Just One Kiss (4 page)

A knock sounded on the door.

Morgan was sorely tempted to ignore it—but such was impossible, as he soon discovered.

The door opened a crack. "Sir?" It was Simmons.

Morgan paused, long fingers curled around the rim of the glass. "What is it?" He didn't bother to disguise his irritation.

The door opened wide. Simmons stepped inside. "Sir, there is a lady in the drawing room who wishes to see you."

"Oh?" There was the faintest sarcasm to his tone. Most of his female callers bypassed the drawing room completely and simply proceeded to the bedroom.

Simmons nodded. "Sir, she's from London." There was the faintest pause. "I gather from what she says that you are expecting her."

"A woman from London?" Morgan's tone was curt. "Hardly. She's come to the wrong house, Simmons. Please show her out."

"Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I do believe you should see her. She seems most anxious. She said there wasn't time to write to inform you of her arrival."

Morgan's gaze narrowed.

Simmons hastened to add, "Her name is Elizabeth Stanton, sir.
Lady
Elizabeth Stanton."

Morgan's reply was both blunt and brief. "The name means nothing to me, Simmons. I tell you, she's come to the wrong house."

Simmons neither moved nor spoke. He merely cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels.

Morgan grimaced. Lord, but Simmons could be incredibly stubborn at times. But far more annoying was the woman waiting in the drawing room,
Lady
Elizabeth Stanton. He pictured a plump, dowdy matron with hips nearly as wide as she was tall. With a name like that, how could she be anything else? God in heaven, he thought. What now? What in hell could a woman like that possibly want with him? Normally he wasn't a man to invite trouble, but Simmons seemed unusually persistent.

He set his glass down on the table with a
thunk
. "Fine," he muttered, already striding through the wide double doors. "I'll see her." Ten paces took him to the drawing room, where he was afforded the first glimpse of his caller.

He'd been dead wrong. It flashed through his brain that here was no dowdy matron. Instead she stood near the mirror, a slender, smartly dressed figure in dove gray. She half turned, at last facing him fully. No, Morgan thought vaguely, she was not at all what he'd expected…

Clearly she felt the same.

He was, in fact, totally unprepared for his effect on her. Huge green eyes grew wider still. Her expression was a strange mixture of confusion and unquestionable disappointment. Vexed though he was, he was also unwittingly amused. Her eyes locked on his.

"Dear God," she gasped. "Who the devil are you?"

One winged brow quirked upward. "Simmons informed me you wished to see me."

"You? Why, I don't even know you!"

"I might say the same of you," came his dry response. "But it was you who came to my home. Therefore I trust you have business with me. I confess, however, I am most curious as to the nature of that business."

Her eyes had yet to waver from his. Morgan had the oddest sensation that she thought him the devil himself.

"There must be some mistake," she said faintly. "I was told this was the O'Connor residence."

"And so it is."

She stared at him as if he were half-mad. "No, you don't understand. I'm trying to find the man who owns O'Connor Shipbuilding."

Morgan linked his hands behind his back. The merest smile lurked about his lips. "The very same, madam."

"No. No, that cannot be." She looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. "I-I've come all the way from London! I-I can't go back, I just can't! I have to find Nathaniel O'Connor."

Morgan's smile vanished. In the instant between one breath and the next, everything changed. He spoke gruffly. "Well, you won't find him here. It's my understanding he's not in Boston."

Her fingers clutched at the strings of her reticule. "You know him then? You know Nathaniel?"

Morgan's laugh was gritty. "Oh, yes, I know him well. I am his brother."

She paled visibly. Her lips parted, yet no sound escaped. Then to his utter shock, before he could say more, she pitched forward into a dead faint.

It was lucky for her Morgan's reflexes were so quick. He caught her mere inches before her head struck the floor. Twisting her around, he slipped an arm beneath her knees and lifted her to the nearest settee. "Good Christ!" he muttered. "What next?" Morgan's first thought was that the girl's collapse was nothing but a ruse—a display of feminine wiles—whatever the reason might be. Curbing his impatience, he sat beside her and gently slapped first one cheek and then the other, fully expecting her to vent her anger with an outraged shriek.

She moved not a muscle.

Morgan frowned. Had the girl simply laced her stays too tight? Why women wore such contraptions, he didn't know. To men who wanted to dispense with a woman's clothing as quickly as possible, they were nothing but a nuisance. Easing her to her side, he nimbly unfastened the myriad hooks on the back of her dress until he was able to reach inside and loosen her laces…

Again, to no avail.

It was then he noticed for the first time the warmth emanating from her body, even through the silk of her dress. What the devil was wrong with her? He pressed the back of his knuckles to her cheeks once more. He swore suddenly. Christ, what an idiot he was! The girl was burning up with fever!

She moaned then. Morgan gripped her shoulders and gave her a little shake, fumbling a little as he sought to recall her name. "Elizabeth! Elizabeth, wake up! Are you ill, girl?"

Her eyes opened slowly, dazed and glazed with pain.

"Elizabeth, tell me," he demanded. "Where do you hurt?"

Her fingertips came slowly to her brow. "Here," she said faintly.

"Anywhere else?"

Her hand fell to her breast. "Here, too." Her whisper was feeble, as if the effort cost her every bit of strength. "It hurts to"—she swallowed— "to breathe." As she turned her head aside, her lashes fluttered closed. She coughed, the sound dry and hacking. Morgan knew she'd slipped into unconsciousness once more.

This time he was almost glad, for he suspected she would have been appalled at what he was about to do. Tugging the bodice of her gown down over smooth, creamy shoulders, he bent low, putting his ear to her chest. Her breath seemed to rattle; air made a whistling sound in and out of her lungs.

Morgan swore. He was on his feet in an instant. "Simmons!" he shouted. "Send a man for Stephen! This woman is ill!"

An hour later, his friend Dr. Stephen Marks stood beside the bed where his patient had been taken. He was short but broad of shoulder, his easygoing nature reflected in the readiness of his smile and the warmth of his eyes.

He stepped back from the bedside, glancing back over his shoulder where Morgan watched him quietly, strong arms folded across his chest.

"She came from London, you say?"

Morgan nodded. "So she told Simmons," he said briefly.

"There's no question it's a lung infection," Stephen said. "Probably from the damp sea air. But she's young and appears healthy, so that's in her favor. Right now the best thing we can do for her is to try to bring her fever down and keep her dry." He replaced his instruments in his bag, then cast his friend a teasing glance. "I must say, Morgan, she's a bit of a change from your usual."

Morgan's mouth turned down at the corners. "Don't bother speculating," he said dryly. "It wasn't me she came here to see at all."

"Who, then?"

There was a moment's silence. "Nathaniel."

The twinkle slowly faded from Stephen's eyes. "What on earth would a woman from England want with Nathaniel?"

"That," Morgan stated grimly, "is what I'd like to know. And there's more, Stephen. Simmons said she introduced herself as
Lady
Elizabeth Stanton."

Chestnut brows shot upward. "Britain's upper crust?"

"So it would seem." Morgan's gaze rested on the figure in the bed. "When the lady wakes up, we'll just have to ask her, won't we?"

Stephen said nothing, merely watched his friend closely. "Where is Nathaniel?" he asked finally.

The lines of Morgan's features had gone hard. His reply was blunt and instantaneous. "We both know I'm rarely privy to his whereabouts. I haven't seen him in months—which is just the way I prefer." He nodded toward the girl. "Will she be all right?"

"I suspect so," Stephen said thoughtfully. "But it will likely be some weeks before she's back on her feet again." He chuckled as he watched a thundercloud darken his friend's face. Reaching for his jacket, he shrugged into it. "You may as well become accustomed to the idea, Morgan—you'll be having a houseguest for a while."

That, Morgan thought blackly, was not what he wished to hear.

Stephen strode toward the door, then stopped suddenly. "I have a suggestion, though. What if I sent over my housekeeper, Margaret, for a time? She's not only an excellent nurse, but she'll keep tongues from wagging should it come out you've a young female residing under your roof. The last thing you need is another scandal."

A cynical half smile curled Morgan's lips. He shook his head. "It's not necessary. Heaven knows my reputation is the last thing that concerns me. Besides, God knows it could hardly be sullied any more than it already is."

Stephen reached for the door's ornately carved brass handle. Seeing the gesture, Morgan turned toward him, but Stephen waved him away. "No need, old man. I'll see myself out."

With that, he was left alone—alone with his uninvited houseguest. Moving back to the bedside, he glanced down at the girl. Her profile might have been etched in marble, she was so still and white. Her closed eyelids were the palest pink, almost translucent. Lashes like Indian ink curved across her cheeks. Her brows were slender and arched with a distinctly piquant slant.

But it was her skin that captured his attention the longest. It was unbelievably smooth and unblemished. He had the strangest urge to reach out and stroke the girl's cheek, to see if it was as soft and creamy as it looked…

He'd done it again, he realized. Why did he persist in thinking of her as a girl, when she was hardly that? Perhaps it had been something in her wide-eyed, almost pleading expression when she'd discovered he wasn't Nathaniel, for indeed, she was hardly so very young—he guessed in her early twenties.

His gaze wandered further, lingering on the thrusting roundness of her breasts beneath the satin coverlet. He'd stripped her of her petticoats and stays before Stephen arrived. She was clad only in her chemise. Though she was tall and slender, her body was full and ripe and womanly. Impersonal as he'd been, it was impossible not to be aware of her warm sensuality.

Ah, yes, she was a lovely one—if one cared for blondes, which he definitely did not. He'd found most were generally too insipid for his tastes, often with personalities to match.

She stirred then, a fitful toss of her head upon the pillow. Morgan bent low, for a breath of sound escaped her lips… a word… ?

A name.

Nathaniel.

Morgan straightened. His thoughts were firmly unrelenting as he spun away. Whoever this woman was, he didn't appreciate her presence here in his household. Yet here she was, a reminder he could hardly ignore—a reminder of all that was best left alone.

But he would do all he could to ensure that she was given the best of care. With luck, she would soon be well on her way to recovery, for he was determined to send her packing as soon as she was able.

She moaned, drawing his gaze back to her despite his best intentions. As her fingers curled around the edge of the counterpane, he caught the glint of gold. His eyes fastened on the source.

A gold band circling the third finger of her left hand.

A vile curse erupted. Christ! What the hell had Nat done now? Morgan balked at the obvious. Nat could barely keep himself out of trouble. God forbid he'd taken a
wife
!

Damn! he thought, striding from the room, furious all over again.
Damn
! Why was Elizabeth Stanton here? And what was her connection with Nathaniel?

He had the feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

«
^
»

For Elizabeth, the next few days passed in a haze of pain and the strangest sense of unreality. Yet deep in the foggy recesses of her mind, she knew she was wretchedly ill. A smothering heat enshrouded the whole of her body. Her head throbbed and every breath seemed to drag at her insides. She was hazily aware of tossing and crying out, of being urged by an unfamiliar voice to sip and drink. Often there was a hand at her brow; a damp, blessedly cool cloth ran over her neck and shoulders. Voices swirled all around her.

Then one day, she became aware of bright sunlight trickling directly through the window before her. Wakefulness returned in slow degrees. She tried to turn her head against the brightness, but there was no escaping it. She knew from the murmur of voices that she was not alone. She wanted to protest that something was wrong—in both the London town house and her room at Hayden Park, the window was angled behind the head of her bed.

She let her hand fall against her eyelids. "The light hurts," she muttered.

Full, throaty laughter sounded above her. "Well, now, I'm glad to see you're back with us again."

The voice was a stranger's. Bewildered, Elizabeth opened her eyes to find herself being scrutinized by a man with thick, chestnut hair and twinkling, golden eyes almost the same color as his hair. A part of her recoiled in horror—she was hardly accustomed to men in her bedchamber! To make matters worse, he sat in a chair scant inches from the bed in which she was lying.

"Wh—who are you?" The voice that emerged was nothing like her own. It came out a dry, rasping croak.

The man chuckled. "I'm Dr. Stephen Marks. I've been taking care of you the past few days." He tipped his head to the side. "I confess, being an American, I'm not quite sure how to address you. Should I call you
Lady
Elizabeth?"