Just One Kiss (18 page)

"Besides," Morgan continued, "certainly it can't hurt if Brubaker ends the evening in an amenable spirit. Perhaps then he'll be more receptive to my proposal." He paused. "I'd appreciate it if you would oblige me in this."

Oh, but she should have known! After all, wasn't this why he'd married her? To open doors that might otherwise be closed to him?

An acrid bitterness crowded her chest. She was not a wife, to be cherished and loved. She was nothing but a prize. A trophy on display at his side. A pawn to be used at his whimsy.

Never had he pretended otherwise, she reminded herself. Never.

So why did it hurt so much?

She inclined her head in silent assent, for what choice did she have?

The next days were spent in a flurry of preparations. There were invitations to be addressed and delivered. She pored over the menu with the cook. The silver must be polished, floors and furniture waxed until they shone with a mirrorlike sheen.

When the day arrived at last, Elizabeth found herself as nervous as she'd been on her wedding day. She scarcely slept the night before but rose at dawn, for there was still much to be done. Late in the afternoon, she escaped to her room for a brief nap. She woke tired yet a bit more refreshed—but it was growing late.

Thank heaven for Annie. Within minutes the girl had a hot bath waiting and ready. When she emerged, Annie dressed her hair and helped her into her gown, a deep, rich burgundy whose color lent her courage. The neckline was low and sweeping, leaving her shoulders and the rounded tops of her breasts bare.

Morgan awaited her as she descended the stairs. She sensed his impatience even before she saw his face. Picking up her skirts, Elizabeth stepped before him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late." Her tone was breathless.

His gaze traveled the length of her, a thorough appraisal that took in every detail.

Yet his only comment was, "You look well."

She started to say, "And you as well," for he was indeed as handsome a figure as ever, but there was no time to reply, for it seemed her arrival was in the nick of time. She had no sooner opened her mouth than the bell rang.

Within the next quarter hour everyone arrived. Elizabeth mingled with the guests, conscious of the fact that this was her first event as hostess and anxious for it to be a success.

Or did she merely want Morgan's approval?

She dismissed the niggling little doubt as nonsense. Why on earth would she want Morgan to be proud of her? He cared nothing about her and she cared nothing about him.

Or so she told herself.

By the time dinner was served and everyone had moved to the parlor for coffee and brandy, she found herself growing more relaxed and at ease. As for Morgan's request, she was sweetly attentive to Mr. James Brubaker, seating him next to her at dinner and engaging in a lengthy conversation with him afterward. Indeed, she found it no hardship at all.

Somehow she had expected an older, imposingly austere figure of a man. But she judged James Brubaker to be only slightly older than Morgan. Fair-haired and ruddy-cheeked—a bit on the gangly side—Brubaker was quiet but infinitely likable.

He was widowed, having only recently lost his wife and young son in a carriage accident. It was altogether apparent he had loved her deeply.

"I miss her and Gregory more than I can say," Brubaker said with sad wistfulness, "and yet I count myself blessed for each and every hour that God granted me with them."

Elizabeth's heart went out to him. A hollow ache rent her breast, for that was what
she
had hoped to find in marriage. She couldn't help but think of her father's will. Would he have done what he had—placed her happiness in Clarissa's hands—if he had known what fate awaited her?

Much to her dismay, the thought unfolded. What
would
her father have thought of Morgan? Would he have considered Morgan a more worthy husband than Nathaniel? She winced inwardly. Her father had been a man of integrity; a man who valued honesty and truth above all else.

In the end, nothing could change what had happened. Nathaniel had deceived her, while Morgan had been nothing but honest…

Sometimes painfully so.

And now—now his eye was ever upon her… In the dining room. In the drawing room. From where he stood near the fireplace, talking with his banker.

Was there nothing he missed?

Before long the hour was late. She and Morgan stood together near the door, bidding everyone good night. Elizabeth almost dreaded the moment when the door closed for the last time.

For now they were left alone, she and Morgan. Her anxiety returned full bloom, yet she was determined not to show it. Conjuring up a smile, she said lightly, "That went well, don't you think?"

Her husband's regard was like an icy blast of frigid air. "Brubaker did seem to find you quite enchanting." There was a heartbeat of silence. "I must say, you certainly seemed to warm to the task."

Elizabeth's chin came up, but she remained pleasantly placid. "I was given to believe that was what you wanted."

"I suppose it was a success, since I'm meeting him tomorrow morning. But as I recall, I asked that you be charming"—his tone was lashing— "not that you
charm him
."

Elizabeth's spine went ramrod-straight. She held onto her temper, but only by a thread. "I did as you asked—no more, no less."

When she would have stepped away, his fingers curled into the soft flesh of her upper arm. "I tell you now, Elizabeth, I'll not have a bastard in my home. Not my brother's, or anyone else's."

Elizabeth jerked away. "If your opinion of me is so little, then why did you marry me?" A rash boldness seized her. "Oh, do forgive me! Because I possess exemplary bloodlines. Yet still you believe my behavior is that of a—a common slut, when you know very well that cannot be!"

Something flitted across his face, something that might have been fleeting guilt. Elizabeth experienced a brief moment of triumph.

"I know what was
not
the case before our marriage," he allowed at last. "But I also know what I will not permit."

"Oh yes, you made yourself quite clear. You said you would tolerate no lovers. Nor," she informed him heatedly, "will I."

He gazed at her as if she'd gone mad. "Precisely what does that mean?"

"I am not such a fool as you think!" she snapped. "The night of the opera there was a woman staring at you. I asked who she was. You told me she was no one that concerns me. But I'm afraid she does concern me when I know full well she is your mistress—and that's where you've been spending all your nights!"

He neither denied it nor confirmed it. "Need I remind you of our wedding night? You made it quite clear I could not seek pleasure from you."

Sheer bravado prompted her retort. "Nonetheless, I-I demand that you give her up! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to retire."

Morgan said nothing. But his features were a mask of stone as he watched her march from the room, her nose tipped high as a queen's.

Slowly he made his way to the library, where he sat in a velvet chair, long legs sprawled before him, his jacket discarded, his shirt unbuttoned. Darkness surrounded him, as black as his mood. Though his body was still, his mind was not.

Throughout the evening, no matter where he was—who he was with—his mind was encumbered by
her
. His wife. The wife who denied him in any way she could—in every way.

The longer he sat, the more the tumult within him squalled.

He'd married a stiff-necked Puritan, he decided darkly. But she didn't look like one. Her naked shoulders had tempted him throughout the evening. He couldn't help but recall that moment when he'd taken her; it was branded in his mind like fire. He hadn't forgotten how it felt to be buried deep within her, her body hot and tight around his swollen flesh. Christ, but he'd longed to complete the act he'd only started! Leaving her then had been the hardest thing he'd ever done. He'd wanted to explode within her again and again and again.

And now his blood was burning again, scalding his veins, blazing through his body like lightning.

But she was as forbidden to him as ever.

His jaw clenched hard. It didn't have to be that way. By God, it would
not
be that way.

He took the stairs two at a time.

Elizabeth sat before the vanity, clad in a simple high-necked, long-sleeved muslin nightgown. Her hair hung like a golden curtain about her, loose and free. She pulled a brush through the gleaming strands, hoping the monotonous motion would calm her runaway emotions.

She didn't know if she should regret or applaud her angry outburst.

On one level, she was glad it was out, that Morgan knew she disapproved of his mistress and would endure a faithless husband no longer. On quite another, she was petrified of his reaction. Indeed, whispered an intrusive little voice, wasn't that the very reason she had fled?

I didn't flee
, she argued silently.

You did
, the voice reiterated.
You're a coward
.

No!

Yes
...
yes
!

She paused in her ministrations, then let out a long, uneven breath. He was, she admitted at last, a formidable figure, this man she had married.

Never more so than now.

The hallway door swung open. Even as a prickle of grating awareness touched her spine, Elizabeth froze. Her heart lurched, but her fear lasted only an instant. She welcomed the surge of anger that began to simmer. Considering the subject of their exchange in the foyer, she couldn't believe he had the audacity to come to her room!

Four steps put him directly behind her. Elizabeth tensed but did not turn. Their eyes met in the mirror. Hers were guarded and wary; to her dismay, his were wholly unreadable.

"What do you want?" she asked curtly.

"I should think that would be obvious. I would like to speak with you."

"Can't it wait until morning? Can't we discuss it elsewhere?"

A dangerous smile curled his lips. "No, it cannot. We cannot. In fact, there's nowhere I'd rather be, my dear wife"—a hard smile edged his lips—"and you've nowhere to run."

«
^
»

Elizabeth's heart began to thud. With deepening dread, she watched as he began to walk slowly back and forth, strong hands linked behind his back. His spotless white shirt was open at the throat, baring a tangle of wiry dark hairs. Elizabeth watched him, a cold lump of dread tightening her middle.

"You left before we finished our discussion, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth said nothing. The hand with the hairbrush had lowered to her lap. Her grip was white knuckled.

"Our so-called arrangement is not working out as expected. Do you agree?"

Elizabeth hesitated, then finally nodded.

"Then I think it's time we acted our roles. You've chosen to dictate boundaries. So be it." There was a pulsebeat of silence before he said softly, "But I'm afraid I have some demands of my own."

Quietly as he spoke, she sensed a harshness in him that could no longer be denied—and ah, how she suddenly regretted the rashness of her tongue!

She had to force her lips to move. "Such as?"

He had paused directly behind her, so close the fabric of his shirt brushed her hair. "We've been married over a month now." He spoke with cool deliberation. "Frankly, Elizabeth, I expect more from a wife."

That stirred her temper. "Perhaps I expect more from a husband!" she flared.

"Excellent. Because I find I am willing—even eager—to carry out my duties as a husband." His eyes had dropped to where the mounds of her naked breasts thrust against the cloth.

An unholy glint had appeared as well. His meaning was unmistakable. Once again she could almost feel him… the hot spear of his manhood stabbing into her flesh, as if to rend her in two…

Panic threatened to choke her. She could not bear it again… she could not! She lurched upward with a cry. "That's not what I mean—"

"But it
is
what I mean." Strong hands caught at her shoulders, bringing her around to face him. His gaze ran over her, making her feel stripped to the very bone.

His hands fell away from her. "Indeed, I feel cheated. You wore a gown of red this evening—red is the color of passion. Yet what warmth waits for me each night?" His lip curled. "My proper Boston wife—my very proper
English
wife whose welcome is colder than the sea."

Elizabeth made no reply, for what could she say? She stared at him, her eyes wide and uncertain.

A long finger flicked disdainfully at the neckline of her nightgown. "Remove it," he ordered curtly.

Even if she'd wanted to, Elizabeth couldn't have moved a muscle. She swallowed a rush of fear, for his regard was utterly unyielding. The very air between them seemed to sizzle with sparks.

A dark brow arose. "Unless you would rather
I
do it."

Elizabeth paled. Grasping for courage, she fought back with indignant outrage. "What kind of husband are you to make such demands?"

Morgan's jaw locked tight. Elizabeth quaked inwardly, for never had she sensed such danger. "I take what is mine—to have and to hold, as I recall." His tone was grating. "And I am a far better husband than you are a wife!"

Wildly she cried out, "No! You take what I would give!"

"And who would you give it to? Nathaniel?" He sneered. "Perhaps you should ask him why he wasn't here when you arrived from England; why he came when he finally did. I suspect the widow in New York grew tired of him. Or maybe he grew tired of her."

Shock rendered her immobile. The blood drained from her face as she realized what he was saying. He'd known Nathaniel was in New York. He'd
known
.

"You found him," she said faintly. "You found him, didn't you? You lied when you told me the man you hired had found no trace of him." Furious anger kindled in her voice. "What a fool I was, to believe you were an honest man!" She tossed her head. "But you're right, you know. It's Nathaniel I want. I've never
stopped
wanting him. And I-I intend to get a divorce as soon as I can!"