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Morgan lost over a hundred guineas at faro before the solution struck him. He tossed a coin to the dealer and left, not certain he had the time he needed to put his plan into action. Thanks to the loquacious Mrs. Lambert, he knew exactly where to look for them and reached the exhibition rooms within a half hour of its close. He made his way through the several rooms, greeting friends, pausing for conversation, and curbing his impatience until finally he found his quarry.
Christiana Lambert stood in front of a large allegorical picture featuring Daniel in the lions’ den. She was not alone. He did indeed recognize Peter Wilton. There was another young girl with him. The sister, the one Mama had wanted him to meet. And thank the god of mercy, Mama was not part of the party. If she had been he would have left and waited for another day. But this situation was ideal. His luck had turned.
Morgan ducked back into the next room they would approach, pleased that the only other party examining the paintings was unknown to him.
As the group made their way to the door, leaving the room empty, Morgan took a moment to examine the paintings himself. More religious allegory. Not to his taste. Who wanted such a strong reminder that the life one led was too full of pleasure to merit entrance into heaven through the martyrs’ gate?
“... But it seems to me that they could convey the same sentiment without so much dark and brooding feeling.” Christiana’s voice carried through to him.
Her sister’s voice was much quieter, but it still reached him. “Exactly how would sunlight and smiles make one feel the pain of the martyrs?”
Christiana laughed. “I would prefer to imagine it all on my own. When I see it in color like this and larger than life, I feel nothing more inspiring than guilt. It becomes quite clear that any effort to improve myself is bound to fail when compared to these saintly people.”
“I think Mama wished you to be inspired, not discouraged.”
“You will notice she is not here, hoping for insight.” Christiana sounded more relieved than aggrieved.
Joanna giggled. “She said she had all the excitement her nerves could tolerate.”
Morgan suspected he was directly connected to the excitement that had so exhausted Mrs. Lambert. He sauntered over to the small group, careful to give Peter his full attention. “Mr. Wilton! Miss Lambert! Well met!”
“My lord!” Peter seemed stunned at the recognition, and delighted. The boy does do wonders for the ego. Morgan chanced a quick look at Christiana. She was smiling. Good.
Wilton knew his manners. He turned to the ladies. “You know Miss Christiana Lambert of course. My lord, this is Miss Joanna Lambert, Miss Christiana’s sister. Joanna, may I present Lord Morgan, he is the son of the Marquis of Straeford.”
The introductions made, Morgan accepted young Wilton’s invitation to join the group. He discussed the pictures they had already seen, even though he had not viewed one of them. It was easy to earn Miss Christiana Lambert’s approval, having heard her one comment. “It would seem to me so much more inspirational to show the joys of heaven rather than the cruelty of one man to another.”
Christiana stopped abruptly and the other three turned to her. “Exactly so, my lord.”
They paused before a particularly poor painting of the crucifixion and then moved on as one. Christiana shook her head. “And to think the artist—”
When she stopped, Morgan picked up the thought “—to think the artist spent hours painting in hopes of conveying some worthy thought—”
At this pause, Joanna waited a moment and then added, “—and failed miserably.”
Three paintings later they were laughing heartily and in complete agreement with the gentleman who inherited these paintings and was now willing to sell them.
“Philips tells me that his uncle bought them at the urging of his second wife, who was extremely devout.” Wilton stopped there but Morgan was certain that they were of the same mind. What a burden that marriage must have been.
Christiana whispered something to her sister, who shook her head and turned to their escorts, trying not to laugh. “Mama thinks that I will have a steadying effect on Christy, but you must know already that the opposite is true.”
The elder Miss Lambert was indeed lovely when she smiled, but therein lay the difference between the sisters. Joanna Lambert’s expression was solemn in repose, while her younger sister’s held the promise that laughter was a heartbeat away and she was about to share it with you.
Joanna drew out his fraternal, even protective, feelings. Christiana made him smile and roused not one brotherly thought. Exactly how committed was she to her distant lover?
Morgan walked over to where Wilton stood, trying to regain his composure. “Wilton, I was wondering if you might join me for dinner tonight. My brother Rhys has come to Town and I thought he might enjoy meeting some others his age. I thought afterward we could stop in at the Quarter Moon.”
Surely Wilton would not refuse a chance to visit the private gaming club. It was a generous offer, made even more generous by Morgan’s determination that none of his guests would come to ruin at his invitation. That meant a night more inclined to caring for children than deep play.
Wilton’s acceptance bordered on incoherence. Morgan nodded, thanking the god of wisdom that he had never been this young. When he spoke again, it was for Peter’s ears alone. “Now let me have a moment of conversation with Miss Lambert.”
Peter looked hesitant.
“God bless us, Wilton. I just want a word or two with her, nothing more, I promise.”
Wilton blushed and Morgan turned toward the ladies.
It took a moment or two, but Peter managed it so that he and Joanna were several depictions of hell ahead, leaving him and Christiana staring at a painting of a monk in chains.
Christiana turned to Morgan, her back to the painting. “I cannot bear it.”
She looked surprised at her own admission and shook her head, the hint of laughter eclipsed by a look of horror. “Zuburan is a very good artist, is he not? It is such a simple painting, but still so moving. This man is willing to die because he knows what he is doing is right.”
She kept her back to the picture and the smile crept back into her eyes. “But you see, if the artist means to shock me into a life of good works he does not succeed. For all I can see is a man who is giving up his life without ever fully living it. It is a waste.”
“One could say that this monk knew more of God and service to Him than most do if they live to be seventy.”
“Do you think it impossible to serve God and enjoy life too?” She blushed when he took her arm and they moved on to the next painting.
Oh, Lord. Oh, heaven. He was lost. This woman could undo him with a smile. He was about to condemn himself to a Season of pure torture. He could hardly wait.
Five
Service to God had not occupied a single one of his waking moments as far as Morgan could recall. He had, however, heard enough of his brother-in-law’s sermons to improvise. “I think the secret to serving God is to understand what His mission in life is for us.” He felt like a hypocrite, thinking of her lips one moment and then prosing on like a man of God the next.
“That sounds like something your grandmother would say.”
“She might well have.”
The porter was making the rounds, announcing the closing time, some fifteen minutes away. He could hear the others in the next room. But all he could see was Christiana Lambert’s eager eyes full of question and curiosity.
There was an inherent vulnerability in such an open manner. He wanted to provide the answers and satisfy the curiosity, but he also wanted to shield her from insult and slay every dragon that threatened her door.
Morgan shook off the melodrama. That was not what this proposition was about. It was the means to a very practical end.
They were alone in the room. He had her complete attention. Morgan took her hand and bowed over it.
“Miss Lambert, I am sorry
if our dance last night caused you any embarrassment.”
If his gallantry had succeeded, she would not be blushing.
“Oh no, my lord, the dance was wonderful. It did not cause me one moment of embarrassment.”
Ah, so that was why she was blushing. How flattering.
“It is only Mama who was concerned about the gossip in the paper. And after all, my lord, how many people actually read that?”
Only everyone in London, he thought, but was not about to admit it. “With the Season fully under way I think we can count on something far more intriguing catching their attention tomorrow.”
She nodded, her expression hopeful, close to confident. “Only this afternoon someone was telling me that Lord Ramsdon has bet his favorite horse in some ridiculous wager. Surely that will draw more attention than who you are dancing with.”
Satisfied that each had convinced the other, he pushed on to the greater challenge of the day. “Grandmama tells me you have a beau from home.”
She looked around the room. Was she afraid that it would become the next on-dit? “My grandmother shared the secret with me and I understand that it is not something you wish widely known.”
On a sigh of relief Christiana nodded. “His name is Richard Wilton and I hold him in great esteem. But I have agreed to honor Papa’s request that I remain unattached until the end of the Season.”
“I suppose your father does not fully appreciate that this will make things somewhat difficult for you.” He hoped his sympathy might strike a chord.
“Yes, my lord, that describes it perfectly.” She brought her hands together and spoke with the intensity of strong feeling. “It is so unfair to anyone seeking a match to pay their addresses to me. It is not that I think I will have all London at my feet, you understand, but it seems to me the height of selfishness to receive attention you have no intent of returning. I do hope you understand.”
“Of course I do, but so that you will understand me, please be assured that neither do I have any plans for making a match this Season.”
“But, my lord”—she looked surprised. Then she pressed her lips together and spoke with her eyes. He tried to decipher their message. Was it embarrassment at her awareness of the gossip or possibly confusion at the obvious contradiction?
“You have heard that my father wishes me to find a bride?” Even if it was not what she had been about to blurt out, it was best to get rid of all the losing cards right away.
She nodded slowly and spoke with apology. “There is gossip everywhere, my lord.”
“A fact of Town life that we may use to our advantage.” But here he was running ahead of himself. He took a mental step back. “Between the two of us and the two of us alone, my father does wish me to make a match. My brother insists that it is his dearest wish.” Please let her be more discreet than her mother, Morgan prayed to any god that would listen. “And also between the two of us alone, be assured I have no intention of making one.”
She angled her head, her eyes narrowing a bit. “My lord, I am confused now.”
“In truth, my dear Miss Lambert, that is hardly surprising, since I have said one thing and then its opposite. As you have made clear, in your family one does not disobey parental decrees. Let me assure you it does not happen often in my family either.”
Now there was an understatement. “My father may wish me to marry, but I am not ready to wed. I do have property in Wales but it needs more work before I can support a family.”
She nodded again. “I know how difficult it is to go against one’s father’s wishes.”
He wondered if she really did. In all her country-bred life had she ever encountered anyone as autocratic as the Marquis of Straeford? He doubted it. If she had, that vulnerability that was both appealing and appalling would be gone as his was, beaten out of him years ago.
She obeyed her father out of loving respect. He obeyed his out of a primal need for self-preservation. Now that preservation, and concern for dozens of tenants, demanded another approach. This was the right thing to do. If only he could get her to agree.
The beginning of a smile pulled at her mouth, though it had not reached her eyes, but it was all the encouragement he needed.
“I would like to satisfy my father that I am at least making an effort to find a match.” That statement left him feeling positively virtuous. It was the stark, sun-blinding truth.
Christiana’s incipient smile disappeared.
He kept on, feeling as though he were playing a losing hand, but was unwilling to throw in the cards. “My father is ill, very ill and not likely to live out the year. I have no desire to wed yet, but do wish to make him happy. I am hoping I can convince you to help me give my father peace of mind. With your own heart engaged elsewhere there will be no danger of misunderstanding.” The whole damned thing sounded as tentative as a marriage proposal. He hoped he did better with one when the time came.
“You want me to help you deceive your father?” Then the enormity of it struck her. “To try and trick the ton?” She was obviously not inclined to help, whether from a dislike of deception or fear of failure. He could not say which.
“True, it is a deception, but one for the best.”
She looked skeptical and that made him laugh.
“That sort of logic will not work at all, will it, Miss Lambert? Of course, this little deception is what I think is best for me, but I must come up with a better argument if I am to convince you.”
When she said nothing, he continued, taking her silence for curiosity if not compliance. “It would not be fair for me to court someone like your sister, who honestly hopes to make a match. And it will become wearing for you to discourage would-be suitors. All the more so when you have promised not to speak of your attachment.”
Her censure eased and she nodded.
“Once the legions of young men who appreciate your grace on the dance floor realize we appear to have developed a tendre for one another, they will move on to other eligible young ladies, leaving us free to entertain each other and enjoy the Season with unencumbered hearts.” He tried for a teasing tone, and was satisfied when he drew a smile from her.
“Put that way, my lord, it is almost exactly what I had hoped for.” Delight lit her eyes. “At first I thought Peter could serve as my escort, but he is too involved in his own pursuits.” She frowned though the smile still lit her eyes. “But will it not be the same with you? Peter tells me that you prefer the card room to the dance floor.”
“That was before I met you, Miss Lambert.” He bowed to her.
She clapped her hands and laughed aloud. “You are such a flirt!”
He hoped that was a compliment.
“It is one thing Richard is not. His flowery phrases are heavier than Mrs. Purdy’s fruitcake. If I had your grandmother’s fan I would shrink behind it and blush.”
She would do no such thing. She loved every minute of it. He kept his mind on the compliment and not the mention of Richard Wilton.
Her excitement faded a little. “But what will they say when I leave London at the end of the Season and nothing comes of our”—she hesitated over the word—“our ‘friendship.’”
He tried to conceal the surge of relief at her question. This one he could handle. “The ton will say what many have said before: that I lost your hand to a better man. There is no discomfiture in that.”
Christiana looked around the room. “Wait until Joanna hears. She was certain my plan to find an escort was a cork-brained scheme. Wait until she hears that it was your idea!”
He could feel his smile die. Were cardplayers the only ones who were able to control their emotions? “I think it best not to tell anyone.”
“I must tell my sister. We have no secrets from each other.” A small sigh expelled half of her excitement and dimmed her smile. “I do see that the fewer people who know of this the better. Mama will think I am flighty.” She shrugged that off. “If I am lucky Papa will not hear of it. Joanna and I are the only
ones who write to him and I doubt he ever reads the gossip pages.” She paused and he could see her enthusiasm wane still more. “Your grandmother will think less of me if we do not tell her.”
He shook his head, fighting hard to resist her pleading smile. “She will be thrilled at the prospect of me being ‘knocked to my knees.’ I think that is the way she phrased it.”
“I will not be a part of a deception that will hurt her.” On this she spoke with conviction.
He took her hand, wondering if he would ever find out if her shoulder was as fine and soft. “My dear Miss Lambert, in her view it is not my grandmother’s feelings that are at risk.”
Christiana understood then and looked shocked. “She thinks that I might break your heart?”
He leaned closer to her. “She lives for the day it happens. Ridiculous, is it not? The world knows that Braedon hearts are made of stone.”
She stepped back from his intimacy. “I know no such thing.” Regret replaced delight. “No, sir. I can see that this is not a wise idea.”
Now he was the one confused. Did she actually mean she was afraid she might hurt him? Should he be touched or annoyed at the very idea? Or could it be propriety had reared its useless head? Just like last night when she had invited him to her side with a smile, and then had second thoughts. He thought he had won her cooperation and now he seemed to have lost it only a moment later.
Morgan’s hopes for the Season crumbled before him. He took her arm and escorted her to the entry hall just as the porter came into the room to announce the imminent closing of the gallery.
Peter Wilton and her sister watched them from the door. They were the last of the patrons. He refused to hurry. “Do not reject this idea out of hand. If you must, ask your sister’s advice. We both know she has only concern for you at heart. Tell her, but beyond that, remember, my dear Miss Lambert, tell no one else. If we decide to play this trick on society and it becomes common knowledge, I will not be heartbroken. It will be worse. I will be embarrassed.”
Christiana laughed, exactly as he hoped she would. “I understand, my lord. I understand completely. Your standing in society will not suffer at my hands, not ever. I have managed to keep my attachment to Richard a secret as my father asked. I am worthy of your trust.”
They joined the others and made their farewells.
As he escorted the group from the building to their carriages, he let the banter float around him as he considered their last words. He had no doubt Christiana Lambert was worthy of his trust. The only thing that worried him still was how widely known her attachment to Richard Wilton was.
Though little more than a farce, this game he hoped to play was not with dice, but with society and his family. He did not want to destroy her reputation or his own.
He needed to know how things stood between the lovely Miss Christiana and her Richard. She insisted that their romance was a secret, but he had only her word for that. If her attachment to Wilton was more than that—an understanding, or worse, an engagement in the eyes of all back home—then word would reach Sussex and Braemoor as easily as it reached London. Society would take umbrage and James would call him a cheat.
He hoped to find out tonight at dinner. What young Wilton knew would be the deciding factor on his part. As for Christiana, he knew she would not proceed without her sister’s support.
He bowed to the party as their carriage moved away and looked to his own, wondering if he would have to hire a new cook when Pratt learned that he was preparing dinner for four on five hours’ notice.