He took one of her hands and kissed it before chuckling, the other went to slip one of her stray strands behind her ears. Humor lit his eyes. “I believe I could get used to a woman who runs at hearing that I’m home.”
She smiled. “I didn’t know it was you. I was told a guest was here, but you’re not a guest. It’s your house. How are you?” She looked him over and once again thought he looked well, much better than any man had the right.
He shrugged. “A little sore, but I can manage so long as I’m not on my feet all day. As for the mistake of address, it was probably a new servant who spotted me. I’m rarely ever here. In fact, in the last two years, this is only the third time I’ve come to this house.”
She was amazed, especially when she recalled that she’d been the cause for two of his visits. “When was the time I was not here?”
“My father’s death.” He said it as though the event had been a simple dinner. “Sons don’t miss those sorts of occasions.” He moved her out of the doorway when a servant passed carrying a vase of flowers.
In the garden, there was much activity with servants moving from one end to the other. White canopies for sitting and buffets had been placed in sections around the flowerbeds and beige crushed stone pathways. A strong wind was blowing and the scent from the lavender beds rose gently through the air, but all was washed in gray because of the weather. Philomena had glanced through the window in the upstairs sitting room earlier and prayed that the clouds would break so that light would shine on the day, yet after an hour, her prayers had changed. Now, all she hoped was for no rain.
But at the moment, she couldn’t think about the weather. Her mind was focused on his words. “You were not close to your father?”
He chuckled and took her hand before placing it on his arm, walking her across the back porch toward a space that was clear of servants and also held a small wooden bench.
“My father wasn’t close to anyone.” He stiffened, suddenly going still. His feet stopped, and she saw a flicker of understanding pass over his face before he whispered, “He probably never dared.”
“Never dared?” Her fingers squeezed his arm and when the sharp wind blew again, she touched her hat to ensure its place.
He looked at her and said, “My parents were not the sort who allowed people to grow close.”
She couldn’t imagine such a life. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not like that.” He stopped at the bench and helped her sit before taking his place next to her. “I’ve managed to turn out nothing like them. My father was weak and my mother…” He clenched his jaw and kept his focus on the work in the garden. The voice of the housekeeper giving instruction could be heard in the distance. Still, Morgan’s hard breathing was louder but only because she concentrated on him, trying to find a way to make him feel better. His thoughts were not where they should be for their engagement party.
“I plan to be close to my children,” she whispered.
His features softened, and he even managed to give her a soft smile. “Our children, like most others, wouldn’t have a choice. There’s something about you, Philomena, that makes one wish to be close.”
She smiled as her heart pounded with growing emotion. “You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered and turned to watch a young maid approach the aging housekeeper before she turned on her heels and all but sprinted into the house.
“Look at me.”
She met his eyes, trying to separate him from the sweet words he’d uttered seconds ago. It was no use. He was who he was and since discovering she was not his enemy, he’d made sure she knew he saw her as much more than an ally. More than friendship burned in his eyes and none of the slowness to courting that usually took place. At times, he would look at her with a warmth that made her feel as though he’d been looking at her that way for years. It was comfortable and well set, yet at other times, she’d catch a look that proved him startled when he learned something new about her. Then he’d smile so she'd know that whatever he'd learned was good.
Between the looks and the words, Philomena’s heart didn’t stand a chance. She grew weepy when it became too much.
“Why can’t I say such things to you?” he asked.
She frowned. “I’m tenderhearted.”
That flash of discovering something new took place in his eyes before he smiled. “You’re easily moved by your emotions.”
“I believe that became obvious when I ran from your office.” She didn’t mean it to ruin the banter between them. She was simply stating the obvious.
He must have guessed as much because he grabbed her hand and said, “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Then he smiled. “Though I swear to you I’m simply telling you how I feel… or some of what I feel at least.”
“What else do you feel?”
“Keeping in mind your tender heart, I’d rather not say.” His expression was still warm but became laced with something she’d only seen one other time. It was after the moment they’d kissed.
A faint cry of hunger rose within her again, a different feeling than those that were tied to her other needs. Sleep. Food. They were no longer enough. She needed something more.
He leaned toward her and whispered, “If you continue to look at me that way, I’ll have no choice but to tell you how I truly feel about you and you’re nowhere near ready.”
She turned away and sighed as the maid from that morning made her way toward Philomena. The young girl’s cheeks were high in color as she looked at them. Her eyes settled on Morgan. “Your guests have arrived… my lord.” She looked worried. She’d obviously been corrected for her mistake from earlier and sent to right her wrong.
Having mercy on her, Philomena said, “Thank you.”
The girl curtsied and fled.
Morgan chuckled, stood, and took Philomena’s hand. “Let’s go see to our guests.” He wrapped her arm around his, and Philomena clung to him, finding it easy to do so.
* * *
16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
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Perhaps you’re right …
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Morgan tried, but it was hard to hold in a reaction when anyone called him by his brother’s title. Before the party, it had left a strange feeling within him whenever someone called for him, but now, among the masses of the ton, it ate away at his soul, biting away at him bit by bit, and draining away the lifted mood that Philomena had left with him before the first few members of Society had arrived.
He didn’t have to wonder why this was so. The answer was clear. It rooted from his mother, who hovered by his side more than Philomena did, and managed to suddenly emphasize a notion that Hiram hadn’t run away but was dead.