“I’ll take that position any day.” …
* * *
.
Morgan turned toward Philomena as she took her final breath before stepping through the front doors of Wardington's London residence. He'd wanted to speak during their walk, knowing each and every moment was precious, but when he'd seen the small smile she worked to hide, he knew their time was better spent in silence.
Besides, her need to ignore him had given him the chance to truly look her over and though she didn't know it, by her closing her eyes as they walked, she'd admitted, if only unconsciously, that she trusted him on some level. She trusted him not to lead her into a tree or her slipper-clad feet into a large rock. He'd been able to see the tiny blue veins in her lids and knew her skin was soft even if he'd only touched her with gloves.
Beauty alone meant she was more than he'd hoped for. He was sure his mother would have picked a woman that frowned more than she smiled, but there was nothing about Philomena that reminded him of his mother. She was a breath of fresh air from the images he'd tortured himself with when he'd been in America, dreading the moment he'd have to meet his future wife.
It was yet another reason he clung to her; if he lost her, he had no idea who the second woman his mother might choose would be.
The O.S.S. had done their research on Philomena Housley and their spies had said she was nearly angelic and nothing like her uncle, but that had only made them put their guards up where she was concerned. She was a conundrum. An oddity. They still didn't know how she fit into Creed's plans, and while Morgan was starting to believe that she was innocent, her connection to Creed made her someone who needed to be watched. There wasn't a man in London who had a beautiful woman as a ward and didn't have plans for her.
They would eventually have to speak about her uncle again, but for the moment, he liked her the way she was—at peace.
They were shown down a gallery and a footman knocked on Wardington's office door before stepping inside.
Morgan came to a halt when he noticed the boy sitting at Wardington's desk.
Bradley Dawnton, the Earl of Danbrook, and the third heir to the Wardington title, sat with a pen in his hand but looked up when Morgan came into the room. His twelve-year-old green eyes seemed to be full of a knowledge far past his age. The boy had always been that way in Morgan's opinion. A well-organized lad who only proved to still be a child when he allowed his feelings to get the better of him.
The boy's gaze moved from Morgan to Philomena, and his forest-green eyes took on the shade of summer grass, glowing from within.
Philomena broke from Morgan's hold and all but skipped to Bradley's side. "Lord Danbrook. It is so good to see you." She kissed the boy on the cheek and not even Bradley could stop the blush that rushed to his cheeks. Morgan was envious of the open affection his fiancée gave the child when all he'd gotten was fear and cool reserve.
As he deserved, he recalled. He'd been upset with his mother and he'd taken it out on Philomena. He'd not even been thinking clearly. If he had, even knowing she was Creed's ward, he'd have been calmer, more watchful, and used her to gather information.
Instead, he'd acted the tyrant.
"Lady Philomena." Bradley took her hand, bowed his hard head over it, and kissed her fingers while holding her eyes. The charmer.
Philomena laughed just as she'd done with his secretary.
That was two men she'd laughed with that weren't him. He had his work cut out for him.
He watched the two interact and it became clear that they knew one another. Morgan wasn't sure that was a good thing. "When did you two meet?" he asked.
"Last summer." Philomena turned to him, still grinning. He knew that smile had nothing to do with him, but he took it nonetheless, indulging himself with the illusion that she favored him at all. "Lady Abigail is one of the women who come to my luncheons at the hotel."
Morgan had to school his features from showing his surprise. Why would Wardington allow his wife to get close to Philomena, knowing she was connected with Creed?
"Have you something for me, Lord Durham?" Bradley asked.
Morgan hesitated. "I have something for your grandfather." But how Bradley knew that at all surprised him. He'd been aware that Wardington was training his grandson to one day be him, but there was still Bradley's father, who would take the title in between.
But Wardington's son, the Marquess of Clariant, was not like his father. He was not sneaky or bent on ruling an empire, but there was something about young Bradley that made Morgan believe that perhaps the boy was, in fact, Wardington's true heir, or rather, an heir who had nothing to do with the power of the title and everything to do with the power of the man.
Morgan hoped to be long dead before Bradley took the title and prayed for the generations to come. He walked over to Bradley, who had his hand outstretched, and placed the letter in the boy's hands.
Bradley walked over to the small fire that burned in the corner of the room and threw the letter into it.
Morgan stilled. "That was for your grandfather."
"No." Bradley turned to him. "That was written by my grandfather and since he is not senile, he has no need to look over his own words." The boy smiled and already Morgan could see the Dawnton features coming in. There would be no awkward stage for the boy. He'd go from a handsome lad to a handsome man and may the Lord have mercy on the female half of the ton. "You may stay around to speak with my grandfather if you wish."
Philomena looked between the two with open curiosity.
"Thank you. I believe I will," Morgan said.
"Will what?" Wardington stepped into the room, his fist wrapped tightly around the golden lion's head of his cane. Morgan recalled that the cane hid a gun and took a step back as the duke strolled to the desk. Bradley moved the chair for his grandfather and the older man took it with great care and sighed once it was in it. Then those authoritative green eyes swept the room before landing on Philomena. He smiled. "Lady Philomena. It's always a pleasure to see you."
Philomena curtsied. "Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to see you as well. How is your leg?"
"Better. I've adhered to your advice on the vinegar. It's a ghastly thing to drink, but the benefits outweigh the taste."
"Excellent." She clapped. "I told you it would work. My teacher in Hanover drank it every morning."
The conversation startled Morgan because people did not ask a duke about his body unless they knew them and since she was not family, Morgan could only wonder at their connection. Also, it was peculiar to discover that Wardington would allow a stranger to know his weakness.