His Heart's Delight (18 page)

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.”