With This Kiss (28 page)

Sensing that she was not overly impressed with that particular
on dit,
he looked for his next subject. “Do you see the man standing near the cattle pens?”

“Do you mean the rather small man with the bushy mustache?”

“Yes, Viscount Duncan. He may be small in stature, but he is certainly not lacking in vanity. He will not abide any member of his household staff having a height greater than his own. The same is true for anyone to whom he pays monthly bills, including his solicitor and his tailor. He claims one loses one’s authority if one has to tilt one’s head back in order to give a command.”

“How very preposterous.”

“True nonetheless. I’ve been to his home. A rather remarkable experience, as you might imagine. I felt like a goliath who had been stuffed inside a child’s dollhouse.”

As they walked the grounds, he regaled her with stories of who was bedding whom, who wasn’t speaking to whom, who had stolen whose chef, and all manner of trivial nonsense that made up the diverse fabric of London’s better class.

“I assume none of this is meant for publication in my column,” Julia said.

“Actually, they would probably all be delighted to find themselves mentioned,” he replied. “Though it escapes me completely why that should be, I’ve noted that one gains a definite stature and celebrity in finding one’s name in your column. Almost as though it were an honor of sorts to be singled out for your attention.”

She gave a slight shrug. “People crave being noticed, even if it’s for something as silly as the type of dog they own or the manner in which they style their hair.”

Their conversation drifted from point to point, not focusing long on any particular topic. They strolled through the various exhibits, more intent on each other than on what they were seeing or the crowds that swirled around them. As a result Morgan nearly breezed directly past the Earl of Reardon without so much as acknowledging the man — or his wife and newborn son. Fortunately, he caught sight of his friend in time to avoid committing that faux pas.

They greeted each other warmly, then Morgan presented Julia, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride as he did so. He heard the same pride in the earl’s voice as he introduced society’s newest peer, Michael Alexander Bennett Barthrowe III, a mewling infant wrapped in a lightweight blue blanket. As they parted, they exchanged felicitations on the events that had occurred since they had last seen each other, along with invitations to dine together in the near future.

“That sounded remarkably genuine,” Julia remarked.

“It was.”

She regarded him curiously, clearly waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t, she said, “You’ve no stories to tell me about the Earl of Reardon?”

“I’m afraid Michael would make very poor fodder for your column.”

“No eccentricities?”

“Just one. A rather unique eccentricity, as far as the peerage is concerned. Michael has always possessed a singular ability to separate the gold from the glitter.”

“I take it he’s a friend of yours:”

Morgan thought for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not originally, no. We attended Oxford together but never developed true friendship. In many ways Michael was considered a bit of a laughingstock. He applied himself to his studies, displaying a particular interest in farming techniques, botany, and livestock breeding. He was intent on salvaging his family’s crumbling estate, the value of which had been declining steadily for generations. All of that despicable earnestness could have been forgiven had he drank, gambled, and caroused. But that never interested him. As you might imagine, the rest of us found him unbearably stodgy and stuffy.” He paused, shaking his head. “I have no idea what his opinion was of me. Given my behavior at the time, I have no reason to believe it might have been good.”

“So you parted ways?”

“In a manner of speaking. There are, of course, the obligatory social events of the Season that even an earl cannot escape, so we saw one another from time to time.” He could have ended his story there. Instead he surprised himself by continuing. “But when I think of Michael, I think of him after the fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“Of all the people I knew and was close to, Michael was not among my closest friends. But we served on a few committees together in the House. During my convalescence he made it a point to drop by weekly under the pretense of needing my input on committee business.” He paused, sending her a small smile. “I behaved like a complete ass. I was short-tempered, brutish, and in a great deal of pain — certainly no pleasure to be around. Nevertheless he refused to allow me to push him away. At first I hated his visits. But he was never pitying, never scornful; nor was he horrified at my scars or disgusted by my occasional displays of pain. In fact, we never discussed the accident or the events leading to it at all. He was just the same, solid Michael, Earl of Reardon.

“In time I began to look forward to seeing him. I never let on, of course, that I needed him or enjoyed his company, but I began making excuses for him to visit more often. I discovered that he’s every bit as stubborn and opinionated as I am, only far more liberal, so naturally we spent a good deal of time locked in fierce political debates. It didn’t matter. He offered stability, connection, and a glimpse of the world outside myself. I sometimes wonder how I would have made it through that period without him.”

He stopped abruptly, embarrassed by his stark admission of weakness and need. He hadn’t intended to speak on the past at all, but somehow it had seemed appropriate. Now he wondered if he had revealed too much. He cast a glance at Julia, only to find her regarding him with a soft smile of approval.

“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “Now I know why I liked the earl from the moment I met him.”

He smiled. “Did you?”

“Absolutely,” she swore, an expression of fierce loyalty shining in her sherry eyes.

Before he could reply to that remarkable sentiment, one of Lord Attmark’s servants approached, requesting Julia’s aid. Apparently there were not enough ladies taking part in the mock jousting tournament. Would she be willing to lend a hand in the festivities and champion a knight? Julia graciously acquiesced, allowing herself to be led off to the games. Glancing ahead to the tournament grounds, Morgan noted that it would be a few minutes before the actual jousting began. With that in mind, he decided to stroll the grounds a bit on his own.

His attention was soon caught by the sharp clamor of steel swords clashing in battle. He stopped beneath the shade of a graceful weeping willow to watch the duelists. Fair players, he thought after a few minutes’ observation, but none was truly gifted. A shame that Julia had already drifted off, however. She would have enjoyed the exhibition.

“Hello, Morgan.”

He stilled, recognizing the soft voice instantly. Then he turned. “Hello, Isabelle.”

She looked as lovely as ever in a gown of deep emerald green, a matching parasol twirling above her head. Exquisitely feminine and stunningly beautiful. But then, that was Isabelle.

He scanned the grounds, then regarded her with an expression of mild curiosity. “Don’t tell me that Roger has left you to explore Lord Attmark’s party on your own.”

“I’m afraid so,” She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “He’s already proven his skill at the archery exhibition. First prize was a five-pound hunk of ghastly-smelling cheese, but he was determined to win it. You know how he is, so dreadfully competitive.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I believe he’s intent on proving his prowess at fencing now.”

Morgan arched one dark brow. “Five pounds isn’t enough cheese?”

She smiled softly and shook her head. “The prize for this event is a mulberry pie. One of your favorites, as I recall.”

“I haven’t tasted it in years.” It had been the specialty of his cook, a woman who had perished in the flames.

“You’ve changed, Morgan.”

“Because I no longer care for mulberry pie?”

She ignored his poor attempt at levity and moved closer toward him, tilting her head back to search his gaze. An expression of wistful regret shadowed her features as she continued softly. “So much has changed. If we met today, I don’t know that the three of us would be friends.”

The three of them. It had always been the three of them, he reflected absently. Roger and Morgan, cutting a rakish swath through the fabric of London society. Yet despite their friendship there had always been a dark undercurrent between them. A competitive edge of which they had both been acutely aware, even if neither of them spoke of it directly. Who was the better swordsman, the better rider, the better gambler?

Into that simmering brew of shameless masculine rivalry had walked Isabelle, the beautiful woman who had served as the ultimate challenge. Who would win her hand? She had toyed with them both for nearly a year before finally accepting Morgan’s offer of marriage. Victory. Sweet and unquestioned. In light of the intense contest that had preceded it, the aftermath had been rather mundane.

Morgan was not normally one to dwell in the past, but as it seemed to be a day of reminiscence and reflection, he indulged himself in a brief flash of bittersweet memories. He remembered coming home to find Isabelle waiting for him in his bed. Soft, naked, and endlessly desirable, every inch of her the sophisticated seductress. But he had never really known her. Aside from petty gossip, their discussions had been limited to the china patterns, the servants, and whether they ought to replace the carpets in the hall.

Amazingly enough, that had sufficed. They had both been so arrogant, so contemptuously certain that they were somehow blessed beyond other mortals, that they would never be touched by the cruel vagaries of fate. Morgan had firmly adhered to the belief that there was order and sanity in the world. One could map out one’s future and expect with relative certainty that life would bend to one’s will.

But the fire had changed all that.

“I didn’t think you would ever recover,” she said, her thoughts apparently having moved in the same direction as his.

A small smile touched his lips. “Neither did I.”

“It was awful of me to leave.”

She toyed with her parasol, then cast a glance at the crowd that had gathered to cheer on the fencers. Spying the Earl of Reardon sitting with his wife and newborn son, she said, “Just think, Morgan, that would have been us.”

Morgan considered that for a moment. She was right. In all likelihood that would have been them. Sitting together with a child of their, own: a tiny, red-faced babe wrapped in a lightweight blanket. Had the fire not occurred, there was no reason to suspect their lives would have dramatically veered from that path. He would have been satisfied, perhaps even content.

He watched as Isabelle’s gaze moved past the child to admire the jewelry draped around Lady Reardon’s throat. It was an inconsequential glance, probably pure habit on Isabelle’s part. Yet to Morgan it seemed to ring with dire import, as though that single glance contained an answer he hadn’t even been aware he was seeking.

His hand rested on the trunk of the willow where they stood. He gave it a brief glance. For so long the condition of his skin — scarred, raw, and angry — had served as a reflection of his inner state. Now, studying it anew, he saw it merely as damaged skin, the result of a horrendous accident. He would not trivialize the brutal nature of the event by characterizing his awakening as seeing the silver lining behind a cloud. But for the first time he looked at his situation, not in view of what had been taken away, but for what he had been given. Julia. With that realization came an emotion he had not felt in years, a stark, simple emotion that surged through him, stunning him in its intensity: gratitude.

His gaze drifted past Isabelle, automatically moving in the direction he had last seen Julia. Losing Isabelle had temporarily wounded his pride. But losing Julia… losing Julia would be something altogether different.

“There is something you should know, Isabelle,” he said after a moment.

She looked up at him, her dark eyes shining with self-assured expectation. “Yes, Morgan?”

“I wish you and Roger every happiness.”

That was clearly not what she had been expecting to hear. A look of stunned disbelief showed on her delicate features for a fraction of a second, but she quickly schooled her expression into one of regal aloofness. “Thank you.”

“Now then,” he said, gesturing toward the stand on which the fencers battled, “shall we watch your fiancé win his pie?”

“By all means,” she replied coolly, turning away from him.

Roger disposed of challenger after challenger. There was no finesse in his swordsmanship, but he made up for it with a show of brutal force, lashing out intensely at anyone who dared to face him. As Morgan watched the play, a sensation of acute discomfort swept over him. While he was on the path of facing truths, there seemed to be one more that needed facing: Could Roger Bigelow have wanted to win Isabelle so badly, he had set the fire that had nearly destroyed Morgan’s life?

He tried to brush the thought off. Unfortunately that dark speculation, once raised, loomed all too plausible a possibility.

Julia strolled across the broad expanse of lawn, grateful for the broad straw hat she wore. Aside from adding a much-needed touch of elegance to her rather simple gown, it provided some shelter from the sun’s intense rays. The jousting had ended some minutes ago but still she saw no sign of Morgan. She looked for him as she walked, paying slight attention to the exhibits she passed.

Now midafternoon, the heat had apparently reached its zenith. Lord Attmark’s guests drifted through the grounds, weary and uncomfortable, put out by the unseasonable warmth. There seemed to be a general rumbling consensus that someone ought to do something about the dreadful weather, but no antidote was suggested. As Morgan had predicted, there was no great enthusiasm for launching their host’s boat on its maiden voyage up the foul-smelling Thames. It sat docked and forgotten, a forlorn presence listing against its moorings.

She saw her Uncle Cyrus, Aunt Rosalind, and cousins Marianne and Theresa milling about, but she wasn’t quite ready to make the drastic overture of joining their party. Nor did she have any particular interest in greeting Thomas Fike, the young painter she had met earlier that morning. He appeared distinctly preoccupied in any case, flirting with a baroness who looked to be at least twice his age. Julia wondered absently if he was looking for a commission or a liaison of a more private nature. A small smile curved her lips as she contemplated the question. From what little she knew of the man, he was probably after both.