With This Kiss (7 page)

“With all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he continued evenly. “With my body I thee worship.”

His words echoed off the church walls, rebounding all around them.

Julia’s hand shook even harder. Morgan St. James. Was it true what people said about him? She gazed at the long fingers that held her in his grip. The skin there was taut, deeply scarred, red and angry. Did the rest of his body look the same? A shudder tore through her at the thought. For a moment the urge to run was so overpowering, she almost succumbed to the impulse to flee the church. Morgan must have somehow divined her shameful thoughts, for in that instant his mouth tightened to a grim line, and he loosened his hold on her hand.

Startled, she lifted her eyes to his. He looked icily remote, as though the question of whether she fled — leaving him alone at the altar with more than a hundred spectators to witness his humiliation — or stayed to become his wife was one of supreme indifference to him.

Julia became dimly aware that the minister was asking her a question. She tore her attention away from Morgan to focus on the words being spoken. Would she take him for her lawfully wedded husband? Her silence lasted perhaps only a second or two, yet as she held Morgan’s gaze, it seemed to stretch out between them into infinity.

She took a deep breath, and then answered in a soft voice that sounded completely unlike her own, “I will.”

The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur. She repeated the minister’s words by rote, as though she were a mere witness to the ceremony rather than an actual participant. Then it was over. The minister placed their hands together and declared them man and wife. Morgan signed his name on the register; she did the same.

It was customary for a new bride and groom to be received with cheers, applause, greetings of goodwill, and perhaps even a bawdy joke or two when first presented to a congregation. Julia had attended enough weddings to know that. But as she and Morgan turned and faced their audience, nothing but stony silence greeted them, punctuated occasionally by an indiscreet whisper or the flutter of fan.

It was an uncommonly warm day, and the crush of bodies only intensified the heat within the small church. But Julia found the silence even more oppressive than the temperature. It seemed to carry with it a weight of callous censure and scorn, as though she and Morgan had turned themselves into the sort of pitiful misfits normally found accompanying a traveling carnival.

Her gaze moved to her own family, who were seated in the front pews. Uncle Cyrus, dour and disapproving as ever, was dressed in a grim black suit that looked as though it should be reserved exclusively for funeral rites. Aunt Rosalind, who had made the unfortunate choice of a lavender taffeta gown that wilted in the stifling heat, looked as though she might faint at any moment. Her cousins, Theresa and Marianne, regarded her with expressions of pained endurance, as though the whole affair were nothing but one further embarrassment to be suffered through on her behalf.

With an air of total disregard for their reception, Morgan wordlessly took her arm and ushered her down the main aisle. They exited the church and stepped out into the brilliant July sunshine. His coach and driver were waiting at the bottom of the steps; a second vehicle was parked directly behind it for her family’s use. Morgan handed her into his coach and immediately followed, pulling the door closed behind him.

Shortly thereafter the driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. As the team of chestnut geldings began to pull into traffic, Julia protested, “Shouldn’t we wait until my aunt and uncle—”

“Your uncle is familiar with the arrangements. He’ll follow us.”

The words were spoken in a clipped, no-nonsense manner that left little room for argument. Julia would have pressed her point nonetheless, had the issue mattered to her. But as their destination was a wedding breakfast with the sole participants being herself, Morgan, and her family — an event she looked upon with dread rather than anticipation — she let it go.

She turned her attention to the happenings outside the coach. They made their way east, skirting the well-heeled patrons and expensive shops and restaurants that lined Regent Street, then continued north through the boisterous, bustling crowds that filled Covent Garden. As they neared Mayfair and Grosvenor Square, a dignified quiet settled over the streets.

With little left for her to see but the strikingly similar facades of the mansions they passed, Julia returned her attention to the other occupant of the coach, Morgan St. James.

Her husband.

Her plan had worked perfectly. She had avoided her uncle’s odious suitors and taken a husband of her own choosing. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that they were truly married caused a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous wonder.

She cast a discreet glance at the stranger she had married. Morgan was engaged in the same pastime that had previously occupied her: watching the scenery pass as they drove toward his home. Conscious of the silence that resonated between them, she decided to strike up a conversation.

“The ring is beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

For a moment it appeared he hadn’t heard her, so total was his absorption in the view outside the carriage. But after a minute he slowly turned to face her. “I don’t blame you.”

She regarded him in blank confusion. “I beg your—”

A small, cynical smile curved his lips. “Were I in your position, I would have wanted to run as well.”

She could think of no reply, nor did any seem appropriate. So she did the only thing she could think of. She turned away, directing her attention outside the carriage once again.

Seconds later the coach slowed before a large tract of land that was markedly different from the homes that surrounded it. There was no elegant facade, no neatly manicured lawn, no smoothly paved drive. Instead, all that could be seen was a tall iron gate connected by imposing brick columns that encircled the property. Thick, thorny vines had woven their way through the iron rails, obliterating any view of what was contained within.

Julia went cold at the sight. Had she escaped one hell only to make herself a prisoner in another? As most of London knew, the gate that circled the St. James estate had been erected shortly after the fire. With its appearance — and further isolation of the man within — rumors had begun to spread throughout the city as to exactly what was behind those gates.

The Beast.

Embarrassed by her own foolishness, she pushed the thought away with an irritated sigh. Ridiculous. She had researched the man carefully. Hadn’t Morgan’s own servants spoken well on his behalf? Furthermore, she was here of her own free will. This was entirely her choice, her decision.

Nevertheless, as the broad gates opened to admit them, her breath caught in her throat and her heart thundered at twice its normal tempo. This step — entering what was to be her home for the remainder of her days — seemed far more final than any she had taken to date, including the wedding vows they had exchanged earlier. She had once read an account written by a man who had been sentenced to life imprisonment. In his recollection, it wasn’t the sentencing itself that had caused him to break down. The stark, cold realization of what was happening to him had come when the metal bars of his cell clanged shut behind him.

And so it was for her.

Perhaps because that grim analogy filled her mind, because she had prepared herself for the worst, the reality that greeted her was all the more startling. Stretching out as far as her eye could see were lush green lawns that rolled over gently sloping hills. Stone pathways traversed the grounds, leading to pockets of tall, shady trees and intimate gardens that bloomed with a riot of color. She noted a brook that meandered across the property from north to south, and a formal, bubbling fountain centered in the courtyard to the west of Morgan’s estate.

The house itself was classic in design, with tall columns, an ornate oak door, and broad steps composing the facade. Constructed of bricks it had been painted a dazzling white that seemed to shimmer in the summer sunlight. Black shutters flanked the windows; matching black window boxes were bursting with bold crimson geraniums and neatly trimmed ivy.

She turned to him and smiled. “It’s lovely.”

A look of cynical amusement touched his features. “What did you expect?”

Refusing to be intimidated yet again, she replied honestly, “A deteriorating estate with crumbling walls, shutters hanging askew, rotted steps, and broken window-panes. I thought it would be surrounded by dying trees that cast ghostly shadows on the walls, and dismal gardens that had long since withered with neglect.”

“How very dramatic. I fear I disappoint you.”

“You surprise me.”

For a moment she thought she saw something other than cool indifference in his gaze. But the expression, whatever it was, vanished too quickly for her to be certain. As the carriage shuddered to a stop a footman was instantly at the door, pulling it open. Morgan stepped out first, then turned and assisted Julia. They stood together in silence for a moment, contemplating the broad steps that led to the front door.

“I believe we can dispense with the customary carrying of the bride over the threshold,” he announced.

The implication that she had been expecting him to do exactly that was clear. Biting back a stab of annoyance, she matched his cool tone. “I would be exceedingly grateful.”

“In that case, shall we?”

Julia lifted her skirts and wordlessly preceded him up the stairs. Once she reached the entrance, the door swung open almost instantly. Waiting within the main foyer was a small army of servants, all immaculately dressed and standing in the tight, orderly formation of troops waiting to be reviewed.

She arched one brow and shot a silent, questioning glance at Morgan.

He shrugged. “I thought we might see to the introductions straightaway.”

“How very efficient.”

Taking her words for assent, he addressed his waiting staff. “I present your new mistress, my bride, Viscountess Barlowe. I would have you serve her as you would serve me. What she wishes is what I would wish. What she would have done is what I would have done. Please her, and you will have pleased me.”

His words were brisk and concise. But to Julia, who hadn’t the faintest notion of what her place would be in his household, they were deeply reassuring. At her request, his remarks were followed by personal introductions. Aside from the few faces she recognized from her earlier encounters, she knew she couldn’t possibly remember the name of every housemaid, parlormaid, scullery-maid, chambermaid, and dairymaid; nor that of every footman, butler, cook, groomsman, and gardener. But she felt the attempt to offer a personal greeting to those with whom she would be living was at least a step in the right direction.

The introductions completed, the servants went back to their duties. “I expected your family would have joined us by now,” he said.

“Yes.” She cast an anxious glance out the front window, but there was no sign of the second coach. Facing the inevitable, she let out a sigh and sent Morgan an apologetic smile. “Given that he has temporarily retained a private coach, Uncle Cyrus may have decided to run a few errands before joining us.” The obvious implication — that her uncle was too miserly to lease a coach of his own, selfish enough to take advantage of Morgan’s hospitality, and rude enough to keep them waiting for their own wedding breakfast — was undeniably true. But stating it so baldly did not shed the best light on the situation. Therefore she added hastily, “With this heat it’s so difficult to find a coach for hire. I’m sure you understand.”

Judging by Morgan’s expression, he did understand. All too well. But his only reply was “If we are to wait, perhaps we would be more comfortable doing so on the veranda.”

He led her through a maze of long hallways and elegant rooms to an informal back parlor that was filled with chintz-covered sofas, enormous bookcases, and pretty floral rugs. A set of tall French doors at the far end of the room opened onto a shady veranda that overlooked the gardens below. She moved immediately to the banister, leaning out over the rail to more fully enjoy a soft breeze that chose just that moment to stir. Unfortunately the breeze died away as quickly as it had erupted, leaving nothing but the stifling warmth of the day.

Behind her, Morgan asked, “Would you care for tea or something cooler?”

She turned to see one of the parlormaids she had met earlier standing just outside the glass doors, waiting for her reply. Julia sent her a soft smile. “Something cool, thank you.”

The maid gave a brief curtsy and turned to obey. As the girl left, Morgan abandoned his place near the rear of the veranda and moved closer, positioning himself to receive the shade of a potted palm. A slight frown touched Julia’s lips as she considered the movement. In each instance they had been together, Morgan St. James seemed to surround himself with shadows, whether it was a matter of pulling the coach shade partially closed or taking up a position in a darkened corner of a room. The maneuver was subtle but consistent. Was it an acquired habit, she wondered, or something that he consciously thought about?

“Tell me more about your Uncle Cyrus,” he said.

The topic surprised her, both in its boldness and in the rather odd subject matter. Now that they were alone, she had expected to be immediately questioned about Lazarus.

She lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “Are you always this inquisitive?”

“Yes. Every time I marry, I succumb to a strange desire to know my bride.”

A small smile touched her lips. In admitting their situation was as bizarre to him as it was to her, his words had an unexpected calming effect. Realizing she had little to hide or defend, she replied, “My Uncle Cyrus was my father’s older brother. The two were never close. As a result, our families had very little contact. Thus it was difficult for all of us when I was suddenly thrust into their midst — particularly given the circumstances.”