With This Kiss (27 page)

Thomas Fike stood waiting for them in the main foyer. He was younger than she had expected — and far more attractive. The artist was tall and muscular, with dark blond hair that had been secured at the nape of his neck by a slim leather thong. His gloriously chiseled features looked as though they had been copied from a Roman coin; his chocolate brown eyes were deep and soulful. He wore a white ruffled shirt, with a crimson scarf knotted about his throat to provide a dashing touch. On any other man the clothing might have appeared effeminate. On him it was merely dramatically flamboyant.

According to the rumors Julia had heard about the man, he had been gifted with talent, beauty, and intelligence. In sum, everything but wealth and a title. She wondered vaguely if the other rumors that swirled about him were true — that he had seduced the majority of women whose husbands had paid him to paint their portraits. Regardless of the veracity of the gossip, it was enough to cause her to speculate as to why Morgan had hired him. It was either a bold demonstration of his trust in her, a blatant show of his lack of concern for her affairs, or more likely a simple acknowledgment that Thomas Fike was the most coveted artist of the day and therefore no one else would suffice.

At the sound of their approach, Fike greeted them with a low bow, and then returned his attention to the ancient portraits that lined the hall, studying them intently. “Marvelous,” he said. “Simply marvelous. Each tells a story.”

“Indeed,” remarked Morgan. “I hope you will be able to provide us with a work of similar distinction.”

Fike’s gaze moved immediately to Julia. “With a subject of such natural radiance, I would be ashamed to deliver anything less,” he said, favoring her with a bold smile.

The look was entirely improper under any circumstances, but even more so given that Morgan was standing a mere two feet away. Julia shot a questioning glance at her husband, surprised to find him looking coolly unperturbed. Apparently he had deduced, as she had, that Fike’s smile amounted to nothing more than sheer habit on his part. He was probably so accustomed to seducing the bored wives of the nobility that it didn’t even occur to him that he was doing it.

Nevertheless, she kept her reply distinctly businesslike. “My husband and I are fortunate to have engaged your services so quickly.”

Fike gave a small shrug. “Lord Barlowe’s secretary offered me four times my normal rate to drop my other commitments.” He paused, favoring her with another seductive glance. “Had I known how beautiful my subject was, I would have offered my services gratuitously.”

“And given the term
starving artist
a new life, no doubt,” Morgan remarked dryly. That said, he gave a brusque nod and turned in the direction of his study. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.”

“Should we not discuss the manner in which you and your wife would like to pose?” Fike asked.

Morgan shook his head. “On considering the matter, I have decided not to sit. As you have so gallantly pointed out, my wife generates enough beauty and radiance to fill the canvas on her own.”

“But that’s never been done before,” Julia protested.

Morgan shrugged. “Does that signify?”

“Of course it does. Everyone who sees the portrait shall think that I am vain.”

“They shall think,” Morgan corrected solemnly, his eyes meeting hers, “that you are exquisite.” On that note he turned and strode away, pausing only long enough to toss over his shoulder, “Don’t be too long, princess. We should leave within the hour. You were so anxious to attend Lord Attmark’s boating party. It would be a shame to miss it.”

“I daresay…” Thomas Fike began, watching with an expression of utter confusion as Morgan left the room, “I had heard… why, he’s not a beast at all.”

Julia took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. In a rebuttal so soft it could not be heard, she replied, “Looks can be deceiving.”

Morgan’s driver had stationed the coach beneath a row of tall cypress trees, on the circular drive that fronted his home. It was there that Morgan paced as he waited for his wife to make an appearance. Although the shade of the cypress provided a modicum of relief from the heat, it was a sweltering day nonetheless. He had removed his jacket, but the heavy humidity caused the light linen of his shirt to cling to his chest and back.

It seemed as though everything he encountered of late was nothing but a huge conspiracy against him. The weather. Lazarus. The impudent young pup of a painter who had shown the audacity to flirt with his wife while he stood a mere three feet away. And then there was Julia’s kiss: a fleeting, coquettish sample of what he was missing night after night. If it had all been a trick of fate to test his patience and disposition, he had failed miserably. His mood, he recognized grimly, could only be termed as foul.

The problem, he thought, was control — the cornerstone of every intelligent action and logical decision. The path to righteousness, reason, and lucidity. Control. Something he lacked completely at the moment. He could no more control the weather than he could control Lazarus’s next move or the way his body responded to his wife. The realization was galling.

He remembered the agonizing days following the fire. His skin peeling off his back, engulfed by pain so intense, no drug could free him of it. Pain that made him feel as if he were bordering on the edge of madness. Every touch, every breath, every movement had been an agony. And when it wasn’t the pain that had threatened to destroy him, it was the memories themselves. The knowledge of what had happened, of what he had been directly responsible for. But somehow, through sheer will and rigid control, he had not died. He had kept himself sane and alive. He needed that same instinct for self-preservation now.

Morgan paced a bit more, battling his emotions. He had always prided himself on his rationality. But at the moment his nerves were too close to the surface. After the blaze that had destroyed his servants’ quarters, he felt everything more intensely. Literally. Heat burned his skin. Cold rubbed it raw. Did the damage that had been done to his body cause those heightened sensations, or had coming so close to dying given him a new awareness of life?

He twisted his copy of the
London Review
in his hand, tapping it against his thigh as he walked. Julia’s column was right there. A dare. A direct challenge for Lazarus to show himself once again. The man would. Of that Morgan was absolutely, instinctively certain. With that knowledge came the intuitive recognition that the danger they faced was external, not internal. If he was strong enough, he could protect Julia and protect himself. He could avoid any recurring disaster.

If he was strong enough. But he had failed once before, and the memory of that failure haunted him still. Perhaps if he were a wiser man, a braver man… but he wasn’t. As always, that realization struck him as a particularly difficult truth to come to terms with. The irreversible finality of failure. His gaze drifted toward the boxwood gardens. Visions of children laughing and playing instantly filled his mind’s eye.
Patty-cake, patty-cake
…

The sound of a heavy door closing drew his attention to the wide wooden porch that spanned the front of his estate. He looked up to see Julia, dressed in a gown of softly billowing blue muslin. Her hair was swept up and tucked beneath a broad straw hat from which trailed a cluster of peach and blue ribbons. She paused and scanned the grounds, one hand resting on the intricately carved balustrade. Spotting the coach, she caught her skirts and moved gracefully across the lawn toward him. With her broad straw hat trailing ribbons and her skirts floating around her, she looked the picture of graceful summer beauty.

The expression on her face, however, belied the impression of serene warmth and tranquility she made at a distance. At his words of greeting, she favored him with a cool nod, silently refusing his assistance in entering the coach. They settled themselves opposite one another. At Morgan’s command the driver gave the reins a sharp tug, and the team pulled out, moving with a sprightly step toward the sprawling estate Brynmoore, home of Lord Attmark, Duke of Connelly, host of that afternoon’s gala.

Although Morgan’s coach was not immodest, neither could it be considered overly grand. There was an inescapable intimacy within the confines. He had somewhat accustomed himself to the gentle jostling of the vehicle, despite the fact that the steady, rocking rhythm struck him as profoundly sexual in nature. He had could even feign a certain indifference to the teasing sensation of Julia’s knees rubbing against his as they rode. But he could not ignore his wife altogether.

The scent of her skin drifted around him. She wore a soft floral perfume, coupled with a light touch of powdery talc. Casting a surreptitious glance her way, he noted that a stray lock of her hair had escaped the tight confines in which it had been pinned. The fiery tendril curled about the nape of her neck. The bodice of her gown was modest, revealing but a glimpse of the shadowy cleft between her breasts. He perceived a faint outline of her hips and thighs through the lightweight muslin of her gown. Her arms were bare; her skin looked pale as porcelain and unimaginably silky.

Morgan had grown to enjoy his wife’s company — her quick wit, her glowing smiles, her obscenely optimistic view of life. But at the moment her presence amounted to little more than pure sensual torture. Unfortunately his passion did not appear to be reciprocated. In fact, just the opposite was true. She was doing everything she could to withdraw into her seat so that contact between them would be minimal.

Breaking the silence that hung between them, he finally offered as a small gesture of atonement, “It’s warm today.”

His wife, however, was having none of it. “Quite,” Julia agreed, her tone clipped and curt, her gaze firmly fixed out the window.

It did not require a great deal of analysis to deduce that she was waiting for an apology for his boorish behavior following their embrace. Moreover, he could readily admit that one was in order. But he couldn’t determine how to offer one without an admission that her touch had affected him far more profoundly than he was willing to let on. And acknowledging that weakness was simply too damned sloppy and sentimental to be endured. Hell, it was embarrassing to even consider. Therefore he stubbornly decided to let the issue drop, relying on her generous nature to put the matter aside.

Thus they made their journey in silence, leaving the crowded, sweltering streets of London behind as they moved in a southwesterly direction, following the Thames toward Windsor. As the miles passed, Morgan felt his foul mood slowly dissipating. To his surprise he wasn’t entirely dreading the event. In fact, he was actually looking forward to it, if only because it offered a welcome reprieve from the constant worry of Lazarus.

At last the coach drew up to a sprawling estate more than triple the size of his own. A centuries-old castle, looking ridiculously like something one might find in a child’s storybook, sat high atop a verdant hill that rewarded its occupants and guests alike with magnificent views of lush countryside. A liveryman directed their driver away from the main entrance of the keep and around to the back of the estate. There they found vast, rolling lawns, gurgling fountains, and formal gardens deluged with massive summer blossoms. Brilliant tents dotted the gently sloping hillside. The sounds of laughter, blaring trumpets, and strolling musicians drifted out to greet them.

Julia stepped down from the carriage and gazed about the grounds with an expression of undisguised wonder.

Spying Lord Attmark, Morgan took her arm and led her in that direction. “Allow me to introduce you to our host.”

He presented her to an enormous man in his late sixties, who despite the weather had costumed himself in a guise that resembled King Henry VIII. The introductions completed, they turned away from the throngs who encircled the man and moved toward a grassy knoll where a group of fine quilts were on display.

“Lord Attmark has always suffered from a rather dramatic, provincial flair,” Morgan said as they walked. “He’s never been interested in formal balls or midnight suppers. Instead he holds this event once a year and invites everyone to come, rank and privilege aside. It’s rather like a county fair, the kind held generations ago. You’ll see families of local landowners and tenant farmers mingling elbow to elbow with London’s elite. There are livestock exhibitions, dancers, magic shows, puppeteers, archery competitions, wrestling — all manner of sport and spectacle. You’ll likely hear a great deal of criticism for his allowing the rabble to mix with their betters. But everyone comes, and everyone puts up with it.”

“Why?”

“Because Attmark is not only rich as Croesus, he also happens to hold title to one of the oldest dukedoms in all of England.”

“I gather he’s rather eccentric.”

“That depends on whether you consider annually beheading your wife in public as eccentric.”

“You’re not serious.”

Morgan shrugged. “I’ve always found it even more extraordinary that his wife is willing to subject herself to the spectacle year after year.” Determined to inject a lighter note in what had thus far been a rather somber journey, he continued. “I hope you brought your notepad and pencil.”

“Actually, I didn’t even consider it. Why?”

“Because we happen to be on remarkably fertile ground, should you need more material for your column. The foibles of the gentry, that sort of thing.”

A small, suspicious smile curved her lips as she searched his gaze. “Such as?” she asked, a hint of a challenge in her voice.

Morgan scanned the crowd, then pointed to a beautiful blond woman with two immaculately coiffed Pekingese on long velvet leashes. The dogs’ leashes and hair bows were the exact lavender shade of the woman’s gown. “That,” he said, “is Lady Veronica Winters, mistress of Sir Charles Kentworthy. Her dogs not only dine beside her at her table, they are also rumored to sleep in her bed — regardless of whether Sir Kentworthy chooses to join her or not.”