Free Morgan and Archer: A Novella by Grace Burrowes

diversions were not good for a lady’s health or peace of mind. He’d agree with equal good cheer, and whatever it was that grew between them in the small hours of the morning would be allowed to die an unremarked, civil death.
    As it must—though not quite yet.
    She was not strong enough for that, so she did not close the door between them. “I will likely turn in early tonight. My dreams lately have been very sweet.”
    He studied her by the torchlight. “Mine as well. I’ll be guided by your example and also take my leave of the Winterthurs before supper.”
    They rose shortly thereafter and wandered back into the ballroom, just another couple exchanging pleasantries in the soft evening air. They left the establishment within eight minutes of each other, careful not to share even a single glance as they climbed into separate coaches.
    ***
    What in the bloody hell had Morgan been asking him?
    Archer used the privacy of his coach to change into a black shirt and waistcoat, worn black riding breeches, and black boots. His hands discarded clothing, did up buttons, and effected the change of wardrobe without him having to concentrate, and that was fortunate.
    When a man was screwing up his resolve to talk a lady into remaining a safe distance from him, he did not expect the lady to drum him out of her boudoir on her own initiative.
    Morgan was up to something. Perhaps she was ready to move on; perhaps she had tired of their intimacies. Archer certainly had not—he did not think he ever would.
    He was surprised to no little degree to realize that by intimacies, he had not referred exclusively to erotic pleasures, but rather to the sense of closeness that characterized all of their dealings. In some way, the closeness was part and parcel of Morgan’s poor hearing, though he could not fathom exactly how.
    For a long time, Archer stood in the Moreland gardens, planning what he’d say to her.
    We fear the game has turned deadly.
    Somebody follows me at least half the time, and I don’t want him following me to your bedroom.
    This should all be wrapped up in a matter of weeks…
    Except he had no guarantee of that, and after this threat had been thwarted, there would be others.
    He shoved that miserable conclusion aside and started up the tree that rose along Morgan’s balcony. As always, her door was slightly ajar, and the coals from her hearth burned low, giving her bedroom a cozy, comfortable warmth.
    “You change in your coach, don’t you?”
    Morgan remained on her chaise as Archer advanced into the room. The picture of feminine serenity, she folded a book closed on her lap and watched as he tugged off his boots. Usually, she embraced him before he’d taken three steps.
    “I change in my coach and in other places as well. I keep all manner of disguises in convenient locations.”
    The trade secrets tumbled out around her, another reason to put some distance between them—for now. A lady had no business learning the ins and outs of investigating.
    “I won’t keep you long.” She got to her feet, the sight of her in a sheer silk nightgown nearly knocking Archer on his backside. The garment wasn’t even a decent summer length, but left her ankles, calves, and even her knees exposed to the firelight.
    “I’m not in any hurry to leave, Miss James. Come here and greet me properly, or I’ll tackle you where you stand.”
    Her lips quirked as she bundled into his embrace, the warmth and sweetness of her bringing a peculiar sort of relief.
    “Are you in anticipation of the female complaint? Your mood is off, my dear.”
    She buried her nose against his chest. “You are as bad as the footmen in Westhaven’s house. They had all manner of vulgar terms for a lady’s indisposition.”
    “It deserves vulgar terms. You’re dodging the question.”
    He propped his chin on her crown—she was the perfect height for it—and prepared to jolly her out of whatever megrim she’d fallen into. For the hundredth time, he