Intimate Betrayal Page 7

  “Thank you, Morgan,” she said, maintaining a calm facade. Morgan gave her a wicked grin, so like Tristan’s she felt her embarrassment begin to fade.

  “I think you shall make a wonderful addition to our family,” he said with a twinkle in his silver-gray eyes. “And I am deeply gratified knowing that left in your capable . . . um . . . hands, the succession to our family title will be secured. I fully expect to become a doting uncle sometime next year.”

  Caroline was saved from further teasing by the arrival of Lady Ogden, who declined a drink and sat primly near the fireplace in a small rosewood armchair until Perkins announced dinner. Morgan instinctively offered his arm to Lady Ogden, before realizing Alyssa would also require an escort. Belatedly he turned to offer Alyssa his other arm, but she was already leaving the room, conversing quietly with Perkins.

  There were a few awkward moments in the dining room as everyone was seated. Morgan assumed Tristan and Caroline would sit in the customary host and hostess positions at the opposite ends of the large mahogany table, leaving him free to sit where he wished. Tristan apparently had other ideas.

  Tristan seated Lady Ogden and Caroline and then settled himself comfortably between the two ladies, flashing Morgan a satisfied grin. The duke had no choice but to occupy the head of the table, and Alyssa quickly sat in the remaining chair to the duke’s left.

  Perkins and Ned served the turtle soup while Caroline maintained a lively flow of chatter. Alyssa learned over the fricandeau of veal and carrot pudding that Lady Ogden was a widow; her husband had been killed during the fighting on the peninsula early last year. He and Tristan had served together in the same regiment, which explained how Caroline and Tristan had met. Tristan had resigned his commission after being badly wounded in the same battle that claimed Lord Ogden’s life.

  Caroline skillfully directed the dinner conversation, and during the roasted beef, broiled mutton, parsnips in butter, and boiled potatoes with mint sauce, Alyssa caught a glimpse of the raffish high society of London. It was an endless social whirl of balls, soirees, parties, and afternoon teas. The gaming clubs and prizefights, the theater and the opera, the circus and Vauxhall Gardens: it was pure fascination to Alyssa.

  Alyssa studied her dinner companions during the meal, saying little. Lady Ogden maintained a very proper air, as did the duke, although he seemed to be enjoying himself. Caroline was in her glory with the majority of attention focused on her, although Alyssa saw she often glanced at Tristan. He in turn could not keep his eyes off her. He loves her, Alyssa realized with amazement. She had witnessed their passion firsthand, but it surprised her to discover their love for each other. Marriages for love were a rarity among the ton. Tristan and Caroline appeared to be among the lucky few.

  As the talk turned to gossip, it was obvious Caroline held certain people in particular fascination. The first was a gentleman named George Brummell, who she constantly referred to as “Beau.”

  “Well, I don’t care if Beau is no longer on good terms with the regent,” Caroline said flippantly. “I find Beau absolutely charming. His constant aim is toward a sober but exquisite perfection, and you cannot deny he has genuine good taste in everything. Beau’s clothes, house, furniture, library, all his possessions are much admired.”

  “As are his eccentricities, Caroline,” the duke responded to her glowing recitation of Brummell’s character. “I’ve heard tell that he sends his washing nearly twenty miles outside of London because that is the only place it can be done properly, his boots have to be cleaned in champagne, and it takes three people to make his gloves.”

  “He is an original, Morgan,” Caroline stated firmly, defending her Beau.

  “Henry Cope has also been labeled an original, my dear,” Tristan said laughingly. “He is known as ‘the green man’ because everything he wears is green, his rooms and all his possessions are green, and it is said he eats nothing but green fruits and vegetables.”

  “How very odd,” Alyssa slipped in.

  “They are both eccentric fops,” Lady Ogden said, her tone sour.

  “Honestly, Priscilla, you say that about every man who isn’t the Duke of Wellington,” Caroline replied.

  “Arthur Wellesley might not be a romantic, Caroline, but he is a genius, and the best hope this country has in defeating that Corsican monster and his French marshals,” Lady Ogden said primly.

  “I still prefer a true romantic,” Caroline said with good humor. She stroked Tristan’s hand. “Like my darling Tris, or that lovely Lord Byron. His poetry is sheer magic.”

  “I didn’t know you were writing poetry these days, Tris,” Morgan drawled mockingly.

  “You heard Caroline’s critique yourself, Morgan.” Tristan chuckled. “Sheer magic.”

  “Oh, you.” Caroline wagged her fork at Tristan. “I’m not the only woman in London who finds Lord Byron fascinating. I’ve heard tell of a very married lady who is wildly indiscreet where Byron is concerned. They are seen everywhere together, and after late-night parties she always leaves in his carriage.”

  “Poor Lord Melbourne,” Lady Ogden sympathized. “How perfectly dreadful to be unable to control your own wife.”

  “Anyone who would allow an impulsive woman like Caroline Lamb loose in London deserves the scandal she causes,” the duke sneered.

  “But she does have marvelous legs,” Tristan quipped. “I saw her at Lad Holland’s ball last week. She hadn’t been invited, so she turned up in her favorite masquerade: a page boy.”

  “Tristan!” Lady Ogden admonished. “That is quite enough about Caroline Lamb’s physical attributes. I hardly think that is fit conversation for our dinner table.” She looked to the duke for his support.

  “Tell us the latest news from the War Ministry, Tris,” Morgan requested mildly.

  Tristan nodded his head and repeated the latest war news. Alyssa noticed it seemed to appease Lady Ogden. She became more attentive and relaxed. Alyssa supposed listening to news about the war made her feel closer to her dead husband.

  The gentlemen did not linger over their port, but instead joined the ladies in the front salon. Tristan persuaded Lady Ogden to play the pianoforte, while he and Caroline sat very close together on a nearby settee.

  Alyssa retreated to a faded, overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, hoping to remain unobtrusive until she could excuse herself. She was no sooner seated than Morgan materialized at her side, dragging a rosewood armchair with him so he could sit near her.

  “You were very quiet during dinner this evening, Miss Carrington,” the duke said.

  “Was I?”

  “I hope you did not find our talk of London boring.”

  “Quite the contrary, Your Grace,” Alyssa replied. “I found it very . . . enlightening. It made me realize how very little I know of society.”

  “Do you wish to know more? Firsthand perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “I learned a long time ago it is fruitless to want what can never be,” she said simply.

  “You will be content to pass the rest of your days alone, in your tiny cottage, Miss Carrington? Funny, I thought you a woman of more spirit,” Morgan said provocatively.

  She did not disappoint him. Morgan saw her spirit emerge with a flash of fire in her green eyes.

  “I will not be in my ‘tiny’ cottage, Your Grace. I plan on going to Cornwall as soon as all the arrangements are made,” she informed him icily.

  “To be with family?”

  “To be employed.”

  “Employed! Doing what? A governess? Or better still, a companion?” Morgan asked incredulously. Unwittingly a picture of Mrs. Glyndon, his grandmother’s companion, came to mind.

  “Those are the positions I am currently seeking,” Alyssa responded briskly. “Since all the estate agent jobs were filled, I have little choice.” Alyssa’s attempt at lightness fell on deaf ears.

  Morgan gazed at her profile sharply. “Why this sudden change of plans?”

  Alyssa turned to him, fully
intending to tell him to mind his own business, but his questioning eyes stopped her. Does it really matter if he knows? she thought wearily. Not fully understanding why the duke would be remotely interested, Alyssa nevertheless explained.

  “Additional expenses from Lord Carrington’s estate have forced me to alter my plans,” she said quietly.

  “What of the new Viscount Mulgrave? Or your family?”

  “There is no family. The new viscount is Lord Carrington’s brother, an American,” she replied. “He cannot be located, so the responsibility has fallen to me.”

  “As always,” he countered, his eyes filling with sympathy.

  Alyssa saw it, and for once was not moved by it. It wounded her pride to be constantly viewed by the duke as an object of pity.

  “I shall manage, Your Grace,” she replied briskly, thrusting her chin up. “I always have, I know I will be able to secure a position eventually. My primary concern is for my former nurse, Mavis.”

  “What is wrong with Mavis?”

  “Nothing is wrong with her. Your brother has indicated he is willing to keep the servants on, but Mavis is too old to start over. Lord Carrington made no provisions for any of the servants and I have nothing left to give.” Alyssa sighed softly and turned her head away.

  “Then I will provide a pension for her.”

  “But why? Mavis is not your concern.” She looked up into his face, testing his sincerity.

  “I will provide for her,” Morgan insisted. “Unless you object?”

  “Quite the contrary. I find myself in your debt, sir. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do to assist you, Miss Carrington?” Morgan pressed on. Alyssa gazed into his mesmerizing gray eyes, enthralled by the way they suddenly glowed with an inner light. A strong, almost primitive need to plead for his protection coursed through her veins, but she suppressed it. Flustered by these feelings, Alyssa fought hard to preserve her countenance and managed to answer in a calm voice.

  “No, thank you, Your Grace. You are already doing more than propriety allows. If you will excuse me, however, I find I am extremely tired. I bid you good night.”

  Alyssa rose quickly from her chair and, after bidding the others good night, left the room. Morgan filled a glass with a large portion of brandy and settled himself into a chair closer to the pianoforte, staring stonily at the door long after she was gone.

  Chapter Five

  Morgan awoke with a start at a loud clap of thunder outside his bedroom window. He had not closed the bedcurtains, and the full moon cast eerie shadows across the carpeted floor. Fumbling in the dark, he found the flint on the small table by his bed and lit the candle there. He shivered slightly. There was a chill in the room. The fire had gone cold.

  Morgan sat up in the bed, listening to the howling wind and pelting rain. Casting his eyes skyward he quickly inspected the ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t be surprised to feel raindrops on his face.

  Why shouldn’t the roof leak? The majority of the house was in disrepair. Good thing Tristan is rich, he laughed to himself. It is going to cost him a bloody fortune to repair and renovate this mausoleum.

  Morgan sat back against the feather pillows thinking about Alyssa. She had kept the estate productive only by foregoing her own creature comforts. He doubted her wardrobe contained a single presentable gown, yet she always carried herself with grace and dignity. Morgan would never understand how she had managed to live that way for so long.

  The restless passion Morgan felt each time he thought about Alyssa returned. Knowing he would be unable to fall back to sleep, Morgan debated his options. He could get a boring volume from the library downstairs—that would certainly put him straight to sleep. Or perhaps a snifter of brandy would do the job nicely.

  Rising naked from the bed, Morgan donned the brocade dressing gown Perkins had left on the chair. Grabbing his bedside candle, the duke padded barefoot from his room soundlessly down the corridor to the staircase.

  He paused a moment in the large entrance hall, getting his bearings. He headed for the front salon, remembering the large decanter of brandy he and Tristan shared but had not emptied after dinner.

  Morgan raised the candle he carried high in front of himself to illuminate the dark entrance hall. He was approaching the front salon when a strange noise brought him up short.

  Was it the wind? It sounded like crying—no, whining perhaps? He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. He moved slowly down the hall, following the sound. When Morgan reached the end of the hallway, he saw light emerging from the partially closed library doors.

  Again he heard the unusual sound. It wasn’t crying. It was singing. Someone was singing. Loudly and off-key. Morgan gently pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

  A roaring fire bathed the room in soft light, making it warm and inviting. Directly in front of the large fireplace, sprawled out in a high-backed wing chair, sat Alyssa. Her legs were dangling over the side arm of the chair. A half-empty glass in one hand was raised comfortably across the top of her chair, while the other arm dangled down onto the carpeted floor.

  Not wanting to startle her, Morgan spoke softly.

  “Miss Carrington?”

  Her head whipped up, and she grinned crookedly at him. “Your Grace! What a lovely surprise. Please come in.”

  She indicated the matching wing-back chair. “Do sit down. I was just enjoying a spot of brandy. I insist you join me.”

  She struggled a bit to get up from the chair and was successful on her third attempt. “Whatever are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” she asked, rising awkwardly to her feet. When she stood up, Morgan saw she was in her nightclothes.

  She turned and walked in front of the fireplace, and Morgan sucked in his breath sharply. The glow of the firelight illuminated her simple cotton nightgown, allowing him to view her as if she were naked. He wondered how he ever could have thought she was thin. Her body was all sensuous curves: long legs, lean thighs, narrow waist, smooth buttocks, and lush, full breasts. Her hair, revealed to him for the first time, was long and thick, a rich, vibrant copper color. She looked different, so free and wild and beautiful. He felt the blood rush to his head at Alyssa’s incredible transformation.

  Blissfully unaware of his scrutiny, Alyssa absently ran a hand through her disheveled hair as she searched the Pembroke table for the brandy decanter and a clean glass.

  “Ahh, here we are, Your Grace.” She handed him his drink before settling back into her chair. “Would you also care for something to eat?”

  “What? Something to eat? No. No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? You look rather hungry.” She took a small sip of her drink and grimaced at the strong taste. “You still haven’t told me what brings you down here so late.”

  “The storm woke me. I thought a glass of brandy might help me sleep. When I came downstairs, I heard a noise, so I came to investigate.”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed loudly. “My singing.” Alyssa giggled. “I hope it didn’t frighten you. Lord Carrington always told me my singing sounded like a cat being tortured.”

  “Why are you here at this hour, Miss Carrington?”

  “I am visiting my brave captain,” she told him in a serious voice. She raised her glass, toasting the portrait over the fireplace of a rakish man, elegantly dressed in Elizabethan costume.

  “My noble ancestor, Sir Thomas Carrington. A sea captain and privateer, though I’m sure he was more a pirate. He does have that look about him.” She turned to Morgan for confirmation, but continued before he could respond.

  “He was knighted by good Queen Bess herself for services to the Crown. God only knows what that entailed.” Grinning broadly, she winked at Morgan.

  “Good God, woman, are you foxed?”

  “I should say not,” she bristled. “I’ve only had this one drink.” She held up her nearly empty glass.

  “One drink can do the trick when you are not used to strong spirits.”

&nb
sp; “I bow to your authority on the matter, Your Grace. But I still must insist that I am not drunk.”

  Morgan took a sip of his brandy, and for a moment simply stared at her. “What has upset you so much that you seek comfort here alone with a bottle?”

  “Do you mean in addition to my being destitute, not yet employed, and in immediate danger of losing the very roof over my head?” She laughed again, but it had a hollow sound.

  “A difficult situation, but is that truly the reason?”

  “Not entirely,” she confessed. “I rediscovered some long-forgotten emotions tonight.”

  “What?”

  She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “Not since I was a young girl have I felt this intense jealousy. And envy. I don’t like it.”

  “Jealous of whom?”

  “Caroline,” she whispered softly.

  “You have no need to be jealous. You are every bit as lovely as Caroline, in fact more so.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment. “Why do you assume I wish to look like Caroline?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Yes. It is not Caroline’s looks that I envy. It is her relationship with Tristan.”

  “You want Tristan?” Morgan barked, feeling a bit of jealousy himself.

  Alyssa shook her head. “That is not what I mean. Tristan is a fascinating man, to be sure, but it is obvious his emotions are already engaged. What I want is someone . . . someone to look at me the way Tristan looks at Caroline.”

  “And how exactly does Tris look at Caroline?”

  “With delight . . . and happiness . . . and wonder, even when she says the silliest things.” Alyssa spoke very softly. Morgan leaned closer to catch her words. “He looks at her . . . with love.”

  “Love?” Morgan asked, not sure he understood. “Don’t you mean lust?”

  Alyssa shook her head. “Oh, no. I thought it was lust too at first, when we interrupted them before dinner. But it is more than that. I saw the way he soulfully gazes at her. During dinner and afterward when Lady Ogden was playing the pianoforte. Tristan is very much in love with Caroline.”