Read Online With This Kiss by Victoria Lynne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victoria Lynne
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touched Julia’s lips as she considered the movement. In each instance they had been together, Morgan St. James seemed to surround himself with shadows, whether it was a matter of pulling the coach shade partially closed or taking up a position in a darkened corner of a room. The maneuver was subtle but consistent. Was it an acquired habit, she wondered, or something that he consciously thought about?
“Tell me more about your Uncle Cyrus,” he said.
The topic surprised her, both in its boldness and in the rather odd subject matter. Now that they were alone, she had expected to be immediately questioned about Lazarus.
She lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “Are you always this inquisitive?”
“Yes. Every time I marry, I succumb to a strange desire to know my bride.”
A small smile touched her lips. In admitting their situation was as bizarre to him as it was to her, his words had an unexpected calming effect. Realizing she had little to hide or defend, she replied, “My Uncle Cyrus was my father’s older brother. The two were never close. As a result, our families had very little contact. Thus it was difficult for all of us when I was suddenly thrust into their midst — particularly given the circumstances.”
“I would imagine so.” He shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the balcony rail. “I met Cyrus Prentisse some years ago. At the time he was most interested in pressing the suit of his daughters. They were quite young then, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen, but he was already prowling about searching for husbands for them.”
An image of her cousins, both of whom had inherited their mother’s blond beauty, flashed before her. “They’re quite lovely,” she said.
“So I was informed. Repeatedly.”
She smiled again. “I fear Uncle Cyrus sometimes appears overly zealous when it comes to the matter of their marriages. You see, he is determined that his daughters marry no less than a peer.” She paused, and then added mischievously, “Perhaps he was considering you for a candidate.”
“Actually, I was under the distinct impression that was the case. I’m afraid I disappointed him.” He regarded her quizzically. “Why the obsession with marrying a peer?”
Julia was surprised by the question. She had assumed that all of London had been subjected to her uncle’s dreary, dismal recital of how he had been denied his rightful place in society. “I’m afraid that requires a rather laborious answer.”
Morgan shot a glance toward the front gates. No sign of the coach was in sight. “It appears we have time.”
She followed his gaze and let out a soft sigh. “Yes. So we have.” She hesitated for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Finally she began. “The matter originated some six hundred years ago. My uncle was doing a bit of genealogical research and chanced to discover that the original Earl of Giffin did not die in the Crusades, as was assumed. Instead, he was badly wounded and languished for some years near Constantinople. There he met a Saxon woman who nursed him back to health. He took her for his wife, and they were blessed with a son. Eventually the earl recovered sufficiently to attempt the trip back to England. Unfortunately he never reached his home. The trip proved too great a strain for him, and he died in France.”
“And what of his son?”
“As he was only an infant at the time, it was up to his mother to press her son’s claim to the earl’s title. She attempted to do so, but despite the evidence she held of her son’s birthright, her claims were rejected. In time she gave up and returned to her own family.”
“I take it your uncle is a descendant of that neglected child.”
“A direct descendant,” she affirmed. “Had the original earl survived to reach England, in all likelihood Uncle Cyrus would now hold that title, rather than a mere baronet.” She paused, then continued lightly, “I suppose most men would
“Tell me more about your Uncle Cyrus,” he said.
The topic surprised her, both in its boldness and in the rather odd subject matter. Now that they were alone, she had expected to be immediately questioned about Lazarus.
She lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “Are you always this inquisitive?”
“Yes. Every time I marry, I succumb to a strange desire to know my bride.”
A small smile touched her lips. In admitting their situation was as bizarre to him as it was to her, his words had an unexpected calming effect. Realizing she had little to hide or defend, she replied, “My Uncle Cyrus was my father’s older brother. The two were never close. As a result, our families had very little contact. Thus it was difficult for all of us when I was suddenly thrust into their midst — particularly given the circumstances.”
“I would imagine so.” He shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the balcony rail. “I met Cyrus Prentisse some years ago. At the time he was most interested in pressing the suit of his daughters. They were quite young then, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen, but he was already prowling about searching for husbands for them.”
An image of her cousins, both of whom had inherited their mother’s blond beauty, flashed before her. “They’re quite lovely,” she said.
“So I was informed. Repeatedly.”
She smiled again. “I fear Uncle Cyrus sometimes appears overly zealous when it comes to the matter of their marriages. You see, he is determined that his daughters marry no less than a peer.” She paused, and then added mischievously, “Perhaps he was considering you for a candidate.”
“Actually, I was under the distinct impression that was the case. I’m afraid I disappointed him.” He regarded her quizzically. “Why the obsession with marrying a peer?”
Julia was surprised by the question. She had assumed that all of London had been subjected to her uncle’s dreary, dismal recital of how he had been denied his rightful place in society. “I’m afraid that requires a rather laborious answer.”
Morgan shot a glance toward the front gates. No sign of the coach was in sight. “It appears we have time.”
She followed his gaze and let out a soft sigh. “Yes. So we have.” She hesitated for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Finally she began. “The matter originated some six hundred years ago. My uncle was doing a bit of genealogical research and chanced to discover that the original Earl of Giffin did not die in the Crusades, as was assumed. Instead, he was badly wounded and languished for some years near Constantinople. There he met a Saxon woman who nursed him back to health. He took her for his wife, and they were blessed with a son. Eventually the earl recovered sufficiently to attempt the trip back to England. Unfortunately he never reached his home. The trip proved too great a strain for him, and he died in France.”
“And what of his son?”
“As he was only an infant at the time, it was up to his mother to press her son’s claim to the earl’s title. She attempted to do so, but despite the evidence she held of her son’s birthright, her claims were rejected. In time she gave up and returned to her own family.”
“I take it your uncle is a descendant of that neglected child.”
“A direct descendant,” she affirmed. “Had the original earl survived to reach England, in all likelihood Uncle Cyrus would now hold that title, rather than a mere baronet.” She paused, then continued lightly, “I suppose most men would
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