With This Kiss (40 page)

Morgan’s gaze shifted to Marianne Prentisse and Jonathan Derrick, watching as they strolled arm in arm through the sparse crowd. Not a bad match, despite the gap in their ages. They were both blond and pale, but they complemented each other in unexpected ways. Marianne’s sharp features and piercing gaze countered the air of shaggy dim-wittedness that constantly hung over the Earl of Bedford. In return, the earl’s simpleminded state of befuddlement served to make his young fiancée look somewhat less haughty and less concerned with rank and prestige.

“Not exactly a love for the ages, but they do appear remarkably content,” he said. The rueful smile that curved Julia’s lips told him that she understood at once to what he was referring.

Apparently deciding to enlarge upon the announcement of his betrothal as a theme for the party, Derrick had leased a score of richly detailed wax figures from the House of Madame Tussaud. Placed conspicuously throughout the hall were life-size replicas of famous lovers. Romeo and Juliet embraced near the buffet. The legendary King Arthur and Queen Guinevere reigned over the champagne fountain. Samson and Delilah stood at one end of the dance floor, Antony and Cleopatra waved from another.

Unfortunately the earl had not taken the weather into consideration when making arrangements for the display of the carved figurines. Or perhaps he had simply underestimated the heat that would be generated by a hundred or so bodies milling about. In any case thin rivulets of wax had begun to drip down the faces of the fabled lovers, giving one the unhappy impression that they were dissolving in tears.

Julia shook her head. “The poor man. Imagine going to all this trouble, only to have everything go to ruin like this.”

Morgan shrugged. “Perhaps the weather will change.”

“I do hope so.”

A storm had been brewing all day, but it had yet to break. Instead the heavy clouds that loomed overhead served only to intensify the heat, as though compressing it into an even denser, muggier mass. Even the gusty breeze that stirred through the trees did nothing but pitch the hot air about, causing men to chase after their hats and ladies to clamp down their skirts.

The storm seemed to bring with it a mood of simmering tension as well. Tempers were short everywhere. Hackney drivers hurled insults at each other as they jostled for position in the streets, shopkeepers argued with their clerks, servants were berated by their masters, and packs of dogs snarled over bones. Perhaps it was this atmosphere that had inspired Morgan’s conviction that the city could not stand much more of the constant heat — nor the constant threat of arson. He had the distinct impression that things were coming to a decisive head. Lazarus was here, and he was preparing to strike again.

“For such a happy occasion, you look decidedly grim,” remarked Julia.

“My apologies.” He forced a smile and turned toward her. “I was just thinking of—”

“I know,” she said, somber understanding filling her eyes. “But let us put him behind us for one evening, shall we? Let’s be selfish just this once and claim the night for ourselves. We’ll worry about him tomorrow.”

Unable to resist her gentle entreaty, he nodded and gazed about the room, searching for a suitable diversion for them both. “Where would you like to begin?” he asked. “A glass of champagne? A plate of smoked oysters? A tour of the gardens?”

She smiled softly and shook her head. “A dance, if you please.”

He gave a low, formal bow. “It would be my honor,” he replied, offering his arm as he escorted her onto the dance floor. As the opening strains of a waltz filled the room, he pulled her into his embrace, holding her far more closely than what was dictated by the convention of the dance. Yet to Morgan his grip on her still wasn’t tight enough.

He could not banish the fear that they had somehow come full circle. As though the events of late were entirely surreal, merely the beginning and ending to a dream. He would wake up tomorrow, and it would all be over. Even the gown Julia wore served to reinforce that worry. She had selected the shimmering, peppermint pink satin she had worn on the night they had met at the Devonshire House. While it seemed impossible to believe that she might leave his life as abruptly and as dramatically as she had entered it, fate had taught him how very fragile even the sturdiest foundations to one’s life could sometimes be.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

His eyes moved slowly over her face, as though memorizing every delicate feature. “Have I told you yet how beautiful you look tonight?”

She smiled and brushed her hand over the fabric of her gown. “You remember this?”

Unwilling to ruin what was obviously a happy reminiscence for her with his own gloomy trepidations, he smiled and replied, “Very well.” Defying the rules of convention and decorum, he boldly followed the path her hand had taken, tracing his palm over the smooth curve of her hip. “I remember thinking when I first saw you that you looked like a cross between a luscious, sugary confection and a stunningly wrapped gift.”

She arched one slim auburn brow. “That was your first impression of the gown?”

“No. As flattering as the gown is to your beautiful body, my first impression of the garment was that I would have far preferred to see it pooled at your feet.”

Although his reply obviously pleased her, she clucked her tongue in mild reproof. “I thought you were supposed to be a reformed rake.”

“A reformed rake?” he echoed, keeping his tone deliberately light. “What a ghastly notion. Isn’t that rather like praising a stallion for behaving like a gelding?”

A slight, preoccupied smile touched her lips. “What was your initial impression of me?”

“Aside from the fact that you were the most stunning creature I’d ever seen in my life?”

“Aside from that,” she returned, as a faint coral blush colored her cheeks.

Morgan thought for a moment, swaying in time to the music as he led her across the dance floor. “I had a variety of impressions of you,” he finally replied. “But to my great relief, not one of them proved to be true. I suspect they were more a product of my own experiences and cynical expectations than anything you projected.”

“That sounds rather dire.”

“To begin with, I thought that Mr. Randolph was your husband.”

“Mr. Randolph?” she echoed, giving a choked, horrified laugh. “He’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

“That’s not so uncommon. A young, beautiful woman marrying a wealthy man with one foot in the grave and the other resting on a banana peel. From what I’m told, those marriages can be remarkably contented — so long as the husband allows his wife enough freedoms and liberties. Particularly those meant to compensate for certain inadequacies that might occur in an elderly man’s bed.” He paused, giving an indifferent shrug. “That was my initial impression of you. That you were a married woman searching for a mildly amusing diversion. And on that particular evening, it appeared as though a rousing game of Beauty and the Beast suited your fancy.”

Julia looked appalled. “Yet you agreed to leave your companions and follow me?”

His eyes locked on hers. “The truth is, princess, I would have followed you anywhere.”

She shook her head. “Had you known what I intended to lead you into, I suspect you would have run screaming into the night.”

“Had I known then what I know now,” he replied firmly, “I would have run directly into your arms.”

Julia searched his gaze for a long moment; her brows drawn together in a troubled frown. “I lied to you.”

“Did you?”

“You asked me once if I harbored any anger or resentment toward my father for his actions, specifically the fact that his drinking and consequent bad judgment led to my future being placed in the hands of my Uncle Cyrus. At the time I denied it, but of course that wasn’t true. I was furious at my predicament — particularly because my choices were so limited that I had no option but to approach you with the outlandish and rather humiliating proposition that we wed.” She smiled and shook her head. “Strange, isn’t it? Were my father here today, I would thank him profusely.”

He pulled her even more tightly into his embrace. “So would I.”

“You say the oddest things,” she remarked, studying him with an expression he couldn’t define.

A pang of regret spiked through Morgan. “Perhaps they wouldn’t sound so odd if I said them more often.”

The steps of the dance led them to cross the path of Roger Bigelow and Isabelle Cartwright. The other couple sent them a cool nod as they swayed past, looking supremely beautiful and staggeringly self-aware, their gazes moving around the room as though searching for the most prestigious guests to which they could attach themselves.

As Morgan returned his attention to Julia, he found that she had also been watching the other couple as they swayed past. But rather than share his amusement, an expression of profound sadness was etched on her face. “What is it?” he asked.

“Lord Bigelow and Miss Cartwright.”

“What about them?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, as though struggling to find the words she needed. At last she managed, “When I think of the circumstances that brought us together, I imagine you must be consumed with regret at what might have been. I don’t blame you a bit. I’d be angry, too, if I had to settle for—”

“Settle? You cannot mean to apply that word to yourself.”

“Then you mean you don’t wish that Miss Cartwright—”

“I don’t wish anything.” He ran his hand lightly down her spine, his gaze locked on hers. “What I am consumed with, princess, is a profound sense of awe and undeservingness at the wealth of gifts I have recently been given.”

Tilting her face toward his, she searched his eyes. He could almost pinpoint the exact moment her disbelief was transformed — first to wary hesitancy, then to joyous acceptance of his words.

Before he could speak again, a sharp bolt of lightning illuminated the horizon. A rolling boom of thunder immediately followed, silencing the orchestra. As the music came to an abrupt and awkward halt, so did the waltzers. A sharp gust of wind rattled the windows as it swept through the room, extinguishing the vast majority of candles that illuminated the hall. Startled, nervous laughter sounded among the guests, followed by a scattering of applause that built to a hearty crescendo as fat drops of rain began to fall. The storm had broken at last.

A second bolt of lightning split the sky. Whether it was by fate or by chance Morgan would never know, but in that instant, as lightning lit up the room, his attention was turned away from Julia and toward a back wall. To his surprise he found his gaze locked on Thomas Fike. The young artist stood by himself near a narrow flight of stairs that led toward the upper floors. His darkly brooding expression was immediately transformed to one of startled dismay at having been caught staring at them. He quickly turned his back on Morgan without so much as a nod of acknowledgment.

The lightning faded, and the ballroom darkened once again. As Jonathan Derrick’s servants busied themselves rushing about the room relighting the candles, Morgan’s gaze remained fixed on Fike. No longer alone, he was leaning toward a woman Morgan couldn’t identify, whispering something in her ear. The woman tilted back her head and emitted a shrill peal of laughter, flirtatiously rapping Fike on the arm with her silk fan. Fike propped one booted foot upon the staircase and leaned closer to the woman he was evidently intent on seducing. Even from the distance at which Morgan stood, his choice of footwear was clear. Fike was wearing Hessians.

“Morgan? What is it?”

He slowly returned his attention to Julia. “Thomas Fike,” he replied. “It appears as though he’s been watching us most intently.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” she returned offhandedly, absently smoothing down the folds of her gown. “It’s rather disconcerting, isn’t it?”

“Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

She studied him with a small frown. “I didn’t think it significant,” she replied. “According to Lady Whitcomb and Lady Ausprey, he makes a habit of surreptitiously studying his clients whenever they are not formally posed. He claims that enables him to capture the true essence of one’s personality, rather than the stiff expression one fixes on one’s face when sitting for a portrait. From what I’ve heard, his work bears that claim out.”

Perhaps,
Morgan thought,
perhaps.
A reasonable explanation. And yet… something about Thomas Fike wasn’t right. Whether it was his instinct that caused him to form that impression, or his irritation at the man for having flirted so blatantly with Julia, Morgan couldn’t say. He knew only that he wasn’t quite ready to dismiss him from his mind.

As the orchestra lifted their instruments to begin another waltz, he took Julia’s arm and escorted her from the dance floor. Morgan’s longtime friend Edward Southesby joined them as they resumed their previous place in the crowd. After greetings were exchanged, Southesby remarked, “Do you realize, Morgan, that the evening is half over, and I have yet to enjoy a waltz with your beautiful bride? I wonder if she might favor me with that exquisite honor?”

Receiving Julia’s assent to a waltz, the two moved away to join the other guests who filled the dance floor. Morgan watched them for a moment, unable to shake the brooding sensation of unease that gripped him. Satisfied that Julia was in good hands with Southesby, he returned his attention to Fike. The artist was once again standing alone, sipping from a drink.

Morgan scanned the crowd, looking for the woman with whom Fike had been speaking. While she seemed to have disappeared entirely, he was surprised to note that Home Secretary Chivers was in attendance. As the waltzers continued their graceful promenade around the dance floor Morgan moved across the room to speak with Chivers. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he remarked.

“Actually, I arrived only a moment ago,” Chivers replied. He gave a light shrug. “I don’t normally mingle in society, but I thought it prudent that the Yard make its presence known until this Lazarus person is apprehended. One never knows what one might learn. As I’ve said before, luck favors the prepared mind.”