Just One Kiss (10 page)

Rage fired in his eyes. For an instant she thought he might retaliate. But then his lips curved in a smile, a smile that was purely a travesty. "Well," he said softly. "I did promise you might slap me when you were able. I'm glad to see you're quite recovered." He inclined his head. "I do believe I'll take my leave now. Oh, and you needn't worry, Elizabeth. I've no thought of invading your bed—tonight or any other night. In fact, I believe I'll spend the night elsewhere."

He strode away, without a second glance.

Still flooded with the taste of him, Elizabeth touched her lips, numb and disbelieving.

They had no idea they were neither alone… nor unobserved.

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As luck would have it, Morgan arrived home in the middle of the night. He'd left Stephen's and gone straight to the apartments of Isabelle Ross. A reasonably successful stage actress, Isabelle had been both friend and lover to Morgan throughout the years. She was startled to see him, but welcomed him with open arms.

Clad in a pink silk negligee that revealed far more than it concealed, she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. Smiling up at him with full, painted lips, she pressed her breast against his side. "Morgan, what a wonderful surprise." Her tone was low and sultry; it could not be mistaken for anything other than the sensuous invitation it was. "What brings you here?"

In answer he threw his hat aside and pulled her into his arms. His mouth came down hard on hers. She responded immediately, thrusting out her tongue to duel wildly with his. He wasn't feeling particularly lusty, but he was at least looking forward to what he knew would be a most entertaining night. Isabelle was a woman who had perfected the art of pleasing her lover. Indeed, her talent matched her eagerness. With hands both daring and playful, she could bring a man to the brink of passion in mere seconds. And what she did with her mouth…

They proceeded directly to her bedroom. There, Morgan had a whiskey—well, actually, several. Oddly, he found himself in no particular hurry to proceed to the fleshly pleasures for which he'd come. Isabelle said nothing, but ordered the plate of food he requested. At last he set it aside.

As if on cue, Isabelle immediately stood, slowly letting her gown slip down her arms until she was naked. Boldly she touched herself, sliding her fingers around huge dark nipples until they stood quivering and erect. Then, a smile on her lips, her eyes half slits, she licked the tip of one finger and drew a wet path down her belly and into the thatch of reddish-brown curls, coming to rest at the pearly nubbin hidden deep within. And all the while she watched him watch her.

But Morgan was soon to find that however much he appreciated her voluptuous curves, his body exhibited little response. Ever patient, Isabelle kissed him lingeringly, allowing her hands to wander where they pleased…

All to no avail.

Isabelle was puzzled. Morgan was furious. What peace of mind he'd managed to regain since Amelia's death had been shattered. For even as he'd touched and fondled Isabelle determinedly in return, his mind refused to relinquish the image of huge green eyes and hair the color of spun gold.

And his body remained stubbornly disinterested.

Before he made a complete fool of himself, he cited too much whisky as an excuse and left.

After a near sleepless night, his vile temperament was not improved the next morning. He breakfasted in his study, tending to a number of household matters. It was after noon before he was ready to leave for the shipyards. But just then Simmons announced a visitor.

"Mr. Thomas Porter is here to see you, sir."

Morgan scowled. "Porter? I don't know anyone by that name," he said impatiently. "Tell him I can't see him now. If he's determined to see me, tell him to make an appointment with my assistant at the ship—"

"I think it would be to our mutual advantage if you did see me," interjected a strange male voice. "Please don't be so hasty, Mr. O'Connor."

Morgan glanced up to see a tall, thin man, clad in dark wool, standing in the doorway.

The man's eyes glinted. "Indeed, I think you'll regret it if you don't."

Morgan dismissed Simmons with a wave. The man closed the door after Simmons's departure, then walked boldly over to stand before his desk.

Morgan didn't ask him to sit. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded.

The man inclined his head. "Thomas Porter at your service, sir, reporter for the
Chronicle
."

Morgan's jaw hardened. God, but he despised reporters—and especially for the
Chronicle
. After Amelia's death, the wretched paper had gleefully crucified him with never a thought to his innocence.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, his expression unrelenting. "State your business," he said brusquely.

"Very well." The man called Porter pulled up a chair. "I'm an ambitious man who would eventually like to rise above covering the social events of the city. But on the other hand, I've discovered I have quite a knack for gathering gossip." He smiled. "And I confess, one never knows what juicy little tidbits one might uncover in the confines of Boston's little social circle." He tipped his head to the side. "You've been out of the circle for quite some time, haven't you, Mr. O'Connor?"

Morgan's mouth was a grim straight line. "I was never
in
the circle, and you damn well know it."

Porter gave a raspy chuckle. "Be that as it may, Mr. O'Connor. I, on the other hand, am always prepared to take full advantage of any situation that might present itself. And sometimes things turn up in the strangest places… Naturally, when I saw that Dr. Stephen Marks was having a little soiree last night, knowing of your friendship, I wondered if you might be in attendance."

Morgan fought the urge to stand up, seize the man by the throat, and throttle him. "What did you do?" he asked, his lip curling in disgust. "Hide in the bushes taking note of any and all who attended?"

"I admit, I'm not above hiding in the bushes." Porter gave a sly laugh. "It's amazing what one sees… Why, in fact, last night on the terrace I saw you share… shall we say, a rather ardent embrace with a certain English ladybird?"

"One stolen kiss is scarcely a criminal offense." Morgan struggled to restrain his temper.

"No," Porter agreed. "But I admit to having been very curious indeed about this beauty, so I stayed a bit longer. Of course, I'd heard she was a distant English cousin of Dr. Marks, here for a visit. I was quite puzzled when she left at a rather late hour, so I followed her."

Across from him, Morgan clenched his fists.

"Fancy my surprise when she came here, to your home! I watched her go inside, and it wasn't long before I saw a light upstairs—imagine that!"

"Let me guess," Morgan said tightly. "You didn't leave because you were
curious
." He said the word as if it were an abomination.

Porter sat back in his chair, a smug, self-righteous expression on his face. Clearly he was enjoying himself. "Of course I did," he answered.

"Then you must have seen me arrive home at a much later hour. It should be obvious then that I was not with the lady."

"Only you can say, Mr. O'Connor, only you can say. Naturally I stayed a bit longer, and this morning I chanced to see a young boy helping the gardener. I was able to talk to him and I asked if he'd ever seen the young lady in question—oh, he was quite forthcoming! He told me the lady had been here for weeks, in fact. He told me she'd been ill, but still… imagine. An unmarried young girl staying here, beneath your roof! Why, any number of things could have gone on, and no one suspected she was even here until now! Why, what would people think if they knew! As I'm sure you know, Boston's social circles can be very unforgiving."

Morgan had gone very still. "You bastard," he said through his teeth. "What do you want?"

Porter's eyes gleamed unpleasantly. "Unfortunately, I didn't inherit the family business—my elder brother did. I suspect your own brother would no doubt know what it's like to be a younger son. One never has enough money…" He named an outrageously high figure.

"Half that," Morgan snapped.

"Agreed! I'll stop by your bank late this afternoon." Feeling rather proud of himself, Porter stood and offered a hand.

Morgan ignored it. If he touched the man, he'd likely tear him in two. He strode to the door and called for Simmons. "Show this man out," he said tersely.

Back in his study, he tapped the tips of his fingers together, deep in thought. It would not end here, he concluded. The next time Porter found himself in need of a ready source of money, he would return, with more innuendo. More veiled threats. God knew he could survive the scandal. But what about Elizabeth?

The foolish girl was hell-bent on remaining in Boston. Even if she weren't, as the daughter of an English earl, her identity alone would pique interest. Shame and disgrace would follow her; rumors would multiply. No matter where she lived, her reputation would be blackened and her life ruined.

He shouldn't have cared. By God, he didn't. He was hardly her savior. Why, he strongly suspected she disliked him intensely.

But she has no one else
, argued a voice in his head,
no one to look after her
.

Certainly he had no desire to find himself tied to one woman again, especially one who fancied herself in love with his blackguard brother! He would be wise to avoid folly, he told himself harshly. God knew he'd learned his lesson—his only reason for staying with Amelia had been to avoid scandal, and that had turned into a fiasco.

Yet in the end, no matter how his mind circled and turned, he always came back to the same conclusion. He could think of only one way to save Elizabeth's name and avert disaster…

Heaven help them both.

Elizabeth managed to evade Morgan the entire day and well into the next—or did he avoid her? Either way, it didn't matter, as long as their paths didn't cross. Oh, she knew they would eventually, and she dreaded the moment, for what could she say? Should she apologize for slapping him? No! He had deserved it for treating her so—so abominably. On the other hand, it would be difficult to pretend nothing had happened, that he hadn't kissed her—Lord, not on one, but two occasions! Why, the very thought made her cringe inside—little wonder that for now she was content to keep things as they were.

But late afternoon had left her with little to do. She wandered into the library, idly noting that it was well stocked with a noble collection of books. But she felt too restless to sit, and found herself wishing Stephen would drop by.

She hadn't seen him for several days, since the night of his ball. Despite the disastrous ending to the evening, she realized she had enjoyed herself immensely. Humming a waltz, the veriest smile on her lips, she lifted her arms and whirled around.

There was a hearty burst of applause.

Elizabeth stopped cold. Her arms dropped to her sides like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Even before she spun around to confront her intruder, she knew it was he—Morgan.

The stinging heat of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, her entire body. But that was the only trace of it as she glared her displeasure.

"You might have knocked," she said coolly.

"Knock? In my own home? I see no need."

A dozen disparaging remarks sputtered in her mind. She pressed her lips firmly together to keep from spilling each and every one of them.

"Come now," he said mildly. "There's no need to be shy. You're still angry with me, aren't you? You look as if you'd dearly like to call me any number of unpleasant names, so why not simply say it and be done with it?"

Drat the man, for he seemed always to know what was in her very mind! "Because I'm too much of a lady to utter a word of any of them!"

"Yes," he said slowly. His mood seemed abruptly sober. "That you are, Elizabeth. That you are indeed." He paused. "Have you seen the morning paper?"

Elizabeth shook her head. It seemed a rather odd question to ask her, especially coming from him.

"Then come. I've something to show you."

He gestured her through the doorway. Taking her elbow, he strode toward his study. Elizabeth fought the urge to dig in her heels and halt. All at once she felt distinctly wary—and much like a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse.

He stopped before his desk, flicking a finger at the newspaper that lay open atop his desk. He released her arm, and she stepped back hurriedly.

He paid no heed. "I daresay you'll find the
Chronicle'
s social column of particular interest today, Elizabeth."

Her guard went up immediately. It struck her that he was acting very strangely. "I cannot think why," she said bluntly. "I'm afraid I don't remember half those I met at Stephen's ball."

"That's not what I mean. However, I'll save you the trouble of reading it for yourself. You see, today's paper contains an announcement concerning my future." He paused. "Congratulations are in order, Elizabeth. I'm soon to be wed."

Now, this, she was more equipped to deal with. "Oh, dear," she said cheekily. "Well, then, my condolences to your intended."

"Ah, but there's the thing, you see." A smile that could only be called devilish lurked on his lips. "You, sweet"—his tone was soft—"well, you are my intended."

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His smile should have served as a warning. Oh, but she should have known he was up to something… !

For the space of a heartbeat, all she could do was gape. Then she snatched up the paper for herself; quickly her eyes scanned the newsprint. It read:

Boston shipbuilder Morgan O'Connor is pleased to announce his upcoming nuptials to Lady Elizabeth Stanton, daughter of the late Earl of Chester. The pair plan to wed within the month.

Elizabeth's head came up. She stared at him in utter horror. "Who did this? Who would dare to make such an announcement?"

"I placed the announcement," he said calmly.

"Why?" she cried. "As some—some monstrous joke?"