Lady Printmose’s ball was in an hour. One hour. Morgan fought to keep down the cucumber sandwich she had picked at during high tea. That had been two hours ago. Still, every time she thought about the lengthy list she needed to remember, in order to present herself as the perfect debutante, her stomach twisted anew.
She staved off another bout of nausea and tried to execute the last pattern in the waltz. She simply needed to keep her mind on task. Right, left, pivot, pivot, pivot, over-sway.
Oh, blast it, was it an over-sway or a same-foot lunge? Why had the man gone and kissed her beforehand, leaving her head spinning to the point of distraction and unable to concentrate on their lesson. Was this what Eloise had had trouble with, too? Morgan wished she had been more sympathetic to the cons of having a handsome dance master now.
She sighed. She had not seen Lord Wellington since their ride in the park. The day he had kissed her, given her a horse, and then promptly, up and lost interest. She should not be surprised. Morgan had been warned about him.
Edward Wellington was a rake, and rakes were not known to maintain interest in silly young ladies. They had reputations to uphold after all. What she was surprised by was how much it hurt. Morgan thought she had glimpsed another side to him that day in the park. But perhaps she was wrong.
She imagined she would see him at the ball tonight. She would act like nothing was amiss. Even if it was. Because the truth of it was, she had felt his absence over the last week like a void…something important missing in an otherwise pleasant routine.
Her mornings were quiet with her mother and aunt at the breakfast table. Morgan took her afternoon tea with Eloise still, and her music lessons with the baron fell right on time. Everything was as it should be, except of that missing hour… The hour she had gotten used to sharing with Lord Wellington and his devil-take-all attitude. The lost hour in her day that she had filled in with self-practice, alone in the ballroom, with only her thoughts.
Morgan plopped down on her bed, abandoning all efforts to recall the dance pattern, and stared at the ceiling. She needed to wrangle in her forlorn reasoning. The earl was a conundrum that she could not afford to waste energy on.
Not when she had a task at hand to focused on; making the best possible entrance into society tonight. Her head rolled to the side, observing the interlacing designs of the burgundy wallpaper. Her thoughts felt as twisted as the fabric.
At least Lord De Montrey was consistent. He had sent flowers every day and had continued her musical instructions without missing a single one. His intentions were clear. Morgan was not sure why she was not happier. He was a kind man, attractive, and financially sound.
He had only once been put off—when he had seen the dapple mare in her aunt’s stable. Morgan had played it off, just as the earl had told her, and the baron seemed somewhat mollified.
Lord De Montrey was quite perfect for her plan, really. Then why did she have such reservations? Maybe it was the stark difference between him and the earl.
Morgan had thought the baron might try to steal a kiss on one of their lessons but he had remained, always the gentleman. She really did need to stop comparing the two men. Lord De Montrey was vastly different from her unpredictable, say anything, earl.
Morgan caught herself; her earl? Wonderful, even her subconscious was becoming possessive. She really must put a halt to this. It was most unproductive. She had an astute plan that allowed no idle time for childish daydreams. A soft knock came at her door, saving her from herself.
“Come in,” she called.
Bertrise opened the door and hurried in with a large white box.
“Is that?” Morgan sat up, eager.
“Yes, miss, and it is not light.” Her maid laid the box atop Morgan’s bed and lifted the lid.
Both women let out a gasp.
“It is exquisite!” Bertrise exclaimed as she carefully lifted the ball gown from the silk-lined box.
Every debutante had to wear a shade of white or cream for their first appearance in society. Even though the season would not officially start until the spring, the duchess had insisted Morgan adhere to the rule since this was her first formal debut. Everyone knew better than to argue.
The modiste, masterful indeed, had accessed that Morgan’s hair color and golden skin tone would best be served in a champagne color gown. Everyone agreed. All of the subsequent fittings, five, had gone smoothly and Morgan had been quite pleased with the creation she had last tried on at the Madame LeMore’s shop.
Howbeit, this was not that dress. The dress Morgan had been fitted for was to have a simple, nothing exceptional, square-cut neckline. This gowns neckline was shockingly lower than what she had asked for and scooped off the shoulders. Why, the cut would be scandalous on a small-chested girl; Morgan’s ample bosom would barely be contained.
She studied the rest of the gown, trying to find what of it was as discussed. The gossamer sleeves were as planned, stitched tight at the shoulders, then cascading freely to fall loose at her elbows. The gold thread, that was delicately interwoven throughout the champagne material of the gowns skirt, was as promised and simply gorgeous, catching the light just enough to make it shimmer. And it looked to be the correct length, Morgan noted. She supposed that was saying something.
But the bodice… It was to have started just below the bust. An older-fashion yet still respected as being discreet, but the modiste had given her a snug fitting one, trimmed with gold lace and nipped in tightly at the waist. It would require a corset. A corset that would only further highlight her hourglass figure.
This would have the exact opposite effect from the one she was hoping for. Morgan had told her aunt and Madame Lemore she did not wish to flaunt her curves; she had been specific in her insistence that the skirt must start below the bust, diminishing her measurements. This…allowing the waistline to start at the waist would highlight just how vast-ranging her bust to-waist-to-hip ratio actually was.
Why, it would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. It would be as if she were wearing no clothing at all. Morgan wanted to cry.
“Blast It!”
Bertrise admonished her with a quick wagging finger. “Let us get you into it before jumping to conclusions.” She suggested, reading Morgan’s mind. “It is quite fashionable.”
Morgan turned and allowed her maid to begin undoing her day dress. “It will show too much, Bertrise. What man will want to associate with a woman who dresses so…wantonly?”
She huffed and kicked out of the rest of her gown before turning to step into the ball gown. Bertrise’s lips twitched, as if she fought back a smile. “What?” Morgan asked.
“I believe your aunt’s intentions with this dress were based on a different belief.”
Morgan lifted her mass of hair, while Bertrise laced the stays on the back of the scandalous ball gown. “My desire is to find a good man to marry. Not to be seen as a temptress.”
“My dear.” Bertrise turned her around. “A man wants to be tempted. And any man lucky enough to claim your hand would no doubt consider himself the luckiest man alive. Why, if more women possessed your wits and charm, I dare say there would be far less—well, let us just say that your future husband’s eyes shall never look at another.”
Her maid stepped back. “Now, look at yourself child and remember this; the physical body is only a small part of what tempts a man.”
Morgan turned back to the large mirror standing by the chest of drawers and stopped in place. The image looking back at her was not what she had expected. The woman reflected in the mirror was truly beautiful. The dress fit like a glove, but somehow, did not look wanton at all. In fact, she appeared both elegant and alluring. She did not feel that the dress displayed her like a trollop, but rather, a confident young lady.
A slow crawl of confidence began to spread through her mind. Could she do this? Could she cast aside all the doubts Roderick had sowed into her mind and put her best foot forward? Could she not be ashamed of her body?
Instead, could she embrace it? Bertrise, fiddling around at the hem of her dress, brought Morgan back to the present. She looked down to see what her maid was consumed with at her feet.
“This dress will be the talk of the Bon Ton, Miss.” Bertrise began gathering up one side of Morgan’s many skirts, then duck-waddled around her and began hemming up the other.
Morgan stood in awe, noting for the first time what made the garment so heavy. The underskirt was gold lace, delicately beaded with white seed-pearls. The effect was magical. It made the bottom of the dress come alive, as if a treasure chest has been unearthed at her ankles.
“Turn.” Bertrise ordered, sitting back on her knees.
Morgan obliged, spinning in place. The colors caught the light and lifted the many layers of material, drowning the room in joyful rich hues. This dress would indeed get her noticed tonight.
Perhaps her aunt, mother, maid, best friend, and dressmaker had all known what they were talking about. Morgan beamed, on the verge of a new set of tears. She felt like a princess in this gown, straight out of a fairytale.
Oh, blast it to Hades, she was damn sure going to enjoy this feeling! She might not ever get the chance to experience it again. If only for tonight, Morgan vowed, she was going to adore herself.
Edward felt the pressure in the room shift the moment Lady Sinclair entered through the lush fern and palm-filled hall. Henry was standing in front of him, facing the entry. Edward read every damned thought in his friend’s head when the earl looked back over his shoulder at him. He knew every man in attendance was suffering from the same affliction; speechlessness.
“Henry?”
“Yes?” he replied, his attention turned back to the entrance, his gaze fixed on the staircase which Lady Sinclair was now descending.
“Must you stare so?”
“Yes.”
“I realize she is a pretty, but surely she is feeling rather intimidated under the extreme scrutiny she is receiving.” Edward ventured a glance around the room. Sure enough, more than a few mouths had gone slack. “Lord Hunten just took an elbow to the gut from his wife. I insist you look away.”
“She does not seem to mind the attention. In fact, I believe she just kissed Lord Kinsworth on the mouth.”
“What!”
Edward whirled around and found his target smiling warmly, surrounded by at least seven men. He could only see her face, and indeed, she did not seem fazed in the least. Thank God Lord Kinsworth was not one of the men salivating at her feet. Edward rounded on Henry, who was smiling with unbridled satisfaction.
“My, my, I do not believe it.” Henry teased.
“Don’t.” Edward cautioned. “I am merely concerned for her.”
“Ah, yes, merely concerned?” Henry mocked. “That makes complete sense. But tell me, how it is that you have managed to repress your more… shall we say, libertine nature?”
Edward lifted his chin, dignified. “I have rather strong willpower when I choose.”
“Since when?”
“Since now!”
Edward was fighting to keep his voice at a conversational level. Much as he had fought the relentless pull of his fist toward Lord Rockafetch’s mouth earlier that week when Henry confessed to having escorted Morgan home from her rendezvous with the lake.
God’s teeth, but she must have been a sight to behold emerging from that water. And Henry had seen her first. First…
Did he just imply, in his own meanderings, that he would be partaking in that pleasure? What on earth! Henry’s gaze moved to the dance floor, pulling Edward from his distracted state.
“Well, I dare say other men will fail where you have so gloriously succeeded.”
Edward followed his friend’s line of sight across the room. Lady Sinclair was being escorted into the first set of the night, a waltz, by Lord De Montrey. The man was beaming with his accomplishment as he puffed out his chest and pulled her possessively into his arms.
Edward saw red. Literally saw red. He glanced down at his palm and realized he had drawn blood with his fingernails from the pressure his clenched fist had caused.
Henry, who never missed a beat, removed a swatch of cloth from his inner jacket pocket and handed it over. Edward nodded his thanks. They were best chaps for a reason. Henry might bait him in jest, but he always had the good sense to know when Edward had had enough.
“I believe a drink is in order.” Henry turned toward the bar.
“I will join you in a moment.” Edward tossed the bloody handkerchief onto a serving boy’s empty tray as he walked by.
“You know where to find me.”
The two parted as Henry headed for the bar and Edward drifted closer to the edge of the ballroom, as if pulled by a mystical force. Why did he need to see this? Why did his feet keep marching him closer to the grim scene unfolding on the dance floor? This was exactly what he had told himself he would not do!
Edward finally managed to get an unobstructed look at her. That gown. It was perfect on her. He swallowed hard. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen!
Why in God’s good name had her aunt and mother allowed her out of the house in that dress? She would have ten proposals come tomorrow. He tasted bile in his mouth at the thought of whose name would no doubt be at the top of that list.
Edward suddenly wanted to rush onto the dance floor, snatch her away from the smug baron and kiss her so passionately that all of England would know who she belonged with. He started to move on that notion when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. He turned sharply, ready to confront whoever dared touch him.
“I am going to insist, just this once, that you do not run off halfcocked,” Henry advised. “This would be an ideal time to pretend you were someone else. And think, before reacting. Maybe ask yourself; what would Perkin do?”
Edward stared at his friend, processing the surprisingly logical suggestion. How did the man manage that? The ability to know what Edward was about to do, oftentimes, before he himself knew?
Regardless—Edward put aside the puzzlement over his friend’s mindreading abilities—it had worked. He exhaled and applied the sage advice. This would be the ideal time to exercise what his older brother might do.
“You are right.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, bugger off, Henry.”
Edward chuckled and took the glass of sherry his friend held out. He really should not be surprised. He and Henry were both cast from a similar cloth; second sons. And, as said ‘spares’ they had both vowed, early in their friendship, to make no apologies for the circumstances of being born after the heirs. Nor would they be bothered by envious gossip concerning their new titles, or the unorthodox fashion by which they had come about them. Murder, no matter how deserved, tended to set tongues wagging after all.
“Mayhap, I spoke out of turn.” Henry turned back to the dance floor, interrupting Edward’s trip down memory lane. “That impulsive side of yours might come in handy this time?”
Edward lifted the back of his hand and pressed it to the earl’s brow. “No fever,” he proclaimed.
Henry swatted it away. “It must be another affliction.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or perhaps I am simply growing tired of being your voice of reason?”
“Oh, do not dare stop giving your steadfast opinions.” Edward shook the ice loose in his glass. “Even if I usually fail to take it, I assure you, I do lock it away for rainy days when I am in need of something to bore me.” He tipped back the last swallow of sherry.
At that moment, a large pink hair configuration appeared in front of them. The two men gazed down to find Duchess Vandicamp beneath the oversized turban. Smiling like a cat with a canary stuffed in its mouth, she produced a dance card and proceeded to write Edward’s name on it, and then added Henry’s. Edward looked at his friend, mystified. Henry only shrugged.
“Are you honoring us with a dance later, Lady Vandicamp?” Henry inquired, smiling.
“Oh, no, Lord Rockafetch.” She laughed, and the headdress bounced about as she continued to scribe. “This is for Lady Sinclair.” The duchess peaked out from under the listing turban, her smile broadening. “I am securing all the best bachelors for my niece tonight.” She winked.
Edward was not sure if the sudden sensation of his jaw unhinging was due to the sheer assumptive boldness of directing a man’s dance card, or from hearing that the duchess considered him to be one of the Tons best bachelors. Before he could object, she continued.
“You are most certainly on that list, dear boy.” She patted his arm, almost sympathetically. “As a matter of fact, you are up first.”
Lady Vandicamp wrapped her arm around Edward’s and began pulling him toward the dance floor. Despite his muttered protest, the duchess marched him right up to Lady Sinclair and Lord De Montrey. Only when they were standing beside the couple did Lady Vandicamp released Edward to take hold of her niece, practically prying her from baron’s dance frame.
Lady Sinclair was thrust into Edward’s arms before anyone of them had time to draw a breath. “Oh lovely.” The duchess clapped her hands twice, as if it would hasten the process. “Another waltz.”
There was absolutely nothing to indicate the next song. Edward cast a glance around the room, wondering if he had gone deft. Couples were lining up, but no one had started to move. He was just opening his mouth to comment…on anything…when the first low strings of a violin weaved into the crowd.
Having no viable out, Edward lifted his arms and shifted his weight, preparing them for the first movement. Surveying his position among the other dancers he couldn’t help but notice that Lady Vandicamp looked pleased with herself. De Montrey looked as if he was trying to set Edward on fire with his eyes.
Lady Sinclair simply looked gorgeous, her innocent owl shaped eyes blinking up at him from beneath the thick curtain of her lashes. Morgan Sinclair… The woman who had consumed his dreams for the past week was in his arms, once again.
By Jove, she felt good there. The warmth of her. Her familiar scent of jasmine…
He closed his eyes. Count, damn it. Edward forced his mind to respond to the melody drifting in. The next waltz. But one had just played. This was the second; most unusual. The second waltz played… that only Lady Vandicamp had heard…
Edward opened his eyes. The duchess stood by the edge of the dance floor, satisfaction practically rolling off her like scent off a skunk. She had orchestrated this whole stunt!
Why though? Morgan all but had the baron on bended knee. He was the much safer choice. Everyone could agree with that.
“Hmm?”
Edward looked down, to the source of the sound.
“Whose bosom has you so entranced tonight, Lord Wellington?” Lady Sinclair smiled, her gold eyes shining, conspiratorially.
He began to move to the beat, if not for fear of getting trampled. “I daresay I have not had time to get so marvelously distracted.”
She huffed. “I expected more from you tonight.”
Edward felt his lips pull into a smile. “And whose bosom do you think I should survey first?”
“Mine of course.”
He ran into Lord Herst.
After a quick apology, they resumed their dance.
“Please do not talk that way, else we will end up on the floor.” Edward admonished, unable to sound serious.
“Well, that is not very romantic.”
“I meant falling to it. As in a crash. A painful, non-romantic, embarrassing, not-at-all sensual, flub.” He chuckled and glanced down.
Her smile was pure delight. She was messing with him.
“Why Lady Sinclair, if I did not know better, I would think you were inciting mischief?”
“I know it is such an unusual word for you.” She smirked. “Try sounding it out. M.I.S.C.H.I.E.F.”
The child in him rose to the playful goading. If she wanted to test him, he would test her right back. Edward whisked her into a series of pivots, then followed them up with an advanced pattern he knew they had not studied. It worked; she pressed her lips together, determined, and closed her eyes. Doing just as he had instructed her on their first lesson.
She moved through the next sequence of patterns as if she had danced them a thousand times. Encouraged by her follow, Edward continued to swing and sway, diving and suspending their movements to the music, matching the tempo’s insatiable hunger with his own unspoken desires. He spun her in three tight turns and lunged forward, taking both their weight to the ground in a dramatic and finalizing dip.
He stared down at his bewitching partner, her breath now coming in rapid succession, fueled by the dances exertion. Unable to let go, despite the music’s end, Edward held her in the suspended position, his large body hovering over her more delicate one. Someone, somewhere, started clapping. Morgan’s eyes fluttered open, a little flash of panic flashing in her golden orbs.
Edward smiled down at her. “You were poetry, Lady Sinclair.”
Gently he lifted her back to her feet. The room had gone as silent as a tomb around them. They were the only ones left on the floor. Not even the musicians dared interrupt the silence that hung in the dances finally.
Edward took Lady Sinclair’s arm and escorted her off the floor. Lace fans flipped open and rose to mouths around them like a roman stadium wave. He ignored them.
When they reached the edge of the dance floor Edward did not stop. In addition, he did not politely deposit Lady Sinclair back with her aunt and mother. Instead he marched on, her hand encapsulated in his, past the quizzical and gossiping onlookers, through the veranda doors and onto the balcony.
Lord Wellington released his hold on her when they reached the wide stone balustrade of the terrace. Morgan stood speechless as he turned, leaned over the edge, and braced both hands on the railing. He dropped his head between his shoulders after a long moment and sighed.
“I am afraid I am destined to bring scandal to you, my dear.” He stared out into the dark of the garden.
Morgan watched his resplendent profile. His honey-blonde hair seemed to beckon the moon to its strands so the light could play in the thick, golden waves. His aristocratic nose and forehead were straight, as if carved of stone. His jaw and cheekbones were sharp and strong.
Morgan found herself wanting to taste him there, just underneath his jawline, where the hard angles met the soft skin of his long neck. She wondered if he would flinch if she did so now.
“I fear that I find myself a willing participant in said scandal.” Her words sounded strange, her tone raspy, a hungry growl to it.
He turned his head slowly to her, hesitation in his eyes. “If we are being honest, I need to make an amendment to a pledge I made with myself. Before our first meeting.”
“That would be?” Morgan found herself stepping closer to him, her legs moving on their own accord.
Without so much as a blink, he focused on her. “I believe I would like to call on you tomorrow.” He paused, considering his words carefully. “Not as your teacher. But, as an admirer.”
Morgan swallowed. The desire to touch him was too strong. He took a step toward her, as if moved by the same impulse. She reached out and gently allowed the tips of her fingers to trace the pristine tailoring of his jacket. He loomed over her, his hooded eyes conveying more than words, challenging her to retreat. She did not.
Instead she dragged in a shaky breath. “I would very much...”
“How charming, my dear sister has a smitten beau,” Roderick’s venomous words split the air.
Morgan felt her spine go ramrod straight. She stood, paralyzed in place, cold dread crawling over her skin. Her fingers retreated, back down to her sides. They were shaking.
She heard footsteps echoing off the stone, descending on her. Still, she could not move. Her eyes stayed locked on the earl’s neatly tied cravat.
“Morgan?” the earl asked directly, his voice pitched low, but not so low that Roderick would not be able to hear.
He blatantly used her Christian name, same as he had done last week in the garden with Lord De Montrey. Only this time it sounded different. It gave her strength. In that one word he was giving her a weapon. Himself.
She slowly turned toward her stepbrother. Roderick smiled tightly, barely contained fury radiating off him in waves.
“I am so glad I found you when I did, else you might have succeeded in using your charms to lure this poor man to his doom.” Her stepbrothers smile twisted in on itself, growing ugly.
“Who are you?” Lord Wellington asked, icily.
Roderick’s eyes darted up and over Morgan’s head to challenge the man standing behind her. “I am this young woman’s guardian.” He snorted derisively. “Who the hell are you?”
“A man who does not take kindly to the words you are hurling about,” the earl ground out as he gently nudged Morgan aside and stepped forward.
She could see Roderick bristle at the challenge. Without warning, he reached out and snatched her arm, pulling her hard to him.
She smashed into his chest as he hissed into her ear. “Be a good girl and get inside. Before I am forced to teach you a lesson. In public.”
The earl’s voice boomed, reverberating around them. “Touch one hair on her person again, and I will meet you on a field at dawn.”
Morgan whipped her head around. No! A whole new fear seized her. Roderick never missed. It was one of the few things he was good at.
Her eyes latched onto Lord Wellington’s, begging him to back down. She could see by his stance—shoulders squared and feet braced apart—that he had no intentions of doing so. His expression was one that welcomed the idea of his challenge.
“I will go in.” She looked back, frantically. “Please,” she pleaded to Roderick. “Let us go in before we cause a stir.”
“Get your things and tell your aunt I am taking you home,” he snapped.
Morgan knew her horror was painted across her face. She tried to keep her voice even. “Surely I can ride back with the duchess...”
“No!” Roderick bared his teeth. “You are leaving with me. Father would be most upset if he knew I allowed you to behave so wantonly. Why, you disgrace the good name we allowed you to borrow!”
Her stepbrother leaned in, so close she could feel his breath on her forehead. She closed her eyes. “It is time you learned your place.”
Morgan had no time to react as she was shoved away with enough force to send her tumbling into a nearby potted plant. She heard herself scream, but was not sure if it was from the jolt of being pushed, or from the sound of bodies colliding behind her. She quickly righted herself and spun.
Both men were locked in battle, rolling across the terrace, fists flying. The ballroom doors burst open and half the guests poured outside. A lady shrieked. A man was shouting. The terrace became a blur of black tailored suits.
Morgan searched the chaos, desperate to locate Edward. Someone was dragging her stepbrother upright. There, amidst a flurry of flailing arms, was the earl. He looked murderous, his blond hair falling lose into his face as he was restrained by four men. Roderick was cursing like a rabid dog, clearly unaware that he had been losing the scuffle and should probably shut up now.
“What on earth is going on?” the duchess’s voice rang out, rising above the confusion.
“Lady Vandicamp,” the earl snarled. “I wish to pay court to your niece.”
The crowd collectively inhaled, leaving the statement to hang in the dead silence of the crisp autumn night.
Roderick lunged forward, breaking the quiet like shattering glass. “Absolutely not!” He sounded near hysterics, his accusatory hand reaching out, one long manicured finger shaking, like a man in the onset of an apoplectic fit. “Why, I just caught the brute pawing at her!” He spat the words, obviously not realizing his accusation’s potential ramifications.
“Let me rephrase,” the earl’s gaze sharpened, his voice galvanized. “I have compromised the lady. I would like her hand in marriage.”
Morgan heard a multitude of gasps, just before her vision began to grow fuzzy around the edges. Was that Eloise, near the doors, with the stranger who had caught them skinny dipping? Did the earl just propose to someone? Was this how one’s debut into London society typically went?
Morgan’s head grew heavy; she reached for the railing. Roderick was going to kill her. Her world went black.
Edward, aided by everyone’s distraction at Morgan fainting, was able to dislodge himself from the men that had been restraining him. He rushed towards her, pushing bodies out of his path.
“Out of my damn way!” He shoved a man to the right, elbowing another in the ribs to his left. “She needs air, damn it!”
The sea of onlookers parted. He saw Henry gathering Lady Sinclair up and starting to rise. Edward reached his side and took over, carefully allowing Henry to transfer her into his arms. She was out cold.
He heard her stepbrother bellowing. Thankfully someone had seen to holding the idiot back. Though Edward very much wanted to kill the man, he needed to make sure Morgan was safe first.
A young lady, that Edward had been introduced to earlier but whose name he could not recall, was shouting at people to clear a path. Surprisingly, the diminutive blonde was quite the commander, issuing directions and warnings. Edward could feel every eye in attendance on them as they made their way into the house. He heard several voices offering assistance.
“Water, smelling salts, a doctor, wine.” The blonde ordered ahead of him.
He stared down at the lifeless beauty in his arms. There appeared to be no blood, none that was gushing, but he would have to look her over more carefully once he put her down. By God, if she was hurt badly… Heaven help her fool hearted stepbrother.
Lady Printmose could be heard moving into the fray and taking over for the younger woman, ushering them into a quiet parlor. Edward entered and looked up at his surroundings for the first time since he had taken possession of Lady Sinclair. Assessing the room, he walked swiftly over to a damask-covered sofa and gently laid her down.
Lady Vandicamp was close behind, rushing to Morgan’s side. The occupancy of the room swelled as De Montrey marched in, followed by Henry, and lastly, three servants with baskets of provisions.
“Is she all right?” the blonde lady that had been leading the way asked, her voice not nearly as confident now.
“What is the meaning of this, Wellington?” The baron demanded, clearly more concerned with the loss of his marriage prospect, than with the woman herself.
“She will be fine,” the duchess announced, taking a wet cloth offered by a servant and applying it to Lady Sinclair’s brow. “The poor dear just had a nasty swoon. Can you blame her? A proposal on the heels of a public brawl, after being ruined at her first ball?” She gave Edward a pointed look.
Edward felt a new anger building inside him as his hand flew out from his side to point angrily, in the general direction of the door. “Did you know how that posturing little shit treats her?”
Lady Vandicamp turned to the others. “Out, all of you.” She looked at Edward squarely. “You will stay; you are her intended, after all,” she added hotly.
Once the door was shut Lady Vandicamp turned back to him. “I will have to discuss your proposal with her mother and stepfather, of course.” She removed a blanket and covered her niece, who was starting to stir. “Making an enemy of her brother may not bode well for you.”
“That man is no normal stepbrother!”
Edward turned and paced to a brandy decanter located on a side bar. “He threatened her! He is perverse, and I demand to know what you know about this family!”
“This stays between us.” Lady Vandicamp stood and moved cautiously to his side.
“Her stepfather beats my sister.” She spoke quickly and in hushed tones. “I need to help get Morgan away from him before he turns his fists on her. I know nothing about the relationship between the siblings, but based on Roderick’s outburst out there…”
The duchess wrung her hands worriedly and glanced over her shoulder at her niece. “I too, now have deeper concerns.”
Edward ran a hand through his hair. He would kill the sick bastard if he had to. Did this explain her shyness the first time they had been alone? Had Lady Sinclair been scared of him?
She had most certainly been terrified of her brother, practically turning to stone when she had heard his sardonic voice. And it had nothing to do with being caught standing too close to a known cad. She had been terrified of him.
That thought, that singular notion, that the bastard outside might have given Morgan reason in the past to react like a beaten dog in his presence now, was too much to process. He would kill him! Edward turned back to the sofa. Lady Sinclair was starting to push herself upright.
He moved to go to her but the duchess stepped into his path, a flat hand firmly to his chest. “No one can know of our suspicions.”
“Of course,” Edward answered tightly.
“Where am I?” Morgan muttered.
“My dear, you fainted.” The duchess turned and walked briskly to her niece’s side.
Edward could see the moment realization lit in her eyes. It looked a lot like dread. He moved to the opposite side of Lady Vandicamp and took Lady Sinclair’s hand.
“Everything will be fine. Just leave it all to me.” He tried to smile, to reassure her, but it withered on his lips when her breath hitched and tears welled up in her eyes.
Before he knew what he was about, Edward swept her into his arms and held her tightly while she sobbed. He would definitely be killing the damned man!
Morgan became dismally aware that she was likely ruining the earl’s expensive dress shirt with her blubbering right around the time a knock came at the parlor doors. The duchess rose and walked over to it, opening it only enough to see who it was. Her aunt stepped back and allowed Eloise and Lady Printmose to enter.
Eloise ran to Morgan’s side. “Are you fairing all right?” she worriedly asked.
The earl adjusted their positions so that she was less on his lap, and more situated on the settee. Morgan bashfully looked down, to where her hands were clasped together tightly atop the fabric of her skirt.
This was all just a dream.
Had she just been sitting in the Earl of Wellington’s lap, sobbing like a child, while he stroked her hair and whispered all the right words to ease away her fear? It had to be a dream. Regardless, Morgan needed to push it aside like a dream and find a way to recover from the unrecoverable. Ruination!
She took a heavy breath and looked up into her friends eyes. “I guess that question has more than a few answers.” She exhaled a ragged chuckle.
Eloise took the seat to Morgan’s right and reached for her hands, prying them apart she took one firmly in her own. Her dear friend looked as haggard as Morgan felt. As if she had just been the one publicly shamed.
“When I saw you fall…” Eloise squeezed Morgan’s hand. “The look on your brother’s face! And then, when the earl announced—” She broke off, as if suddenly realizing the man in question sat just on the other side of Morgan.
Morgan squeezed her hand back. “I know.” She assured. “It was all a grave misunderstanding. I will take ownership of the situation and free Lord Wellington of any misguided sense of chivalry.”
“You will do no such thing,” the earl said flatly. “I have offered for you, and I do not intend to cry off.”
Morgan jerked her head in his direction. “I will not marry a man who does not wish to be married.”
“You do not have a choice,” he said sternly enough for her not to doubt him. “I will travel to meet with your stepfather tomorrow and make the arrangements.”
He stood. “We shall be married by the week’s end.”
The earl turned and walked to the door, leaving no space for argument. He paused briefly to speak in a hushed voice with the two older ladies before quitting the room. Morgan slowly rotated her attention back to Eloise, who wore an expression of unbridled awe.
“Oh, my,” her friend said.
“He is a fool if he thinks I will allow Roderick’s childish temper-tantrum to force our hands.” Morgan resolved.
“Your brother did not seem pleased at all over the outcome.”
“Of course he was not!” Morgan stood and swiped a mutinous tear off her cheek. “That would mean he would no longer have me to torment.”
As soon as the words left her lips, she froze. Not because she was making vocal the secret that had orbited around her for the past year. Roderick had already blown any family normality out of the water with his spectacle on the terrace.
No, what was most startling about her statement was the revelation that the earl was offering her exactly what she had wanted. A husband. Someone to take her away from her stepbrother and the life she had been living. If the earl would have her, especially after tonight, she might just have to make it work.
Her reasoning circled back to Lord De Montrey. He would no doubt be hurt, but surely he would not want spoiled goods. Even if the accusation had been one sided. Men always believed men. And Lord Wellington had outright confessed. Hell, the dratted man had almost been eager to state it.
That gave Morgan a new cause for pause. Why had he been so quick to condemn himself? He was a much higher peer of the realm than Roderick was. Lord Wellington could have just denied everything, yet he had arranged their engagement instead. Why?
Morgan rubbed her temple. Her mind was running all over the place, chasing thoughts like a child with a butterfly net. She turned quickly back to Eloise as another one landed, just out of reach.
“Was the man you were standing with on the terrace—before I immortalized my name in the hall of shame—the same man who found us out the other night at the lake?”
Her friend blushed deeply and nodded. “He will not tell.”
Morgan sighed and sat back down beside her best friend. “Well.” She smiled weakly. “We wanted more adventure out of life.”
Lord De Montrey stormed out of the manor. How dare Wellington take what was meant to be his? The rogue had been granted more than his fair share of English pride. Must the bastard have a hand in everything?
De Montrey sneered into wind, his breath crystalizing on the chilled night air. Come to think of it, the whole damn family was rather skilled at stealing things that did not belong to them. He hesitated, looking down the long line of carriages in search of his own. The party was far from over so no drivers had lined up yet.
He cursed and continued on down the drive, directionless. Six more carriages back he finally glimpsed his own driver, asleep in his seat. God damn, Wellington! The degenerate probably had better staff to boot.
He swore anew and kicked the gravel, taking mild satisfaction when it ricocheted off someone’s shiny new Phaeton. Something jetted out at him and he skidded to a stop to avoid running into it. His eyes focused on the baroque designed wolf-head handle of the walking stick that blocked his path, a scant inch away from his nose.
De Montrey turned, his vision tracking the long-polished cane back to where it had manifested from. “Have a care, sir!” He glared into the black window of the carriage.
“Get inside!” An eerily familiar voice directed. “Your debt is due.”