Authors: Adrienne Basso
Intimate Betrayal (9 page)
“I will not be in my ‘tiny’ cottage, Your Grace. I plan on going to Cornwall as soon as all the arrangements are made,” she informed him icily.
“To be with family?”
“To be employed.”
“Employed! Doing what? A governess? Or better still, a companion?” Morgan asked incredulously. Unwittingly a picture of Mrs. Glyndon, his grandmother’s companion, came to mind.
“Those are the positions I am currently seeking,” Alyssa responded briskly. “Since all the estate agent jobs were filled, I have little choice.” Alyssa’s attempt at lightness fell on deaf ears.
Morgan gazed at her profile sharply. “Why this sudden change of plans?”
Alyssa turned to him, fully intending to tell him to mind his own business, but his questioning eyes stopped her. Does it really matter if he knows? she thought wearily. Not fully understanding why the duke would be remotely interested, Alyssa nevertheless explained.
“Additional expenses from Lord Carrington’s estate have forced me to alter my plans,” she said quietly.
“What of the new Viscount Mulgrave? Or your family?”
“There is no family. The new viscount is Lord Carrington’s brother, an American,” she replied. “He cannot be located, so the responsibility has fallen to me.”
“As always,” he countered, his eyes filling with sympathy.
Alyssa saw it, and for once was not moved by it. It wounded her pride to be constantly viewed by the duke as an object of pity.
“I shall manage, Your Grace,” she replied briskly, thrusting her chin up. “I always have, I know I will be able to secure a position eventually. My primary concern is for my former nurse, Mavis.”
“What is wrong with Mavis?”
“Nothing is wrong with her. Your brother has indicated he is willing to keep the servants on, but Mavis is too old to start over. Lord Carrington made no provisions for any of the servants and I have nothing left to give.” Alyssa sighed softly and turned her head away.
“Then I will provide a pension for her.”
“But why? Mavis is not your concern.” She looked up into his face, testing his sincerity.
“I will provide for her,” Morgan insisted. “Unless you object?”
“Quite the contrary. I find myself in your debt, sir. Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can do to assist you, Miss Carrington?” Morgan pressed on. Alyssa gazed into his mesmerizing gray eyes, enthralled by the way they suddenly glowed with an inner light. A strong, almost primitive need to plead for his protection coursed through her veins, but she suppressed it. Flustered by these feelings, Alyssa fought hard to preserve her countenance and managed to answer in a calm voice.
“No, thank you, Your Grace. You are already doing more than propriety allows. If you will excuse me, however, I find I am extremely tired. I bid you good night.”
Alyssa rose quickly from her chair and, after bidding the others good night, left the room. Morgan filled a glass with a large portion of brandy and settled himself into a chair closer to the pianoforte, staring stonily at the door long after she was gone.
Chapter Five
Morgan awoke with a start at a loud clap of thunder outside his bedroom window. He had not closed the bedcurtains, and the full moon cast eerie shadows across the carpeted floor. Fumbling in the dark, he found the flint on the small table by his bed and lit the candle there. He shivered slightly. There was a chill in the room. The fire had gone cold.
Morgan sat up in the bed, listening to the howling wind and pelting rain. Casting his eyes skyward he quickly inspected the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t be surprised to feel raindrops on his face.
Why shouldn’t the roof leak? The majority of the house was in disrepair. Good thing Tristan is rich, he laughed to himself. It is going to cost him a bloody fortune to repair and renovate this mausoleum.
Morgan sat back against the feather pillows thinking about Alyssa. She had kept the estate productive only by foregoing her own creature comforts. He doubted her wardrobe contained a single presentable gown, yet she always carried herself with grace and dignity. Morgan would never understand how she had managed to live that way for so long.
The restless passion Morgan felt each time he thought about Alyssa returned. Knowing he would be unable to fall back to sleep, Morgan debated his options. He could get a boring volume from the library downstairs—that would certainly put him straight to sleep. Or perhaps a snifter of brandy would do the job nicely.
Rising naked from the bed, Morgan donned the brocade dressing gown Perkins had left on the chair. Grabbing his bedside candle, the duke padded barefoot from his room soundlessly down the corridor to the staircase.
He paused a moment in the large entrance hall, getting his bearings. He headed for the front salon, remembering the large decanter of brandy he and Tristan shared but had not emptied after dinner.
Morgan raised the candle he carried high in front of himself to illuminate the dark entrance hall. He was approaching the front salon when a strange noise brought him up short.
Was it the wind? It sounded like crying—no, whining perhaps? He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. He moved slowly down the hall, following the sound. When Morgan reached the end of the hallway, he saw light emerging from the partially closed library doors.
Again he heard the unusual sound. It wasn’t crying. It was singing. Someone was singing. Loudly and off-key. Morgan gently pushed open the door and stepped into the room.
A roaring fire bathed the room in soft light, making it warm and inviting. Directly in front of the large fireplace, sprawled out in a high-backed wing chair, sat Alyssa. Her legs were dangling over the side arm of the chair. A half-empty glass in one hand was raised comfortably across the top of her chair, while the other arm dangled down onto the carpeted floor.
Not wanting to startle her, Morgan spoke softly.
“Miss Carrington?”
Her head whipped up, and she grinned crookedly at him. “Your Grace! What a lovely surprise. Please come in.”
She indicated the matching wing-back chair. “Do sit down. I was just enjoying a spot of brandy. I insist you join me.”
She struggled a bit to get up from the chair and was successful on her third attempt. “Whatever are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” she asked, rising awkwardly to her feet. When she stood up, Morgan saw she was in her nightclothes.
She turned and walked in front of the fireplace, and Morgan sucked in his breath sharply. The glow of the firelight illuminated her simple cotton nightgown, allowing him to view her as if she were naked. He wondered how he ever could have thought she was thin. Her body was all sensuous curves: long legs, lean thighs, narrow waist, smooth buttocks, and lush, full breasts. Her hair, revealed to him for the first time, was long and thick, a rich, vibrant copper color. She looked different, so free and wild and beautiful. He felt the blood rush to his head at Alyssa’s incredible transformation.
Blissfully unaware of his scrutiny, Alyssa absently ran a hand through her disheveled hair as she searched the Pembroke table for the brandy decanter and a clean glass.
“Ahh, here we are, Your Grace.” She handed him his drink before settling back into her chair. “Would you also care for something to eat?”
“What? Something to eat? No. No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? You look rather hungry.” She took a small sip of her drink and grimaced at the strong taste. “You still haven’t told me what brings you down here so late.”
“The storm woke me. I thought a glass of brandy might help me sleep. When I came downstairs, I heard a noise, so I came to investigate.”
“Ha!” she exclaimed loudly. “My singing.” Alyssa giggled. “I hope it didn’t frighten you. Lord Carrington always told me my singing sounded like a cat being tortured.”
“Why are you here at this hour, Miss Carrington?”
“I am visiting my brave captain,” she told him in a serious voice. She raised her glass, toasting the portrait over the fireplace of a rakish man, elegantly dressed in Elizabethan costume.
“My noble ancestor, Sir Thomas Carrington. A sea captain and privateer, though I’m sure he was more a pirate. He does have that look about him.” She turned to Morgan for confirmation, but continued before he could respond.
“He was knighted by good Queen Bess herself for services to the Crown. God only knows what that entailed.” Grinning broadly, she winked at Morgan.
“Good God, woman, are you foxed?”
“I should say not,” she bristled. “I’ve only had this one drink.” She held up her nearly empty glass.
“One drink can do the trick when you are not used to strong spirits.”
“I bow to your authority on the matter, Your Grace. But I still must insist that I am not drunk.”
Morgan took a sip of his brandy, and for a moment simply stared at her. “What has upset you so much that you seek comfort here alone with a bottle?”
“Do you mean in addition to my being destitute, not yet employed, and in immediate danger of losing the very roof over my head?” She laughed again, but it had a hollow sound.
“A difficult situation, but is that truly the reason?”
“Not entirely,” she confessed. “I rediscovered some long-forgotten emotions tonight.”
“What?”
She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “Not since I was a young girl have I felt this intense jealousy. And envy. I don’t like it.”
“Jealous of whom?”
“Caroline,” she whispered softly.
“You have no need to be jealous. You are every bit as lovely as Caroline, in fact more so.”
She looked puzzled for a moment. “Why do you assume I wish to look like Caroline?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Yes. It is not Caroline’s looks that I envy. It is her relationship with Tristan.”
“You want Tristan?” Morgan barked, feeling a bit of jealousy himself.
Alyssa shook her head. “That is not what I mean. Tristan is a fascinating man, to be sure, but it is obvious his emotions are already engaged. What I want is someone . . . someone to look at me the way Tristan looks at Caroline.”
“And how exactly does Tris look at Caroline?”
“With delight . . . and happiness . . . and wonder, even when she says the silliest things.” Alyssa spoke very softly. Morgan leaned closer to catch her words. “He looks at her . . . with love.”
“Love?” Morgan asked, not sure he understood. “Don’t you mean lust?”
Alyssa shook her head. “Oh, no. I thought it was lust too at first, when we interrupted them before dinner. But it is more than that. I saw the way he soulfully gazes at her. During dinner and afterward when Lady Ogden was playing the pianoforte. Tristan is very much in love with Caroline.”
She said it with such assurance Morgan was almost convinced. He had not thought much about it before, but he supposed it was possible. Cynic that he was, Morgan doubted it would last.
“You seem so surprised. Don’t you love your wife, Your Grace?” Alyssa asked in a small voice.
“What? What did you say?”
“I asked if you loved your wife,” Alyssa repeated, needing very much to know.
“My wife is dead,” Morgan said in a flat voice. Her question made him think of Valerie. At one time he did believe he could learn to love his wife. Valerie had always claimed to be madly in love with him, at least in the beginning of their marriage. No, he did not ever truly love his wife. All he could remember now was the misery they had shared.
“I’m so sorry. I did not know. Caroline spoke earlier of the duchess waiting for all of you at Ramsgate Castle. I assumed she meant your wife.” Alyssa reached over and closed her fingers tentatively around his arm. “I did not wish to cause you any pain.”
Morgan looked into her clear green eyes and saw her concern. She wasn’t intoxicated, he determined, perhaps a little less inhibited, but not foxed. He reached out with his hand and gently stroked Alyssa’s soft cheek. She accepted his warm touch, closing her eyes and moving her face against his hand. It felt wonderful.
“Is love such a rare thing? I was hoping to understand it a bit better,” she said, reaching up to hold his hand.
Morgan stared at her, mute. His throat tightened with desire, and the sudden passion he felt was strong enough to drive any sane man past reason.
Fate, so often cruel in the past, had suddenly smiled upon him. This remarkable chance encounter with the openly curious Alyssa provided an opportunity to explore a physical relationship with a woman he admired. He would be a fool to toss this extraordinary opportunity aside. The temptation was simply impossible to resist.
“Open your eyes, Alyssa,” he finally murmured in a thick voice.
She obeyed. Silently they surveyed each other as if they were kindred souls mesmerized by emotions they couldn’t identify. Without warning, Morgan pulled Alyssa toward him and kissed her fiercely, his lips pressing firmly, commandingly, against her soft mouth. Instinctively she responded to his passion, parting her lips, allowing him to deepen his kiss.
A violent shudder shook him at her response and he pulled her out of her chair and onto his lap. She clasped her hands on his shoulders, drawing closer to him. Morgan’s probing tongue moved in and out of her mouth, making her feel dizzy and creating tremors of unexpected pleasure.
His lips wandered freely, gently kissing her face, nuzzling her ears. Morgan buried his face in her hair, breathing in the sweet, clean smell. Alyssa could feel the violent pounding of his heart against her chest and the hardness of his growing desire against her thigh. It was a new and exhilarating experience. Her body, her whole being, felt strangely alive.
“Oh, sweet,” he murmured passionately. “There’s a fire in you I never dreamt of.”
His words penetrated her passionate haze. She pulled away, her breath coming in loud gasps as she fought to still her pounding heart.
“Is there really a fire within me?” she whispered with amazement. The gentle wonder in her voice nearly did him in. Morgan glared hotly at her, his face flushed with desire, his lean body taut with barely controllable passion.
“God, yes,” he murmured, pulling her close against his broad chest. His mouth was warm and hungry as he kissed her with an urgency that left her moaning small sounds of ecstasy.
His mouth felt so good, so right. The touch of his tongue sent steamy liquid waves of feeling throughout her body, deep into her belly. Alyssa’s arms twisted around his neck, ardently encouraging his explorations.
“Darling,” she heard him mutter, his breath jagged and warm on her neck. She tried to answer, but was unable to speak, beyond anything but the urgency to kiss him, caress him, feel him.
He lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes.
“I want you.”
Her green eyes darkened with unleashed passion at his simple statement. Good lord, he wants me, she thought. He desires me; he has a need, nay, an ache for me. Me. This beautiful, wonderful, glorious man, who can have any woman he desires, wants me.
It was a heady feeling to be the object of Morgan’s intense passion. Yet it was more than mere desire that drew Alyssa to him. There was a connection, an invisible bond that existed between them. It frightened and fascinated her.
Feeling too overwhelmed to respond, Alyssa merely pressed herself closer into his arms, burying her head in his neck. As she nuzzled closer to him, Morgan’s hand began to roam her back and buttocks.
“Shall I take you now, love?” he whispered hypnotically in her ear. “Shall we lie down on the rug before the fire together?”
Gently he tugged on her nightgown. She felt the warmth from the crackling fire on her bare legs as his fingers moved slowly, ever so slowly, up the bare flesh of her thigh. His hand slid softly between her thighs, and he kissed her lips with an almost desperate need. She sprawled wantonly in his lap, offering herself to him, arching her back as he rhythmically stroked his hand back and forth between her thighs.
What is he doing to me? Alyssa thought wildly, feeling the heat and dampness on his hand and realizing it came from her.
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