Free Morgan and Archer: A Novella by Grace Burrowes Page A

told himself that difficult discussions could be put off just a little while longer.
    “I am not indisposed, not the way you mean. When will you make love with me, Archer? Really make love?”
    ***
    Esther, Duchess of Moreland, turned to greet her husband as he joined her on their private balcony. “Percival, good evening. I thought you’d be up late drafting that infernal bill.”
    “It’s late enough.” Moreland came closer and slipped his arms around her waist from behind. “You are pretty at any hour, my love, but moonlight particularly becomes you.”
    She leaned back against him, loving the solid, lean strength of him. “You are shameless.”
    “In my preference for your company? Absolutely. What draws you out-of-doors at this hour, Esther?”
    She had decided to tell him. They were in each other’s confidence and had been for more than thirty years—and he probably knew already anyway. “We have a housebreaker, Percy.”
    Percival snuggled her closer. “What is the world coming to? Must I snatch up a stout poker and start beating the intruder about the head in the family tradition?”
    “This housebreaker seems inclined to plunder only the treasures in Morgan’s rooms, and the one time I saw him leaving, he was empty-handed.”
    Percival chuckled, for which Esther loved him dearly. “Young Portmaine is calling at unfashionable hours?”
    Esther turned in his arms to regard him by moonlight. “How did you know it was he?”
    “I gave him a subtle, backhanded nudge, and he rather took off at a gallop in Morgan’s direction. Do you think they’d suit?”
    Percival’s idea of a nudge often bore a close resemblance to the kick of a sturdy mule. And yet, Portmaine struck Esther as a man who neither trifled with young innocents nor accepted suggestions merely because they’d been made by a meddling—if well-meaning—duke.
    “Whether they suit might be a moot question if Morgan’s common sense is not asserting itself.”
    “They’re young,” Percival whispered against Esther’s neck. “It’s the loveliest time of year, and they’re lonely. I’m lonely too, though a bit old to have such a pretty wife.”
    “Shameless and ridiculous.” His lips grazed the spot on her nape that made Esther positively melt, even after all these years. “So you won’t intervene?”
    “I thought I already had.”
    “I suppose you have at that. Shall we retire, Your Grace?”
    “Soon.” He turned her by the shoulders, bringing her against his body. “If you aren’t averse to the notion, I’d like to enjoy a little more of the moonlight with my beloved duchess.”
    Such romance in a young man had been enough to sweep Esther off her feet. In a man of mature years, it kept her lingering on the shadowed balcony in Percival’s arms much longer than she’d intended.
    ***
    “What do you call lovemaking, if climbing into your bed and sharing all manner of intimate pleasure with you doesn’t qualify?”
    Though Archer knew what Morgan meant. They’d not indulged in actual coitus. Rogering. Intercourse. Swiving. The King’s English included a ribald horde of terms for the marital act.
    “Not the tame sort of lovemaking,” she said against his throat. “The kind a lady prepares for with vinegar and sponges.”
    “I see.” In his mind’s eye, Archer saw himself, freed for once of every stitch of clothing, even his breeches. He saw the lithe, naked beauty of Morgan James entwined with him on the sheets.
    He saw his future, and a world of trouble preventing him from reaching for it.
    “We have to talk.” He eased his arms from Morgan’s waist and led her to the bed.
    They undressed each other, a ritual they’d fallen into before the third night of their clandestine trysting had passed. He untied the bows of her nightgown; she unbuttoned his shirt and took his cuff links and watch—both finished in matte black—to put on the night table.
    “I’m not much interested in talking,” Morgan said. When