Truman was just handing Serenade’s reins to Morgan when a carriage bearing the York family crest came tearing up the tree-lined lane to the estate. Morgan had been overseeing the removal of ruined furniture all morning. Edward had been neck deep in papers, going over architectural designs for the expansion of the estate. Designs that he had randomly decided, sometime during the night, needed to be completed on the house post haste.
“No better excuse than a fire to make some much needed changes,” he had said as they left the cabin that morning. Morgan was not sure she agreed, but the absolute joy radiating from the man had been contagious and she had gotten swept up in the imaginations of a new, grander ballroom.
The vision of the carriage kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake sobered her daydreams quickly. Something was not right. She dismounted and headed over to Edward, who was watching the approaching rig with a similar perturbation. He felt it too.
The team of exquisite matching bays came to a halt just a few feet from them; the door flew open before the driver even had a chance to jump down and assist. A huge African man stepped out, followed by a nervous-looking footman.
She recognized the bigger man immediately as her new father-in-law’s giant butler. Morgan stole a side glance at Edward. He had gone as still as a statue.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
The butler stopped right in front of them and held out a note. “Your father sent me to warn you of a matter that he believes places you”—he paused to glance at Morgan—“and your lovely new bride in danger.”
Edward ripped open the letter and began to scan the note.
“It seems as though he was correct,” the dark man said, looking expressly toward the half-burned house.
“Where is father now, Ocman?”
“He is dealing with another…fire,” the stoic man replied, completely void of expression.
Morgan felt a cold dread sliding down her spine. “Roderick.”
Edward spun to face her. “What?”
Morgan had not even realized she had spoken the thought out loud. She looked up into his stormy blue eyes.
“My stepbrother means to torment me for the rest of my days.”
Edward reached out and took both her arms, as if to steady her. “It is not your stepbrother’s name on this list.”
He searched her eyes. “It is De Montrey’s.”
Edward paced the cabin study like a caged tiger. A cornered beast imprisoned by invisible bars that trapped him in a space he could not escape. He could not skirt this one, not with a new wife to look after and love. He paused, mid-stride. He loved Morgan Sinclair!
He loved Morgan Kingston, known to the public now as Lady Wellington, he corrected. The woman who had driven him to mind-numbing distraction since their first meeting. The woman he had forsaken his plush, independent lifestyle for. The woman who could set a fire to blaze in his loins with just a smile. The lady he could not fathom living without. Edward ran a hand through his hair.
A familiar rage began its steady tormenting crawl into his quickening pulse, a battle drum of warning that always came from deep within. His body’s learned alert system for when he was about to lose control. Edward clenched his jaw. The feelings were growing stronger. Chanting, taunting, and daring him to snap. He tried to push them down but they only grew louder, bolder.
He cursed, as mad at the emotions as he was with his own inability to rein them in. His pacing increased, as if he could outrun the mounting sensation. Why could he not be more like Perkin? Why was he doomed to walk the fine line between gentleman and beast?
Why! Panic and fear welled up, a flash-flood of water slamming against a thinly barricaded dam. He yelled, rattling a painting above the fireplace. Someone called out and footsteps sounded from somewhere down the hall. Damn it!
He punched his fist through the window just before the doors burst open.
Concerned voices, like distant buzzing, filled the room. Edward glimpsed the look of sympathy on Ocman’s face as he withdrew his hand from the shattered glass. He could only make out the tone of their worry; not the actual words, the pounding in his ears was still too strong. The pain was resounding.
He looked down at the blood and felt the first bit of peace begin to take root. The calm after the storm. The letting of blood was the only thing that quieted the demons that plagued him.
One particular voice cut through the throng of concerned utterances. Edward brought his eyes up to meet the look of sheer panic painted across Morgan’s lovely face.
She rushed to him. “What happened?”
She yanked a sash from her waist and started absorbing the blood from his hand. He said nothing. How could be possibly explain.
“Edward!” she demanded. “What happened?”
Martin pushed through the crowd of partygoers in the ballroom. He needed time to clear his head. He turned left down the manor’s impressive hall and entered the library. A quick scan of the room proved that it was void of occupants. He closed the double pocket doors and walked to the sidebar where a decanter of sherry sat.
After filling a glass, he downed it in one swallow and then refilled it. What the hell had he gotten himself involved in? Before he could entertain the idea, he heard the doors separate behind him. Martin swiveled in place.
“We still have a deal, De Montrey?” The intruder pulled the doors to.
Martin took in the man now standing before. He hoped the chill that swept over his skin was not apparent from across the room. It was the same sick feeling he got every time he encountered the other lord.
He schooled his features. “I told you, I need more time to think. This is not what I signed up for.”
The man moved farther into the room. “Need I remind you that what you signed up for was to help out however we saw fit? Time for contemplation is at a close.” He had spoken smoothly, but with a hint of venom.
Martin bristled. “I have my limits. I am reaching them.”
The cool demeanor slid off the other gentleman in an instant. “You should have stated those limits when you asked for help.” He strode forward, bridging the gap between them.
Martin pulled himself up taller. “Are you threatening me?”
The man guffawed. “Yes!” the word shot through the air like the crack of a bullwhip.
Martin tipped back the last of the liquor and made to move past. He had heard enough.
“I can break you as quickly as I made you!” the man hissed. “You do not think that carriage your brother was driving just wrecked on its own, do you?”
Martin stopped.
The man continued. “You wanted the title. We saw that you got it.”
Martin turned slowly back to face his tormentor.
“You made the deal.” The lord leered. “It is time to repay the favor owed.”
“I never asked you to murder him!”
The man chuckled, derisorily. “How else did you hope to obtain the title you take such great pleasure in waving about now?”
The anger Martin had felt was suddenly replaced with a bone-chilling realization. This loon was going to try to frame him.
“I never agreed to hurt anyone…physically.” Despite his best efforts, he stammered over his words. “You only wanted me to play court to the girl. A tantalizing prospect indeed.”
The added lie rolled off his tongue with a practiced ease. He did not give two farthings about Morgan Sinclair. Martin only wanted her for appearance sake.
When the wager had been made it seemed to be a win-win scenario. He would repay the debt owned and gain a wife to improve his social standing. He would then proceed in doing the deed of getting her with child. Once that tedious aspect was over he could focus on his new, and sure to be, prosperous dealings in the trade market. It was all going exactly to plan. Until it wasn’t. Martin used that annoyance to muster his final retort.
“My debt is paid.”
The words barely left his mouth before the man grabbed him and pushed him into the wall, his face contorted with rage coming up swiftly to meet Martin’s. “It is not, you halfwit!” he spat “You failed!”
Martin thrust the man off him. “It is not my fault Lord Wellington compromised the girl and was forced to ask for her hand.”
He raked his hand down his jacket front in an attempt to smooth it. He was never clear on the motives behind the ‘arrangement’ that he pursue Morgan Sinclair. Judging by the murderous look in the other man’s eyes, there was much more to this story than he wanted to know.
Martin found himself asking the question nevertheless. “Why did you want me to go after her in the first place?”
“That is none of your concern.” The other lord seemed to sober at the question. He stepped back, his anger abating. “What is your concern is a broken arrangement. You still owe me a favor. And since you failed so miserably at the first one, I expect the next to be fulfilled without derailment.” He turned and moved toward the door. “No matter what it entails.”
Martin started to protest, but the man cut him off. “On second thought, I know exactly what I need.”
He stilled, turning back slowly to face Martin. “I need you to retrieve a ledger from the palace.”
“What?” Martin blurted out, incredulously. “I have no access to the palace! Are you mad?”
The man smiled thinly. “The guard will change on the hour at midnight. Melbrooke’s office is on the main floor, west wing. He has a ledger with gold script that reads tangents on it. It is in a desk drawer of his. Get it and bring it to me. You have three days.”
The other lord strode briskly back to the double doors, slid them open, and slipped out into the hall before Martin could close his gaping mouth.
Morgan was beyond confused and her husband and his staff were of no help whatsoever. After Bertrice had busted in and taken over doctoring Edward’s hand, both he and Ocman had become as quiet as death. They shared a secret, and Morgan meant to uncover it.
After all, there was nothing quite as frightening as hearing ones husband bellow from another room in the manor, followed by the distinct sound of shattering glass. Then to find him staring blankly, standing in a pool of his own blood, and realizing he had done it to himself. Purposefully smashing a window with his fist in a fit of rage.
And no one said a damn thing! Not one single explanation came forth. Instead, Edward had spent the rest of the day avoiding her. It was as if he had cocooned himself up from everyone. The lighthearted man from that morning had gone into hiding. Morgan had no reasoning for any of it.
During dinner a note had arrived from Richard Kingston. It stated simply that the fire at the docks, which Ocman had informed them of, had been extinguished without much loss. The news seemed to lighten Edward’s burdens somewhat. He remained polite throughout the rest of the meal but the spark in his eyes was still absent. It was as if the day’s earlier events had transformed her husband into a completely different person.
Only Ocman seemed to understand this dramatic shift in mood. The patient butler regarded Edward with something equivalent to understanding, as if he had weathered a storm similar to this with her husband in the past. The quiet and steady way the older man handled the situation was a testament to the two men’s past together.
Ocman was looking after Edward’s current state, not like a member of the staff, but as a friend. Or more over; a father. It spoke volumes. Heartbreaking volumes.
The two men disappeared into the study after dinner and did not emerge. Morgan took a book into the library, where she must have drifted to sleep, for she woke to strong arms lifting her gently from the sofa. She opened her eyes to see Edward smiling down at her, the first sign of honest good cheer in him since that morning.
Morgan smiled back up at him, but did not speak. If she had learned anything from observing Edward and Ocman all day, it had been that; less could be more. She would be more.
He carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She rolled to one side so he could unbutton the back of her gown. She assisted in the removal of it only by wiggling her hips a little, enough for him to be able to pull it over them.
When she made to reach for her slippers, he steadied her hand with his own and did that as well. He stripped her naked and then, stripped her naked again with his intense gaze. She felt beautiful under his appreciative regard. He pulled the covers up and over her, tucking her in thoroughly with a playful smirk before undressing himself.
He crawled in beside her and pulled her to his chest. Comforting, steady and assuring. Just as he had been with everything else he had taught her, he was once again guiding her, teaching her how to love him. Possibly proving to himself that he was worthy of love.
That is exactly how she fell asleep. With her husband’s powerful arms around her, asking nothing more of her than the silent acknowledgment of a deeper connection. A bond that did not need words or actions to be whole. This was love.