Just One Kiss (7 page)

"No. No, I say." There was no question he was vastly perturbed by her vehemence. Lest he grow angry, she took a deep breath and sought to explain. "You once asked if I possessed a fortune. Well, sir, I tell you I do not. I've been disowned, and I would rather not discuss the circumstances right now, if you please. But the fact of the matter is, I cannot return to England."

He didn't bother to hide his skepticism. "Come now. You truly expect me to believe you are destitute?" Four steps brought him within reach. His disdainful gaze swept the length of her, taking in the watered silk day gown she wore. "Yours, my pampered young miss, are hardly the clothes of a pauper."

His mockery cut deep. Perhaps he didn't lie. Perhaps Nathaniel had once been a scoundrel. But surely she was right. Surely it was just as she'd said. He had changed…

To her utter shame, her certainty began to slip away like sand beneath the sea. For just an instant, resentment blazed within her. How she wished she'd never set eyes on Morgan O'Connor!

But the anger she would have welcomed simply would not remain. She began to tremble. Her head began to pound. She raised ice-cold fingertips to her forehead and bowed her head low, feeling perilously near tears.

"Elizabeth? Are you ill?"

His voice prodded her. She didn't see the lean hand that hovered just above the shining coronet atop her head.

Her composure badly shaken, she fought the hot ache that threatened to close her throat. "No," she whispered faintly, hating the betraying wobble in her voice. " 'Tis just that… I came here expecting to find Nathaniel. I never dreamed he wouldn't be here." She shook her head. "You must have some idea where I can find him."

His hand dropped to his side. "None," he stated flatly.

"I—I cannot believe that." Slowly she raised her head, blinking back tears. "There must be something you can do."

The silence dragged on. His thoughts were a mystery to her. He appeared frozen as he stared down at her, his expression as rigid as stone.

She gestured vaguely. "Please," she said, very low. "I am alone here. I have no one else—I can turn to no one else. But… there must be a way to find him." Her gaze locked with his, full of the plea she could no longer hold inside. "Can you help me?
Will
you help me?"

Time spun out endlessly. Her fingers strained against each other. This time Elizabeth didn't look away. But her heart plummeted as she watched his lips thin further, as his features grew ever more dark and forbidding.

His words were not what she expected.

"I know a man…" he began slowly, then stopped. "I will make no promises," he went on. "But I will try."

Elizabeth's lips parted. Dear God, it was all she could ask for! "Thank you," she murmured, and then again, "I—I thank you." She shook her head as if to clear it. "In the meantime, I'll not trespass on your generosity any longer. I shall find lodgings elsewhere until Nathaniel returns."

"There's no need," he said curtly. "Particularly if you are in the financial straits you claim to be."

She felt a warm flush creep into her cheeks. She almost wondered if it was his deliberate aim to embarrass her. She summoned her dignity, for indeed, at the moment it was her most treasured possession.

"I have some money," she told him quietly. "Not a great deal, but enough to—"

"Nonsense. Nathaniel's bride-to-be in a hotel? No. You may stay as long as you like. Indeed, I insist."

He was once again cool and detached. Elizabeth studied him as he rounded his desk and resumed his place behind it. Certainly she had no wish to remain beholden to him, yet if the truth be told, her money would scarcely buy lodgings for more than several nights.

"I truly appreciate your offer," she said slowly. "But I am well now and it isn't proper for you and I"—she faltered—"that is to say, for the two of us to…" She stopped, unable to continue.

To her surprise, he gave a harsh laugh. "And what if I were to tell you the good people of Boston expect no less from me? Propriety be damned! The matter is settled and I'll hear no further argument."

Elizabeth hesitated. Oddly, that was not what bothered her the most. "I do not mean to argue, sir. But I am already in your debt and have no wish to—"

"For pity's sake," he growled, "you are hardly beholden to me. But if you wish, I will make you a bargain."

Elizabeth blinked. This was the last thing she expected. Still, she couldn't entirely erase the assumption that leaped to the fore. Morgan O'Connor was young, handsome, and unmarried. But he was still a man, no doubt a man with an appetite for the opposite sex…

"Wh-what sort of bargain?"

Little did she realize she might well have shouted the thought from the rooftop. "God in heaven," he said impatiently. "You are hardly to my taste, so you needn't look at me as if I expect you to exchange your body for the bed you sleep in! This, my dear girl, is the bargain I propose. Simmons grows old and is unable to do as much as he once did, though he would never admit it. I merely ask that you assist in matters of the household—planning meals, overseeing the maids' work. Now, do we understand each other?"

By now Elizabeth's face was flame-red. Yet curiously, she felt wounded without knowing quite why. "Yes," she managed.

"Then do we have a bargain?"

Her nod was jerky. It was all she could do.

"Good."

He swiveled his chair. Reaching into a drawer, he dropped a sheaf of papers on the desktop. She'd been forgotten, she realized.

Rising, she gathered her skirts in one hand and fled the study. Outside in the hallway, she stopped and leaned back against the wall. A nervous laugh escaped. How silly she was to think Morgan O'Connor might find her attractive and take advantage of her situation.

But he would send someone to try to find Nathaniel—that alone was worth having faced the dragon in his lair. Why it was so, Elizabeth had no idea, for he was a complete enigma. Indeed, she would swear he was less than pleased at the prospect. But even as she wondered what had happened that he disliked his own brother, relief flooded her veins. He had relented, and she would ask no more of him.

All that was left to do was to wait and hope…

And pray that Nathaniel was found soon.

«
^
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Hours later, Morgan still sat in his study, a black cloak of darkness surrounding him.

Lord, but he was a fool.

Damn…
damn
! He cursed himself vilely, even as he cursed her. He'd felt himself weakening, feeling sorry for her. Yet he almost hated her for it, for bringing up the past, reminding him of all he longed to forget.

Christ, he thought blackly. If she only knew… How could she be so blind? Nathaniel was anything but noble. But he
was
a charmer, Morgan reflected bitterly, particularly with the ladies.

A twinge of guilt bit at him. It wasn't in his nature to lie. And he
hadn't
lied, he told himself…

Yet he hadn't been entirely truthful either. True, he didn't know
where
Nathaniel was. But Morgan had no doubt he'd find him in the arms of his latest whore, and what would the elegant Lady Elizabeth Stanton think of that?

A vision of her flitted through his mind's eye, as she'd appeared only hours before. Vulnerable and pleading. Tears standing high and bright, turning her eyes to shimmering emerald. Tears he had sensed cost her no little amount of pride…

He shouldn't have cared. By God, he
didn't
care. But the damage was done. He'd made a promise, and he wouldn't go back on his word.

Early the next morning, he hired a detective named Evans; Evans left that very morning to attempt to track down Nathaniel.

God, but he hoped Evans wouldn't find him.

As for Elizabeth, he would put her from his mind… an impossible task, he soon discovered.

The days turned. A week passed, then another, and soon a month had gone by.

Her presence in his home—in his life!—was a distraction he hadn't counted on. His awareness of her was tremendously vexing, so much so that he stayed in his offices longer and longer every evening; their paths crossed but seldom. Yet the more he resolved to ignore her, the more her image lingered in his mind—an unfamiliar rustle, a soft sigh, a swirl of scent the moment he walked through the door was all it took. And then there were those eyes, wide, deep pools of vivid green that grew dark with wariness whenever they chanced to meet—that, too, he found vexing. Yet when they spoke, they were both politely formal. Still, Morgan couldn't deny the air of quiet dignity that always surrounded her—and even that both disturbed and impressed him.

Christ, where had Nat ever found her?

He suspected she made every effort to avoid him, dining alone in her room, often retiring before he arrived home. But already he could see the difference her presence had wrought upon the household. Meals were hot and well prepared, and offered far more variety. Where there had sometimes been a veil of dust coating furniture and furnishings, there was none. Thank heaven Simmons didn't mind her assistance. Indeed, the old man appeared almost fond of her.

And it was from Simmons that Morgan learned Stephen was a frequent early evening visitor. It seemed the pair spent a good deal of time together, a situation he found highly annoying—yet for the life of him, he couldn't precisely say why it was so.

But all the while he hoped Evans would not find Nathaniel.

Unfortunately, his hopes were in vain.

Evans appeared at the shipyard one bright spring day, just when he'd begun to think the detective was well and truly stumped in his search for Nathaniel.

A burly, heavyset man who looked more like a salty old seaman than a detective, Evans swept his hat from his head as Morgan's assistant escorted him into his office.

"Sorry to come unannounced, Mr. O'Connor, but I thought you'd want to hear what I found right away."

"That I do." Morgan waved him to the chair opposite him and resumed his place behind the desk. He waited until the other man was seated before he spoke. "So tell me, Mr. Evans. Were you able to find my brother?"

Evans's head bobbed up and down. "I did indeed, sir. Yes, I did indeed. He spent the first of the year in Pittsburgh, then moved on to Philadelphia." His grin was rather tentative. "Seems he met a real fancy widow from New York while he was there."

Morgan arched a brow. "I see. And where is he now, Mr. Evans? New York?"

Evans's grin faded. He looked startled. "You mean you knew all along?"

Morgan's smile was tight. "No. But I do know what my brother would do in such a situation. Tell me, is the widow rich?"

Evans rolled his eyes. "Lord, yes."

"And no doubt my brother has relieved her of a goodly portion of her riches."

Evans's grin reappeared slowly. "From the looks of him, he keeps the tailors busy. And just last week he bought himself a fancy pair of Thoroughbreds. Paid more for those horses than most people make in a lifetime."

Of course, Morgan agreed with derisive scorn. As long as he was spending someone else's money, it was nothing but the best for Nathaniel.

A glint had appeared in Evans's eye. "I got pretty friendly with one of the house maids. She had some wild tales of how your brother keeps the widow too busy to miss her late husband, if you know what I mean."

That he did, Morgan thought silently. He had not a single doubt that Nathaniel and the widow were lovers. But he conceded the fact that most women who fell in with Nat were no more ill used than he.

His mind strayed to Elizabeth. An odd feeling tightened his gut. He couldn't help but wonder how many a sensuous escapade she and Nat had shared. Forcing himself to relax, he reminded himself he shouldn't judge her for falling in with the likes of his brother. Outrageous as he still found it, her only fault lay in the fact that she truly seemed to believe Nathaniel intended to marry her.

Once again he leveled his gaze on the burly man. "I trust you didn't make yourself known to my brother, Mr. Evans.
Or
your purpose there."

"Not at all," Evans said quickly. "I didn't say a word. I came back to Boston to report to you, just like you said."

"Good." Morgan briefly tapped the tips of his fingers together. Rising to his feet, he extended his hand across the desktop. "I thank you for your assistance, Mr. Evans. I'll instruct my bank to have your draft ready at your convenience."

Evans reached for his hat. "You don't want me to return to New York and bring him back?"

A split second's hesitation… "No, Mr. Evans. That won't be necessary."

He saw Evans to the door, then slowly closed it. For the space of a heartbeat, he wondered if he'd been wrong… Perhaps he should have instructed Evans to return with Nathaniel. After all, he owed Elizabeth Stanton nothing. Why should it matter if Nathaniel leapt fresh from the arms of his latest whore into hers?

But he couldn't do this to her, or anyone. She was better off not knowing where Nathaniel was—worse yet,
what
he was doing.

Yes, he thought. This was the best way, the
only
way. The sooner she was gone, the better for all of them. All that remained was to convince her to board a ship back to England.

That particular subject was still very much on his mind when he arrived home a short time later. As Simmons took his coat and hat, the sound of mingled laughter, feminine and masculine, reached his ears.

"Stephen?" he queried.

Simmons nodded. "Yes, sir. He and the lady are in the drawing room."

And it was there Morgan directed his steps. The pair sat on the sofa, near each other but not touching. Their heads were bent together as Stephen pointed out something on a small map stretched between them. Morgan paused in the doorway, feeling very much the intruder, and disliking it intensely. Neither was aware of his scrutiny.

"Excuse me," he said.

Both looked up at the same time. He could have sworn a flare of something akin to panic lit Elizabeth's eyes, yet it was gone in an instant.

Stephen was clearly nonplussed. "Morgan!" he greeted heartily. "A tad early for you, isn't it?"