Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  From across the distance, his hot, enticing gaze devoured her.

  Her thrumming body answered the call with an abandon she hadn’t known she possessed.

  Wending his way to her side, his focus never strayed as he agilely maneuvered around the guests.

  “Lady Atterberry. You look utterly entrancing this evening. A vision for this beleaguered one-eyed soldier to behold.” Wearing unadorned black evening togs, his hair pulled into a queue and tied with a narrow black satin ribbon, he emanated pure, virile power.

  A pleased blush stole up her cheeks, as he eyed her approvingly, a rakish gleam in his vivid blue eye. She’d never felt more feminine or attractive. “Thank you.”

  He bowed over her hand, casting a swift, covert glance around. “I have a confession to make,” he said playfully, straightening to his full, impressive height.

  Peering up at him, she arched a skeptical brow. “Oh dear. Do I dare ask what?”

  Who is this poised, flirtatious woman? Where’d the dowdy, timid bird go?

  As naturally as if they were old friends—no, no. Friends didn’t go all quivery in their middles when they touched—Morgan cupped her elbow and drew her slightly to the side.

  Not that he’d much space to do so, the room being packed with guests.

  He bent his neck, and she couldn’t haul her gaze from his.

  “I might’ve, ah, altered the seating arrangements for dinner. And been caught in the act by our hosts’ son. Allen kept watch at the dining room door until I finished.” Up to his neckcloth in devilry, he grinned. Unrepentant, wholly boyish, and absolutely charming.

  “And shall I approve of your presumptuousness, Captain?” Speaking of forwardness. From where had she summoned hers?

  “You shall if you would enjoy sitting beside me.” He cut an amused glance across the room. “Sterling might be miffed, however. You were to sit at his left.”

  Just as Alexa and Katrina glided into the room, absolutely ravishing in jeweled-toned gowns, Alexa’s ruby and Katrina’s sapphire, the dinner gong sounded. They gave her a little apologetic, fluttering finger wave as the guests sorted themselves into couples according to position and rank.

  Lord Sterling gave her a lengthy, considering look before his attention shifted to Morgan That same peculiar half-smile poised on his mouth, he extended his elbow to an elegant dame, dripping in jewels and layers of jonquil silk, and they led the dinner procession.

  Shona let her fan slip from her hand then oh-so-casually toed it beneath an oval table nestled against the silk-papered wall.

  “I’ve dropped my fan, Morgan.”

  Oh, well done you, Shona.

  You slipped in the use of his name as naturally as if you are on the most intimate of terms.

  And this, your very first attempt at feminine wiles.

  A rousing success, I dare say.

  She smiled up at him, and his sable brows climbed his forehead, his melodious chuckle pouring over her.

  “So I see.” He bent and, after retrieving the abused accessory, passed it to her. “We’ll be the last in.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t walking in on Lord Glasscock’s arm. He tries to look down my bosom and reeks of camphor. I’m afraid he intends to ask for my hand. Again.”

  “Again?”

  “Uh hum. He’s been most persistent since I came to London.”

  Morgan scratched his jaw. “Can’t say I blame the aged codger.”

  Though his tone remained light, a steely undercurrent she couldn’t identify seeped into his words.

  Minutes later, he held her chair, and as she slipped onto the seat, Shona took quick inventory. The chair to her right hadn’t been claimed, and she hadn’t been introduced to the people directly across from her. The Harcourts and Pendergasts sat several places away to her left. Other than Lord Sterling across the table, and three chairs down, she’d never uttered a word to anyone near her.

  Morgan gave the empty chair a perplexed, considering look before he sank into his chair.

  Someone bumped into her as they took their seat on her other side, and she automatically glanced over.

  Her mouth went dry as pavement in August.

  Mr. Le Draco snapped his serviette open, and as he placed it in his lap, gave her a frigid smile.

  Her nape hairs froze in place at his glacial regard.

  The lines of his face stony, his cool gaze cut to Morgan.

  Tension radiated, hostile and intense, between the men.

  Why, for all the saints in heaven, had Morgan seated her beside his father? The instinct to retreat into her diffident shell, to shyness’s safety and familiarity, nearly suffocated her.

  Morgan reached beneath the tablecloth and touched the back of her hand.

  Despite her upset, a pleasurable jolt raced up her arm.

  Taking a calming breath, she faced him, and he bent near her ear.

  “He told me he was leaving after our quarrel, and I haven’t seen him since. I think he’s only just come for dinner tonight. I swear, I wouldn’t ever seat him beside you.” The wrathful glance he fired his father would’ve sunk a schooner. “As much as I’m loath to admit it, his mind must’ve marched along the same path as mine, and he moved name cards.”

  “It’s fine,” she murmured.

  Not really. Sitting beside the arctic man, disdain pulsing off him, she’d be fortunate if she didn’t choke on her food.

  “I’m quite accustomed to dealing with unpleasant parents,” she said.

  Truth there.

  Och, crackers. She’d just called Morgan’s father difficult. And what if Mr. Le Draco had heard her?

  “We’re much alike, it seems.” The way Morgan said those five little words, his voice deep and husky, made her long to grab his hand, haul him into a dark nook, and beg him to kiss her.

  What a wanton she’d become in mere days.

  If anyone had told her a man she was newly acquainted with would have her throwing off a lifetime of restraints, taking risks she would’ve been petrified even to imagine before, she’d have called them daft or accused them of being foxed.

  At this rate, with all the sensual yearnings Morgan had stirred, she’d be quite ruined before the week ended. Maybe that ought to have been her wager.

  A wallflower’s wonderfully wicked wager.

  Despite the gravity of the situation, she quirked her mouth the teensiest bit.

  An immaculately-attired footman served the soup, and Shona turned her attention to the meal. She lifted the spoon with her left hand, and a little thrill tiptoed from shoulder to waist when Morgan did as well.

  Such an insignificant thing, perhaps, but one more they had in common.

  Absorbed in her musings, trying to sort through her tumultuous feelings and determine what she should do about them, she ate in silence for several minutes.

  Morgan seemed as disinclined to converse, though he did answer the questions put to him by the elderly dame seated on his other side.

  Mr. Le Draco spoke not at all, but attended to his food with gusto, accompanied by noisy slurping, chomping, and an occasional belch.

  She peeked at him from beneath her lashes once and nearly dropped her fork to find him staring at her, his steely countenance all peeved angles and irritated planes.

  Whyever was he vexed with her?

  Over the course of the meal, she met Morgan’s gaze several times. They also shared an equal number of polite smiles.

  Something weary and haunting lingered in his.

  By the time the final course was served, she and Morgan had exchanged short, mundane comments on every superficial topic from the stifling heat to the flower arrangements atop the table.

  His father’s presence cast a sobering ambiance—more like a wet, smelly horse blanket—on what she’d anticipated being an enjoyable affair.

  She couldn’t wait to escape his company.

  The first slight bump to her arm Shona assumed accidental. After all, the table was crowded. However, t
he second, firmer nudge had been deliberate.

  No doubt about it.

  Nonetheless, she pretended absorption in her trifle.

  She most definitely didn’t want to talk to Mr. Le Draco, the odious man.

  That day on the terrace, he’d looked at her like she was pond scum, and tonight, as if she were so far beneath his touch, he wanted to tread upon her as one would a bothersome insect.

  A harder prod to her forearm couldn’t be ignored.

  Lips meshed into a thin hard line, she quickly scanned the guests to see if anyone had noticed.

  A slight frown pulled Lord Sterling’s dark brows together as he regarded Mr. Le Draco. He raised his unusual gray-green eyes to her, a question in their depths.

  An astute man was Lord Sterling.

  She managed a benign smile, despite fuming inwardly.

  How dare Mr. Le Draco poke her like he was selecting ripe fruit from the market, the overbearing oaf? A gentleman would’ve addressed her, rather than treat her like a pin-cushion or ripe plum.

  Summoning an indifferent expression, Shona peaked a brow and dispassionately met his gaze.

  What?

  “My son hasn’t been able to find employment since his accident.” He picked a piece of food from his teeth then studied the chunk of meat.

  Barely refraining from skewing her mouth in distaste, she crumpled her napkin in a stranglehold instead.

  Maybe she’d offer Morgan the stewardship position at Wedderford Abbey.

  The delicious, oh-so-brilliant notion took hold, curling around her inside like a contented cat, lazing in the sun.

  A perfect solution.

  He required a position.

  She required a bailiff.

  And it was sure to infuriate his father.

  All the more appealing.

  “Morgan was supposed to take over my plantation for me. But it seems he’s turned his sights on you instead.” Hostile condescension riddled every brusque syllable.

  She arched her brow higher.

  Indeed?

  How could this stony, calculating creature be Morgan’s sire?

  Mr. Le Draco raked his disapproving regard over her, lingering far too long on the swell of her breasts above her bodice. He scratched his hawkish nose, then yawned rudely.

  “S’pose it’s easier to marry money than earn it yourself.”

  Morgan jerked his head toward his father as Shona suppressed a gasp, her face draining of color.

  Damn his eyes!

  Morgan couldn’t very well lean in front of her and tell his father to bugger off, the lying cur. Instead, he determined to redirect her attention before anyone else caught wind of the situation.

  He’d deal with Father later.

  Striving to control his ire, he spoke low to Shona. “Lady Atterberry, would you do me the honor of a stroll outdoors after dinner?”

  Actually, he needed to get her alone, and after tolerating the fuggy dining room for upward of an hour, everyone was apt to stampede outside at the first opportunity.

  Never mind that.

  He knew the estate well, and a few secluded niches remained.

  Hands folded primly in her lap, her confusion evident, she bit her lower lip.

  He hated the leeriness that had crept into her big, soulful eyes. Loathed the splotches of scarlet on her cheekbones replacing the paleness Father’s calculated words had caused.

  Morgan dared catch her fingers in his beneath the tablecloth and give them a little reassuring press. “Please. I can explain. He’s lying.”

  Her smile tremulous, she gave an infinitesimal nod. “I—”

  Lady Wimpleton stood. “Ladies, shall we go through?”

  Shona placed her serviette beside her plate, softly murmuring, “I’ll meet you in the conservatory at half-past nine.”

  The flood of relief that washed over Morgan should’ve worried him. He was too attached already, as improbable as that was. No good could come of continuing to spend time with Shona, and he’d been a selfish arse to ask her to this morning.

  It wasn’t fair to lead her on.

  Others would echo Father’s ugly accusation—at least the fortune-hunting part.

  Instead, Morgan secretly rejoiced.

  She’d agreed to see him alone.

  He’d seize that crumb and cherish it.

  Every bit the majestic lady, Shona didn’t spare Father a glance as she departed, the Duchess of Harcourt on one side and the Duchess of Pendergast on the other.

  Morgan leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Through half-closed eyes, he regarded his father. “Your tactics won’t work, you know. I’m not after her money. I’m well aware I have nothing worthy to offer, for which you are partially to blame.”

  Father shrugged, his smile just short of evil. “The gel doesn’t know that. I’ve planted the suspicion. Now, she’ll wonder if everything you do and say has an ulterior motive.”

  “Go. To. Hell.” Morgan tossed his serviette on his plate and stood.

  Fury tunneling through his veins, the truth of Father’s words thundering in his head, he strode from the dining room. He didn’t give a beggar’s scorn that port and cigars followed dessert. If he didn’t remove himself from Father’s presence, he might well shuck any civility he yet possessed and lay him out.

  Very real trepidation, worse than anything he’d experienced as a soldier, clawed at his lungs with each jagged breath he took.

  Reaching inside his pocket for his watch, he cursed. He’d sold it two months ago.

  Humiliating as hell to be in such damned low water. As he stalked down the corridor to the entry, he examined the longcase clock.

  Over an hour ’til he met Shona.

  If she showed up.

  He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

  It wasn’t fair or honorable to continue encouraging her. He’d rather lose his other eye than hurt her, but she’d sidled into his blood. No, she’d annihilated his carefully-erected ramparts and burrowed into the fortified shell he’d surrounded himself with.

  Then she’d blinked those large, poignant eyes, and he was lost. She’d brought him more pleasure and optimism in the few days he’d known her than he’d ever anticipated experiencing again.

  Yes, he was a selfish arse.

  Yes, for her sake, he ought to pack his meager belongings and depart the house tonight, though God alone knew where he’d go.

  And yes, he may very well regret this growing obsession—probably would—but much like an opium addict craving a pipe or a tippler hankering for a tot of whisky, Morgan ached for her company.

  He yearned to see her winsome smile and the way her expressive, thick-lashed eyes lit with intelligence or radiated untainted joy. To hear her unusually low musical voice, the lyrical song of her rare laughter, to smell her delicious citrusy essence.

  And when she gazed or peeked at him, shy and adoring, as if he were a vanquishing hero slaying mythical dragons, he was willing to risk all. Him. A warped, beastly-faced man who never thought to have any woman look on him with such tenderness or desire again.

  None of this made any bloody sense.

  He would’ve laughed at and mocked another fellow in his situation.

  Would’ve called him an addle-brained fool.

  Morgan dreaded awaking and discovering this was all the dream of a disfigured man desperate for love and acceptance.

  Pathetic and pitiable.

  Glancing behind him, the quiet, empty corridor a gross misrepresentation of the house brimming with England’s finest denizens, he blew out a deep breath.

  To the lake then for a jot of peace and quiet. The exercise would also help alleviate his ire. Besides, he always ruminated better outdoors.

  He let himself out the front entry, welcoming the slightly cooler temperature.

  Dusk had fallen, and a few brave stars peeked out, scouting the sky.

  As Morgan tramped from the terrace, he automatically headed in the greenhouse’s direction. He welcome
d the gravel grinding beneath his heels, his irate steps echoing the litany of ugly thoughts cracking about in his head.

  A person wasn’t supposed to dislike his parents.

  It went against nature.

  Yet, the man Morgan had just left smirking at the table hadn’t ever behaved like a loving, concerned father. It had taken Morgan years to understand the flaw was his father’s, not his.

  Shona, too, had suffered greatly because of a parent—her mother.

  He’d had done a bit of sleuthing this afternoon. Finding the Duke of Harcourt in the stables, he’d introduced himself.

  Morgan’s lungs constricted, and his blood surged hotly once more when he recalled what the duke had told him about Shona’s mother. No wonder she feared making mistakes.

  Harcourt had said something else too. Something that had given Morgan hope. Until Father opened his foul mouth at dinner and spewed his usual toxic poison.

  “I knew Alexa was the woman for me the first time I laid eyes on her,” Harcourt had said, stroking a bay’s neck. He veered Morgan a sideways glance. “She was held captive in a Scottish fortress, and I helped rescue her.” He grinned, pointing to his eye. “She punched me.”

  Morgan had laughed, automatically touching his eye patch.

  “She packed quite a wallop too, I tell you.”

  “Your Grace, might I ask why you’re telling me this?” Morgan hadn’t been sure what to expect from the infamous Duke of Harcourt, but a cordial discussion, a personal conversation, hadn’t topped the list.

  Harcourt stopped petting the horse and angled his head the merest bit, his expression inscrutable.

  “Shona deserves happiness.” Notching a shoulder upward, he scratched his eyebrow. “She’s of age, so I don’t really have a say in what she does. But, I won’t stand in the way if you wish to court her.” His tone became unyielding iron. “However, hear me well. You hurt her, and you’ll answer to me. I’m a powerful man, Le Draco. One you do not want to cross.”

  A blessing and a threat in the same sentence.

  Still, that chat had lit a scrap of hope in Morgan, albeit a miniscule one. And that confidence had grown when Shona had been so endearingly obvious in the drawing room. Father’s rancor had doused Morgan’s spark of optimism as efficiently as a bucket of water poured over a candle.