Chapter 2

London, 1820

…As you know, I was more than happy to oblige you so many years ago, and I never intended on calling upon you to fulfill the favor you promised me. However this isn't about holding onto pride or proving myself in any way, it is about my daughter, and for that, I must do anything I can…

…When Johnny last managed to visit, he informed me that he'd sent word to you about the current situation. I am embarrassed to admit that the allegations are not entirely false, and I fear that my daughter's life will be defined by this particular mistake…

…I write to ask you to accompany my dear Elizabeth to Italy. The family wealth is more than enough to allow her to start over, and I feel comfortable knowing she has someone so trustworthy to accompany her on such a journey…

Elizabeth pressed the letter to her lips as if she could breathe in some part of her father that existed within the page. She could no longer blink back the tears that burned her eyes and was embarrassed that she'd managed to smear her father's handwriting, and that Mr. Morgan would know she cried while reading it.

…I could never ask you to extend your hand for marriage – not because I don't find you an adequate enough suitor – if anyone could love and honor my daughter, it is the Viscount of Port Charles. Oh, who knew you'd ever be capable of such great things? I like to think I knew all along. Anyway, I am well aware that Elizabeth would never agree to marry a stranger. I long ago promised her she would marry for love, knowing she was too headstrong to do it for any other reason…

…I hope that this letter finds you well, and if for any reason, you are unable to fulfill my request, please send word to Johnny, and we will formulate a new plan of action.

Sincerely,

Jeffrey Webber

The sun had risen hours ago, and she'd barely slept at all, spending most of the night pacing back and forth in the study as she continuously read the letter. Batting her wet cheeks with an old handkerchief, she swept her eyes over the letter one last time before folding it and placing it on the desk in front of her. She hoped by dawn to have made a decision, telling herself that this was about her, not the stranger upstairs or her father, but after reading, she wasn't so sure anymore. Her father's request was so clear, and she didn't know if she had it in her to blatantly go against his wishes.

She'd always been the kind of woman to go against the grain, even as a young child, but so much had changed. She could argue her way with her father over just about anything, except this time he wasn't here for the fight. He was off trying to do what he believed to be honorable, and running across Europe with some strange man seemed like the least honorable thing Elizabeth could do in return.

Well, she supposed Mr. Morgan wasn't a stranger by any means, at least not to her father, but that didn't comfort her any less. Jeffrey spoke so highly of him in the letter that she wondered just how long it had been since her father had last seen this man. She unfolded the letter, skimming the paragraph that surely stroked Mr. Morgan's ego when he read it, and she found herself disgusted. If only her father could have heard him insulting her last night – most likely on purpose – he would have choked on his words.

And to think, he was a Viscount of all things.

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the letter back into the envelope refusing to pour over it one last time. It sickened her to think that her father actually expected her to leave town with this man, who clearly cared less about how she really felt about anything. She was used to men being so self-involved and selfish, but Mr. Morgan may have been one of the worst she'd ever met; coming into her home with his demands and tiny man at his side, expecting her to comply because he was someone to her father.

Oh, how she loathed him.

Clutching the letter in her hand, she stared down at her father's script, her heart telling her she just couldn't go along with what he wanted, while her mind was fierce in knowing that she should. He would never abandon her in a time of need, and she felt so wrong in even contemplating leaving him. Mr. Morgan had made a point; she would be called as a witness, but whether or not she put her father in prison was yet to be determined.

After all, there were so many sides to the story.

She jumped, her eyes flashing to the door as someone knocked, and her entire body tensed knowing it was Mr. Morgan. Clearly he was incapable of conducting himself like a normal person, always having to be louder and fiercer than the rest.

"One second," she called out, glancing at herself in the mirror across the room.

Her face was flushed, eyes puffy and red from crying, and she was still wearing the same dress he'd seen her in last night. She did her best to pin her hair away from her face and neck, knowing that it was impossible to do in a matter of seconds.

She dried her tears and hurried towards the door as his knocking continued. "You are the most impatient man," she muttered, fiddling with the lock before pulling the door open.

"I dislike having to wait," he said, her eyes going wide when she realized he'd heard her.

Then again, she wondered why she was so surprised. He seemed like the type of man to lurk and listen.

"Well, you barely gave me a second," she replied, stumbling over her words.

"I told you by morning," he murmured, arching his eyebrows expectantly.

"If you must," she said, waving him into the room with a shaky hand.

"Spinelli and I helped ourselves to the kitchen," he replied, holding his hands at the waist of his snug breeches.

Oh, why did she have to notice such a thing? She blushed, but really she'd only noticed because he was dressed more together than he had been the night before. His shirt was loose, but unwrinkled and clean; his shoes neatly tied at his feet.

"That's fine," she murmured, almost feeling guilty for not giving him or Mr. Spinelli something the night before. "It isn't as if the cook is coming anytime soon."

He grinned crookedly, looking away as if he didn't want her to see his amusement. "Are you as good in the kitchen as you are with the rest of the house?" Her eyes darkened, not sure whether he was insulting her or paying a compliment. "The beds were nicely made."

"Thank you," she said, not sure how to take him. Maybe the trip had just left him winded and he needed a good night's sleep to act like a human being. "And to answer your question, I manage in the kitchen the best way I know how."

His eyes twinkled, and she could see the challenge before it ever left his lips. "Perhaps you could prepare us a dinner this evening – if you think you could manage."

Never mind, he was still very much the man she assumed him to be.

"We will still be here tonight?" she asked, dropping her gaze to the letter in her hand.

"You tell me," he murmured, leaning against the desk and clasping his hands in his lap.

"You're offering me a choice," she said, not understanding the sudden change in attitude.

"I assumed you'd put up a fight."

"Well, yes, of course, but…"

She hadn't expected him to ask for her opinion and imagined he wouldn't hesitate to throw her over his shoulder if need be. Not knowing what else to do, she held out the letter, feeling the need to get rid of it.

"You read it?" he asked, turning the envelope around in his hands.

"Several times."

He nodded, glancing down at the front of it. "The ink is smeared."

"I was upset."

He grunted, and she instantly felt nothing but the desire to get rid of him. The only question was how.

"Are you always this way?" she asked, crossing her hands over her chest. He tipped his head in her direction, giving her a curious smile. "So unemotional and brooding – it doesn't suit you very well."

"And you know what would suit me?" he countered, folding the envelope in half and tucking it into his pants.

She took a deep breath, running through all possible retorts; a wench, a lashing – verbal and otherwise, or maybe just a look in the mirror. "I think it would be highly improper to travel across the country with some strange man," she swallowed, telling herself to keep with the task at hand. "I'm sure that word has already spread that the young Webber whore has-"

"Must you say that?" he groaned, shaking his head.

"It is what they say about me," she shrugged, "or did you not know just who you are willing to sneak out of London?"

"I highly doubt that Jeffrey's daughter is a woman of such…"

"You know nothing about Jeffrey's daughter," she said, holding his gaze. "And she refuses to be carted away into the night as if she has done something wrong." She sighed heavily, feeling weakened from having spent the entire night constantly going over what to do. "I am my father's only means of support, Mr. Morgan. I would never feel right sneaking away and leaving him to fend for himself."

"You'll be called as a witness," he reminded her, narrowing his eyes. "Or is that what you want?"

"I don't know what you're trying to imply," she murmured, looking away from him as she started to pace in the room. "I only want my father…"

"Free?" he asked, pushing himself up from the desk. It was then that she noticed the newspaper tucked under his arm. He carefully unrolled it, facing the headline towards her. "You are not the only person who seems to think that Jeffrey is innocent."

"I don't know what he is," she replied quietly, taking the paper from his hand, her eyes skimming through the short article.

…an individual who has served the public of London for years upon years…his integrity is being called into question, and it's upsetting just how many believe this man is capable of committing such an ugly act…perhaps, one should be asking why exactly Lucas Spencer was…

"Is he innocent?" Mr. Morgan asked bluntly.

Elizabeth shifted her eyes from the paper, knowing that regardless of what she said, he would know the truth. "Does it matter?" she asked, rolling the paper back up and handing it to him. "Richard Lansing will make sure my father is convicted."

"Is he innocent?" he asked again, refusing to let her avoid his question.

"I'm afraid I know nothing, Mr. Morgan," she replied, her eyes filling with tears. "I do know that you cannot ask me to leave London – not now anyway."

He grew silent and still as if contemplating her statement, and she wondered if he wanted to stay as badly as she did. "Your devotion to your father doesn't surprise me."

Her eyes widened when he didn't fight her, and she wasn't sure how to reply. "Then you'll leave me be. If I am called as a witness so be it, but I really do know nothing, and-"

"I can't leave you," he interrupted seriously. "Your father asked me to look out for you, and that will not change."

"So, what? Are you going to stay here in this house and hover over my every move?"

"It's not an overly large house. I'm sure I can hear what goes on from any of the rooms," he replied, giving her a pleased smile. "For example, you pace far too loudly for a lady."

"They have a name for men like you," she hissed, stopping mid-pace as she thought of Mr. Morgan hovering outside the study door.

"What kind of man is that?" he asked, and she knew he was only humoring her.

"The kind who listens in on a lady in private."

"Do share this name."

She gritted her teeth and stepped towards him, her hands clenched in a fist. "Scoundrel."

He rolled his eyes, letting out a chuckle. "I would have expected better from you."

"Oh, you," she spat, turning her back to him, more determined than ever to get him to leave. "This will never work. You cannot move into my home and expect me to welcome you, regardless of what my father desires. This is my home, and it's full of things that belong to me, and you have no right to any of it." She spun back around, glaring fiercely. "And – and it's entirely improper to have some dirty, crude Viscount living with a young lady!"

"I may be crude, but I am hardly dirty," he murmured, waving his hand at her as he started for the door. "When you are finished with this tantrum of yours, we'll-"

"I am not having a tantrum," she cut in, following after him as he continued down the hallway. "I refuse to co-exist with you in any form because it's inappropriate. My name is tarnished enough in the streets and I won't have it furthered by the likes of you, and seeing as you are so unwilling to make it appropriate you have no choice but to leave."

She let out a gasp as he spun around to face her, an impish grin on his lips. "Are you saying you want to make it appropriate, Elizabeth?"

"What?" she asked, backing away from him, but of course, he only stepped forward.

"If I must be made an honest man, why not be forced into it," he shrugged, his grin widening by the second.

"Are you mad?" she cried, shaking with anger, part of her wondering if this was what he wanted all along. "Are you broke? Do you need money? What happened to honoring my father's wishes regarding Italy?"

"Your father's already given his approval for us to be wed, so there's no need to dance around it."

"Oh, my memory briefly failed me," she hissed, rolling her eyes. "You are such an honorable and loving man, Jason Morgan. Why wouldn't I want to marry you?"

He grunted in agreement. "Then, it's settled," he nodded, turning down the hall and calling for Spinelli, leaving an infuriated Elizabeth behind him. "We can be married immediately."

"How dare you!" she growled, following after him, not caring that they were now standing in the kitchen with his assistant as a witness. "You have no right to turn this arrangement around on me."

Mr. Morgan laughed boisterously, as he lifted a cup of tea from the counter and gave Spinelli an apologetic look. "There's no need to be nervous. People have arranged marriages all the time."

"You are well aware this is trickery," she cried, fighting the urge to shove his cup of tea right into his face. "It must be some kind of favor you owe my father if you're willing to marry a woman who completely despises you!"

"It won't be all bad once we get over our initial differences," he murmured, setting his cup onto the counter. "Don't they say a marriage is about compromise or something like that? It won't be all bad. You'll be my wife, so you'll have to comply to my ways."

"If you think that just because I take some vow you're going to haul me over your shoulder…" She paused, her face reddening as she looked over at his assistant and lowered her voice. "If you think you're going to take – take me to – to bed, you-"

"I would never take a woman," he cut in, looking deeply insulted as he smirked. "I'd make her want it first, but taking you to bed is the least of my concerns next to your father's case."

"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaimed, her mouth falling open in disbelief. "None of this is about me, is it? You wanted to stay in London."

"I know your father, and he would never murder someone, regardless of circumstance, and I'm going to prove it," he said firmly, picking up his tea. "Your refusal to leave has complied with my wish to extricate Jeffrey."

Oh, damn him.

She couldn't marry him, just as he couldn't start sticking his nose into her father's case, even if he felt like it was his business. It just wasn't. The city was buzzing with enough gossip about her father and Mr. Morgan's dominating presence – it was clear he wasn't going to be quiet about any of it – would only add fuel to the blazing fire.

"And this supposed marriage?" she asked huffily, her mind racing with possibilities.

He shrugged, walking out of the room and waving for Spinelli to follow him. She was beginning to wonder if the tiny man ever talked or if he was some kind of lap dog for Mr. Morgan. "It's just a little fun to pass the time."