Just One Kiss (9 page)

Morgan did not move. "Don't," he warned, in a voice that was but a breath.

Her fingers stilled. "Why not?"

Her hair caught the light of the moon. It glistened as if it were shot through with moonglow, silver and gold combined. Morgan took a deep breath. "Because you just might get more than you bargained for."

"What?"

"This," he whispered. His head was lowering, even as he spoke.

His mouth closed over hers. He heard her swiftly indrawn breath at the contact, but he didn't withdraw. Sweet heaven, he couldn't. A heady satisfaction filled his chest. God, she was sweet. And Lord, but she tempted him. Beneath the thin cotton that covered them, he'd glimpsed the outline of her limbs, long and impossibly slender. It made him want to feel them locked around his hips as he thrust deep and hard inside her.

God, now he knew why he hadn't sent her packing the very day she'd appeared on his doorstep. He could lie to himself no longer. Stephen was right. He was drawn to her. To her sweetness. To her youth.

And there was fire in her. He could feel it in the way her lips molded against his. But there had been fire in Amelia too. That was one of the things he'd found so captivating—her vivaciousness, her spirit.

His breath came heavy and fast. It struck him like a blow then… He wanted her. Lady Elizabeth Stanton. He wanted her more than he'd wanted any woman in a long, long time.

Not since Amelia.

Why? The question turned over and over through his mind. Because she was Nat's? Because in some strange way he didn't understand, he felt the need to get even? No.
No
. It was more. Desire pooled thick and heavy in his loins, swelling his manhood to marble-hardness. Yet he didn't want to feel this way. Not about any woman. Especially not
this
one. She was Nat's, he reminded himself. She belonged to Nat…

But the battle he fought was already lost. It was dangerous. It was mad. God might see him in hell for wanting his brother's fiancée…

He didn't care. By God, he didn't care. Nothing mattered but this driving need turning his blood to fire. He ached with the need to spend himself deep in her body.

He fed on her mouth greedily, as if he couldn't get enough of her. She arched into him as if she were made for him. Unable to stop himself, he traced his fingers along the lacy neckline of her chemise, then dipped to the succulent flesh beneath. Her breast filled his palm, firm and ripe. He teased the tip to a quivering peak against his skin, reveling in the way she gasped into his mouth.

A low groan rumbled deep in his chest. Unable to stop himself, he broke the fervor of their kiss. But it was only to stretch out beside her and pull her full and tight against his length. She slid her arms around his neck and smiled faintly.

"Nathaniel," she sighed. "Oh, Nathaniel."

The name was like a flood of icy seawater full in his face. In a heartbeat, Morgan was up and on his feet beside the bed.

Elizabeth's eyes opened, sleepy and dazed.

"Go to sleep," he said harshly. "Go to sleep, Elizabeth."

Her eyes fluttered closed. Within seconds her breathing grew deep and even.

But Morgan knew sleep wouldn't come so easily for him. He stood by the bedside, both hands balled into fists at his sides.

He'd been right, he realized. The sooner she was out of his house—out of his life!—the better.

«
^
»

Elizabeth awoke with a raging headache and a terrible thirst—and the undeniable sensation that there was something she
should
be remembering… yet did not. Though she tried and tried, all she could remember was the most outrageous dream—that Morgan O'Connor had
kissed
her. That he'd lain beside her and touched her. Her body. The naked flesh of her breast… No.
No
. It was but a dream—a
horrid
dream.

And then there was Nathaniel. A hollow emptiness filled her chest. Oh, but she had gambled foolishly—and lost! Regret lay heavy on her heart, yet she spared no tears. Odd as it was, the hurt she might have expected was simply not to be.

It was afternoon before she appeared downstairs. She gave a silent prayer of thanks that Morgan had departed for his offices as usual. But Simmons commented that she seemed a trifle pale. Somehow she managed a weak smile.

"Oh, by the way, ma'am. Dr. Marks sent word that he's sending over his carriage for you at six o'clock sharp."

Stephen's ball! Lord, but she'd completely forgotten it! Her first thought was to plead illness, for in all honesty she had no heart to attend such a festive affair. Yet Stephen had been such a dear, tending her in her illness, visiting her afterward. In truth, he'd been her only source of enjoyment. How could she disappoint him, when he'd gone to so much trouble for her? She could not, she realized.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a frenzy of preparations. She had brought with her her favorite ball gown. Of white satin and lace, it had a daringly low-cut bodice, yet was both classic and elegant. Of course, it needed to be pressed. And her hair… Annie, the upstairs maid, came to her rescue, dressing it in a shining twist on the back of her head.

Stephen accompanied the carriage. As she descended the staircase, his gold eyes lit with unguarded appreciation. She knew then she'd made the right choice.

Morgan had yet to arrive home… For that, Elizabeth was eternally grateful.

From the start it promised to be a grand fete. Stephen's home was every bit as magnificent as Morgan's, if not more so. Indeed, it seemed ablaze with the light of a thousand candles. As Stephen introduced her to first one and then another of his guests, it struck her she was having a far better time than she ought. She laughed and smiled as she hadn't in a long, long time—so much so that she felt rather guilty. After all, shouldn't she be mourning Nathaniel's loss? Yet she was received with such warmth, she couldn't help but return it. When her last dance partner went to fetch a glass of wine, she found herself alone for the first time that evening.

There was a touch on her shoulder. She turned.

It was him—Morgan. Even in evening dress, he possessed an aura of raw masculinity unmatched in any other man she'd yet to encounter.

Her breath deserted her. A vibrating tension filled the air. All at once she feared this moment. She feared
him
, yet it was in a way she didn't fully understand.

"Would you do me the honor of waltzing with me, Elizabeth?"

She wanted to refuse. She
ought
to have refused. But words escaped her. Morgan took her silence for concurrence and reached for her hand. Elizabeth very nearly snatched it back, but his grip was firm.

"I do hope Stephen has kept you away from the brandy tonight," he murmured.

Her eyes flashed upward to his. To her shock, there was no mockery, no accusation.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Much better than I did this morning," she blurted.

He didn't laugh, but he smiled, to her utter surprise. She blushed fiercely.

Something elusive tugged at her memory. All at once she couldn't help but recall the kiss, the pressure of his mouth upon hers… It was just a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.

But his nearness was overpowering. It seemed… familiar somehow, but immensely disturbing as well. He pulled her close, so close she could feel the breadth and hardness of his chest. The warmth of his hand on her waist burned clear through to her skin.

Her heartbeat quickened. She swallowed. "I must ask a very great favor of you," she said, her tone very low. "I-I realize that you are right—that I can no longer depend on Nathaniel. And so, untoward as it may be, I fear I must ask if I might impose on your hospitality awhile longer. But I-I won't return to London, you see. I won't marry Lord Harry."

A rakish brow rose askance. "Then what will you do?"

"I intend to stay here."

"Here? In Boston?"

"Yes," she said, praying she didn't sound as terrified as she really was. "I am extremely well schooled. And I thought I would try to find a position as a governess perhaps."

"You? The daughter of an English earl? A governess?" It was his tone more than anything that conveyed sheer skepticism.

Elizabeth's chin rose almost defiantly. "I don't see why not. And I will do anything—anything!—even scrub floors if need be. But I refuse to go back to London."

He spoke not a word, merely studied her with those piercing gray eyes, his expression giving away nothing. Elizabeth longed to scream in frustration—if only she could see into his mind!

"Of course you may stay on," he said at last. One side of his mouth curled upward. "Though we may well set tongues to wagging before you are settled." They whirled and dipped. "In fact," he murmured, "I do believe we've done so already."

At first Elizabeth didn't follow. But when he tipped his head to the side in silent indication, her gaze took in the other guests. Sure enough, a number of eyes were trained on the two of them.

A tiny jolt went through her. "Why are they all staring at me?"

There was a subtle tightening of his arm about her back. "Perhaps because you are with the most handsome man in all of Boston?"

"Ha! Perhaps because I am with the most
infamous
man in all Boston."

In that instant, something changed.
Everything
changed. The shoulder beneath her fingertips turned as rigid as stone. The fleeting camaraderie between them vanished, as if it had never been. Bewildered, Elizabeth stared up at him. His features were glacial.

"What? What is it?" There was no chance to say more. The music had stopped. Elizabeth found her arm snagged by an earlier dance partner, Gerald something-or-other.

"Lady Elizabeth, come here! My sister and her friends are anxious to hear about all the latest styles in London. It's so much closer to Paris, you know…"

Her protest died on her lips. Morgan had already turned his back and was striding away. Hurt mingled with anger, and then a simmering resentment overtook her. The cad! He was positively rude. It was little wonder that he was unmarried—he possessed the social graces of a toad!

She turned to her former partner with a gay smile. "Of course, I'm happy to, Gerald. But I warn you, I'm hardly a fashion hound."

From that point on, Elizabeth resolved not to give Morgan O'Connor another thought. Yet every so often, her gaze strayed over someone's shoulder as she searched for him among the throng.

After a while, the music and voices and laughter made her head begin to ache. More than anything, she wished the evening would end so she could go home and to bed. Hoping for a bit of quiet, she slipped out a set of French doors onto the terrace.

The night was a trifle cool, but Elizabeth welcomed the fresh-scented breeze. Several small lanterns lit the darkness. Beneath a towering oak tree, there was a small stone bench. It was there Elizabeth directed her steps. Sitting down, she took a deep breath to clear her head.

"It appears you are quite the belle of the ball."

The voice startled her. Elizabeth's hand flew to her throat. But it was only Morgan. She let out a huge sigh of relief.

He stepped from out of the shadows. "But then, I suppose such things are second nature to you, aren't they, Elizabeth? Oh, do forgive me. Perhaps I should say
Lady
Elizabeth."

His tone was stinging. Pride brought her chin up. Through the silvery darkness she confronted him calmly.

"When my father and I were in London, we entertained, yes. And of course, I attended parties, and the theater and opera. But it was our home in the country—Hayden Park, where I was happiest."

"Somehow you don't strike me as a simple country girl."

He took a step closer, his hands behind his back. Elizabeth swallowed a flicker of nervousness. She peered through the darkness, but his back was to the lamplight. He appeared dark and faceless.

Gathering her courage, she straightened her shoulders. "You know very little about me," she said quietly. "But I think you consider me spoiled. And I think you resent me for being born into a family of privilege." She tipped her head to the side and regarded him coolly. "Is that why you dislike me?"

"Contrary to what you obviously believe, I do not dislike you. So let us change the subject, shall we? Frankly, I'm surprised at you. I would think you'd realize it wasn't wise to come out alone."

Elizabeth's spine was ramrod straight. "I'm hardly alone," she pointed out. "
You
are here."

He continued as if he hadn't heard—no doubt he didn't, the wretch!

"To some men it might be construed as an invitation. What if someone chanced to see you slip out alone?"

"Someone did!" Her glare was as hot as fire. "Besides, what could possibly happen?" She started to rise, only to find her shoulders firmly gripped as he suddenly pulled her upright.

Her breath tumbled to a standstill. Stunned, she met his eyes.

"This could happen, you silly fool."

As his mouth came down on hers, she had a fleeting glimpse of his eyes. They were no longer cold, but as searing and hot as the summer sun. For the space of a heartbeat she was too stunned to break his hold on her, and then the world swung away.

Morgan was kissing her…
Morgan
. It was almost too much to grasp. Her heartbeat quickened. Her breath caught halfway up her throat. God help her, it wasn't unpleasant—no, far from it! His lips were warm, drawing from her a response she was helpless to withhold. She shivered, swamped by sensation, pierced by a dark, sweet pleasure she'd never felt before… or had she? Something vaguely elusive tugged at her mind, just barely out of reach.

She broke away with a gasp. "Oh, God, it's true. I-I thought I'd dreamed it." She pressed her hands against her cheeks. Remembrance flooded her. "Dear God," she cried in horror, "you—you touched me… you undressed me… again! And you kissed me—as if I were a common trollop!"

An arrogant smile played about his lips. "What!" he mocked. "And Nathaniel hasn't done so?"

Before she knew what she was about, her hand shot out. She slapped him hard against the cheek; the resounding crack sounded like a shot. "Damn you!" she cried. "Why would you do such a thing?"