A Lesson in Pride (27 page)

What was the man doing? It felt like he was licking her. Ginny started to pull away when he put both hands behind her head and held on. She could scarcely breathe as Morgan began to suck on her lips. His tongue was unusually wet, and it was like being kissed by a dog. Having had enough, Ginny gently pushed against his chest and pulled away. Thankfully, Morgan took the hint and backed off.

“Is everything well? Do you hear someone coming?” he asked.

Grabbing onto the excuse he so kindly gave her, she said, “Yes, I heard someone. Maybe it would be better if you went back to the other chair.”

When he stood, she grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth. How was this possible? The man was a Greek god, but couldn't kiss? What kind of sick joke had she landed herself in now? The thought of spending an entire evening with him now turned her stomach. God, if he couldn't kiss, what else couldn't he do well?

After seating himself, he stated, “I cannot hear anyone now. Are you certain?”

“No, but maybe it's better if we didn't put ourselves in a compromising position.” Dear God, please stay away!

His sexy half-smile returned as he asked, “When do you think you could get away for the evening?”

The situation came crashing down on Ginny. This wasn't the man for her. The story was asserting itself and guaranteeing its own way. She had been given an alternative, only to discover it wasn't a choice after all. It was a drippy nightmare.

“I'm not sure,” she hedged, but knew she couldn't keep him hanging. Honesty was, however, also not a good idea. After heaving a deep sigh, she said, “I should be honest with you, Morgan.” Not that she would be, but was going for sincere this time. “I can't really consider an affair.”

His eyebrow twitched up. “Why ever not? As a widow, you are more free-”

“I'm not as free as you might think,” she uttered, interrupting him. “My inheritance is very restrictive. My dead husband was a bloody ass and made for damn certain that my options were few. If we were caught together, it could be the end of my income.”

“You are jesting.” Morgan looked like any true gentleman should: disgusted.

“I'm not. If I remarry, I lose it. If I help my family, I lose it. If I'm caught in an affair, I lose it.” Truthfully, Ginny wasn't even sure of her last statement, but in this case, it would give her the perfect excuse not to engage in any more amorous acts with Morgan.

“That, Alysanne, is dreadful. I am sorry. If you remarry, you would have to remarry well, I suppose.”

Uh-oh, where was he going? “That is true,” she said slowly.

“Then it is a shame that I cannot marry you,” he stated as he stared out the window.

Wait, what? He wouldn't marry her? “You wouldn't?” she blurted before she could think better.

“Not that I would not want to, my dear. Only because I am already married.”

Ginny's eyes nearly popped out of her head. What had she stepped into?

“You're married?” she asked, tone incredulous, eyes blazing.

“I thought you already knew that. Yes, I am married to an Italian girl who has refused to live in London. My place is here, so we are estranged.”

“So... what was I to be?”

“Beg pardon?”

A thousand thoughts ran past her at once, but Ginny only focused on the most nagging one. It would seem that she was meant to be with Grant. If she chose to be with someone else, the story would change her mind. It would make the man gorgeous, but grotesquely unequipped in some fashion. But then, wasn't that exactly what Grant was?

“This relationship... it was only to be sexual, no?”

“Uh...”

“You can't marry me, so you were only thinking of satisfying your lust.”

“Well...”

“Was there something else?”

“I find you fascinating, Alysanne. As young as you are, you act so much older. You are very beautiful and I thought we could have a friendship.”

“A friendship with benefits,” she muttered quietly. By the upturn of his eyebrow, she knew he'd heard her.

“This would not be acceptable to you.”

If only he knew the real reason. Hell, she would have walked across fire to sleep with him if he was at all good at it. As a woman of the twenty-first century, she was far from being a prude, but she did have some standards. A pretty face wasn't enough, especially if said face couldn't kiss worth a damn.

“No, Morgan, it's not. I'm sorry if I led you on. You must think me juvenile. But honestly, I thought there would be more than just the sex.” Perhaps not the full truth, but definitely not a complete lie. For once, her conscience could not object.

“I understand. Perhaps I should go.”

“Yes,” she stated while nodding her head. “That would be best.”

Ginny walked him to the front door, which opened just as the pair entered the foyer. Her stepdaughters walked in chatting, but stopped as soon as they saw the unknown man in their home.

“Hope, Charlotte, this is Lord Hood. Morgan, these are my stepdaughters, Miss Charlotte and Miss Hope Drake.”

Morgan bowed to each girl in turn. Turning to face Ginny, he bowed once more and said his good-bye. As he walked out the door, both girls stared at the man with wide eyes and big smiles on their faces.

“Oh, my,” said Charlotte.

“Who was that?” Hope asked.

“It was no one,” Ginny announced, knowing full well how true her words were.

Chapter 34

Grant made his way down the dark alley, trying very hard to breathe only through his mouth. The stench was almost alive, attacking him when he wasn't vigilant. He walked in a dark liquid that he neither could identify, nor wanted to. Even the brick walls of the alley were covered in some shiny film that did bore thinking upon.

As he came out the other end, he entered a courtyard of sorts. To his left was the back doorway to a brothel that specialized in particular tastes. Grant had always thought he was more likely to get a disease there than a good time. On the right was a set of four steps that led to a door. Straight ahead was another set of steps, only these led down into the darkness.

Choosing the door to his right, Grant climbed the short steps and rapped his gloved knuckles loudly. He heard some scraping on the other side and waited for the door to open. Instead, an opening appeared, complete with a set of eyes.

“What do you want?” asked the disembodied eyes.

“I am looking for Robert Thomas or Nigel Thomas.”

The eyes examined him as closely as they could. Seeing his fine clothes and well-made hat, the voice stated, “If you want to see them, you will 'ave to pay up their tab. The blokes 'aven't paid the rent yet.”

“How much?” Grant asked, mostly because he had no desire to deal with the eyes anymore.

“Two quid,” came the reply.

Grant snorted. He wasn't so desperate to give that much away. “I will give you a few crowns, nothing more.”

Now the eyes snorted and the opening disappeared. Grant was about to knock again, but thought better of it. Turning to walk down the steps, he was surprised when the full door opened as he reached the bottom.

“One guinea,” said the voice that now had a face. He was a short man, not much over five feet. He was clean and dressed properly. Grant could see inside the building and saw that it was well maintained. Obviously, this man was not the shyster he'd originally thought.

Reaching into his pocket, he found a guinea. It was too much, but then again, knowing Nigel as he did, the proprietor of this boarding house was most likely losing money. He flipped it into the waiting hands of the man in the doorway and made his way back up the steps.

“How much does he really owe you?” Grant asked as he walked inside.

“'E's been here for six months and only paid for the first.”

“Why haven't you given him the boot?”

“'E's 'elped out in other ways,” was the response. The small man showed Grant the way. The two walked up several flights of steps before coming to a door with the number eight on it. The small man knocked and stood back. The door flew open and there stood Robert, eyes blazing.

“I told you, you rotten bastard, that I will get you the money when I can.”

Before Robert could slam the door in the small man's face, he noticed Grant standing to the side. “Lord Grant,” he said with a touch of reverence the man didn't deserve.

“Robert, may I come in?” Grant asked with a forced joviality.

“Of course.” Robert moved aside to allow him passage.

“The bloke's paid you up for now,” the small man said as he walked away.

Robert closed the door and offered Grant a seat.

Refusing, Grant got right down to business. “Where is he?”

Surprised, Robert asked, “Why do you care? We have not heard or seen you in over a year.”

“Did you expect me to support you when Alysanne could not?”

Robert opened his mouth, but promptly closed it again.

Before Robert could summon up the courage to speak, Grant explained his appearance. “Alysanne asked me to find you. She wants to meet with you and discuss a job offer.”

Robert's eyes darted quickly toward a curtain and back to Grant again. Grabbing Grant's arm, Robert opened the door and pulled him into the hallway.

“What has Ally done? She mentioned something to me the other night, but...”

“But, what? She has given you an opportunity, Robert.” Grant glanced back at the door they'd just departed. “Is he in there, then?”

“Of course he is,” Robert muttered as he ran a nervous hand through his hair.

“What is wrong with him?”

“I am not certain. Shortly after Ally left to go to the country, he started complaining of headaches. They grew worse over the past year and now he is largely incoherent.”

“Has he seen a doctor?” Grant asked, knowing the men had little in the way of payment for a doctor.

“Yes, but that was months ago. The man was useless.”

Grant didn't know what to say. Clearly, Nigel was dying, and much like the proverbial stone, he was wrapped around his son's neck. Robert couldn't leave him to die in the gutter, but he couldn't do anything else either.

“You need to go and see Ally. Go now. I will stay with Nigel until your return.”

“You would not want to do that, my lord. He can no longer see and he is prone to fits of violence.”

It was then that Grant noticed the bruises on the young man's neck. Robert was barely fit to care for himself. He was definitely not equipped to care for a man whose madness turned him violent. However, Grant knew someone who would and for next to nothing.

“I know of someone who can care for your father, Robert. It will cost you nothing if you agree to allow him use of your father's body after death.”

Robert gasped. “You must be joking, my lord.”

With all seriousness, Grant asked in an eerie, monotone voice, “What has he done for you?”

“I see that Ally has poisoned you against him.”

Grant resisted the urge to grab Robert's shoulders and shake some sense into him. “I have known your father for a long time. I thought he treaded a fine line ethically before, but my mind was poisoned against him when he sold your sister to Drake. That man would have made every day of her life a living hell. And Nigel did it for money.”

“It was her duty...”

“Duty?” Grant's anger rose like lava in a volcano. “It was her duty to be sacrificed so your father could go another few months without working an honest job? Alysanne was to suffer because she had been born a girl without a prospect of a decent occupation? You cannot mean what you say, Robert.”

Robert's gaze turned to his shoes. In a whisper, he responded, “No, she did not deserve Drake.”

“She is working very hard to help you, Robert. She cares about your well being. She wants you to have a good life.”

“She wants me to work for a living.” The disgust in Robert's tone was evident.

“She wants you to have some pride,” Grant stated. In a flash, he saw his life for what it was. Pride was something that Grant had lacked for many years. He was a leech, living off what his father had been willing to give. Instead of finding a better way, Grant accepted what his life was without a second thought. He could do better. He should do better. If not to prove something to Alysanne, then to prove it to himself.

A crash sounded from inside the room, and Robert shoulders slumped as he opened the door and made his way inside. Grant followed him and saw that the curtain he'd spied earlier was in a heap on the floor. Lying on a small mattress next to the curtain was Nigel. His pallor was grayish and his eyes were rimmed red. The man looked so close to death that it was a wonder he still drew breath. Not only did he draw breath, he used it to scream at his son.

“Where are you?” Nigel yelled as he reached out with both hands. He still lay on his back and his arms reached up to the ceiling.

“I am here, Father,” Robert called automatically, grabbing a small cup from the table and going to feed some of the liquid to his father.