The Butler Did It (30 page)

They kissed, deeply, then kissed again, and Emma's hands roved over his back, her fingertips digging into his skin as he lifted himself slightly, to push her gown down, down, over the flare of her hips.

“My God,” he breathed into her ear as, shed of his
breeches, he sank against her once more, careful not to put his full weight on her, but unwilling to ask her if he should stop, because she might say yes.

“I…I don't know what to do,” Emma told him breathlessly. “But…but I must do
something.
”

“Just let me love you,” he told her, capturing one breast in his hand and trailing kisses down her throat, across her silky-smooth flesh, until he could capture one sweet, rosy nipple in his mouth.

Again she moved against him, lifted herself to him. And when he tried to raise his head, she grabbed at his ears and pulled him back to her.

Laughing softly in his throat, he ministered to her again, for she might not know what to do, but clearly had already learned what she liked, and was not shy in asking for it.

He moved his attention to her other breast, then dragged his mouth down her smooth belly as she raised up to meet him. He kissed her hip, tongued her navel, pressed kisses on the insides of her thighs…

“Morgan, I—” She sounded suddenly panicked.

“I know, sweetness, I know,” he said, moving back up her again, to kiss her ears, her hair. “It's too soon for that. But we've got forever. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Shut up,” she breathed into his ear, her tone a caress, even if her words came from someplace inside her that must owe much of its existence to her paternal grandmother, who had been, if anything, too tepid in her description of the joys of lovemaking.

Because she
wanted.
She wanted
so much.
So when Morgan insinuated a leg between her thighs, then lifted himself, positioned himself, she smiled against his chest, feeling no fear, no apprehension. Just anticipation.

There was pain, but it was fleeting, and then he was moving inside her, and she was moving with him, climbing toward an unknown something that lay just out of reach…then closer…then closer…then…

Morgan caught her startled exclamation with his mouth as he pushed himself deep inside, held her tightly, and gratefully surrendered himself to the inevitable.

 

D
APHNE HEARD THE SCREAM
that was so suddenly cut off, and raced from the drawing room, where she had been patiently waiting for Emma and dreaming sweet daydreams about her dearest Aloysius.

“Mother Clifford!” she shouted, as doors opened and footsteps could be heard running from everywhere, including a swollen-mouthed Claramae and a clearly frustrated Riley, who seemed to appear from the alcove holding the statue of Venus.

But that wasn't important. What was important was that her mother-in-law was lying on her stomach halfway down the staircase, her head positioned toward the first floor, her skirts over that head, exposing two skinny legs and a rump pointed toward the second-floor landing.

“In the name of all the saints!” Riley said, and raced to assist Fanny.

Daphne also ran to her, pulled up the disheveled skirts, then thanked the good Lord that the old woman was already beginning to moan. “Oh, I thought you were dead. Gone To Your Heavenly Reward.”

Fanny looked up at her even as she struggled to right herself and sit on one of the steps. “Don't be in such a rush, you twit, for I plan to haunt you.
Ooh,
every bone in my body is broken. Bloody marble steps.” She grabbed Daphne's arm. “Did you see him? Did he get past me?”

“See who, Mother Clifford? I didn't see anybody. Riley? Did you see anyone?”

“Yes, did you see anybody, boy?” Fanny, climbing Riley as one would a tree, hand-over-hand, got to her feet at last, and descended the few remaining stairs to the first floor, wincing as she went.

“No, ma'am, and that I didn't. Here, let me help you into the drawing room. Claramae, fetch Mr. Thornley.”

“Don't fuss, I'm fine,” Fanny said, but she moaned as she lowered herself onto one of the couches, and allowed Daphne to raise her legs onto the cushions, even cover her with her shawl. “I just want to know who pushed me.”

Daphne sat down, right on the low table between the two couches. “Push…
pushed
you?”

“That's what I said, yes,” Fanny said, trying to reposition herself on the cushions, because her hindquarters were beginning to pain her, as she'd managed to catch hold of the rail at first, and had bumped down half the
flight on her haunches before that last inelegant pitch forward. “Why else would I tumble down the stairs?”

Daphne took a deep breath, which served to bring the smell of strong spirits to her nose. “Mother Clifford, You've Been Drinking!”

“So what? I can drink two sailors under the table, and always could. I was pushed, I tell you, so stop looking at me as if I'm some dotty old fool who doesn't know when she's been pushed.”

And then she shut up, because she suddenly realized who could have pushed her. Edgar. Edgar, who would have all the money if she didn't need her half because she was interred in the family mausoleum. Edgar, who had seemed so friendly, so—if not overjoyed, at least tolerant of her inclusion in their little game.

“Mother Clifford, are you sure you're all right? You…you look… Rather Strange.”

“What? Oh. Oh, no, I'm fine,” Fanny said quietly. “Where is Sir Edgar?”

“I'm here, Fanny,” he said, and she looked up to see him standing behind the couch, his complexion pale. He put out a trembling hand and she raised hers, allowed him to squeeze her fingers. “Please tell me you're all right.”

Fanny smiled. No, it wasn't Edgar. She knew her men, and the old fool was genuinely upset. Possibly because she may have cracked her head, become delirious and begun mumbling all about painting bricks gilt…but he
was
genuinely upset. “I fell, Edgar.”

“Yes, my dear lady, I know. You rest now. Thornley has sent someone for the doctor.”

“Indeed, Mother Clifford. Aloysius will See To Everything.”

“Aloysius? Who the blazes is that?” Fanny asked, then closed her eyes. “Maybe I am a little…muddled.”

Everyone was in the drawing room now. Everyone excepting Morgan and Emma, who had tiptoed across the foyer, passed through the baize door and then raced up the servant stairs to change into their nightclothes before descending the main staircase as if risen from their (separate) slumber.

Also missing was Olive Norbert, who had locked herself in her rooms, ink stains on her lips and tongue as she nibbled on her pen, squinting at her spelling of
Hattchure
and patiently waiting for someone to come tell her that Fanny Clifford was dead.

Not that Olive still wanted Sir Edgar, once her dearest Ed-gie, but now the man who had broken her maidenly heart. Not once he'd shown himself for a two-timing rotter and, worse, teasing her with one small lump of gold when he had trunks full of the shiny stuff in his dressing room.

And then, just to make matters worse, she'd seen the list on his dresser, the list of names, with hers and even Mrs. Timon's on it. The only other name she recognized was that of John Hatcher.

Edgar was taking all their money, using it to make
gold with his great discovery of that alchemist-trical business, and planning on keeping it for himself and that man-stealing Clifford woman.

Olive's anger was all directed at Edgar, now.

Pushing a drink-clumsy Fanny down the stairs had been simply getting some of her own back, that's all. Justice.

Carrying away all that lovely gold she'd seen in Ed-gie's dressing room was also justice, Olive knew, even if she needed a man to do the toting, and therefore had to share her fortune with John Hatcher. But she knew she could trust him. He was, after all, a toff.

“C
OME ON, DARLIN
'
. I know just the place where we can be all alone and by ourselves.”

“Riley, no, I daresn't,” Claramae said, rebuttoning her gown. “Me mum said never to give away what you should by rights pay for.”

“Money? It's money you'd be wanting? Oh,
aingeal,
it's money I've got. I've got me fistfuls of money.”

“Not money, Sean Riley,” Claramae said, trying to push past him, out of the alcove. “A weddin' ring, that's what you have to pay for.”

“A wedding ring, is it? Me? I'm no more than eight and twenty. Little more'n'a boy. You'd put a collar on a baby,
aingeal?
”

Claramae didn't answer him. She was much too occupied in blinking wide eyes at the Marquis of Westham, who had taken up position on the opposite side of the hallway, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched. And listened. “Oh, Lawks,” she said, then lifted her skirts and ran for it.

“Claramae! Blimey,” Riley said to himself. “It was so close I was this time, too.”

“Not really, Riley,” the Marquis of Westham said evenly.

“My lord!” Riley spun about to face Morgan, his complexion pale enough for Morgan, if he so desired—and he didn't—to be able to count every freckle on the footman's cheeks.

“I thought I told you to stay away from the maids, Riley.”

“And that you did, my lord. It's just Claramae, you understand. All that lovely bosom…”

“There is that,” Morgan said, allowing the ghost of a smile to soften his features. “Very well, consider yourself the recipient of a pithy lecture on gentlemanly behavior, and we'll move on to other matters.”

“Yes, my lord, thank you, my lord. Other matters? And by that you'd be meaning Mr. Clifford, sir?”

“Oh, yes, definitely Mr. Clifford. But first, I'd like you to explain this business about fistfuls of money, if you don't mind.”

Riley coughed into his fist, for he had nearly swallowed his tongue. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, Riley. Oh. That. It was my understanding from Thornley that you have managed to spend every bit of your ill-gotten gains, those being your gains, Riley, at my expense these past three years.”

Riley looked down at his toes. No inspiration there. So he looked up to the ceiling. No, none there, either.

“Has Mr. Clifford been paying you to accompany him about town, Riley?”

Ah! Lord bless the man for helping him. Riley arranged his features in an expression of shame. “I tried to naysay him, my lord, and that's a fact, but he would insist.”

“I should have guessed as much, I suppose. You've been entirely too eager to be of service and, as I refused to line your pockets, you found another way. What amazes me is that Mr. Clifford has the blunt to spare, considering the fact that you've been bringing me stories of the two of you touring the Tower, and several libraries, where the boy purchases a multitude of books. Mostly sermons, I believe you said.”

“Well, my lord, that might have been just a small bit of a fib,” Riley said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It's really more like Mr. Clifford had himself a good run of luck at a dice toss I happened to lead him to, begging your kind indulgence, my lord.”

“All right, Riley, I don't think I wish to hear anything more. Just keep close to Mr. Clifford, and keep yourself as far from Claramae as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord, that I do.”

Morgan watched the footman scurry off down the hallway, and sighed. How had he gotten himself involved with a footman? Oh, yes, he remembered now. He'd done it to reassure Emma, who would otherwise worry herself sick about her feckless brother.

He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Not quite half past eleven. With a clearly insulted Wycliff banished to a room on the top floor this past week, the arrangement had been that Emma joined him in his bedchamber at midnight each night, to return to her own chambers just before dawn.

It was a shabby arrangement, and he'd be ashamed of himself if he wasn't so thoroughly enjoying that same self.

They did attend some parties, but mostly during the day, and then only making an appearance at two evening gatherings each night, before heading back to Grosvenor Square.

In public, his cold stare had managed to depress the pretensions of the fortune hunters, the half-pay officers and the dozen or so very acceptable and eligible bachelors who seemed besotted with her…until they met that cold stare.

He was certain Perry had been laughing at him each time they happened to meet, but he didn't care.

Fanny Clifford didn't seem to be alarmed by his attentions to her granddaughter. She'd had to take to her bed for several days after her fall, for one thing, but was now getting around again, slowly, and walking with a stick. Mostly she spent her days closeted with Sir Edgar, either in his chamber or hers. Either that, or they were in the main drawing room, sending dagger glances at anyone who might attempt to take their own ease in that room.

The drawing room? Yes, Morgan decided. That's where he'd left his copy of
Paradise Found;
either there or the morning room. There was a particular passage he wanted to read to Emma.

He walked over to the closed doors, and opened them just in time to hear Fanny Clifford's cackle. “Ha! Stap me and my broken and bruised backside if that's not ten million pounds you owe me now, Edgar. Here—deal.”

“I think I liked you better feeble, and leaning on me for support,” Sir Edgar said, picking up the cards with both hands, then noticing Morgan, and looking at him with all the joy of a man who has just spied a moth hole in his best coat. “Oh, good evening, my lord. Is there something you require?”

Yes. He required his mansion back! Not that he'd say that, not when Fanny Clifford had been winking at him each time he saw her, almost as if she knew exactly what was going on every night after midnight. She seemed delighted by the notion, in fact, naughty old woman.

“I was just searching for my book, Sir Edgar,” Morgan said after a cursory look around the room.

“Reading? Didn't think you had the time, boy,” Fanny said, and winked.

Morgan bowed, to be polite, and to hide the sure shock that showed on his face, and took himself off to the morning room to continue his search.

Once more he had to open a door closed to him in his own house, and once more he found the room to be oc
cupied, this time by Mrs. Daphne Clifford and—good God. Thornley? Thornley, sitting close beside Daphne Clifford, holding both her hands in his? Thornley, with his lips pressed to Daphne Clifford's lips?

Morgan quietly shut the door.

No wonder nobody cared what he and Emma were doing. They were
all
doing it!

 

E
MMA KNEW
she was late. She had purposely remained in her rooms until half past the hour, pacing the floor, not wanting to linger, but not wanting to seem too predictable, either.

After all, it had been nearly a week.

Yes, Morgan had spoken of marriage. Eventual marriage. He'd spoken of plans to announce their engagement at the ball tomorrow—just at midnight, which he seemed to consider romantic.

But not a word of love had passed between. Not one.

There was passion, definitely. There was even laughter along with the kisses.

But not a word of love.

She could hear Claramae in the dressing room, fumbling about as she prepared for bed, and at last decided that she could wait no longer. Morgan might take it into his head to come find her, and she doubted Claramae's sensibilities could survive the shock.

With one last look in her mirror, Emma exited into the hallway and tiptoed down the servant stairs to the sec
ond floor, peeking around the corner to be sure the hallway was clear before racing to Morgan's door and quickly entering his chambers.

“Where were you?”

She hadn't even gotten the door shut, and already he was at her. Good. She wanted to be angry anyway.

She turned and leaned her back against the door, trying not to melt as she caught sight of him in his dressing gown, his hair disheveled as if he'd been running his fingers through it in distraction.

“I didn't think I was to appear at any precise time, my lord, as if on command. I could have fallen asleep, or even decided not to visit you tonight. I could do that, you know.”

Morgan held up his hands. “You're right, and I'm an idiot. I'm sorry, Emma. But…but, my God, woman, I think I'm running a brothel!”

Emma blinked. “I beg your pardon,” she said coldly. “Or did I mishear you when you said, repeatedly, that you will be announcing our engagement tomorrow evening, and that the only reason you have not already done so was because Society would see any earlier announcement to be extremely rushed? Although ten days' acquaintance certainly will never have you charged with dragging out our courtship to interminable lengths.”

“No, no, you don't understand me, Emma,” Morgan said, taking her hands in his and leading her over to the bed. “It's not
us.
We've anticipated our marriage, I grant you, but we
know
what we are doing.”

“Do we?” Emma asked, deserting the bed, and him, to sit in one of the chairs on either side of the fireplace. “At times, my lord, I question exactly what it is we are doing. Tiptoeing down the servant stairs at midnight? It's almost shoddy. No, it
is
shoddy.”

Morgan knew she was right. He hated what they were doing, what he'd talked her into doing, but he had his reasons. He didn't want Jarrett Rolin close to her until their engagement was announced, but he couldn't live without her once he'd been with her, touched her, loved her. He was a selfish bastard, trying to cloak himself in reasonable excuses, and he was ashamed of himself.

Not enough to spend a night without her by his side….

“Tomorrow night, Emma,” Morgan said, taking up the facing chair. “Tomorrow night, and everyone will know that you will be my wife. I've already written to my mother, so that she doesn't hear about our engagement from anyone else. Monday, we will leave for Westham, to post our banns.”

“Really,” Emma said, rather impressed but not willing to let him know that. “You seem to have taken care of everything, haven't you, Morgan?”

“Not everything,” he said, smiling at her. “I've yet to kiss you today.”

“Only because you were so very busy railing at me for having the audacity to keep you waiting.”

“I know, I know, I'm a terrible person, and I cannot ask you to forgive me, although I will. It's…it's just that…”

“This mansion has been turned into a brothel, I believe you said. Now, if you were not referring to us, what precisely do you mean?”

Once, Morgan had decided, he'd not been in control of his temper. Now he seemed to have conquered his temper, but all the rest of his life had turned upside down.

He rubbed at his forehead. “Where do I begin? Riley, pawing Claramae in every corner? Your grandmother, constantly closeted with Sir Edgar, when she's not acting the madam and winking at me—because she knows what we're doing, Emma. The woman doesn't miss a trick.”

“I know,” Emma said, lowering her head to hide her blush. “She pressed some money at me this afternoon, telling me to go to Bond Street and find nightwear more suitable for a man's eyes.”

Morgan smiled in spite of himself. “Then she must be beyond it, Emma, for all her stories of her lurid past. I prefer you in no nightwear at all.”

“You're incorrigible,” Emma said, laughing, for any maidenly modesty she might have brought with her from the country had packed up and traveled back there without her since the first time Morgan had made love to her. “And proud of yourself.”

“Yes, I am, rather. But to get back to what I was saying. I was searching for my volume of
Paradise Found
tonight, and first stumbled over Riley and Claramae, then interrupted your grandmother and Sir Edgar. Fi
nally, in the morning room, I nearly disturbed your mother and Thornley, although the way the two of them were kissing, I doubt they'd have noticed if I'd marched in there, beating a drum.”

Emma got up and walked toward the bed, untying the ribbons at the neckline of her dressing gown and letting it slide to the floor before slipping beneath the covers. “She knows it's not proper, but she can't help herself, and neither, I suppose, can Thornley. But, as she is happier than I've ever seen her, I think it highly wonderful and romantic.”

Morgan stripped off his dressing gown and walked around the bed, to lift the covers and prop himself against the headboard beside Emma. “That, my sweet, is because you have not considered what I am considering.”

Emma turned on her side and began unbuttoning Morgan's shirt, for he had remained in his evening shirt and breeches, although his hose and shoes were gone. “And what are you considering, Morgan?”

“Thornley as my father-in-law,” Morgan said with a wince. “I can already hear a delighted Perry making jokes.”

Emma turned her face into his chest to smother a giggle. “Will he call you
son,
do you think? And you can call him Papa Thornley.”

“How gratified I am that you find this all so amusing,” Morgan said, reaching over to lift her chin, so that he could look into her eyes. “Emma…that's not all. Mrs.
Norbert is skulking about, avoiding everyone, not that I mind her absence from the dinner table this past week, but it is odd, considering how very much she once wished to be a part of all activities.”

“I believe she is uncomfortable at table, sensing that she doesn't quite fit in, poor thing, although I do happen to know that she's very much looking forward to attending the ball tomorrow night. I did not, of course, also tell her that you said one more ill-mannered person wouldn't matter in a ballroom undoubtedly crammed to the rafters with them. Now, is that it?” Emma asked, for he had begun sliding the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder and then stopped, as if he'd forgotten what he was doing. “Or is there more?”