Because every time he saw her, he thought of the kiss.
That damned kiss.
It had been a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by moonlight, and proximity, and the intoxicating mystery of Miss Ellie Graham. And her haunting hazel eyes, framed by thick black eye lashes that danced as she blinked them.
He had apologized. She’d forgiven him. They’d agreed to forget it ever happened.
Except… Morgan couldn’t forget.
He couldn’t forget the softness of her lips. The way she’d gasped against his mouth, startled but not unwilling. The brief, electric moment when she’d kissed him back before reality had crashed down. He replayed it endlessly in the privacy of his mind, dissecting every detail, torturing himself.
It was maddening. Distracting. Completely inappropriate.
And apparently, inescapable.
With the return to London, he resolved to throw himself into his social obligations with renewed determination, hoping that the glittering whirl of the ton would provide sufficient distraction—dinners, musicales, soirées. The same faces, the same conversations, the same tedious rituals he’d endured for years.
But even there, he couldn’t escape her.
The second night after his return, Morgan found the Countess of Harrington’s musicale as predictable as it was insufferable. The drawing room was packed with posh, elegantly dressed guests, all pretending to appreciate the off-key soprano currently butchering a Mozart aria.
Morgan stood near the back with Ambrose and Imogen, a glass of champagne in hand, trying to look engaged.
“She sounds like a strangled cat,” Ambrose murmured under his breath. “Couldn’t they find anyone more suitable?”
Imogen elbowed him gently. “Be kind, husband. She is clearly doing her best.”
“I am being kind. I didn’t say it loudly.”
Morgan bit back a smile. At least Ambrose’s dry commentary made these events bearable.
A movement near the door caught his attention. Lady Tayham had arrived, dressed in a shimmering emerald silk, her fan fluttering as she scanned the room. Her gaze landed on Morgan, and she smiled. It was a practiced, calculating smile that he recognized all too well.
“Oh no,” Morgan muttered. “Good luck runs out for everyone I suppose.”
“What?” Ambrose followed his gaze. “Ah. Lady Tayham has arrived and her eyes are set on you. My condolences.”
“She’s been pursuing you for months,” Imogen observed, her tone amused. “Perhaps you should simply accept the inevitable and dance with her. What harm could it do to humor the poor woman? She must be terribly lonely since her husband passed last year.”
“I’d rather swim in the Thames.”
But Lady Tayham was already making her way toward them, her skirts swishing with purpose.
“Your Grace,” she purred, executing a perfect curtsy. “What a delight to see you this evening.”
“Lady Tayham,” Morgan replied politely, raising a rakish eyebrow yet his heart wasn’t in it. “You look well.”
“How kind of you to notice.” She moved closer, angling herself so that her ample décolletage was prominently displayed. “I was hoping we might have a chance to speak privately later. There’s an important… matter I wished to discuss with you.”
Morgan doubted very much that the matter in question was anything he wanted to hear.
“I’m afraid my schedule is quite full this evening,” he said smooth as silk. “Perhaps another time.”
Her smile tightened, but she recovered quickly. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall hold you to that.”
She drifted away, and Morgan exhaled in relief, not realizing he had been holding his breath.
“You’re being hunted,” Ambrose observed.
