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“See, so you do dance.”
“No. That’s what brought us together. Our mutual disinclination to shuffle about the floor, looking ridiculous. We found each other behind a forest of potted palms, hiding from the crowd.”
He smiled, remembering back to that long-ago night. The way Morgan’s eyes sparkled with mischief, then deepened with a hint of the reckless passion that brought her days later to his rooms. His bed.
Then as now, there’d been no flirtatious conniving. No false pretense. She’d desired him. He’d found her irresistible. And they’d become lovers.
“I’d wanted you to meet someone. He’ll be there.” Euna’s words brought him back with a thump.
“That sounds ominous.”
“His name’s Henry Lisle. He’s a stepson to Lord Bruton.”
“I don’t like him already.” The Earl of Bruton’s tastes ran to racing, gambling, and women, not necessarily in that order. Fortunately he had the wealth as well as the character to know just how close to play his game without losing his shirt. Any relation of his was someone to watch—especially if that relation were making eyes at his little sister.
“Beast. Henry’s not at all like his stepfather. He’s gallant and honorable and as respectable as a church mouse.”
“And poor as one too, I imagine. Bruton’s got three sons of his own to spend his blunt on.”
Euna huffed. “You’re as bad as Uncle Josh.”
Being compared to his uncle? Talk about frightening.
The door opened again. This time on his uncle’s sober countenance. “Don’t tell me. You’ve brought home another wife. A love child, perhaps?” He jerked his head toward Euna, and she rose in a flurry of skirts, leaving Cam behind with a final pleading look for restraint.
Cam sketched a bow, any momentary peace wiped out with one black look from his uncle. “I came to tell you I wouldn’t be attending the Abercrombie rout.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“I’m aware of that. But unless you’re wearing a general’s uniform under that outfit, I’m not forced to bow to your command. Not anymore.”
“How about a major’s uniform?”
Instantly on his guard, Cam waited to see where this was going. “Sir?”
His uncle drew himself up. Still a good six inches short of Cam’s height, he seemed to fill the room with his presence. “The woman living under your roof is not your wife but your latest mistress. Is that true?”
Like a physical blow to the chest, his uncle’s question knocked Cam back, drove the air from his lungs. His first thought was Brodie. The big, cabbage-headed jaw-me-dead had let something slip. But no, Brodie was the soul of discretion. As many beds as he hopped in and out of, he had to be. “What makes you come to that conclusion?” Cam brazened.
“A letter I received. The latest Mrs. Sinclair is really a young Cornish woman of dubious reputation and lax morals. Can you deny it?”
Only a handful of people knew the truth of Morgan’s identity. But only one person came to mind with enough motive to throw him to the wolves by revealing the secret. What the hell was Eddis playing at?
His uncle pinched the bridge of his nose. Squeezed his eyes as he fought for control. When he opened them, he’d swallowed whatever anger he’d shown. “I’ve known you to get into the worst sort of scrapes. And I’ve tried to make allowances for your behavior. After all, your father was a volatile hellion, and you’ve always held more than a comfortable share of his nature. The only one of your siblings to do so, thank heaven.” He offered Cam a weak smile. “But to establish your mistress in a place of honor within your household. Parade her in front of the world as a wife. That I cannot let stand. If those in high positions found out, they’d—”
“Add it to my long list of supposed crimes?” Anger soured his stomach. “Damn it, Uncle Josh. Can’t you see I don’t care anymore what they think of me? I just want to be left in peace.”
His uncle—as usual—ignored Cam’s rough tone. Glossed over it with soothing words. “I want you at the Abercrombies’, Cam. I’ve someone I want you to meet.”
“Let me guess. Henry Lisle.”
“That popinjay? Euna’s been bending your ear with her nonsense, has she? No. I can handle young Lisle. It’s Mrs. Kennett-Holmes. After hearing about you, she’s anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“Kennett-Holmes. Wasn’t he an intimate of Sir Robert Peele’s? The man must have been seventy when he finally died.”
“That’s him. His widow’s barely twenty-five, though. And left rich as cream.”
“I don’t need the money.”
