With This Kiss (17 page)

“Very good.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you, Robert.”

He gave a polite nod to his employer, a similarly respectful bow to Julia, and then quietly exited the room.

The valet’s interruption gave Julia time to reflect upon their conversation. Morgan’s reticence to talk confirmed something she had suspected but hadn’t been certain of. He had spoken with relative ease about his physical wounds; obviously he had come to some sort of healing. But his emotional wounds were still too raw. Deciding to let the matter drop for the moment, she watched as he shrugged on the navy jacket. “It appears as though you have plans for the day,” she remarked.

“The usual.”

An answer that told her nothing. “I see,” she replied.

He turned and briefly surveyed her attire. She wore a lightweight Swiss muslin dress with a crisp emerald over-skirt and a heart-shaped neckline. It was a simple gown, but one she had always felt pretty in. In a nod to the heat, she had styled her hair in a sleek twist. A broad-brimmed straw hat, adorned with a small cluster of pink field flowers and a green and white ribbon, provided protection from the sun.

“You have a distinct air of purpose about you as well,” he said. “May I inquire as to what glorious deeds you have planned for the day? Leading a bread riot? Storming Windsor Castle? Feeding chocolate pudding to the mudlarks along the Thames?”

“Actually, nothing quite so noble or dramatic,” she replied, matching his light tone. “I thought I might visit Henry and Annie Maddox instead.” She hesitated, then plunged into the matter that had brought her to his room, blurting before she could change her mind, “In fact, I thought you might like to join me.”

A look of surprise showed on Morgan’s features. “To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected invitation?”

“Actually,” Julia replied with a small smile, “you might consider it a summons rather than an invitation.”

“Oh?”

“As you may recall, Henry Maddox was my father’s bosun mate. They sailed together for years and were quite close. In many ways Henry and his wife are like family: I’m much closer to them than I am to my Uncle Cyrus. After my father’s death Henry felt responsible for my welfare. That’s why he assisted me in managing the leasing of my father’s warehouse, and why he has daily been sending me letters demanding to meet you.”

“They didn’t attend our wedding?”

She shook her head. “I invited them, of course, but Henry refused. He said he didn’t want to shame me by showing up, a seafaring tar and his innkeeper wife at a gentry wedding. But that has not dimmed their desire to make certain of my happiness and to bestow their blessing upon us. In fact, they expect to receive us both today at noon.” When that elicited no response from Morgan, she continued. “Normally I wouldn’t intrude upon your time, but this is rather important to me. We may not be related by blood, but they’re the only real family I have left.”

“I see.”

His words constituted neither a refusal nor an acceptance. Just a perfunctory reply that was open to a thousand different interpretations. Refusing to lower herself to pleading for his acquiescence, she said stiffly, “I am aware I’ve given you no notice. If you’ve other plans, I shall simply convey your apologies—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I believe I can accommodate you in my schedule.”

“How very kind,” she returned, matching his tone of regal aloofness. Putting her irritation with his manner aside for the moment, her gaze moved once again to his elegantly tailored attire. “You needn’t dress so formally for the visit. They’re quite simple people.”

“I take it they would probably feel more at home with my guise as a chimney sweep.”

She smiled. “Actually, they probably would.”

“I, however, would not.”

“Very well.”

Evidently he didn’t miss the terse disapproval in her tone. “I believe we’ve enjoyed enough costumed buffoonery for one week, don’t you?” he said.

“Must you always speak like that?”

“Like what?”

“So… pompous.”

“I speak like a viscount who was educated at Eton and Oxford.” He paused, critically eyeing his tie in the looking glass before him. Apparently satisfied, he turned to her and asked, “How else could I earn my colleagues’ respect and attention while debating the merits of the various artists’ conceptions for the statues in Regent’s Park? You know what a crucial issue that is for the future of England.”

“How indeed?” she retorted lightly, biting back the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. This was not the time to allow their conversation to degenerate into its usual petty bickering. Particularly as there remained one nagging little issue to discuss. Stalling for time, she folded the washcloth she held into quarters and set it on the basin as she considered the best way to approach the sensitive issue.

“There is one more thing you should be aware of,” she said at last. “Henry and Annie don’t know about our arrangement.”

“I shudder to think what that means.”

“Well, they are aware of our marriage, of course. But they are ignorant as to the circumstances.”

He arched one dark brow and regarded her with a look of piercing scrutiny. “Meaning?”

Deciding to adhere to a policy of strict honesty — at least insofar as this specific matter was concerned — she continued. “They think we’re madly in love with one another. That ours was an impetuous union based on the fact that we simply couldn’t wait to be together.”

“Ah.” He flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. In a tone of utter boredom, he inquired, “Exactly what brought them to that idiotic conclusion?”

“I suppose I did. I couldn’t very well tell them the truth, could I?”

A small smile curved his lips. “Heaven forbid.”

Refusing to be baited, she continued. “They happen to take the sanctity of marriage very seriously. They would not understand the caprice with which we entered into our union. To them, marital vows are a pledge meant to be taken for eternity and nothing less.” She paused, shaking her head. “Quite frankly, I can’t even begin to contemplate eternity, can you?”

“I’ve spent a few evenings in the company of the royals. That should qualify, shouldn’t it?”

Julia studied her husband’s face for a long moment. “You seem to regard this marriage of ours as nothing but a mildly diverting hindrance to what might otherwise be occupying your time.”

“That depends on my mood. On other occasions it seems a contrivance, pathetic, spurious, laughable, ill-conceived, brash, and completely inane. I fluctuate.”

“Thank you so much for that edifying bit of information.”

“If I were to fall down upon one knee and swear my undying devotion to you, would you believe it?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then let us spare ourselves that embarrassing bit of nonsense, shall we, princess? I have made it clear that I desire you physically — you shall have to content yourself with that.”

That might suit him, but it would not suit her. Julia knew herself well enough to know that. The circumstances that brought them together might have been unusual, but that did not mean that all hope was lost. She would not settle for a marriage of mere convenience, punctuated by occasional episodes of compassionless lust. And despite his mocking bravado, she was not yet willing to believe that Morgan would content himself with such a dismally shallow relationship either.

With that flash of insight came a peculiar sense of strength and purpose. Until that point she had had only vague notions of what she wanted from Morgan. Now she was able to compact her hopes and desires into a single word:
more.
More depth, more emotion, more warmth. Surely that was not asking too much. Granted there were untold barriers between them, but in time they could be breached. And if she failed? Julia brushed the thought off with a shrug. She had yet to back away from a struggle or a cause because the odds of success were against her.

Before she could speak Morgan turned and strode toward the door, dissolving the temporary intimacy that had existed between them. “Come,” he said. “It’s late. I know how you hate to keep the horses waiting.”

Tom’s Rest was like any of the hundreds of other dockside taverns that crowded the Thames’s southeastern shore. The structure itself was tall and narrow, built of the same crude lumber that had been used to construct the dock it sat upon. The main floor served as a pub; a flight of crooked stairs led to second-story lodgings. Raucous laughter, calls for more ale, and the tinny sound of a badly played pianoforte spilled out from unshuttered windows.

Inside, however, the atmosphere was markedly better than Morgan had expected. The floors were clean and dry, and the long trestle tables were free of the sticky residue of spilled ale and bitters. A huge beveled mirror sat behind the bar, reflecting the day’s bright sunlight across the room. Squat casks of beer sat in a neat row against the back wall. Pretty young barmaids moved through the crowded room, serving tall pints of beer and generous plates of food that looked surprisingly edible. The clientele, although boisterous, generated an air of warmth and friendliness.

“I hope you’ll excuse the china, your grace,” said Annie Maddox, setting a slightly chipped cup and saucer before him. “As you can see, we’re not set up for entertaining royalty.”

Morgan, of course, was neither a duke — as Annie had addressed him — nor royalty. Nevertheless he sent the woman a benign smile, neglecting to correct her. “Not at all,” he said smoothly, hoping to put her at ease. “I thank you for your kind hospitality.”

The woman had clearly gone to some trouble on his behalf, and Morgan found himself reluctantly touched by her efforts. The small, rickety table at which they sat had been positioned in a corner of the room, offering them a modicum of privacy from the rest of the tavern guests. A lace tablecloth, a pair of sterling silver candlesticks — with candles blazing despite the hour and the heat of the day — and a glass vase brimming with fresh summer daisies served to distinguish the space even further. In addition to freshly brewed tea, the fare consisted of dainty sandwiches of cucumber and watercress, wafer-thin almond biscuits, and fresh orange slices. The menu was based, no doubt, on the ill-conceived but surprisingly popular notion that the gentry were given to weak constitutions and preferred to eat like rabbits.

“I can’t recall the last time I was served such a delightful luncheon,” he remarked.

Annie beamed with pride. She was short and plump, her blond hair generously streaked with gray. Her face was as round as a cherub’s, pleasant and kind, if somewhat flushed from working in an overheated kitchen. Although she had no apron over her modest cotton gown, clearly she was accustomed to wearing one. Her hands moved repeatedly to the fabric of her dress, as though seeking the nonexistent apron upon which she could wipe them.

“That’s Annie’s business,” put in the man Julia had introduced as Henry Maddox. “Hospitality. What with me being off at sea as much as I was, it was up to her to run this place. She’s made a fine job of it. A real fine job of it.” A small, private smile passed between them, expressive of the obvious affection that had not waned in the two decades they had been wed.

So perfectly did Henry Maddox fit the description of a sailor, he was almost a caricature. He was short in stature, barrel-chested, and given to a distinctive swaying walk that identified him at once as being more accustomed to the pitch of a rolling deck beneath his feet than solid ground. His skin was weathered from constant exposure to wind and sea, and his hair and beard were cropped into short gray bristles. But his most striking feature was his intensely pale blue eyes — eyes that looked at a man as though taking his measure and rating him against some unwavering inner standard. To Morgan’s surprise and irritation, he was not yet sure he had gained Henry Maddox’s approval.

“We didn’t want to shame Julia by coming to the wedding, not with all the fancy guests you’d have,” said Annie. “But we couldn’t wait much longer to meet her new husband. We just wanted to make sure she was as happy as she said she was. It looks like she made a fine match, doesn’t it, Henry?”

Henry Maddox gave a noncommittal grunt. “A title don’t make you a good man. Money don’t make you a good man.”

“Try going without it for a fortnight,” teased Annie lightly. To Morgan she said, “Don’t mind him. We were never blessed with a child, but we’ve watched Julia grow since she was a tiny baby swaddled in pink blankets and covered in ribbons and lace. I suppose that makes it hard to see her grow up and start a family of her own.”

From there the conversation lapsed into a series of warm reminiscences, recalling better times when Julia’s parents were still alive. Morgan leaned back and listened, alternately amused and entertained, depending upon the nature of the story. The conversation might have drifted on for hours were it not for a nearby ship releasing its hands for a brief respite from the exhausting chore of loading the hold. Within minutes the tavern was swarmed with sailors demanding to have their hunger and thirst quenched.

Henry immediately stood and assumed a position behind the bar, while Annie excused herself and hurried off to the kitchens. Even Julia abandoned their table. Murmuring a word of apology, she accepted an apron passed to her by one of the barmaids and began circulating among the tables with breezy familiarity, running back and forth with cool drinks and plates of hot food.

Morgan watched her work, battling a vague sense of unease. There was, he thought with a frown, a decidedly chameleonlike quality to his bride that he wasn’t entirely certain he approved of. She had seemed so regal and aloof the night they had met at the Devonshire House — an unearthly goddess sculpted in peppermint pink. Yet here she was, the Viscountess Barlowe, serving beer and ale to a group of rowdy sailors. Incomprehensible. Worse still, Julia was smiling as she worked, exchanging good-natured banter with the men who crowded around her.

It soon became evident that it would be some time until the sailors were properly served and fed. Left to his own amusement, Morgan allowed himself to be drawn into a game of pitch-and-toss. After a lapse of perhaps an hour, the tavern cleared somewhat, and Julia — looking tired but content — plopped onto a nearby bench and watched him play. Morgan took a few more shots, then left to sit beside her.