With This Kiss (25 page)

It wasn’t merely the impeccable housekeeping that impressed her, but the smaller niceties as well. Every whim was totally catered to. The day’s papers were crisply pressed each morning to prevent the smearing of ink on one’s hands. Her shoes and boots were polished after each wearing. A garment with a loose button was instantly mended and returned to her wardrobe before she could ask for a needle and thread. Crystal vases brimming with fresh flowers filled every room. Glancing at the sideboard in the morning room, she found a pot of steaming tea, warm scones, and fresh butter and jam waiting for her enjoyment — all presented, of course, on delicate bone china.

Julia let out a sigh and sank into a small settee that had been richly upholstered in pale pink, watching the sun stream through the room’s leaded-glass windowpanes. Now that she had fully recovered from the injuries she had sustained at the Winterbourne gala, she felt decadently pampered and utterly useless. Exactly what, she wondered in frustration, did a lady of leisure do with herself all day? She had already prepared her column for next week, and she had no chores or marketing to keep her busy. She momentarily contemplated pouring herself a cup of tea and working on a needlepoint sampler she had begun over a year ago, but she had never managed to generate more than a tepid interest in the project. It held even less appeal at the moment.

Bored and restless, she decided to seek out Morgan’s company. From the window of her bedchamber, she had seen him return from his morning ride, but he had not yet made his appearance for breakfast. As he seemed to spend the majority of his free time locked away in his study, she began her search there. Tucking the fresh copy of the
Review
under her arm, she moved down the hall and rapped softly on his paneled oak door. At the silence that greeted her from within, she edged open the door and peeked inside.

The room was empty. Curious, she stepped inside. The study was appointed with heavy masculine furnishings and dark mahogany tables and chairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one entire wall. Exquisite oil seascapes filled another. Burgundy, navy, and hunter green rugs covered the floors. Rich tapestry drapery flanked the windows.

But what caught Julia’s attention even more than the decor was the absolute orderliness of the space. The book spines were alphabetically arranged by author. Assorted busts of various ancient Greek philosophers all faced due north. Moving to Morgan’s desk, she placed her hands on his leather chair and was immediately rewarded with the scent of his skin. His presence was everywhere. The slim piles of papers on his desk were arranged just so, with the corners at neat ninety-degree angles. His pen and inkwell were perfectly aligned, his drawers shut and locked. A small smile touched her lips. While she considered herself tidy, her habits clearly paled in comparison.

Leaving his study undisturbed, she wandered down the plushly carpeted halls, moving from empty room to empty room. She smiled politely at the servants she encountered but refrained from asking if they knew of Morgan’s whereabouts. Although it was probably nothing but her own insecurities fueling her reservations, there seemed something vaguely pathetic about a bored and lonely wife searching for her husband.

She passed a long hallway that led to a massive salon. She had been inside only once, but she remembered the interior well. Designed for grand receptions, the room boasted ornate plaster ceilings, intricate moldings, gilded mirrors, glittering chandeliers, gleaming mahogany floors, and a podium large enough to accommodate a full orchestra. Certain she would find it empty, Julia began to move past the salon when the discordant sound of metal striking metal echoed out to her.

Swordplay?
Impossible, she thought with a frown, moving cautiously toward the room. The sound grew louder, even more intense. Her curiosity piqued, Julia drew open the doors and quietly slipped inside. She found two fencers, their concentration locked on the duel in which they were engaged. Each man wore the gloves, mask, padded jacket, and white breeches the sport required. They were nearly identical in height and build. Nevertheless she had no trouble identifying her husband.

Each duelist was clearly a master at the sport. She watched them advance and retreat across the grand ballroom in a riveting spectacle of swordsmanship. She had heard that it was impossible to hide one’s temperament and personality when fencing. That once behind a weapon, a fencer will reveal his character, his mental capacities, his very essence. As she witnessed the sharp clash between the two men, she recognized the truth in that.

The man she didn’t recognize fought with a technical expertise that was stunning to watch. His every movement was carried out with orchestrated precision: a thrust and lunge, a deft feint, then a straight attack. Powerful, impressive moves, executed with grace and finesse. But Morgan’s swordplay was even more breathtaking. In a style that was highly erratic, he moved before his opponent like a caged animal, coolly deflecting the other man’s blows. He toyed with his partner with an almost teasing playfulness, then lunged forward in an attack of disturbing ferocity. Back and forth the two men swayed, locked in an intricate dance of clashing steel. At last the mesmerizing play came to an end. Morgan executed a flawless counter-riposte, resulting in a lightning-quick flash of sword and a satisfying
tick-tack
of metal. Not about to lose the momentum of his attack, he lunged forward and lightly stuck his opponent just above his heart, scoring what was evidently the last point of the match.

Breathing hard, both men drew back and pulled off their masks. Morgan shared a few words with his fencing partner. Although she couldn’t hear what was said, a burst of good-natured laughter immediately followed. Julia was shocked to realize that that was the first time she had seen Morgan truly laugh. She had become accustomed to his sardonic grin, his blatantly seductive smile, and even the look of cynical amusement he sometimes wore when they were together. But this was a smile of pure enjoyment, a flash of brilliant white teeth against the rugged bronze of his skin. An expression that instantly seared itself into her mind and her heart. For a moment Morgan St. James hadn’t changed at all. He was the same dashing, carefree rogue she had seen in a moonlit garden years ago.

But the smile vanished as soon as he turned and saw her. He stiffened slightly as a look of guarded surprise fell over his features. His partner murmured something — likely a word or two of parting, for he immediately moved away, giving Julia a polite nod as he exited past her.

Feeling like a henpecking wife, she said to Morgan as he approached, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He shook his head. “We were just finishing.”

“For a man who is rumored to be so reclusive, you’re rarely here.”

“I’m here, merely occupied.”

“So I see,” she replied softly, wondering if that was meant to be a subtle admonition for her not to bother him. Was there a curtness in his voice, or had her own guilt at intruding caused her to imagine it? As usual where he was concerned, her emotions were far too near the surface for her to trust her perceptions.

Putting the matter aside for the moment, she watched as he stepped toward a small table with two chairs — the only furniture in the massive room — and tossed his fencing mask upon it. His glove, padded jacket, and sword quickly followed. Once he had stripped himself of his gear, he reached for a tall silver tumbler and took a long draught. Julia heard the ice clinking within the glass and saw the frosty droplets drip down the side. He drank in deep, thirsty gulps, his head tilted back, managing to convey a masculine elegance in even that simple motion. But then she seemed to find something smoothly attractive in everything he did, no matter how commonplace the gesture.

“Your life is so very scheduled,” she said lightly, determined to force her thoughts in a different direction. “A daily ride. Monday morning business affairs with your secretary. Tuesday morning burning of refuse. Wednesday morning fencing lessons. What do you schedule for Thursday mornings?”

He lowered his tumbler and studied her with an unfathomable smoky gaze. His face was slightly flushed from the exertion of fencing, his body damp with perspiration. The fabric of his fencing garments clung to his skin. Unable to draw her eyes away, her gaze moved slowly over his form. His broad chest and flat stomach were boldly defined, as was the raw strength in the bulging biceps of his arms. His waist and hips were sleek and narrow. His legs were long, his thighs rock solid.

“What would you suggest?” he asked.

Make love to your wife.
The thought popped into her mind before she could stop it. She immediately pushed it away, feeling as flushed and warm as if she had spoken aloud. It was all Morgan’s doing, she decided. Something about his gaze caused shamefully wanton thoughts to leap into her mind. Something about his presence caused a room as vast as the one in which they stood to feel shockingly intimate. Then there was the scent of his skin—

Enough,
she thought firmly. She turned away, almost desperate for something — anything — to engage her attention. Spying his sword lying atop the table, she lifted it in her palm, idly testing its weight. Turning toward an imaginary opponent, she stabbed and slashed the air.

He watched as she executed a clumsy parry. “You enjoy fencing?” he asked.

“My father was fond of the sport,” she said. “We attended the exhibitions at Vauxhall Gardens every year.” She attempted the parry again, amazed at how foreign and awkward the motion felt. It had looked ridiculously simple when Morgan had performed the identical maneuver.

After a moment he reached for the sword and gently removed it from her grasp. “A bit redundant, don’t you think, princess? You’re dangerous enough without a weapon in your hands.”

A small, fluttery smile touched her lips. She searched for a witty retort, but she was too conscious of the feel of his fingers brushing hers as he removed the sword from her hand for her mind to properly function. Although she considered herself logical and rational, her thoughts seemed to tumble in flustered disorder whenever he was near.

“Anything wrong?” he inquired.

“No. I’m merely bored.”

“In that case why don’t you do what all other women do when they find themselves at loose ends.”

“What’s that?”

“Spend their husbands’ money. I understand a French seamstress recently opened a shop on Bond Street. Apparently she’s all the rage.”

Julia frowned. “Expensive as well.”

“I can afford it.”

“Evidently.”

He arched one dark brow and said with a smile, “Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction in your reply?”

She shrugged. “I’m unaccustomed to all this.”

“All what?”

“Luxury. Wealth. Time. Having my every whim so thoroughly catered to. It feels decadent. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

“Not yet,” he observed coolly. “But the clock is ticking, isn’t it? Where are we now? Two months, ten days to go, I believe. Would it flatter you if I told you I’ve been counting the hours? I haven’t, but I could assign that duty to my secretary. He’s very efficient in that sort of thing.”

“Very amusing.”

“But in the meantime…” He paused, giving a light shrug. “You’ll suffer through somehow. Within a month I wager you’ll be complaining about the decor in your bedchamber, the color of the draperies in the front hall, the wretched state of your shoes and clothing. Your jewelry will simply no longer do. Then you’ll need a coach of your own, and a driver, and so on and so forth.”

“Is that so?”

Evidently he didn’t miss the affront in her voice. “Ah, that’s right,” he said with a smile. “I married a woman who prefers dressing in rags and hobnobbing with servants, didn’t I? A woman with character.”

“That sounds remarkably like regret.”

“Merely an observation.”

He took another long swig from the silver tumbler, then set it down. Bringing one knee up, he rested it upon a chair, leaning forward in a posture of casual indolence. He regarded her in silence, clearly waiting for her to speak.

Abruptly recalling her purpose, Julia gestured to the copy of the
London Review
she had set on the table while watching the swordplay. “I came to show you this,” she said. “My column appears today.”

Morgan glanced at the paper but didn’t pick it up. “Our message to Lazarus?”

“Printed exactly as requested.”

His expression darkened for an instant, then he gave a tight nod. Lifting his sword, he began polishing the blade with a thick cotton cloth. “Tell me about your column,” he said. “What glorious causes have found favor with you this week?”

“The conditions in the workhouses on Garner Row are deplorable.”

“The workhouses,” he repeated. “Not exactly original material, but admirable nonetheless.”

She tilted her chin. “Will ignoring the plight of the poor make them go away?”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “Apparently not. That’s what the better half of London has been attempting to do for centuries, but the poor keep proliferating, don’t they? Their numbers grow larger and larger by the decade. The ever-rising souffle of poverty.”

“Why does it feel as though you’re constantly mocking me?”

He released a sigh and slid his sword into an embossed leather case. “Because I mock everything and everybody, princess. Myself included. You should know better by now than to take offense.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

His tone was flat and curt, devoid of any emotion. Obviously preparing to leave, he gathered his possessions without another word. But Julia wasn’t quite ready to be dismissed. As she searched for a way to fill the awkward silence that followed, her gaze moved about the room. At one time the cavernous chamber had undoubtedly held such glorious promise. Now it reflected only barren expectations: unilluminated chandeliers, empty mirrors, hollow echoes, sparkling floors that had never been trodden upon. Yet the chamber appealed to her nonetheless. There was a romantic futility to the room that seemed sadly appropriate to their circumstances.