Just One Kiss (14 page)

His eyes seemed to burn her. "Cannot do what?" he asked, his tone dangerously low.

Desperation filled her breast. "I cannot lie with you!"

"You cannot lie with me," he repeated.

"No!" she cried wildly. "I cannot lie with you. I
will
not lie with you! Not now. Not tonight. Not—" She broke off abruptly.

The silence that followed was awful.

"Not ever?" Flatly he spoke the very words implanted in her mind.

Only now did Elizabeth notice his expression had iced over. She nodded, unable to tear her gaze from his face. His jaw was knotted and bunched, his lips drawn in a relentless line.

He released her abruptly. "My dear girl, I don't recall asking you to."

His tone was as cutting as his look. Elizabeth gaped, staggering back a step. "But downstairs you said…"

"I said you should not spend your first night as a bride feeling rather tipsy."

"You mean you will not—" She stopped, unable to bring herself to say more.

"No, I will not. But I
will
have the truth, Elizabeth." Before she could break away, strong hands closed around the soft flesh of her upper arms, guiding her until they stood toe to toe. "So tell me, and tell me true. Would you withhold yourself if Nathaniel stood before you and not I?"

Her eyes flitted away. She was not cruel, yet why did she suddenly have the strangest sensation she had hurt him?

No. It was absurd. Impossible.

He was insistent. His knuckles beneath her jaw, he prodded her chin up. "Answer me, Elizabeth. Would you deny Nathaniel what you now deny me?"

"No!" she cried, though in truth her thoughts had never carried her to that point. Anger and frustration broke loose inside her. She tossed her head, her eyes flashing. "I did not want this marriage, or you!" she said fiercely. "If you thought I liked it when you kissed me, 'twas because I did. But only because I pretended you were Nathaniel. Do you hear? I pretended you were Nathaniel!"

"I see," he said tightly. "Then if I can't come to you for carnal pleasures, I assume you'll have no objection if I seek satisfaction elsewhere."

Her breast was heaving. "I would welcome it!"

He freed her so suddenly, she stumbled backward. "Then you need worry no longer," he informed her tautly. "I have a mistress, and you've made it plain you would rather I lie with her than with you. So rest easy, Elizabeth. You'll spend your wedding night alone, while I spend mine in far more satisfying company."

He turned away. His movements were fierce, almost violent as he snatched up his coat and was gone.

Left alone, Elizabeth stared at the door he'd just passed through, shaken to the core by the anger she sensed in him. A hard knot of dread tightened in her belly. A dozen questions tumbled in her mind. She'd been spared… but for how long? And why did she have the awful feeling this was not the end of it?

For now, all she could do was pray—pray that he didn't have a change of heart.

Morgan didn't return home that night.

Nor did he go to Isabelle.

Instead he walked and walked. At such a late hour, the streets were deserted. The sharp rapping of his footsteps was the only sound. Curling wisps of fog swirled all around. Before long, he found himself on the docks.

A briny wind had sprung up. Morgan stared seaward, oblivious to the damp and the chill. Everything inside him was hard and brittle.

A muscle in his jaw tensed.
I did not want this marriage, or you
!

For an instant, when he'd come upon her in his room, he'd thought… But no. He was a fool, he decided with no little amount of rancor. She had come to Boston expecting to find Nathaniel. She had
wanted
Nat.

If you thought I liked it when you kissed me, 'twas because I did. But only because I pretended you were Nathaniel…

Her deception made his blood boil all over again. Yet why, he didn't know. After all, he had lied to her. And he'd lied to himself.

He wanted her.

From the moment he'd first seen her in his room, her eyes huge and uncertain, he'd wanted her. He longed to brand her as his own. Deep inside, he was convinced that had he tried, he might have swayed her with kisses of flame, touches of fire. In time, she would have yielded. Perhaps not at first…

But the very thought of taking her when it was Nat she longed for… An acrid bitterness seared his veins. That had halted his intentions as nothing else could have. He'd never taken an unwilling woman in his life; he wasn't about to start with his wife.

But buried beneath his studied indifference, he was angry—angry at her for tempting him. At Nathaniel for doing this to her—to him! At himself for his weakness, when he knew it was for Nathaniel she yearned.

He wanted her willing—by God, she
would
be willing. Even now, the very thought of plunging deep in her feminine warmth stirred his loins nearly to readiness. He thought briefly of Isabelle, then discarded the notion immediately—not because of any particular morality. After all, many men had mistresses. But the very idea of going from Elizabeth to Isabelle was completely unpalatable.

No, he hadn't been entirely truthful, even to himself…
especially
to himself. It wasn't to save Elizabeth's reputation that he had agreed to this marriage; it was for himself. And yes, deep down, perhaps there was a part of him that longed to take from Nathaniel what Nathaniel had taken from him…

The wind blew harder. The sea began to roil. Morgan stared out into the darkness, his mouth a grim line.

So much for marriage, he thought blackly. So much for love.

Elizabeth was not sleeping well. Her nights were spent listening, her ears straining. Waiting for her husband to come home, for her bedroom door to swing wide…

Her nerves were so tightly strung, she jumped at the slightest rustle or footfalls in the hallway.

It was soon apparent she worried for nothing, however. Her new husband had yet to seek out her company—for any reason. He was regularly very late arriving home. Often it was past midnight. There were some nights she was almost certain he didn't come home at all.

Last night was one of them.

So where had he been? With his mistress?

The nagging thought persisted, though she told herself she didn't care who the wretch bedded—as long as it wasn't her.

But there was the rub. On one hand, she was vastly relieved that he hadn't forced her to his bed. Yet the very thought of his mistress triggered a reaction faintly akin to hurt—yet why she should care, she couldn't imagine!

Still, the idea that a man should find pleasure outside marriage was one Elizabeth found she disliked—and heartily so. She was fairly certain that her father had never done such a thing—either with her mother or Clarissa—for he had valued loyalty and fidelity too much to make such a mockery of it.

Then one morning, she found a note scrawled in a bold, masculine hand on her breakfast tray:

I have tickets to the opera tonight. Be ready at seven.

In a rare temper, Elizabeth crumpled it and threw it across the room. "We shall see, my good man," she muttered hotly. "You may have to attend the opera alone." She was furious—he couldn't even do her the service of informing her in person!

Nor had he asked.

By the time the clock struck six her mood had softened. Perhaps a pleasant evening together would dispel the distance between them.

She dressed carefully, wanting to look her best. Annie swept her hair high and off her face, displaying to advantage the slender length of her neck. The midnight blue satin gown she wore was not new, but it was one of her favorites. The neckline dipped low, revealing the gleaming slope of her shoulders. Around her neck she fastened the strand of pearls Morgan had given her.

At last she was ready. The downstairs maid had dashed up twice to inform her that Morgan awaited her in the foyer. Descending the stairs, she saw him pacing impatiently, dressed in dark evening clothes.

Just as she reached the last step, he turned and saw her. His gaze traveled the length of her, from the top of her head to the toes of her slippers, and up again. Elizabeth held her breath and waited.

Their eyes collided. She saw nothing in his—no pleasure. Neither approval nor disapproval. Just a cool indifference. She might have been no more than a stick of furniture.

Something inside her seemed to wither, yet she was determined not to let it show. A single step placed him before her; he offered her his arm. Feeling curiously hollow, she placed white-gloved fingertips on his sleeve.

By the time they arrived at the theater, not a single word had passed between them.

Nonetheless, Elizabeth was determined not to spend the evening engulfed in misery. She maintained a smile as they alighted from the carriage. They were soon swept inside with a crush of people. To her delight, she found their seats were excellent. Situated on the balcony, they overlooked the center of the stage.

The curtains rose. From that moment on, Elizabeth leaned forward, scarcely aware of her stoic husband. From the moment the curtains parted, she was enraptured by the story played out below. The heroine was played by a lilting soprano with a voice of pure gold.

The intermission came far too soon. Along with the other patrons, they arose and moved to the lobby where refreshments were being served. The scents of perfume and eau de cologne mingled in the air, along with a medley of sound. Morgan brought her a glass of wine, but, as she was learning to expect, none for himself.

He handed it to her; their fingertips did not touch. "I had no idea you were such a devotee," he observed, one dark brow aslant.

Her nerves were suddenly all aflutter.
How could you
? she nearly blurted. Quickly she thought better of it. Instead she smiled up at him rather shyly. "My father was very fond of the opera. When we were in London, we attended as often as we could."

"You were very close to your father, weren't you?"

Her smile faded. "Very," she responded quietly.

Several men and their wives came up and introduced themselves. Jewels flashed brightly. Elizabeth couldn't help but notice the unguarded looks of appreciation cast her way. Not that her husband seemed to notice. As for the women, they were overly gracious and prattled on about current fashions, how she would enjoy the social calendar…

The last couple had no sooner departed than he bent close to her ear. "Boston blue bloods," he murmured.

"Ah," she said gravely. Her soft mouth twitched with an irrepressible humor. "A haughty lot indeed, don't you think?"

Their eyes caught and held. His were startled, then something replaced it, a curious something that made her heart stop and her breath catch.

It was then, over his shoulder, that she noticed a dark-haired woman staring unabashedly at him. Dressed in a daringly low-cut gown of crimson satin, she was exotic looking and lovely. But her shiny red mouth was pinched and tight. Even from this distance, Elizabeth sensed her displeasure.

But Morgan had noticed her distraction. "That woman is staring at you as if she would like to consign you to the devil himself," she said lightly. "Do you know her?"

He had turned and followed her gaze. "Yes," he said curtly. "But she's no one who concerns you."

Whatever had passed between them might never have been. She battled a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly she knew…

This beauty was his mistress.

She knew it for certain when the woman shot her a venomous look, then pointedly presented her back.

What pleasure she had experienced vanished. Her mood turned despairing, as despairing as her future. She spent the rest of the evening in abject misery.

They were nearly home when she addressed him. "I dislike the room next to yours," she announced. "I would like my old room back."

One look at his face and she knew it was a mistake. His profile was stark and unyielding.

"Out of the question," came his brusque reply.

She challenged him with a bravado she was far from feeling. "Why not?"

He turned on her, his features so forbidding, she shrank back in fear. "Because it would cause talk within the household—and eventually without. And I'll be
damned
if I'll tolerate any more gossip about the two of us."

Elizabeth couldn't believe her ears. "Gossip!" she burst out. "And what of you? Do you think they don't know how late you've been coming home? That many a night your bed is not slept in?"

"I was under the impression you didn't care whose bed I slept in as long as it wasn't yours."

No retort came readily to her lips—oh, but he was cruel to use that against her!

Nor was he prepared to let it go.

"Could it be that you find your solitary bed lonely, Elizabeth? Ah, but how can that be, when it was you who wanted nothing to do with me?"

Her chin tipped mutinously. "This marriage is a farce. I see no reason to continue with it. And just so you know, I—I fully intend to have my things moved back to my old room!"

His hands clamped around her shoulders. He drew her close—so close she could feel his breath strike her face. His eyes were glittering pinpoints of light.

"You'll have your privacy and I will have mine, Elizabeth. But you
will
occupy the room next to mine."

She cried out, angry at his power over her, angry that her life was in shambles. She sought to free herself, but his grip was too strong. "Then I demand a lock be put on the door between!"

Even through the dim light, she saw his jaw set tight. His voice was almost dangerously calm. "Let me speak plainly, Elizabeth. I will not have a door locked against me in my own house. Besides, I thought we had settled this. If I wanted you, no lock would keep me from you."

Even as he spoke, the carriage rolled to a halt. The door opened; Morgan leaped out. Elizabeth bit back her anger, aware that the driver could overhear. She would have shunned her husband's assistance in helping her down, but he wouldn't allow it. He lifted her down, then took her by the elbow.