The Butler Did It (29 page)

“Poor oppressed darling,” Fanny said, reaching over to plant a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek, because she knew he'd dislike such a gesture. “Ah, Edgar, I'll say it again. We're a fine pair, a fine pair.”

“And soon to be very rich,” Edgar said, allowing her to rest her head against his shoulder because she was, after all, a fine woman. Very nearly a match for him.

“Yes,” Fanny said, sighing. “You know, you were right about those trunks of yours. I'm beginning to become quite attached to all that sparkly looking gold up
stairs. Nothing quite so satisfying as making it yourself, is there?”

Olive Norbert put a hand to her mouth, which happened to be full of the cold pork chop she'd just filched from the kitchens, and ran back from whence she'd come, the servant stairs. She descended the narrow, steep flights with some effort, some heavy breathing, and while fighting the stinging behind her eyes.

What to do? What to do? She hated them, how she hated them! Hated Fanny Clifford. She could not quite bring herself to hate Sir Edgar, because he probably had not meant what she'd heard him say up there. Her Ed-gie was merely a man, and fickle, as men were wont to be. He would pay court to both she and Fanny, until such time as he realized that a soft pillow was years better than a paltry chicken breast of a bosom.

And, if he didn't, she could show him the way, couldn't she? When he had only one to choose from, he could do nothing else but choose her. Yes, she'd have to do that.

But first…first she would see about the trunks in Ed-gie's rooms, because it had sounded as if he might be hiding something from her. If that were the case, he would also feel her wrath.

With tears in her eyes and anger in her heart (and the pork chop in her pocket), Olive Norbert plucked the large key labeled Bedchambers from the board she'd seen in the hallway outside the knife room, and headed back toward the servant stairs.

 

E
MMA HANDED HER WRAP
and gloves to Riley (who had all but given up seeing another penny from any of the Cliffords), then headed for the stairs, intent on putting as much distance between herself and his lordship as she could before he said something terrible like: “Would you care for a small sherry in my study, Miss Clifford?”

Not that he'd said above two words to her all evening. Not a word about what had happened in his study last night, or that first night. Not a word about what had passed between him and Jarrett Rolin.

But the heat? That was still there, emanating from his eyes, from the way he walked, even from the way he kept silent. She could feel that heat, and because it drew her she would run away. She should have run away the first time she saw him. The first time he'd looked at her with such intensity. The first time her heart had fluttered.

“Miss Clifford, would you care for some sherry? I have some downstairs here, in my study.”

Emma shook her head, her back still turned to him. “I very nearly had that word-for-word,” she said, then put her hand on the newel-post. “No, thank you, my lord. We've been nattering on so all evening, I fear we've run out of conversation.”

“Riley? Don't you have somewhere else to be?”

“Yes, my lord, and that I do,” the footman said, and all but skipped from the foyer, to pass beyond the baize door to the servant's section of the mansion.

“I fear I must insist, Miss Clifford,” Morgan said,
even as Emma climbed to the third step, refusing to break into a run, because then she would appear afraid of him. And she wasn't. She was afraid of herself…and that heat.

“Oh, very well,” she said, turning on the step and descending again, all but slamming her slippered feet against the marble floor. “But only if you promise to tell me about Mr. Rolin. I would be delicate and say I sensed a certain coolness between you, but I am not that subtle. And, once you are done, you can then explain why it is all
my
fault.”

“Your fault?” Morgan shook his head, even as he put out his arm and escorted her into his study…or his den of iniquity, as he had begun to think about the room.

“Of course,” Emma said, settling herself into what she had begun to think of as her chair. “You and Mr. Rolin may have differences in your past, you may dislike the theater on general principles, why, you may even have that headache you ascribed to me, but when we dig deeply enough to reach the bottom of the thing, if I hadn't answered the advertisement and been camping out in your mansion, none of this would have happened.”

Morgan, his back turned as he poured her sherry, and himself a snifter of brandy, smiled as he said, “And Thornley is innocent? I fear you have not gotten entirely to the bottom, unless we also see there my once-trusted butler.”

Emma accepted the glass, then shrugged. “Oh, don't
blame Thornley, my lord. He is, after all, a valued family retainer. It is much easier to blame me.”

“Fair enough. You
can
be annoying,” he said as he sat down in the facing chair, then smiled, because she had the audacity to look shocked at his words. And, yes, there they were, those two flags of hot color rising in her cheeks.

“
I
am annoying? I am
annoying?
If that is not the pot terming the kettle black, my lord, I truly don't know what is. Or am I to suppose that I am the one who assaulted you, right here, in this study? Twice.”

“Once,” he corrected. “Twice for me, once for you. I have been keeping track, you know.”

“Oh! You're impossible. I agreed to come in here to learn about Mr. Rolin, not discuss…other things. You're no gentleman, my lord.”

“Not lately, no,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I was, once. Right up until the moment I awoke in my own bed, to hear your dear mother screaming to bring down the ceiling on my head.”

Emma placed her glass on the table beside her chair. “No, my lord. We will not go there again.”

“It's not a journey I wish to take, no,” he agreed, then sobered. “You want to know about Jarrett Rolin.”

“Wouldn't you, having witnessed what I did earlier this evening?”

Morgan sat back at his ease. “You know, Miss Clifford, young ladies are not supposed to be quite so direct.”

“Young ladies are not supposed to be alone in a
gentleman's study, most especially after what has already transpired between the two of us in this same room. Now. Mr. Rolin?”

“Is not a very nice man,” Morgan said, wondering where to begin, and likewise wondering if there were some way he, himself, might come off better in the telling. And, since there was no way to accomplish that bit of magic, he decided on the truth. “The Earl of Brentwood and I met Rolin five years ago, during our first Season. My only Season.”

“Yes, I had already deduced as much. It wasn't a pleasant encounter?”

“The meeting was pleasant enough,” Morgan said, smiling slightly. “It was the parting that wasn't quite as enjoyable. You see, Perry—Lord Brentwood—and I were young, and green, and sadly gullible. Rolin was older, quite popular, and when he deigned to take us up, make us a part of his entourage as it were, we were ignorant enough, and flattered enough, to believe the man might actually enjoy our company.”

“He didn't?”

Morgan took a sip of brandy. “There are in this world, Miss Clifford, people who insert themselves in the middle of a friendship just to have the best vantage point from which to watch when their machinations start a war.”

“I…I don't understand.” But that was a lie, because she did. “Are you saying that Mr. Rollin offered his
friendship, just so that he could turn you and the earl against each other—then stand back and watch what happened next? For his own amusement?”

“So you do understand. And I nearly killed my best friend, only to
amuse
Rolin, who would have been very much at home in the Coliseum, turning thumbs down on the gladiators. For my sins, I didn't realize this at once. It took several months of reflection for me, licking my wounds in the country, to see the genius of what he'd done. Act the friend to both, flatter both, and then begin whispering to both. According to the earl, he's still at it.”

“I liked him, at first.”

“And saw him for what he is much more quickly than either Perry or myself, for which I commend you.”

Emma was silent for some moments, then said, “Why did he come here this evening? Surely it could not have been to apologize.”

“Why he came here, Miss Clifford, might never be understood by either of us. But I do know how he departed, believing that you are important to me. That's why I wished to speak with you. I've given what I'm about to say serious consideration all evening. I cannot allow you to walk in the Square again, Miss Clifford, not without me. I cannot, in fact, allow you to go anywhere without me.”

“He'd…he'd want to hurt me?”

“No, Miss Clifford, he'd want to hurt me, and he be
lieves he has found the perfect way to do so. Now do you understand?”

Emma looked down at her hands, as if examining them for flaws. “And am I? What you said a few moments ago, that is—am I important to you?”

“It doesn't matter what I think, just what Rolin believes. And he won't give up. Not Rolin.”

Emma lifted her chin and looked at him levelly. “Then there's nothing else for it, I shall have to leave London and return home, as I shall not become a millstone around your neck, my lord.”

“Too late for that, Miss Clifford,” Morgan said, then smiled. “Would it be so terrible, being in my company?”

“I really do hate when you decide to be amusing,” Emma said, and got to her feet. “Now, if you'll excuse me, my lord?”

Morgan had also gotten to his feet, knowing he couldn't shout “No, don't go!”

He had to find another way, one that would keep her temper high enough that she might not realize that he was all but on his knees before her, begging her to stay. “Off to pack, Miss Clifford? Ah, but you've forgotten the ball in your honor Friday next, haven't you? The invitations have been delivered, the flowers and food ordered, the musicians already tuning their violins. I have, in short, gone to great expense for your benefit. Are you prepared to recompense me?”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

He might not yet know the way to her heart, but he had to commend himself as being unerringly astute at locating her temper. “Yes, I thought not. Therefore, Miss Clifford, you have no choice but to remain here, in London, stuck tightly to my side, until I can be assured that Rolin has been rendered harmless.”

Emma's eyes grew wide. “You…you wouldn't challenge him to a
duel?
”

“I try to pride myself on not making the same mistake twice, Miss Clifford. Duels solve nothing, even between enemies. No, I will find another way. Or not,” he added, stepping closer to her.

“Or not?” Emma repeated, stepping back a pace, because Morgan was looking at her
that
way again, the way that made her knees go all wobbly as she remembered being held tight in his arms, and what his mouth and hands had done to her.

“He would move on to greener pastures, once he realizes that I intend to make you my countess. Even Rolin would not dare his mischief then, for he's not a fool, and wishes to continue to move in Society.”

“I…I see no need for anything quite so…so desperate, my lord,” Emma said, or at least she thought she'd said the words; it was difficult to know, with her heart pounding so loudly in her ears.

Morgan placed his hands on her shoulders. “No?”

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “No? Um…I mean
no.
”

For five long years Morgan had fought to kill his temper, and in doing so, he had tamped down all his emotions, something he hadn't realized until this maddening woman had come into his life, arousing not his temper, but a whole new awareness. A never-before-experienced
joy.
He was alive again, for the first time in those five long years.

He wouldn't let her go.

“I can think of several reasons for doing something…desperate, Miss Clifford,” he said, then lowered his mouth within a breath of hers. “Your delectable lips…” he said, kissing her, before moving on, kissing each part as he said it “…your magnificent eyes…the perfect shell that is your ear…this one…um, yes, this one, too. Your enticing throat…the intriguing shadow, just here, between your sweet breasts…”

Somehow, Emma found herself lying on the carpet in front of the fireplace. How she'd gotten down there she had no idea, but here she was, and if she had been going to protest, she had certainly left it too late. Besides, one would need to feel a reason to protest, and all she could feel was Morgan's mouth on her, his hands on her…his body pressed against her…

A small part of Morgan knew that what he was doing was wrong. Another small part of him remembered that he had dismissed Wycliff for the evening, and that his bed was much more comfortable than the floor, no matter how soft the carpet or warm the glow from the fireplace.

But the rest of him, the majority of him, wouldn't have stopped what he was doing, feeling what he was feeling, not for what was right, not for a fine feather bed, not for the promise of immortality.

Because all there was now was the
now.
The feel of Emma, the taste of her, the mad rush of blood that sang in his head, rushed into his loins, filled his heart almost to bursting.

And when her arms went around him, when she sighed into his mouth, when she moved her lower body in a way that told him she wanted more, more, he shut down his mind and let his senses lead him where they may.

He ripped a seam in his jacket in his struggle to be rid of the formfitting thing, and nearly strangled himself in his effort to be rid of his neck cloth.

Moments later, spangles from Emma's gown littered the carpet like small, twinkling stars sparkling in the firelight, but the soft pink glow that fire cast on her bare breasts held all of Morgan's attention. He stripped off his shirt, eager to feel his flesh against hers, eager to cover her before maidenly embarrassment broke through the sensual fog he could see in her bewitching gray eyes.