III

 

 

Morgan, having just returned from a fitting with the best modiste London had to offer, followed her mother and the duchess up the steps to the front door of her aunt’s house. The experience with the rail-thin French dressmaker had been long and humbling, but Morgan had survived being poked, prodded and discussed at length regarding her every flaw and redeemable asset.

Madam LeMore had started the morning off by demanding that Morgan burn her yellow tea gown she had arrived in. Apparently, the garment was out-of-fashion and the color made her look like the underside of a toad. Morgan was not entirely sure she recalled having ever seen the underside of a toad up close. She imagined they looked quite slimy and pale.

Amphibians aside, Morgan took the criticism in stride and mentally made notes. It seemed golds were a must for her skin color. Oranges and burnt reds would be nice as well and her debut dress was to be a warm champagne color that would highlight Morgan’s red-hair (apparently not as unfashionable as Derick had claimed).

All and all, Morgan would have at least three new gowns by the end of the week and she could not be more thrilled for it. Her aunt reminded her of her luck too. A lot. About every street corner the duchess would restate how fortunate they were to have gotten an audience with the famous dress-maker with such short notice. Morgan and her mother made sure to thank Lady Vandicamp profusely for all her efforts. And her purse.

By the time the coach pulled up the drive at Governors square, Morgan just wanted to take a nap. It was tiresome work being a grateful pin-cushion. She climbed the stone steps behind the duchess and her mother, ready to take her leave when they got inside. But before her foot had time to land on the last step, a butler stepped forward and handed her a calling card.

Morgan read it, smiled, and went straight to the sitting room where she found Eloise. A slice of lemon cake in both hands.

“I am so jealous!” the small blonde exclaimed once they were alone. “Have you any idea how lucky you are?”

Morgan let out a long-overdue sigh as she plopped down next to her new friend. “Yes, I have been informed. Madam LeMore is the best, and I am akin to a toad in the color yellow.”

“A toad!” Eloise gasped. “Did she really compare you to that?”

“At least she was being honest. I will take her assessment, gladly.” Morgan grinned. “Especially if she can get me looking half as fashionable as you.”

“You think me fashionable?” Eloise asked, genuinely shocked.

“Oh, Eloise, surely you have been told that petite blondes are the fancy?” She smiled, seeing the blush wash over her friend’s cheeks.

“Well, I have heard, but compared to you, I look mousy and not nearly as…dramatic. Why, your dance card will stay full the entire season,” Eloise said affirmatively.

“Dramatic?” Morgan considered the descriptive. There were certainly less appealing words. She rather liked ‘dramatic’. It made her think of something exotic. Or dangerous.

Eloise nodded. “Yes, dramatic. You do not look like you will blend into the wallpaper. Instead, you look like you could compete with it.”

Morgan considered her new friend for a moment. “That is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She smiled, then tried to look serious. “Now, do not ever call yourself mousy. You are lovely, whereas…”

Morgan leaned forward, taking a lemon cake for herself. “I am afraid my look evokes a rather…less-than-pleasant reaction in men.”

“Unpleasant?” Eloise giggled. “Well, if the new definition of unpleasant gets the sort of appreciation that handsome footman bestowed on you when you entered, I will gladly adapt the term.”

Morgan shook her head, grinning as she relaxed back into the soft cushions of the sofa. Perry, the cherub-faced, flaxen-haired footman in question, had not been subtle in his attention of her. Especially when he thought no one was looking. According to her dressing maid, the young man was considered quite the catch. And apparently, not overly insecure. A trait Bertrice feared would only end badly if he did not stop ogling the duchess’s niece.

Although it was now whispered amongst the staff that the handsome Perry found Morgan comely, he had not dared speak to her. Just appeared, as if by magic, everywhere Morgan had gone over the past two days.

Morgan knew she should be offended, downright incensed that a lower-class man would dare think anything of the sort about her. But she couldn’t. Truth was, she was flattered. The thought that she had such an effect on a man to render him shyly mute, and not barbarically dangerous, simply made her hopeful. Maybe she could find a gentleman that would appreciate her and be kind to her.

“Now Eloise, what would Sir Frederick say if he heard such a thing?” Morgan teased.

Eloise waved a dismissive hand. “Frederick does not hold a candle to the dancing master your aunt acquired for you.”

Morgan sat up so quickly she nearly fell off the settee. How could she have forgotten her biggest concern for the day? Her newly acquired dancing master!

“What do you know of him? All they told me was that he was an earl, but what earl would take time out of their schedule to offer dancing lessons? And then…” She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “When I came downstairs last night to get a book from the library, I overheard my mother and aunt talking. They said he had killed someone and was related to a king! And his father has even reclaimed the ancestral name and many titles from The Queen, herself.”

Morgan rattled on, her thoughts coming faster than her mouth could keep up with. “Is it true that he and his sister taught The Queen the Viennese Waltz after having demonstrated the scandalous dance at a royal ball?” She drew in a large breath, as Eloise burst out in laughter.

“How on earth did you manage to keep all that in?” Eloise’s eyes twinkled with unfettered amusement. “We wasted all that talk on Mistress LeMore. I just assumed you already knew all about the earl.”

“Yes. I mean, no. I only know enough to be puzzled beyond reason.” Morgan clasped her friend’s hands. “Tell me everything you know.”

“In that case…” Eloise grinned, clearly delighted with her task. “Yes, on all accounts. Except it was the older Kingston brother who danced the Viennese waltz with his sister the night of the ball. Greyland, the sister, who is now the Duchess of Ravenswood, is considered to be the most beautiful woman the Bon Ton has ever seen.” Eloise lifted a challenging eyebrow. “Not a fashionable blonde, I might add.”

“The older brother, The Duke of Dessmark—yes, named Perkin, for the infamous York bloodline—also taught the dance the next day to The Queen and the Prince,” Eloise said, tapping her finger to her chin and casting her eyes upwards, as if trying hard to remember.

A total bluff, Morgan mused. Of course she remembered. She probably knew these stories better than her scripture.

“And yes, The Earl of Wellington has killed a man. But only to save his sister when the Duke of Ravenswood’s evil uncle kidnapped her and tried to drown her by shoving her into a raging river.”

Eloise sat back. “Oh, and, the earl is the most desirable man in London. Aside from his brother. Did I leave anything out?” She grinned.

At Eloise’s first “yes,” Morgan’s mouth had fallen agape. And she had sat there throughout her friend’s entire monologue, holding that same unrefined pose. She finally brought her lips together as Eloise began to laugh anew.

“Stop laughing! The man is coming here to teach me the deduced waltz in less than an hour and I daresay I am about to suffer from a case of the vapors.” Morgan stood and began to pace.

“Oh, do not fret, the earl is very easy on the eyes. And has only ruined the names of four or five ladies this last year. Rather harmless, really.” Eloise continued to find utter joy in Morgan’s predicament. “You did say you wanted an adventure in London.”

Morgan looked aghast at her giddy friend, wishing she had never said any such thing. The two had spent the whole day together yesterday and had shared many, if not all, of their deepest dreams. However, a womanizing rake of an earl was not the sort of adventure she meant. She needed a kind, loving man to save her—not a reckless, dangerous one to try and ruin her. When Morgan had mentioned an adventure, the most daring thing she had imagined was placing a wager on a horse race.

“I thought you liked me?” She tried for her most wounded appeal.

Eloise relented in her torture. “I am just playing. Why, I would have already swooned to death by now. You are considerably more composed than I would be under the circumstances.”

“That is not comforting.” Morgan exhaled a breath she had not realized she had been holding. Why on earth would her aunt and mother allow such a man to instruct her? Her palms began to sweat as the worst possible scenarios began to play out in her head.

The body of a doxy. Her stepbrother’s words echoed in her self-conscious. Only good for warming a man’s bed.

Morgan wiped her hands down the front of her skirt. She did not want to give his words power, but she could not forget them. What if he was right? If this earl was anything like Derrick, Morgan would be like catnip tossed at a Tom cat.

Morgan shook her head. She could not afford the risk that the earl might fancy her the way Derrick did. Why, a man of that stature, just thinking, indecent thoughts was enough to start tongues wagging if he planted the wrong impression of her. Her name would be marred before she even stepped foot into polite society.

“As I said, he is one of the Ton’s best catches…If he could be caught, but he cannot be. Or rather, will not be. Oh, who knows, maybe he will take one look at your unique beauty and fall at your feet.” As if to emphasize her point, Eloise dropped her gaze to Morgan’s bosom.

Morgan’s heart sank. Even her new found friend was not oblivious to the issues at hand. “This is just a disaster waiting to happen.”

Unless… An idea popped into her head. If she could make her lesson with the earl as unmemorable as possible, he might completely overlook her.

“Clothing!” Morgan exclaimed. Never offer a cat catnip and it would wander on down the ally. “We must find the most modest gown in the house at once.”

 

 

 

“What do you know that you did not impart to your brother? Regarding Davenport being in town.” Richard Kingston swirled the brandy in his glass, admiring the amber colored liquor for a moment before looking up to fix his gaze on his eldest child.

Perkin sat on the other side of Richard’s mahogany desk, one long leg tossed negligently across his opposite knee as he reclined in the high back leather chair. “I have asked two of my best men to make inquiries around town. Thus far, his only nefarious intensions are against his own pocketbook. He is spending an exorbitant amount of coin on gaming and women. Seems marriage has done little to change him.”

Perkin gave a short, mirthless laugh as he shook his head. “However, bad judgment and piss-poor money management aside, it will only be a matter of time before he and Edward cross paths. Lord help us when they do.”

That last statement could not be more simply put. Richard’s family and the Davenport’s hated each other. Jonny Davenport was, and always had been, a bully. A tyrant that had taken a great liking to beating up Richard’s youngest son when they were children. Edward, being three years younger than Jonny, had been no match for the larger boy.

However, boys grow up. Edward came into his own strength the summer he turned fourteen. His natural athletic prowess, towering stature, and willingness to fight made for a formidable combination. It only took a couple scuffles for Davenport to realize he was now outmatched. Of course, insecure cowards rarely give up their tormenting ways and Jonny soon found a new target. Greyland.

Richard’s thoughts twisted sharply, the way only a fathers can at the memory that came next—hearing his baby girl scream. A shiver chased up his spine as he relived the helpless, desperate feeling of sprinting towards the sound, Perkin at his side. Not knowing what they would find on the other side of the stable.

When they rounded the barn that fateful day they found Greyland scrambling to her feet, clothing disheveled and covered in mud, as if she had been tossed to the ground. Just a few feet away lay Davenport, beaten senseless by Richard’s middle child.

Gripped in a blind rage, it had taken both Richard and Perkin’s full strength to remove Edward from atop Jonny Davenport’s prone body. The neighbor boy was nearly unrecognizable. Had they arrived only a couple swings later, Edward would have likely killed him. Using nothing but his bare fist.

To this day, the horrific image of his son thrashing the other boy within an inch of his life, still weighed heavy on Richard’s mind. While he could very well understood the emotion Edward must have felt when he discovered Davenport attempting to manhandle Greyland, he could not relate to the vacant look residing in his son’s eyes as he stood over the other man, delivering blow after bone-crushing blow. It was as if another person had taken over. A person that felt nothing.

From that day forth, everyone knew better than to provoke the middle Kingston sibling. Edward could turn from fun-loving, carefree charmer to something utterly dangerous in a matter of seconds. Especially if someone threatened his family. As he had proven again last year with Alexander’s uncle.

While Richard had not been present for Derick’s murder, he had seen the body the next day. Edward had not simply killed the other man. He had eviscerated him. The amount of strength it had taken, combined with the over-kill, proved that Edward’s demons had not yet been exorcised. They were just under the surface, waiting.

And that might be what kept Richard up the most at night. Not the knowledge that his son was inclined to bouts of blind-less violence, but that he had never discovered what it was that made Edward harbor such insurmountable rage. The affable young man smiled the warmest of anyone in a room, but it was a mask. A façade to hide the darkness that dwelled in the unseen recesses of his mind.

Richard wished their mother was still alive. Perhaps she would have known how best to guide their middle child. Though she never said it, Richard always felt Edward was bonded to his mother in a way unlike the other two children.

Greyland looked identical to his late wife, but Edward was most like her in personality. Kindred spirits. Whereas Perkin was most like him. Richard felt a familiar smile tug at the corners of his mouth as his thoughts landed on each of them. His blessings.

He lifted the brandy to his lips and looked at the regal blond man sitting across from him. It still astounded him that the once gangly boy had grown into such a remarkable man. Elizabeth would be proud. Past and present troubles aside, and there had been more than their fair share of troubles, all their children had grown into astonishing adults.

Greyland, with her natural wit and timeless beauty, had swept London by storm just a little over a year ago. It had not taken the infamous Dark Duke, Lord Ravenswood, but a day to decide she must be his. Theirs was a true love match and Richard could not be happier for them. They had adopted Annabelle and then been blessed with Tristan, the spitting image of his father. But…Greyland would always be a daddy’s girl. That thought made Richard’s heart swell with pride.

Perkin had risen very high in The Queen’s court during the past year. He was, and had always been, the most ambitious of them all. It actually frightened Richard at times with how smart his eldest child was. He only hoped that that ambition would one day be curbed enough to enjoy the more simple aspects of life. Such as love.

Richard’s mind came full circle back to Edward. His charismatic middle child had yet to find his place. He was neither, driven by love as Greyland was, nor driven by determination as Perkin was. Although, Edward would argue that he craved both of those traits, for he loved to drink and was highly determined to enjoy the affections of loose women. Richard shook his head as a chuckle rose up in his throat.

“Father.” Perkin pulled him from his musings. “I am going to France in the morning. I will be gone for a few weeks. I would like to take the White Rose for the voyage.”

Perkin glanced down at the crystal glass in his hand. “The Queen needs some information. Melbrooke chose me.”

“Did he now?”

Richard did not trust The Queen’s chief advisor. Never had. And the suspicion went both ways. Melbrooke, after discovering who their ancestors were, had made it no secret at court that he disapproved of The Queen’s acceptance of Richard and his family.

Perkin nodded. “Do not worry; I will keep my ears and eyes open. Thomas and Dalton are going with me.”

Richard stared at his oldest son. Perkin had included that last part in an effort to ease his concerns. It did not, but he played along.

“I am surprised Bella is letting Thomas leave. After all, they have a new baby.”

Perkin grinned, causing only the right side of his mouth to hitch up, the same way his brother’s did. The famous Kingston grin. Women seemed to find this a powerfully attractive trait. One that Perkin did not abuse. Edward, on the other hand, took full advantage of the coy smile and employed it unmercifully.

“I believe she threatened him with various medieval forms of dismemberment and torture if he did not return in a month’s time.” Perkin laughed. “Bella and the baby are staying with Greyland and Alex while Thomas is away.”

Richard chuckled, thinking of the petite Bella inflicting any kind of torture on her giant husband. Bella and his daughter had become best friends as soon as they had met and realized they both shared a similar disposition toward avoiding all things proper. Alexander and Thomas were already childhood friends, which was an additional plus.

Perkin had quickly found himself in their fold, but had become closest to Lord Dalton Ashlown. Which made complete sense given both men’s extreme need for order and discipline. The two had been dubbed “the chess-set dukes” by the Bon Ton, as both men were respected for their intelligence. Yet, like opposing pieces on a chessboard, they had such stark differences in their temperaments. Perkin was personable and outgoing with a lighter, brighter personality. While Lord Ashlown was more withdrawn, widely considered to be rather dangerous and mysterious. Richard had to admit the nickname fit them to a T.

Edward had likewise, formed a strong friendship with Henry, Earl of Rockafetch, Alex’s younger half-brother, who was also an attractive bachelor and always on the lookout for a grand time. The two had their own nickname whispered about by the ladies. The Devil Duo. Richard smiled again…yet another well-suited description.

Bella, Thomas, Henry and Dalton were always around, and Richard considered them all his children at this point. It bothered him greatly that Perkin, Thomas and Dalton were the ones chosen to go but he knew there were no better candidates. Mayhap he was overthinking it. He forced a smile and glanced back at Perkin.

“I suppose you know exactly where I will go first in order to find out what this mission is about if you choose not to tell me,” he said evenly, leaving no room for escape. He knew his son would not bring The Queen’s name into this conversation, at least not past what little he had already stated.

Perkin met his gaze. “There seems to be a large group of men who have invested in a new trading company that is dealing in slaves,” he stated without preamble. Always right to the point.

Richard leaned back and steepled fingers. He hated slave traders. His distaste for the business was one of the reasons he had left New Orleans, taking his children with him. He hated the idea of making one’s living off the sale of human flesh, and he detested the thought of Perkin getting involved in such a thing, even peripherally.

Those men were ruthless and they employed only the most savage of pirates to captain and man their vessels. Perkin would need to take the White Rose indeed. She was the fastest ship in their fleet, rumored to be the fastest in all of Europe. Armed with four cannons and quiet as a stalking cat, the ship was deadly.

He weighed his words carefully, knowing they would not make a difference. Perkin’s loyalty to England was as impenetrable as Richard’s was. Besides, once his eldest made up his mind there was no point arguing against it.

“Just keep your head down and remember not to ruffle Tiny’s feathers. He is the best and most temperamental cook we have.”

Richard smirked, knowing Perkin was all too familiar with the ship’s larger-than-life Italian chef. The man was a master at making do with what he had and keeping rations from running out while on overly long voyages. Tiny was also a cutthroat at heart and would be a valuable fighter if their ship should come under attack.

Richard had outfitted the whole vessel with the most loyal, and roughest ruffians he could find. He had been in the trade business for too long not to know that a ship’s worth was only as good as the men standing to protect it. Knowing that Perkin would travel on the White Rose made Richard feel marginally better.

“I will pen a letter to Captain Smithy, letting him know to prepare the rig.”

Perkin, recognizing the dismissal, began to rise. “Thank you, father. I will keep you abreast on what I uncover along the way.”

Richard stood as well and embraced his son. “I will keep an eye on your brother.”

Perkin nodded and gave Richard a wry grin. “Can never have enough eyes where Edward is concerned.” He chuckled and turned swiftly, strolling across the marble floor.

Once at the double doors, Perkin looked back over his shoulder. “Do not worry.” The commanding tone in his eldest son’s voice reminded Richard of himself. He felt his heart swell anew with pride.

Richard smiled. “Tell me that again when you are a father.”

Perkin merely sketched an amused brow before inclining his head and rounding the corner.

 

 

 

“One hour.” Edward’s words were deliberate and finalizing, authoritarian, even to his own ears.

“Pardon me?” His father, Richard Kingston, his Grace, The nineteenth Duke of York, and a man you never gave orders to, paused mid-step and looked fixedly at him.

“Nothing. Just woolgathering.”

“Earls do not woolgather, Edward.” His father admonished as he resumed his pace.

Edward took the last step up to the Duchess Vandicamp’s front door. “I will try to remember that,” he grumbled. “During what is sure to be the waste of a perfectly good day.”

“Earls do not make unintelligible rumblings in their throats either; try to keep up,” Richard said as a very enthusiastic young footman raced up the opposite side of the arched staircase and opened the door for them, the most delighted expression pasted across his face.

Richard nodded to the entirely too pretty lad, and then addressed him by name. “Good evening, Perry.”

The footman smiled, all gleaming white teeth. Edward doffed his hat as he passed and was promptly stabbed smack-dab in the ear canal with an ice pick. At least that was the effect generated from the screeching shriek that swept the cavernous and acoustically sound room like a cannonball drilling through the hull of a ship.

Edward shook his head to try and stop the ringing. His father continued on, seemingly hale, towards the source of the sound.

“Your Grace, I am so very happy you are here.” A woman cooed, thankfully in a lower pitch than that of a banshee, from the top of the stairs.

Edward, mostly recovered, looked up to find an eccentrically dressed older lady, built like a cauldron, bobbing down the stairs. She wore a ridiculously tall, lime-colored turban atop her head that teetered dangerously with each step, as if the material might be contemplating suicide. And she was talking still, a seamless flow, barely pausing to draw air. Jeweled rings adored each of her plump fingers and when they caught the light, which was happening a lot since their host seemed to be unable to speak a word without fluttering her hands, they nearly blinded everyone in the room.

Lady Vandicamp was certainly…expressive. Edward’s father continued toward her, across the checkered black and white marble floor, a genuine smile of greeting on his face. Edward followed, still not sure when his father and this larger-than-life woman had met.

“It is so good to see you again.” Richard finally got a word in. “This is Edward, my son.”

Edward bent at the waist to begin the customary greetings of polite society, which in this circumstance dictated a bow. Upon straightening, and just as he was opening his mouth to offer his own formal greeting, he was nearly yanked off his feet.

He struggled to find his footing as he was pressed firmly into the duchess Vandicamp’s ample bosom. He had no words. Literally, he could not breathe to form them. One minute his eyes had been cast to the floor, the next they were fighting for supremacy with a lime-green turban.

A combination of baby powder and musky gardenia perfume assaulted his nostrils as he was squeezed tighter still. Edward had envisioned dying in a woman’s arms many times but now, presented with the possibility of suffocation, he very much wanted to live.

“Oh, it is so nice to finally meet you, dear boy,” the duchess said as she shoved him back, with nearly as much force as she had dragged him in.

Edward had never been more thankful for decent balance. He was sure a good many gently born men had found themselves flat on their ass after such a greeting

“Likewise, Your…” he began, then paused as Lady Vandicamp started circling him, her eyes raking him over from head to toe as if she were doing a tax assessment. Edward cast his father a speculative look, unsure how to proceed. To his shock, the duke merely grinned back at him.

“It is likewise, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he regained his voice. “My father has spoken of you with the highest of praises.” Edward shot his father a ridged smile.

“Oh, lovely.” She clasped her hands, coming back around full circle to stand in front of him. “What were they?”

“Beg pardon?”

“The praises, dear boy, what were they?” The duchess persisted tersely.

His father finally decided to come to his rescue. “Only that you are the most exciting woman in all of society.” Richard smiled warmly.

Lady Vandicamp turned to the duke, sheer joy dancing in her eyes. “Oh my, your grace, how you do flatter.” She beamed.

“Only the truth.” Richard offered his arm and began leading the way down a long hall.

Edward followed, assuming his father knew where he was going and still feeling the aftershocks of ringing bells in his left ear. He might have protested obliging this favor more had he known there was going to be maiming involved. He glanced at a grandfather clock.

One hour. All he had to do now was meet this drab young debutant, hope to God she would not swoon at his feet, teach her the blasted waltz, and leave to meet Henry for drinks at White’s. One hour!

They entered an eye-popping pink and yellow parlor, of which Edward was certain no color in nature resembled. While his retinas tried to adjust to the room’s brightness—it had been a long time since Edward had occupied a space that was not dark in color and ‘theme’—Lady Vandicamp began introducing them to another woman.

“My lords, this is my sister, Lady Vistmont.” She looked at Edward. “The mother of the young lady you so graciously agreed to help with today.”

Edward made his introductions, not quite believing the two women were related. Lady Vistmont was a tall and lean, handsome woman who appeared to be around the same age as the duchess. Age was about the only thing the two women had in common. Unlike her more flamboyant sister, lady Vistmont seemed rather reserved, modestly prim.

“Thank you for helping on such short notice,” Lady Vistmont said, her head inclining in a practiced way, her words even and spaced perfectly.

“My pleasure,” Edward answered, gifting her one of his winning smiles. He was pleased to see it met its mark when she demurely smiled back. “I am sure your daughter is…”

“Perry!” Lady Vandicamp yelled, her voice bouncing around the room like a tossed ball, set on knocking over everything in its path. And just like that, before Edward could even contemplate the useless compliment he had been poised to deliver, the young footman appeared.

“Tell Lady Sinclair to come down and greet her tutor.” The duchess ordered before heaving herself into a chair. “The earl probably has at least seven sins he needs to accomplish before dusk. We shan’t keep him tarried for too long.” She finished, matter-of-factly.

Edward stood speechless. There was a first. It was not that Lady Vandicamp was judging him. She was simply remarking on his nature, as if she were stating an obvious fact. Like that; birds needed to fly. Cows have four stomachs. Known rakes had debauchery to orchestrate.

Edward was so taken aback by the duchess appraisal that he almost missed the fact that the footman’s eyes slanted downward in a simpering sort of besotted fashion and a wistful smile spread across his lips, right before he remembered his job and bolted from the room. Ah ha, so the boy had a tender for one of his mistresses. Likely the young debutant Edward was about to instruct. The day was getting more interesting by the second. At least he would have an entertaining story for Henry later on.

What if the young debutante had feelings for the young buck, as well? Now that would be a very entertaining little drama in the making. Star-crossed lovers. Edward mentally rubbed his hands together. If there was anything he liked more than drinking, gaming and woman, it was ferreting out a good story.

 

 

 

Morgan, escorted by her new puppy, also known as the footman, Perry, started around the last corner before the hallway would dump them into the parlor. The parlor that housed the duchess’s newly arrived guest, and Morgan’s first London challenge. Three more steps…she counted them out.

This was it. This was her chance to make the very best worst impression. She pulled herself up tall and sucked in a breath, ready to proceed.

That perfectly held breath came rushing out when Perry stopped so suddenly that the momentum all but slapped her in the back. He spun about to face her. “My Lady, if you don’t mind me saying…” He paused, looking doubtful of his next words.

“Yes?” Morgan said, wondering what the man had to say that was so important that he had chosen this moment to speak it.

“It is just. Well. You see…the earl has a reputation,” he muttered.

Morgan smiled up at him. “I know of his reputation, and I will keep that in mind.”

“I could stand just outside the door while he is teaching you the dance if you like?”

He was still not persuaded of her safety; she liked him even more for this somehow. “That is very thoughtful. However, I am sure my aunt will need you for something more important during that time. Besides, I will have Bertrice there as chaperone.”

“Of course. Capital idea!”

Perry smiled as he reached to open the door and Morgan was once again struck by how pleasing the young man truly was. Why, if he had been born to the upper class he would surely be running the Ton by now. On charm and appearance, alone. The Earl of Wellington could not possibly have anything on young Perry.

That rationalization gave Morgan a boost of confidence regarding her first London challenge. The earl was simply a man; no less, and no more than the footman walking beside her. The only difference was a silly title. If she could think of her dancing master as she did Perry everything would go smoothly.

“Oh, and excellent choice of dress, My Lady.” Perry nodded approvingly, interrupting her new found plot.

Morgan smiled as the door started to open. “I told you, Perry. I have heard all about this Earl of Wellington.”

 

 

 

A number of issues became apparent when Lady Sinclair entered the parlor. The first one being that she was not at all what Edward had been expecting. He was ready to teach a wide-eyed, unsure, overly conditioned, unbecomingly shy, bewildered, and no doubt mousey, debutant a few basics in dance.

He was not prepared to find that his student seemed to be none of those things. In only her five steps into the study it was clear that Lady Sinclair was not some simpering wall-flower. Quite the opposite.

She radiated a sort of quiet confidence. There was a punctuation in her stride. A challenge in the set of her shoulders. And, an unmasked intelligence lighting from behind her hazel eyes.

Best of all was the personality that went into preparing her wardrobe ensemble. Lady Sinclair was either taking a page from her aunt’s fashion sense or she had dressed herself according to the company she would be keeping this day. Based on the wrinkle creasing Lady Vistmont’s brow at present; it was the latter.

Lady Sinclair was prepared. She had accounted for Edward’s reputation with the ladies and had actively tried to camouflage and downplay anything that might draw his interest. Which proved that all of his first observations about her were correct.

A, she was smart. B, she was confident enough to known she would seem appealing to a known Cad. And C, she had no idea who she was dealing with.

If she thought wearing a gown six times too large would hide the luscious woman’s figure underneath… she had a few more things to learn about men. Despite the yards and yards of material, she would not be fooling any hot-blooded man of the Bon Ton. Certainly no man with questionable morals and half an imagination.

Edward Kingston was both; very imaginative and ethically unsound. No amount of fabric could disguise the fact that this woman possessed a body as bewitching as the head of fiery hair that peaked out from under the horrific headdress she tried to hide under.

First impressions aside, the second noteworthy thing that struck Edward was the way she had been smiling at the footman when the doors had opened. She obviously had something going on with the dimpled-faced Perry. Rather it innocent on her part or not, one thing was clear—the duchess’s footman had eyes for Lady Sinclair. Suddenly, the previous amusement Edward sought to find in the ‘star-crossed lovers’ story escaped him.

“Morgan dear, whatever are you wearing?” the duchess asked.

The third problem with Edward’s mental list of issues regarding Lady Sinclair became apparent when she spoke.

“I felt this would work best for navigating the dance steps,” she lied, her voice poised and controlled.

Absolutely too alluring with its hidden seductive layers. Entirely too mature sounding. His mind was already undressing her. Edward blinked, trying to get control of his wayward thoughts.

“Morgan dear,” Lady Vandicamp said, and then looked pointedly at Edward. “I assume you will be on a first name basis by the end of the lesson so we might as well get that formality out of the way.”

The duchess regarded her niece again, from head to toe this time. “This is Edward Kingston, Earl of Wellington. I need not add anything else by way of introduction as I can see his reputation clearly precedes him.”

“It is very nice to make your acquaintance.” Edward nodded. “Would you like to begin?”

Good, right to the point, he congratulated himself. Get in, and get out. This lesson was quickly turning on him. He had expected to be bored, not transfixed. His father would kill him if he marred this up.

Lady Sinclair smiled and he realized issue number four… She was not merely desirable in a ‘roll about the hay’ way. She was beautiful.

Lady Vandicamp called for the young lady’s maid and within seconds Edward was being shown down the hallway.

Once in the impressive ballroom he tried to focus on the task at hand and took an immediate interest in his surroundings. As with the parlor, this room continued the same bold and blinding colors the duchess was obviously fond of. But, the layout was ideal for the more intricate patterns of the waltz. All pillars hugged close to the walls, making for extra room and less possible collision. Always a plus when one did not accidently crush their partner.

His attention was brought around to the two older women and his father as they abruptly bid them farewell, leaving him alone with Lady Sinclair and her maid, who had already found a seat and started her needle work. Not the ideal chaperone for a man of his talents. Issue number five.

The large doors were drawn slowly to a close by the footman, who kept his sights leveled on Edward, an unmistakable warning to behave. Edward watched the double doors until they were almost completely shut. He chuckled to himself. Lady Sinclair would have two chaperones today after all.

He turned to face his would-be student. “How much do you know of the waltz?”

 

 

 

Morgan quickly tried to cover up her blank expression with a ready smile. He had asked a question but she had missed it. She was too lost in his unusual rolling accent and the way his mouth shaped each word before he spoke it.

“Are you familiar with the waltz?” he repeated, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

“Yes. Sorry.”

Morgan tried to focus her thoughts on the actual words coming out of his throat, not the throat itself. Her eyes drifted to his Adam’s apple, the way it moved...

Drat it! She mentally chastised herself. She had wanted him to find her unworthy of sexual attention, not stupid.

“I have only danced it by myself.” She might have to settle for stupid.

He studied her without responding. She should have just scribed the words ‘country mouse’ in rouge across her forehead. It would have gone nicely with the turban. Mortification. There no better word for how she felt now, having admitted such a thing to this much-too-handsome man. Morgan knew she should have at least gotten Eloise to show her the basics. And why did her friend not warn her of this man’s alluring vocal cords?

“Very well,” he finally responded.

“Very well,” she parroted back.

“Well then.”

“Yes, well then.”

“Let us start at the beginning.”

Morgan watched as he turned his back to her and made his way to the edge of the ballroom. And, what an exquisite back it was. The man was huge! His shoulders had to be twice the size of hers. She took a moment to study the way the cut of his jacket molded to his muscles, emphasizing his powerful build, before he turned and faced her again.

The earl motioned for her to join him. Her feet felt weighted with lead as she reluctantly trudged toward him. Morgan suddenly hoped, for reasons she was not ready to explore, that she would not embarrass herself further by being an utter failure at the waltz.

When she was within arm’s reach, he unexpectedly took hold of her hand. Morgan instinctively jerked it away. The reaction shocked her into an awkward silence. She immediately felt like an errant child. Or worse, a dog flinching from its master. That thought made her mad. Roderick! She had him to thank for this skittish impulse.

Morgan stared down at the space between them, afraid to look up and see his reaction to her unseemly response. He would think her more of a little fool than he already did. He would pity her inexperience.

Was that not what she wanted? For him to pay no mind to her. To think that she was insignificant… If he did, would that not be in accordance to her masterful plan? She should be doing mental cartwheels right now. Instead, she was ashamed. Ashamed that she had let Roderick get so well into her head.

Morgan ventured a glance up. What she saw in her dancing master’s eyes was not pity. It was disbelief. Lord Wellington was likely experiencing a royal shock of his own. A first for the notorious man. If Morgan were a betting woman she would put all her money on the notion that the earl had never in his life had a woman pull away from him.

“I need your hand to dance with you.” He broke the labored silence.

“Might you ask for it next time?” she replied sharply.

He rocked back on his heels, assessing her, but clearly amused. “I assumed, since this was a planned dance lesson that permission had already been granted.”

The Cad. Of course he presumed he had the right to touch her person freely? Every woman he had ever met likely fell under his charms and leapt right into his embrace. Well, not this woman.

Morgan painted on, what she hoped was, a wry smile. “I will still need you to ask permission before touching me.”

“I see,” he said. “For the sake of time…” He held up his hand, palm side up. “Can I have your hand?”

She lifted her hand grudgingly. He placed it in his much larger one. Morgan immediately felt a warmth spread over and through her palm at his touch. She looked curiously at their joined hands. His fingers and palm completely swallowed hers. She could feel the roughness of his skin, the strength of bones and muscle beneath it. His touch did not feel anything like Roderick’s neatly manicured and clammy hands, which he used for nothing but debauchery.

Edward Wellington obviously used his hands for work. This was a man that knew physical excursion and partook in it often. Morgan wondered at that. Were his hands calloused from holding back the leather reins of a willful steed? Did he mend fences, as her father used to, on his own land? Or maybe he competed in Scottish Caber tossing?

That last thought, the earl heaving massive logs clad in a Kilt, made her genuinely smile and she slowly lifted her gaze from his hand to his face. My word, she mentally staggered. The man was even more impressive up close. His square-cut jaw and straight aristocratic nose, and those eyes…

His eyes were a deep blue, so rich that they called to mind indigo. His skin was sun kissed—another sign he enjoyed the outdoors—and his tousled blond hair was un-styled, allowing for soft waves to fall over his brow and curl at the nape of his neck. Her fingers wanted to reach up and touch it, to see if the locks were as soft as they looked.

The earl’s lips brought her soundly out of her reverie. The edges of his sensuous mouth pulled playfully into a lopsided grin. She felt as if she was on the cusp of doing the unthinkable…swooning. Just as Eloise predicted she would.

No, Morgan had been dead wrong in her naïve planning. The Earl of Wellington was nothing like the wide-eyed, guiltless footman, Perry. This was a man not to be trifled with or underestimated. She was doomed!

 

 

 

The moment Lady Sinclair realized Edward had caught her brazenly staring she bashfully smiled and quickly averted her eyes. It was a reaction Edward had seen a hundred times when a young lady fell prey to his charms. Morgan Sinclair had succumbed to them rather easily, the same as any other debutant might.

Except…there was something about this particular young lady that made Edward want to know more. That fact, in and of itself, was a startling revelation. Mayhap it was the way she responded to the touch of his hand.

Or, maybe she was just that innocent. Edward really had no litmus test to work off of with chaste women. For as much as he enjoyed claiming ‘ruin’ for most of the Bon Ton’s young ladies, he preferred more enlightened women. Virgins had never been his pleasure. So he could not be certain if her sudden knee-jerk reaction to his touch was due to age and inexperience, or something else.

It was a quandary that could be overthought. And Edward, whenever possible, preferred avoiding that path. He decided it best to simply steady the original course; dancing. That was why he was here after all. Not to be sidetracked into philosophical deliberation over a debutants hesitancy toward him.

Edward drew her closer, holding her securely in dance frame. He was pleased to find that she fit perfectly in his arms. She shifted her weight, obviously uncomfortable with the intimate embrace. Were all debutants this skittish, he wondered. Just as he was about to instruct her on what to do next she twisted her body again, this time causing her breasts to press against him. The sensation was a definite plus.

He glanced down to see if she was as aware of her new positioning as his trousers were. A beautiful rose-colored blush was rising in her cheeks. She was! For some utterly stupid reason, he wanted to recreate that high color on her skin, again and again. He pulled her in tighter, and the flush deepened.

She looked up at him and Edward realized issue number six. Her amber eyes held definitive flecks, the color of poured gold up close. He had only seen eyes the like in wolves. They were beguiling.

She was a stunning woman. While not the standard London beauty, she was nevertheless, intoxicating. With her perfectly shaped body, auburn locks, and… those eyes.

As Edward studied her more closely he saw a few tiny freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose. Suddenly he wanted to know if those beauty marks appeared elsewhere. His pants begin to grow uncomfortably snug.

Edward released her and took a large step back. Seven, eight, nine, ten…too many problems in this scenario. A man could only take so much.

“I believe that will do for today, Lady Sinclair. I fear that I have just recalled another appointment. Please accept my sincere apology.”

He gave a small bow before turning for the door. “Tomorrow, we will move on to the patterns,” Edward spoke over his shoulder as he quickly departed. “Good day, Lady Sinclair.”

Once safely in the hallway he exhaled and caught the measuring side-eye of the lovesick Perry. Edward offered the footman a rebuking scowl before turning and heading towards the front door. He very much understood the poor fellow’s protectiveness, but he really should know his place. It was not as champion to the young Lady Sinclair.

No, Edward reminded himself with each heavy fall of his boots, that would be the right of whatever lord took her as his wife. Lady Sinclair was here to make her debut and find a husband. Perry the footman would not be that man. No matter how much the two fancied one another.

Edward was not sure why that logic now irritated him. He had come here hoping to leave with at least some entertaining story to relay to Henry later. Lady Vandicamp’s banshee like vocal cords and the possible ‘star-crossed lovers’ scandal now seemed inapplicable. It soured his mood.

Not breaking stride, Edward took his walking cane and hat from the waiting butler. “Prey tell my father that I will speak with him later tonight. Inform Lady Vandicamp that I will be by for the lesson tomorrow, as planned. And, pass along to Lady Vistmont that she has a lovely daughter.”

The servant nodded obediently. Edward took the steps at a jog. The men of London would find Morgan Sinclair a force to be reckoned with this season. Just as her mother and aunt had hoped. It would not take long for her to find a husband.

She was just that rare… Just as the thought crossed his mind, he felt ill. He needed a drink.

 

 

 

Edward entered his club where, after exchanging brief pleasantries with a few fellow members, he found Henry enjoying an excellent Scotch at a quiet table in the back of White’s. His friend smiled by way of greeting and used his foot to push out the seat next to him.

Edward poured a glass, downed it in a single swallow, and then took a seat. Refilling the glass a second time, he sank back into the lush leather chair and exhaled.

“That bad?” Henry inquired.

“I did a favor for my father.” Edward tipped back the expensive liquor. “It did not go as planned,” he said dryly.

Henry leaned forward and replenished Edward’s glass. “What favor?”

“Do you know Lady Vandicamp?”

“Of course. She was at every ball my father ever threw,” Henry replied.

Edward mumbled an expletive into his glass. “Apparently, I am the only sod in London who does not know of her.”

“I find it hard to believe that old Lady Vandicamp could sour your mood so thoroughly that you would abuse good Scotch in such a manner.” Henry grinned, amused. “Unless she offered to design you a new wardrobe?”

“Not Lady Vandicamp. Her niece.”

Henry relaxed his arm atop the manchette of his chair, his fingers dangling the Scotch glass precariously over the edge. “Tell me you did not ruin her niece?”

“Of course not.” Edward narrowed his eyes. “Despite however much I was inclined to.”

“Ah, I am beginning to see the problem.” Henry propped his legs on the table top and proceeded to get comfortable. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me how this all came about. I am aging by the second and at the pace you are sitting, you are going to be drunk in an hour.”

Edward leaned forward. “I agreed to help teach her the waltz.” He rolled his eyes before lifting his glass to his lips. “I expected to teach some idle-brained, barely out of leading strings, debutante. Not some curvy, redheaded beauty.”

“Redhead?” Henry clucked his tongue. “I love women with hair that color. Quite feisty. And this one is not a dull, half-wit either?”

“Hardly dull.” Edward did not like the way Henry’s eyes lit up. For some strange reason he felt the need to punch his best friend in the nose.

“And, she is comely?” Henry asked, either ignoring or missing Edward’s growing tension.

“Indeed.”

“As such, you were taken aback by your desire for her?”

Edward huffed. “Yes.”

“Because debutantes are never enticing, or smart, or exciting?” Henry motioned for a serving boy to bring another bottle.

“They are never any of those things.” Edward sighed.

Henry leaned forward in his chair and studied his friend for a long moment. “I recall another surprising debutante. One with a quick wit, amazing charm, and outstanding beauty. Whom I first met while she was falling under attack from a group of large Irish clansmen hell-bent on kidnapping her. The young woman ran a knife through a man’s neck,” he said with an ironic lift of his brow. “You have met your sister, correct?”

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He hated when Henry made sense. “That is not at all the same thing. Greyland is different. Besides, she is my sister. I am used to her unusual behavior.”

“I see.” Henry chuckled. “We are concluding that no other woman in the world could possibly possess any of those traits?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“What about Bella?”

Edward threw his hands in the air. “Oh bloody hell, Henry. I concede!” He exhaled loudly. “I suppose I never considered I would come across a woman like that—one I would be attracted to. It is disturbing.”

“Well, do not run off and marry her.” Henry wagged a finger. “I still need my running mate.”

Edward lifted his glass in toast. “Agreed. Now, where are we off to next? I have four hours until I need to meet my father and discuss taking over his end of the trade endeavors with India and France.”

Henry’s blue eyes danced. “Well, let us not waste any time. There is a new play and I have a backstage invitation.” He smiled mischievously, clapping Edward on the back as they rose. “We will get this little debutante off your mind in the most satisfying way possible.”

“That is exactly what I am in need of.”

“So, when can I meet this lovely young redhead of yours?” Henry tossed him a puckish glance as they exited White’s.

“Never!”

 

 

 

Morgan stood, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Since her dresses from Madam LeMore would not start arriving for another week she was wearing the one she had arrived in two days prior. Apparently, pilfering her aunt’s wardrobe was no longer an option per her mother’s scolding after her dance lesson the previous day.

Her aunt, on the other hand, had seemed more amused than anything. But she did remind Morgan how important first impressions were, and then rattled her ear off for over an hour about using one’s natural assets to land a proper gentleman. Morgan had refrained from bringing up the fact that the Earl of Wellington was far from a proper gentleman.

Morgan groaned. Besides, it did not matter what she wore. The earl had been so unimpressed with her that he had left mere minutes after beginning their dance lesson. Was she that repulsive? Or was he that put off by her lack of knowledge?

Why did she care? She had purposely tried to appear undesirable, and her efforts had been a smashing success. If only he had been a little less attractive. The dratted man had unnerved her to the point of restless sleep. More than once during the night she had woken from a dream about him…how it would feel to touch that amazing, devil-take-all smile.

She gave her expression in the mirror an experimental ‘I am not attracted to the Earl of Wellington’ smile. Too wide. She looked like a lunatic. Morgan tried one last time using less teeth. Too stiff. Now she looked like a post-mortem portrait.

She sighed and turned from her reflection. No time to worry on it now. He would obviously rather be anywhere other than downstairs in her aunt’s ballroom, being forced to teach a mere girl the steps of a new dance.

Morgan gathered up her bruised pride and set her mind on simply being a better student. Dashing lord’s aside, she did need to learn the dance and ten-minute lessons would not get that accomplished. She pulled on her day gloves and headed for the ballroom. Today she would impress the earl enough to at least find her worthy of instruction.

Perry was waiting by the closed double doors that led into the ballroom when she rounded the base of the stairs. “The earl is here to see you, Lady Sinclair,” he said gravely.

“Thank you, Perry.” Morgan smiled warmly. At least one person in this house, other than herself, found the earl’s presence disconcerting.

Perry opened the doors for her and she stepped inside the well-lit room. Lord Wellington turned slowly from his rooted position by the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back. In the diaphanous morning light his body cast a long shadow across the polished marble floor, the sun holding his silhouette in its embrace, giving him an almost angelic grace.

Granted, Morgan mused, the Devil was once an angel. She forced, what she hoped was a biddable smile, and made her way across the ballroom. Since he was making no attempt to come to her. Before she could muster a polite greeting, he got right to the point.

“Good day Lady Sinclair, we are going to start with the basics.” The earl extended his hand. “May we assume that when I offer my hand to you, it is a silent request for yours?”

She expected that one to come back to haunt her. Morgan bit down on her tongue and did as requested, placing her hand in his. Once again she was struck by the warmth and strength of his grip, but this time she did not gape at him as if he had morphed into a unicorn. She mentally patted herself on the back for that.

“Your feet are going to draw a box on the floor, starting with your right foot. With each new step, use the foot you did not use last. Right foot to start on the count of one. Then left for the number two. Right foot again for our third count. You may never use the same foot twice. Always alternate them with each new number. Understand?”

“Yes.” She silently repeated it in her head. “Different foot, different number, I have it.”

He began to move her through the pattern, and then stopped when she stepped on his foot at the count of three. “I am sorry.” Morgan felt herself blush. “I thought I started with my right foot?”

“Just to start,” he said evenly. “Count it again, and remember what I said about a new foot for each number.”

He did not give her time to remember before moving her into the pattern again. “One, two, three.” He stopped. “What foot are you on?”

“My right foot just landed,” Morgan replied, pleased that the answer came quickly.

“Now, that foot has been used. What foot moves next?” His voice was deliberate and slow, as if he were speaking to a toddler.

She ignored the desire to form a quick retort that would let him know just how she felt about that patronizing tone. She did need him after all. “My left foot is free to step,” she answered.

“Good.” He continued moving her through the pattern. “Keep counting in your mind now and close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes?” Her voice came out like a squeak.

“Yes,” he replied levelly. “I want you to feel the lead. Our visual sense hinders our tactile sense. If you were blind you would need me to guide you. My touch would be all you would have. I need my touch to be all that you need now,” he intoned low, his voice heavy with conflicting undercurrents.

So many undercurrents, you could drown in them. Morgan swallowed hard before doing as he asked. She closed her eyes. His words were the most delicately intimate three sentences she had ever heard strung together, and… the way his voice hovered over them…

It was no wonder the man left a path of swooning women in his wake. Of course Morgan knew he was referring strictly to the role of leading and following, but the warmth that pooled in her stomach as she stood there, eyes closed, in his arms, his words whispering commands, was all the proof her body needed to know that there was a lot more than schematics to it.

She was all too aware now that this dancing business was a vertical expression of a horizontal desire. The fact that all of society partook in such an activity—out in the open no less—under the guise that it was customary and polite was just…hedonistic.

Before she would think more on it, he was moving them. Suddenly Morgan felt disconnected from everything around her, save him. Her visual sense gone, all she had was touch, sound, and smell. She felt the strength of his arms around her and the power of his legs as they moved between hers. She heard the soft rustle of her cotton skirts as they skimmed the polished floor and brushed against the thicker material of his trousers.

And then the last sense kicked in. His scent…a warm masculine smell, almost smoky, akin to the hickory bouquet that clings to ones clothing after standing next to a wood burning fire, and something sweet like brandy, wrapped around her olfactory receptors.

She should have been terrified, being forced to trust him as she was. Instead, the heady awakening of her more dormant senses embolden her. Morgan felt deeply connected to all that was hidden, as if shadows had just made themselves bright. Every little nuance she took for granted was now shouting from the rooftops.

It was…amazing! Succumbing in to the unfamiliar sensations, she relinquished control, giving her body entirely over to him. He seemed to acknowledge her compliance and before she knew it she was whirling and spinning, dipping and swaying gracefully to the intoxicating rhythm of the dance they were creating.

Art. She dreamily thought. They were making art together.

“Lady Sinclair?” he whispered.

Morgan opened her eyes and realized they had stopped. She knew she was smiling, but when she looked up into his eyes she saw very clearly that he was not.

Morgan suddenly felt like she had just been smacked in face with a wet fish. What had she done wrong? He continued to hold her in dance frame without speaking, a radiating heat coming from his body and eyes as hard as coal. She struggled to find words, any words. Something to take the intensity of his stare off her.

“Did I miss step?” she asked quietly.

“No.” He released her, and though she was soundly on her feet, she felt as if he had dropped her. “You are a natural.”

Morgan was decidedly unsure how to take that so she opted to reply with the only thing she knew for certain. “You looked as if you might have been upset?”

“I would tell you if I were displeased. You did exactly as I asked.”

He turned and started walking to a side table where a pitcher of lemonade had been left for them. Morgan felt his departure as if a chasm had opened between them. A chasm that grew larger with every step he retreated away from her.

“Here, let me ring Perry for—“

He silenced her with a wave of his hand and a light laugh that bounced off the walls, echoing and taunting her, hinting at a more playful personality. A side of him that she was not permitted to know. Morgan suddenly, and irrationally, became jealous of all the women who had ever been gifted the sound of that uninhibited laughter.

The earl glanced over his shoulder when he reached the sideboard and smiled, really smiled, before turning back to fill the glasses. Morgan was once again struck by how handsome the man truly was. She felt an overwhelming desire to know him better. She wanted to hear what a side gripping, immobilizing laugh would sound like pouring from his lungs. And, what did the woman look like that could coax it out of him?

That last thought nearly toppled her where she stood. Morgan had assumed she was the one that needed to avoid gaining his attention. But now here she was, unscrutinized, and desperately wishing to be more thoroughly considered. By God, she wanted this man to find her pleasing. She wanted to be a lady worthy of hearing that laugh!

 

 

 

Edward steadied his hands that had begun to shake when he released Lady Sinclair. He managed not to spill the blasted lemonade while he contemplated why the young woman was having such a strange effect on him. Lots of women had an effect on him.

Just like the pretty opera dancer he had had six ways from Sunday the previous night and then shown out the back door before the sun had risen. She had been a great release from the desire his student had stirred to life in him the day before. So, why was his appetite not sated?

Edward was a virile man, but even he could go a day without. Three, if he had to. For whatever unbeknownst reasons Morgan Sinclair was causing a different effect entirely. Well, not entirely… He wanted her in his bed all right. But he wanted something besides that, and that something was foreign to him.

Possession. He felt an overwhelming need have her in a way no one else could. But, that was absurd. He had never cared for the idea of taking a girls virtue for sheer bragging rights. That he had been the man to get there first. That sort of conquest was beneath him.

No, the need to claim her was more in line with how he had felt when he first laid eyes on his favorite horse. His mind circled back to that day at auction. No one was going to outbid him once he saw Elkinema trotting proudly in his pin.

He stopped himself mid thought. Was he comparing a debutant to an Arabian stallion? Damn, he needed a drink. Edward shook his head. Still, the simple fact remained that he felt uncomfortably drawn to the buxom redhead.

Quite uncomfortable. He shifted his weight to relieve the pressure building in his trousers and poured a second glass of lemonade, mentally exorcising away the effect Morgan Sinclair was having on him. Besides, she must think him a complete oaf.

He had done little more than blatantly stare at her when their dance had ended, completely flummoxed by the pleased little smile painted on her lips. She had trusted him when he asked her to, surrendering her mind and body to his skillful administration of the dance. In doing so, her release of control had allowed him to navigate them effortlessly around the room. It had felt magnificent!

Astounding. Intense. Staggering. There were not enough synonyms in the English language to adequately describe how her faith in him had made him feel in the moment. He would have never thought before today that a woman’s wholehearted assurance in him and his ability to keep her safe, much less not crashing into a wall and breaking a leg, would prove so rewarding.

She had followed him as if she had been trained in the art of dance for years, like his sister. But dancing with Lady Sinclair felt vastly different from dancing with his sister. He had moved her with ease through some of his most accomplished patterns, and she had followed his lead like a professional.

Except, she was not an experienced dancer. She was a novice. Her only ability to navigate the dance so well was due to the confidence she had placed in him.

It was simply awe-inspiring. Edward was not sure he had ever experienced a dance like the one he just shared with Lady Sinclair. She felt like an extension of him.

That singular thought drew him up short. He definitely needed a stiff drink. Edward turned back to the lady in question and found her practicing a turn he had just danced her through.

“It is not nearly as easy without you,” she said. “Were there six steps in this, or just three?”

“Three,” he numbly answered, still trying to shake off the spell she had placed him under. “I will write them down and you can practice tonight. We can resume our lessons tomorrow.”

She jerked her head up and gave an imperceptible smile. “Oh. Lovely. You will be back again tomorrow?”

“If you will have me? I would like to make sure you have it down a little better,” he stated, just as the door opened and the much-too-attentive footman, Perry, entered.

Perry smiled a toothy smile at the lady and announced she had a visitor. She thanked him and then turned and thanked Edward earnestly for his help.

Edward located a pin and paper, jotted down their patterns for her study and then took his leave from the ballroom. As he followed Perry past the front parlor he could not resist a quick glance inside. To his annoyance, he could not see anything but a pair of well-polished black Hessian boots stretching out comfortably from a counseled chair.

He frowned. And, so it starts. He quietly cursed whoever was calling on his pretty young student.

 

Richard took the long hall that would lead to Lady Vandicamp’s ballroom. He had been admitted to the house unannounced, the duchess apparently having told her staff that he was welcome should he arrive. Now he wondered over that peculiarity. Did the duchess make the same exceptions for all her quest? Why, what if he had arrived at two in the morning? Not that he would, but still. Could gentleman callers be found wandering the house at any hour of the day? Most peculiar it was.

He passed a pedestal with a life-size bust of Julius Creaser and dismissed all contemplation over the oddity that was Lady Vandicamp. He lengthened his strides. All the duchesses’ eccentrics aside, he really needed to catch Edward before he departed and speak with him about the trade merger. If Richard could intercept him at the end of his lesson with Lady Vandicamp’s niece it would save him tremendous time. Because who knew where he would find his son once the sun set.

On second thought, there were only so many gentleman’s establishments in London. It might be easier to locate Edward after dusk. Richard reached the foyer that opened up to the ballroom and stopped mid-stride. No voices could be heard coming from the ballroom. Instead they were coming from the library, adjacent to the ballroom.

“Do you think this will work?” Richard recognized Lady Vistmont’s voice, despite the hushed words.

“Of course it will work. The girl is quite the beauty.” The duchess replied confidently.

Richard took a step back, uncomfortable with the possibility of eavesdropping.

“I am just worried we may be putting too much on her. Surely she will figure out that eligible peers of the realm do not simply traipse around, offering up their precious time to help instruct young debutantes?” Lady Vistmont said worriedly.

Those words stopped his retreat. Despite his good upbringing, which told him dukes did not hover about listening to women gossip, he stayed rooted in place. If this conversation involved his son… proper upbringing be damned.

“Lord De Montrey would be a perfect match. He must have taken a liking to her after their meeting in the park yesterday. For he sent a letter requesting to call on her today. Of course,” Lady Vandimont continued, clearly pleased. “I could not accept his offer. Not without a favor to our Morgan worked into the deal. I happen to have it on good authority that he plays the pianoforte quite well. Therefore, lending his expertise to help refine my dear niece’s skill at the instrument while he is here, is really no trouble at all. He is probably already in the parlor waiting for her lesson with the earl to conclude.”

Ah, so it was this De Montrey fellow Richard had passed in the tearoom. They were not discussing Edward. He could back away now and still maintain his upstanding ethical code of not being a spy. Yet…he did not budge. Some unexplainable instinct kept him right where he stood.

“I am not sure she is ready to start entertaining any suitors yet. I thought our plan was only to introduce her to the most eligible men of the Bon Ton so that the rumors of her upcoming debut could be spread amongst them. Which in turn, would allow her to make an even grander entrance into society when the time does arrive.” The softer, more demure Lady Vistmont queried.

This did involve Edward. Richard stifled a laugh. The ladies would be sorely disappointed if they thought to pin him down.

“Of course she is ready. The ultimate goal is to get her married quickly, is it not?” A pause of silence ensued before her grace said, her voice pitched low. “I will not let that bastard husband of yours turn his fist on her, Helen!”

The words were curt and unexpected. Richard could no more remove himself from his place in the hallway now than he could remove his own head. Was the Earl of Vistmont beating his lovely wife?

Lady Vistmont spoke next, confirming his suspicion. “You are right, she has to get away from him.” She replied plaintively. “Oh, Helen, I truly misjudged him.”

Richard felt his hands curl into tight balls at his sides.

“Now, do not blame yourself. Not even I knew the man had such a temper.” Lady Vandicamp assured her sister. “If we can get Morgan married off to a nice man like De Montrey, she will be well taken care of.”

A small sob, Lady Vistmont’s, followed the duchess’s vow. “Then we can start our plan to get you away from that dreaded man.” She added.

“Do you really think we can untangle the past?” Lady Vistmont asked, hopefully.

“I will die trying.”

Richard had heard enough. He would locate Edward later. He turned on his heels and strode from the manor house.

 

 

 

Morgan sat with Eloise in the study, listening to her aunt go on and on about a particular tea she was procuring from Kenya. She wondered if one day she might have the luxury of being concerned over which beverage to serve for a ladies garden party.

Right now all she wished for was the ability to decide between which one of her two threadbare dresses she would wear today. It was an easy choice—the one she had not worn yesterday. Morgan sighed. At least she had two dresses to choose from. There were plenty worse scenarios for a woman to have in life.

She looked across the room to her mother poised delicately in her chair, back as straight as an alder sapling. Morgan felt the familiar pinch of the muscles between her brows, the ones that created the crease her mother would scold her for making if she looked over at her now, which was ironic considering Morgan only made the face every time she thought of her mother’s poor lot in life. The wife to a man that beat her, demeaned her, and barely found the time to provide for her.

Yes, there were far worse situations in life. Much worse than worrying over ones choice of dress. Morgan glanced down at her day dress, ashamed that she had fallen prey to such over indulgent and trivial longings. She quickly altered her train of thought. At least she liked this dress. There, that was positive.

It was a pleasant shade of periwinkle blue that allowed her curves to be hinted at, without displaying them in a tawdry way. And it was all she had, so she simply had no other choice than to like it. One day she would tear it into shreds and shove it down her stepfather’s throat.

Well, so much for positivity. As least revenge was a more palatable emotion. Her mother picked up the conversation, asking Eloise about a distant relation, which allowed Morgan more time to remain in her own head. But…she would think no more on her wicked stepfather, or her own fears of ending up exactly like her mother.

Instead her thoughts drifted back over her two lessons the previous day. Both of which had gone surprisingly well. Her lesson with the earl had been much better than expected, even if she still feared that teaching her bored him to tears.

The baron on the other hand, her new music instructor, seemed to truly enjoy working with her. So much so that after their lesson he had asked her to go riding with him later today. Her mother started to stand, halting any further woolgathering there was to be had.

“Talk amongst yourself girls,” the duchess stated as she rose and headed for the door, Morgan’s mother in tow. “My sister and I have plans to make. Boring stuff. Carry on.”

Morgan glanced over at her friend when the sound of the older women’s footfall could no longer be heard down the hall. They both broke into smiles.

“I thought they would never leave.” Eloise giggled. “Now, tell me everything about Lord De Montrey.”

“Oh Eloise, I am beside myself with nerves for our ride later. I fear I might slip up and say the wrong thing.”

Or confess to wanting to commit murder. Morgan chewed her bottom lip as all the possible problems popped into her mind. Her eyes darted to her friends, a new worry setting in.

“What if I fall off my horse?”

Eloise laughed. “I think you may be over-thinking this one. He obviously has an interest in you, why else would he have asked you.” Her expression turned nurturing and she patted Morgan’s leg. “I have heard that men are really not that complicated. If they like you, they like you.”

Morgan smiled. “When did you get so wise?”

“Last night.”

“Last night?” Morgan’s smile widened.

“I will tell you all about it later. Let us leave it at that I had a very reflective conversation with myself. And…I might have spied on my sister taking high tea with Lord Archdale when I should not have.” Eloise grinned mischievously. “More about that later. Tell me about the baron.”

Morgan arched a curious brow but did as requested. “He is very patient with me and quite nice.”

Her friend gave a dreamy sigh and sank back into the cushions. “I am green with envy; however did your aunt acquire two of the most desirable men in London to serve as dancing and music masters for you?”

“I believe my aunt and dear mother are working together on this. I am not entirely sure why.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “I can understand why they might secretly push De Montrey. For he is wealthy, attractive, kind, a respectable gentleman and not too terribly high above my station.”

Morgan paused, contemplatively. “Then there is Lord Wellington who is distractingly attractive, a known rake, wealthy, abrasively elusive, and entirely too high above my station.”

Eloise was obviously pondering the two vastly different men. “Surely, your aunt and mother’s goal was not to entice the earl. Even though many a title-hungry mama would eagerly set her cap for him.” She shook her head, dismissing the idea and causing her blonde curls to bounce. “I do not believe they would wish that arrangement on you. Do you?”

“At this point I cannot venture even a guess as to what they would, or would not, arrange. They are both slipping around like little spiders, whispering in corners.” Morgan rolled her eyes. “De Montrey is the more reasonable match.”

“My Lady, Lord De Montrey is here to see you,” Perry’s voice rang out from the door.

With an excited squeeze of Morgan’s hand, Eloise stood. “Have a wonderful time, and please, come by later with the details.”

She turned and made for the door, before stopping and turning back to Morgan. “My mother always tells my sister; there are plenty of fish in the sea. Do not find yourself falling in love with the first one to nip at your hook.” She nodded fiercely.

Morgan smiled and nodded back. “Sage advice.”

Plenty of fish, she mused…but also sharks.

 

 

 

Lord De Montrey gave another marvelously beneficial pianoforte lesson before escorting Morgan to his shiny new curricle, pulled by two beautiful midnight-black steeds. She took his offered hand and climbed into the open carriage, a tiny thrill tingling her skin. Her first real adventure! She was stupidly giddy. The baron stepped lithely up after her and took the reins from the groom.

He smiled over at her, a gleam in his eyes. “Are you ready?”

Morgan thought that was an interesting question but nodded all the same. The eager team trotted around a corner. They entered a quiet stretch of the park, Perry and Bertrice following closely behind in the duchess’ carriage.

As soon as they were a few yards down the tree-covered lane Morgan realized the import of his earlier question. He snapped the reins and gave the two horses their head. Morgan barely had time to catch her hat as the wind whipped it from her head. She gasped and looked to Lord De Montrey, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Take hold of me if you are frightened,” he shouted over the pounding of hooves.

Morgan did just that, anchoring herself to his side. She could hear Perry shouting at their carriage driver to hurry up. Without even venturing a glance backwards she knew his words were being eaten up by dust clouds. They would never catch this rig.

After a few heart stopping minutes of jarring bumps and biting wind Morgan could feel the carriage began to slow. She opened her eyes, not exactly sure when she had shut them. They were nearing a bend in the lane which must have accounted for the sudden deceleration. Thank God! She released the death-grip she had assumed on Lord De Montrey’s jacket.

“Now, that was exhilarating, was it not?” He gave her a sideways look and grinned. “Thought we might put some distance between us and your chaperones.”

Morgan was utterly dumbfounded. Had she read the baron completely wrong? He was so mild mannered and tame back at the house, almost dull. She would have never guessed he was a man inclined towards the exhilarating aspects of life.

Just as she was forming a response he interrupted her thoughts. “A little bird told me on the way in that you were a lady who liked excitement.” He arched his brows, surveying her with considerable interest.

Little bird? Morgan laughed as realization dawned. “Ah, was this little bird blond and about this tall?” She raised her hand to just under her chin.

“I will never tell.” He chuckled, training his sights back on the road.

They settled into a natural quiet as the sounds of the park picked up its own narrative around them: a nightingale with a vigorous little song, two squirrels arguing in a nearby tree, the sound of distant laughter from others out enjoying the pretty fall day. This could be the new normal if Morgan married a man like the baron.

She ventured a glance at his profile. He was a distinguished, attractive man, with his sandy hair and warm brown eyes. She liked him immensely.

And best of all, he did not make the ground feel as if it might fall out from beneath her feet. She was not transfixed by his smile. Was not captivated by his voice. He did not make her yearn to hear what his laugh might sound like when he was taken by joyful surprise, completely as ease. The baron was just the sort of gentleman she needed. Agreeable. Safe. Kind.

“We had better let them catch up.” Morgan motioned behind them with a toss of her head. “I believe you may just have made two enemies.” She grinned.

“Worth it to see you smile.” He studied her closely before looking back to road. “Ah, look who is approaching.”

Morgan turned her head to see the Earl of Wellington riding toward them at breakneck speed. Followed, right on his heels, by a petite woman riding sidesaddle, her long midnight colored curls dancing wildly in the wind as she urged her mount to keep pace with the earls bay stallion.

As the advancing couple drew near an unreasonable, and totally unexpected, jealously washed over Morgan. The two riders slowed their mounts. The raven-haired woman had a high blush from the race and a ready smile that was downright luminous. She pulled up close beside the earl and nodded her head to them. She was beautiful, confident…happy.

Morgan fought down the green-eyed beast trying to claw its way into her heart. Of course the earl would be in the company of a woman like this. He was all the same descriptivies as the pretty brunette at his side.

Except happy. As a matter of fact, he looked outright murderous at present. Perhaps he and the lady had been quarreling.

“Good day, Lord De Montrey,” the woman said, winded from the run, her eyes dancing.

The energy radiating from the petite rider was infectious. It filled up the whole park. Even the sun seemed to dim in her presence. Morgan sat transfixed, as if she were watching an actor on stage, about to deliver her next line. If the two had been bickering there was no sign of it here.

“Good day, your grace.” De Montrey nodded, the perfect amount of incline and pause to indicate her station.

The baron then lifted his gaze to the earl. “And, good day to you, Lord Wellington.” Another nod, less dramatic. “Have you had the honor of meeting Lady Sinclair?”

“I have,” the earl answered smoothly, emotionless. A stark contrast to the woman just to his right sitting atop her spirited mare.

The lady, her grace, looked directly at Morgan and smiled warmly. “So very nice to meet you, Lady Sinclair. I am Lady Hamilton, Duchess of Ravenswood. I have heard you are a natural at the art of dance.”

Morgan felt Lord De Montrey’s gaze land on her expectantly. She opened her mouth to answer just as her aunt’s clambering carriage came to an abrupt halt beside the baron’s. A flushed Perry leapt out.

“Lady Sinclair!” The footman rushed to her side, tossing an annoyed look at the baron. “Are you all right?”

Morgan felt everyone focus their attention on her. “Yes, quite fine. The horses just needed to stretch their legs.”

The earl shifted his steely gaze to De Montrey.

“We merely broke a canter,” the baron answered the unspoken question with an unperturbed shrug.

Morgan watched the earl’s stare frost over. “You raced this rig with the young lady on board?”

The question held various degrees of warning but De Montrey seemed to miss them entirely…or chose to ignore them. “Only for a short distance.”

Morgan spoke up. “It was all in fun, and now it is over. No harm is done. I am perfectly hale as you can see.”

Morgan turned a more sincere smile to the duchess. “Thank you! I have much still to learn.”

The other woman smiled politely back at her. “You will have to forgive my brother’s ill mood,” she lowered her voice, as if imparting a great secret. “I was close to beating him, you see. Even being forced to play the dutiful Bon Ton lady and ride sidesaddle. In a skirt, no less.” She made a face.

Morgan exhaled a breath she was not aware she had been holding.

Of course! The title. The famed beauty. The same lilting accent with its smooth edges that the earl, her brother, possessed.

This was the woman of whom Eloise had spoken. Morgan took in the sight of both brother and sister atop their mounts, side by side. She now understood what all the gossip was about. They were a force to be reckoned with. And they did evoke the feeling that you were in the presence of royalty.

The earl broke her observation when he abruptly turned his horse. “Try and keep to a trot with my student,” he said to Lord De Montrey, over his shoulder. “I need her with legs for our lesson later.”

He spurred his stallion on, kicking up a cloud of dust. Lady Hamilton smiled, almost apologetically, and turned her own mount into the wind.

“Nice meeting you,” the duchess said before giving chase after her brother.

 

 

 

“For the love of everything good and holy, slow down!” Greyland yelled.

Bloody hell! Edward finally took note of his surroundings. He had been so lost in thought over how chummy the baron looked seated next to Lady Sinclair, like a content house cat, that he had passed their picnic spot by a quarter mile. He ground his teeth.

Why the hell did he care? Moreover, if he were to continue asking himself impossible questions: why did it bother him that the idiot had been racing that damn curricle? With her in it!

This was ridiculous. She was not his ward. It was not his responsibility to keep her safe. No, Edward reminded himself, Morgan Sinclair was in town to make a nice match. So why did it make his blood boil to see her laughing with a perfectly worthy man? Edward turned his horse, only to come face to face with another hard to ignore female.

“Lost in thought?” His sister drew her delicate brows together in question.

“Yes, sorry. I have much on my mind. What with the looming trade deal, I forgot where I was.” He started past her.

“Liar!” She whirled her mare around to walk beside him.

“Whatever are you about, Greyland?” he said, keeping his sights fixed right between Elkinema’s ears.

He was not getting caught in that trap. His sister had an uncanny ability to sniff out a truth, or a falsehood, just by looking him in the eyes. The woman really should work for The Queen’s guard.

“Edward.” He could practically feel her eyes roll. “Do not be obtuse. It is obvious you have feelings for that young lady back there?” Right to the heart of it, like a good assassin.

“She is my student; I have come to care about some of the decisions she might make. That is all.”

“Then why would you not be pleased at the attention she is receiving from the baron? He is a very nice man.”

“A very nice man who could have gotten her killed with his poor judgment,” Edward said, a bit harsher than intended.

Greyland grew silent beside him, but he knew her lack of a response was not due to his tone. That wheelhouse in her mind was turning. He rode to a stop at their picnic spot and dismounted, waiting for the inevitable deluge of questions to hit. It took all of seventeen seconds in its coming.

Greyland slid gracefully from her horse without his assistance, something she had stopped needing at age five. “You do not find her attractive?”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“So you are attracted to her?”

“God’s teeth, Grey! What man would not be? You did see De Montrey practically drooling on her, did you not?” He finished tying off Elkinema to a nearby tree.

His sister was doing the same with her mare, completely unaffected by his outburst, or his confession. “Then why not pursue her for yourself?”

The question, in all its simplicity, seemed to carry the weight of an elephant. Edward unfastened the saddle bag, feigning interest in the mundane task.

“She is looking for a husband. Not a lover,” he said after a perceptible pause.

Edward handed the bag to Greyland, untied the blanket at the back of his saddle and began spreading it out on the thick grass. Greyland took a seat when he stepped back from his task and started pulling various cuts of meat, cheese, and fruit from the bag. He sat down beside her.

“Oh good, strawberries.” He lamely tried to change the conversational direction, knowing his effort was in vain.

Greyland stared at him with a look that could only be construed as pity. “Don’t you dare!” He warned.

“I will not receive such retched scrutiny from you today, little sister.” Edward popped a berry into his mouth, hoping to buy himself more time.

Greyland let out an exasperated sigh. “Why must all men constantly deny what is right before their eyes? It would make matters much easier if your kind would just accept their fate.”

Edward snorted. “My kind? Does Alexander know how you have come to view men?”

“Once you meet that one person.” She ignored him. “There will never be room for another. It is not surrendering to allow life to pull you in a different direction than the one you thought planned. It is a grand new adventure. A new chapter to your life.”

She smiled warmly. “What if Alex had never confessed his love to me? Can you imagine him, Annabelle, or little Tristan not in our lives?”

“Of course not. That is not a fair comparison.”

“Is it not?” Greyland challenged.

“No!”

“Besides,” his sister continued, completely undeterred. “Lord De Montrey is not as bewitched with the young beauty as you think.” She flipped the narrative on its head.

“Whatever do you mean? What man would not—.‘’

His words trailed off as something behind a nearby tree caught the suns reflection, making a bright flash of light under a canopy that should have none. Nature’s brief warning was all the time he needed. He threw his weight into Greyland, pinning her underneath him right as the pistol’s explosion barreled past them.

“What was that?” She gasped, panic flooding her voice.

He slowly lifted his head to scan the landscape. “Do not move.”

“Edward, you are bleeding!”

Was he?

He continued to search the tree line, adrenaline hammering in his ears. They, whoever they were, were gone. Edward slowly lifted himself off Greyland.

He felt his sister pulling on his jacket. “Take it off. You have been shot!”

He looked down at the red stain seeping through his sleeve.

Indeed, he had been.

 

 

 

Edward sat in his bedchamber with his father, Henry and Alex, all pondering who had tried to kill him. Or worse, Greyland. His father and Alexander paced, crisscrossing each other’s paths. Henry sat across from Edward and waited for someone to speak.

Edward moved to adjust a pillow behind his back and immediately regretted the action when a white-hot fire lit in his left arm. The bullet had merely grazed him but the family physician had been called in to stitch it up. The wound stung like hell when the skin stretched it. Edward had experienced worse, but this might be the first time he earned an injury that he had not provoked.

That might be the most annoying part of it all. He had no clue who might have done it. Well, a few names floated to the surface… His childhood nemesis had just gotten to town, for one. And then there was always the possibility Colin McGreggor had returned to avenge his father and their botched plans to kidnap Greyland last year.

“Could you have made enemies with some nobleman whose wife you might have slept with?” Henry quipped, clearly trying to bring an element of levity to the somber atmosphere.

“I make it a habit to leave married women alone.” Edward narrowed his eyes at his best friend.

“Can you two please try to think? My wife could have been killed today. What if Tristan and Annabelle had been with her?” Alexander ground out angrily, rightfully aggravated.

Everyone grew still. Dear God, what if the children had been there? Edward’s hands involuntarily drew into tight fists. An anger he had only felt twice before seized his chest. Whoever had shot at them was going to die! He would find the coward and kill him with his bare hands if need be!

His father, ever the voice of reason, put a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “I think it is best if you take Greyland and the children back to Greenshire until we clear this up.”

“Absolutely!” Both Henry and Edward spoke in unison.

Alexander rubbed his forehead as he looked down, shaking his head. “I guess we really do not have any other options. Until we know who the intended target was, and who is behind this, she is not safe here.” He looked at Edward. “And neither are you. You should retire to the country for a time.”

“That is not an option.” Edward looked pointedly at Alex, and then his father. “Whoever tried to do this is a dead man. I will not rest until I find the yellow-bellied fool!”

“We will flush him out. I can think of more than a few suspects,” Richard said, a hint of malice in his tone. “I have an associate looking into it as we speak. In the meantime, I have posted two Bow Street runners at the front and back of the house.”

Edward nodded. “Will you send word to all my day’s appointments that I have need to reschedule?”

“All is taken care of,” Henry said. “Even your lovely dancing student has been informed.” He grinned slyly.

Edward met his friend’s laughing eyes. “Thank you,” he begrudgingly replied.

Alexander came to the bedside and placed a hand on Edward’s good shoulder. “Take care, and keep your head down.”

His brother-in-law looked more than a little pained. Edward knew it was hard for him to take his leave when he knew danger was still afoot, even though everyone in the room knew that Greyland and the children must come first.

“The greatest assistance you can bring me is to keep Greyland and the little ones safe,” Edward assured.

The two men had been through a lot together and Edward knew that deep down, even if he would never admit it publicly, Alexander felt a deep sense of duty to him for saving Greyland’s life. Twice now. Two times too many.

Alex half smiled. “I will.”

He turned to Henry. “You too, little brother. I know you will not leave his side but please, be alive when we return.” The grin grew.

“I shan’t disappoint,” Henry replied.

“Tell Greyland I love her and that I do not want her to worry,” Edward added as Alex headed for the door.

“I will,” his brother-in-law said over his shoulder as he quit the room. “Get some rest.”

“I need to make some more inquires,” his father stated. “Let us permit you some rest.” He motioned to Henry who stood and followed the duke out of the room.

Edward was glad for the quiet. The sleeping drought Dr. Ferguson had insisted he drink was finally taking hold. He closed his eyes, allowing sleep to claim him. Someone had tried to kill him and Greyland.

His breathing grew shallow.

De Montrey was not right for Lady Sinclair.

His mind climbed deeper into nothingness.

Lady Sinclair should be with someone…someone like…

Him.

 

 

 

Morgan returned from her outing with Lord De Montrey, Martin, as the baron had insisted she call him. Martin, who had turned very inquisitive after their meeting with the earl and duchess. He seemed unnerved that the other man was helping her with her dance lessons and had even volunteered to assist if she needed a second opinion. Morgan had had to stifle a laugh at that since everyone knew Lord Wellington, and his family, were famed for having instructed The Queen. Still, the baron’s confidence was endearing.

Soon after she arrived home Perry brought her a message from Lord Wellington, which stated that he needed to cancel their dance lesson. She was deeply disappointed but decided not to dwell on it. He was probably drunk somewhere being fawned over.

Instead, she began to think about the adventure Martin had promised her for the next day. He was going to allow her to help him pick out a new horse at auction. She had been so elated by his invitation that she had hugged him.

The baron had seemed startled by the action but quickly recovered and returned her embrace, holding her a little longer than proper. Not that throwing your arms around a gentleman in the middle of Hyde Park was proper either, but the impulse had been too strong to resist.

Morgan smiled as she made her way downstairs to meet Eloise. They intended to lay out the details of their own daring adventure today. She practically skipped down the hall when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Life was much improved not having dreadful step relations breathing down ones neck. Morgan felt young and free, and a bit mischievous.

Tomorrow day would be fun, attending the auction, but tomorrow night… Tomorrow evening would be one for the books! Morgan and her new best friend were planning on sneaking out to go for a night swim in a nearby lake Eloise knew of. The timing was perfect, with half the Ton in the country. It would be a chilly swim, but that also meant that no one else would be likely planning the same adventure.

Morgan was downright giddy at the opportunity to be scandalous. Albeit, only her and Eloise would ever know, thus making it less scandalous on a scale of one to ten. Still, this tiny act of rebellion would be enough to last them both a lifetime. Someday, when they were old, they could look back and marvel at their daring youth.

This was exactly the sort of exhilarating escapade Morgan had hoped to find in the city. She pinched herself to keep from giggling like a crazy person bent for Bedlam as she passed a maid in the hallway. Life was starting to turn over a new leaf for her. Just as she had hoped.