With This Kiss (3 page)

Morgan lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the paper.

The
London Review
was an upstart paper, one that dared to challenge the authority and prominence of
The Times.
In all likelihood it would have failed miserably, were it not for a single column called “The Tattler,” which was currently the rage among society. Mostly a gossip column, its anonymous author made occasional forays into the realm of social injustice and reform, thus giving the work a luster of moral righteousness.

He skimmed the column and felt curiously… flat. Nothing. As though he were reading about complete strangers, rather than a woman he had nearly married and a man he had once considered his best friend.

“She could have at least shown the decency to wait three years,” asserted Conor. “I mean, really.”

A sardonic smile curved Morgan’s lips as he folded the paper and passed it back. “I believe that’s the customary period for mourning. Contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t die.”

“No, of course not,” Conor stammered, his face flaming. “Of course not. It’s just that…” His gaze traveled to Morgan’s hands and wrists. He studied the scars there with a look of undisguised horror. “Do you ever wonder what might have happened if—”

“No,” Morgan replied, his voice steel. “Never.”

An uneasy silence fell over the group. Morgan could almost hear the thoughts running through his companions’ minds. Although his forays into polite society were few, he was not deaf to the rumors that circulated about him. As might be expected, the effects of the fire had necessitated a long period of recovery. In the aftermath of the tragedy, his self-imposed seclusion had led to vivid speculation among his peers. It was rumored — not entirely unjustly — that he had been grossly disfigured, a man whose hideous scars aptly reflected the true nature of his character.

The Beast.

After a long minute Edward Southesby cleared his throat, announcing in a strained voice, “I understand there’s a bill before the Commons proposing to raise the tobacco tax once again.”

A reply was duly offered, a contrasting opinion gamely expressed, and thus the conversation lurched awkwardly on, moving conspicuously away from the topic of Morgan’s past.

Morgan leaned back in his chair and toyed absently with his glass. He shouldn’t have come. After months of cajoling, he had buckled to the pressure of his few remaining friends who had insisted he take a night out, but he wouldn’t do so again. It was a mistake to be here.

He swallowed his wine in one gulp, his eyes returning to the mysterious beauty he had been watching earlier. He sought nothing more than a brief, cursory check that she hadn’t yet left the room.

Instead he found her gaze locked on him.

For a moment he was jolted to a stunned stop, his wineglass arrested in midair. Then instinct took over — an instinct he thought had vanished with the smoke and ash that had turned his life upside down. But old habits died hard. He set down his glass. He tipped his head in cool acknowledgment of her stare as his mouth curved into a smile of seductive greeting.

The woman didn’t respond at all. Instead her expression remained curiously flat. Sitting there with a fool’s grin on his face, Morgan was struck by the appalling certainty that he had completely misread her look, that he had made as big an ass of himself as Jonathan Derrick had only moments earlier.

Just as he was about to turn away, the redhead coolly returned his nod. Although her expression still didn’t change, a Mona Lisa smile touched her lips; secretive and slightly superior. It was a silent yet unmistakable invitation, leaving him with the distinct impression of a she-wolf who had bestowed upon him the honor of entering her sacred lair — if he dared to accept the challenge. So be it.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to the table at large, “it appears I’m being summoned.”

He rose and strode across the room, feeling the stunned gazes of his companions — of the entire room — upon him. It was unavoidable. The woman’s presence was too dramatic not to have been noticed, particularly in a company that devoured gossip, scandal, and titillating speculation — all the more so if they could witness it for themselves. The fact that she had singled out Morgan St. James, Viscount Barlowe, for her attention, was nothing short of astonishing.

He paused beside a white-gloved waiter and removed two tall crystal flutes of sparkling wine from his tray, then presented himself at the woman’s side at the
trente-et-quarante
table.

“Champagne?”

She smiled softly and took a glass from his hand. “Yes, I believe I will.”

Lovely,
he thought. Not so much her words, but the timbre in which she spoke. Never had he heard a voice so full of seductive promise. Low, smooth, and feminine, yet entirely confident and assured. It occurred to him that he might even enjoy this. The woman — whoever she was — was Christmas come early. He smiled as his gaze moved over her body once again. And wrapped in such a lovely package. Peppermint pink. Delicious.

She took a small sip from the delicate crystal champagne flute, and then tilted her head toward the tall glass doors that overlooked the gardens. “They say the view from the balcony is lovely this time of night.”

Exactly what he was about to suggest. Privacy. Evidently she was as cognizant of the curious eyes upon them as he was. He took her arm and wordlessly ushered her outside. Once they reached the sanctuary of the balcony, they stood silently against the intricate wrought-iron railing, staring out over the deep blue waters of the Thames. Moonlight bathed the gardens beneath them, casting long shadows over the neatly manicured shrubs and meandering stone pathways. The fragrance of rose, jasmine, and lavender wafted through the air. An unseen fountain gurgled nearby, setting the scene to the music of the trickling water.

Morgan took that all in with one sweeping glance, then turned his attention to the woman beside him. Incredibly, her beauty was even more astounding as one drew closer, for the details were more apparent. He noted for the first time the lushness of the lashes that framed her eyes, the delicate bridge of her nose, the sculpted curve of her cheek, the tantalizing fullness of her lips.

Disbelief tore through him at the fact that she had selected him. Then he noted that her gaze was moving over his skin, eyeing the scars that marred his neck and hands. Bitter understanding took root. In his rare social forays following the fire, he had discovered that certain women derived a queer pleasure from the sight of his scars and the notoriety of his reputation. Evidently this woman had the distinction of belonging to that select group. For a moment he hated her, hated her with an even more virulent loathing than he hated himself. Beauty in search of the Beast. So that was it. Very well. He could play that game. Lord knew he had done it before.

He watched as she drew one delicate hand absently along the balcony rail, imagining those long, slim fingers moving over his skin. Would she touch him? Was that part of her game? Or would she draw back in appalled horror once she saw—

Before he could pursue that demeaning line of speculation, a casino clerk stepped out onto the balcony to deliver her winnings. The stack of chips she had abandoned at the betting table had been dutifully exchanged for a thick wad of pound notes. With a word of gracious thanks, she peeled a five-pound note off the top and passed it to him. Then she dropped the remaining bills into her pink satin reticule.

“Do you always walk away from a lucky streak?” he asked.

“When it suits me.” She gave a light shrug, and then tipped her face up to his. “What about you?” she asked. “Have you been playing the tables tonight?”

“Not tonight. I’m afraid my partner failed to make an appearance.”

“Oh? With whom do you prefer to play?”

“Tyche.”

“I see.” Adopting an expression of grave commiseration, she said, “She’s deserted you this evening, has she?”

Morgan nodded, silently impressed. Whoever she was, the woman was obviously well educated, for she understood his somewhat obscure reference to Tyche, the goddess of good fortune. “Until you arrived,” he replied gallantly.

A mocking smile touched her lips, as though the mundane banalities and false compliments of nascent romance were beneath them both. Clearly she neither wanted nor expected such coquettish tripe.

As her gaze moved slowly over his form, her expression changed, becoming unguardedly curious and candid. It wasn’t a look he was accustomed to receiving from women — or men, for that matter. It was a look of open assessment, as though she were taking his measure and defining him against some nameless inner standard.

“Morgan St. James,” she said at last. “Or do you prefer Viscount Barlowe?”

His surprise at hearing his name on her lips must have been visible, for a look of knowing amusement showed on her features. “You don’t remember me at all,” she said. There was no reproach in her voice. It was a simple statement of fact.

Morgan frantically searched his mind. Had he taken her to bed? Surely he would remember that. He would remember
something
about her. Her hair, her eyes, her body, her voice. But nothing came to him.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvan—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, abruptly dismissing the topic as though irritated she had brought it up. “It was long ago.”

How long? Morgan wondered. A year? Five years? Ten?

His eyes moved briefly over her body, searching for some small clue that might jar his memory. But he found no blemish, no mole, no mark of any kind that would serve as a reminder of their past meeting. Nor could he distinguish her in his memory by the jewelry she wore — only by its rather startling absence. Unlike most of the patrons of the Devonshire House, who delighted in using their bodies to display their wealth, the woman was not draped in jewels. The only ornament he could discern on her person was a delicate gold chain that hung about her neck, from which was suspended a small gold medallion.

“Looking for something?” she asked. A faint hint of amusement colored her tone.

He returned his gaze to hers. “Yes.”

She arched one perfectly shaped auburn brow and waited.

“An explanation.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

“When we met,” he began. “Who you are and why you’re here.”

“Would you rather I wasn’t?”

“No.”

She took a small sip of champagne and regarded him steadily. “Then let it go.”

“Difficult when I don’t know your name.”

She hesitated, then said in a tone of subtle reproof, “I’ve sent you three letters.”

“Have you? How remiss. They must have gone astray.”

A cynical smile curved her lips. “Amazing how often inconvenient mail goes astray, isn’t it?” Her smile faded as she shook her head. “Actually, I received a very politely worded reply in each instance, denying me the appointment I had requested.”

Morgan lifted his shoulders in a cool shrug. “My secretary handles my correspondence.”

“Is it just me you refuse to see, or everyone?”

“Everyone.”

“I see.” She took another sip of champagne, regarding him thoughtfully. “You don’t often leave your home, do you? Not since—”

“No.”

Silence fell between them. Not an uncomfortable silence, but one that resonated with a remarkable degree of ease considering they had met only minutes ago — at least, to his recollection. He let the silence linger, savoring the moment. The quiet, the moonlight, the woman. So rare. It would be over soon enough, but for now it was a tiny taste of paradise.

She shifted beside him.
Restless so soon?
he thought with a sigh. Very well. Resuming his conversational duty, he turned to her and said, “I believe you were about to tell me your name.”

She parted her lips as if to speak, then hesitated as her gaze flicked past him, moving to a point just over his shoulder. Curious, Morgan turned. He followed her line of sight to a man who stood alone just inside the gaming rooms. He was elderly, beak-nosed, preposterously tall, and so long and awkward of limb that he looked as though his Maker had originally intended to fashion a stork. The painful thinness of his body was regrettably underscored by the severe lines of his black formal attire.

It wasn’t so much his appearance that made him conspicuous as his general manner. An air of permanent petulance seemed to surround him, calling to mind a fussy bureaucrat or a tireless chaperone. He stood stiffly by himself in a forgotten corner of the room looking distinctly displeased, as though the world and everything in it fell far short of his lofty standards.

As Morgan watched the silent exchange between the redhead and the elderly man, the pieces clicked into place. Married. Mystery solved. That explained her unwillingness to give her name, as well as her presence at the Devonshire. Evidently her husband had grown accustomed to indulging his young, beautiful wife in her sordid little escapades and private amusements. Adventure and security. Nice if one could have both, and apparently she could. He arranged his features into a mask that he hoped would reflect both discreet understanding and solemn commiseration. An aged, impotent husband and a young, adventurous wife. A situation so common it was almost banal.

“Do you have a timepiece?” she asked, returning her full attention to him.

He removed his sterling silver watch fob from his pocket, flipped open the engraved case, and passed it to her.

Her eyes widened, and a stark urgency filled her voice. “We must leave.”

So soon?
he thought to himself. A flicker of disappointment coursed through him. Pity. He enjoyed the chase — almost as much as he enjoyed the final capture. But in her case the prize was surely worth forgoing the pleasure of the hunt. There would be ample reward later.

He took a step toward her, simultaneously blocking her husband’s view and closing the gap that had been between them. Gathering his courage — ridiculous how much courage it took — he looped his arm around the small of her waist and drew her gently into his embrace. “As you wish.”