Page 33 of A Wicked Game

Having known Tristan her entire life, she was beyond pleased that he seemed to have found his perfect match in flame-haired Carys. She’d seen the secret smile thatcurved his mouth when he watched his new wife from across the room. It was the look of a man deeply in love, and it had made her own heart twist in her chest.

If only a man would look at her with that same silent longing.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said briskly, replying to Gryff’s original question. “Knowing Carys, it’s going to be the talk of the town.”

When they rattled to a stop in Bury Street Morgan hopped down and took her hand as she descended the steps. Her whole body tingled, even though she was wearing gloves. Rhys handed her down the roll of Heron’s maps, and Morgan picked up the printing block from the carriage floor.

“Thank you again.” Harriet smiled.

“You two don’t need to wait,” Morgan said. “I’ll help Miss Montgomery put these away. Or burn them, if that’s what you want to do,” he said aside to her. “I’ll get a hackney back to Hanover Square when we’re done.”

“As you wish.” Gryff shrugged. “I’d better get back to Maddie and give her a full report.”

“And I’ve got a fencing lesson with Signor Falconi in half an hour,” Rhys added. “See you later.”

The carriage rumbled away, and Harriet made her way into the shop with Morgan close behind. He placed the heavy printing plate on the desk with a thump.

“Harriet! You’re back!”

Father’s voice boomed from the rear of the shop. Harriet shot Morgan a fretful look, silently begging him not to introduce himself, but the infuriating man rounded the desk and strode purposefully into the back room to where her father was sitting in his customary place by the fire.

“Mister Montgomery? It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Father glanced up and squinted at him. “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing? Forgive me, but my eyesight’s not what it once was.”

“This is Captain Morgan Davies, Father. Of the Royal Navy.” Harriet winced inwardly, awaiting the inevitable explosion.

“Davies, you say?” Father’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “Daresay you’re one of those dreadful Welsh Davieses, eh?”

Harriet closed her eyes and prayed for Morgan to deny all knowledge of Wales, but of course he did no such thing. He reached forward, grasped Father’s hand, and shook it vigorously.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” he said cheerfully. “A Davies of Trellech Court. But you could say I’m the black sheep of the family. I joined the navy, instead of the army like countless generations of Davieses before me.”

Father harrumphed. “I expect you’re still a scamp and a scoundrel. Still, m’brother William’s working with that brother of yours to extract that seam of gold, is he not? Perhaps it’s time to let bygones be bygones.”

Harriet’s jaw fell open in shock. She’d never heard her father express anything quite so benevolent about a Davies in her life.

“He is indeed, sir.” Morgan sent her a laughing glance. “I think it’s positive proof that collaboration between our two families might actually be possible.”

Harriet scowled at the suggestive twist he put on the words. She knewpreciselythe kind of collaboration he had in mind, and it involved his lips and her skin in dangerously close proximity.

The very thought sent a hot flush over her body.

“Besides,” Morgan continued, “the war has put a great deal of things into perspective. Petty rivalries like ourstake on less significance when compared to more serious threats like Bonaparte.”

“Quite so,” Father agreed.

“I’d hardly call the Davies-Montgomery feud ‘petty,’” Harriet muttered. “Natural disasters have wreaked less havoc. And we’ve kept it going for over five hundred years.”

“Nobody ever said we weren’t tenacious.” Father chuckled. “But there haven’t been anyfatalitiesfor decades.” He turned his head toward Morgan again. “I heard about your capture of theBrilliant. It was mentioned in dispatches. Well done, sir. Any man brave enough to get out there and risk his life to defend his country can’t beallbad.”

Morgan laughed. “Maybe only fifty percent bad? Like most men?”

“I’d say you were eighty-twenty,” Harriet said. “With the weight toward the wicked end of the scale.”

He sent her a mocking glance. “Surely our adventure this morning has tipped the odds a little more in my favor?”

“What adventure?” Father demanded.

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