Just One Kiss (11 page)

"It's hardly a joke, Elizabeth. I fully intend to make you my wife." His expression was almost grim. There was no doubt he meant what he said.

The floor beneath her feet seemed to dip and twirl. "You-you cannot mean it," she said faintly. "You cannot mean to—to marry me." She could scarcely dare to say it.

"Oh, but I do."

Elizabeth was aghast. She swayed, all at once feeling rather dizzy.

Hands on her shoulders, Morgan guided her to a chair and gently pushed her down. "Come now. Surely it's not that bad." There was the veriest hint of amusement in his tone.

Elizabeth pressed cool hands to her flushed cheeks. Closing her eyes, she fought to regain her composure. When she opened them, speech was still beyond her.

An imperious voice sounded above her head. "There, now. It's not so bad as all that. Take a slow, deep breath and calm yourself."

She did as he ordered. She lowered her hands to her lap, her mind churning. She noted distantly that they were trembling. She clasped them together to still them. At last when she was able, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. "You're mad!"

"I assure you, I am not."

"But… dear heaven, why? I-I cannot think why you should want to marry me!"

One side of his mouth turned up. "Need I point out that you came here to be married?"

"Not to you!" she said wildly.

His expression grew chill. Too late Elizabeth realized her insult.

"It's just that I don't understand." Her tone was as shaky as her hands. "This is so sudden, so"—she groped for the right word—"so unexpected."

Her heart seemed to shiver.
Marry
him. It still seemed too much to take in. How could she marry this strange, brooding man who was so unlike his brother? She didn't like the way he made her feel. So odd. So unlike herself. Especially when he'd kissed her.

The memory flooded her mind—his mouth on hers, warm and demanding. Tenderly she touched her mouth.

He spoke suddenly. Coolly. "The other night, Elizabeth… the kiss we shared? I do hope you realize it was but a moment's idle fancy." His gaze met hers, cool and remote. "I've shared many things with many women," he said with a shrug. "Just so we understand each other, I'm hardly enamored of you."

Elizabeth went icy cold. Never had she resented him more! "Then frankly," she snapped, "I fail to see why you should be so magnanimous!"

"Magnanimous? Indeed, I'm being far more magnanimous than you realize. And I see no reason why you shouldn't know the truth. Unfortunately, you see, the two of us were seen on the terrace that night. Yes," he went on when her eyes widened, "caught in that very same kiss."

"By whom?"

"By an unscrupulous man named Thomas Porter."

Elizabeth strained to recall. "I remember no one by that name," she began.

"Oh, he was not a guest." Morgan's mouth thinned. "He is a reporter for the
Chronicle
who specializes in digging up dirt. At any rate, he paid me a visit yesterday morning and gleefully divulged what he'd seen. Unfortunately, he didn't quite believe the story that you were Stephen's cousin visiting from England—especially when he followed you here later that night. The next morning, he spoke to a young lad helping the gardener and learned you'd been here in my house for quite some time." Those devilish brows rose high. "Need I say more, Elizabeth? He hinted at the scandal that would take place should others learn of the incident. All in all, he was most eager to line his pockets. Unfortunately I had no choice but to oblige him, and at a tidy sum, I might add."

"You paid him?" she cried out. "But you know I have no money. I cannot repay you—"

"I dislike being the brunt of such scandal." His tone was clipped. "But I would no doubt fare better than you, Elizabeth. If you still insist on remaining in Boston, your reputation will be in shreds, no matter that you are an earl's daughter—indeed,
because
you are an earl's daughter. People will not soon forget. Your morals will be suspect. If you are lucky enough to obtain a position as governess, the master of the house might well consider it his right to rut between your thighs whenever he wishes; whether it be in the nearest bed, or up against the nearest wall—"

"Say no more!" she cried. His bluntness shocked her.
Up against the wall
… Did people do such things? No. Not
decent
people. But Morgan was right—she would be no better than a whore. Still, she was confused. "But the announcement… When did you—"

"I saw to it yesterday afternoon."

Her gaze was wide and distressed. "But why? Why announce that we… that you and I…" She faltered.

"Because I've no intention of letting that bastard Porter bleed me for the rest of my life. And that's exactly what will happen if we do nothing. If we are already wed, he can do no harm."

Elizabeth fell silent. It seemed he'd thought of everything. And so now they must both sacrifice. Oh, she didn't fool herself. No doubt it was his own reputation that concerned him far more than hers.

She glanced down at her hands, now knotted tightly in her lap. "I hardly know you," she said, her voice very low.
And what little I know of you, I do not like
, she amended silently.

His laugh was biting. "You know me far better than you know Nathaniel."

Nathaniel
. For an instant wild hope flared within her. Perhaps if she simply waited, Nathaniel would yet appear… But Morgan was right. A man was far better able to survive disgrace than a woman.

Once again, he read her mind as if it were his own. "Good God," he said disgustedly. "Not a soul knows where Nathaniel is, or when he'll return. I thought you understood that. Even if he did return—tomorrow—and the two of you married, what then? You choose not to believe me when I tell you he is not the man you think. There exists a very good possibility that you would wake up one morning and find yourself alone. What then? And what if you were with child?"

Elizabeth blanched. A baby. Certainly that was something she hadn't considered. "I—I understand that. Truly I do. It's just that I"—suddenly it just spilled out—"I don't love you! And—"

"Love only complicates marriage."

Elizabeth stared at him, taken aback by his coldness. He sounded so callous. So cynical and so very certain. Oh, she knew it was seldom so, but she wanted a husband she could love, and a husband who loved her in turn, as wildly as she loved him.

"If that's how you feel, then clearly you have no more desire to marry me than I—"

"On the contrary, Elizabeth. I find myself liking the prospect more and more."

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. What kind of man was he? Just when she thought perhaps she'd begun to glean some inkling of his reasoning…

"Surely you do not mean that." She found the notion that he might truly wish to marry her oddly disconcerting.

"Oh, but I do." He had moved to stand near the window. As he paused, cold sunlight washed over the stark angles of his face; his features might have been cast in stone. His profile revealed nothing whatsoever of his thoughts or his emotions. Yet she was struck by the feeling there was much held deeply in check, and much he chose
not
to reveal…

He turned. "I am a wealthy man, Elizabeth—wealthy, successful, as worthy as any. I possess the looks of a gentleman and I've acquired the manners to accompany it. I live in a home many would envy. I've entertained grandly. Yet Boston society is not particularly appreciative of a man with my lowly past. Unlike most of them, I earned my money—I didn't inherit it. In short, though I've mingled with those in the most elite society circles, they've yet to accept my right to stand among them."

Elizabeth was puzzled. "And you think marriage to me would make a difference."

"Most definitely."

"But… how?"

The merest of smiles dallied on his lips. "To put it bluntly, I'm hardly well connected. As I'm sure it is in England, here in Boston, breeding is all-important, no matter how much money one has. But my background—my breeding, or lack of it—is something I cannot change. And so it occurs to me I must marry well. And marriage to you, an English
noblewoman
.. .why, no one would dare to look down on me."

Elizabeth's expression was faintly troubled. "Does it truly matter?" She posed the question very quietly. "It's just as you said. You are a wealthy man, as worthy as any. What does it matter what others think?"

There was a subtle hardening of his smile. "Then I would ask you the same," he challenged. "What if you went to the theater and you knew everyone there whispered behind your back? Would you continue to make your way about the city? Or would you hide behind closed doors and live
in
this world, but never a part of it? What if you walked out this very instant and someone called you whore?"

Her breath caught. Faith, but he could be cruel! Yet she knew she could not live her life like that—it would be completely untenable.

In her silence lay her answer.

"I thought so. You could not stand it either." Morgan's voice turned harsh. "Why, you ask me. Call it a matter of pride. No more, no less." He paused. "So tell me, Elizabeth. What is your answer? Will you marry me?"

Even as their eyes collided, a hundred thoughts rallied in her mind. What did she know of him… truly? Very little. He wasn't close to Nathaniel. Indeed, she suspected he didn't even
like
his brother. But he had taken her in when she was ill. He'd fed her and saw to it that she was well. He'd been more than generous, she admitted grudgingly.

But to marry him… !

His voice prodded her. "You came here to start your life anew, Elizabeth. I offer you that chance."

She lowered her head. Despite her best intentions, hot tears stung her eyes. Her heart cried out. This was scarcely the marriage of her dreams.

She bit her lip to keep from weeping. She struggled to speak, her head lowered in defeat. "Very well," she said, her voice low and choked. "I-I will marry you."

They set the date for two weeks hence.

The day after the announcement appeared in the
Chronicle
, Morgan informed her that Stephen had made arrangements for her to stay with his aunt Clara Fleming, who had just returned from Paris the afternoon before.

Elizabeth felt rather uncomfortable at being thrust upon a stranger, yet she acknowledged the necessity. Indeed, she found it rather ironic, for things might have turned out quite differently had Clara been here in Boston the last few months rather than Europe; she could have stayed with Clara, and Thomas Porter would never have spied her entering Morgan's home. Marriage to him might well have been averted…

As it was, the day approached with frightening speed.

Clara had obligingly offered her the use of her home and carriage. Though the old lady's hair was white as snow, she was surprisingly active. Indeed, she was gone so often that Elizabeth joked to Stephen that the only time she saw Clara was on her way in and out of the house.

Soon there was but one more day until the wedding.

The afternoon was spent with the seamstress on the final fitting of her gown. When Morgan had informed her he'd made arrangements with the finest seamstress in Boston to make her gown, Elizabeth had protested the need for a new gown at all.

"As you once pointed out," she reminded him, "my clothing is hardly that of a pauper."

His smile was annoyingly autocratic, and all too familiar. "Nonetheless," he had informed her, "you will have a wedding gown that befits a lady of your standing."

Her gaze flew to his; there was just the slightest emphasis on
lady
. Did he mock her? She had the oddest sensation he did. Yet as he returned her regard with faintly lifted brows, she could find no trace of anything but a cool politeness.

But the gown was lovely; she couldn't deny it. As she stood before the full-length mirror in her room, she scarcely recognized herself. Yards and yards of pale cream satin cascaded to the floor; she appeared fragile and doll-like. As the seamstress tugged a fold of the train, her assistant clasped her hands together. "Oh, miss, I've never seen anything quite so magnificent! Why, you will surely melt Mr. O'Connor's heart!"

How? Elizabeth wondered vaguely. She was sorely inclined to believe he
had
no heart.

When the seamstress finally departed, she cast the gown aside while her spirits ebbed lower with every second. When a maid came up to announce that Stephen was waiting to see her in the parlor, she was very tempted to make her excuses. But she knew that he would think something was wrong, and she didn't want him to worry.

Somehow she made it through tea without displaying her melancholy mood. She looked on as he replaced his empty china cup in the saucer.

"So," he said lightly. "Tell me, Elizabeth. Is the bride-to-be ready for her wedding day?"

It was the wrong thing to say. A burning ache stung her throat. She couldn't prevent the thought that came next. Why hadn't Nathaniel waited as he had vowed? Why had he forsaken her? What was wrong with her that he didn't love her? For she was suddenly very certain that he did not.

She ducked her head, but not in time. Stephen was peering at her oddly. "Why, Elizabeth, you look ready to cry!"

Perhaps because she was, she nearly blurted.

Gently he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Tell me," he urged. "Elizabeth, what is wrong? If there's something I can do—"

She shook her head. "There's nothing," she murmured.

His eyes remained dark with concern.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "It's just so—so different than what I thought it would be when I left London." She spoke the words with difficulty, her voice a mere whisper. "I came here to marry Nathaniel. I never expected to marry his brother. I never expected to marry a—a stranger!"

Stephen's hand tightened ever so slightly. "Elizabeth—"

There was a sound near the doorway. They both looked up and saw him at the same time—Morgan. Stephen was on his feet in an instant.

"Morgan," he said easily. "We were just discussing you."