Just One Kiss (3 page)

"Papa was ill," she repeated. "I merely wanted him to concentrate on getting well that he might
see
my wedding to Nathaniel."

"Your father would never have permitted you to marry a—a Yankee nobody—and one of Irish descent yet! Such a marriage is hardly suitable!"

Elizabeth shook her head.
A suitable marriage
. She cared little about that. But she was well aware that Clarissa didn't understand the fires of youth, the fires that burned in her breast whenever she was with Nathaniel.

No, she thought.
No
. She would not marry Lord Harry—not to please Clarissa, nor to please anyone. For if she did, she would lead a stifling existence, a life she could not bear.

Nor did she delude herself. If she remained, Clarissa would do all she could to force her to her will. Indeed, she sensed in Clarissa an unyielding purpose that was almost frightening.

Slowly she rose to her feet. "I regret that it must be like this," she said calmly. "But I think you will agree that perhaps it is best I leave for Boston—and Nathaniel—as soon as possible."

Clarissa leaped to her feet as well. Her cheeks turned a mottled shade of red. "By God, girl, you always were a willful, spoiled child, but your father would never believe me! I told him you'd lost your senses to this Yankee! I told him you needed a strong hand to guide you, but he would not concede until he lay dying. And now I thank God that he is dead, for he would be scandalized by your behavior!"

Elizabeth ignored her, extending a hand toward James Rowland. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Rowland. I trust you'll understand if I remain no longer. I've passage to book, you see."

Rowland was on his feet as well. "Lady Elizabeth," he pleaded. "Lady Elizabeth, please! I beg you to reconsider. Surely the two of you can work something out. Indeed, you stand to gain much. Your father made provisions for an extremely generous allowance—"

"An allowance to be determined by me, Mr. Rowland. And by God, she'll get not a farthing. Not a farthing, do you hear?" Clarissa's voice vibrated with her fury. "Without me, you are as poor as a church mouse!"

Rowland fell silent. Elizabeth knew then it was true. Papa, she thought sadly. Oh, Papa, why did you do this? He had taught her to think for herself. She needed no one to guide her, to control her, as Clarissa seemed determined to do.

After a moment, she tipped her head, the merest wisp of a smile on her lips as she spoke softly. "You don't understand, do you, Clarissa? Papa's money does not matter to me. True, I love Hayden Park, but my life is my own—and means far more to me. And I would rather be poor than wed to a man I do not love."

That was the last she'd seen of Clarissa.

And so she had said farewell to her father, farewell to England… to her life as she had known it.

For a time there was no help for it—she'd been secretly crushed. She couldn't help but feel that by placing her future in Clarissa's hands, Papa had betrayed her. But during the long voyage across the sea, she'd come to realize Papa's only fault was in trusting so easily; trusting Clarissa to look out for his daughter's best interests.

Yes, she thought once more.
Yes
. She'd made the right choice. The
only
choice.

For to marry as Clarissa commanded would have been unbearable.

Slowly Elizabeth released a long pent-up breath. Her mind returned to the present…

And Nathaniel.

She coughed, aware of an unfamiliar tightness in her breast. Her chest had begun to ache again, as it had the past few days. She brushed it aside distractedly. It was nothing but the memories, she told herself.

Grasping the strings of her reticule, she glanced once more toward the house. A twinge of uncertainty marred the smoothness of her brow. Nearly three months had passed since she'd last laid eyes on Nathaniel. Would he be pleased to see her?

She gave a little laugh. Of course he would. He loved her. Her fears were silly. Besides, it wasn't him she was afraid of, simply the future. And
little
wonder, for her life had certainly been unsettled of late.

Still, a nagging thought persisted. Had she been unwise to come here first? The driver had known where the O'Connor residence was located. But she must still find lodgings, and she'd thought it best to seek a recommendation from Nathaniel. Her funds were scarcely limitless—she'd sold off several pieces of jewelry to pay for her passage. But if all went right, she needed only find a room for a week or two at most. It was indeed her most fervent wish to be married as soon as possible—she prayed Nathaniel felt the same!

Her mind thus engaged, Elizabeth patted her bonnet and straightened her spencer. She felt decidedly dusty and disheveled after a month at sea. A half smile curved her lips. Indeed, she felt a bit of a waif as she glanced down at the small portmanteau at her side. She'd left her trunks at the ship's docks, in the hope that Nathaniel would send someone after them, perhaps tomorrow.

Bolstering her courage, she started down the brick walkway. Her booted heels clicked as she mounted the stairs. There, before two wide double doors, she reached out with one slender, white-gloved hand and curled her fingers around the ornately carved brass knocker. Outwardly calm, inwardly shaking, she tapped smartly upon the paneled wood.

Footsteps immediately echoed from within. The door swept wide. A stoop-shouldered, gray-whiskered man appeared—the butler, from the look of him.

Elizabeth summoned a smile. "Good day," she said pleasantly. "Is this the O'Connor residence?"

Shaggy brows rose. "Indeed it is, madam."

Her smile relaxed. "Good. Then I'd like to see Mr. O'Connor, if he's in, please."

His gaze encompassed the length of her, and apparently found favor. "Who shall I say is calling, madam?"

"Lady Elizabeth Stanton." Her laugh was rather breathless. "Please forgive me for arriving unannounced, but my ship docked only this afternoon, you see." Elizabeth felt compelled to explain. "Circumstances were a bit muddled when I left London. I was in such a frenzy, I'm afraid I had little time to write and inform Mr. O'Connor of my arrival. And… oh, perhaps I should have waited, but I'm so very anxious to see him again!"

There was the slightest pause. "Mr. O'Connor has not yet returned from the shipyard, though I expect him within the next quarter hour. Would you care to wait?"

Her anxiety fled. "Oh, yes! Please."

The butler stepped back. "Please come in, then."

Elizabeth followed him to the drawing room, just off the massive entrance hall. As she stepped inside, her gaze silently approved the large, comfortably inviting furnishings.

"My name is Simmons, madam. If you'd like, I could bring you some tea."

Though his manner was faultlessly polite, and rather formal, his eyes were kind, "thank you, Simmons," she said with a smile. "I'd like that very much indeed."

He gave a slight bow and retreated.

As the door closed, Elizabeth seated herself on a large, overstuffed wing chair across from the fireplace. A young girl soon returned with a silver tray, introducing herself as Millie. Elizabeth poured herself a cup of tea, thinking it would refresh her, but after several sips she felt as if she were hot as the fire that burned in the hearth.

She rose, restlessly pacing the length of the room and back. Now that the time was nigh upon her, both excitement and fear warred within her breast. She caught sight of herself in a small, rectangular mirror decorated with small rosettes at each corner. Two spots of rose stood out on her cheeks. Her eyes shone brightly, vivid and green. She frowned, thinking they seemed almost overbright…

Her reflection seemed to waver, then abruptly righted itself. She frowned. In the last hour, her breath had grown rather short, but surely it was just a case of nerves.

The rattle of a carriage sounded just outside.

Elizabeth flew to the window. Through the filmy lace, she glimpsed a tall, spare figure striding up the walkway.

Her heart began to sing.
It's him… it's Nathaniel
!

Voices echoed in the entrance hall. She linked her gloved fingers together before her to steady her hands. She had to stop herself from whirling around in joy.

Footsteps approached. Simmons knocked, then opened the door just a crack. "Madam, the master will be in shortly."

Elizabeth nodded. Her mind sped onward. Would Nathaniel be surprised to see her? No doubt. Would he be pleased? Oh, surely he would! After all, he'd asked her to be his wife! Bliss descended in full bloom. She sighed, picturing what would happen when Nathaniel strode through the door.

He would gaze at her with that ever-present smile of his, laughter shining in his eyes; her lips curved in sweet remembrance. And then… then he would take her in his arms, and kiss her as he once had.

The door opened with a creak. The outline of a man flashed before her eyes—elegantly attired, taller than most, powerfully wide shoulders, incredibly narrow hips… and hair as dark as night.

Poised to fly across the room, Elizabeth halted with a gasp.

Her smile froze. Her heart seemed to stop. Her mind blurred. Suddenly she felt so weak, she could barely stand. She blinked, certain that her eyes had surely deceived her. Surely this could not be…

For the man before her was not Nathaniel.

«
^
»

His business concluded, Morgan O'Connor strode out the entrance of the Commonwealth Bank. An extremely well-dressed middle-aged lady was just preparing to enter. Morgan graciously swept the door wide. Stepping back in silent invitation, he tipped his hat in greeting.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Winston."

The woman spoke not a word. She marched by in a swirl of frills and lace. The plume in her hat dipped and turned. An icy glare was the only acknowledgment of his gesture. Morgan cocked a brow and lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. Thank heaven, he decided with acrid humor, his bankers were not so fastidious as Mrs. Winston. They were, in fact, only too eager for each and every transaction.

It hadn't always been so, Morgan reflected, climbing into his carriage. When he'd been clawing his way up from his days as a seaman, financial supporters had been few. But the day had come when all had changed. And while he'd not been openly embraced by the city's upper crust, for many a year he'd at least been admitted into Boston's wealthiest drawing rooms—and given the pretense of welcome.

He'd thought the days had passed when Boston's crème de la crème considered him a nobody—merely the son of a drunken tavern owner. Riffraff.
Shanty
Irish. But in essence, little had changed. For within the stroke of an hour, he'd been once again branded the outsider. The unworthy.

No longer was he so foolish. So blind.

And although Morgan was loath to admit it, even to himself, deep inside the knowledge grated. He'd struggled year after year, long and hard, to better himself and his circumstances. He had earned what so many of Boston's so-called elite had been born to—or had handed down from father to son. But in all honesty, the city's blue bloods were no better than he.

They merely thought they were.

With a flick of a finger, Morgan motioned his driver forward. And though his lips still carried the trace of a smile, his silvery eyes were hard as stone.

As the carriage rounded the corner, the choppy waters of the Bay came into view. Curiously his gaze lingered.

God, but he'd grown to hate that tiny little tavern by the sea where he'd spent his youth. But the sea had been his salvation. And it was there he'd finally found sanctuary.
And
his fortune.

His only regret was that he'd been unable to share it with his mother.

A mocking smile touched his lips. His father had been gone nearly ten years now. It was no accident that he'd chosen to demolish that wretched tavern scarcely a week after his father's funeral. And it was there he'd founded the offices of O'Connor Shipbuilding.

Shrill laughter outside the carriage snared his attention. A group of children playing along the street called out and waved at his driver. He smiled faintly, wondering idly if they knew how lucky they were. His own childhood had hardly been rife with such lightheartedness. No, he'd left the carefree laughter to his brother, as he always had.

Nathaniel… It was inevitable that his mind should turn to him. The train of thought caused Morgan to steel himself subconsciously as if for battle.

Nathaniel… the brother he'd so loved. The blackguard he'd trusted with his life… with his
wife
.

Nathaniel's charm had carried him far, Morgan reflected cynically. Indeed, so much so that many were wont to forgive him his transgressions.

Not everyone.

Morgan's lips grew thin. A dark hole seemed to burn in his chest. He'd had precious little contact with Nathaniel the past five years; that was the way he preferred it, and little wonder. He could scarcely excuse his brother for all that had passed between them. Never had he dreamed his brother would betray him so… Never had he dreamed his brother would
hurt
him so.

So much had happened. Too much to forget. Too much to
forgive
.

But never again would Nathaniel hurt him so. Nor would any woman, even one as lovely as his wife, Amelia, had been…

Another vow he would not forsake.

Twisting restlessly against the rich cushions of the carriage, Morgan admonished himself fiercely.
Enough of Nathaniel
, he told himself. Because to think of his brother… was to think of
her
.

And he would indisputably rather think of neither.

Yet oddly enough, both still lingered in his mind when he arrived home a short time later—his dead, faithless wife, and his wretchedly tormenting brother. One of the downstairs maids admitted him; he gave her a nod and proceeded straight to his study, where he poured a liberal amount of brandy into a crystal glass. He swirled the liquid in the glass and stared at it intently, his mood as darkly morose as his thoughts. But even as he contemplated it, he knew he wouldn't drink it…