His Heart's Delight (25 page)

It was the truth. It was the truth. How could
it hurt so much?

“How could I think that what I felt for
Richard was love?” She turned back to Joanna, still sobbing. “It
was vanity or make believe, or something equally appalling, but it
was never love.”

“Christy! Control yourself!” Joanna
commanded, moving from her chair to stand in front of her sister,
panic sharpening her voice.

She’ll slap the hysterics out of me unless
I calm down.
With a deep breath Christiana controlled the sobs,
taming them into small hiccoughing breaths. Joanna nodded approval
as she took her sister’s hand, leading her to the small sofa near
the fire.

“Now sit here with me and start at the
beginning.”

“Lord Morgan kissed me.” Christiana sank down
onto the sofa, even though it would be difficult to stay still.

“Oh my.” Joanna’s words were a whisper.
“Where did this happen?” She asked the question not with curiosity,
but as though she were trying to draw a careful picture.

“In the garden. We went out for a walk.” No
need for Joanna to know that it had been her idea that they leave
the ballroom for some air. Her idea that they walk to the fountain
that was at the far edge of the property.

“So no one saw you kiss?”

“Oh, heaven, I hope not.” She thought a
moment as she drew in a huge breath. “No, no we were quite alone
and we were both in black. I was wearing his cloak because it was
cool outside, especially after the closeness inside.”

Joanna raised her eyebrows a bit, but that
was as close to censure as she came.

“So, Christy, no one saw you. Good.” She
puzzled it out to herself then spoke. “Then your only real concern
is not propriety but your”—she paused before adding—“reaction to
the kiss.”

“I slapped him and ran away.” The last made
the tears flow again. “He stopped me and insisted on escorting me
to Mama so there would be no gossip and then Mama brought me
home.”

“Christy, do stop crying.” Joanna spoke with
asperity. “You will not get around me that way. And tears will only
make your eyes swell.” She moved away for a moment, taking a
coverlet from the foot of the bed and spreading it over the two of
them. The fire was nothing more than a few guttering coals. “Of
course you slapped him, but I am not talking about what you did,
but your first feeling, your first reaction when he kissed you. I
trust it was not disgust.”

“Oh, Joanna, the word ‘reaction’ does not
describe it at all.” She did stand up now, leaving the coverlet
with her sister and reaching for Joanna’s robe. “A reaction is
something you feel when you see a wonderful painting or hear
beautiful music. It is much too tame a word to describe what I
felt.” Her voice trailed off and she had to struggle mightily not
to smile.

Joanna did smile. Then raised her hand to
cover her mouth. “Oh, I see. I think I know what you mean. Rather
like a sweeping wave of emotion that you can relive at will simply
by remembering the kiss?”

“Yes!” She did not mean to sound so surprised
that her sister should understand. Of course this feeling was not
hers alone, even if it felt rare and treasured. And terrifying.
“Joanna, what should I do?”

“About what, dearest?” Joanna pulled her back
onto the sofa. “About the way you feel? About Richard? About Lord
Morgan?”

“All of it, Joanna. I have made such a mess.”
Tears threatened but she swallowed them whole. “The way I feel? I
do not even know how I feel. At first the most marvelous sense of
coming home, never wanting to be out of his arms or out of his
sight. And then not a second later I was sick at the way I was
betraying Richard. I hate Lord Morgan for doing this to me and then
I realize it is all my own fault for being so naïve about love and
courtship in the first place, right up to the moment that I
suggested we go outside.”

Joanna grimaced. “It was your idea?”

“Yes, taking the air had seemed like a good
idea at the time. Now I realize that I had been beyond flirtatious
all evening. It was the costume, do you see?”

When Joanna looked uncertain, Christiana
shook her head.

“Well, I see. The stupid costume let me be
someone else for the night, let me admit that I was attracted to
Lord Morgan as more than a friend, let me invite him to escort me
outside for a few moments alone.” She buried her face in her hands.
“Exactly what could we do outside that we could not do inside? Now
I know and I have ruined everything.”

“And you are certain that Lord Morgan does
not share your feelings?”

“Of course not. He told me from the outset
that for him this was a way to protect his own interests.”

“But you felt the same way and your feelings
have changed.”

“Have they?” She turned away and brushed at
the tears that threatened. “The truth is that I do not know my own
heart any longer. And I certainly do not understand his. I have
never understood him and now I never will.”

Her head drooped and she suddenly felt
exhausted. “Joanna, what I do know is that I have nearly forgotten
Richard’s existence. I cannot even remember exactly what he looks
like. Does that sound like true love to you?”

“No, my dear.” Joanna smiled in sympathy.

Christiana felt calmer now. It was still a
disaster, but if she could clear her head enough to think, she
might be able to decide what she should do. She got up and walked
to the window even though the curtains were pulled shut. “I feel
more when Lord Morgan smiles at me than I have ever felt in the
dozen times that Richard and I have kissed.”

She whirled from the window and looked at her
sister. “Do I need to say anything more than that?”

Joanna shook her head.

Christiana walked over and gave her sister a
long, hard hug. “Thank you for always being here, for helping me to
understand. I am not sure I can sleep but I will rest and think
about what I am to do.”

She walked to the door, already thinking out
loud. “I must decide how to tell Richard, when to tell him, even
what to tell him. I must think about how to smooth over my stupid
behavior with Lord Morgan. There is only a little while until we go
home. Surely I can survive until then.” She turned back to her
sister. Joanna would have spoken but Christiana spoke over her. “I
could have laughed it off. I
should
have laughed it off, or
reacted in a dozen ways that would have been infinitely less
embarrassing.” She stamped her foot. “He has always been the
sensible one. He is older and is supposed to be wiser. How could
he! Oh, how could he ruin everything this way?”

B
y the bright light
of day, Morgan Braedon was asking himself the same question, but
his only audience was a half-empty bottle of brandy. It was not
inclined to give him any answers. Bacchus knew he had done his best
to find wisdom there last night, but even with half the bottle
circulating through his brain no answers came.

What insanity had gripped him in Hawthorne’s
garden? He had kissed Christiana and in less than a minute a
friendship he valued was ruined. From her perspective they had no
future and it appeared she would just as soon forget their
past.

It had only been a kiss. A passionate kiss,
it was true. That had been his fault. He was generous enough to
admit that, but the temptation of that mouth had been with him
since she first smiled at him at the Westbournes’ ball, months
ago.

He was human. If she would not allow him one
small indiscretion then perhaps their friendship should end.

That reasoning had been acceptable for all of
six hours. Home for a change of clothes and then to his club for
some deep play. It had been just the thing to distract him.

He won at first, his sobriety a distinct
advantage. He won great golden amounts of money and his humor was
well on its way to being restored. Whole minutes would go by when
he did not think of her face, her mouth, her outrage.

Then the brandy he had been sipping began to
infiltrate his mind and fill it with memories. The present moment
faded in importance. He managed to cut his losses and come away
with satisfactory winnings, enough to meet his steward’s demands
for the next few months.

First light found him sitting in his bedroom,
still dressed, swilling brandy in an epic and futile search for
oblivion. A few hours of restless sleep had not solved
anything.

He rang for Roberts, going through the usual
morning routine without enthusiasm. He finished breakfast and moved
to the library to prepare a letter to accompany the draft to his
steward in Wales. It was routine correspondence; he had sent a
dozen like it in the last two years, but he ruined three sheets of
paper before he was satisfied with it. The letter was sanded and
sealed just as a caller was announced.

“Monksford. Welcome. It is good to see you.”
The man was a sea of rational thought, which was what he needed
desperately at the moment.

Morgan waved him to a seat and joined him by
the fire. With a sentence or two they covered the weather,
likelihood of success in the Peninsula, prospects for a good
growing season, and the latest offerings at Tattersall’s.

After insisting that nothing would induce him
to buy the matched bays currently offered, Monksford cleared his
throat. “Have you been to Green Street this morning, my lord?”

“No,” he replied, surprised at the turn of
conversation. “I had not decided on whether to make a call today.”
He kept his expression as bland as he could.

“I have just come from there.” Monksford
leaned forward in his chair. “The Lamberts are not home to anyone
this morning.”

“Ah, then you have saved me a trip.” He tried
for a tone of finality and even made to stand, hoping that was the
end of the conversation, but Monksford did not take the hint.

“You were with Miss Christiana last night
were you not? Was she well when she left?”

“Miss Christiana went home with a headache
last night.” Now it was Morgan’s turn to clear his throat. “Perhaps
they hope to keep the house quiet until she is recovered.”

“Can I guess without giving offense, that you
are the cause of the upset and not some unwelcome news from home?”
The blunt question was rare and the smile that unaccompanied it
even more unusual.

“Monksford, there may be no connection
between us except for the courtship of two sisters, but I suppose I
should tell you...” His voice trailed off as he struggled for the
right words. “The truth is you will be made to suffer the
consequences of my actions, especially when sisters are as close as
the Lamberts. I am sure Miss Joanna will know all.”

Monksford encouraged him with a nod. His
expression turned grave.

“Miss Christiana interpreted some, er one, of
my actions last night as an insult.”

“Lord Morgan, I can count very few times when
I have seen you discomfited or at a loss for words.” Monksford took
pity on him. “Did you perhaps rush your suit?”

“Rush my suit?” Morgan gave it a moment’s
thought. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“And is it hopeless?” Monksford shifted
slightly in his seat. “Forgive my impertinence but since we are
being frank, I think I need to ask if this is a true courtship. I
had understood Miss Christiana’s feelings to be otherwise
engaged.”

The answer to Monksford’s question came to
him so abruptly that Morgan wondered how long the gods had been
shouting it at him. He wanted a future with her. He had fallen in
love, single-handed and one-sided. And he wanted to find a way to
make it mutual.

Morgan was silent for so long that
Monksford’s grave expression gave way to concern.

“Monksford, this is more than infatuation. I
am too old for that game.”

To his way of thinking, infatuation implied
perfection and he well knew that Christiana Lambert was not
perfect. She had a way of wanting the world to turn at her command
and her spontaneity was as much a burden as a joy to anyone who
wanted to see her safely through the Season. He cared as much about
her well-being as he longed for her arms around him. If that was
not love, then what was?

“Then, Braedon, the next question would be:
Is it hopeless?”

“Only Miss Christiana knows the answer to
that.”

“One thing I have learned from watching you
this Season is that if you want something then you usually contrive
a way to make it yours. I suppose the truest question is: What do
you want?”

“My first instinct is to do as she asked.” He
fingered his cheek, remembering the slap with a wince of indignity.
“Oh, Hades, Monksford, to do what she
demanded,
and never
see her again. Count this Season as a lesson learned and well
over.” Morgan looked away from Monksford. “But I feel differently
now.”

“Then you must find a way to repair the
damage. Regret and self-recrimination are hardly productive without
the lady’s attention.”

When Morgan looked at him in some surprise,
Monksford laughed. “I did learn something from my first
marriage.”

“What do you think? Should I write her?”

“Too easily discarded,” said Monksford with a
glance at the papers crumpled on the floor by the desk.

Morgan nodded. “Yes, and that was merely a
letter to my steward. Flowers? No, they are entirely too
superficial.”

“I am afraid, my lord, that you will have to
wait for a social opportunity and hope that you are not
rebuffed.”

“But the Season is almost over. She could
easily avoid me if she wanted to.” Morgan considered his options.
“I think I must call on her. At least make an attempt to speak with
her.”

“They are not at home today to anyone,
Braedon.”

“Now you turn cautious on me!” Morgan stood
up and straightened his coat. “You said yourself that if I want
something I can find a way to make it happen. You inspire me,
Monksford. There must be a way to be heard.”