He raised his hands once again. “Point taken.”
“I have some conditions of my own, Captain.”
“You have the dagger.” He raised an eyebrow. “State your demands.”
“Captain Pryce, I require your word.”
Morgan’s gut went cold. How could she possibly know what his word meant to him?
He forced himself to grin fiercely. “You can have as many words as you like, love. But you should know you can never trust a bastard.”
“You play the brigand, but you forget.” She continued to fix him with her angelic blue eyes. “I know how much Neville respects you. My Neville would never trust a bounder. So I require your word. You will not make advances on me again. Do you agree?”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh. Morgan showed no sign of his vast relief. He could keep his hands to himself easily enough. That didn’t make her safe from him.
This conniving female had no idea what she was up against. “You have my word that I will not make advances on you again.”
In reply, she merely slid off his lap, then handed him his dagger, hilt first. With a regal nod, she turned, picked up her sagging skirts with one hand, and floated serenely from the room.
Morgan had to swallow hard at the sight of her undone gown dropping to reveal the delicate curve of her spine. She seemed so vulnerable in her mussed dignity.
Which was no doubt precisely her intention. God, he was going to have to be on his toes against her connivances!
No matter the lady’s manipulation, he would abide by his own code. Then again, there was nothing stopping him from turning on the old sailor swagger, which had never yet let him down.
By the time he was done with Bliss Worthington Pryce, she would be making all the advances needed.
Chapter 8
IN her hijacked bedchamber, Bliss shut the door behind her with a sigh. Need she lock it as well?
Captain Pryce had given his word. Either he would abide by it, or she wasn’t safe in his house, even in the middle of the day. She decided to put her faith in his honor and left the key unturned.
The room was icy and dark. She had the benefit of predawn light coming through the window draperies. It was enough to find the edge of the sheet protectively draped over the bed and pull it off. Waving one hand against the dust rising, she allowed her other hand to release the sagging bodice of her wedding gown at last.
The beautifully worked beading made the bodice heavy. It slipped down at once. Bliss removed the gown carefully, shivering as she lost the warmth of the heavy satin skirts. Although the calendar might claim summer, London was cold when it rained.
No matter. She would warm quickly enough in the bed.
After draping her lovely bridal gown over the single chair next to the cold, blackened hearth, she lifted the covers and slid between them. Captain Pryce wasn’t one for luxury, as evidenced by the rest of his furnishings, but to her surprise the sheets were silken and fine, probably the best India cotton she had ever experienced.
Morgan Pryce seemed like a reasonable man, as much as men could be expected to be reasonable. Bliss tried very hard not to think about the astonishing, heart-pounding kiss. After all, she was sure that Neville kissed very nicely, too, even though he had never actually made any move to do so.
Morgan Pryce was an odd man, certainly. The monastic condition of his home notwithstanding, as the recognized bastard of the former duke, Morgan should be a wealthy man.
He was certainly a confusing one. So much like dear Neville—yet so opposite. He was hard where Neville was gentle. He was sharp where Neville was gracious. He was altogether more difficult to influence than Neville would be. Not that she would ever try to persuade Neville to do something that was bad for him. It was just that men never seemed to know what was good for them!
This might take more time than she thought.
Then again, Neville had lived his life as the treasured heir. Morgan had been pushed to the edges, always without, looking in. Bliss knew a bit about that as well.
I like him. I shouldn’t like him, but I do.
That and the dire need for a good sweeping for the entire house were her last thoughts before she succumbed to the exhaustion of her rather trying wedding night.
• • •
DOWNSTAIRS, MORGAN TOSSED uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to ignore the taste of a woman on his lips, his first taste in months.
As much as he scorned that Worthington wench, he had to admit that she’d been brave to hold him off with a knife. It was no coy maneuver, either. He was quite certain that if he had pursued the matter, there would have been some bloodshed—considerably more than one drop.
He reminded himself that she guarded her virtue because she hoped for an annulment. He wondered what would happen if she decided that seducing Morgan would get her what she wanted. Not that it would work, of course. Still, he’d be happy to let her try.
Now, wouldn’t that be interesting? All that fair silken skin revealed to his curiosity? All that tender, rounded flesh pressed to his? She looked like a milk-fed angel, but she kissed like a starving siren. What else would she do if she was aroused enough?
Wearily, he sank into a restless sleep, dreaming of his fingers twining in imaginary golden hair.
Chapter 9
GO on. Better sooner than later.
It was only a few hours past dawn, but Morgan had found he could sleep no longer. Not that one could consider tossing and turning on a too-short sofa actual sleep.
Now he was fully dressed and dawdling over his grooming, dreading what came next. Yet how could he rest easy when matters between himself and Neville were so awry?
“I knew I could count on you, my brother.”
Morgan gave a last impatient yank to the knot in his cravat and regarded his image in the speckled mirror over the parlor mantel. I did my best.
The face in the mirror only scowled. A ship’s captain didn’t allow his emotions to show on his face. When the tropical winds threatened to snap the masts, when the waves towered over the deck, the crew needed him to stand like a rock at the wheel without a shadow of apprehension on his brow.
Neville was just going to have to understand. Or not. Either way, the Duke of Camberton had been saved from his own youthful poor judgment. Family duty had been done.
God, he hoped Neville would understand. His place as captain left him with no ability to be a friend to his crew. His place as bastard did not allow him to truly join with the ton. Lord Oliver was family in name only. Morgan knew that his uncle tolerated him merely as long as he produced for the fleet and as long as he remembered his place.
Neville was the only person on earth who called him Morgan, who smiled in greeting when he arrived, and who embraced him unashamedly when he left. But that was before Bliss Worthington ruined everything.
I did the right thing.
As soon as he actually believed it, he would stop saying it to himself.
As he left the quiet house, he could not help glancing up at the window of “his” bedchamber. He’d not expected to be so attracted to Neville’s little gold digger. No matter what Morgan might wish, last night’s kiss had changed matters. And while Bliss had not screamed or fainted at his rough advances, neither had she reacted like a skilled seductress.
Oddly, that had made him like it all the more.
And if he was not mistaken, she had liked it as well. There remained the fact that he needed to secure her virtue before she could wrangle her way out of the marriage while adhering to his vow to remain a gentleman.
Damn, he wished he hadn’t made that promise. He would have to wear her down through other means.
At that thought, his lips quirked and his step lightened on the walk to Camberton House.
Women liked rogues. Women loved ship captains. But what every woman truly wanted, Morgan had long
ago realized, was a pirate of her very own!
• • •
BLISS OPENED HER eyes. The aged but pretty canopy that should be over her bed in Worthington House was missing. She rolled her head to one side to frown at the simple dressing table and row of rustic pegs on one wall. Pegs for clothing. She hadn’t seen that since Old Dally’s farmhouse—but Dally would never allow dust to build up so!
Then Bliss peered closer to see that from one peg hung a pair of gentleman’s drawers. Old Dally wouldn’t have those, either.
But Captain Pryce would. Her husband.
“Husband,” Bliss said out loud, trying it out. No. The only husband she wanted was her dearest Neville. Her plan had gone awry. Obstacles had been laid in her path. But, as she well knew, obstacles could be overcome.
No one was going to make that happen but her. As usual.
With fresh determination, she threw back her covers to swing her feet over the side of the bed. It seemed as though she’d only slept for a few minutes. In her chemise, she walked to the window to take a surreptitious peek at the day through the heavy draperies.
Captain Pryce passed directly beneath her window. Bliss did not draw back, although she did tilt her head out of the light as she watched him walk. He looked very fine in his gold-buttoned sea captain’s coat and his black boots. Dashing, even.
Then his deep blue eyes flicked upward to her window. He could not see her. It was impossible, for her room was dark against the bright light of day and she peered through the narrow gap in the draperies—yet his gaze lanced into her, making her gasp.
This time she did involuntarily duck away. After a breath or two, with her hand pressed to her middle to soothe her leaping stomach, she stepped back to the window. The captain was long gone, of course.
She saw by the place of the sun that it must have been only a few hours since she fell into bed so exhausted. That explained why she didn’t feel well rested, but it was no excuse for dallying about in her underthings.
When she’d risen, a very practical portion of her mind noted that dust rose from the coverlet. The floor of the chamber was like ice on her bare feet.
As she had noticed the night before, Captain Pryce was not one to keep servants about. Very well. Bliss didn’t need anyone to help her dress.
Except that the only thing she had to wear was her wedding gown. With her hands full of satin and the taste of disappointed hopes in her mouth, she set it aside. Instead, she rummaged in the drawers of the chest and found a dark blue silk gentleman’s dressing gown. The fabric was frail with age, but it had once been fine.
She wrapped herself in the stiffened silk and slipped her shoes upon her feet. Upon exploration of the empty house, she found more than the kitchen, dining room, and bedchamber she had already seen. There was a parlor with faded wallpaper, its furnishings draped in canvas. There was a gentleman’s study, somewhat more recently used, but still worn and outdated.
Someone who cared had once lived here, it was plain. A lady, Bliss thought. There was a refinement to the choice of little things, though they were not expensive things. Strange birds stood arranged on the mantel, not silver or even china, but beautifully carved of some exotic wood. Drapes and rather plain carpets of complementary hues, if not the finest weave.
Bliss continued to wander about, dragging her finger through the dust that had collected on every surface—every molding, every table, every mantel.
Eventually, she found herself in an attic. It was mostly empty and dim, lit only by a bit of sunlight filtered through a single soot-covered window. There, in the far corner, was a wardrobe.
Bliss opened it and pulled out a bundle of muslin that turned out to be two outdated workaday gowns. Holding them up, she could tell they would be a bit too long on her frame and definitely too small in the bodice, but they would be better suited to housekeeping than either a silk wedding dress or a man’s dressing gown.
Bliss dressed, deciding that if fate had brought her to this place, there was no point in tolerating unpleasant surroundings. While not entirely filthy, the house was an example of what Bliss privately called “man-clean,” and in dire need of a female’s sense of order and balance.
Because Worthingtons always remained prepared for anything, she was not without resources. With a bit of effort, she could do much with what she had.
With her mission clear in her mind, Bliss put on her white cloak and left the little house in search of a few amenities. Perhaps if Captain Pryce saw what a good, practical wife she could be, he would reconsider his opinion of her intentions toward Neville. And, while he ate her excellent cooking and slept on clean sheets, she would bat her eyes and inhale deeply and convince him that he was absolutely wrong about her.
Not the most worthy of methods, perhaps, but she was a Worthington and she intended to do whatever was necessary to undo this horrible mistake of a marriage.
Furthermore, she liked a clean house and a full larder. So, for as long as this rather unpleasant situation continued, there would be one person she was determined to please.
Herself.
• • •
THE VISIT TO Camberton House wasn’t as bad as Morgan had expected. It was far, far worse.
First of all, he was shown into a very formal parlor that he’d never before spent much time in. Lord Oliver used it to impress certain advantageous people, but Neville had always preferred the overstuffed family parlor that, while still exquisitely tasteful, didn’t make one feel as though one shouldn’t actually sit on the furniture.
This forest green and mahogany room cried out wealth and status in every end table and ornament. Even the crystal decanters on the side table shimmered like diamonds. Morgan had never before been called up on this particular carpet by his uncle, and at first he thought Regis, the stout, stone-faced Camberton butler, had put him here by mistake.
But Regis didn’t make mistakes. Ever.
Then Morgan waited for more than an hour. It didn’t take that entire period of time for him to realize that someone, either Oliver or Neville, wished he would just leave.
With a small, grim smile, he parked his rear on the priceless velvet and gilt settee and stretched his boots out across the imported Chinese carpet as if he were the king of this particular castle. If they wanted him gone, they would have to throw him out personally.
When the door finally opened, it was Neville who appeared. But it was a Neville Morgan had never before encountered. Neville was drunk. And not companionably steamed as he’d been the night before, tossing down a few extra whiskeys after dinner, but ghastly, angry drunk.
“Out!” Neville turned and barked the dismissal at Regis with the snarling abandon of a man who’d lost everything.
Oh hell.
It looked as though this wasn’t going to go well at all.
Neville fixed his reddened gaze on Morgan. “Why are you here?”
“Good morning to you, too, Your Grace.”
At this point, Neville would normally laugh off his title and remind Morgan that he preferred Morgan’s boyhood nickname for him, Nev. “Not Neville. I hate Neville,” he’d say. “It sounds like ‘snivel,’ don’t you think?”
Since Neville had been their father’s name, Morgan had no real fondness for it. But young Neville had adored the old duke with all the passionate longing only a barely acknowledged child can feel for a distant parent. Yet Neville hated their father’s name . . .
That was something Morgan would have to ponder at a later date. Right now there was a younger, slighter duke before him who seemingly wanted to tear his throat out.
Over that scheming, golden-haired seductress?
Women!
“Uncle Oliver told me what you did. Why? How—” For an instant Neville’s rage faltered and the heartbroken young man shone through. “How could you do such a thing . . . to me?”
“I did it for
you.” Morgan kept his tone low, but not cajoling. One wrong move and Neville might break apart right in front of him. “You were about to make a terrible mistake.”
Neville drew back, his expression closing against his heartbreak. “Mistake? I didn’t even know about this elopement you trapped Bliss into!”
“And if you had? What would you have done? You would have been standing in that bloody freezing church at midnight instead of me, endangering yourself and Camberton for the rest of your life!”
“I would not!” He halted, then shook his head like a dog shaking off water. “No—I mean, yes, I would have wedded Bliss Worthington in a heartbeat, had I known she was willing—God, to think that she wanted me so badly that she was willing to sneak our wedding past Uncle Oliver—”
“That’s hardly the point,” Morgan said drily. “Every unmarried woman in England would line up at your door in a quick second, if you even mentioned you were in want of a wife. You’re the bloody duke!”
“That’s not—I didn’t mean that—it’s just that she’s so independent, so sure of herself—I didn’t think she really wanted someone like—”
His befuddlement faded abruptly. He turned on Morgan once more. “She did want me—and I wanted her! Oliver said he thought you were jealous of me. What, you couldn’t stand me getting one more thing you couldn’t have?”
Morgan nodded. He’d wondered if Oliver would blame him in order to keep the peace in Camberton House. It was something the old duke used to do now and then, putting his own unpopular decisions on Morgan when it was really Neville he was trying to curtail.
It had worked, to some degree. The old duke had been remotely fond of his good son, more so than he was of the son he’d had with a passionate, headstrong Welsh woman. Although Morgan knew that his father had come to respect his prowess at sea, he’d not lived to see Morgan make captain. Beyond a small twinge of regret for a relationship he’d never had, Morgan had not mourned the old fellow.
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