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‘Good evening, Sloane.’ His brother stood before him.
Sloane stood. ‘Rawley.’ He turned to Morgana. ‘Miss Hart, may I present Lord Rawley.’
Morgana offered her hand with a gracious expression. ‘We met at the musicale. Lord Rawley.’
Rawley shook her hand, barely grasping her fingers. He gave her a knowing leer. ‘You live next door to Cyprian.’
Sloane’s hand curled into a fist at the use of his given name and the insinuation towards Morgana in Rawley’s expression.
‘Yes.’ She managed to sound admirably ingenuous. ‘I do indeed. And where do you live, sir?’
Well done, Morgana, Sloane thought.
Dinner was announced and protocol separated them. Sloane wound up seated next to Lady Hannah, his nephew on Hannah’s other side. Rawley and his wife were above them, and Morgana was on the other side of the table, not quite across from him. Sometimes when he glanced at her, she quickly looked away. Sometimes she engaged in conversation with the gentlemen on either side of her, both husbands of Lady Cowdlin’s friends and not the best dinner companions for an eligible young lady. Lady Cowdlin ought to stand in place of Morgana’s mother, see her well situated, instead of neglecting her.
But the idea of Morgana with a serious suitor did not quite please Sloane. He stabbed at a piece of meat and glanced around the table at the two dozen guests as he chewed. His nephew and Morgana were the only two whose presence he could tolerate for more than half an hour. He ought to admit to himself that he found society a dead bore. Why the devil had he made that infernal bet with himself?
He caught his brother watching him. Rawley quickly averted his eyes, but Sloane had not missed the contemptuous expression on his face. It must rankle with Rawley indeed that this bastard brother was seated at the same table. And rankle with his father as well.
By God, that was reason enough to persist in his plans to make a place for himself among these tedious people.
‘Do you like the potatoes?’ Lady Hannah asked, bringing him back to the present.
‘Delicious,’ he muttered.
Hannah smiled. ‘My mother shall be so pleased.’
She turned back to her plate. Hannah was a sweet girl. The perfect bride, he thought, as he studied her profile for a moment.
But not for him.
He’d been bored with her after a fortnight, he realised. Think what would happen after years together. All her promise of becoming a warm and responsive woman would wither like a rosebud in early frost. She deserved better.
Heronvale might advocate the connection between them, but ruining Hannah’s life was too high a price to pay for a career in politics. Sloane would be better off marrying a woman like Morgana.
He dropped his fork and it clattered against his plate as it fell, causing a few heads to turn. He stared at Morgana. By God, why had he not realised it before? He did not have to act the rake towards her; he could be her husband. He could marry wild, unpredictable Morgana. Who cared if she leaped over the bounds of propriety? He’d jump with her and have a vastly better time than he’d had these past few months. He wanted her.
She looked over at him as well, her eyes lingering as she again fingered her hair. He wanted to tuck that lock up where it belonged before it drove him to complete distraction. She looked back down at her glass of wine and slowly brought it to her lips. Taking a sip, she glanced at him again, her pink tongue peeking out to lick a droplet of wine from her full, kissable lips. He would go mad indeed.
The footmen came to remove the dishes and the cloth. Sloane forced himself to chat with Hannah until the cakes, fruit and ices were served. He joined Lady Hannah in taking a glass of champagne, all the while on fire for the moment he could be alone with Morgana.
Soon dessert was over, and the ladies left the room. As Morgana passed his chair, he felt her hand graze his shoulder, a touch so light it was almost indiscernible. It acted upon him as if she’d raked her fingernails along his naked flesh.
He endured the dull conversation of the men while the Madeira, port and claret were circulated around the table. Lord Cowdlin pointedly included Sloane in the discussion. It was definitely time to make it clear he would not offer for Hannah. Whatever might happen to Cowdlin’s debts was none of his concern. There were other, more eligible young men for Hannah; one of them ought to be rich enough to suit her father.
Cowdlin announced it was time to rejoin the ladies, and Sloane lagged behind, hoping to contrive some time with Morgana. As the other gentlemen entered the drawing room, Lady Hannah appeared in the doorway of the room next to it.
‘Psst!’ She waved her hand for him to come to her.
Damn. He had no wish to be with Hannah, especially not alone. He walked over to her.
‘Mr Sloane, may I speak with you for a moment?’ She looked upset.
‘Alone, Hannah? I do not think so.’ He certainly did not want to be trapped in a compromising situation with her.
‘For a moment, please,’ she persisted. ‘We may leave the door open a crack.’
He stepped just inside the doorway of the Cowdlin library, leaving the door open wide enough for his back to be visible to anyone passing by. He hoped that would prevent any accusation that he was engaged in a private meeting. ‘What is it, Lady Hannah?’
The room was dimly lit by only one branch of candles, but the distress on her face was easily visible. ‘My mother has had words with me… a moment ago, but my father earlier today.’ She broke off.
‘And?’ He crossed his arms over his chest.
She picked at her fingers like a distressed child. ‘Will you offer for me, Mr Sloane? My father is in desperate need of money and he has so counted on you offering for me. I… I know you like me and we… we got along famously at first. So, will you?’
He gazed down at her, so sorry he had led her and her family to count on his suit. He’d selected Hannah primarily because her father was friends with his father, he now realised. Merely to vex his father, he had toyed with this young lady’s hopes and expectations. It had been very wrong of him.
He tried to make his voice sound as gentle as he could. ‘No, Lady Hannah. I will not offer for you.’
Her face crumbled and she grabbed at his arm. ‘But you must, Mr Sloane! My father—’
He put his hand over hers and slowly removed it. ‘Your father is wrong to solve his problems by saddling you with a man such as me.’
‘I am certain we will suit,’ she cried.
‘And I am certain we will not.’ He tried to sound sympathetic.
‘Then what am I to do?’ She began to shake and take quick breaths. ‘What am I to do?’
He steadied her with a hand on her arm. ‘You are to marry a man who would give you the regard you deserve, Hannah.’
She collapsed against him, sobbing. ‘If only I could! It is impossible, though. He thinks of you, for one thing. And his fortune, it is not his to offer.’ She sniffled loudly.
He set her away from him, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Of whom do you speak?’
She gave him a miserable look. ‘Of your nephew, sir!’
He nearly laughed. David and Hannah in the tortures of young love, impeded only by the wealthy uncle who was expected to marry her? It was a villain role he’d never expected to play.
He controlled his smile. ‘Do you wish to marry David?’
She straightened, suddenly in control of all the passion of youth. ‘What I wish is of no consequence. I must do my duty.’
He did laugh then. ‘Rubbish!’
She glared at him. ‘It is not a joke, sir! My father requires money and David, thanks to his grandfather—your father—has none until he is twenty-five.’
‘I repeat, Lady Hannah, your father’s problems are not yours to solve. Does David return your affection?’
‘He will not declare himself out of loyalty to you,’ she said, her face dreamy and, oh, so young.
He smiled again, feeling like Methuselah. But perhaps a new hand had been dealt him, one he might win by losing. ‘My dear Lady Hannah, you may tell David that I am no longer a suitor, and he has my full permission to court you. You may also tell him not to worry over his lack of funds, for I shall attend that as well.’
She gazed up at him, with hope dawning on her face. ‘You can do this for him?’
He smiled. It would give him great pleasure to manipulate his father into giving David his fortune early. ‘I will be delighted to accommodate you both.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sloane!’ She flung her arms around his neck. ‘Wait until I tell David!’
‘Only David,’ he cautioned, extricating himself from her grasp. ‘Do not tell anyone else or I might not be able to manage the affair.’
She nodded, smiling brightly, and ran past him out of the room.
Sloane wandered into the library. He walked over to the globe and spun it absently, waiting a few discreet minutes so it would not be so apparent that he had been with Hannah. He spun the globe again, feeling as if he were Atlas relieved of its weight. Lord Cowdlin would be almost as delighted as Hannah that her marriage—and the rescue of his finances—would be with David Sloane rather than Cyprian.
Sloane turned his thoughts more happily to the golden-eyed woman who would share his carriage on the ride home. How might he contrive some time alone with Morgana? He had much to discuss with her.
He smiled in anticipation of holding her in his arms again.
Morgana happened to be standing by the drawing room door when Hannah walked in, her colour high and eyes bright.
‘Oh, Morgana!’ She gave her cousin’s hand a squeeze. ‘I am so happy. I cannot tell you, for it is a secret, but you shall know soon enough!’
Morgana smiled dutifully, but she could guess what had brought such excitement to her cousin’s face. It had not escaped her that Sloane and Hannah had been absent from the room at the same time. Sloane had caught Hannah alone, undoubtedly, and had finally made his offer.
Hannah skipped over to where Athenia stood with David Sloane sipping tea, but the others did not seem to notice that her usual liveliness was heightened. In contrast, Morgana’s spirits plummeted, though it was nonsensical for them to do so. She had always known he would offer for Hannah.
Still, it seemed as if a door had slammed in her face. All hope was gone that she and Sloane could recapture that intimacy they’d so briefly shared, the one that had led to her coming alive to her passion for him. How was she to bear it?
By the time Sloane walked in the room, Morgana had taken over the pouring of tea from her aunt. It helped for her to have a task to perform. When he walked over to her and she poured for him, knowing precisely how he desired his tea, she sensed the same pent-up excitement in him so evident in Hannah. She dared glance at his face as she handed him his cup. His grey eyes were as warm and soft as smoke.
Would that they could be that warm for her.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time she entered Sloane’s carriage, Morgana felt quite in control of herself. Tears no longer threatened to embarrass her, nor did his lighthearted mood make her heart ache—very much.
Amy had already seated herself in the backward-facing seat, and Sloane took his place beside Morgana, tapping on the roof for the coachman to be off. He sat too close, it seemed, taking away all of Morgana’s air.
‘Did you have a nice visit, Amy?’ she asked. Better to converse with her maid than endure Sloane’s cheerful silence.
‘Oh, yes, miss, a lovely visit,’ Amy responded. ‘And I did not say one word about the masquerade.’
‘The what?’ Sloane’s voice boomed in the small confines of the carriage.
Amy’s hand flew to her mouth and she glanced in alarm at Morgana, who was not in any mood to hear Sloane upbraid her one more time.
She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘The masquerade at the Argyle Rooms tomorrow night. We are to attend. It is to be how we launch the girls.’
She could feel his eyes burn into her, though she could not clearly see them in the dim light of the carriage lamp. ‘Surely you are not seriously considering this?’
She could not explain to him that she agreed to this plan in part for his sake, to extricate him from the courtesan school. If it no longer existed, it could not threaten his happiness—or Hannah’s.
‘They must be set on their way sometime.’ She sounded exactly like Madame Bisou, but she did not care. ‘This masquerade is the perfect opportunity. Harriette Wilson says so.’
‘Harriette Wilson,’ spat Sloane. ‘Damn her for coming to your door.’
Amy gaped at them both.
‘I thought her very charming.’ Morgana’s voice was impudent. ‘In a way, she started the whole idea of the courtesan school. She was the inspiration, you might say. To me, it is fitting we use her idea of attending the masquerade.’
He snatched her hand. ‘Morgana, do not tell me you will attend this masquerade. I forbid it.’
She pulled it out of his grasp.
Forbid it? He had no right to tell her what she should and should not do. She was nothing to him. Nothing. Merely the cousin of his fiancée. ‘Of course I will attend. I am quite looking forward to it.’
He leaned towards her in the darkness, so close she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Morgana, it is bad enough that you allow those young women to become courtesans, but you must not attend this masquerade. You have no idea what happens at such events.’
She shrank back from him, but it was his proximity that disturbed her more than his warning. She knew enough of the world to realise the masquerade would be a raucous affair. She intended to be there to make sure her girls remained safe, that was all. He ought to understand her need to do so. But he could not understand the other emotions swirling inside her, the arousal of her senses caused by just sitting next to him.
‘This is not well done of you at all,’ he went on.
No, it was not well done to fall in love with the man affianced to her cousin. Nor was it well done of her to wish she could do with him all the things that Harriette Wilson and Madame Bisou hinted a woman might do to please a gentlemen.
‘I think it is very well done of me, sir.’ She faced him, anger rising inside her, piling on top of emotions that were no more than a jumble of pain twisting inside her. Loss, desire, loneliness—emotions that drove her to shock him further. ‘In fact, I think you are wrong about my girls becoming courtesans. I am quite convinced that this is exactly the life a woman should lead. Think of the independence. The excitement.’
He shook his head, looking contemptuous. ‘Be sensible, Morgana.’
Sensible? That was the last thing she could be right now. She could taste tears in the back of her throat. ‘Do you wish to hear more, Sloane? I have decided to join my girls. I will set up a business for myself. I am quite convinced it is the sort of life I would desire.’
Amy gasped.
Sloane grabbed Morgana’s arm. ‘You are not serious!’
Of course she was not serious. She was merely brokenhearted and trying so desperately not to reveal it.
‘I assure you, I am quite serious.’ This time his grasp was so firm she could not pull away.
The carriage came to a stop and Sloane turned to Amy. ‘Go on, Miss Jenkins. Miss Hart will be along directly.’
Amy scurried out of the carriage.
He turned back to Morgana and shook her. ‘I do not believe you, Morgana.’
‘I do not care what you believe, Sloane.’ Morgana was near hysteria now. ‘Do you think I wish to lead a life as dull as my cousin Hannah’s?’ She made herself laugh. ‘Oh, no. I desire excitement. I want to attract as many men as Harriette Wilson. I can do it, too.’
‘Do not be foolish.’ He was so close that her nostrils filled with the scent of him. She could almost taste his lips upon hers.
