The house itself was classic in design, with tall columns, an ornate oak door, and broad steps composing the facade. Constructed of bricks it had been painted a dazzling white that seemed to shimmer in the summer sunlight. Black shutters flanked the windows; matching black window boxes were bursting with bold crimson geraniums and neatly trimmed ivy.
She turned to him and smiled. “It’s lovely.”
A look of cynical amusement touched his features. “What did you expect?”
Refusing to be intimidated yet again, she replied honestly, “A deteriorating estate with crumbling walls, shutters hanging askew, rotted steps, and broken window-panes. I thought it would be surrounded by dying trees that cast ghostly shadows on the walls, and dismal gardens that had long since withered with neglect.”
“How very dramatic. I fear I disappoint you.”
“You surprise me.”
For a moment she thought she saw something other than cool indifference in his gaze. But the expression, whatever it was, vanished too quickly for her to be certain. As the carriage shuddered to a stop a footman was instantly at the door, pulling it open. Morgan stepped out first, then turned and assisted Julia. They stood together in silence for a moment, contemplating the broad steps that led to the front door.
“I believe we can dispense with the customary carrying of the bride over the threshold,” he announced.
The implication that she had been expecting him to do exactly that was clear. Biting back a stab of annoyance, she matched his cool tone. “I would be exceedingly grateful.”
“In that case, shall we?”
Julia lifted her skirts and wordlessly preceded him up the stairs. Once she reached the entrance, the door swung open almost instantly. Waiting within the main foyer was a small army of servants, all immaculately dressed and standing in the tight, orderly formation of troops waiting to be reviewed.
She arched one brow and shot a silent, questioning glance at Morgan.
He shrugged. “I thought we might see to the introductions straightaway.”
“How very efficient.”
Taking her words for assent, he addressed his waiting staff. “I present your new mistress, my bride, Viscountess Barlowe. I would have you serve her as you would serve me. What she wishes is what I would wish. What she would have done is what I would have done. Please her, and you will have pleased me.”
His words were brisk and concise. But to Julia, who hadn’t the faintest notion of what her place would be in his household, they were deeply reassuring. At her request, his remarks were followed by personal introductions. Aside from the few faces she recognized from her earlier encounters, she knew she couldn’t possibly remember the name of every housemaid, parlormaid, scullery-maid, chambermaid, and dairymaid; nor that of every footman, butler, cook, groomsman, and gardener. But she felt the attempt to offer a personal greeting to those with whom she would be living was at least a step in the right direction.
The introductions completed, the servants went back to their duties. “I expected your family would have joined us by now,” he said.
“Yes.” She cast an anxious glance out the front window, but there was no sign of the second coach. Facing the inevitable, she let out a sigh and sent Morgan an apologetic smile. “Given that he has temporarily retained a private coach, Uncle Cyrus may have decided to run a few errands before joining us.” The obvious implication — that her uncle was too miserly to lease a coach of his own, selfish enough to take advantage of Morgan’s hospitality, and rude enough to keep them waiting for their own wedding breakfast — was undeniably true. But stating it so baldly did not shed the best light on the situation. Therefore she added hastily, “With this heat it’s so difficult to find a coach for hire. I’m sure you understand.”
Judging by Morgan’s expression, he did understand. All too well. But his only reply was “If we are to wait, perhaps we would be more comfortable doing so on the veranda.”
He led her through a maze of long hallways and elegant rooms to an informal back parlor that was filled with chintz-covered sofas, enormous bookcases, and pretty floral rugs. A set of tall French doors at the far end of the room opened onto a shady veranda that overlooked the gardens below. She moved immediately to the banister, leaning out over the rail to more fully enjoy a soft breeze that chose just that moment to stir. Unfortunately the breeze died away as quickly as it had erupted, leaving nothing but the stifling warmth of the day.
Behind her, Morgan asked, “Would you care for tea or something cooler?”
She turned to see one of the parlormaids she had met earlier standing just outside the glass doors, waiting for her reply. Julia sent her a soft smile. “Something cool, thank you.”
The maid gave a brief curtsy and turned to obey. As the girl left, Morgan abandoned his place near the rear of the veranda and moved closer, positioning himself to receive the shade of a potted palm. A slight frown touched Julia’s lips as she considered the movement. In each instance they had been together, Morgan St. James seemed to surround himself with shadows, whether it was a matter of pulling the coach shade partially closed or taking up a position in a darkened corner of a room. The maneuver was subtle but consistent. Was it an acquired habit, she wondered, or something that he consciously thought about?
“Tell me more about your Uncle Cyrus,” he said.
The topic surprised her, both in its boldness and in the rather odd subject matter. Now that they were alone, she had expected to be immediately questioned about Lazarus.
She lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “Are you always this inquisitive?”
“Yes. Every time I marry, I succumb to a strange desire to know my bride.”
A small smile touched her lips. In admitting their situation was as bizarre to him as it was to her, his words had an unexpected calming effect. Realizing she had little to hide or defend, she replied, “My Uncle Cyrus was my father’s older brother. The two were never close. As a result, our families had very little contact. Thus it was difficult for all of us when I was suddenly thrust into their midst — particularly given the circumstances.”
“I would imagine so.” He shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the balcony rail. “I met Cyrus Prentisse some years ago. At the time he was most interested in pressing the suit of his daughters. They were quite young then, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen, but he was already prowling about searching for husbands for them.”
An image of her cousins, both of whom had inherited their mother’s blond beauty, flashed before her. “They’re quite lovely,” she said.
“So I was informed. Repeatedly.”
She smiled again. “I fear Uncle Cyrus sometimes appears overly zealous when it comes to the matter of their marriages. You see, he is determined that his daughters marry no less than a peer.” She paused, and then added mischievously, “Perhaps he was considering you for a candidate.”
“Actually, I was under the distinct impression that was the case. I’m afraid I disappointed him.” He regarded her quizzically. “Why the obsession with marrying a peer?”
Julia was surprised by the question. She had assumed that all of London had been subjected to her uncle’s dreary, dismal recital of how he had been denied his rightful place in society. “I’m afraid that requires a rather laborious answer.”
Morgan shot a glance toward the front gates. No sign of the coach was in sight. “It appears we have time.”
She followed his gaze and let out a soft sigh. “Yes. So we have.” She hesitated for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Finally she began. “The matter originated some six hundred years ago. My uncle was doing a bit of genealogical research and chanced to discover that the original Earl of Giffin did not die in the Crusades, as was assumed. Instead, he was badly wounded and languished for some years near Constantinople. There he met a Saxon woman who nursed him back to health. He took her for his wife, and they were blessed with a son. Eventually the earl recovered sufficiently to attem
pt the trip back to England. Unfortunately he never reached his home. The trip proved too great a strain for him, and he died in France.”
“And what of his son?”
“As he was only an infant at the time, it was up to his mother to press her son’s claim to the earl’s title. She attempted to do so, but despite the evidence she held of her son’s birthright, her claims were rejected. In time she gave up and returned to her own family.”
“I take it your uncle is a descendant of that neglected child.”
“A direct descendant,” she affirmed. “Had the original earl survived to reach England, in all likelihood Uncle Cyrus would now hold that title, rather than a mere baronet.” She paused, then continued lightly, “I suppose most men would have regarded the issue as an example of the fickle twist of fate, but to my uncle it was a matter of profound wrongdoing. He even went so far as to hire a solicitor to press his case before the High Court of Chancery.”
“What happened?”
A rueful smile touched her lips. “As you might imagine, the current Earl of Giffin was not keen on the idea of relinquishing his title and all his estates. Naturally he used the sum of his power to protect what is his. The claim was dismissed as being without merit.”
“Did your father participate in the suit?”
“My father?” She gave a startled laugh. “He thought it was an embarrassment and told my uncle so directly. Of course, that only deepened the rift between them.” She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “And that leads us back to the present day. Uncle Cyrus may have been denied his rightful place in society, but he is determined to secure a place in the peerage for Marianne and Theresa.”
“I see.”
Morgan’s gaze moved to the doorway, where a young maid stood balancing a silver tray. At his nod she stepped out onto the veranda and placed the tray on a small table, then exited without a word. He reached down, removed a tall, frosty glass from the tray, and passed it to Julia.
The glass was brimming with ice chips and felt wonderfully cool and moist to the touch. Fighting back an urge to press it against her cheeks and temples, she lifted it to her lips instead and took a sip of the contents. Lemonade. An icy concoction that was at once tart and sweet, a perfect antidote to the heat of the day.
As she drank, a fat drop of water trickled down the side of the glass. It plummeted off the bottom of the glass like a heavy raindrop, striking her collarbone. Before she could catch it, the droplet cascaded down the soft swell of her bosom, disappearing into the shadowy cleavage of her breasts. Mortified, Julia raised her eyes to Morgan’s, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
His gaze was locked on the exact point where the droplet had disappeared.
A sudden sensual tension surged between them, a tension that was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. She swallowed hard, searching for something to say to ease the awkwardness of the moment. Before she could speak, however, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“I’m glad you wore the pale green,” he said. “It becomes you.”
As usual, his expression was unreadable. Not certain how to respond, she set down her glass and turned away, directing her attention toward the fountain that bubbled in the courtyard, a gardener engaged in pulling weeds, two squirrels clucking over a single acorn. In short, anywhere but at the man she had married.
Unfortunately Morgan St. James wasn’t ready to be so easily dismissed. “You mentioned at the Devonshire House that we had met before, yet I don’t recall doing so.”
She gave a curt nod, forcing her gaze back to his. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” she replied, relieved to find that her tone was remarkably even. “It was a brief, inconsequential meeting. The occasion was Lady Catrell’s annual ball, and I recall the affair was quite a crush.”
As Julia spoke, the memory of that meeting surged to the front of her mind. She remembered the way Lady Catrell’s giddy whisper had filled her ear: Here he comes. Morgan St. James. Notorious rakehell. Despoiler of innocents. Beware. Beware. Yet even as she had pressed the warning upon her, Lady Catrell’s eyes had danced over Morgan’s form with a hungry intensity that radiated naked longing and desire. And Julia had waited, breathless, her heart in her throat as he had approached. A beautiful, strutting peacock in a sea of plain brown hens. He had greeted Julia politely. She had murmured a cordial response in return. He had excused himself and moved on.
Morgan seemed to be searching his mind, attempting to place their meeting. Apparently failing to do so, he changed the topic. “Your father was a captain, was he not? A merchant seaman.”
“Yes.”
“Then we have something in common. My ancestors earned their living by the sea as well.”
“Oh?”
“They were pirates. Quite successful ones at that.” Her shock must have shown on her face, for a small smile curved his lips as he said, “You didn’t believe my family came by all this wealth honorably, did you?”
In truth, she hadn’t considered his wealth at all. What surprised her was his bald admission of its source. Most men in his position would have taken great pains to hide that. Assuming a light, teasing tone, she said as much.
Although his smile didn’t fade, an icy chill returned to his gray eyes. “Yes. I do have my reputation to protect, don’t I?” He turned away before she could reply, fixing his gaze on the heavy iron gates to his estate as they groaned open. “It appears your family has decided to join us at last. Shall we go and greet them?”
Julia watched the carriage swing up the drive. At that moment she experienced an emotion she had never in her life dreamed possible.
She was actually happy to see her Uncle Cyrus.
Moonlight drifted in through the broad windows of Julia’s bedroom, casting silvery shadows over the apple green silk of her bedspread and curtains. Like every other room in the house, the decor was impeccable, from the Aubusson carpets that covered the floor to the collection of fine porcelain vases that sat atop a corner dresser. Still, a slight frown touched her lips as she surveyed the room, for it was startlingly devoid of any semblance of warmth. She had felt much the same way when the housekeeper had shown her through the remainder of the estate earlier that afternoon. Expensive. Immaculate. Profoundly empty.
She let out a sigh and glanced about her bedchamber, looking for something to occupy her thoughts. A stack of books had been thoughtfully placed on the nightstand beside her bed, but she was too restless to read. The delicate corner desk was well stocked with exquisite linen parchment and pen and ink, but there was no one to whom she wanted to write. She had even discovered a deck of playing cards, but she was not in the mood for that frivolous pastime.
On the southern wall was a set of narrow doors that opened onto a small balcony. Julia moved toward them and stepped outside, hoping to catch a breeze. The heat of the day had faded only slightly. A heavy, sticky warmth still clung to the air, impervious to the night. She ran her hand along the balcony rail, considering the day’s events. She was married and therefore removed from her uncle’s authority. The wedding breakfast had passed tolerably well. The home in which she was to live was lovely.
All things considered, she should have been quite happy. But she couldn’t shake the subtle, clinging discontent that hung over her. Shortly after her family had departed, Morgan had disappeared into his study and she had not seen him since. He had not even appeared at supper, leaving her to dine alone at a table that could easily accommodate twenty.
She was, she realized, profoundly lonely. She missed her parents, she missed her home, she missed her two Yorkshire terriers, she missed… her life. Her fingers moved automatically to the gold medallion she wore around her neck. Saint Rita. Patron saint of the impossible. But she could not think of a single prayer or wish that would do her any good at the moment.
Suddenly disgusted with her own misery, she brought up her chin as steel resolve coursed through her. Tomorrow would be better, she vowed. Tomorrow she would—
A soft, insistent kn
ocking at her door interrupted her thoughts. Frowning slightly at the late hour, she padded in bare feet across the room and pulled open the door.
Morgan.
A startled gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it. She had not expected to see him until tomorrow morning — if then. Her gaze moved briefly over his form. With the exception of loosening his cravat, he was dressed in the same formal attire he had worn earlier.
“May I enter?” he asked.
Her thoughts immediately turned to her own clothing. She was dressed in a simple cotton nightrail and matching robe. She had removed the pins from her hair, releasing it from the elaborate arrangement she had worn earlier, but had not yet braided it for bed. It hung in loose, careless waves that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.
“I should dress,” she said.
“For bed?” He arched one dark brow as a tight, mocking grin touched his lips. “Given that we have embarked together into the sacred state of matrimony, I believe it entirely proper and acceptable that I see you in your nightrail.”
Something in his tone sent a tremor of nervous apprehension flooding through her belly. But short of refusing him entrance, there was little she could do. She forced a polite smile and stepped away from the door.
He strode into the center of her bedchamber, pausing for a moment as his gaze moved around the space. “I trust you find your room adequate?”
“It’s lovely, thank you.”
“I take it everything else is satisfactory as well?”
She hesitated. Rather than chastise him for having left her alone all day, she chose instead a softer approach. “I’m afraid I must have missed you at supper.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, as though suddenly reminded of the fact. “If you like, you might pass a note to Mrs. Nagle, the cook. Let her know when you prefer to dine, what you enjoy, that sort of thing.”
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