Authors: Victoria Lynne
“I would imagine so.” He shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the balcony rail. “I met Cyrus Prentisse some years ago. At the time he was most interested in pressing the suit of his daughters. They were quite young then, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen, but he was already prowling about searching for husbands for them.”
An image of her cousins, both of whom had inherited their mother’s blond beauty, flashed before her. “They’re quite lovely,” she said.
“So I was informed. Repeatedly.”
She smiled again. “I fear Uncle Cyrus sometimes appears overly zealous when it comes to the matter of their marriages. You see, he is determined that his daughters marry no less than a peer.” She paused, and then added mischievously, “Perhaps he was considering you for a candidate.”
“Actually, I was under the distinct impression that was the case. I’m afraid I disappointed him.” He regarded her quizzically. “Why the obsession with marrying a peer?”
Julia was surprised by the question. She had assumed that all of London had been subjected to her uncle’s dreary, dismal recital of how he had been denied his rightful place in society. “I’m afraid that requires a rather laborious answer.”
Morgan shot a glance toward the front gates. No sign of the coach was in sight. “It appears we have time.”
She followed his gaze and let out a soft sigh. “Yes. So we have.” She hesitated for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Finally she began. “The matter originated some six hundred years ago. My uncle was doing a bit of genealogical research and chanced to discover that the original Earl of Giffin did not die in the Crusades, as was assumed. Instead, he was badly wounded and languished for some years near Constantinople. There he met a Saxon woman who nursed him back to health. He took her for his wife, and they were blessed with a son. Eventually the earl recovered sufficiently to attempt the trip back to England. Unfortunately he never reached his home. The trip proved too great a strain for him, and he died in France.”
“And what of his son?”
“As he was only an infant at the time, it was up to his mother to press her son’s claim to the earl’s title. She attempted to do so, but despite the evidence she held of her son’s birthright, her claims were rejected. In time she gave up and returned to her own family.”
“I take it your uncle is a descendant of that neglected child.”
“A direct descendant,” she affirmed. “Had the original earl survived to reach England, in all likelihood Uncle Cyrus would now hold that title, rather than a mere baronet.” She paused, then continued lightly, “I suppose most men would have regarded the issue as an example of the fickle twist of fate, but to my uncle it was a matter of profound wrongdoing. He even went so far as to hire a solicitor to press his case before the High Court of Chancery.”
“What happened?”
A rueful smile touched her lips. “As you might imagine, the current Earl of Giffin was not keen on the idea of relinquishing his title and all his estates. Naturally he used the sum of his power to protect what is his. The claim was dismissed as being without merit.”
“Did your father participate in the suit?”
“My father?” She gave a startled laugh. “He thought it was an embarrassment and told my uncle so directly. Of course, that only deepened the rift between them.” She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “And that leads us back to the present day. Uncle Cyrus may have been denied his rightful place in society, but he is determined to secure a place in the peerage for Marianne and Theresa.”
“I see.”
Morgan’s gaze moved to the doorway, where a young maid stood balancing a silver tray. At his nod she stepped out onto the veranda and placed the tray on a small table, then exited without a word. He reached down, removed a tall, frosty glass from the tray, and passed it to Julia.
The glass was brimming with ice chips and felt wonderfully cool and moist to the touch. Fighting back an urge to press it against her cheeks and temples, she lifted it to her lips instead and took a sip of the contents. Lemonade. An icy concoction that was at once tart and sweet, a perfect antidote to the heat of the day.
As she drank, a fat drop of water trickled down the side of the glass. It plummeted off the bottom of the glass like a heavy raindrop, striking her collarbone. Before she could catch it, the droplet cascaded down the soft swell of her bosom, disappearing into the shadowy cleavage of her breasts. Mortified, Julia raised her eyes to Morgan’s, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
His gaze was locked on the exact point where the droplet had disappeared.
A sudden sensual tension surged between them, a tension that was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. She swallowed hard, searching for something to say to ease the awkwardness of the moment. Before she could speak, however, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“I’m glad you wore the pale green,” he said. “It becomes you.”
As usual, his expression was unreadable. Not certain how to respond, she set down her glass and turned away, directing her attention toward the fountain that bubbled in the courtyard, a gardener engaged in pulling weeds, two squirrels clucking over a single acorn. In short, anywhere but at the man she had married.
Unfortunately Morgan St. James wasn’t ready to be so easily dismissed. “You mentioned at the Devonshire House that we had met before, yet I don’t recall doing so.”
She gave a curt nod, forcing her gaze back to his. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” she replied, relieved to find that her tone was remarkably even. “It was a brief, inconsequential meeting. The occasion was Lady Catrell’s annual ball, and I recall the affair was quite a crush.”
As Julia spoke, the memory of that meeting surged to the front of her mind. She remembered the way Lady Catrell’s giddy whisper had filled her ear:
Here he comes. Morgan St. James. Notorious rakehell. Despoiler of innocents. Beware. Beware.
Yet even as she had pressed the warning upon her, Lady Catrell’s eyes had danced over Morgan’s form with a hungry intensity that radiated naked longing and desire. And Julia had waited, breathless, her heart in her throat as he had approached. A beautiful, strutting peacock in a sea of plain brown hens. He had greeted Julia politely. She had murmured a cordial response in return. He had excused himself and moved on.
Morgan seemed to be searching his mind, attempting to place their meeting. Apparently failing to do so, he changed the topic. “Your father was a captain, was he not? A merchant seaman.”
“Yes.”
“Then we have something in common. My ancestors earned their living by the sea as well.”
“Oh?”
“They were pirates. Quite successful ones at that.” Her shock must have shown on her face, for a small smile curved his lips as he said, “You didn’t believe my family came by all this wealth honorably, did you?”
In truth, she hadn’t considered his wealth at all. What surprised her was his bald admission of its source. Most men in his position would have taken great pains to hide that. Assuming a light, teasing tone, she said as much.
Although his smile didn’t fade, an icy chill returned to his gray eyes. “Yes. I do have my reputation to protect, don’t I?” He turned away before she could reply, fixing his gaze on the heavy iron gates to his estate as they groaned open. “It appears your family has decided to join us at last. Shall we go and greet them?”
Julia watched the carriage swing up the drive. At that moment she experienced an emotion she had never in her life dreamed possible.
She was actually happy to see her Uncle Cyrus.
Moonlight drifted in through the broad windows of Julia’s bedroom, casting silvery shadows over the apple green silk of her bedspread and curtains. Like every other room in the house, the decor was impeccable, from the Aubusson carpets that covered the floor to the collection of fine porcelain vases that sat atop a corner dresser. Still, a slight frown touched her lips as she surveyed the room, for it was startlingly devoid of any semblance of warmth. She had felt much the same way when the housekeeper had shown her through the remainder of the estate earlier that afternoon. Expensive. Immaculate. Profoundly empty.
She let out a sigh and glanced about her bedchamber, looking for something to occupy her thoughts. A stack of books had been thoughtfully placed on the nightstand beside her bed, but she was too restless to read. The delicate corner desk was well stocked with exquisite linen parchment and pen and ink, but there was no one to whom she wanted to write. She had even discovered a deck of playing cards, but she was not in the mood for that frivolous pastime.
On the southern wall was a set of narrow doors that opened onto a small balcony. Julia moved toward them and stepped outside, hoping to catch a breeze. The heat of the day had faded only slightly. A heavy, sticky warmth still clung to the air, impervious to the night. She ran her hand along the balcony rail, considering the day’s events. She was married and therefore removed from her uncle’s authority. The wedding breakfast had passed tolerably well. The home in which she was to live was lovely.
All things considered, she should have been quite happy. But she couldn’t shake the subtle, clinging discontent that hung over her. Shortly after her family had departed, Morgan had disappeared into his study and she had not seen him since. He had not even appeared at supper, leaving her to dine alone at a table that could easily accommodate twenty.
She was, she realized, profoundly lonely. She missed her parents, she missed her home, she missed her two Yorkshire terriers, she missed… her life. Her fingers moved automatically to the gold medallion she wore around her neck. Saint Rita. Patron saint of the impossible. But she could not think of a single prayer or wish that would do her any good at the moment.
Suddenly disgusted with her own misery, she brought up her chin as steel resolve coursed through her. Tomorrow would be better, she vowed. Tomorrow she would—
A soft, insistent knocking at her door interrupted her thoughts. Frowning slightly at the late hour, she padded in bare feet across the room and pulled open the door.
Morgan.
A startled gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it. She had not expected to see him until tomorrow morning — if then. Her gaze moved briefly over his form. With the exception of loosening his cravat, he was dressed in the same formal attire he had worn earlier.
“May I enter?” he asked.
Her thoughts immediately turned to her own clothing. She was dressed in a simple cotton nightrail and matching robe. She had removed the pins from her hair, releasing it from the elaborate arrangement she had worn earlier, but had not yet braided it for bed. It hung in loose, careless waves that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.
“I should dress,” she said.
“For bed?” He arched one dark brow as a tight, mocking grin touched his lips. “Given that we have embarked together into the sacred state of matrimony, I believe it entirely proper and acceptable that I see you in your nightrail.”
Something in his tone sent a tremor of nervous apprehension flooding through her belly. But short of refusing him entrance, there was little she could do. She forced a polite smile and stepped away from the door.
He strode into the center of her bedchamber, pausing for a moment as his gaze moved around the space. “I trust you find your room adequate?”
“It’s lovely, thank you.”
“I take it everything else is satisfactory as well?”
She hesitated. Rather than chastise him for having left her alone all day, she chose instead a softer approach. “I’m afraid I must have missed you at supper.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, as though suddenly reminded of the fact. “If you like, you might pass a note to Mrs. Nagle, the cook. Let her know when you prefer to dine, what you enjoy, that sort of thing.”
“What about you?”
“I am accustomed to taking my supper late, and generally in the privacy of my study.”
“I see.” Silence fell between them. Believing their interview at an end, she pulled her robe closed and tightened the belt around her waist, saying primly, “Thank you for calling upon me to say good night. It was kind of you to do so.”
The mocking smile returned to his lips. “Kind, was it?” He turned abruptly away, crossing to stand before the collection of ornamental bric-a-brac that had belonged to her parents.
Julia realized she had forgotten to thank him for purchasing the items when they had gone up for auction. She had found the pieces earlier, when the maid had shown her to her room, and the thoughtfulness of the gesture had deeply touched her. “They belonged to my parents,” she said to Morgan, watching as his gaze moved over the lot. “They’re of little monetary value, but have great sentimental—”
“Why did you want to sell them?”
There was an accusatory edge to his voice that she did not miss. She stiffened her spine and replied with unabashed honesty, “I needed the money. I only did what was absolutely necessary.”
His expression hardened as a cool, determined light filled his smoky gaze. “What a beautiful martyr you make. Resolved to make the ultimate sacrifice, aren’t you? How very brave.”
Before she could guess his intent, he moved to a small gas lamp that sat near the door and extinguished the flame. Then he turned to yet another lamp and did the same.
“What are you doing?” Her voice came out in a high, trembling rush.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It appears as though you’re turning down all the lamps.”
“Remarkable. Perceptive as well as brave.”
The last of the lamps extinguished, they stood together in a hushed darkness that was broken only by the silvery glow of the moon. Morgan crossed the room and stood before her. Brandy. She could smell brandy on his breath. Her mind whirled, sending her thoughts spinning in sickening circles. He had been drinking, but how much? Would he force her? Legally he had every right to do so. The thought sent a tremor of fear and anticipation flooding through her.
Julia licked her suddenly parched lips as her heart began to race. She stared at her husband in horrified fascination, refusing to believe what was about to happen. She had known this moment would come, of course, just not so soon. Not until they knew each other better. Not until they shared some level of emotional intimacy. She had imagined a gradual period of reckoning, rather like wading slowly into a pool of icy water. Instead she found herself being flung headfirst into the deepest end. Although they had never spoken of it, she had assumed Morgan was of a like mind. Apparently not.