His Heart's Delight (12 page)

Roberts straightened from his task. “If you
keep grinning like that, milord, you will be making your calls with
several cuts on your chin.”

He managed to keep his face expressionless
for the rest of his shave by recollecting the bottle of brandy he
had drunk before play. The god of chance had smiled on him, for his
fellow gamesters had been even more bosky than he was. The
foolishness of imbibing when he had so much to win in so little
time was enough to sober anyone, even a man anticipating a
flirtation with the loveliest of women.

What should his next step be? He was certain
of one thing. He was going to approach this false courtship with as
much decorum as one Season would permit, his goal quite simply put:
never to appear in the gossip columns again unless it suited his
own ends.

By the time Roberts pronounced him fit for
public appearance Morgan had considered being obvious and paying a
morning call, going for a stroll, and relying on chance to bring
him down the same street as the shop-loving Misses Lamberts or
wager on the certainty that they would be in the park later in the
afternoon. It was that rare night when no balls or rout invitations
had been delivered, so that was not an option. A call, he decided,
and for the sake of the gossipmongers, more than one.

He thanked the gods of good fortune for
smiling on him and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The moment he
walked into the breakfast room, he knew he had given thanks too
soon.

James was at the table.

Sitting at his accustomed place, James was
reading the morning paper as though he’d done it every day for the
past week. He gave no word of greeting. He spared Morgan no more
than a glance.

Damn, but he hated this kind of surprise.
What was James doing in London? He had enough to keep him busy at
Braemoor for the entire Season. He could ask, but it was unlikely
that James would tell him. He did so favor intrigue.

Morgan sent the footman for fresh coffee and
sat down. “Are your spies so unreliable that you felt the need to
check on me yourself?”

James set the paper aside, favoring him with
the smile he had learned from their father. The one that matched
the cool distance in his eyes. “You flatter yourself.” He sipped
his coffee. “There was some business in Town and I thought I would
tend to it myself.”

James needed to get away from their father.
From Braemoor. Morgan could understand that. He crushed the
sympathetic thought. “How is Father?”

James shook his head. “In some ways the
marquis is better, in others not improving at all.” He paused and,
with uncharacteristic directness, answered the question Morgan was
really asking. “I no longer think he is on his deathbed, but a full
recovery is doubtful.”

That must make your life hell,
Morgan
thought. The footman returned with the coffee and the two settled
into more polite conversation.

“Have you seen Rhys?” Morgan asked. It was
obvious from the depleted state of the sideboard that Rhys had been
in the room recently.

“Watched him eat breakfast.” The coolness
disappeared and the brothers shared a smile. James continued. “I
did manage to get a few words from him. He tells me that Almack’s
was a great success for the both of you.”

“It was a pleasant enough evening and we both
danced with a number of lovely ladies.”

“Including a Miss Lambert?”

“Both Miss Lamberts, Miss Perry, Miss
Halersham, and a dozen others whose names I do not recall.” Morgan
ignored James’s smile and tried to control his own rising
irritation.

“Morgan, I saw the betting book at White’s.”
Morgan looked at the footman, who nodded and left the room. The
staff knew every detail of Braedon life whether they were in the
room or not. But for the moment, Morgan wanted the illusion of
privacy.

“I noticed there is no bet from you entered
against it.” James pushed his coffee cup away and looked at his
brother with suspicion. “If the wager were false I would assume a
counterbet would be an easy way to make a few pounds. As far as I
can see, gambling to win is your sole purpose when in Town.”

James leaned closer to him. “What are you
doing with all that money, Morgan? I heard that you won over a
thousand pounds last night. It’s not as though your lodgings cost
you anything. So where does the money go?”

“I gamble, James.” There was no way in Hades
he was going to tell his brother what his hard-won blunt was for.
Morgan was certain that James would do his best to sabotage his
plans for the property if it suited his needs. “I play faro, whist,
hazard. I win and I lose and I do occasionally pay a bill and loan
money to friends.”

James was unconvinced. “Is it blackmail,
Morgan, some by-blow you refuse to acknowledge?”

“No it is not.” He had been very careful on
that score.

“Or perhaps you are actually trying to
improve that property your mother left you in Wales?”

“Why would I do that, James?” Morgan allowed
a small smile, just enough to reflect how unlikely James’s all-too
accurate guess had been. “Do you think I would actually live
there?” He waved away the idea. “I would rather take my chances
with the French; besides I can make twice what that property will
earn in one Season at the tables.”

“Hmmm. I never did think land management
would have any appeal to you.” James relaxed back in his chair.

He was safe. James would never guess how much
he had learned about agriculture in the past two years. Coke’s
progressive farming methods had been like a foreign language. Now
he could talk knowledgeably about that and a dozen other
innovations he was counting on to turn his property to real
profit.

If he could ignore the fact that James was
his brother and had once been his closest friend, he could treat
him like the antagonist he’d become.

What he wanted to keep secret, James would
never guess. He’d mastered the player’s facade much earlier in life
and with less effort than it took to understand fanning
techniques.

“But I digress. How or where you spend your
funds will soon be of no concern to me. Since there is no answering
bet on the books, can I assume that you have found yourself a
match?”

Morgan laughed, a genuine eye-watering burst
of sound. “Why is my social life everyone’s favorite subject this
Season? Oh, James, Braemoor must be sadly lacking if that is what
has brought you to Town.”

“Have you?”

“Why the hurry, James?” Morgan loved the edge
of irritation that James could not quite mask. “The Season is under
way and I am following the prescribed course. And no matter how
boring life is at Braemoor I have no intention of reporting every
dance and picnic to you.”

James nodded. “Just so you are not trying to
play some wily game, Morgan. I want you engaged by the end of the
year, sooner, if you can manage it.”

“Finding a bride is not as easy as buying a
bottle of wine.” This time Morgan controlled his mirth. “Surely you
would give me some time to find a chit I can live with without
contemplating murder.”

“Why should you be any different from the
rest of the
ton?”

James’s cynicism was damn irritating.

“I am paying a call this morning. That should
make you happy.” Morgan rose from the table. He would get something
to eat at his club later.

James tossed his napkin on the table and rose
with him. “Excellent. I think I will go along with you.”

“James, I do not need or want a nursemaid.
You are not invited.”

James shrugged away that detail. “Just one
call or did you have several in mind?”

“I think two calls only, since it is so late
in the day.” For his own reasons he was anxious to get the scheme
under way. Besides it would prove to James that he was making the
effort. “Two calls, yes, the Lambert sisters and,” he improvised,
“Miss Perry.”

By the time they were approaching the
Lamberts’ Green Street town house, Morgan was feeling a jolt of
unaccustomed nerves. He was used to playing alone, relying on his
own wits and no one else’s. Now he must count on Christiana and
even Joanna, to some extent, to play the game with him, without
time to plan.

“Is he your competition?”

Morgan saw Lord Monksford approach from the
opposite direction just as James spoke.

Not realizing he was being observed,
Monksford stopped for a moment, straightening his jacket and
checking his boots to be sure their shine bore up in the
daylight.

As if a new coat and freshly polished boots
would give him an advantage over much younger suitors. The little
vanity made Morgan smile. Monksford saw the look as he caught sight
of not one, but two Braedons. Morgan nodded from several feet away
and Monksford returned the barest of acknowledgments.

“The Right Honorable Lord Monksford is not
one of your closer friends?” James whispered.

“Is it me or all Braedons?” Morgan looked at
James, who was trying not to smile. “I have no idea what I have
ever done to earn his disapproval. The truth is I like the way his
mind works. I’ve heard him at White’s carry on, oh about the Cintra
Conventions for example, and the Peninsular campaign in general.
Except for his obvious disdain, I think we would find that we share
any number of the same opinions.”

“How odd that you care.” James touched
Morgan’s arm in an unusual gesture of comfort that undid his
cynical tone. “He detests me, not you, Morgan.” James stopped
abruptly. “I will tell you the story some other time.”

While they were being announced, the three
exchanged the most civil of pleasantries. As they remained waiting
in a strained silence, Morgan realized that Monksford was not much
older than James. It was his thinning hair and sober manner that
added to his thirty-odd years.

When the butler returned and held the door
for them, Monksford stepped in first. The room was not crowded
precisely, but there were at least four other young men and several
ladies. Mrs. Lambert was basking in her daughters’ success, while
those two were receiving the attentions of their callers in ways he
could have exactly predicted.

Miss Lambert was seated on a small sofa,
talking earnestly with a young man who was flushed from his efforts
to be charming. Miss Christiana Lambert was standing near the
window, trying to entertain all of her guests at once, and
succeeding, if the light laughter was any indication.

Lord Monksford was greeted warmly by Mrs.
Lambert, but nothing could match her effusive flattery when Morgan
introduced his brother, Viscount Crandall.

Mrs. Lambert turned her back to Morgan and
took James’s arm, calling Joanna to her side instantly, making a
pointed introduction. James was coolly polite. As if that would put
the oblivious Mrs. Lambert in her place, Morgan thought.

Joanna saw it, though, and Morgan was
intrigued to see that her ice matched James. Joanna Lambert was
loyal, of that there was no doubt. And as equipped to best James as
a dove was against a hawk.

Most of her would-be beaux knew when the game
had gone beyond their purse. None would approach her after James
had been given such singular attention by Mrs. Lambert. But John
Monksford was not young or easily intimidated.

If Joanna was a dove then Monksford was a
bantam rooster, used to his own superiority and unaware that he was
hardly in the same league as James.

As Monksford approached them, Miss Lambert
turned and offered him her hand with a welcoming smile. In those
two gestures Morgan read more pleasure in his visit than relief at
her supposed rescue.

Now Christiana was free and he turned to her,
trusting that James could handle this social challenge without his
help.

Christiana welcomed him with two hands
outstretched and a smile that made her eyes sparkle with
excitement. She was dressed this morning in a charming muslin,
white and cut rather low. The shawl she carried was for show rather
than warmth, a silk in a daring blue that contrasted with the white
and helped to explain the
décolletage.
Christiana Lambert’s
sense of style mirrored her approach to life, testing the
conventions, hoping to make the world dance to her tune. And a
merry one it was.

He took her offered hands and bowed over
them. “Oh, Lord Morgan, I am so pleased to see you.”

It was a conventional greeting, but spoken
with unconventional warmth. He smiled in approval and she lowered
her voice.

“My lord, I think I would have been quite a
success on stage.” Then she blushed. “Though I am quite pleased to
see you, truly.”

He pressed her hand gently and let it go.
“Yes, I can see that. And your voice does have a quality of
projection that would rival any of our current actors. But let us
be quiet a moment.”

He turned slightly and she had to turn as
well so that she could give him her full attention. It had the
added advantage of blocking her face from James’s view. “I can see
I timed my call quite perfectly. You have had a chance to charm any
number of young men and they have seen that I am among the
competition.”

She laughed, but it was a quiet,
conspiratorial sound, no more than a breath against his cheek.
“What is next?” she whispered.

“We will not stand here and plot. We will
enjoy each other’s company and set the scene for our future
meetings.”

“But what is next?” she insisted.

“A surprise,” he insisted with a smile and
turned so they faced the room again.

It was then that Christiana saw Lord
Monksford talking with Joanna and his brother.

“Who is that with Joanna and Lord Monksford?”
She spoke with an element of awe in her voice. James did have that
effect on people. There was an arrogance about him that made him
hard to ignore.

She turned toward him and Morgan leaned
closer, closer than he should, and breathed in the youth and
vibrancy she wore like a scent. “That is my brother, James.”