With This Kiss (39 page)

But the words meant nothing to him.

He cradled his body into a tight ball and watched the woman writhing in the flames, screaming in agony as the fire devoured her flesh. His small, fragile world abruptly shattered. He didn’t care what she had done. He didn’t care about sin. He was seven years old, and he loved her.

Mama.

“You have a most unusual look on your face, Lady Barlowe,” Thomas Fike remarked as he dipped his brush into one of the thick globs of paint that were smeared across his palette. “What are you thinking of?”

Julia shrugged. “Nothing in particular. Last night’s ball at Lord Calderfield’s.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “It was rather a bore, wasn’t it?”

She made a noncommittal reply and smothered a yawn. Indeed. As far as the Season’s harried round of galas was concerned, it had been a rather dull affair. The evening did, however, have two good points. The first was that her Uncle Cyrus, Aunt Rosalind, and cousins Marianne and Theresa had all been in attendance. After an initial period of awkwardness, they had behaved in a manner that was remarkably civil. Apparently they were so delighted at the breakneck pace at which the Earl of Bedford’s courtship of Marianne was proceeding that they chose to forgive Julia for her inadvertent entanglement with London’s notorious arsonist.

The second bright spot of the evening was that she had spent most of it at Morgan’s side. Despite the severe trepidations she held as to the future of their relationship, at the moment the days were passing in a glorious blur of romantic intimacy and exploration. Were it not for the looming threat of Lazarus that hung over them both, she might have been completely happy.

“If you would be so kind as to drop your right shoulder ever so slightly, Lady Barlowe,” the young artist instructed, interrupting her thoughts.

She did as requested, then sent him a small smile. “‘Lady Barlowe’ sounds so formal, does it not?” she said. “I’d prefer ‘Julia,’ Mr. Fike.”

“I’m honored, Julia,” he replied absently, his focus on the soft beams of light that streamed in the room through the bank of windows behind her. Releasing a sigh of impatience, he stood abruptly and shifted his easel to a position more to his liking. That accomplished, he reseated himself and sent her a quicksilver smile. “Then you shall call me Thomas.”

“Very well, Thomas.”

She stood alone on an elaborately staged podium, feeling absurdly self-conscious. She wore her gown of brilliant red silk, the very gown she had worn on the night that she and Morgan had become lovers. Thomas Fike, upon seeing her in the shimmering creation at Viscount Trycore’s had declared that that was exactly what she should wear in the portrait he had been commissioned to create. She wore her hair elaborately swept up and her medallion about her throat. A large oval mirror was angled behind her. Although she maintained a motionless pose, her thoughts were anything but still.

Of all the rooms in Morgan’s estate, Fike had selected the vast, empty ballroom as the ideal site for the portrait he had been commissioned to paint. He had declared that the light and staging were best here, and that the open doors and windows would allow the fumes from his paints to dissipate somewhat. To Julia the ballroom had been an odd choice, but she had bowed to his artistic caprice and acquiesced. Morgan had not voiced an opinion on the subject at all, short of remaining steadfast in his decision not to take part in the portrait — a fact that seemed to bother her far more than it did Mr. Fike.

She glanced about the room. Notwithstanding the fact that she and Morgan had shared their first true kiss here, to her mind the chamber remained slightly melancholy, redolent of romantic defeat. Perhaps that was why the room appealed to him. Mr. Fike had spent a considerable amount of time studying the portraits of Morgan’s ancestors. No doubt he was determined to have his own work as reflective of the true state of their relationship as were the paintings that filled the front hall.

To that end she had felt the young artist’s gaze on her and Morgan whenever their paths chanced to cross at various balls and late night suppers. He had watched them with a stare that was intent and judging, as though taking measure of their relationship. He seemed to have formed some conclusion, for he moved his paints and easel into their home with a bossy imperiousness, as though he knew exactly what sort of mood he wanted to achieve and would settle for nothing less.

“Now that,” said Fike, “is exactly the sort of expression I am hoping
not
to see on your face when I paint your portrait. You look decidedly vexed.”

“What sort of expression would you like to see?”

He absently waved one thickly laden paintbrush in her direction. “The usual. Something dreamy, subtly mystifying, sensual. As though you’re a goddess and the honor of your touch will bestow life upon mortal man. Think of Cleopatra. Helen of Troy. Aphrodite.”

Julia smiled and arched her brows skyward. “That’s quite a look.”

“I have every confidence in your ability to deliver such a look. In fact, I suspect you shall put your sister seductresses to shame.” He regarded her with a smile that was blatantly suggestive, his deep brown eyes smoldering with dramatic intensity, as though she were the only woman in the world. Then, as quickly as one might extinguish a candle flame, his gaze sobered and he returned his attention to his canvas. “But don’t bother now, because I’m still working on the background.”

She regarded him with amusement. The more time she spent with Thomas Fike, the more she understood why London’s foremost hostesses coveted him as a guest. With his soulful chocolate eyes, thick blond hair, and seductive manner, he was the unparalleled rake of the Season. Furthermore, he had a stature and self-assurance that few men possessed. In many ways he reminded her of her husband. Yet unlike Morgan’s sleek elegance, there was a blunt edge to Fike’s beauty, a coarseness that seemed to lurk just beneath his smoothly polished surface.

“Now that,” he commented absently, furiously spreading paint across the canvas, “is a far more interesting expression.”

“Is it? Hmmm. I was thinking of your reputation.”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the canvas before him. “Most of the rumors you hear are gross exaggerations.” He paused, sending her his most provocative smile. “I would hardly have time to paint at all if everything that was said about me were true.”

Julia sent him a look of cool reproof. “I meant as an artist in demand.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “In that case the rumors are quite authentic. In fact, I find that my talents in that area are actually underestimated.”

“I see,” she replied, smiling at the unabashed vanity on his part.

A movement near the doors caught her eye. Morgan strode into the room, moving directly to where Thomas Fike had set up his paints and easel. In a show of deferential grace, the artist stepped aside to allow his patron to examine his work.

A frown darkened Morgan’s expression as he gave the canvas a cursory glance. “If you’ve finished for the moment, Mr. Fike,” he said brusquely, “my wife and I have an engagement this afternoon.”

“Very good, my lord.” Fike gave a low bow, then wiped his hands on a nearby cloth and deposited his brushes in a solution of turpentine. He made his way toward the broad doors, turned, and nodded. “Until tomorrow, Julia.”

Aware of her husband’s sharp — and unquestionably disapproving — look at the use of her Christian name, she nodded and sent Fike a faltering smile. “Yes, until tomorrow.”

She waited until he had left the hall, then stepped down from the podium on which she had been posed and moved to Morgan’s side to study the canvas. As Thomas had mentioned earlier, at this stage the work consisted of nothing but broad brushstrokes that suggested the background of the piece. There was nothing there to cause the intense frown she had seen on his face. Surprised at the harsh tone Morgan had taken with the man, she said, “Your dismissal was rather abrupt, was it not?”

“It was my understanding that there was a depth to Fike’s work, that he was possessed of a singular ability to capture the essence of his subjects. That is why I hired the man. I am not paying him to seduce my wife.”

Morgan, jealous? While the idea seemed ludicrous, there was no mistaking the edge to his voice. Even more ridiculous was the distinctly feminine surge of pleasure she felt at learning that she was capable of arousing such an emotion within him. “Actually,” she rejoined lightly, “he reminds me of you. Or rather, the man you used to be. The irrepressible rake, out to conquer any female who had the misfortune to cross your path.”

“‘You shall put your sister seductresses to shame,’” he mimicked in disgust. “What utter rubbish.”

“I seem to recall your saying something in the vein of…” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Now what did I overhear you say in the garden that night? How the glory of the moonlight paled in comparison to the radiant luster of the young lady’s alabaster skin?”

He winced and pulled her into his arms. “No need to be cruel, princess.”

She tilted her head back to study his eyes. “Then give me credit for having a bit more sense than to take his words to heart. I suspect his only intent was to provoke an expression of smoldering desire on my face.”

“Did it work?”

“Yes.”

His dark frown instantly returned. “It did?”

“Absolutely,” she averred with a smile. “I was thinking of you.”

“Ah.” He let out a satisfied sigh and tightened his embrace. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.” He captured her lips with his own, bestowing a kiss of heated passion and infinite longing, a kiss that warmed her to the very soles of her red satin slippers. At last, with a display of obvious reluctance, he pulled back.

Julia studied him through a haze of unfulfilled lust, struggling to reclaim her wits and say something intelligent. At last recalling what he had said when he had interrupted the painting session, she remarked, “I wasn’t aware we had an engagement this afternoon.”

“No?” Morgan regarded her with a puzzled frown. “I’m certain we did. In fact, I had my secretary make a note on my calendar, lest I forget. It’s a new addition to my schedule, but one of which I hope you’ll approve.”

“You’re already so busy as it is,” she said. “What with fencing lessons, daily business affairs, morning rides, the House of Lords…”

“True. But I’m confident I can make room for this latest task.”

“Oh?”

“Every Thursday afternoon: make love to Julia.”

She arched one delicate auburn brow. “Just Thursday afternoons?”

“As it happens, I find that marriage has made me remarkably more flexible in regards to my time. I also have Thursday nights available, as well as Friday mornings, Friday afternoons, Saturdays…”

“My, my. You certainly are accommodating, aren’t you?”

With a rakish smile he reached for her hand and placed it on the straining bulge between his legs. “Unfortunately, princess, the same can’t be said for my trousers.” He bent down and lifted her into his arms in one smooth, effortless motion. “Shall we?”

Morgan carried her through the main floor and to the upper level, blithely ignoring the shocked gasps and knowing smiles of the servants they passed. Although a deep blush heated her cheeks at the brazen, blatant manner with which he proceeded through the house, Julia didn’t object. Nor did she object as he kicked the door to his bedchamber shut behind them and gently deposited her in the center of his bed.

All things considered, it was a rather pleasant way to pass a Thursday afternoon.

He was here. Lazarus was here. Morgan could feel his watchful, hovering presence so close at hand, he could reach out and touch him if he so desired. In fact, he probably already had. The more he thought on it, the more convinced he grew that he knew the man. With that in mind, he gazed about the room at the guests who had assembled in Jonathan Derrick, the Earl of Bedford’s, home, determined to identify him once and for all.

It was a relatively minor event, having drawn only one hundred or so attendees. That paltry sum could be directly attributed to two factors. The first was Derrick’s bumbling social incompetence. Although his rank and tide served to make up for a great many of his shortcomings, the man seemed to drift about in a perpetual fog. The second factor was the dreadful heat and constant threat of arson, the combination of which had driven a good portion of better society out of the city well in advance of the end of the Season.

Nevertheless, a good number of hearty souls remained, and of those most had chosen to attend Derrick’s small gala. Morgan mentally composed a suspect list in his mind, weighing the threat that each man posed. There was Cyrus Prentisse, of course. Roger Bigelow. And all three of Julia’s original suitors, each of whom had offered for her hand: Lord Edward Needam, whose current mistress exhibited a subtle but distinct bruise at the nape of her neck. Sir William Bell, already drunk and stumbling, despite the early hour. The Honorable Peter Trevlin, who was in the midst of flirting with a pretty young servant boy who looked no older than fifteen. A wretched group, to be sure, but was there a killer among them? Doubtful, Morgan conceded. So who was he overlooking?

The light touch of Julia’s hand on his arm drew his thoughts back to her. “Have you seen Aunt Rosalind and Uncle Cyrus?” she whispered, nodding her head at a spot across the room. “They look positively beside themselves with glee.”

He followed the direction of her nod across the room. Sir Cyrus Prentisse and his wife sat on a low, carpeted podium in a pair of grossly ornate, thronelike mahogany chairs that would have looked ostentatious had they been occupied by Albert and Victoria. Given that it was Cyrus and Rosalind seated within, they looked patently ridiculous. A slim trickle of guests filed by, dutifully offering best wishes and good fortune on the occasion of their daughter’s betrothal to the Earl of Bedford, an event that had been formally announced just moments earlier.

“It appears as though society is finally paying Cyrus Prentisse his rightful homage,” he remarked.

“For the moment,” Julia returned, releasing a soft sigh. “But I suspect that by this time tomorrow he will be simmering in a stew of resentment once again, mentally compiling a list of all the imagined slights he suffered tonight.” She shook her head and said, “But I am happy for Marianne.”