“That’s quite a list, princess. I had no idea I had fallen into such stellar company.”
“Yes. Well…” She hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the soft folds of her gown. “Naturally my uncle prefers that the more favored suitors turn their attentions toward his own daughters.”
Naturally. Good God. What had she said? I fear my uncle does not have my best interests at heart. That was putting it mildly. If the man was that eager to be rid of her, he would have done his niece a greater favor in tying a stone around her neck and tossing her in the Thames.
“When one considers my alternatives,” she said, “I believe it becomes understandable as to why I would take the drastic measure of pressing my own suit this evening.”
“Indeed.” He leaned back against the settee, a wry grin curving his lips. “Always flattering to learn that one is looked upon as a last resort.”
“That’s not the case at all,” she protested. “The same research that led me to turning down my other suitors convinced me that you would make a tolerable husband.”
“Indeed? And just what research was that?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I spoke to your servants. You’ll be happy to learn that they’re a rather closemouthed bunch. Furthermore, most of them have been in your employ for years. Loyalty of that sort is generally a sign of contentment. Short of informing me that you are not romantically engaged at present and that you were undertaking a rare visit to the Devonshire House this evening, they had very little to say.”
“That’s good?”
“Quite. As you might imagine, the discussions I had with the servants in the employ of the other gentlemen I mentioned were rather… stimulating.”
Morgan barely managed to suppress a smile at her prim disapproval. “Yes,” he replied solemnly, “I would imagine so.”
A contemplative silence fell between them. She bowed her head, her lips pursed in thought. As she moved, a strand of her incredible hair fell forward, brushing against her cheek like a silken caress. For an instant, Morgan found himself wondering what that hair would feel like tumbling against his chest, how that fiery red would look against the linen cream of his sheets. Before he could pursue that fantasy further, she looked up and softly announced, “I believe we would do well together as husband and wife.”
“And just how did you reach that astonishing conclusion?”
“I’m fluent in French,” she said, evidently — perhaps deliberately — misinterpreting his sarcasm for a genuine query.
“So am I,” he replied, unimpressed.
“I can cook.”
“I have a cook.”
“I’m very efficient in the managing of a household.”
“As is my housekeeper.”
“I have served as hostess at my father’s parties, affairs that included as many as one hundred guests. Furthermore,” she rushed on before he could comment, “I would not be a burden to you financially. As I mentioned earlier, I have a steady income from the rents on this space, and the auctioneer from Pindler and Sons has informed me that I may make as much as two hundred pounds from the sale of the furnishings. Perhaps even two hundred and fifty pounds—”
“Can you breed?”
“I beg your pardon.” She studied him with an expression of queenly disdain, plainly giving him an opportunity to retract his words. When he didn’t, she brought up her chin and turned away, muttering in a tone of maidenly outrage, “What a vulgar question.”
He lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “Yours is a vulgar proposition. Besides, you’re forgetting what a man wants most when he takes a wife.”
“Love?”
He nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. “You neglected to mention a sense of humor while regaling me with your considerable attributes.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t—”
“An heir.”
“Oh. I hadn’t considered… that is…” Her voice faltered and came to a stumbling stop. An expression of open dismay showed on her face. But she quickly rallied herself and lifted her gaze to meet his. “We would need to make some… arrangement for that, wouldn’t we?”
“As far as I know, there is only one arrangement for that sort of thing. A myriad of creative possibilities when it comes to style and satisfaction, but just one basic arrangement.”
He was being deliberately crude, measuring her reaction.
To his considerable amazement, she met his challenge with cool aplomb. “I am familiar with the ways of intimacy between a man and a woman,” she replied succinctly, with barely a blush marring the porcelain perfection of her skin.
So she wasn’t a virgin. Very well. Neither was he. He wouldn’t hold that against her.
“May I speak plainly, Lord Barlowe?” she asked.
He arched his brows in an expression of mock astonishment. “Do you mean to say that you haven’t been?”
A small smile curved her lips, but it was clear by her distracted manner that her thoughts had taken another direction. She stood and moved away from him, fiddling for a moment with a hodgepodge of ornamental bric-a-brac that cluttered an oversize bureau.
She turned to him and said, “We are outcasts in society, you and I. I have no dowry. I am a burden to what little family I do have. My name has been permanently besmirched — as evidenced by the quality of suitors who have asked for my hand. And as for you” — she paused, looking him directly in the eye — “I remember well what happened after the fire on your property. It wasn’t long before the initial tide of sympathy turned against you, and you were vilified by all of London, condemned for awful loss of life and the callous disregard you showed in forcing your servants to live in such close confines. It was even rumored that you deserved your scars, for they mark you as the Beast you truly are.”
Morgan tensed. He had heard all the rumors, of course, but never had they been so baldly tossed in his face. “Are you always this outspoken, Miss Prentisse?”
She lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “I say these things not to incite your anger — nor so that we may wallow together in self-pity — but so we may examine the facts as they exist. Perhaps things might have been different once, but now we have no choice but to accept our lot and move forward. I believe we can help each other. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be here tonight.”
He regarded her in cool silence. Finally he said, “Marriage to a total stranger seems a rather desperate measure, does it not?”
“I’ve given the matter considerable thought, and I fear it is my only solution,” she replied. “Living with my aunt and uncle is growing more intolerable every day. As I mentioned earlier, I have some income, but I would need to augment that sum in order to fully support myself. I had intended to search for a position as a governess, but it would take too long to secure a post. And short of taking another name, I’m afraid the scandal of my family’s past would make finding work difficult.”
Morgan contemplated that. Even if she could find a post, it would mean spending the rest of her life in dull seclusion. Furthermore, if the man was married and his wife had any sense, she would never allow a woman who looked like Julia Prentisse to live under their roof. The temptation would simply be too great.
Aloud he said only, “Very commendable. Boring work, but a respectable occupation nonetheless.”
“I also thought of opening a shop. I’ve been told I’m rather clever with lace and feathers when it comes to decorating a hat—”
“We’re full of all sorts of brash plans, aren’t we, princess?”
Anger flashed across her face. “This is difficult enough as it is. If you mean to say no, I would appreciate your doing so without demeaning me further.”
Morgan studied her a moment longer, as though she were an object he was about to acquire. Amazing the paths life took. He had once been known as London’s most notorious rake. Now he was seriously contemplating marriage to a bluestocking reformer. But he could do worse. Much worse. His gaze moved slowly over t
he sculpted curves of her body beneath her shimmering gown, the flaming richness of her hair, the perfection of her delicate features. Even in the heat of anger, she was lovely.
And then there was the matter of Lazarus.
Lazarus.
If marrying Julia Prentisse meant finding the man who had set his servants’ quarters ablaze, it was well worth the cost — any cost.
That decided, he rose abruptly to his feet. “Your address?”
When the question drew nothing but a blank stare, he prompted, “Your uncle’s address?”
Her eyes widened with startled disbelief, then she gave him the location.
“Very good.” He gave a tight nod. “You may inform him I’ll be paying a call tomorrow morning.”
“Does this mean…”
He paused at the door and turned back. “Don’t sell the gowns. The pale green would be a very suitable choice for our wedding ceremony.”
CHAPTER THREE
Her hand was trembling. Julia tried to control her reaction, but it seemed the more she focused on that quivering appendage, the more it seemed to shake. Morgan St. James had to be aware of her reaction — he was holding her hand, after all — but his expression indicated little interest or concern for the precarious state of her emotions.
“With this ring I thee wed,” he said. His voice conveyed the same level of emotional intensity one might hear if reading aloud a bill of lading.
At the minister’s nod he slid a thick gold band onto the fourth finger of her left hand. Centered in the band was a dazzling, square-cut sapphire wreathed by glittering diamonds.
Julia’s mind reeled with disbelief. A wedding ring. It was all happening so quickly. Less than a week had passed since their initial meeting, yet in that time Morgan had operated with brisk efficiency, meeting her uncle to obtain his permission for their nuptials, securing a special license for their betrothal, locating a church in which the ceremony could be performed, and making arrangements with a minister to officiate.
Despite the discretion with which Morgan had moved, rumors had nevertheless flown throughout London that the Beast was about to take a bride. The church was packed with gossips and curiosity-seekers, all of whom had come to witness for themselves an event that was being touted as the spectacle of the year.
“With all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he continued evenly. “With my body I thee worship.”
His words echoed off the church walls, rebounding all around them.
Julia’s hand shook even harder. Morgan St. James. Was it true what people said about him? She gazed at the long fingers that held her in his grip. The skin there was taut, deeply scarred, red and angry. Did the rest of his body look the same? A shudder tore through her at the thought. For a moment the urge to run was so overpowering, she almost succumbed to the impulse to flee the church. Morgan must have somehow divined her shameful thoughts, for in that instant his mouth tightened to a grim line, and he loosened his hold on her hand.
Startled, she lifted her eyes to his. He looked icily remote, as though the question of whether she fled — leaving him alone at the altar with more than a hundred spectators to witness his humiliation — or stayed to become his wife was one of supreme indifference to him.
Julia became dimly aware that the minister was asking her a question. She tore her attention away from Morgan to focus on the words being spoken. Would she take him for her lawfully wedded husband? Her silence lasted perhaps only a second or two, yet as she held Morgan’s gaze, it seemed to stretch out between them into infinity.
She took a deep breath, and then answered in a soft voice that sounded completely unlike her own, “I will.”
The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur. She repeated the minister’s words by rote, as though she were a mere witness to the ceremony rather than an actual participant. Then it was over. The minister placed their hands together and declared them man and wife. Morgan signed his name on the register; she did the same.
It was customary for a new bride and groom to be received with cheers, applause, greetings of goodwill, and perhaps even a bawdy joke or two when first presented to a congregation. Julia had attended enough weddings to know that. But as she and Morgan turned and faced their audience, nothing but stony silence greeted them, punctuated occasionally by an indiscreet whisper or the flutter of fan.
It was an uncommonly warm day, and the crush of bodies only intensified the heat within the small church. But Julia found the silence even more oppressive than the temperature. It seemed to carry with it a weight of callous censure and scorn, as though she and Morgan had turned themselves into the sort of pitiful misfits normally found accompanying a traveling carnival.
Her gaze moved to her own family, who were seated in the front pews. Uncle Cyrus, dour and disapproving as ever, was dressed in a grim black suit that looked as though it should be reserved exclusively for funeral rites. Aunt Rosalind, who had made the unfortunate choice of a lavender taffeta gown that wilted in the stifling heat, looked as though she might faint at any moment. Her cousins, Theresa and Marianne, regarded her with expressions of pained endurance, as though the whole affair were nothing but one further embarrassment to be suffered through on her behalf.
With an air of total disregard for their reception, Morgan wordlessly took her arm and ushered her down the main aisle. They exited the church and stepped out into the brilliant July sunshine. His coach and driver were waiting at the bottom of the steps; a second vehicle was parked directly behind it for her family’s use. Morgan handed her into his coach and immediately followed, pulling the door closed behind him.
Shortly thereafter the driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. As the team of chestnut geldings began to pull into traffic, Julia protested, “Shouldn’t we wait until my aunt and uncle—”
“Your uncle is familiar with the arrangements. He’ll follow us.”
The words were spoken in a clipped, no-nonsense manner that left little room for argument. Julia would have pressed her point nonetheless, had the issue mattered to her. But as their destination was a wedding breakfast with the sole participants being herself, Morgan, and her family — an event she looked upon with dread rather than anticipation — she let it go.
She turned her attention to the happenings outside the coach. They made their way east, skirting the well-heeled patrons and expensive shops and restaurants that lined Regent Street, then continued north through the boisterous, bustling crowds that filled Covent Garden. As they neared Mayfair and Grosvenor Square, a dignified quiet settled over the streets.
With little left for her to see but the strikingly similar facades of the mansions they passed, Julia returned her attention to the other occupant of the coach, Morgan St. James.
Her husband.
Her plan had worked perfectly. She had avoided her uncle’s odious suitors and taken a husband of her own choosing. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that they were truly married caused a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous wonder.
She cast a discreet glance at the stranger she had married. Morgan was engaged in the same pastime that had previously occupied her: watching the scenery pass as they drove toward his home. Conscious of the silence that resonated between them, she decided to strike up a conversation.
“The ring is beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”
For a moment it appeared he hadn’t heard her, so total was his absorption in the view outside the carriage. But after a minute he slowly turned to face her. “I don’t blame you.”
She regarded him in blank confusion. “I beg your—”
A small, cynical smile curved his lips. “Were I in your position, I would have wanted to run as well.”
She could think of no reply, nor did any seem appropriate. So she did the only thing she could think of. She turned away, directing her attention outside the carriag
e once again.
Seconds later the coach slowed before a large tract of land that was markedly different from the homes that surrounded it. There was no elegant facade, no neatly manicured lawn, no smoothly paved drive. Instead, all that could be seen was a tall iron gate connected by imposing brick columns that encircled the property. Thick, thorny vines had woven their way through the iron rails, obliterating any view of what was contained within.
Julia went cold at the sight. Had she escaped one hell only to make herself a prisoner in another? As most of London knew, the gate that circled the St. James estate had been erected shortly after the fire. With its appearance — and further isolation of the man within — rumors had begun to spread throughout the city as to exactly what was behind those gates.
The Beast.
Embarrassed by her own foolishness, she pushed the thought away with an irritated sigh. Ridiculous. She had researched the man carefully. Hadn’t Morgan’s own servants spoken well on his behalf? Furthermore, she was here of her own free will. This was entirely her choice, her decision.
Nevertheless, as the broad gates opened to admit them, her breath caught in her throat and her heart thundered at twice its normal tempo. This step — entering what was to be her home for the remainder of her days — seemed far more final than any she had taken to date, including the wedding vows they had exchanged earlier. She had once read an account written by a man who had been sentenced to life imprisonment. In his recollection, it wasn’t the sentencing itself that had caused him to break down. The stark, cold realization of what was happening to him had come when the metal bars of his cell clanged shut behind him.
And so it was for her.
Perhaps because that grim analogy filled her mind, because she had prepared herself for the worst, the reality that greeted her was all the more startling. Stretching out as far as her eye could see were lush green lawns that rolled over gently sloping hills. Stone pathways traversed the grounds, leading to pockets of tall, shady trees and intimate gardens that bloomed with a riot of color. She noted a brook that meandered across the property from north to south, and a formal, bubbling fountain centered in the courtyard to the west of Morgan’s estate.
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