half brother. I doubt that will be possible. I have not seen Roger in years.”
So Poleven did not want an embarrassing Gypsy relative in residence. It fit with Morgan’s assessment of his nature. And with his own plans. He hesitated a moment before asking the next, potentially humiliating, question, and then decided to ask it anyway. “Have you any money?”
“I have some, my lord.” She did not meet his eyes and he deduced that some meant very little indeed. The answer also suited his purposes. She would stay because she could not leave.
If she felt ashamed, her voice did not betray it. “I have tried to sell these pearls, but no one I know can buy them.” Her eyes, now clear again, twinkled, and a little smile played around her lips. “Besides—they all have their own finery.”
The light dawned on Morgan. Salvage. Goods washed ashore from shipwrecks by law belonged to the crown or the ship owner. Apparently she was not above skirting the law a bit herself. What had he expected of Hayne’s wife? Roger Poleven’s sister? Did she also engage in a little smuggling?
“You, uh, found the pearls?”
“A trunk appeared as if by magic in our cove several years ago.” She assumed a very innocent expression, opening her eyes wide. “There was no ship in sight, so how were we to know how it got there?”
In spite of himself, a bark of laughter burst out of Morgan. He knew well that where so many ships met their doom on the treacherous cliffs of Cornwall, outwitting the salvage officers had long since become a major industry. “And the dress?”
“From the trunk, also.” She returned serenely to her dinner. How like Cordell Hayne to leave his beautiful wife to resort to the sea for an out-of-fashion evening dress, to leave her to manage his estate on a paltry allowance.
And now he left her conveniently penniless. Morgan started to refill Mrs. Hayne’s glass, but it was still full, so he poured another glass for himself. Apparently the seduction of his enemy’s lady would not be accomplished by plying her with strong drink. Pity. The longer she sat across the table from him in that enticing gown, the more impatient he became.
He would have to offer her a position. But not as the mistress of Merdinn. Cordell Hayne’s wife would never be that.
Chapter Three
W hat should he suggest? The position of housekeeper? Demeaning for a gentleman’s daughter, but perhaps suitable for the wife of one’s defeated enemy. But, no. He already had a housekeeper on the way. Besides—she might move out of the mistress’s bedchamber that adjoined his and take up residence in the housekeeper’s rooms.
The offer must be something temporary. Then if things did not work out as he wished, he could find a position for her with one of his acquaintances. Even if they did, he could not picture himself carrying on an affair with an employee under the same roof as his mother. No, indeed.
That thought gave him pause. An affair with an employee? Never before had he even considered such a dishonorable course of action. But she would not really be an employee, just a…
A woman without protection.
The notion trust itself forward unbidden. He shoved it back. Damnation! She was Cordell Hayne’s wife! It was his responsibility to protect her. Married women had affairs all the time—after producing a few heirs, of course. It was an accepted fact of ton life.
But Mrs. Hayne must be long gone before his mother’s arrival at the end of the summer. Ah! That gave him an idea. Morgan schooled his features to reveal none of his thoughts. This must be done carefully.
“Mrs. Hayne, I wonder, since you have no immediate plans, if you might be able to oblige me in the matter of Jeremy’s supervision? I dismissed his governess when we left London. He is old enough now for a tutor, but I want to allow him his freedom for the rest of the summer. As I will be very busy with the renovations of Merdinn, perhaps you might agree to keep him out of trouble for me? By summer’s end, you should be able to arrange a position elsewhere.”
“Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your offer, but what of my grandmother?”
Apparently the grandparent came with the lady. In any event, Morgan could certainly not see himself turning out an infirm and aged woman. “She will remain as my guest, of course.”
Lalia took a careful sip of her wine. The expected reprieve had become reality—and presented in a very palatable form. Not charity exactly, but a position. Not a very exalted position, true, but honorable enough. A governess of sorts. No, not quite that exalted. Rather a nursemaid. Very kind of his lordship.
Very kind.
He was up to something.
She looked steadily into his face for a moment. He looked back, politely expectant—nothing more. Yes, he was definitely up to something. He clearly hated her husband, so why should he feel any differently toward her? Why indeed.
Perhaps she presumed in thinking that his lordship had designs on her plump person. She was but a mere dab of a woman, too short and too well padded for fashion. No one had ever called her a beauty. But she saw…something…behind that enigmatic green gaze. Clearly the safety of her virtue lay in departing Merdinn as fast as her legs could carry her.
But when had she ever had the luxury of safety? Not since her father died certainly. And what of Daj? Her legs hardly even carried her up the stairs. Once again Lalia would have to be practical. At least the post would give her the time she needed.
All her other choices really constituted no choice at all. Once again she must accept the inevitable. The very thing she had always done. Accept and make the best of it. Accept the position of an ostracized half-Gypsy daughter sheltered on her father’s estate. Accept the guardianship of a half brother who married her to a ne’er-do-well at the age of sixteen, because he didn’t want to be bothered with her well-being. Accept a husband who took no thought for her well-being at all.
Now, if she stayed, what might she be asked to accept?
“Very well, my lord. Until the end of the summer then.”
If she could avoid her husband, she certainly could avoid Lord Carrick.
The next morning Lalia had her first inkling that Lord Carrick might prove a little harder to avoid than her usually absent husband. Just as she and Jeremy were climbing into the gig outside the stable, his lordship came running toward them up the lane. Good heavens! What could be the matter? She tossed the reins to James and, hastily jumping down, hurried toward Lord Carrick. He ran easily up to the carriage, his long legs pumping, the muscles flexing inside the skintight britches. He came to a stop beside her, his breathing only slightly deep.
“My lord! What is it?”
He bowed carelessly and tossed sweaty curls off his forehead. “What is what?”
“Why are you running? Is there some emergency?”
“Oh, that. No, I often run.”
He smiled down at her, his eyes warming, and suddenly Lalia’s own breath caught in her throat. He had pushed his rolled sleeves above his elbows, revealing sculptured forearms, and his open collar showed the cords of his strong neck. A sense of power flowed off of him along with his scent and the heat from his body, embracing
