Edward swirled the brandy in his glass as the last tinges of daylight filtered through the branches on the great oak tree. The encroaching night snaked in from the western shore of the lake, its smooth, feathery mist leading the way. A crisp breeze, with a hickory smoke breath from a nearby fire, caught a falling leaf and danced it gracefully down to land beside his black polished boots. The delicate foliage added to the symphony of colors he had been admiring, each leaf singing with their own individual voice. Brilliant golden tenors and sensuous burgundy baritones all lent a song, as another beautiful autumn day came to an end.
Too bad he had missed it all, sleeping off the previous night’s bender. Edward sighed. He really should take his brother’s advice and try to rise at a more appropriate hour.
He shook off the unpleasant thought like a chill. He had no idea how Perkin stayed so… damn perfect. Alas, such a lifestyle was not for him; Edward Kingston was far from perfect.
Besides, there was limitless enjoyment reaped in the skilled art of being bad. On that thought, he rapped his walking stick on the ground. A grin etched the corners of his mouth as he turned abruptly, eager to start his affair with the night.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Henry take a long drag off his cheroot before discarding it on the ground. The two began their silent trek back up to the manor. No words were needed between them. It was time to begin the hunt for the next great scandal.
They matched strides twenty paces down the lane like a pair of stalking lions. As they drew near the house, a carriage appeared. A footman hopped down from the rolling transport and opened the door before the carriage wheels could make their final rotation. Both gentlemen climbed inside.
Henry tapped the roof and the sleek black rig pulled away. “What shall it be first? Dinner, cards, and women. Or, the races to start? Followed by dinner, cards and dancing.”
He lounged back in the seat across from Edward and stretched his arms behind his head, lacing his fingers together at the base of his skull. “The order matters not to me as long as the end result remains the same. A few lovely ladies, gifted with questionable morals, draped across our arms?”
Edward could feel the corners of his mouth pulling upwards. “I fancy both options.” He smiled. “The night is young and as we know, full of delights.”
Punishing hands groping at her. A Pungent liquor-soaked tongue stabbing around inside her mouth. Vile threats spitting poison into her ears.
Morgan jolted awake, choking on the dryness of her throat. Her eyes darted around the carriage in a frantic effort to re-familiarizing herself with the surroundings. Her heart pounded heavy in her chest and her skin crawled, as if a spider had unfurled itself in her hand.
She shook her head, forcing away the lingering imagery of her much-too-vivid nightmare. She was safe. In a carriage bound for London. He was not here.
Her mother and maid were still asleep on the other side of the carriage. Morgan exhaled slowly, not wishing to alert them to her personal hell. The last thing she wanted was to bring anymore worry to them. Her mother had been through enough after losing Morgan’s father, having to hastily remarry, and then being forced to live with the life that followed those tragic set of events.
Morgan’s stepfather, the Earl of Vistmont, had seemed agreeable at first. Having recently lost his own spouse, the two were a logical match. But, the honeymoon was short lived. The earl’s well-meaning concern and practical protectiveness over his new bride turned dark and twisted with alarming succession. Before the ink had barely time to dry on their marriage license, the earl’s domineering ways increased to the point of physical violence.
Morgan watched her mother resting peacefully across from her. It pained her deeply to think that her only repose would, forever forward, be solely found in the confines of her sleep. Life was not fair.
And unfortunately, the strongest usually gave all. As her mother was now doing for Morgan. Bumping along in a carriage, on a rutted out old road, freedom bound.
Luckily for Morgan, the earl had not laid a finger on her. That was exactly how her mother intended it to stay. The countess had written to her sister, the Duchess Vandicamp, and implored her to invite them to the city, where Morgan could be “educated on some of the finer skill-sets befitting a lady”.
Her dear aunt had graciously accepted, practically beside herself with the prospect of indoctrinating a new debutant into the lucrative world of London’s elite Bon Ton. Morgan hoped the duchess would not be disappointed when she alight from their dilapidated old carriage.
Morgan glanced at the empty seat to her right. The fabric was threadbare and had an odor that could best be described as cat piss—though she knew it was likely comprised of various stenches—all of which a young lady should know nothing of. At least the compartment was in better shape than the outside of the carriage. The transport looked like it had fared poorly in more than a few races and might have even been submerged at one point in time.
Morgan cringed as she considered what a truly note-worthy entrance they would be making on Governors square. Just another way her stepfather could inflict shame on her mother. The earl had agreed, reluctantly, to allowing Morgan a turn at London, but there was no way he would allow them the use of one of his finer rigs to get there. Those he saved for entertaining his whores.
Morgan rolled her eyes. At least she would be free of the earl’s dreaded household. She resigned herself to think no more of the vile man. Her stepfather was not worthy of her time, or attention. Besides, there was plenty more pressing matters to contemplate.
Foremost, she had much to learn before the season got underway. Once she became engrossed in her education, Morgan would make sure she applied those lessons to all aspects of social obligation. By chance, she might be successful in finding a gentleman that would think her agreeable.
Morgan felt herself nod, affirmatively. Any arrangement would be better than the life she was leaving behind. She would appreciate her winter away—not just from her unpredictable stepfather, but from his horrible offspring as well. Roderick.
A familiar chill crystalized across her skin like ice over a pond. She pulled her shawl up tighter around her shoulders. Despite her resolve to look only to the future, her thoughts dragged her backwards yet again…to her stepbrother. Or as she referred to him, the devil incarnate.
Throughout the first year of their parents’ marriage, Roderick had merely taunted Morgan with nasty, degrading snips here and there. Everything from her simple country upbringing to the way she held a teacup. Apparently, she had hands like a man and the grace of a butcher. He had also taken great pleasure in encouraging his boorish friends to do the same. There was not a day gone by that she hadn’t been made to feel inadequate in her home.
However, it had not stopped there. Roderick’s torment only intensified when her body dramatically changed over the course of one summer, from lanky teenager to voluptuous woman. Her upbringing ceased to matter much now. Her stepbrother suddenly seemed to seek her out everywhere she went, his jeers becoming even more perverse, filling her ears with all sorts of sexual Innuendoes every chance he was afforded.
If her maid, Bertrice, had not interrupted them the night before they left for London…Morgan knew he would have made good on his threat to show her just what her body was made for. “To give pleasure to men,” he had rasped, after having dragged her into the kitchen pantry and pinned her against the wall.
She had been truly terrified for the first time in her life but did not tell a soul, save Bertrice, who had witnessed the abuse first-hand. Her loyal maid had reluctantly sworn secrecy, and Morgan had spent the rest of that night in two vastly different states of mind. One half in tears, feeling utterly helpless, and the other half wanting to fight, vowing to be the best deduced debutant London had ever laid eyes on. The latter, however, was her only ticket out. For if she ever did return to her stepfathers residence, her honor, and thus her life, would be over.
All would be fine, she reminded herself for the millionth time, if she could get to London and quickly secure a husband. That was about her only hope. Apart from running away to America.
Morgan rested her head against the seat back. There was no way she could survive in America. She was no more suited for living on her own than she was suited to be the Queen of England. She sighed. No, she was trapped smack dab between two vastly different worlds. Not born an aristocrat, and not born a farmer. She would have to go with her most obvious choice of escape…marriage.
To accomplish that she would need to take her studies at the duchesses very seriously, for she was severely lacking in some of the finer skills expected of a lady. Her needlepoint was subpar, her musical talents were mediocre at best, and her dancing was deplorable. She required desperate help. Thankfully, her aunt had already hired instructors. Morgan could embark on her education as soon as they arrived in London.
At least she was pretty. Or rather, that is what her mother and Bertrice claimed. Roderick’s friends had confirmed this ideology when they raked her over with hungry, roving eyes. As disconcerting as it was, Morgan assumed that at least the feeling of being basically undressed by a man’s gaze meant one was not altogether unappealing.
Still, she was not the ideal Bon Ton beauty. As her stepbrother had crudely pointed out. She had the body of a ‘doxy’ and no ‘proper’ London gentlemen would find her desirable as a wife.
She knew she was unfashionably curvy for being only eighteen years old. Morgan did not know what a paramours body looked like, but she suspected the rogue knew what he was talking about.
Morgan continued to mentally tick off her physical attributes and failures. She was of medium height, with good skin, but her fiery auburn hair was just as unfashionable as her overly developed figure. She looked too Scottish, another of Roderick’s claims. Her shapely legs were probably her best feature, but she could not exactly flaunt those about town. All and all, Morgan suspected she was average—much like her lot in life.
She looked out the window and was pulled sharply from her reverie. The first glimpses of the city were coming into view. Her mouth fell open. This was nothing like her little village town.
Morgan was immediately captivated with the bustling landscape. People darted everywhere, moving in and out of the impressive stone buildings that seemed to grow right out of the ground, as though they had been rooted in the soil for centuries.
As the carriage ambled along, the practical and more rudimentary exteriors began to give way to newer, more artistic detail, each delicate carving of the craftsman’s tool telling of the fortune that had gone into the beautiful homes. Extravagant entry ways now stared down at them like imposing guard dogs questioning their intrusion and silently judging their worth. It was both intimidating, and exquisite.
The coach hit a bump, jostling Bertrice and her mother from their slumber. “Oh, Mother!” Morgan exclaimed. “You can practically feel the city breathing, can you not? It is as if every individual heartbeat on these streets is joining together to make up one gigantic beast.” She clapped her gloved hands enthusiastically. “This city, London, is where I am meant to be.”
She looked back at the two older women, sitting speechless across from her, and smiled. “This beast of a city is our savior!”