Authors: Adrienne Basso
Intimate Betrayal (5 page)
Morgan looked at her in fascination. “In the short time since I have made your acquaintance, Miss Carrington, you have never ceased amazing me.”
She smiled up at him. “I shall take that as a compliment, though I’m not certain it was intended as such.”
Perkins entered carrying a letter on a silver tray. Pausing by Alyssa’s chair, he formally presented the contents to her.
“The post has arrived at this hour?” she inquired, surprised.
“The letter came from London by special messenger, Lady Alyssa.”
Curious, Alyssa picked up the heavy cream-colored envelope and at once recognized the distinctive stationery.
“It is from Lord Carrington’s solicitors,” she told the duke. Her lips twisted ironically. “It is probably a message informing me of your arrival.”
Her smile quickly faded, however, as she began reading the letter. Her green eyes became very round and her entire body stiffened with tension. Lifting a pale, drawn face to the duke, Alyssa softly whispered, “Lord Carrington is dead. He was found in his rooms last night with a bullet in his head.”
Chapter Three
An eerie silence filled the room as the two men waited anxiously for Alyssa to continue. Becoming impatient, the duke reached for the letter.
“May I?” he inquired, snatching the letter away. “It appears your solicitor, Mr. Bartlett, has been successful in dissuading the authorities from making a formal inquiry into the matter. Lord Carrington’s death was deemed an accident.”
“An accident?” Alyssa repeated dully.
“Perkins, bring the brandy,” Morgan ordered when he saw her wretched state. As Perkins shakily complied, the duke clasped Alyssa’s cold hands tightly. Instantly she felt comforted by the warmth and strength of his touch.
“Drink this,” Morgan commanded, placing a glass filled with a generous portion of brandy in her left hand. “It will help to steady your nerves.”
Ignoring his order, she repeated her question. “How can it be ruled an accident?” A trace of desperation entered her voice. “Shouldn’t there be an inquiry to determine if there was any foul play?”
“That will be all, Perkins,” the duke said, dismissing the butler. As soon as they were alone, he once again took Alyssa’s hand. Morgan was touched by the haggard look in her eyes, but it did not deter him. Choosing his words carefully, he attempted to explain.
“Mr. Bartlett has done you a tremendous service, Miss Carrington,” he said in a placid voice. “It is best for all concerned, especially you, if the matter is not examined too closely.”
The air was charged with tension as Alyssa voiced her most dreaded suspicion.
“Suicide?” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Are you implying it was suicide?”
“It would seem likely,” Morgan said gently, hating to confirm this loathsome notion.
“You think I should let the matter drop,” she said woodenly.
“It would probably be wise,” he answered.
“What am I supposed to do next?” She asked distractedly. “Must I go to London to . . . to. . .” She could not say the words.
“Mr. Bartlett will make all the necessary arrangements. Instruct him to bring Lord Carrington’s body here.”
“Here? But why? Westgate Manor no longer belongs to the Carrington family.”
“I am not such a monster that I would deny a man his final resting place. Of course he will be buried here.” Morgan insisted, his feelings of guilt causing him to respond more harshly than he intended.
“Thank you,” Alyssa said in a toneless voice. “I shall send word to Mr. Bartlett directly.”
Alyssa sat motionless in her chair, the glass of untouched brandy forgotten in her hand. Suicide, suicide. The word reverberated through her mind. She let the shock and pain wash over her as she tried desperately to recall some happy memories of her father.
It saddened her even more to realize she had none. Jeremy Carrington had been a selfish man and a cold, indifferent father. And now he had killed himself, leaving his daughter behind to make amends.
The duke was speaking to her. Alyssa looked up at him, unseeing. She tried to collect herself and become unfrozen. The duke repeated himself.
“Is there anything you want me to do, Miss Carrington?”
Yes, she wanted to shout. Make this all go away. Let everything be as it was before you walked into this house. She closed her eyes in an effort to chase away the screams in her head. I want to worry about the price of grain and how the weather will affect our crops this year, instead of being thrown out of my home and burying a father who has just killed himself.
Defeated, Alyssa drained the brandy glass she held so tightly.
“You’ve done quite enough already, Your Grace,” she said in a cold voice, knowing full well she did not have the right to place any of the blame on the duke, but needing to direct her suffering somewhere. “You will forgive me if I don’t spend the morning touring the grounds with you. I have some correspondence that needs my immediate attention.”
For several minutes after she left, Morgan stared at the closed door, debating whether or hot to follow her. He was surprised how deeply her misery affected him and wished there was something, anything, he could do or say to make it easier for her—but there wasn’t.
Morgan felt intense and unexplained rage toward Jeremy Carrington. How could a man be so uncaring and cruel to his own child? It was unthinkable.
The duke delayed his departure as long as possible, hoping Alyssa would seek him out. Eventually realizing he would have to approach her, Morgan proceeded to the drawing room, where he discovered Alyssa absently staring out a leaded-glass window.
She heard him enter and turned, and he saw a brief but unmistakable flicker of pain in her eyes before she conquered it.
“Are you ready to leave, Your Grace?” Alyssa inquired in a steady voice.
“If I can be of no further assistance. . . ?”
Alyssa shook her head. Impulsively she advanced toward him, extending her hand in farewell, hoping to convey her apology for her earlier, rudeness. The duke did not mistake her meaning, and clasped her hand firmly as he brought it to his lips and gently kissed the top of her wrist.
Above her hands, their eyes met. And held. And for a brief moment they stared at each other as if they were bound together on a deep, soulful level. Soon the intensity became too great and Morgan succumbed to his need to hold her. He gently yet forcefully pulled Alyssa into the circle of his arms and held her close, comforting her with his strong masculine presence.
His action caught her by surprise, but Alyssa relaxed her rigid control, gratefully accepting the safety the duke’s embrace offered. His greater physical and emotional strength gave her a wonderful sense of security. Marveling at how perfectly their bodies fit together, Alyssa lifted her face to offer silent thanks for his compassion.
Powerful, unfamiliar emotions pulsed through Morgan as their eyes locked again, and without thinking he claimed her lips in a sensuous kiss. He kissed her long and searchingly, succumbing to the emotion and passion she inspired. Morgan felt Alyssa’s astonishment and her tentative response just as he realized what he was doing. Feeling confused, he ended the kiss as abruptly as he had begun it, and stepped away from her, dismayed by his lack of control.
Alyssa stared at him with startled eyes, breathlessly trying to concentrate. She swayed slightly, wondering giddily whether if she landed in his arms, he would kiss her again. His kiss was the most remarkable thing she had ever experienced: strong, yet gentle; hard, yet tender. She was sorry he stopped.
Morgan scowled at Alyssa’s dreamlike expression. He swallowed against the sudden, intense emotions that filled his throat and moved further away, deciding it was time to beat a hasty retreat.
“Good-bye, Miss Carrington.”
“Your Grace,” she answered, confused by the harshness of his voice. She watched him unwaveringly as he exited the room, obviously in a hurry to be gone. Shaking her head sharply, she tried, without success, to force the entire incident from her mind as she returned to the unfinished correspondence on her writing desk.
The duke climbed into the waiting curricle, but paused to give Perkins some parting instructions.
“Tell Miss Carrington she may contact me at Ramsgate Castle near Portsmouth. I will be there until Thursday of this week. After that, she can reach me at my London residence.” He handed the butler a paper with the information.
“Keep a close eye on her, Perkins,” Morgan requested, astonishing both himself and the butler. Then at a light tap to their reins, the fiesty bays took off at a brisk pace down the drive.
Morgan was distracted during the drive to Ramsgate Castle. His mind continually wandered to Alyssa, and he was unable to explain why she so strongly affected him. The kiss they had exchanged had been passionate and wildly delightful, despite her obvious inexperience. He had enjoyed it immeasurably and so, apparently, had Alyssa.
Yet his fascination went far beyond the physical. He admired her spirit and intelligence, her ability to adapt gracefully, even triumphantly, to circumstances that would have defeated many men and overwhelmed most women. She repeatedly demonstrated her inner strength and courage, winning his respect during the short duration of his visit.
And still there was something else that drew Morgan to Alyssa, something he couldn’t define. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
He had also been inexplicably drawn to his wife Valerie many years ago. Not in quite the same manner, of course, but he had felt a spark of excitement when in her company. Unfortunately, the spark had sputtered and died soon after their marriage, leaving Morgan feeling trapped, permanently tied to a woman he neither loved nor liked, who constantly reminded him what an ordeal it was to be his wife.
Valerie had wept passionately while telling him how he offended her tender sensibilities with his physical demands on her person. She was horrified by his touch and accused him of using her solely for the purpose of sowing his seed to breed an heir. Upon reflection, Morgan had been ashamed to realize she spoke the truth, and as a concession stayed out of his wife’s bed.
Consequently Valerie died without producing an heir, but Morgan was no longer concerned about the succession of his title. His younger brother, Tristan, had recently returned from the fighting on the peninsula, wounded yet mercifully whole. Morgan promptly named his brother the heir to the dukedom, effectively passing on his responsibility and sparing himself the distasteful notion of entering into another marriage. It was now up to Tristan to continue the Ashton line and produce the next generation that would inherit the vast family holdings.
Morgan’s gloomy memories faded as he spied Ramsgate Castle in the distance. Though not his primary residence, the castle held many fond memories of carefree, boyhood summers. It stood majestically on a hilltop, surveying everything below. The sun glistened off the gray stone walls, softening the vastness and grandeur of the castle. It had originally been built by Henry VIII as one of a chain of coastal forts for protection against French raids, but was reborn when the fourth duke, Morgan’s grandfather, had decided to renovate the castle after returning from his European grand tour.
The renovation had taken almost twenty years, but the result was an incomparable showcase of fine craftsmanship, wealth, and imagination. Rebuilt in the Gothic style, the original structure had been transformed into a work of art, with tall stone spires encased in florid ornamental detail, endless arched windows with both clear and stained glass, and intriguing stone carvings on the exterior.
The interior was equally impressive, with marble floors, patterned in black, red, and white, sunken ceiling panels enriched with gold, and high relief carvings.
Morgan’s unexpected arrival put the place in an uproar. Burke, the castle butler, was practically wringing his hands as he followed Morgan into the grand entrance hall and assisted the duke out of his greatcoat and gloves.
“We were not properly notified of your arrival, Your Grace,” Burke said, the panic evident in his voice. “Cook will barely have time to prepare a proper evening meal.”
“Don’t go all to pieces on me, Burke,” the duke replied lightly. “I had business to attend to nearby and could not return to town without visiting my grandmother. How is she?”
“The dowager duchess is in perfect health as always, Your Grace. I believe she and Mrs. Glyndon are in the morning room working on Her Grace’s correspondence.”
That brought a smile to Morgan’s face. His grandmother was always working on her correspondence. He once told her she sent more letters to her friends than Napoleon did to his generals.
“Fine. I shall go there directly after I have cleaned up.” The duke began climbing the long winding staircase at a nimble pace, with a puffing Burke trying to keep up. “Oh, and Burke, I should like tea served in the morning room in one hour.”
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Morgan took the last steps two at a time. The exhausted Burke remained oh the staircase, clutching the wrought-iron balustrade tightly while trying to catch his breath, hoping he would be able to comply with the duke’s orders in a timely manner.
Feeling infinitely better after washing and changing into fresh garments, the duke proceeded to the morning room to greet his grandmother. He arrived just as tea was being brought in.
“Morgan,” the dowager duchess exclaimed with delight. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Morgan crossed the room and leaned down to kiss his grandmother’s cheek in greeting. “You are looking well, madam.”
The dowager duchess patted the seat beside her, and Morgan sat down. “Imogene and I are just finishing.”
Morgan inclined his head toward the duchess’s companion. “How are you today, Mrs. Glyndon?”
“Just fine, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glyndon replied breathlessly.
“Will you join us for tea, Imogene?” the dowager duchess asked politely.
Mrs. Glyndon wisely declined. Although a woman well into middle age, she always became a bit flustered in the presence of her employer’s handsome grandson. Besides, she knew the dowager duchess preferred spending time alone with the duke.
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