His Heart's Delight (8 page)

“Of course I do, but so that you will
understand me, please be assured that neither do I have any plans
for making a match this Season.”

“But, my lord”—she looked surprised. Then she
pressed her lips together and spoke with her eyes. He tried to
decipher their message. Was it embarrassment at her awareness of
the gossip or possibly confusion at the obvious contradiction?

“You have heard that my father wishes me to
find a bride?” Even if it was not what she had been about to blurt
out, it was best to get rid of all the losing cards right away.

She nodded slowly and spoke with apology.
“There is gossip everywhere, my lord.”

“A fact of Town life that we may use to our
advantage.” But here he was running ahead of himself. He took a
mental step back. “Between the two of us and the two of us alone,
my father does wish me to make a match. My brother insists that it
is his dearest wish.”
Please let her be more discreet than her
mother,
Morgan prayed to any god that would listen. “And also
between the two of us alone, be assured I have no intention of
making one.”

She angled her head, her eyes narrowing a
bit. “My lord, I am confused now.”

“In truth, my dear Miss Lambert, that is
hardly surprising, since I have said one thing and then its
opposite. As you have made clear, in your family one does not
disobey parental decrees. Let me assure you it does not happen
often in my family either.”

Now there was an understatement. “My father
may wish me to marry, but I am not ready to wed. I do have property
in Wales but it needs more work before I can support a family.”

She nodded again. “I know how difficult it is
to go against one’s father’s wishes.”

He wondered if she really did. In all her
country-bred life had she ever encountered anyone as autocratic as
the Marquis of Straeford? He doubted it. If she had, that
vulnerability that was both appealing and appalling would be gone
as his was, beaten out of him years ago.

She obeyed her father out of loving respect.
He obeyed his out of a primal need for self-preservation. Now that
preservation, and concern for dozens of tenants, demanded another
approach. This was the right thing to do. If only he could get her
to agree.

The beginning of a smile pulled at her mouth,
though it had not reached her eyes, but it was all the
encouragement he needed.

“I would like to satisfy my father that I am
at least making an effort to find a match.” That statement left him
feeling positively virtuous. It was the stark, sun-blinding
truth.

Christiana’s incipient smile disappeared.

He kept on, feeling as though he were playing
a losing hand, but was unwilling to throw in the cards. “My father
is ill, very ill and not likely to live out the year. I have no
desire to wed yet, but do wish to make him happy. I am hoping I can
convince you to help me give my father peace of mind. With your own
heart engaged elsewhere there will be no danger of
misunderstanding.” The whole damned thing sounded as tentative as a
marriage proposal. He hoped he did better with one when the time
came.

“You want me to help you deceive your
father?” Then the enormity of it struck her. “To try and trick the
ton?”
She was obviously not inclined to help, whether from a
dislike of deception or fear of failure. He could not say
which.

“True, it is a deception, but one for the
best.”

She looked skeptical and that made him
laugh.

“That sort of logic will not work at all,
will it, Miss Lambert? Of course, this little deception is what I
think is best for me, but I must come up with a better argument if
I am to convince you.”

When she said nothing, he continued, taking
her silence for curiosity if not compliance. “It would not be fair
for me to court someone like your sister, who honestly hopes to
make a match. And it will become wearing for you to discourage
would-be suitors. All the more so when you have promised not to
speak of your attachment.”

Her censure eased and she nodded.

“Once the legions of young men who appreciate
your grace on the dance floor realize we appear to have developed a
tendre
for one another, they will move on to other eligible
young ladies, leaving us free to entertain each other and enjoy the
Season with unencumbered hearts.” He tried for a teasing tone, and
was satisfied when he drew a smile from her.

“Put that way, my lord, it is almost exactly
what I had hoped for.” Delight lit her eyes. “At first I thought
Peter could serve as my escort, but he is too involved in his own
pursuits.” She frowned though the smile still lit her eyes. “But
will it not be the same with you? Peter tells me that you prefer
the card room to the dance floor.”

“That was before I met you, Miss Lambert.” He
bowed to her.

She clapped her hands and laughed aloud. “You
are such a flirt!”

He hoped that was a compliment.

“It is one thing Richard is not. His flowery
phrases are heavier than Mrs. Purdy’s fruitcake. If I had your
grandmother’s fan I would shrink behind it and blush.”

She would do no such thing. She loved every
minute of it. He kept his mind on the compliment and not the
mention of Richard Wilton.

Her excitement faded a little. “But what will
they say when I leave London at the end of the Season and nothing
comes of our”—she hesitated over the word—“our ‘friendship.’”

He tried to conceal the surge of relief at
her question. This one he could handle. “The
ton
will say
what many have said before: that I lost your hand to a better man.
There is no discomfiture in that.”

Christiana looked around the room. “Wait
until Joanna hears. She was certain my plan to find an escort was a
cork-brained scheme. Wait until she hears that it was your
idea!”

He could feel his smile die. Were cardplayers
the only ones who were able to control their emotions? “I think it
best not to tell anyone.”

“I must tell my sister. We have no secrets
from each other.” A small sigh expelled half of her excitement and
dimmed her smile. “I do see that the fewer people who know of this
the better. Mama will think I am flighty.” She shrugged that off.
“If I am lucky Papa will not hear of it. Joanna and I are the only
ones who write to him and I doubt he ever reads the gossip pages.”
She paused and he could see her enthusiasm wane still more. “Your
grandmother will think less of me if we do not tell her.”

He shook his head, fighting hard to resist
her pleading smile. “She will be thrilled at the prospect of me
being ‘knocked to my knees.’ I think that is the way she phrased
it.”

“I will not be a part of a deception that
will hurt her.” On this she spoke with conviction.

He took her hand, wondering if he would ever
find out if her shoulder was as fine and soft. “My dear Miss
Lambert, in her view it is not my grandmother’s feelings that are
at risk.”

Christiana understood then and looked
shocked. “She thinks that I might break your heart?”

He leaned closer to her. “She lives for the
day it happens. Ridiculous, is it not? The world knows that Braedon
hearts are made of stone.”

She stepped back from his intimacy. “I know
no such thing.” Regret replaced delight. “No, sir. I can see that
this is not a wise idea.”

Now he was the one confused. Did she actually
mean she was afraid she might hurt him? Should he be touched or
annoyed at the very idea? Or could it be propriety had reared its
useless head? Just like last night when she had invited him to her
side with a smile, and then had second thoughts. He thought he had
won her cooperation and now he seemed to have lost it only a moment
later.

Morgan’s hopes for the Season crumbled before
him. He took her arm and escorted her to the entry hall just as the
porter came into the room to announce the imminent closing of the
gallery.

Peter Wilton and her sister watched them from
the door. They were the last of the patrons. He refused to hurry.
“Do not reject this idea out of hand. If you must, ask your
sister’s advice. We both know she has only concern for you at
heart. Tell her, but beyond that, remember, my dear Miss Lambert,
tell no one else. If we decide to play this trick on society and it
becomes common knowledge, I will not be heartbroken. It will be
worse. I will be embarrassed.”

Christiana laughed, exactly as he hoped she
would. “I understand, my lord. I understand completely. Your
standing in society will not suffer at my hands, not ever. I have
managed to keep my attachment to Richard a secret as my father
asked. I am worthy of your trust.”

They joined the others and made their
farewells.

As he escorted the group from the building to
their carriages, he let the banter float around him as he
considered their last words. He had no doubt Christiana Lambert was
worthy of his trust. The only thing that worried him still was how
widely known her attachment to Richard Wilton was.

Though little more than a farce, this game he
hoped to play was not with dice, but with society and his family.
He did not want to destroy her reputation or his own.

He needed to know how things stood between
the lovely Miss Christiana and her Richard. She insisted that their
romance was a secret, but he had only her word for that. If her
attachment to Wilton was more than that—an understanding, or worse,
an engagement in the eyes of all back home—then word would reach
Sussex and Braemoor as easily as it reached London. Society would
take umbrage and James would call him a cheat.

He hoped to find out tonight at dinner. What
young Wilton knew would be the deciding factor on his part. As for
Christiana, he knew she would not proceed without her sister’s
support.

He bowed to the party as their carriage moved
away and looked to his own, wondering if he would have to hire a
new cook when Pratt learned that he was preparing dinner for four
on five hours’ notice.

~ ~ ~

The dinner went better than Morgan had hoped.
Pratt was neither French nor temperamental and had a family to
support, so the food was ready on time with little complaint. If it
was not as elaborate as some he’d enjoyed at this table, the
quantity of dishes more than compensated for its simplicity.

More to the point, with the aid of some
excellent wine and a few probing questions, Peter Wilton seemed
willing, even eager, to tell Morgan of his family and his older
brother’s hopes, both military and matrimonial.

“Richard’s been army mad since he was old
enough to understand what 1066 meant. We played with soldiers for
hours on end.” The covers had been removed and the four sat with
glasses of port and an evening of amiable play ahead of them.

Rhys and an Oxford mate, William Gaffney,
were discussing some esoteric astronomical discovery with the
intensity only two inebriated intellects could command. Morgan gave
Peter his undivided attention.

He sipped his port, wondering how much of
Wilton’s childhood he would hear about before Christiana entered
the picture.

“When my mother was ill with her last
confinement, all three of us, even our oldest brother Henry, spent
much of our time at Lambert Hill. Christiana’s brother was as keen
on battles as Richard and we would combine our soldiers for some
dashed fine fights.”

“Miss Lambert has a brother?”

“Yes.” Wilton nodded. “George. He is in
Jamaica visiting an uncle.”

“If you three and George were anything like
me and my brothers, more than once those battles escalated into
fist fights and bloody noses. Did the Miss Lamberts nurse the
wounds?”

“Christiana and Joanna were always underfoot.
So we put them to work, constructing the Alps from papermaché when
we reenacted Hannibal’s invasion and then made up battles of our
own. But Richard tired of those games years ago.

“Father knew General Moore and after Corunna
he finally consented to purchase a commission for Richard and in
his old regiment. Now he is off on what Father calls ‘Napoleon’s
version of the Grand Tour.’”

“Hardly the pleasure trip the Grand Tour was
supposed to have been,” Morgan drawled and recalled the awful
stories of the Corunna retreat. “Your father is Sir Howard
Wilton?”

Peter nodded. “A second son who inherited
when my uncle died from an inflammation of the lungs. Father was
set on a military career himself. He loved the army but had only
six months’ service before he had to sell out.”

Which explains why he was willing to let his
second son go off and risk his life.

Morgan had dismissed the footmen with the
covers and offered to pour Peter another glass of port. Wilton
smiled, but covered his glass with his hand. “If I am to play
tonight I must refuse.” His youth was apparent when he added, “I
learned that from watching you, sir. You always have a glass at
your elbow but you rarely do more than sip at it.”

The boy was observant. He would give him
that. On the other hand, Wilton should have stopped three glasses
ago if he truly did wish to keep a clear head. “I expect that your
brother—Richard is it?—will find plenty of opportunity to test his
skill at cards in the army.”

Peter laughed. “Not to be disloyal, sir, but
my brother has no skill at cards at all, though he thinks he does.
He told Christiana he would not play but, sir, I know there are
battles, but there must be equally as many long encampments. What
else is there to do?”

“Miss Lambert does not approve of
gaming?”

“Oh no, it is not that, my lord. It is my
suspicion that she wants him to save every bit of his pay.”

“Are they engaged then?” Morgan sipped his
port and cleared his throat.

“Oh no, my lord! Not with Christiana’s Season
and Richard in harm’s way as he is. It is only my assumption that
they will one day find their way to the altar.