With This Kiss (43 page)

She tried and failed to imagine the scene that must have followed. “What happened?”

“Not a great deal,” he replied, lifting his shoulders in a bored shrug. “We followed him upstairs to an upper-floor bedroom.”

“And?”

“There’s really not much to tell. You may be interested to learn, however, that Lady Beecher’s shrill cries of ecstasy sound remarkably like cries of pain — particularly when one hears them from behind a closed door while running down a hall.”

As the implication of what he was saying sank in, she studied him in wide-eyed disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Like the proverbial bull charging through a china factory.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and continued. “Imagine our surprise after we forced our way into that locked bedchamber.”

Julia bit back a giggle. “Imagine Lady Beecher’s surprise.”

“Indeed. Evidently Thomas Fike took it upon himself to entertain the lady while her husband was downstairs numbing his companions with a dreary recital of the far-reaching implications of the tax rates that have been levied on the West Indies.”

“I see.”

Morgan shook his head, grinning broadly. “It was most embarrassing for us all. And I suspect the worst of it is yet to come.”

“What do you mean?”

“Needless to say, I imagine the extortionate rate the young scoundrel is charging me to paint your portrait is about to be quadrupled.”

“That’s the very least you deserve,” she returned with a soft laugh. As she regarded him, however, her mood slowly changed to one of quiet contemplation.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I just noticed where you’re standing, that’s all.”

“Where I’m standing?”

“The lamp,” she clarified after a moment’s hesitation. “You’re standing directly beneath the lamplight. You never did that in the past. It seemed that whenever we spoke, you were always in the shadows.”

“And what did you see? The Beast lurking in dark corners, or your phantom lover in the gardens?”

“You were never either man, were you?” she returned softly.

“No, I never was.” Their gazes met and held for a long moment. Morgan crossed the room and held out his hand. She placed her palm in his, allowing him to assist her to her feet. “But until I met you, I thought I might be. I thought a great many ridiculous things.”

“Such as?”

“The usual rubbish. That what was important in life was having the right tailor and the fastest horses. Spending a ridiculous amount of money. Drinking the best cognac and socializing with people of the proper class and rank. But now I know that none of that matters.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not one damned bit.”

“Then what does matter?”

He smiled and gently placed his hands about her hips, pulling her closer to him. “Loving you,” he said, his breath falling against her temple like a warm caress. He paused, shaking his head as he ran his hands lightly down her back. “Amazing, isn’t it? I suspect I’ve known all along, but it took nearly losing you to a madman to finally bring that point home.”

Her heart in her throat, she snapped her head back and searched his smoky gaze. “Say that again.”

A slow, teasing smile curved his lips. “Nearly losing you to a madman?”

“Morgan—”

“I love you, Julia.”

Although those four little words were everything she had hoped to hear, she couldn’t quite convince herself that the emotion that had engendered them was real, and not a product of the ordeal they had just been through. She studied him in trembling disbelief, asking, “Just when did you finally reach that remarkable conclusion?”

“Finally? I think I’ve known it from the moment we met.”

“You mean the Devonshire House?”

He thought for a moment. “No, not there.”

“Then when?”

“Very well. If you wish to be precise, I knew I lusted after you at the Devonshire House. I don’t think I loved you until we reached your father’s warehouse. Perhaps it was the scent of overripe cheese and rotten cabbage that brought out the suitor in me.”

Her smile broadened as she remembered the events of that night. In retrospect, it had been a preposterous plan. Yet the outcome had far surpassed her wildest dreams. She studied her husband, her throat heavy with unspoken words. In an attempt to gain control of her emotions, she tore her eyes away from his, gazing blindly about the room.

He lifted one hand and gently stroked her cheek. “Nervous, princess?”

Her gaze snapped back. Apparently his thoughts had turned reminiscent as well, for that was exactly what he had asked her on that fateful night at her father’s warehouse. “Hardly,” she replied, echoing her original response. Their conversation was as fresh in her mind as if they had shared it just hours ago, rather than months.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He gestured vaguely around the library. “Interesting choice.”

“It’s certainly private,” she gamely replied. “And spacious.”

He arched one dark brow. “How much space do you think we’ll need?”

Biting back an embarrassed grin, she answered, “The bigger the better.”

“Any other preferences I should know about?”

“Just one.”

“Oh?”

“I think you ought to know that I’m madly in love with my husband.”

“Lucky man.” A slow, seductive smile curved his lips. Bending down, he lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room toward the burgundy velvet settee upon which they had first become lovers. “How fortunate for you that his only wish in life is to accommodate your every whim and desire.”

She wrapped her arms about his neck, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. “I’ll try to do the same for him.”

Morgan gently set her down on the settee. His smoky gaze searched her face with a look of shattering, loving reverence. Lowering his head, he placed a light kiss atop her left breast, directly over her heart.

“You already have, princess. You already have.”

Morgan paused in the foyer of Snowden Hall. Suspended on the walls above him were the ancestral portraits that had once filled the grand entrance hall of his London town home. His gaze moved automatically to the newest addition in the line of paintings, the nearly life-size portrait of Julia that he had commissioned Thomas Fike to create shortly after their marriage.

Despite the embarrassing fiasco over misidentifying the man as Lazarus, the cocky young artist had indeed proved himself to be worthy of both his exorbitant fee and his reputation as a portraitist. Morgan had flatly insisted at the time that all he wanted was a simple portrait of his wife, but Fike had given him much more than that.

Apparently having determined on his own exactly how the portrait should be accomplished, Fike had positioned Julia in a gown of shimmering crimson, standing alone in the center of a vast, empty ballroom. In the tall oval mirror behind her was a shadowy reflection of Morgan himself, gazing at his bride with an expression of brooding longing.

If Fike’s intent had been to tell the story of their relationship — as the ancestral paintings preceding it had — the man had admirably accomplished his goal. Other than the brilliant red of Julia’s gown, there was no hint of fire. Fike had focused instead on the longing and secrecy that had been so central to their relationship, managing to capture both the darkness and the promise of light. Moreover, no outcome was suggested by the portrait, and that pleased him as well. It simply captured the essence of a particular moment in time between a man and a woman, leaving future generations to finish the story as they chose. Very satisfactory, indeed.

Turning away from the portrait, Morgan left the hall and stepped outside. Although it was just mid-August, a fresh crispness filled the breeze, promising an early fall. Following the high, gleeful sound of childish laughter, Morgan made his way to the lush, informal gardens that encompassed the rear of his estate.

His two tiny daughters raced back and forth armed with butterfly nets, swooping the gauzy fabric over an occasional stray insect, then over each other’s heads.

He stopped to watch, filled with a sense of satisfaction greater than any he had ever known. Both girls had inherited their mother’s remarkable sherry eyes. The eldest had his dark hair, the younger her mother’s rich, shimmering russet. They were both — in his own biased estimation — stunningly beautiful. His gaze moved next to his wife. She was seated on a blanket, the remains of a picnic lunch spread around her.

Catching sight of him, she held out her hand and greeted him with a soft smile. “I was hoping you would join us.”

He moved across the lawn. Brushing his lips against hers, he said, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

He sat beside her and crossed his legs, then eased her back until her head rested in his lap. He removed the simple clip that held her hair in place, gently massaging her scalp as he ran his fingers through the long, fiery strands. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the small gold medallion she wore about her throat.

Saint Rita, patron saint of the impossible.

Indeed. Years ago he would have sworn it was impossible that he could ever be so contented. But just as Julia had breathed life into the desolate shambles of Snowden Hall, so she had given him a new sense of purpose and direction. The gulf between the hardened, bitter man he had once been and the man he was now seemed so disparate, it was sometimes difficult for him to believe they were one and the same.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Julia said, her voice coming out like a long, silky sigh.

Morgan brushed his hands through her hair. “‘I asked for all things in order that I might enjoy life. I was given life in order that I might enjoy all things.’”

“That’s lovely,” she said, smiling up at him.

“But not original, I’m afraid. A passage in a book I once read.”

“Lovely, nonetheless.”

“How are you feeling?”

Her hands moved automatically to her full, ripe belly. On occasion Morgan was secretly convinced she was carrying a son and was filled with a sense of pride beyond measure. Other times he was ridiculously thrilled at the prospect of a third daughter, one who would bring even more laughter and beauty into his life.

“It depends on the moment you ask,” she replied with a small, contented smile. “Tired, wonderful, huge, excited, clumsy, and overjoyed.”

“You look stunning.”

He ran his knuckles over her cheek as their gazes met and held. So much. He had been given so much.

The sound of their daughters’ high-pitched laughter drew their gazes away from each other and toward their children. The girls came running toward them, breathless and excited. Their hair was messed in tousled disarray, their gowns were smeared with dirt, their skin was flushed and rosy. They leaped onto the blanket, tumbling over each other like exuberant puppies as they wrapped their chubby arms about his neck. “Papa, Papa, we want a new game!”

Morgan thought for a moment, overcome with a profound sense of gratitude.

Of all he had been given, perhaps the most significant gift was a deep reverence for life, with all its pain and all its glory. Every loss had meaning. And every day was a new reason for celebration.

“A new game?” he echoed. He could not change the past, but he could embrace the present. He lifted his scarred, reddened hands.

Mimicking his motions, his daughters lifted their own tiny, dimpled hands, watching him with expressions of rapt adoration.

Clapping his palms together, he began to recite, “Patty-cake, patty-cake…”

VICTORIA LYNNE is the author of five historical romance novels. She’s received two RITA Award nominations, and has consistently earned Romantic Times’ “Top Pick” award. Called “A Fabulous Storyteller!” by Rendezvous Magazine, her work consistently draws rave reviews and continues to attract new readers. Her books have been translated into German, Italian, and Spanish, and are currently available online through Kindle and Nook.

Ms. Lynne lives in Vermont with her husband and two children.