Deceive Not My Heart

by Shirlee Busbee

  What part did Gaylord Easton play in her plans? he wondered as he swam. Or was it Gaylord's plan and Leonie only his tool? Somehow, Morgan doubted that. Leonie Saint-Andre had not left him with the impression that she would be anyone's tool.

  Pushing himself forcefully away from the rocky abutment, he did a precision turn, and then with his arms cutting cleanly through the crystalline, blue waters, he swam back and forth, his mind fully on Leonie Saint-Andre. He did not like what he was thinking either. She's too damned attractive, he admitted savagely, knowing he wouldn't have let her disappear out of his life even if she hadn't brought herself so summarily to his attention. Which left him where? Drawn irresistibly to a woman he perceived to be an unprincipled bitch?

  God damn it, no! he nearly shouted aloud, his stroke faltering a bit. But Morgan knew he lied, and stopping abruptly in the center of the pool, he treaded water, shaking his wet dark hair from his eyes. All right, so he'd like to bed the wench, he couldn't deny that, but despite his desire for her, he still wanted the little vixen exposed for the liar she was.

  Suddenly losing his pleasure in the swim, he left the pool and dragged his clothes on over his wet body. Seating himself at the base of a huge magnolia tree near where Tempete leisurely cropped tender spring grass and clover, Morgan plucked a blade himself and idly chewed on it as he continued to search for a way out of this snare.

  If it was money she was after, then of course, the easiest solution was to have her name her price and give her the damned money, he conceded. But that solution rankled. He hadn't married the bitch and wasn't about to be harassed into meeting her demands. Besides, paying her the money wouldn't solve his problem—with her gone he would still have to convince everyone else that she had lied and that the entire preposterous incident had merely been a scheme to bleed money from him.

  No, she was going to find out that Morgan Slade was not the easy gull she had first thought, he decided grimly, and that meant he had to play along with her until he had the proof he needed. He tossed away the mangled blade of grass, and feeling as if he now had a glimmer of a plan, he swiftly remounted Tempete and headed back towards the house.

  And so it was, as he rode along the narrow, tree-shaded little patch through the woods near Bonheur, that one way of turning the tables on Mademoiselle Saint-Andre occurred to him. The path ran in front of a large clearing, and glancing at it, Morgan's hands tightened unexpectedly on the reins, causing Tempete to dance angrily.

  A miniature of Bonheur sat serenely in the clearing, the forest flanking it on all three sides, and staring at the house Morgan suddenly smiled. Of course, Le Petit Bonheur.

  Le Petit Bonheur had been constructed three years earlier by Matthew in the hopes that a house separated from the main estate would encourage one of his bachelor sons to marry. Robert was thirty-one, Dominic already twenty-three, and Alexandre and Cassandre sixteen, rising seventeen, and Matthew was optimistically planning for the future. Someday, he hoped there would be several homes scattered across the thousands of acres of Bonheur, all of them housing the growing families of his sons, and Le Petit, as it was called, was the start of that very fervent hope. But so far, none of his three eldest sons seemed inclined to take advantage of the elegant little house. Until now, Morgan thought with a dangerous glitter in the dark blue eyes... until now....

  Chapter 13

  Leaving the path, Morgan approached the front of the house, staring at it thoughtfully. Le Petit was about half the size of Bonheur, and while it duplicated the broad columns, the wide verandas and the architecture of the main house, it had a charm of its own, the soft yellow glow of the walls and the glistening white columns pleasingly different from the cool green of Bonheur.

  Morgan rode slowly around the house, noting the kitchen, constructed as usual some distance from the building, and the stables that nestled under the verdant growth of the pines, oaks, and tupelo trees. Servants' quarters of brick were further along in the forest, each with its cleared little space for whatever food crops the blacks wished to grow for their own use. Turning Tempete back towards the main house, Morgan glanced at the latticed summerhouse that could be seen through the trees at the right of the house. Beyond it, he caught a glimpse of the same stream that formed the pool he had just left. Guiding the restive stallion around to the other side, he discovered a terrace and a boxwood garden, as well as another building just inside the forest line which he correctly took to be the office.

  Nudging Tempete into a brisk trot, he rode back towards the path, and stopping there, took another long look at the house. A fairy-tale house, in a fairy-tale setting, he thought sardonically, and a smile of pure deviltry lit his face. I wonder, he mused with unholy amusement, how my new bride will like it!

  Le Petit had given him an idea for a partial solution to block Leonie's further intrusion into his family. If he brought her here, she would be isolated from the rest of the family and would have fewer chances to work her wiles on his parents. She had claimed to be his wife; everyone seemed to believe her, so why not appear to give in gracefully? Precisely what sort of excuse he was going to offer to explain his reasons for denying her existence so vehemently last night, and supposedly deserting her, escaped him for the moment, as did any sort of explanation for his behavior with Melinda, but he was certain something would occur to him. Leonie Saint-Andre was going to discover she wasn't the only one who could lie through her teeth, he decided coldly.

  Appearing to acknowledge the validity of her claim was risky, even he would admit that. He would be branded a liar as well as several other more unpleasant things, but momentarily there was no other choice. As long as he denied her accusations, she would gather sympathy and supporters, but if he conceded defeat and did not deny her story, might that action disconcert his charming little wife?

  He rather thought it would, certain she'd had no intention of actually taking her place as his spouse. It was money that she was after, not social position, and he'd be willing to wager his inheritance that the last thing she wanted was a husband hung around her pretty neck. Something she was going to get with a vengeance, he promised with a wicked smile.

  It would also give him time to put someone to work on discovering exactly who this little bitch was and why she had chosen him for her scheme. Acknowledging her as his wife deftly took the offensive away from her and gave it to him, leaving her the one to then find a way to get herself out of the trap she had fallen into.

  The more Morgan thought of the idea, the more intrigued by it he became. There were, he reflected cynically, several aspects to having a wife that he was certain he would enjoy—that challenging mouth, for one and that delectable, slender body for another.

  A mocking smile on his lips, Morgan finally kicked Tempete into a gallop, suddenly eager for the commencement of battle—and a battle, he was certain, it was going to be!

  All of his earlier rage had disappeared, if not the bitter hurt and sharp disappointment of having his parents think him capable of villainy, and he was in a more normal, confident frame of mind. As for his parents, his current plan couldn't wound or distress them more than they already had been. They believed the worst of him, so who was he to deny it? The scandal and gossip currently flying from one plantation to another he dismissed contemptuously—next week there would be something else for the residents of Natchez to discuss, and the unexpected appearance of Morgan Slade's wife at his betrothal ball to Melinda Marshall would fade into the past.

  He might damn Leonie Saint-Andre for disrupting his life, but he was more alive and full of enthusiasm than he had been in months, perhaps even years. For the first time in far too long, he was actually looking forward to something, actually planning something instead of allowing weary disinterest to take him where it would. The tedious boredom that had been his constant companion was gone, and in its place there was a burst of excitement surging in his bloodstream and a pleasurable sense of expectancy that went to his head like wine.

  Morgan was almost happy whe
n he reached Bonheur—not quite, but almost—for, after all, he had always enjoyed a good fight, and the one shaping up gave all the appearances of being the most treacherous and yet exciting fight of his entire life. He was going to greatly enjoy crossing swords with Mademoiselle Saint-Andre!

  The house was stirring now, and when he approached the stables, he was met by Jeremy, the head groom. Tossing Tempete's reins to the man, Morgan sent him a carefree grin and slid from the back of the stallion.

  "He's had a good run, but I'd have him walked before turning him loose in the pasture," Morgan said by way of explanation.

  Morgan walked swiftly to the house, whistling as he went. He passed several servants busy about the house and greeted them cheerfully as he made his way towards his room. Behind him, looks of surprise and perplexity were exchanged—perhaps Master Morgan was happy his wife had come?

  Entering his room, Morgan began to strip off his shirt, calling for the very correct and very English valet he'd acquired during a trip to England years ago. "Litchfield, have someone prepare a bath for me, will you? I've been riding and can't go to the breakfast room smelling of the stables."

  Litchfield appeared from the dressing room, and his long, sallow face expressing disapproval, he said haughtily, "I assumed as much, sir, and took the liberty of ordering one some minutes ago. It should be ready any moment."

  "Is one permitted to know what led to that assumption?"

  Litchfield gave a condescending nod. "Of course, sir. I am, as you know, well acquainted with your wardrobe, so upon ascertaining what was missing and upon a further inquiry to the stables if one of the horses was missing, and having that confirmed, it was simple enough to come to the conclusion that you had gone riding."

  "I see. And have you also, er, ascertained what I am to wear this morning?"

  A scandalized look crossed Litchfield's face. "Naturally, sir! I have laid out the appropriate clothes on your bed."

  The hot water for the bath arrived just then, and a few minutes later Morgan was pleasurably immersed in warm, soapy water in the large brass tub which had been set up in his dressing room. A thin, black cigarillo was clenched between his teeth as he scrubbed, and glancing over at Litchfield's impassive face as the other man moved unobtrusively about unnecessarily straightening things, Morgan asked, "Have you heard the news?"

  Litchfield stopped his incessant fiddling and looked at Morgan. The two men had been together for over ten years, and except for those times when Morgan went haring off after adventures or simply did not want his services, Litchfield saw him daily. They shared a good relationship—Morgan delighting in finding ways to shake Litchfield from his stolid, almost pompous attitudes, and Litchfield equally delighting in rising above Master Morgan's unbecoming and ungentlemanly antics, determined not to betray by so much as a flicker of an eyelash anything but polite disdain.

  The valet was some fifty years old, and as he frequently relished informing Master Morgan, he had trained in the Duke of Leighford's household. He did his job well, and despite assuming a look of insulted reproachfulness, he had upon occasion acted as Morgan's butler—necessary to discourage a certain clinging mistress who could not believe that Mr. Slade had grown tired of the association—and he had even deigned to cook for the master when they had been stranded in an abandoned cottage on the Cornish coast during a raging storm when Morgan had been unable to make contact with the smuggler who would take him to France. And it had frequently been Litchfield whom Morgan relied upon to relay his messages from France to the Duke of Roxbury concerning the movements of Napoleon's troops. Morgan was unwilling to trust anyone but Litchfield, who always acted as if he were grievously offended at being asked to do something other than the normal duties of a gentleman's gentleman—even if he was hugely enjoying himself.

  Litchfield was not an imposing figure, being only an inch or two above average height, and was inclined towards stoutness. His hair was dark but had begun to thin, and his large, round eyes were a pleasant, unremarkable shade of brown. A long nose and a small, prim mouth completed the picture—all in all, a most forgettable face if it had not been for the expressive quality of those features, as Dominic had once remarked, Litchfield could sour an apple with a glance.

  At the moment, Litchfield's face expressed rigid distaste as he looked at Morgan. "My dear sir, I could hardly avoid it. The entire household is fluttering with it."

  Morgan removed the cigarillo from his mouth and to Litchfield's intense annoyance idly flicked the ash on the floor. "Believe it?" Morgan asked.

  One thin eyebrow soaring, Litchfield sniffed and said simply, "No."

  Morgan made a face. "Well, you my friend, are about the only one!"

  "Indeed, sir?"

  Taking a puff of the cigarillo, Morgan blew a cloud of blue smoke in the air. "Indeed, yes, Litchfield," he said cheerfully. "And you are about to be shown the error of your ways." Looking across at his valet, he said, "For the time being, I think you and I are going to find ourselves saddled with a household that comprises not only my wife... but apparently my child!"

  "Indeed, sir?" Litchfield repeated dryly, his face impassive.

  Morgan shot him a grin. "Yes, indeed! And you had better start packing my clothes—I'm going to have us all cozily settled in Le Petit by tonight."

  Litchfield merely nodded in acknowledgment and murmured, "Naturally, sir. I shall see that everything is taken care of."

  Having set the plan in motion, Morgan wasted little more time with his bath. Not fifteen minutes later, suitably attired in a superb fitting, olive green jacket and nankeen breeches, he walked purposefully towards Dominic's room. Not bothering to knock, he pushed open the door and finding Dominic still soundly sleeping, crossed the room and flung back the heavy drapes to let the bright sunlight cascade into the room.

  The light fell right across Dominic's face, and with a muttered curse, he turned on his stomach and pulled one of the pillows over his head; but Morgan would not let him off so easily. He pulled Dominic back over, shaking him ungently as he did so, and drawled, "Wake up, little brother. I have need of you."

  Groggily, Dominic regarded him. "Morgan, do you realize what time it is?" he growled.

  "Mmm. Shortly after eight, I believe," Morgan replied.

  Dominic groaned and attempted to hide from the sun again, but Morgan would have none of it. A hint of laughter in his voice, he said, "Dom, wake up! I need to ask you a few questions about last night. And I haven't much time."

  Knowing further sleep was going to be impossible if Morgan was determined to talk to him, Dominic capitulated. Muttering under his breath, he turned over and sat up in bed, pushing a huge, white pillow behind him. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and then running a hand through his rumpled black hair, he asked resignedly, "All right, what is it? What do you need to know?"

  Morgan sat down on the edge of the bed and said simply, "Tell me your impression of my... er... wife."

  Suspiciously, Dominic studied him. "Why? What are you up to? What are you going to do?"

  A glitter in the blue eyes that made Dominic decidedly uneasy, Morgan replied innocently, "Do? Why nothing, my dear brother, except acknowledge my wife. What else would I do?"

  Dominic's black brows lowered in a scowl. "I thought you said you'd never seen her before." At the expression on Morgan's face, he added hastily, "If you married her, you should know more about her than I do!"

  "If, Dom? You have doubts?"

  Uncomfortably, Dominic said, "She tells a convincing tale, Morgan. On the other hand, I find it difficult to believe you would do as she claims. I don't really know which one of you to trust, and so for the moment, I'm giving you both the benefit of doubt."

  "Generous, Dom." Morgan said dryly.

  "Well, damn me! What else can I do? She had the bloody papers, Morgan!" Dominic snapped. "And it's your damned signature on the bottom of them. She's not just some little tart, either. She's a lady bred and born—anyone can see that!" Almost sulkily he finished,
"And father thinks the child is your very image at the same age!"

  Morgan shrugged. "Father would! Especially if he's made up his mind that she is my wife!"

  "I'll grant you, you're probably right about that, but it still doesn't explain the marriage papers or the agreement to pay her back the dowry."

  "No, it doesn't, does it?" Morgan agreed amiably. "Which is why I need your help, little brother. What else did you learn of her—besides the fact that she is... a lady bred and born?"

  Aware that Morgan wasn't going to be deterred Dominic said grudgingly, "Not too much. She seemed reluctant to talk much about herself, but apparently, as she told us all at Marshall Hall, her grandfather arranged the marriage when he learned he hadn't long to live. She says she met you at Gayoso's and decided you were the proper man to entrust her future to. I understand she wasn't given much choice in the matter and that she didn't precisely want to marry you, but her grandfather, more or less, forced her into it." Dominic stopped abruptly and glared at Morgan. "Why in the hell am I telling you this? You were there—you heard what she said!"

  His face infuriatingly bland, Morgan said with suspect diffidence, "Oh, I merely wondered if my recollection of last night tallied with yours. And I was hoping that perhaps once I was no longer present, that my dear, er, wife might have mentioned a few other things that she neglected to speak of in front of me."

  "Like what?"

  Morgan shrugged carelessly. "Like why she waited until now to reveal herself. Why now, after all these years, does she want to take her place as my wife? Why didn't she find me after the child was born?"

  Dominic sent him a long thoughtful stare. "She doesn't want to take her place as your wife now. Even I gathered that from last night. What she wants is for you to repay the dowry you received from her grandfather, and that, according to her, is the only reason why she has come to Natchez."