With This Kiss (6 page)

“No, just you — and Mr. Randolph, of course.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Mr. Randolph?” she echoed with a startled laugh. “I’ve known him since I was a child. I would trust him with my very life.”

He considered that, and then nodded once again. “Very well.”

“I hope you understand now why I felt it was necessary to divulge my entire background, Lord Barlowe. Ordinarily I might not have spoken so freely, but I felt it only fair that you be aware of all the surrounding circumstances… particularly as they pertain to the matter of marriage.”

He glanced up at her with a distracted air. “Yours?”

Her heart pounding in her chest, Julia looked directly into Morgan St. James’s cool gray eyes. “Ours.”

Morgan’s first thought was that he hadn’t heard the woman correctly. But the expression on her face told him otherwise. She stared at him with a mixture of hope and dread as a small, trembling smile curved her lips.

“I beg your pardon?” he finally managed.

“Our marriage.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“On the contrary, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” She leaned slightly forward in her seat and continued in a tone of desperate urgency. “Given my uncle’s recent determination to see me married off, I have given the matter a great deal of thought. Especially the issue of a dowry. If I had something of value to bring to the marriage, my betrothal would be of considerably greater worth. It suddenly struck me that I am not as impoverished as it would appear. I do have a dowry — albeit one that is of value only to you.”

“And that is?”

“Lazarus. I can help you find Lazarus.”

Morgan regarded her in silence as disbelief coursed through him. Her proposal was as shocking as it was ludicrous. Marriage. The thought was too ridiculous even to entertain. A joke. Surely it was nothing but a joke — one that was made in incredibly poor taste. He straightened in his seat, intending to stand, bid her good fortune, and leave the room. But one nagging, irritating thought held him in place.

Lazarus.

Was it possible? His muscles tightened as images of that fateful morning flashed through his mind. Could this Lazarus person be the same man he had chased down an alley that misty dawn morning more than two years ago? Could all of London have been mistaken as to the identity of the dead man found in the ashes? Unlikely, despite Julia Prentisse’s conviction to the contrary. But as he considered the question, a flicker of uncertainty sparked somewhere deep inside him.

If it was the arsonist sending those letters… If the man still lived and could be found…

It would be worth any cost.

Realizing she was waiting for an answer, he studied her with newfound curiosity. She didn’t look as though she were joking. Instead, the expression on her lovely features was one of dire earnestness. Interesting. He understood his own motivation, but what of hers? “You said your uncle has encouraged three other suitors who have asked for your hand,” he said. “Why this inexplicable desire to wed me?”

A grimace of raw embarrassment crossed her features. Avoiding his eyes, she turned away with a light shrug and replied in a voice of patently false nonchalance, “They don’t please me.”

“Who are they?”

Her gaze snapped back to his, her sherry eyes wide with alarm. “I refused their suit. I couldn’t possibly reveal—”

“Who?”

She studied his face for a long minute in stubborn silence, and then a petulant frown curved her lips. “This is most—”

“Who?”

“Lord Edward Needam.”

A misogynistic ass who was known to beat his mistresses when the mood struck him. “Who else?” he asked.

She let out a sigh, replying with considerable reluctance, “Sir William Bell.”

A mule-faced drunk up to his ears in gaming debts. “And?”

A long pause, then, “The Honorable Peter Trevlin.”

That name surprised Morgan. He had thought Trevlin’s predilections ran solely toward young boys.

“That’s quite a list, princess. I had no idea I had fallen into such stellar company.”

“Yes. Well…” She hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the soft folds of her gown. “Naturally my uncle prefers that the more favored suitors turn their attentions toward his own daughters.”

Naturally. Good God. What had she said?
I fear my uncle does not have my best interests at heart.
That was putting it mildly. If the man was that eager to be rid of her, he would have done his niece a greater favor in tying a stone around her neck and tossing her in the Thames.

“When one considers my alternatives,” she said, “I believe it becomes understandable as to why I would take the drastic measure of pressing my own suit this evening.”

“Indeed.” He leaned back against the settee, a wry grin curving his lips. “Always flattering to learn that one is looked upon as a last resort.”

“That’s not the case at all,” she protested. “The same research that led me to turning down my other suitors convinced me that you would make a tolerable husband.”

“Indeed? And just what research was that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I spoke to your servants. You’ll be happy to learn that they’re a rather closemouthed bunch. Furthermore, most of them have been in your employ for years. Loyalty of that sort is generally a sign of contentment. Short of informing me that you are not romantically engaged at present and that you were undertaking a rare visit to the Devonshire House this evening, they had very little to say.”

“That’s good?”

“Quite. As you might imagine, the discussions I had with the servants in the employ of the other gentlemen I mentioned were rather… stimulating.”

Morgan barely managed to suppress a smile at her prim disapproval. “Yes,” he replied solemnly, “I would imagine so.”

A contemplative silence fell between them. She bowed her head, her lips pursed in thought. As she moved, a strand of her incredible hair fell forward, brushing against her cheek like a silken caress. For an instant, Morgan found himself wondering what that hair would feel like tumbling against his chest, how that fiery red would look against the linen cream of his sheets. Before he could pursue that fantasy further, she looked up and softly announced, “I believe we would do well together as husband and wife.”

“And just how did you reach that astonishing conclusion?”

“I’m fluent in French,” she said, evidently — perhaps deliberately — misinterpreting his sarcasm for a genuine query.

“So am I,” he replied, unimpressed.

“I can cook.”

“I have a cook.”

“I’m very efficient in the managing of a household.”

“As is my housekeeper.”

“I have served as hostess at my father’s parties, affairs that included as many as one hundred guests. Furthermore,” she rushed on before he could comment, “I would not be a burden to you financially. As I mentioned earlier, I have a steady income from the rents on this space, and the auctioneer from Pindler and Sons has informed me that I may make as much as two hundred pounds from the sale of the furnishings. Perhaps even two hundred and fifty pounds—”

“Can you breed?”

“I beg your pardon.” She studied him with an expression of queenly disdain, plainly giving him an opportunity to retract his words. When he didn’t, she brought up her chin and turned away, muttering in a tone of maidenly outrage, “What a vulgar question.”

He lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “Yours is a vulgar proposition. Besides, you’re forgetting what a man wants most when he takes a wife.”

“Love?”

He nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. “You neglected to mention a sense of humor while regaling me with your considerable attributes.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t—”

“An heir.”

“Oh. I hadn’t considered… that is…” Her voice faltered and came to a stumbling stop. An expression of open dismay showed on her face. But she quickly rallied herself and lifted her gaze to meet his. “We would need to make some… arrangement for that, wouldn’t we?”

“As far as I know, there is only one
arrangement
for that sort of thing. A myriad of creative possibilities when it comes to style and satisfaction, but just one basic arrangement.”

He was being deliberately crude, measuring her reaction.

To his considerable amazement, she met his challenge with cool aplomb. “I am familiar with the ways of intimacy between a man and a woman,” she replied succinctly, with barely a blush marring the porcelain perfection of her skin.

So she wasn’t a virgin. Very well. Neither was he. He wouldn’t hold that against her.

“May I speak plainly, Lord Barlowe?” she asked.

He arched his brows in an expression of mock astonishment. “Do you mean to say that you haven’t been?”

A small smile curved her lips, but it was clear by her distracted manner that her thoughts had taken another direction. She stood and moved away from him, fiddling for a moment with a hodgepodge of ornamental bric-a-brac that cluttered an oversize bureau.

She turned to him and said, “We are outcasts in society, you and I. I have no dowry. I am a burden to what little family I do have. My name has been permanently besmirched — as evidenced by the quality of suitors who have asked for my hand. And as for you” — she paused, looking him directly in the eye — “I remember well what happened after the fire on your property. It wasn’t long before the initial tide of sympathy turned against you, and you were vilified by all of London, condemned for awful loss of life and the callous disregard you showed in forcing your servants to live in such close confines. It was even rumored that you deserved your scars, for they mark you as the Beast you truly are.”

Morgan tensed. He had heard all the rumors, of course, but never had they been so baldly tossed in his face. “Are you always this outspoken, Miss Prentisse?”

She lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “I say these things not to incite your anger — nor so that we may wallow together in self-pity — but so we may examine the facts as they exist. Perhaps things might have been different once, but now we have no choice but to accept our lot and move forward. I believe we can help each other. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be here tonight.”

He regarded her in cool silence. Finally he said, “Marriage to a total stranger seems a rather desperate measure, does it not?”

“I’ve given the matter considerable thought, and I fear it is my only solution,” she replied. “Living with my aunt and uncle is growing more intolerable every day. As I mentioned earlier, I have some income, but I would need to augment that sum in order to fully support myself. I had intended to search for a position as a governess, but it would take too long to secure a post. And short of taking another name, I’m afraid the scandal of my family’s past would make finding work difficult.”

Morgan contemplated that. Even if she could find a post, it would mean spending the rest of her life in dull seclusion. Furthermore, if the man was married and his wife had any sense, she would never allow a woman who looked like Julia Prentisse to live under their roof. The temptation would simply be too great.

Aloud he said only, “Very commendable. Boring work, but a respectable occupation nonetheless.”

“I also thought of opening a shop. I’ve been told I’m rather clever with lace and feathers when it comes to decorating a hat—”

“We’re full of all sorts of brash plans, aren’t we, princess?”

Anger flashed across her face. “This is difficult enough as it is. If you mean to say no, I would appreciate your doing so without demeaning me further.”

Morgan studied her a moment longer, as though she were an object he was about to acquire. Amazing the paths life took. He had once been known as London’s most notorious rake. Now he was seriously contemplating marriage to a bluestocking reformer. But he could do worse. Much worse. His gaze moved slowly over the sculpted curves of her body beneath her shimmering gown, the flaming richness of her hair, the perfection of her delicate features. Even in the heat of anger, she was lovely.

And then there was the matter of Lazarus.

Lazarus.

If marrying Julia Prentisse meant finding the man who had set his servants’ quarters ablaze, it was well worth the cost — any cost.

That decided, he rose abruptly to his feet. “Your address?”

When the question drew nothing but a blank stare, he prompted, “Your uncle’s address?”

Her eyes widened with startled disbelief, then she gave him the location.

“Very good.” He gave a tight nod. “You may inform him I’ll be paying a call tomorrow morning.”

“Does this mean…”

He paused at the door and turned back. “Don’t sell the gowns. The pale green would be a very suitable choice for our wedding ceremony.”

Her hand was trembling. Julia tried to control her reaction, but it seemed the more she focused on that quivering appendage, the more it seemed to shake. Morgan St. James had to be aware of her reaction — he was holding her hand, after all — but his expression indicated little interest or concern for the precarious state of her emotions.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he said. His voice conveyed the same level of emotional intensity one might hear if reading aloud a bill of lading.

At the minister’s nod he slid a thick gold band onto the fourth finger of her left hand. Centered in the band was a dazzling, square-cut sapphire wreathed by glittering diamonds.

Julia’s mind reeled with disbelief. A wedding ring. It was all happening so quickly. Less than a week had passed since their initial meeting, yet in that time Morgan had operated with brisk efficiency, meeting her uncle to obtain his permission for their nuptials, securing a special license for their betrothal, locating a church in which the ceremony could be performed, and making arrangements with a minister to officiate.

Despite the discretion with which Morgan had moved, rumors had nevertheless flown throughout London that the Beast was about to take a bride. The church was packed with gossips and curiosity-seekers, all of whom had come to witness for themselves an event that was being touted as the spectacle of the year.