With This Kiss (15 page)

“I’m sure Messieurs Matthews and Hornsby will be delighted to hear that.”

“I do not seek their friendship. Merely their cooperation in removing children from the hazards they face.”

“You believe you exert enough influence to affect that sort of change?”

“I am merely one voice, but I am not afraid to speak.”

“That has been made quite apparent.”

She eyed him coolly for a long moment. “Do I detect a note of disapproval in your voice?”

“The poor have existed for centuries; they will continue to exist for centuries to come. You would do well to thank providence for your station in life and leave alone matters that do not concern you.”

“Remarkable. Does blind arrogance come naturally to the peerage, or is it a skill one must cultivate, like fencing or fisticuffs?”

“If you wanted a lesser man, princess, you should have married one.”

The hackney came to an abrupt stop before the tall, ivy-covered gates to Morgan’s estate. Recognizing his master within the confines of the cramped coach, the gatekeeper sprang forward, ceremoniously opened the gates and ushered them inside. The hackney creaked forward once again, carrying them up the broad drive that led to Morgan’s door.

Julia observed the practiced ease with which his servants shepherded them forward, then turned to face him once again. A small, disapproving frown touched her lips. “Life — with all its unpleasantries — must occasionally be faced, Lord Barlowe. Not everyone can afford to build gates to hide behind.”

Heavy silence rang between them. At length he said, “It appears you’ve developed a fondness for testing my limits, haven’t you?”

“Is speaking my mind testing your limits?”

“A word of advice. Don’t push too hard. You might not like the results. Three months is a very short time.”

A deep flush suffused her cheeks at his blatant reference to their future intimacy. It was, he had come to discover, a weapon he held over her, and he had no qualms about brandishing it now. The sooner she respected his authority, the sooner life would become bearable for them both.

“Furthermore,” he continued coolly, “I believe I’ve given you permission to call me by my given name. You may thank me for that courtesy by addressing me as such in the future.”

A footman appeared, silently let down the stair, and pulled open the carriage door. Morgan exited the decrepit hackney, and then turned to assist his wife. Refusing his hand, Julia tilted her chin and lifted her drab brown skirts, no doubt intending to sweep grandly past him in a regal fit of feminine pique. But she took only two steps before she came to an abrupt stop, an expression of crestfallen dismay on her face.

Morgan turned and followed her gaze. As his focus had been on his wife, he had not noticed the other vehicle, a hired coach, that was blocking his drive. Gathered around his front stoop were Cyrus Prentisse, his wife Rosalind, their two daughters, the coach driver, and Morgan’s head butler. From the looks of it, a rather heated discussion was under way. Biting back a sigh of impatience at his uninvited guests, he took Julia’s arm and ushered her forward into the fray.

By way of greeting, Cyrus Prentisse turned to Morgan with an air of pinched displeasure and stated, “The driver has the temerity to inform me that he does not carry the proper change for a fifty-pound note.”

The cab fare. Of course, Morgan thought, stifling a sigh. Although he doubted Cyrus Prentisse had ever so much as seen a fifty-pound note, let alone presently carry one on him, at least that explained the general air of domestic calamity.

The coach driver took in Morgan’s ragged attire with an air of total bewilderment. After casting a glance at the butler to make certain he was in fact speaking with the lord of the manor, he doffed his hat and gave a quick bow, looking embarrassed but determined. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I can’t carry that kind of blunt. Not with crime being what it is.”

Morgan directed a meaningful stare at Julia. “Yes,” he said dryly, “you have my full sympathies.”

“Right,” the driver muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “Well… the fare’s one shilling, sixpence.”

Morgan gave his butler a brisk nod. “See to it.”

Cyrus cleared his throat. “I presume the cost will be the same on our return.”

“Indeed. What remarkable foresight,” Morgan replied dryly.

Cyrus gave a pompous sniff. “One cannot advance in life without it.”

“How very true.”

The driver looked from Morgan to Cyrus with a worried frown, twisting his cap in his hands. “I don’t know that I can wait too long. I’m missing fares as it is.”

“I can assure you it won’t be long,” Morgan replied with a tight smile. “See to his fare, Piers. Make it worth the man’s while.”

That business handled, Morgan ushered his guests into the west parlor but did not offer them the courtesy of a beverage. Neither, he noted, did his wife. Instead Julia regarded her relatives with an expression of pained forbearance as they settled themselves on the plush chintz covered sofas. Morgan elected to remain standing. He propped one elbow upon the marble mantel as his gaze moved over Cyrus and Rosalind Prentisse. He had initially made their acquaintance when Cyrus had begun his quest for a match for his daughters. He hadn’t liked them then; he liked them even less now,

Rosalind was plump and florid, given to indulging in minor dramatics. Cyrus was tall and stern and wore an expression of constant displeasure. Between them they had produced two pale and insipid daughters who appeared to have inherited their parents’ voracious appetite for money and status. Even now their eyes moved around the room as though judging the value of each object contained therein.

“This heat,” moaned Rosalind as she waved a silk fan before her, her features arranged in an expression of exaggerated misery. “I simply cannot abide it much longer. Something must be done about it.”

“What would you suggest, Aunt?” Julia asked.

Rosalind blinked. She snapped her fan in a gesture of peevish irritation. “Really, Julia,” she muttered. “I haven’t the faintest.” As her gaze moved over her niece, her eyes widened in appalled horror, as though truly seeing her for the first time since their arrival. “Julia, what in heaven’s name are you wearing?” she demanded.

“I’m afraid you caught us rather unawares,” she replied unapologetically, making no attempt to correct her state of scandalous dishevelment. “I visited an acquaintance in the East End this morning and—”

“The East End?” Rosalind interrupted, her brows shooting skyward. “Surely you don’t personally associate with anyone in the East End.”

“On occasion, yes.”

“You permit this, Lord Barlowe?” Rosalind demanded, her gaze moving over Morgan in horrified bewilderment.

“As you might divine from his attire,” Julia replied coolly, “Morgan was kind enough to accompany me.”

“Good heavens.” Rosalind’s fan flew back and forth before her in a flurry of shocked outrage.

Cyrus stiffened in displeasure, studying his niece with an accusatory air. “What possible business could you have in the East End? The area is rife with nothing but thieves and derelicts.”

“Private business, Uncle Cyrus. Nothing that need concern you.”

Her uncle’s eyes narrowed intently. “You are forgetting that we are family. Naturally I am concerned. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the men your father disgraced himself with in that awful smuggling episode, would it?”

“Oh, dear,” Rosalind gasped as her fan fell to rest on her pudgy chest. “Not another scandal. I simply cannot abide another scandal. Think of your poor cousins. How will we ever succeed in finding them suitable husbands if you persist in ruining the family name? Have you not brought enough shame—”

Morgan had had enough. “Julia has caused you no scandal or shame,” he interrupted, his tone one of icy authority. “This morning’s adventure was a mere lark. She is guilty of nothing but choosing a husband who too freely indulges his young bride’s whims.”

As uneasy silence descended over the room, Morgan returned his gaze to Julia, noting her surprise that he had come to her defense.

“I would suggest you not do so again in the future,” Cyrus said. “The girl is too high-spirited as it is. Her parents indulged her unmercifully, and that has done her no service at all. What Julia needs is a husband who can offer her firm guidance. You would do well to remember the scripture,” he continued solemnly. “There is scarce any evil like that in a woman. Keep a strict watch over an unruly wife. A bad wife is a chafing yoke; he who marries her seizes a scorpion.”

“Thank you,” Morgan returned dryly. “I’m sure I’ll find that helpful in the days to come.”

Cyrus gave a pompous nod. “I trust you will.”

The conversation lurched awkwardly forward. They touched for a moment on the latest gossip, and then finally rested on what Morgan was certain were the true purpose of their visit: a lucrative business venture that Cyrus Prentisse was certain would interest his newest family member. It required a small investment of twenty thousand pounds, surely a mere pittance to a man such as Viscount Barlowe…

Morgan withstood the oral assault for as long as he could. Finally, after relaying a cool promise that his secretary would look into the matter, he invited his guests to take their leave. Once their departure was complete, he moved to a sideboard and poured a generous splash of bourbon into a crystal tumbler. He lifted the glass to Julia, offering her the same refreshment. At the shake of her head, he gave an indifferent shrug and drank deeply, as though driving away a bad taste that had been left in his mouth.

Julia watched him for a moment, then quietly stood. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said stiffly.

He stopped her at the door. “Julia.”

She turned, an expression of wary reluctance on her face. “Yes?”

“How long did you live with them?”

“Six months.”

“No wonder you were so anxious to escape.”

“I —” she began, then stopped abruptly. Her fingers moved to the small gold medallion she wore about her neck as she gave a tight nod. “It was a difficult time for us all.”

“I imagine so.”

She studied him for a moment, as though wanting to say more, but apparently thought better of it.

“Cook generally serves supper in the Blue Room at seven,” he informed her before she could turn away. “It’s not a formal affair, particularly as it will only be you and me tonight.”

A slight pause, then, “Actually, I’m not terribly hungry. I had thought to take a small meal in my room if that’s possible.”

“Of course. I hope you’re not unwell.”

Her lips curved in a tight, fleeting smile as she shook her head. “I’m sure it’s just the heat.”

“Yes.”

She stood before him for an awkward moment, neither one quite able to breach the silence that followed. “Well,” she said at last, “if you’ll excuse me.”

Morgan gave a small, polite bow. This time he didn’t attempt to stop her. He turned to the window and looked out at the gardens below, sipping his bourbon as he contemplated the day’s events. Their idiotic adventure into London’s East End had left them both unharmed, but that was pure caprice. It could have been worse. Much worse. It was all larks and escapades until someone was hurt — until Julia’s tender flesh was torn by a knife, her body ravaged by a common thief.

What his wife suffered from, he decided, was not immaturity but a lack of experience. She was too idealistic. She didn’t understand the depth of horror to which life was capable of subjecting one. In many ways she reminded him of himself, before the fire: moving from day to day with the cocky certainty that life was a glorious feast to be devoured, a game meant to be enjoyed.

Morgan had failed even in that. Looking into his past, he saw no joy there, only unmitigated foolishness. Reckless, selfish arrogance. Drunken races through St. James Park. Lurid affairs conducted in married women’s bedchambers. Forcing his servants to live four to a room that had been designed for one.

He clenched his glass in his fist, studying the sharp contrast between the purity of the crystal and the morbid scarring of his skin. The adage that time healed all wounds had been invented by a fool who had never been hurt. There was no divine moment of healing. Time passed, that was all. One didn’t rise above grief. Grief had a life and a force of its own. One simply learned how to move around it.

He watched as the tall iron gates to his estate were swung shut and secured for the night, experiencing an undeniable sense of relief. He had held all manner of potential disaster at bay for one more day. Although he was loath to admit it, in many ways Cyrus Prentisse was right. Control, that was the key. That was the only way to get through life.

He had spent the past two years unburdened by emotions. Julia disturbed that comfort. She demanded things of him that he couldn’t possibly give. Although she hadn’t said as much directly, he could see it in her eyes. His bride had once had dreams of her own. She held no wealth or title, but her beauty was remarkable — even when dressed in drab brown rags. Under different circumstances she would have attracted a man who would love and cherish her. Instead she had been forced to wed him. Life had betrayed her. He understood that all too well.

Morgan gave a soft sigh. It was regrettable, but there was nothing he could do to change it. He was not cruel enough to hold out any false promises. Julia was smart enough to accept her circumstances and make the best of them. She would bend, but she wouldn’t break. She would learn. Given time she would adjust. And so would he.

Even more importantly, together they would find Lazarus.

In the end that was all that mattered.

Julia hesitated before Morgan’s door. In the two days that had passed since their ill-fated excursion into London’s East End, she had done her best to avoid direct contact with her husband. A petty game, perhaps, but wars were often won and lost based on the outcomes of small skirmishes. And there was no denying the fact that she needed the time to accustom herself to Morgan’s presence. Although she considered herself fairly level headed — and judged Morgan to be the same — an inexplicable volatility seemed to erupt between them whenever they were together, throwing her completely off balance. Unfortunately, she could no longer avoid his presence. She took a deep breath to gather her courage, then lifted her hand and rapped sharply on his door. At his call to enter, she turned the heavy brass knob and stepped inside.