Just One Kiss (8 page)

Morgan's response was decidedly cool. "Not all of us are born to a life of leisure, my friend."

Stephen chuckled. "Why, I do believe I'm being chastised. I admit, I'm guilty of leaving my office early as well. But the cause was a good one. I was just giving Elizabeth a history lesson, telling her the local lore about the pirates, thieves, and highwaymen hanged on the Common. And since she's not been out of the house since she arrived, I thought she might enjoy a carriage ride so I could show her around a bit."

"Not now, Stephen." His gaze slid to Elizabeth. "Elizabeth, would you mind waiting in my study? I'd like to speak to you."

"Certainly." Her carriage slim and straight, she flashed a smile at Stephen as she gathered her skirts in her hands. "Stephen, thank you for a most entertaining afternoon." With a swish of her skirts, she was gone.

"Well, well," Stephen remarked when the two men were left alone. "One might think you the lord of the manor and she the lady."

Morgan's jaw might have been etched in stone. "I have no idea what you mean," he said tersely. "Though I think perhaps a reminder is in order—she's already been spoken for, Stephen."

Stephen's brows winged skyward. "You surprise me, Morgan."

"Indeed. How so?"

"Frankly, I find it strange that you protect your brother's interests, very strange indeed."

Morgan gritted his teeth. Such was hardly the case. Yet if not that, then… what? He didn't know—and he didn't dare search for the answer.

"In fact," Stephen continued lightly, "I find myself wondering if you don't have eyes for the lady yourself."

Morgan's mouth was a grim slash in his face. He said not a word.

"I must say, it's perfectly understandable. She's a fetching sight indeed. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Very," said Morgan between his teeth.

Stephen sighed. "But you're right, I'm afraid. She belongs to neither of us." He paused thoughtfully. "Frankly, I just can't envision her with me, though I admit, I still have a difficult time picturing her with Nathaniel. Just think, your brother with an English lady, a genuine lady of the realm!" He laughed in obvious mirth. "And the idea of her with you… why, it's utterly preposterous! But altogether amusing, don't you think?"

Morgan glared.

"No? Ah, well." Stephen untangled his legs and got to his feet. "Oh, and by the way, I've seen you so seldom, I almost forgot to tell you… I'm having a ball tomorrow evening. I thought it might be good for Elizabeth to get out amongst people. Besides, it's time we introduced the lady to Boston society, don't you think? Oh, and you needn't worry. I won't let it be known she's been staying with you. I thought I might say she's a distant cousin of mine. And I'll arrange it so that she arrives before the other guests and leaves afterward."

Before Morgan could say a word, Stephen ambled forward. "I think it's time I took my leave. No need to call Simmons, I'll see myself out," he said with a wave of his hand.

Morgan was already at the entryway to his study by the time the front door closed. Yet he didn't enter straightaway. His gaze swept the room until it found Elizabeth. She was sitting in the low-backed chair before his desk, her back to him. She was as still as a statue, her head bowed low and her hands clasped in her lap. Her hair was swept high upon her crown. A few stray wisps escaped, curling almost lovingly against the sweep of her nape.

What held him there, Morgan didn't know. Instead he stood on the threshold, his eyes fixed on the delicate span of her neck, her nape bare and enticing. He knew instinctively that if he were to touch her there, her skin would be smooth and downy soft… Abruptly he became angry with himself. What nonsense was he about, to have such thoughts about his brother's intended? It was merely what Stephen had suggested, outrageous though it was. He wasn't attracted to her—no, not in the slightest.

At length he approached her. She glanced up when he took a seat behind his desk.

Her gaze eagerly searched his features. "You wished to speak to me about Nathaniel, didn't you?" Her tone was breathless. "You've had news of him then?"

He hesitated. "The detective I sent out learned nothing," he heard himself say. "He searched the entire East Coast, but there's been no sign of him. For all we know, he could be clear across the continent."

Her face fell. It was as if he could see her spirit plunging. In that moment he almost hated himself.

"Can't you keep look— No, no, of course you can't." He heard the ragged breath she drew. "I'm sorry. It's just that I was hoping so… and when you said he'd probably return eventually—"

"That could be a year from now. For all I know, ten years from now."

She averted her gaze, and he knew she was fighting for control. "I'm grateful for all you've done, Mr. O'Connor. Truly I am."

Morgan
, he wanted to shout.
My name is Morgan
.

Instead he said, "Of course, you see now there is no point in staying. Go back to your father, Elizabeth. Go back and—"

"I can't." Her tone was almost wild. She was wringing her hands. "Don't you see? I
can't
!"

"No, frankly, I don't see—"

"He's dead. My father is dead. He was buried two weeks before I set sail for Boston."

It was his turn to look away. The raw pain in her voice made him feel like the world's biggest fool. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be insensitive."

"Of course. You couldn't have known. I never told you."

Morgan frowned. "You look a trifle pale. Would you like some brandy?"

"Yes. Please."

He moved to pour a generous splash into a crystal snifter. As he handed it to her, their fingers barely touched—hers were as cold as a winter wind.

She choked a bit on the first hearty swallow. Her eyes began to water and she coughed.

Morgan smiled faintly. "Sip it," he cautioned. "Otherwise it will burn."

He positioned himself on the corner of his desk, arms crossed over his waistcoat, long legs stretched out before him. He watched as she followed his advice, lifting the glass to her lips again and again. Gradually two spots of color began to bloom on her cheeks. He waited until she was more calm before he spoke. "I'm a bit confused, Elizabeth. You said before that you'd been disinherited. Why would your father do such a thing?"

"Oh, he didn't," she said quickly. "It was his wife."

"His wife… your mother?"

Her generous mouth turned down. "Heavens, no. My mother died when I was just a child. It was my stepmother who disinherited me. In Papa's will, he left matters almost entirely in her hands. But Hayden Park, our country estate in Kent, was to pass to me on the occasion of my marriage. But Papa—faith, but I can't imagine what he was thinking!—left the task of finding a husband to Clarissa."

Morgan frowned. "What about Nathaniel?"

Her eyes darkened. "Well, I hadn't yet told Papa about Nathaniel's proposal… He was so very ill… he died before I could. And Clarissa never did like me, you see—or Nathaniel either. So when Papa died, she proposed to marry me to Lord Harry Carlton." She shuddered. "Oh, what a horrid man! I hated the way he looked at me! Strange as it sounds, it was as if he wanted to—to eat me with his eyes!"

Morgan's gaze dropped to her mouth, wandered down the slender length of her throat, and back to her lips. He didn't find it strange at all. But he listened quietly, though he had a very good idea indeed what had happened.

"I didn't need Clarissa to find a husband for me," Elizabeth went on. "I'd already found one! But she simply wouldn't accept Nathaniel as my choice. And when I refused to marry Lord Harry instead, she disinherited me!"

The softness of her lower lip thrust out in a pout. Morgan struggled to withhold a laugh. She reminded him for all the world of a child who was angry and resentful that she hadn't got her way.

By now her glass was empty. She gazed down at it, a faint consternation puckering her brow. Then she raised her head and held out the glass. "Might I have a bit more, please?"

Morgan moved to oblige. But as he handed it back to her, she frowned anew. He raised his brow in silent query.

"Won't you have some, too?"

He gently refused. "I drink but rarely, I'm afraid."

"Papa used to say he didn't know a man who wasn't fond of his port, if you know what I mean."

Morgan allowed a faint smile to curl his lips. "I suspect that's all too true, I'm afraid. Indeed, my own father partook far too freely, which is why I resolved at an early age not to make the same mistake." He paused. "Didn't Nathaniel tell you?"

She shook her head. "He talked mostly about the places he'd been, what he'd done there. And his home here, as well as the shipbuilding…" She stopped short, as if she'd just realized what she'd said. "That is to say,
this
house, and
your
business. Why, if you recall, I didn't even know he had a brother."

Morgan said nothing, for what was there to say? It came as no surprise that Nathaniel had embellished his own worth quite outrageously. He hesitated, then almost in spite of himself, he spoke. "How on earth did the two of you ever meet?"

"We met at an afternoon garden fete given by the daughter of an acquaintance of my father." She sighed. "He was quite dashing, you know. I confess, I'd heard about him before we met. He was the talk of London—handsome and charming and ever so debonair. I daresay every young lady in London was half in love with him."

Morgan stiffened. He had no wish to hear tales of his brother's prowess with the female gender.

But Elizabeth didn't seem to notice. "At first I couldn't believe he actually fancied me," she went on. "Me, can you imagine? Why, I've always been more country mouse than London miss."

Morgan was rather stunned. Didn't she know she was beautiful? Oh, not in the ordinary way. But she was a beauty nonetheless.

She stopped suddenly, her expression rather forlorn as she contemplated her glass. "Oh, dear," she murmured. "It seems I need more brandy." She held it out once more.

Morgan didn't move. His regard sharpened. Her voice sounded slightly different. Why, if he wasn't mistaken, he'd say she was—

"Feeling lazy today, are you? Well, then, I'll simply fetch it myself."

She rose, only to sway dizzily as she began to straighten. She would have fallen if Morgan hadn't moved like a streak of lightning, catching her beneath her arms. He stared down at her. He was right—she was drunk! God, if only he could laugh! Yet all he could feel was her body against his, warm and soft, the undeniable swell of her breasts against his chest.

As soon as she was steady, he released her and stepped back.

She smiled across at him. "Oh, dear. I feel rather strange. Won't you please fetch my brandy?"

"No more for you," he said firmly. "You've had quite enough, Elizabeth."

Her smile withered. She looked as if she'd been struck. To his shock, her mouth began to quiver. "You hate me, too, don't you?"

Bewildered, Morgan spread his hands wide. "Of course not—"

"You do. Just like Nathaniel."

"Oh, come now. Surely Nathaniel doesn't hate you—"

Quite suddenly, she began to cry. "Of course he does. And he—he really isn't coming, is he? Oh, the—the wretch! I believed him! I-I was truly convinced he wanted me to be his wife. And now everything is ruined!"

Morgan had no patience with women's tears. He sought to reassure her. "You were duped, Elizabeth. You aren't the first. Unfortunately, you'll probably not be the last either."

She paid him no heed, only buried her face in her hands and sobbed harder.

At his sides, Morgan's hands opened and closed. He swallowed, and swallowed again.

He'd thought himself distanced from such feelings. Yet a voice deep in his brain reminded him that once… once he'd been capable of such things. Of comfort. Of tenderness. But he'd lost all that, thanks to Amelia. He would never trust again, least of all another woman.

Yet the sound of Elizabeth's sobs was like a knife ripping into his gut. And it was that which swayed the battle.

His arms stole around her slowly, as if he were very uncertain. But Elizabeth's response was immediate. She ducked her head beneath his chin and clung to the lapels of his jacket. It seemed totally illogical that she should find comfort in his arms, yet she did. And indeed Morgan found it odd as well. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

Perhaps because they'd both been fooled by Nat.

He stroked the valley of her spine, a soothing, monotonous motion. "Stop this, Elizabeth. Stop this now. Things will look better in the morning, I promise you."

She turned her face in to his shoulder and wept; hot tears scalded the front of his jacket. This time Morgan didn't hesitate. He swept her into his arms and climbed the stairs to her room.

By then, her tears had distilled to a watery sigh. He lowered her slowly to the floor. "Here," he whispered. "It's time you were in bed."

She made no effort to move, nor to undress. Indeed, she appeared numb as he stepped behind her. His fingers went to the myriad hooks at the back of her dress. Any second now he expected her to whirl on him in indignant rage for daring to undress her. But she only turned listlessly as he urged her around with a touch on the shoulder.

Holding his breath, he tugged her gown down over her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. He relieved her of her petticoats next, then guided her down to remove her stockings and slippers. Next he removed the pins from her hair, feeling his way along her scalp. One last tug and it tumbled down around his hands, a heavy waterfall of spun gold.

His heart had begun to pound. He ignored it. Leaving her clad only in her underclothes, he tugged the counterpane aside and wordlessly motioned her inside. She slid obediently between the covers, though she had yet to say a word.

But her eyes were fixed on his face, wide and questioning and still brilliant with the sheen of tears.

He snuffed out the candle, then sat on the edge of the bed, close but not touching her. "What is it?" he asked quietly.

Her eyes roved his features. "You—you don't look like Nathaniel, you know. He smiles. You never smile." She startled him by reaching up and tracing the hardness of his mouth.