His Heart's Delight

by Mary Blayney

  ~ ~ ~

  It was obvious to Morgan that until he was less distracted he would not be able to concentrate on play sufficiently to best his opponent. Cartridge was newly arrived in Town, flush with his winnings from some absurd bet and anxious to increase his stake for the Season. If he played on, Morgan knew that the money Cartridge wanted would come from his pocket.

  There was nothing to do but withdraw and set out in search of Christiana Lambert, for it was their morning conversation that was keeping him from successful play.

  He was certain that the gods approved the decision when he met John Monksford on the steps of White’s, although he did not appreciate the opportunity at first. He merely exchanged a polite nod with Monksford and moved toward his curricle.

  Come to think on it, James had never explained the reason for the tension between Monksford and all things Braedon. Though Morgan could guess it centered on a woman. With that thought Morgan realized that Monksford could prove useful in this venture.

  After this morning, he was almost certain that Christiana might be inclined to ignore him if they passed on the street, but Miss Lambert would certainly acknowledge Lord Monksford and that would give him the opening he needed.

  He turned back and hailed Monksford in the foyer, which was empty now except for the footman awaiting Monksford’s hat and gloves. “My lord, I am bound for Pall Mall in hopes of finding Miss Christiana and her sister. I have word that they are at Schomberg House. Would you care to join me and attempt to search them out?”

  Monksford’s surprise was not particularly flattering.

  “It is pure self-interest,” Morgan explained. “I have particular need to see Miss Christiana and if you are with me, I will be able to have a private word with her as you will with Miss Lambert.”

  Monksford bowed to him slightly. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  His instant agreement was a surprise.

  “The truth is, Braedon, I have been hoping to have a word with you since our meeting at the Lamberts’ the other day.”

  Morgan was curious, but the street in front of the club was not the place for a conversation that might be less than complimentary. He had fairly given up on establishing a cordial relationship with the man.

  With unspoken agreement they mounted Morgan’s curricle and he turned the horses west from St. James.

  It was no distance to Pall Mall but the streets were crowded and Morgan was grateful for Monksford’s silence as he negotiated his way past other equipages and every matter of conveyance bringing goods to market. Only one pedestrian was foolish enough to challenge his right to the road. The mud spattered on that unfortunate’s coat was enough warning for all nearby.

  As they reached the arcade Morgan glanced at Monksford, who was searching the crowded entry with some alarm.

  “My machinations may be for naught, eh, Monksford? Is everyone in London shopping here today?”

  “So it would seem. Even if we are able to locate them, we may not have the opportunity for more than a greeting.”

  Morgan tossed the reins to his tiger with a word to wait until they were certain they were staying.

  Moving into the entrance, Morgan shook his head. “I did not think to ask which shop and I have never been here before.”

  “The convenience of Bond Street meets my needs better. This is so much more suited to browsing. I think the numbers could work to our advantage, though. Surely we will meet someone who has seen them.”

  As they moved through the crowd, Monksford slowed. “My lord, I would like to apologize for my rudeness the other day. I am never at my best when I am in your brother’s company.”

  It was a stiff little speech and Morgan was afraid that he spoiled it by laughing in Monksford’s face. “You are not alone, Monksford. James annoys the hell out of me five days of seven.”

  Monksford did not answer right away, but a slight smile acknowledged Morgan’s frankness. After a considering pause Monksford began. “I want to explain, my lord. I understand that the viscount is not the easiest of men, but I feel I owe you some explanation for my incivility. What happened between your brother and me was a long time ago and one would think it should no longer rankle.”

  Monksford looked around him and then seemed to travel back in time. “It is simple really. We were both courting the same woman. And she chose me.”

  Morgan wondered if Monksford was aware of the note of astonishment in his voice.

  He shrugged. “Marie loved Town life. She loved the Season, the shopping, and the people. She was happy enough in the country but she came to life in Town, rather more like Miss Christiana than her sister. Many people misunderstood that gaiety for something else. Your brother was one such and would not give up his courtship even though it was clear where her attachment lay.”

  He stopped a moment, as if sorting through the details. “It came to nothing. Marie was as loyal as she was flirtatious, but it embarrassed me. And in the end it embarrassed her.”

  He looked directly at Morgan, who was silent more in astonishment at this confidence than for want of words.

  “I am not a city man, Braedon. Nor am I a sophisticate, I make no claim to be. You can use me to further your own courtship because I allow it, but if you interfere with mine out of some misguided sense of family loyalty then I will have no qualms about bloodying your nose as I did your brother’s.”

  The last was spoken in a rush of defiance that took much of the power from his words. Morgan still did not speak. Amazing. So Monksford had bested James. Not only could this man be a friend, but a role model too.

  “Monksford, you need have no worry on that score. My family loyalty does not extend to using a lady as a source for revenge.” He bowed to Monksford, who acknowledged the courtesy with a nod.

  The two of them became more aware of their surroundings, and realized that the intensity of their conversation had attracted the attention of one or two of the ton.

  Morgan spoke slightly louder than absolutely necessary “I have an idea for exactly the sort of costume you should choose for the masquerade.”

  “Ponsonby’s masquerade?” Monksford rose to the occasion and followed his lead. “I have not given it a single thought.”

  Morgan had no doubt that was true. He lowered his voice again. “You do plan to attend?”

  “Miss Lambert will be there.”

  Morgan nodded. It was all the explanation necessary. “Just so, but it is essential that our costumes complement each other or the ploy will not work.”

  Monksford looked aghast. “We are to dress alike?”

  “No. No. We are to dress to compliment the Misses Lamberts.”

  “Ahhhh.” Monksford nodded with a slight smile of appreciation. “And you have a plan for finding out what their costumes are? Miss Lambert has made no mention of it and they do seem to be caught up in the need to surprise.”

  Morgan tapped his finger against his lip. “I’ll find a way.”

  They were passing a shop that specialized in tailoring for gentleman and Monksford stopped to eye a jacket, seemingly well made but in an unfortunate shade of gray.

  Morgan moved on and Monksford followed. “I would be delighted to introduce you to Weston, Monksford. His tailoring would suit you prodigiously.” By the time they spotted Christiana Lambert and her sister, it was clear that the two men did not have a care for anything more serious than the cut of a coat or the set of a shoulder, unless it was whether dark blue or bottle green would suit Monksford better.

  Morgan could only hope that Monksford was taking this conversation to heart. The olive green he was wearing today was not complimentary to his complexion, nor would it blend favorably with the green shade of Miss Lambert’s pelisse. Fortunately he knew that her awareness might make note of the ill-suited shade, but her vanity did not extend to anything as small-minded as ignoring Monksford because his choice of coats would not blend with hers.

  For Christiana, the millinery shop was a true test of her shopper’s
mettle and her new virtue of patience, but when they left, not thirty minutes later, Joanna handed the footman not one but two cumbersome boxes to carry. They agreed to go home immediately to make certain that the hat would match the dress as perfectly as they hoped.

  As they progressed to the entrance, Christiana listened as Sally gave the footman every detail of their modest adventure, with an impressive explanation of her bargaining ability. She really must remember to use that when Mama began to fret about the expense of it.

  They crossed the entire length of the floor, stairs, and front hall of Schomberg House. Sally was describing the hat Joanna had almost chosen instead, when Christiana heard her sister clear her throat and speak. “Good day, my lords.”

  Christiana did her best to keep her smile in place when she realized that Lord Morgan and Lord Monksfore were standing close by. Lord Morgan was looking splendid in a dark blue though not quite navy coat and a beaver of shining black. His smile drew one from her, but it faded and turned crooked when she remembered the last time they had been together.

  Why had Joanna acknowledged them? What was her sister thinking? She really was not ready to see Lord Morgan after her morning’s embarrassment The purchase of the hat had distracted her from further understanding of exactly what she should do, how she should handle this situation.

  She did not even know what kind of situation it was. Delicate? Absurd? And how foolish to be feeling something close to panic at the thought of conversation with him. Shoppers surrounded them and there were enough distractions on display to make anything more than casual conversation unnecessary.

  The surge of people moved around them with ill-concealed annoyance. By mutual consent the four began to move toward the doors as Joanna explained they were bound for the carriage and home but were in no true hurry.

  Christiana was feeling quite calm, enjoying herself actually, until Joanna turned to tell her that she and Monksford were going to the shop where they had seen the porcelain vase. “It will be just the thing to distract Mama from the fact that we are coming home with more than one new hat.”

  Morgan nodded but made no move to follow. Christiana wanted desperately to join them and it was not because she had no faith in Joanna’s bargaining ability. How rude of Lord Morgan not to ask her wishes in the matter. She most certainly did not wish to be alone with him again.

  They were within sight of the shop nearest the entrance. The display table was filled with fans, artfully spread so they showed to their best advantage. She craned her neck to see one that was tucked behind a monstrosity of silk and feathers. “One can see why these are at the entrance. They are so tempting. What a lovely fabric combination!” She stopped short of clapping her hands, trying for a more ladylike demeanor. “I think that silver one would be perfect for my costume for the Hawthorns’ masquerade.” Never mind that it would cost more than their entire Season in London.

  She chattered on, not even certain of what she was saying, but altogether certain that silence would be worse. Eventually she did have to pause for breath and Morgan made the most of it.

  They still stood before the fans. She thought that he was examining her favorite, but when she tried for a casual glance at him, she saw that he was looking directly at her.

  “D—do you think it would suit?” She blushed at the stammer and was even more embarrassed when he shook his head.

  “Christiana.”

  For some reason his use of her given name, for the first time, made her even more nervous. It had nothing to do with the frisson of pleasure that swept through her at the sound of her name on his lips.

  He spoke before she did, which was just as well since she was sure that all she could manage was a croak.

  “Whatever have I done to so upset you?”

  What should she say? He knew her well enough to know that her chattering was a way to avoid meaningful conversation. She knew him well enough to know that he would see through a lie. Besides, she hated the wretched self-consciousness that had plagued her since morning. She wanted to enjoy his company again, not dread it.

  She looked at him and found she could not quite speak with their eyes engaged. She looked away and spoke on a sigh that imbued her words with annoyance and regret. “You offered to dry my tears.”

  Eleven

  “I feared that might be the reason.”

  He spoke with such smugness that a bolt of anger shot through her. Did he know everything? “Oh, really?” There was an edge to her voice that she could not quite control. “Am I that transparent? Or is this sort of insight some superiority that comes to all men along with their vast experience of the world?”

  She cringed at her burst of temper. Was he not trying to address the very question to which she wanted an answer? His smile was in place, but did he realize that she could read the annoyance in his eyes, the way they narrowed slightly, as though he were trying to contain his anger. She bent her head, knowing her bonnet brim would keep her chagrin hidden from him.

  What was it about Lord Morgan that roused such extreme emotions in her, from totally distracting delight to a stubborn anger that she could not contain? Richard never irritated her that way.

  They stood without speaking. Christiana was afraid to open her mouth, since she was still torn between distress and an equally desperate need to beg his pardon.

  Morgan broke the silence, with a voice so quiet that she was forced to look at him directly to hear his words. “My dear, this is the second time in this still-young day that you have railed at me.” He bowed slightly. “I apologize.” He spoke the last words gravely. And then he smiled and when the smile reached his eyes, she could do nothing but smile back at him.

  He pulled the ends of her bonnet’s knotted bow. “Though in all honesty and like all men, I have absolutely no idea exactly what I am apologizing for.” He nodded again, this time short of a bow. “In that, women will always have the advantage. But I must tell you one more thing.” Now his grin disappeared from his lips, but the smile remained in his eyes and she could not resist leaning even closer so as not to miss his next insight.

  “If you continue to vent your anger on me when I have not earned it then I shall do the same to you and neither one of us will continue to enjoy each other’s company.”

  Well, Christiana decided, it might not be insight, but it certainly was the truth. “Indeed you are right, my lord.” She replied with a firmness she hoped conveyed her understanding. “To bicker constantly would make us exactly like brother and sister.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes, inviting his reply.

  “Brother and sister?” His voice was filled with amused disgust. “Not at all, Sprite. I thought we had done with that possibility hours ago. No, indeed, it would be worse than that. More like a married couple.” He paused and leaned closer so that she could feel his breath on the side of her neck. “Indeed, we would be bickering like a married couple and yet not entitled to any of the benefits of the married state. What could be worse than that?”

  She clapped her hands. How could a set-down make her laugh? But this one did. “Oh, my lord, you are shocking and wonderful and both at the very same time.”

  Lord Morgan took her arm and began walking with her toward the entrance. He continued from his earlier observation as if their more testy words had not occurred. “I can see you have thought about this morning’s meeting too much and not in quite the right way.” He was not looking at her, but rather scanning the crowd, as though he were watching for Joanna and Lord Monksford.

  “Sprite, if you will forgive my—what was the phrase you used”—he paused as if in thought—“ah yes, if you will tolerate for a moment my ‘masculine superiority’—do please consider our meeting in this way.”

  He bowed to an acquaintance, but continued walking. He was not looking at her, but his hand on her arm, the feel of his longer step matched to her more delicate one, was as particular a contact as his eyes on her face.

  “My dear Miss Lambert, I never once offered you
my handkerchief to dry your tears. I did not even suggest that you lean on my shoulder for comfort. I did not take your hand and press it to my heart. In truth, it did not even occur to me to pledge my life to see you smile again.” He paused and now he did look at her. She was not going to argue with him about this. Not when he was being so generous and gentle.

  “My dear, I did not do a single one of those things that would carry us over the boundary of propriety the ton has so carefully set. I merely wished, as any man would, that you not cry.” A smile colored his words, but there was sincerity behind the humor, not laughter. He made it sound as though his wish had been motivated by nothing more than a desperate self-interest.

  “In short, Sprite, you must admit, that while it may have been the most loverlike thing I have ever said to you, it was hardly worthy of the set-down you gave me then or the nerves you are feeling now.”

  “You are quite right.” She was almost convinced. “It is only that, despite how you make it sound now, it was so sweet a thing to have said. And, in truth, completely unlike any of our previous conversations.” Did his shrug mean that she was wrong or that the distinction was unimportant?

  “Is it not natural as we grow to know each other better that we speak with less reserve?”

  They certainly were now. Christiana looked around to see if anyone was watching them, but everyone entering seemed intent on their errands, and those leaving were engaged in groups of their own. Standing as they were, in an alcove near the entrance, they might as well have been alone.

  She had not answered him. On purpose. If they continued to flirt with more and more warmth then where would that lead? Before she even dared ask, Lord Morgan pressed on.

  “Certainly there is more to our acquaintance than endless flirtation?” He spoke with real caution and then waited for her answer with a serious face as though it truly mattered to him.

  Friendship? Was he saying that there might be friendship between them? She tried to respond thoughtfully and ignored the relief bubbling through her. Oh, if only she could show him how much she appreciated his insight, his awareness of her sensibility. She curtsied slightly, never taking her eyes from his face. “Oh yes, my lord, friendship would be a lovely thing to share.”

  What would it be like to have a gentleman as a friend? Certainly it would be totally different from the kind of childhood friendships she had shared with the Wilton brothers. It was indeed exactly what she wanted. A gentleman friend to share her adventures with. A step beyond flirtation, but something far short of lovemaking.

  She breathed deeply and felt happiness surge over the relief. “It is precisely the reason for my nerves. There was no one I could ask this morning, for you were the very source of my uneasiness and, at the same time, the only person who would understand if I asked about it.”

  “And what would you ask?” He smiled.

  “Oh, I do not need to ask now for you have given me the answer before I was even fully aware of what the question was.”

  His smile held, but she knew he did not understand. Well, she decided, that was one difference between him and her female friends. They would have understood exactly.

  Morgan considered pressing her for a more reasonable answer, but decided it would invite more confusion. Her renewed smile was his personal sun on this otherwise gray day, though perhaps it was best not to tell her that at this moment.

  He offered her his arm. Even the way she accepted his support was charming. She put her arm through his and by doing so they became partners. The conventions of the Season, the routines he knew too well, became an exploit, a quest, an adventure. They walked in silence and then Morgan recalled one of the lesser reasons for this meeting.

  “Grandmama is planning a musicale.”

  Christiana turned her attention from her examination of the crowd, her smile now merely polite. He knew her experience of London musicales had not been entertaining. Was she already planning her regret?

  “I understand she is going to ask your mama to allow you to assist her with the invitations.”

  “How nice.” She looked away from him between one word and the next with a slight pause between the two, and the exact opposite meaning was conveyed.

  “She hopes that she will have your agreement to help as soon as possible. Once she lets it be known that she is planning something, no one else will dare encroach on that date with some other event.”

  “Well, yes, of course, that is absolutely true.” Her response was less measured now, enthusiasm in her voice again. “I do believe everyone is consumed with the masquerade and their costumes.” She reflected a scant moment. “But once costumes are ordered everyone will be restless again as the masquerade is still weeks away. A new invitation would be quite welcome.” She stopped walking and sent him a mischievous glance. “But can you convince the dowager duchess that there is nothing entertaining about an imposing woman singing in German?”

  He nodded. “Not one word of German? On that point we are agreed. I think I need only remind her that she asked for our advice.” He waved his hand in complete dismissal of one of the most talented women in London. “Quite overdone and not nearly as diverting as what I have in mind.”

  When Christiana did not respond to the tease, he looked at her and realized he no longer had her complete attention. Indeed her eager smile was gone, quite suddenly, replaced by concern and urgency. Morgan looked in the same direction, trying to determine what had caused such an instant change in mood. What was there amid the throng of shoppers, carriages, and vendors on the street directly in front of them? It looked a commonplace enough scene to him.

  “Do you see that soldier, my lord? The one with the crutch?”

  Morgan saw the man and was rather surprised that she had. But this man could hardly be called a soldier. The uniform jacket he wore was torn and dirty and the pants were not a regulation part of any uniform Morgan had ever seen.

  “Do you see him?” Christiana asked again.

  When he nodded she continued, “I always notice the soldiers. I’ve seen one or two wearing uniforms before, but never anyone as affecting as he is.”

  Yes, he thought, she would notice soldiers. But this fraud was moving slowly down the street, avoiding the better dressed pedestrians, who studiously ignored him. The wretch paused and looked around, then resumed his stolid pace, finally pausing directly across the street near a row of small shops. The man pulled a flask from his pocket, took a small sip, and then put it away. Best to avoid any conversation with this wastrel. He was no more soldier than Rhys was.

  Morgan took Christiana’s arm and made to move back into the entryway of Schomberg House, rather than closer to the rogue. Christiana refused to move, forcing Morgan to a halt.

  “You do not understand, my lord. I have read about this.” She pushed her bonnet back so that he could see her face fully. “You must listen. I am certain he is one of those soldiers injured in the line of duty and sent home without any pension. If he is still recovering from his injury he will be hard-pressed to find work. If the limp is permanent, he may well starve to death.”

  All the gods of love knew he did not want to aggravate her again, but at this moment her naïveté was drawing him close to an exasperation that was hard to mask. “Sprite, if this man can not find work it is because he drinks too much. Did you see his flask? He handled that none too discreetly.”

  “Can you blame him for turning to brandy when the country he fought for disowns him that way? It is a disgrace.” She opened her reticule and pulled out a crown. She pressed it into Morgan’s hand. “Would you please give this to him? Tell him it is but a small token of my respect and appreciation.”

  Morgan pressed the coin back into her hand, but she would not be denied.

  “Truly, sir, I do not wish to argue, but can only hope that Richard would be treated with consideration if he were injured with no money and no family to return to.”

  “My dear green girl, this man is no soldier. I would wager a year’s
worth of neckcloths that the closest he’s ever been to battle is a fistfight with a drunken sailor.”

  “That’s even worse! People taking advantage of his injury that way.” She thought for a moment and he dared hope that she had taken his advice to heart. “Besides, my lord, even if he is not a soldier, his life is a misery compared to yours and mine.”

  There would be no victory in oversetting that sensibility for there was truth in her words. When she held out the money to him, he shook his head. “I will take care of that.”

  Morgan nodded to the footman and the young man stepped closer, on guard for his mistress’s safety. Trying to curb irritation and distaste, Morgan pulled his gloves tighter and settled his beaver as he walked toward the man who had settled on the far edge of the stoop outside a furniture shop.

  When Morgan stopped before him, the man struggled to his feet. His eyes were clear but guarded. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir?”

  The few words Morgan had planned to say faded from his mind as the man struggled to draw himself erect with painful effort. As he stood with his shoulders back and his hands stiffly at his side, he transformed himself into the soldier that she had insisted he was.

  Morgan’s aversion gave way to embarrassed surprise, and when the soldier made to move away, Morgan stopped him with a gesture.

  At that moment, a clerk came out of the shop, his broom raised as though he was going to sweep both of them away like some pesky bit of fog-grown dirt.

  The soldier turned and eyed the clerk with contempt. It would have done no good, but Morgan was standing next to him. His stare with narrowed eyes controlled the anger that was aimed as much at himself as at the weasel in the doorway. With a subservient bob, the flunky disappeared with flattering haste.

  Morgan and the crippled man moved together toward the corner of Pall Mall and St. James. “With whom did you serve?”

  The man looked surprised at the question. “I was with the First Foot Guards till Salamanca. I took care of the horses what pulled the guns, sir.”

  They had a fine reputation, but Morgan could not recall the chronology exactly. “Were you with them through Corunna?”

  The soldier’s eyes clouded and he shook his head. “I’d be dead as General Moore if I had to make that march. No, sir, I was sent home long before the end.”

  He spoke like an old soldier. As though he regretted the missed opportunity of that slow death march with his comrades. “What are you doing in this part of town, Sergeant?” The rank was faded and dirty and Morgan hoped that he read it correctly.

  The man nodded. “Sergeant Thomas Tidwell, sir. Walking is the onliest thing that improves my leg. The doctor told me that if I keep walking the limp would pass. To tell the truth, guvnor, I live at Ratcliffe and I am as lost here as you would be there.”

  “I had planned to offer you directions and pay for a hackney,” Morgan lied glibly.

  The man shook his head.

  Ratcliffe was on the north side of the Thames and some distance away, but if walking was his only road to recovery then Morgan understood why he would prefer the trek. He made to hand the sergeant a guinea and was not surprised that the gesture made him feel ashamed.

  Sergeant Tidwell took a step back. “I know I look mean. But my daughter and her man are looking out for me until I can find work. It’s the coat, sir, I know, but you see, it’s as close as I can come...” He stopped speaking and set his mouth in a tight line, unable to go on.

  Morgan nodded and handed him the coin again. “Then buy your daughter something special and use this coin as a favor to me. For I sincerely wish to impress that lovely young lady across the street. It was she who asked me to come and thank you for your service to our country.”

  Morgan understood completely when Sergeant Tidwell frowned in disbelief, for not one other of the ton passing close by had acknowledged his existence. He explained, “She has a young man with Wellesley in Portugal.”

  The soldier stared hard across the street, where Christiana was easy to spot. She stood watching with undisguised curiosity, her expression full of sympathy, leaning toward them as though that would enable her to hear their conversation.

  Sergeant Tidwell looked back at Morgan and now his eyes did fill with tears. He accepted the coin, nodding. “My daughter and her family live crowded and tight. That’s another reason for my walking. I will give this to her, I will.” He pocketed the coin carefully and patted the spot. “And you tell your young lady, my lord, hearts as sweet as hers make it all worthwhile.”

  He stopped speaking, taking a moment to control his emotions. “But you best not tell her this, my lord. Wellseley uses his men like cannon fodder. We will beat the French, make no mistake, but it will cost, it will cost dear. Not like the passage at Douro, no matter what is said.” He spoke without anger but in bitter acceptance of a truth he had witnessed.

  “It is quiet there now. We will let that be a comfort. I will convey your good wishes, Sergeant Tidwell.” What else could he say? What more could he do?

  Morgan directed him back to Ratcliffe, again offering a hackney, though it seemed insultingly insufficient to a man who had devoted his whole life to the safety of the ignorant throngs parading by, himself included.

  Even though it meant several more hours walking, Sergeant Tidwell refused a ride. He insisted that not only was walking good for his leg, but easier on London Streets than marching had been in the rough terrain of Portugal.

  For his part, Morgan digested a very large piece of humble pie as he worked his way through the crowd and back to Christiana. He’d thought her naive and perhaps she was. But it was that very naïveté, still not covered by too much Town bronze, which enabled her to see beyond the facade. The sergeant had been exactly what she suspected, a cashiered soldier hoping for work and all Morgan could do was hand him a coin in thanks for his service.

  By the time he reached her, she had dried her eyes, but emotion still echoed in her voice. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you very much.”

  He took her hand and bowed over it. She was all that was true and dear in his life right now and he was grateful to the gods for sending her to him. “His name is Sergeant Tidwell and he lives in Ratcliffe Highway and it is I who thank you.”

  Her smile faded as the silence between them lengthened. She searched his face with such unguarded intensity that he wondered if she could actually see into his heart. Not a happy thought. For it was filled with more dark than light.

  “Have we kept you waiting long?”

  Christiana was so startled by her sister’s arrival that she jumped in surprise. Morgan controlled his reactions and forced his voice to calm, though his racing heart made that difficult. “Yes,” he joked. “You have kept us waiting so long that we have run out of things to talk about.”

  The humor was lost on Joanna, who looked from one to the other with some concern. Did she think they had argued? He wanted to assure her, but the chaos of the moment distracted all of them.

  The Lamberts’ chaise stood ready, but it was soon apparent that it would not hold all their purchases and three people.

  “We really did not buy that much,” Christiana announced as much to inform the world as to reassure herself. “It is only that the items we did choose are so large and clumsy.”

  They milled about without purpose until Morgan took command. “I will call a hackney for Sally and she can proceed home with the parcels.”

  Sally looked delighted at the prospect and Joanna nodded her appreciation. Morgan gestured to Sally to follow him and they moved farther down the street, where several hackneys were waiting.

  Monksford handed the ladies into the Lamberts’ conveyance and watched it move into traffic. Morgan looked up from his conversation with Sally, but there was no farewell from the chaise.

  By the time Sally was seated, he had paid the driver and returned to where Monksford stood, the Lamberts’ chaise was out of sight. Monksford was still watching the mix of vehicles as though his concentration would kee
p the ladies from harm.

  When finally Monksford turned to him, Morgan smiled, “Sally has given me exactly the information we need to surprise the ladies.”

  Monksford nodded with only the vaguest interest and turned toward the curricle. Morgan stayed him. “I think we will need a few particular items that would best be purchased here if our costumes are to be equal to our intent.”

  The older man closed his eyes and shook his head. Was it refusal or disbelief? “You actually want me to spend money so that I can look more foolish than Grimaldi dressed for a performance?”

  “Exactly,” Morgan laughed. “But there are three consolations. The first is that you can afford it, for I am not speaking of gold and jewels. Second, we will be only one of a hundred who feel exactly the same. And third, and by far most important, appearing a fool to please a lady is a sure way to win her heart.”

  “I had hoped that Miss Lambert was above such gambits.”

  “Most of the time I do believe that she is, Monksford, but there is something in the London air that empties our brains just enough to allow for foolishness and fun.”

  “The very fact that I am considering this proposal is proof that it has affected me as well.” Monksford looked toward the darkening soot-laden sky as though the rain that threatened was the agent of the god of silliness.

  Morgan thumped him on the back. “It will pass. And with any luck and the consent of her father, you can contemplate a lifetime of enlivening discussion with Miss Lambert.”

  Did that sound like an insult? He hoped not.

  Monksford looked at him with an unexpected twinkle in his eye. “You have no idea exactly how enlivening those discussions can be.”

  As they moved into the great hall of Schomberg House, Morgan decided that comment was as close to risqué as Monksford ever came.

  What part of today’s conversation would Christiana consider worth sharing with her sister? Their growing friendship? The thrill of the shops? The soldier? He would never know. The workings of her mind alternately fascinated and confounded him. As they moved toward the upper level and the displays of fabric that Schomberg was famous for, Morgan spoke with sudden inspiration. “Do you have a full staff at your house in Town?”

  Twelve

  The silence in the Lambert chaise lasted only as long as it took to move into the street and out of earshot of their escorts.

  Both sisters spoke at the same time.

  “Oh, Christy, I am so sorry.”

  “Joanna, I must apologize—” Christiana stopped. What was Joanna sorry for?

  “No, indeed, it is I who must apologize, Christy. It was wrong of me to leave you with Lord Morgan. I was certain a few moments’ conversation would set all to rights. Then I was distracted discussing the masquerade with Lord Monksford. I suppose I should not have left you alone together for so long, but I was so sure that seeing him as soon as possible was the solution to your awkwardness.”

  “Rather like getting back on the horse right after one has fallen off?”

  Joanna relaxed a little at the silly comparison. “I suppose you could think of it that way, Christy. Was I wrong?”

  “I think that different feelings are involved.” Christiana warmed to the debate. “With a fall from a horse, one has to deal with fear, but in a personal situation one must confront”—she paused—“embarrassment.”

  “And what is embarrassment, but fear based on social error?” Joanna waved her fan in emphasis.

  “I can never win a philosophical discussion with you, so I am not even going to try.”

  “But, Christy, I would so prefer it to an argument.”

  “There is no argument coming, though I can see why you would think so. It appears that I have picked arguments with my two dearest friends today.” She bit back a smile. Would that all disagreements could result in a truer friendship the way her words with Lord Morgan had.

  “You and I were not arguing, Christy. It is merely that your nerves were overset.” Joanna dismissed that casually, but leaned closer with wide eyes and an uneasy smile. “Did you really argue with Lord Morgan?”

  “Well, yes, but only for a moment. Then he found some silly way to tease me out of it.”

  “Then everything is all right between you?” Joanna spoke with a hopeful nod.

  “Why of course.” Though in all honesty that wordless communion they had shared before Monksford and Joanna had interrupted them did stir a vague discomfort. For a moment, she felt as though she were the only person in his world. Was that disloyal to Richard or simply a part of Morgan’s charm?

  “Everything is well between us, but oh, Joanna”— she drew a deep breath—“men can be so difficult to understand.”

  “Indeed, so Mama always says. But is it that surprising? They see the world from an entirely different perspective. The very fact they go away to school and come to London on their own guarantees that.”

  The chaise bumped up against a curb and both of them reached out to brace themselves. The sound of some vehicle approaching too fast and with obvious carelessness drew their attention. They could hear more than they could see, though, as a much larger carriage pulled close to theirs blocked the view. Voices raised in anger followed the racers but soon the street was back to the usual hubbub of a late afternoon.

  Christiana very much wanted to know what had happened, but not without someone to protect her. “Would you truly like to be in Town on your own, Joanna?”

  “Of course not. I was never prepared for it.. There are other things, though. Opportunities George had that Papa never even thought to offer us. I would have liked more schooling, to read languages besides French, and see the great art in Italy. I would have liked to go to Jamaica, too. I think I would have preferred to learn more about architecture than needlepoint.”

  She stopped speaking, but Christiana could see the list continued on in her head for a moment. Joanna looked up and tapped her sister on the arm with her fan. “What would you wish for?”

  “If I had the same opportunities as a man?” Christiana mulled it over and was hard-pressed to come up with something she wanted that she did not already have. Then she remembered Richard. “If I had the same opportunities then I could be in Portugal right now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, Joanna, only to you will I admit that I have no desire to be in Portugal, not right now. I want very much to be exactly where I am. Here in London for the Season.” It was the truth. Why did it sound so shallow? “Of course, I would be enjoying it much more if Richard were here and safe.”

  “Would you really?” Joanna asked with a knowing smile.

  “Well, no, because then I would not have met Lord Morgan and Richard hates to dance and he would lose money gambling which we need to establish our household. But to admit that I am happier here without Richard is shockingly selfish, is it not?”

  “No.” Joanna made the single word a long, considering sentence. “Or at least no more selfish than Richard is. He had the choice. He had no need to purchase his colors at this precise moment. He could have waited until the Season was over, but he dislikes the city and he only dances when you insist.

  “And because he is a man, he could choose to do whatever he wants. He had to know sharing the Season with you would have made for a lifetime of memories, but he chose to go early to Portugal instead. Which proves my point completely.”

  Christiana sat in awed silence. Joanna made it sound as though Richard was the selfish one. It was the second time today that someone had made her failings seem virtuous.

  “You are too kind, Jo.” She raised her hand when her sister would have spoken. “Do you have these sorts of discussions with Lord Monksford?”

  “Oh yes.” She answered promptly. “All the time.”

  “That is a part of Lord Monksford I do not know at all.” She must make an effort to see beyond his awful coats and his thinning hair. Those elements were no more an obstacle to his real self than the sergeant’s ruined clothes had been.
She was able to see beyond that facade, why was it so difficult with Lord Monksford?

  Oh dear, she thought with a flash of insight, that is easy enough to answer.

  “I am quite jealous of him, Joanna.” The words were out of her mouth before she could hold them back.

  “Lord Monksford?” Joanna was genuinely astonished. “But why?”

  “I have only just realized it, Jo, and I mean to have no more of it. To be selfish is one thing, but to add jealousy is to be vastly unbecoming.”

  Joanna was clearly unconvinced and Christiana leaned closer.

  “You must see. Before you met him, I was the keeper of all your confidences. It was you and I who discussed whatever concerned you. Now, I have to learn to share those dearest parts of you with someone else.”

  “I am not sure Lord Monksford and I are at that point, at least not yet, though I suppose close attachments will change our lives in many more ways than we know.” All gaiety was gone from her voice.

  “Your melancholy is totally unjustified, Joanna, dearest. You are my sister. Only you can be that.” Christiana looked at the window, amazed at the start of tears in her eyes. “You are the first and most important confidante I have. Richard is a wonder in many ways but understanding my worries is not one of them.”

  Lord Morgan does, she realized suddenly. Sometimes he understands my heart before I do. Perhaps he is more worthy of Joanna’s jealousy than Richard will ever be.

  They were within two blocks of the house on Green Street. Christiana recognized the park at Grosvenor Square just before they turned onto North Audley.

  They would be home shortly and there was one more thing disturbing Christiana mightily. “Joanna, I must tell you about the soldier I saw, but first you must be honest with me. You did not tell Lord Monksford about our costumes for the masquerade, did you?”