Morgan and Archer: A Novella Read Online Free Page A

particular waltz had to do with her partner. “You are light on your feet, Mr. Portmaine.”
    He turned her through a corner and momentarily brought her a hair closer in his arms than propriety allowed. “The better for sneaking about? You are a graceful dancer as well, Miss James.”
    “I like waltzing.” With the buzz of the surrounding crowd, and the good efforts of the orchestra, Morgan would not catch Mr. Portmaine’s every word. She would, however, be able to see his face while he spoke, which helped tremendously.
    “Is the appeal of the waltz its scandalous nature, Miss James?”
    “Scandalous? When Wellington himself enjoys it? Hardly. I like it because of the downbeat.”
    She hadn’t meant to say that.
    His smile suggested he knew she hadn’t meant to say it, too. “Explain yourself, Miss James.”
    “I can feel the rhythm, particularly if there’s a piano, even better if there’s tympani. One -two-three, one -two-three…” From the puzzlement on his face, Morgan realized she was in the arms of one person who hadn’t heard of her “unfortunate history.”
    She regretted her disclosure for half the length of the room, then caught Mr. Portmaine regarding her closely. He was tall, but not so tall as to make her feel like an adolescent. At her come out, she’d danced with Valentine Windham…
    Who was too tall for her. That , she realized between one violin trill and the next, was what had been off about every dance they’d shared—that and her besottedness with him.
    “You are distracted, Miss James. Or perhaps you’re simply enjoying yourself?”
    “I am planning your interrogation, sir.”
    “I will answer your questions as honestly as I can.”
    His reply wasn’t what she’d expected, but it allowed her to enjoy the balance of the dance and move through the buffet line beside him without further conversation. He left the choice of seating to her, so she decided on a small table far down the gallery.
    “A good location for interrogation and torture, if one is allergic to roses,” he remarked. “What would you like to know?”
    She wanted to know if he’d enjoyed kissing Lady Braithwaite and where he’d learned to dance so well. She wanted to know if he was in trouble, and she wanted to know what his kisses were like.
    Morgan waited until they were seated, a single plate between them, before she put her first question to him.
    “Why did His Grace tell you the Crown is very worried?”
    ***
    The trouble was, Archer liked Morgan James. He’d bungled the search of Braithwaite’s chamber badly, and Miss James had saved him from exposure. He liked practical women, women who could deal with life’s vagaries without making a fuss.
    He liked pretty women as well as the next fellow did.
    He also, however, liked smart women, which was unfortunate indeed when his line of work meant how he spent his time ought to remain undiscussed, or better yet, unnoticed.
    “You were not in the card room when I had a conversation with His Grace which might have included those words.” Those exact words.
    “I was a few feet outside the doorway.” She tugged off her gloves, exposing hands that sported short, unpainted nails, and a sturdy, practical quality at variance with her graceful evening attire. “Care for a strawberry?”
    “I would rather hear how you were privy to a discussion taking place twelve, even fifteen feet away from you. The card room was buzzing, the orchestra sawing away, and you could not have heard us.”
    “I didn’t hear you. Eat something, Mr. Portmaine, or people will suspect we’re quarreling.” She served up a section of orange, along with a saucy, naughty smile.
    He whipped off his gloves and set them down next to hers. “Thank you.” His mind raced over dire possibilities as he took a bite of the orange. Nobody had overheard them—nobody. He’d been sure of it.
    “I do not hear well,” Miss James said.
    He paused mid-chew. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I do not hear