasn’t the Bastard of Camberton when at sea. He was Captain Pryce, known in harbors around the world, respected by his men. He had always loved the sea, and had worked his way up from cabin boy to captain. And now captain-owner.
He did not need, or particularly want, a wife. But if wedding this girl gained him his dream, it was worth the inconvenience.
Why, then, did Morgan feel embarrassed to show his unpretentious house to his bride, who was not even an honorable lady, but a woman of secrets and manipulations?
Stubbornly refusing to speak even now, Morgan kept his gaze averted from her unnerving eyes. He gestured indifferently up the stairs. Bliss Worthington only tilted her head and remained right where she was. Irritated by the woman’s unwavering calm and his own nagging discomfort with his actions of this night, Morgan turned away and stalked to his tiny study. He firmly shut the door on her beauty and her finery and her stoic lack of feminine theatrics.
• • •
AFTER BLISS WATCHED her alleged husband walk off and shut the door between them, she let the silent house and the moon-streaked night ease the tension from her shoulders. She let out a soft sigh as she briefly closed her eyes. At last, a moment alone to think. Unfortunately, the only thing she could think was that the grimy little foyer smelled just a bit like wet sheep.
Oh no. That was the wool of her cloak, gone too-long damp. Well, the clearly little-used house was every bit as damp as her cloak, so where ought she dry it?
First, light. There was a good amount of moonlight coming in the front windows, but that would not last. Bliss set about finding a stove, for where there was a stove, there would be a flint and steel.
Kitchens were generally to be found back and down, in any house. This one was no exception. Bliss made her way down the hall and the back stairs primarily by feel. It was slow and awkward and took her entire attention.
It was nice to think about something other than her predicament for a moment.
She found the flint and steel just where she herself would have kept it, in a tin perched on a shelf above the big old stove. In the box next to it she found cheap tallow candles. Tinder came in the form of an old bit of toweling greasy enough to light easily.
Soon, she had a small blaze going beneath the smaller oven. There wasn’t enough wood in the box to fire up the entire stove, although that was what it would have taken to warm the space.
In the center of the kitchen was a large scarred worktable. Beside it sat an old chair with a woven seat, much the worse for wear. Bliss pulled it close to the stove and spread her cloak upon it to dry.
She was now quite chilly without it, but if the cloak didn’t dry, the wool would be ruined forever. And Mrs. Dalyrymple had always told her that if she was cold, better to warm herself with wholesome efforts than to laze about a fire.
Old Dally would not approve of the theatrical events of this night, that was for certain. She would doubtless utter pithy commentary about how none of it would have happened if Bliss had had the sense to see herself to bed at a decent hour.
Bliss allowed herself a moment to mourn the loss of the gruffly loving woman who had raised her in the absence of her true parents. Bliss still recalled every detail of that horrible night. Mrs. Dalyrymple had nodded off in front of her fire, rocking in her chair, as she had every evening for years uncounted.
Bliss hadn’t known anything was amiss until the old woman’s knitting slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. Dally would never have been so careless with her wool.
Why am I thinking of Dally at a time like this?
Because everything was strange and new. Just as it was on the first day Mama had brought her to Shropshire, to hide her away in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. She’d been taken far from her home and her many cousins and left in the hands of someone her parents trusted to give Bliss a new life, a safe life.
For all the good that had done.
And here was Bliss, living in London for months now, and her own mother had not seen fit to call.
She shook herself slightly and ran her fingertips over her eyes, dashing away a bit of water no doubt caused by the wood smoke. Clearly, the flue was in need of a sweeping.
No more woolgathering. What she needed to do was prepare her case to present to Captain Pryce. Once Bliss had explained matters to him, she was certain he would do the sensible thing and assist her in gaining an annulment. Someone had made a mistake, that was all.
It disturbed her habitual calm to think that someone might well be her! After all, it had been very careless of Bliss to write Neville and then allow the letters to fall into the wrong hands. Some busybody in the ducal household had designs against Neville’s happiness, it seemed. Bliss thought she might just know who that person was, but that knowledge had come a bit too late.
Now she must put the irascible captain in a more receptive mood. This was where her experience with many male cousins benefited her. She knew quite well that hungry men were not capable of reason.
It was only a few hours until dawn, close enough to be thinking of breakfast. She would cook something for the sulking captain now holed up in the study. Hearty food would tame his mood and leave him more receptive to logic. First, she would gently explain how it was impossible for her to be a fortune hunter. Then she would describe how her affection for dear Neville was entirely sincere and entirely mutual!
The annulment itself would be a pickle to arrange, it was true, but Bliss had great confidence in her power of persuasion. Once she had Captain Pryce’s agreement, she would throw the entirety of her resources in the matter at the Church of England.
Neither party really stood a chance, now that she thought about it.
Reassured by her plan and newly determined, Bliss hunted down the larder. She found the barest rack of supplies. There was some hardened lard, a bit old but kept cool enough to be usable. She also discovered a bit of cured meat and a rocklike wedge of cheese. In the pantry she found some flour, only a little mealy, and a single sealed jar of summer plums.
It would have to do. It seemed that Captain Pryce wasn’t much interested in the fine art of cookery.
Tying about her waist a voluminous apron that she found hanging on a nail on the back of the pantry door, she set about turning her terrible night around.
Chapter 6
MORGAN knew he had done the right t
hing when he saved Neville from ruin. But his heroic deed had left him saddled with a wife—an outrageously beautiful one, but a wife nonetheless. He could not help wondering whether he’d sacrificed his own freedom for that of his half brother.
There ought to be a bottle of rather good whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk. Morgan found it and twisted the waxed cork free with a single furious motion.
The heat of the liquor sliding down his throat did nothing to diminish the lingering heat of his lust. He wished he’d slaked that thirst when he had the chance. His lack of feminine company over the past many months hadn’t seemed like such a hardship at the time. The shipping season had been an unusually stormy one. It had taken all of his wit and his men’s strength and perseverance to bring the Selkie Maid limping into the London Harbor at last.
Morgan rubbed his hands over his face. He’d not slept a full night in weeks. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d eaten. So when the scent of frying bacon teased at his senses, he worried it was a trick of the mind.
No. He did smell food. And his stomach growled in response.
Too hungry to ignore his empty belly, but too wary to come entirely to heel over a slab of cooked meat, Morgan left his study, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
What the hell was that little miscreant up to?
He made his way down the main hallway, his nose guiding him on a leash of savory smells, his ears pricked by the clatter of someone laying out dishes.
He hung back in the doorway of the breakfast room. It was also the luncheon room and the supper room in a house the size of his, and the only room on the bottom floor open to the back garden.
Morgan saw that the draperies had been flung wide to frame a majestic moon now flooding the overgrowth with light. The three large windows that claimed an entire wall were perhaps the only grand touches in the simple dwelling. Morgan had always liked them, for they reminded him of the captains’ cabins aboard the largest sailing ships of the White Rose fleet.
But the magical view did not hold his attention long. He found his gaze drawn to the apron-wrapped, kerchief-topped figure who moved about briskly. She smoothed out a length of clean linen she must have found tucked away in storage. She set out two place settings and laid the silver.
Brass candlesticks that had belonged to Morgan’s mother held fat candle stubs that cast a welcoming glow over a platter of sliced meat and cheese. A bread basket covered in a kitchen towel steamed lightly. Squat pottery goblets declared themselves as good as any crystal in their perfect placement in relation to the chipped plates and silverware.
Supper at the palace.
Morgan shook his head. He was hungry. That was why he’d become prone to such uncharacteristically fanciful thoughts.
The question remained—where had all this bounty come from? He knew he could not have been brooding in his study for more than half an hour.
Morgan recalled how his mother used to tell him folk stories of the ellyll, a household spirit who could either ease the occupant’s life with ready hearths and good repair or disrupt it with pranks and sabotage. The ellyll required homage in the form of saucers of beer or bowls of cream, Rose Pryce had told him, as well as giving the warning that one must never, ever try to catch the ellyll by peeking around corners or setting boyish traps for it.
Good Welshman that he was, he very nearly drew back from the door for fear that his luck would turn worse than it already was.
But that was mere superstition. What was real was the woman who had arranged the late supper before him. She glowed. With her golden hair and ivory skin, her eyes of sky and her lips of perfect rosebud pink—she was like a dream caught between an angel and a siren.
A bit too earthy to fully personify a heavenly being. A bit too innocent to fully portray a man-devouring temptress. That is, unless one knew for a fact that she had set out to snare a wedding ring from the poor, defenseless Duke of Camberton.
Morgan sent a mental apology winging Neville’s way. How quick he’d been to agree with Oliver that Neville was hoodwinked because he was foolish and naive. Morgan was beginning to suspect his half brother’s only crime was that he was a man . . . and breathing. Perhaps any man would have been caught in this creature’s honey-baited trap.
Bliss Worthington was that spectacular.
Even as Morgan watched, she reached behind her back to untie the yards of canvas apron. It dropped away from her to uncover the figure he’d tried so hard to ignore in the carriage. Then she slipped the kerchief from her hair. Nimble fingers quickly repaired the few disobedient golden strands. Before she took her hands away, she gave a last smoothing gesture and a little pat. Her lips formed a faint curve of approval as she looked down at the table and surveyed her handiwork.
Morgan felt his breath catch at the sight of Bliss Worthington—Pryce!—in the candle glow. She spotted him lurking in the shadows of the doorway. As she turned toward him, he saw her smooth her dress down one last time and inhale deeply. The resulting motion was nearly as diverting as the jiggling caused by the carriage! Morgan suspected that she was perfectly aware of the effect of that particular maneuver, and that she’d done it most intentionally. That sent his hackles up. He was no green boy, to be gobsmacked by a nice pair of breasts.
And dear God, what a pair . . .
“I thought perhaps we should have a bit of late supper,” she said softly. Her voice was pleasing, Morgan realized distantly. Clear and musical, if a touch breathy. Or perhaps she was nervous after all?
Any discomfort she felt was at her own hand. If she had been outmaneuvered, it was her own fault. He refused to be played like a shuttlecock by her racquet.
“I am hungry,” he said shortly.
Morgan strode to the table and sat at the head of it, even though she had laid the settings to the right and left of that chair. Her setting implied a discussion between equals. Morgan meant to disabuse her of any such notion at once.
He was captain of this ship—er, house! He waited while she silently reset his place. She kept hers at his right hand, the seat of the honored guest. It would do for now, because Morgan would certainly not be shifting dishes about like a servant.
She dealt him a generous plate of food before seating herself. Morgan felt his point had been satisfactorily made, so he fell to without a word.
The simple fare was astonishingly delicious. Of course, he’d had little but hardtack and fried fish for the past three weeks at sea. His own boot leather would taste good by now, no doubt. Still, he could not quite quell the low noises of appreciation as he dug in to the rich seared pork belly stuffed into the lightest crumpets he’d ever tasted outside Camberton House.
He hadn’t expected a lady to cook. Then again, hadn’t her actions already established that she was no lady?
• • •
AWARE THAT CAPTAIN Pryce was predisposed to dislike, Bliss ate daintily and pretended not to be fascinated by the way the captain enjoyed her simple cooking. She had no need to feign a petite and feminine appetite. She was too appalled by the situation in which she had propelled herself to be hungry.
Bliss had done this to herself. She could not deny it. Rarely did Worthingtons find themselves outfoxed, but it had happened tonight. She had been careless, obviously. Someone in her chain of trusted delivery persons had been more afraid of this man than they were of her.
She blamed her face and bosom for that failure. While it was often useful to be underestimated, she imagined that it was even more useful to be intimidating.
After all, no one would dare defy her cousin Elektra so! Or even frighteningly precocious thirteen-year-old Atalanta!
However annoying it was for Bliss to learn that she’d been netted so neatly, it was doubly so to realize she’d knotted the net with her very own hands.
Her head seemed overly filled with oceangoing metaphors. It must be the salty scent of wild sea air that l
ingered on the captain’s skin.
“Have you only just arrived back in London?” she asked. She took a tiny bite of her food and gazed at him expectantly. Men found her eyes pretty. Bliss appreciated her excellent vision and used her long lashes to good effect, but she was not vain. Old Dally would never stand for vanity.
“Beauty is a gift,” she had told Bliss firmly. “You didn’t earn it. And it’s only borrowed. Some keep it longer than others, but it’s borrowed all the same. Better to develop a kindly soul and a sensible manner. Those are forever yours to keep.”
Dear old soul.
Tearing her thoughts from the past, she noticed that Captain Pryce was intentionally avoiding her gaze. She could see the struggle between his anger and his obviously gentleman-like manners. Someone had raised him well, despite his rough appearance.
She knew very little about Captain Pryce’s mother because Neville knew almost nothing. “I think he misses her still,” was the only thing Neville knew to tell Bliss. She’d perhaps been overly curious about this mysterious brother, this welcomed bastard.
Neville had been only too happy to oblige her interest. Tales of Morgan’s adventures clearly fascinated him far more than crop reports and tenant complaints. From his stories, Bliss had pictured an older, harder, more adventure-worn version of Neville. She hadn’t been far wrong in her imaginings—but nothing could have prepared her for the man in the flesh.
He was a large man, but with a catlike ease of movement. He reminded her of a beautiful panther she’d seen in the Prince Regent’s menagerie. He didn’t lumber. His footfalls didn’t thud upon the bare wooden floors.
Yes, there was something of the hunter about him. He had a wary slant to his dark eyebrows that perhaps spoke of a lifetime of knowing himself to be a bastard. It made him seem fierce, yet she sensed it was a vulnerable area.
Even the way he tried so hard not to notice her, along with the way he had abandoned her in the hall earlier, made her think perhaps he was not altogether sure of his own actions in tricking her.
Wedded Bliss Page 4
