arrives, you and your grandmother will do me the honor of joining me for dinner each evening. Eating alone is very dreary.”
Was that a gentle reproof? Lalia couldn’t be sure. She resisted the temptation to point out that she was no longer mistress of the house but a lower servant. But that kind of spite was certainly beneath her dignity. Nor would she give him the satisfaction. Besides, there must be peace, at least, between them for the rest of the summer.
And she could never hold a grudge, anyway.
“Why, thank you, my lord. I should be delighted.” Well, perhaps something a little less than delighted. His lordship’s masculine presence tended to put a severe strain on her self-possession. “I cannot speak for my grandmother. It is very difficult for her to climb stairs. That is why she moved to a room in the service wing.”
Now what accounted for that look of satisfaction on the man’s face?
Before Lalia could decide, they arrived at Jeremy’s room just in time to witness the annihilation of a troop of cavalry by a hail of artillery fire. Jeremy lay on his stomach shooting crockery marbles into the ranks of the wooden soldiers, making too much noise to hear them enter. “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Lalia put her hands to her ears. “Jeremy! I said play quietly.”
The barrage ceased as the boy leapt to his feet and bowed politely. “Oh, hello, Miss Lalia. Uncle Morgan. Have you come to tuck me in?”
They both assured him on this point, and Lalia sent him behind the screen to wash his face and change to his nightshirt. She watched in some surprise at the tenderness with which Lord Carrick tucked the covers under his nephew’s chin. Apparently his lordship’s harshness and conniving were reserved for her and her husband.
Afterward, he insisted on walking her to her bedchamber in spite of protests that she could walk the few yards alone quite safely. At the door he somehow succeeded in capturing her hand before she could escape into her room. With his gaze never leaving her eyes, he carried her hand to his lips. In spite of Lalia’s determination, her fingers trembled.
That look of satisfaction again in his hard green eyes, he reached past her to open the door. Lalia slipped hastily through the narrow space he allowed, her breasts brushing his chest slightly before she could get the door closed, sighing with relief.
That encounter had been a near run thing.
Morgan resisted the impulse to pace. He hated not being able to sleep. The level of brandy in his glass had sunk almost to the bottom. Perhaps he would have another. But, no. He had drunk too much already. His wits would soon be wandering. Besides, rather than dampening the feelings that persisted in tormenting his lower body, the wine seemed to increase them. He was ready and more than ready to crush his enemy’s wife in his embrace. And the lady was nothing loathe, he was sure.
He could hear her quick intake of breath when he touched her, could see the warmth kindle in her eyes. Ah, those eyes. So changeable. So expressive. What color would they become in the throes of passion? He would soon know. He could sense her weakening.
The thought of her lying in the next room in the big bed wanting him, needing him, made his mouth water and his groin ache unbearably. No, this state of affairs could not go on much longer.
Lalia had not been asleep. How could she sleep with the foundations of her life crumbling? Lalia had been staring at the faded canopy of her bed, wondering for the hundredth time—no, the millionth time—what sort of work she might do. And how to resist his disturbingly seductive lordship. The noise in the corridor had been so muffled that it almost failed to pierce her consciousness—a light thump, as though someone had collided with the chair outside her door. She sat up listening.
The sound did not repeat itself, but the furtive quality of it disturbed Lalia. Lord Carrick had come up to bed an hour ago and she had not heard the door of the adjoining room open since then. Perhaps Jeremy needed her and had lost himself in the dark.
Lalia swung her feet over the side of the bed and lit the candle. Pulling her wrapper over her cotton nightgown, she eased the door open and put her head out. Seeing no one, she slipped into the hall and held the candle high. Still no one. In her bare feet she padded silently to Jeremy’s room and peeked in. The boy lay lost in the slumber reserved for the just and the very young.
Puzzled, Lalia retreated to her own door, then glanced at his lordship’s. Should she alert him? She took two more steps, but hesitated as she reached the portal. Did she really want to wake him? An encounter in a darkened passage might be… Well, it would be too… But… If someone were prowling… Lalia lifted her hand to knock, but stood frozen by indecision. Was he awake or asleep? Cautiously she laid her ear against the panels.
Suddenly the door swept open, knocking her back against the wall. The candle fell to the floor and went out.
Hearing a startled squeak issue from behind the door, Morgan stepped into the hall and peered behind it. He beheld the object of his recent plotting leaning against the wall with her hands held up to ward off the collision. So she had come to his bedchamber!
“Good evening, Mrs. Hayne.” Smiling with satisfaction, Morgan leaned his hands against the wall, one on either side of her head. “Have you come to keep me company in my lonely room?”
“Uh…” Her voice sounded strangled and she cleared her throat. “N-no, my lord. I heard something in the corridor.” She still held her hands before her and now she pushed against his chest tentatively, as if to move him away.
Morgan didn’t budge. She heard something? Ha! “So why were you listening at my keyhole?”
“I—I didn’t know if you were sleeping… I didn’t want to…”
He shifted one hand to gather a handful of silky black hair, pinning it to the wall. She pushed again, harder. Morgan leaned into the pressure, bringing his face nearer to hers so that she could feel his breath on her lips. “You didn’t want to what?”
“I didn’t…” She stopped in midsentence and looked into his face. “My lord, why are you doing this?”
The question took Morgan by surprise. He moved back a bit. “Why? Because you are lovely, and I want you. And you want me.”
She shook her head. “That is not the real reason.” Her voice was now calm and certain. She did not push again, but seemed still and waiting. “You hate my husband. Why would you want me?”
Shrewd as well as beautiful. Well, then…she asked. “Because you are his. I want everything that is his—especially you. No man can stand the thought of another man taking his woman, holding her, touching all the places that are his alone.” He moved his lips nearer, brushing them against her face between words. “The way I want to hold you…touch you.”
Her laugh almost startled him into releasing her. “For all your hate, you don’t know my husband very well, do you, my lord?”
This was not going well. Morgan increased the distance between them slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Let me tell you a story, my lord.” She made no further attempt to escape. “You must understand that my husband seldom came here. He could be very…unpleasant when he did appear, and I learned to avoid him. It angered him, but…well, he soon left again.” Her quiet manner had captured Morgan’s full attention. “One day he came bringing two other men with him. By
