Just One Kiss (5 page)

As hazy as she was, Elizabeth had already decided she liked Dr. Stephen Marks. There was a warmth and friendliness to his manner that made her trust him immediately.

Ignoring her parched throat and cracked lips, she smiled. "Elizabeth is fine."

"Good. And you may call me Stephen." There was a pitcher of water on a table near the head of the bed. He must have known of her thirst, for he poured a glass of water and offered it to her. "Here, allow me," he murmured, helping her to sit and adjusting pillows behind her. He handed her her white silk wrapper, then discreetly turned his back while she slipped it over her shoulders. Elizabeth smiled gratefully when he returned to tip the glass to her lips. She was embarrassed at how weak she was, yet her muscles seemed to have turned to gruel.

When she'd finished, he said briskly, "Do you know where you are, Elizabeth?"

Memory rushed in at her from all sides—she recalled waiting for Nathaniel in the drawing room. Only it hadn't been Nathaniel who had come—it was that tall, fiercely elegant stranger… Turning her mind to the question at hand, she bit her lip, her gaze touching on the richness of the room's furnishings.

"From the look of it," she murmured, "not in a hospital. Therefore I assume I'm still at the home of Nathaniel O'Connor."

He hesitated, a faint frown lining his brow, then nodded. "So tell me, Elizabeth. How are you feeling?"

In her entire life, she didn't know when she'd felt so awful; as if she'd been battered and bruised from the inside out, and so she said. After a moment, she asked, "What day is this?"

"Sunday morning."

Her eyes widened. Her ship had docked Wednesday afternoon. "Oh, my," she murmured, precipitating another kindly laugh from Stephen. She bit her lip and glanced at him hopefully. "Do you think I might get up for a bit?"

He started to shake his head, then glimpsed her crestfallen expression. "I suppose we could see if you're up to it—certainly a few steps would do no harm. Here, let me help you." He swept back the counterpane, taking care to avert his eyes from the sight of her bare limbs.

Elizabeth eased her legs to the floor, secretly surprised by how wooden they felt. Nonetheless, she was determined. Stephen slipped an arm around her waist. She smiled up at him gratefully and sought to rise to her feet. Her expression quickly turned to one of startled bemusement when she discovered her legs refused to hold her.

She sank back down. "Oh, dear," she said with a laugh as shaky as her legs. "I'm afraid I'm not up to this after all."

Stephen merely shook his head, his lips curved upward as he swung her bare feet back to the mattress. She leaned back against the pillows, all at once feeling absurdly tired and weak for having slept nearly three days, and disliking it heartily. "What's wrong with me anyway?"

"Pneumonia, I suspect. And though it appears the crisis has passed, you're still very ill, Elizabeth." He rose from the chair. "Which is why I'll leave you to rest. I'll have the cook send up some broth, and we'll see how you do with that. Some nourishment should begin to make you stronger. In the meantime, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Even as the doctor exited, another figure entered…

It was
him
.

The door clicked shut.

They were left alone.

A fleeting panic assailed her. Odd, for Elizabeth would never have considered herself a coward, but the prospect of facing this man was almost frightening.

There was scant resemblance to Nathaniel, she noted distantly. This man was taller. Leaner. The elder, by the look of him. He was not smiling, as Nathaniel surely would have been. And there was no laughter in his eyes…

Instead they were fixed on her, coolly remote.

His clothing was severe yet elegant—dark trousers, a plain black satin vest and jacket. He wore no jewelry but a watch and chain. For an instant, all she could think was that he was austere and forbidding in manner—and in
looks! Long of nose and keen of eye, his hair as dark as ink. But those eyes… They held her as if pinned. She saw in them a haughty condemnation, a cool, dismissive appraisal… and then she saw nothing, no hint of anything at all.

More memories brushed at her. Of falling into darkness. Darkness and warmth. Of being held in a man's arms…
this
man's arms. She recalled the smell of bay rum, of being carried up a flight of steps, the touch of warm fingers brushing at the neckline of her bodice. On the warm skin of her breast…

Her hand flew to her throat. "You touched me." The accusation came out in a breathless whisper. This man—this
stranger
—had undressed her. Touched her as no man had ever done, as no man had a right to, not even Nathaniel.

Nathaniel. Dear God, this was his brother. His
brother
, a man she had never dreamed existed—a man she hadn't
known
existed.

"Unavoidable, under the circumstances, I'm afraid." He sounded not the least apologetic, she noted indignantly. Her chin came up as he approached the bedside. Then, to her utter shock, he gave as courtly a bow as one would find in London.

"I do believe we should reintroduce ourselves," he said smoothly. She found her fingers encased strongly within his grip—oh, if only she were wearing gloves! The feel of warm, faintly callused skin against hers disturbed her immensely. "Morgan O'Connor at your service."

His brows slanted devilishly, he awaited her response. "Lady Elizabeth Stanton," she stated breathlessly. Even as she spoke, she sought gently to tug her hand free. But to her discomfiture, he refused to release her. Years of breeding took their toll; she was too much of a lady to make a scene.

Thank heaven there was no need to persist. He released her fingers abruptly and stepped back.

"I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of having your trunks delivered here from the docks."

Elizabeth raised her gaze. "My thanks," she murmured. Despite the obvious richness of his clothing, there was something distinctly predatory about him that put her on guard. Warily she watched as he proceeded to pull up a chair to the bedside.

He gave a half smile, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You must forgive my colonial ignorance, but I find myself intensely curious as to why you are called
Lady
Elizabeth Stanton."

Did he mock her? She couldn't be sure. Nervously she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, unmindful of the dark gray gaze that tracked its movement. "I am the daughter of the Earl of Chester. As such, I am known as 'lady.' "

"I see," he murmured. "I confess, Elizabeth, that merely makes me all the more curious as to what a woman of the aristocracy should want with my brother."

As he spoke, he crossed stylishly shod feet at the ankle. Though the movement was offhand, the omission of
lady
was blatant. Elizabeth had the strangest sensation there was nothing unstudied about the man.

Her delicate chin angled high. She would be no one's patsy, and it was time he knew it. "The reason is simple, really." She folded her hands in her lap and smiled directly into cold gray eyes. "I came to be his bride."

"Indeed. And what does your husband think of this?"

Elizabeth was caught wholly off guard. "My husband," she echoed. Her tone turned indignant. "Why would I wish to marry Nathaniel if I were already married? Why, the question is preposterous, sir! Of course I have no husband!"

"No?" His hand shot out, encircling her wrist like a shackle of iron. Though his hold was not hurtful, his movement was so sudden and unexpected that she nearly cried out. "Then why do you wear a ring," he demanded, "if you are not wed? Indeed, I wonder if you are truly who you say you are. Perhaps Lady Elizabeth Stanton is just a guise—a means to an end. Well, I warn you now, whoever you are, you'll gain little from my brother."

Elizabeth gasped and wrenched her wrist free. The gall of the man was unmitigated; she was not used to being the object of such suspicion. "I am who I say I am. And since I traveled unescorted," she informed him haughtily, "I had no wish to fend off unwanted advances from the ship's male passengers. I thought the easiest way to avoid such unpleasantness was to pretend I was already wed—thus the wedding band."

His eyes narrowed. "Why would a lady of your station travel unescorted?"

"I'm not certain it's any of your business," Elizabeth snapped.

"You are in my home," he pointed out curtly. "That makes it my business."

"
Your
business…
your
home." Elizabeth sputtered with ire. "You ungrateful wretch! I am no fool! You may live here, but this is Nathaniel's home!"

A smile that could only be called cutting spread across his hard lips. A single word was all he spoke. "No."

Elizabeth glared at him. "No? What, pray tell, do you mean, sir? I know full well this house is Nathaniel's—I knew as soon as I arrived! He described it to me quite well, and it was exactly as I expected!"

"Indeed." Morgan's tone was light, but his features were hard. "I suppose he regaled you with stories of O'Connor Shipbuilding, too, along with tales of the thriving business he has built over the years."

"And what if he did? I daresay he has every right to be proud of his accomplishments!" Faith, but Morgan O'Connor was far and away the most arrogant man she'd ever met.

A dark brow cocked high. "My dear lady," he drawled, "my brother has scarcely done a day's work in his entire life, most certainly neither
at
nor
for
O'Connor Shipbuilding. Perhaps you already know, but there are some who would say Nathaniel is a liar. A cheat."

"I know nothing of the sort! And I am given to wonder what kind of man would so malign his own brother!"

"You have only to ask the servants to know that I do not lie. You're under a grave misconception if you believe otherwise. For I assure you, this house is solely mine. O'Connor Shipbuilding, too, is solely mine."

He spoke with quiet brevity. All trace of arrogance vanished from his manner. Elizabeth stared at him. Her brain scrambled for clarity. Her head had begun to ache abominably. As the seconds marched slowly by, a sick feeling began to gather in the pit of her stomach. All at once, she was no longer so sure of herself—or Nathaniel.

But by God, she'd not let Morgan O'Connor leave this room feeling he'd bested her.

She watched as he moved to stand before the fireplace hearth. Casually he turned to face her, resting an elbow on the mantel. "So," he said. "You are truly who you say you are? Lady Elizabeth Stanton?"

Her gaze was silently detesting, her tone filled with icy disdain. "Come now, sir. First you refuse to believe I am who I say I am. Now it seems that you do. So which is it to be, I ask?"

His answer came, but not in so many words. "And you wish to wed Nathaniel?"

"He asked for my hand in marriage. I accepted. Unfortunately, my father was ill and I was unable to accompany him when he returned here from London." As she spoke, Elizabeth calmly folded her hands upon her knees, drawn up beneath the coverlet—it was hard to feel dignified when she was dressed only in night rail and wrapper.

"To my knowledge, Nathaniel has never before proposed to marry." He appeared to consider the possibility. "The daughter of an earl no less, eh? Yes, Nathaniel would like that. It becomes quite clear now. No doubt you possess a fortune."

Elizabeth reeled. His insult appeared directed more at Nathaniel than at her, yet she felt it just as keenly.

But he was not yet finished, the brute! He continued, his tone smooth as oil. "A lady of breeding," he mused almost thoughtfully. "A lady of quality. A lady of the English aristocracy… Why, Nat's outdone himself this time."

Storm-gray eyes wandered over her, lingering with blatant approval on the roundness of her breasts, making her feel as if he stripped her naked. Deep inside, she was horrified at his effrontery, for never before had a man made her feel so—so common and cheap.

His eyes locked with hers. "Yes," he said softly. "I do commend my brother's taste. But of course, he would want to assure himself that he would not lose such a prize as you." He paused, a cynical half smile flirting on his lips. "Tell me, Elizabeth. When is the child due?"

At first Elizabeth didn't comprehend. But when his gaze dropped to her belly, she felt her face flame hot as fire, first with embarrassment, then with anger.

She trembled with outrage, small fists clenching upon the counterpane. "By God, were I able, I would slap your face."

He laughed, the scoundrel, he laughed! "When you are able, Elizabeth, then you may."

Rebellion blazed within her. "It's Lady Elizabeth to you!" she cried.

He made no sign that he heard as he sauntered away. In her heart Elizabeth was appalled at her unladylike behavior. Never in her life had she shouted at anyone, not even her stepmother, though many was the time she longed to do so.

But that didn't stop her from glaring at the door he'd just passed through. No wonder Nathaniel had never spoken of his brother. He was surely the most hateful man ever to have been born.

It was only later that she realized… She still had no idea where Nathaniel was.

«
^
»

When Morgan emerged, Stephen awaited him in the corridor outside. Arms crossed over his waistcoat, his mouth tight with disapproval, he wasted no time venting his displeasure.

"I couldn't help but overhear." Both Stephen's tone and manner were stiff. "Elizabeth is scarcely up to doing battle with the likes of you, Morgan."

Battle? Morgan was unwillingly amused. Even as he spoke, deep in the recesses of his mind, he envisioned her fiery glare. It struck him that Stephen was wrong—he suspected Elizabeth Stanton would stand up to Queen Victoria herself if she so chose—and without batting an eye.

No, he thought again. No spineless weakling was the lady.

Morgan deliberately kept his response light. "What! Surely you jest, Stephen. I was hardly 'doing battle' with the chit, as you choose to put it."

Stephen remained vexed. "Nonetheless, I would remind you, she is my patient."