CHAPTER THIRTEEN
or the next sennight, Daphne spent her every hour—both waking and sleeping—with Adam. She slept in his bed and ate her meals at the little table near a window overlooking the countryside. She joined him in the gallery each morning to watch him and Niall practice their fencing, after which he always engaged her in a few bouts. Those times proved enjoyable, learning more about her opponent, and besting him more easily than she had when she’d lost their wager. It became more like a dance between them than a duel, each knowing the moves of the other with an uncanny foresight. After that, they would take their morning ride. They would gallop for hours, across the meadows and through the trees ringing his property.
Then, he was all business, bringing her into his study while he attended to his day’s work. The first few days, he had forced her to sit upon the floor at his feet—a position that had made her spine bristle with indignation. Yet, she grew accustomed to it, indulging in reading or drawing—even though she was abominable at it. He often gazed down at her from where he sat, his face inscrutable, but his eyes swirling with good humor and amusement. Did he enjoy seeing her like this—docile at his feet?
On the third day, she had come into the study to find the harp sitting in the midst of the room, the low stool resting before it. When she’d raised her eyebrows at him in surprise, he’d simply told her to play for him. And play, she had. She’d played for hours, losing herself in the music while he worked, practicing every concerto she knew by memory, then asking for sheet music so she could learn new ones.
In the evening, there was dinner, and often time spent in the music room where Adam would play. Not for her … as he seemed barely cognizant of her presence once he began. He played for himself, seeming to pour all of his anger and grief onto the keys. She heard it in every note, felt it in the energy that permeated the air as he unleashed it in the only way he seemed capable.
And, of course, he made use of her body frequently and in just about every way he could imagine. He threw her up on his desk and fucked her from behind; he threw her to the gallery floor and fucked her after fencing; he lifted her skirts on the floor of the music room. Their mating was frenzied, desperate … crude. He pulled her hair hard enough to make her eyes water, but it only made her moan louder. He squeezed her throat until her vision grew hazy, but that only made her climaxes stronger. He pounded her mercilessly, leaving the insides of her thighs sore in the following hours, but she urged him on, wrapping her legs around him and compelling him to take her harder, faster. He did other things she enjoyed—things that made her question her own sanity. Like tying her legs to opposite bed posts to open her wide and expose her secret flesh. Or spanking her while fucking her from behind, until she could not separate the pain from pleasure. Or leaving his fingerprints and bite marks in places no one could see, but that she felt for days after his claiming. She liked to touch the sore spots, press down on them and close her eyes, remembering the blissful torment of being claimed by him.
In truth, he was supposed to be about her ruination, but it began to feel as if he had set about her liberation. The more he used her, teaching her what her body was capable of and subjecting her to the sort of pleasure that ought to bring her shame, the more she reveled in her own wantonness, in the power that came with being desired and inspiring lust. She had grown accustomed to going without undergarments, prepared to be taken at any moment, in any place. Her days held a sort of excitement she had never known, a thrill she could not get from riding hell for leather or sneaking an erotic novel.
She rarely encountered anyone aside from Adam, Niall maintaining his distance and doing a better job of keeping both Olivia and Serena out of her sight. While she wished to inquire about them, she refrained, not wanting to provoke Adam. He might not let her back in if she tempted him to toss her out again. She forced herself to accept that Adam did not want his sister or niece to have anything to do with Daphne or her family. After all the Fairchilds had done to them, she felt obligated to respect his wishes.
On the seventh day, she became acutely aware of preparations being made for a party. It began with the dressmaker, who arrived to take her measurements. Shop girls helped drape her in navy blue satin, rolling out spools of decadent black lace and gasping over how the colors made her hair appear redder and her eyes a more vibrant shade of blue.
Then, she noticed maids coming and going throughout the castle with freshly laundered tablecloths, polished silver candelabras, and fine china. Remembering the invitations she had seen when rifling through Adam’s desk, she realized he had invited guests to Dunnottar … guests he would parade her in front of. In the days that passed with several more fittings and talk amongst servants of the rich cuisine being prepared for the event, Daphne grew more anxious over the inevitable humiliation.
It would be Adam’s coup de grace … the final blow to her reputation, and by proxy, that of her family. They’d never be able to show their faces in public again without receiving the cut direct.
The party would take place on her last evening at Dunnottar, ending her stay in the same way it had begun—with humiliation.
On the night before the party, she sat on the edge of Adam’s bed, picking at a loose thread on her dressing gown and waiting for him to emerge from the washroom. She’d bathed and donned the robe with nothing underneath—fully expecting him to strip it from her when he entered the room.
Instead, he halted at the foot of the bed and studied her with a furrowed brow. “Is something wrong?”
Shaking her head, she stood and untied the belt of her robe. “Of course not. I am ready.”
He approached, eyeing the bare skin she revealed with her open robe. She held her breath as he reached toward her, bracing herself for the first touch. It never failed to send her blood rushing through her veins and goose bumps rippling over her skin.
However, he did not touch her except to close the open sides of the robe and tie the belt loosely at her waist. “Do not lie to me, little dove. I don’t relish taking a sulking woman to bed. Tell me what is bothering you.”
Sighing, she shrugged one shoulder and tried not to show him how terrified the impending party made her. “Tomorrow. I have an idea of what will happen, but knowing hardly eases my mind.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “It is only a dinner party, little dove … hardly anything to distress yourself over. Besides, I have not even told you who our guests will be.”
She snorted. “Does it matter? You would not invite anyone unimportant. Whoever comes will see me here unchaperoned and know … they will know …”
“That I’ve fucked you,” he offered with an amused smirk. “Aye. They’ll know we fucked and will likely see that you enjoyed it. They’ll see you dressed in finery I provided, and think—”
“They will think me a whore.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What do you care if they do? In fact, why do you care what they think of you at all? As you’ve recently learned, most people are not what they seem. The people who would condemn you for what you’ve done have their share of secrets.”
“Yes, but their secrets will not be exposed to the entire ton,” she countered. “And I … I don’t care what they think of me.”
He gave her a knowing glance. “Tell yourself what you must, but I can see the fear in your eyes … fear of judgment and scorn. Fear that someone might see you as what you truly are.”
“A whore?” she spat, avoiding his gaze, shame burning her cheeks.
Even now, saying the word called to mind the night he’d taken her maidenhead—when he’d lain on top of her and whispered the word in her ear before tearing into her with his cock.
He reached out to tip her chin up with his fingers, shaking his head once she’d met his gaze.
“A woman more beautiful and daring than any of them could hope to be. Do you not understand why those stuffy old windbags and withered-up crones hate ladies like you? It is because they secretly wish they could display their talents with something more than bland watercolors or insipid needlepoint. It is because they want to be the sort of woman a man would swim across oceans and crawl over deserts to claim. Because they wish they were like you … they wish to be you. They might turn their noses up to find you here with me … but they will go home green with envy that no man would pay a ha’penny for their bodies, let alone a grand fortune like thirty thousand pounds.”
Her mouth fell open, the impact of his words leaving her breathless. Was that truly what he thought of her? His words proved the kindest he’d ever spoken to her, even when she considered that he was only fattening her up for the slaughter … preparing her to be flaunted as his lover in a public setting.
“When you walk into that dinner party tomorrow night, you will do so with your head held high,” he told her, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will let them see how little you care for their opinions. And you will leave the next morning a very wealthy woman.”
Closing her mouth, she nodded, acquiescing as she knew she must. One more day. She could endure it … she had lived through the twenty-nine before it.
Without another word, Adam re-opened the sash of her robe, tearing the garment from her shoulders and tossing it aside. Then, he swept her off her feet and tumbled her onto the bed, where he joined her and proceeded to make her forget about her troubles, offering her comfort in the form of pleasure.
Daphne’s final day at Dunnottar began innocently enough. After breakfast with Adam, she was informed the dressmaker had come to deliver her gown and its accoutrements. The woman insisted on a final fitting to ensure the fit was exact. Satisfied, she had left after collecting a generous reward from Adam for having turned out an elegant evening gown in three short days.
After their morning fencing bout, however, the day took an unexpected turn. Instead of going on their morning ride, they adjourned to the study, where Adam mentioned having some affairs that could not wait until later. The unexpected break in their routine hardly ruffled her. She sat before the harp and played while he worked, taking comfort in the familiar, playing all her favorite pieces on the beautiful instrument. After today, she would never get to touch it again.
Around the time they typically took the afternoon meal, Adam stood and declared his work to be complete. Then, studying the clock standing near one of the hearths, he gestured for her to stand.
“Everything should be arranged now,” he declared, rounding the desk to approach her. “Come.”
Confusion furrowed her brow, but she trailed him, now accustomed to following his commands swiftly and without question. He led her to the main hall of the palace, where Maeve stood waiting for them with a large basket held in one hand. But it was the sight of the person standing beside her that made Daphne’s steps falter. She choked on a gasp and blinked several times, certain her eyes must surely be deceiving her.
Yet, Serena stood before her, looking quite adorable in a walking dress of white muslin, her auburn ringlets tied back with a matching ribbon.
Gaping at her, then at Adam, Daphne tried to wrap her mind around what she was seeing—because, surely, he had not arranged for her to spend time in Serena’s company.
Yet, as the little girl rushed forward and leapt into Adam’s arms, it became clear this was exactly what was happening.
“Are you ready for our walk, Princess?” he asked, the warmth in his voice when he spoke to the child nearly bringing tears to Daphne’s eyes.
He might hate the Fairchild family, but there could be no denying his love for Serena.
“Oh, yes,” the girl replied with a wide smile. “Do you think Cook packed jam tartlets in our basket?”
With a chuckle, he gave one of Serena’s curls a gentle tug. “Perhaps. We shall have to wait and see. If we open the basket now, that would ruin the surprise.”
Setting the girl back on her feet, he took her hand, then extended the other one to Maeve. The maid beamed while handing the basket over, then executed a swift curtsy and disappeared down the corridor.
Daphne lowered her gaze and fumbled with the skirts of her gown, feeling like an intruder. The two of them were part of a family to which she did not belong. That Serena was of her own blood made no difference when the child did not know her.
“Come, little dove,” Adam said, drawing her gaze up from the floor. “Serena is quite looking forward to spending the afternoon with us.”
Furrowing her brow, she darted a glance at the little girl, who was watching her with open curiosity while clinging to her uncle’s hand.
“You … you wish me to come with you?”
Leaning in close and lowering his voice so only she could hear him, he murmured in her ear. “I have already secured your promise to keep her existence a secret. So, what is the harm in allowing you a few hours with her?”
Her eyes stung as gratitude over the simple gesture overwhelmed her. While he had done small things that might be considered kind during her time here, they were as beneficial to him as they were to her. Purchasing her garments meant she always looked her best for him. Letting her play the harp entertained him. The gown he’d had made for her would be worn to a party designed to achieve his own aims. Even allowing her to return after throwing her out benefited him, as it meant she went on warming his bed.
But this … allowing her to spend time with Serena did nothing to benefit him. Which meant he had decided to do it for her … and perhaps, in a way, for the child, as well.
“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely, fighting the urge to weep.
She did not want to upset Serena, who would have no idea why Daphne stood there blubbering like a fool.
Bending the arm holding the basket, he offered it to her with a smirk. She took it, the fit of her hand in the crook of his elbow surprising her in its rightness. If things between their families had not happened the way they did, she might pretend things were different. That the little girl who looked so much like her was her own child, and Adam …
No. She could not think that way. It would be dangerous to allow herself to fall into the trap of delusion. The only thing between her and Adam was a thirty-thousand-pound agreement and weeks of carnal pleasure. That hardly meant he cared about her, and in truth, he had given her no reason at all to care for him.
She would accept this gift as her due—her right as an aunt. Even if she might leave Dunnottar in the morning, never to see Serena again. She would always remember the short time she’d been privileged to know her. Never would she blame Adam for his decision to keep her a secret. That rested upon the heads of her brother and father, who had ensured Serena would never be a part of the Fairchild family.
Leaving the palace, they traversed the large courtyard toward the gatehouse, where the keeper raised the portcullis for them. Instead of taking horses, they walked, Adam insisting they make their way down the northern face of the escarpment, to where the sea lapped at the shore. Daphne’s spirits lifted at the prospect of being able to walk along the beach—something she had not done during her stay at Dunnottar. The weather proved pleasant—mild with just a bit of a crisp breeze.
As they walked down the sloping path, Serena chattered excitedly in the way children were wont to do. Daphne hung on every word, engaging the girl in conversation about the things she liked. Dolls. Seashells. Horses. Ribbon. She clung to those tidbits, storing them in her mind along with other details she picked up. The way Serena’s hair shimmered with golden highlights in the sun, just like hers. How her little nose crinkled when she grinned, and the pitch of her sweet voice.
How had something so precious been born out of such darkness?
It was nothing short of a miracle.
When they reached the sand, Serena released Adam’s hand and dashed off ahead of them, squealing with delight as the wind whipped through her hair. Daphne felt Adam watching her as she observed Serena, and her face warmed, his perusal putting her on edge.
“She is a beautiful child,” she said, for lack of anything better to say.
“Aye,” he agreed. “That, she is.”
Serena had removed her shoes and stockings and now inched toward the edge of the water, giggling in anticipation of the sea washing over her feet.
“She seems so … happy,” she added.
“Niall, Maeve, and I …”
She glanced up at him when he fell silent, her chest squeezing painfully at the sadness turning his eyes into dark pools. He turned to gaze at Serena, his expression softening as if seeing her so happy put him at ease.
“Olivia is in no condition to care for her,” he continued. “Even on days when she is lucid and calm, she thinks of Serena as a playmate. It is almost as if she’s become a child herself. So, Niall, Maeve, and I …”
“You do what you can to care for her,” she supplied. “It seems you are doing a good job of it.”
Shrugging one shoulder, he swiveled his stare back to her. “It never feels like quite enough. She knows she is loved, but I am only her uncle, and Maeve and Niall are only servants. The girl has no mother.”
Joining her hand with the other upon his arm, she clung to him, leaning close. “That is not true. She does have a mother … and even if she realizes Olivia is not perfect, I am certain Serena knows that she loves her. That sort of bond is not easily broken.”
Slowly nodding, he seemed to digest that for a moment before speaking again. “Aye … I suppose you are right.”
They stood that way for a time—Daphne hanging on to his arm, her head rested upon his shoulder while they watched Serena play in the surf.
“Go on,” he chided after some time had passed. “This is your chance to get to know her. Do not waste it.”
Taking his advice, she dropped his arm and kicked off her slippers. After peeling off her stockings, she set off across the sand toward Serena. The girl waved her over, delighted to show her the shells that had washed ashore.
For hours, they splashed and played in the water, dug in the sand for shells, all under Adam’s watchful eye. He kept his distance, seated in the sand beside their picnic basket, his posture and bearing more relaxed than she’d ever seen them.
Finally, they trudged back toward him, the hems of their gowns soaked and speckled with sand, their hair hopelessly tousled by the wind.
“You look like a couple of sea sprites, the pair of you,” Adam quipped as they knelt in the sand before him.
“Are sea sprites magic?” Serena asked, her eyes wide with expectation.
Chuckling, he reached out to swipe a bit of sand from her cheek. “Aye, little one … they are the most beautiful sort of magic.”
The girl smiled up at Daphne, nestling close against her side as Adam opened the basket and began producing its contents.
“Did you hear, Daphne? Uncle Adam says we’re magic.”
She could not help a smile, raising her hand to lay it upon Serena’s head. “Yes, sweetling, I heard.”
“You must be,” Adam replied with a smirk, retrieving a dish from inside the basket and pulling back the cloth covering to reveal an array of jam tartlets. “Because I believe you wished these into existence.”
Daphne giggled at Serena’s squeal of excitement. The girl was on her feet in a moment, reaching out for a handful of the little tarts. Within seconds, she’d devoured three, staining her lips, cheeks, and fingers with jam.
Adam urged her to slow down so she did not make herself ill, and the three settled in the sand to enjoy the array of foods Dunnottar’s cook had sent along for them. She gorged herself on meat pies and fruit, and joined Adam at swigging a crisp white wine straight from the bottle.
By the end of the meal, Serena had found her way into Daphne’s lap, where she curled up and promptly fell asleep. She clung to the girl, not caring about the jam-stained fingers clutching at her bodice or the heavy weight in her lap. Arranging the girl more comfortably, she glanced up to find Adam watching them, a pensive expression upon his face.
“I had not realized how strong the resemblance was until I saw you with her,” he remarked. “It is quite uncanny.”
She wanted to smile at that, but was not altogether certain he considered her resemblance to Serena a good thing.
“She seems to like you,” he added. “The only other woman she is ever so happy with is her mother.”
He looked away then, falling silent, and Daphne did not need him to utter the rest aloud for her to understand what he did not say. Olivia could only make Serena happy when she was in a lucid state of mind.
Adam sat staring out over the sea in silence, long tendrils of his hair whipped against his neck by the breeze. An unexpected surge of tenderness swept over her, and before she could think about what she was doing, she had reached out to him. Her hand found his face, her fingers smoothing over the coarse stubble sprouting along his jaw.
He turned to look at her, his jaw hardening against her hand as if the gesture displeased him. Yet, his eyes melted into a warm pool of molten gold at the center as he nestled closer to her touch, rubbing his jaw against her palm as if seeking succor.
“I once called you a villain,” she whispered, still steadily stroking his jaw. “But now that I have come to see why you were forced to become this … knowing what drove you to these lengths … I think that cannot be true at all.”
His eyes burned into hers as he held her gaze, green flames erupting through the gold and disrupting the tranquility of his stare.
“You place too much hope in my goodness, little dove,” he replied. “I am not your hero.”
She shook her head, stroking her thumb over his lower lip. “Not my hero … Serena’s. Olivia’s.”
He did not respond, intently watching her while Serena slept in her arms and the sea rolled and crashed against the shore. Finally, he closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth to hers, surprising her with his tenderness. Resting one large hand over hers, he kept her touch against his jaw and drank from her mouth. She opened to him, no longer foolish enough to think she could fight him. He had stripped her bare, taking away all of her defenses and maidenly sensibilities, revealing the core of her—a part of her no one else had seen.
She gave in and kissed him, knowing it was foolish to wish it would never end … but wishing it, anyway.
After returning from the shore, Adam placed a sleeping Serena in Maeve’s waiting arms and handed the picnic basket off to Niall. Then, taking her hand, he led her up to his chambers, where their attire for the dinner party had been laid out upon the bed. Butterflies began fluttering in her stomach as she waited for Maeve to arrive and see to her toilette, transforming her from sand-speckled siren to an ornamental fixture. It was a role she played well, having been used as a tool for gaining position and power by her father for years. Since her coming out, it had pleased him to dangle her before prospective suitors—men he knew she’d never choose, but whose notice might open the right doors for the Fairchild family.
If there was one thing Daphne knew how to do, it was endure being the center of attention. For the first time, however, the attention would prove her ruination … her social destruction. As she submitted to Maeve’s ministrations, allowing the maid to bathe and dress her before arranging her hair, she thought of Olivia. She thought of the devastation that had been made of the young lady’s life and knew she must go through with this. She must endure this final act of penance for the things Bertram had done. Because it could be far worse. She might not have been allowed to escape Dunnottar with her sanity, something that might elude Olivia for the rest of her life.
She had no idea who might attend this dinner party, but like everything else Adam did, she did not doubt they had been selected with care. They would be influential people … people who had the social standing to see her shunned by the London ton. Then, the ruination of the Fairchilds would be complete.
“All done, my lady,” Maeve declared after pinning a final lock of hair into place. “My, but you are lovely. Doesn’t she look ravishing, Master?”
Daphne turned to glance at Adam over her shoulder from where she sat in a chair near the window to have her hair dressed. With no vanity in his chamber, she did not sit before a mirror, and so could not see for herself what Maeve had done to her hair or the light cosmetics she had used upon her face. However, Adam’s reaction to her appearance told her everything she needed to know.
His eyes widened, and his nostrils flared, as if he drew in her scent from across the room. His jaw ticked, and one hand curled into a fist—the motion making her scalp tingle. He often did that just before reaching out to grasp handfuls of her hair, so she wondered if he imagined doing it now.
“Aye, Maeve,” he replied, though he did not spare a glance. “She is a vision. You may go now.”
“Enjoy your evening,” the maid chirped before dipping into a curtsy and turning to obey Adam’s command.
Daphne remained in her chair, frozen in his stare as he approached. He looked quite dapper himself—as elegant as she’d ever seen him, in fact. Black evening attire clung to his large frame, expertly tailored and fitting with the latest fashion. A silver watch fob showed against a black and navy blue embroidered waistcoat, his matching blue cravat affixed with a diamond tiepin. His hair had been tamed and tied at the back of his head, emphasizing the chiseled lines of his face. As he moved toward her, the bulges of his muscles rippled beneath the fabric like rolls of the tide, reminding her of the power concealed beneath his finery.
He stood over her, his gaze tracing her from the top of her head to the gloved hands resting in her lap, before looking back up at her face again. Placing two fingers beneath her chin, he lifted it, keeping a gentle hold on her face.
“Are you ready?”
She nodded, though her stomach continued to twist and roil at the thought of going downstairs to face his guests. Offering her his free hand, he waited for her to accept his assistance before pulling her to her feet. He took her hand and pulled her along, guiding her toward the full-length mirror in one corner of the room. He stood behind her, bracing his hands upon her bare shoulders as she confronted her reflection.
The dark blue satin bodice clung to her breasts before falling away from the gown’s high waist, the fabric flowing like water over her waist, hips, and legs. Its off-the-shoulder neckline revealed quite a bit more skin than she’d ever shown in public, along with a generous amount of bosom. White gloves covered her hands and arms to above the elbows. Maeve had pinned her hair back in a whimsical coiffure, with navy blue bands adorning her crown and a cluster of flowers at one ear. Tiny ringlets framed her face, which Maeve had enhanced with just a hint of rouge at her cheeks and lips and kohl around her eyes. As always, a ribbon matching her gown had been tied around her neck, a flirtatious bow resting against her collarbone.
He stroked one cheek while studying her reflection, his fingers trailing down the side of her neck. “Remember what I told you, little dove. What they say, what they think … none of it truly matters.”
She nodded as if in agreement, but could not help but wonder whether he might truly believe that. If he thought none of it mattered, then he would not use them to make a spectacle of her. Of course it mattered. Still, she kept her chin high as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and guided her from the room.
The low hum of voices reached out to them as they descended the staircase—Niall’s rough brogue mingling with the cultured tones of their guests. Her grip on Adam’s arm tightened, her legs growing weak as they reached the ground floor. From down the corridor, she spotted several people gathered within the foyer, handing their wraps and capes off to a small army of waiting footmen.
Seeming to sense her discomfiture, he gently patted her hand, laying his over where it rested in the bend of his arm. He kept it there, lending her his quiet strength. She raised her chin a tick, adopting the mask of apathy she liked to wear in social settings. The one that hid her boredom and annoyance … the one that covered all her secrets.
“Ah, there our host is now,” boomed one of the waiting guests, spotting Adam and coming forward to greet them. “It is good to see you again, Hart. It has been too long.”
“Indeed, it has,” Adam replied, removing his hand from atop hers so he could extend it to his guest. “Loring, may I present Lady Daphne Fairchild, who has been a guest of Dunnottar recently. Lady Daphne, this is Lord Eugene Loring.”
Forcing a smile, she released Adam’s arm to make her curtsy to Lord Loring—a viscount, if she recalled correctly. They had never been formally introduced, but his wife held a reputation as one of London’s biggest gossips.
Said wife pushed her way past the others to gape at her, a hand pressed against her heavy bosom as if in shock.
“Lady Daphne? Lord Fairchild’s daughter?”
She forced a smile and inclined her head at the woman. “Yes, my lady. It is an honor to meet you …”
She raised her eyebrows to remind the woman she had so rudely begun launching questions at Daphne before even introducing herself.
“Lady Loring,” the old busybody replied imperiously.
Raising her nose and sniffing disdainfully, she moved away from Daphne as if a noxious odor wafted from her.
As if she could smell the sinful nature radiating from her like a cloud of fog. Ignoring the woman, she suffered through the rest of the introductions, pretending not to notice the way Adam’s guests watched her. Portraying various degrees of curiosity or shock, they all seemed to wrestle with themselves over whether to greet her politely or turn their noses up at her. An unmarried woman, a guest of a man in a remote castle in the most far-flung corner of Scotland? Surely, fodder for the gossip mills. Now, not only would they chatter about how the Fairchild family had become paupers, they would also spread the word of her fall from grace.
A knock upon the door drew her eye to Niall, who had been standing nearby like a silent sentry, waiting for the introductions to end so he could see them into the dining room. Now, he moved to answer it, ushering in what she assumed to be the last of Adam’s guests.
An exchange of voices made her blood run cold, the low, deep resonance of the person greeting Niall sending her insides into a frenzy. Her palms began to sweat, and her heart sank into the pit of her gut.
Her feet propelled her backward, horror overwhelming her as the top of a man’s blond head appeared from behind the door. It did not matter that those gathered around her blocked the view of his face … she’d know his voice anywhere. She had run her fingers through that hair while lying on soft patches of grass with her skirts pulled up around her hips and his questing fingers slipping into her drawers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she found her mind’s eye flooded with visions of him hovering over her, the sun gleaming off his golden hair like a halo, his eyes twinkling as he lowered his head for their first kiss.
“No,” she whispered.
He could not be here … not now. She could tolerate being the object of ridicule and scorn for just about anyone … but not him.
Before she realized what she was doing, she had spun on her heels and begun to flee. Adam made a grab for her, but missed, his hand closing around open air as she began retreating down the corridor.
“Daphne?”
His voice froze her in her tracks, and she halted, tears filling her eyes. It was too late … he had recognized her. Blast and damn her hair, which would always give her away in a crowd.
Clenching her skirts in her damp hands, she took a deep breath. There could be no escaping it. Things would only go worse for her if she fell apart in front of these people. Then, not only would they report to the ton that she’d become a fallen woman, they would also make mention of her unspeakable manners.
Blinking back the tears, she put her mask back in place and turned. He had followed her, standing far closer than she’d realized. His sweet, handsome face filled her vision, his earnest blue eyes boring into hers, the light of the chandelier overhead making his hair gleam like precious gold.
He smiled, though his wrinkled brow and incredulous gaze belied the expression.
“Daphne,” he repeated, as if assuring himself it was truly her. “My God, I thought I was seeing things, but … it truly is you.”
Inclining her head, she forced a girlish smile and forced herself to speak. To greet the man she had hoped would someday become her husband.
“Robert,” she murmured. “It has been an age.”
“Six years, at least,” he replied quickly.
Too quickly. As if he had counted each passing year following her departure to London for her first Season.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder as if to assure they would not be overheard.
No such luck. Adam approached, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Moving to stand between them, he took hold of Daphne’s hand and placed it back in the crook of his arm.
“Daphne is my guest,” he stated, emphasizing her name as if wanting Robert to be aware that he’d heard the way he’d addressed her so informally. “She has enjoyed the hospitality of Dunnottar for several weeks … have you not, little dove?”
The intimacy of Adam’s pet name put a flush upon her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes just as Robert fixed her with a questioning stare. Tension stretched through the air between the three of them, and she silently prayed the tiles would open up and swallow her.
Niall materialized nearby, clearing his throat to capture Adam’s attention. “Dinner is served, Master.”
She had never been more grateful for the man than she was just then.
“Shall we adjourn to the dining room?” Adam murmured before steering her past Robert without waiting for a response.
Plastering a smile upon her face, she let him lead her, mortified by the way he skirted propriety by escorting her. As the host, he should accompany the highest-ranking woman in the room … which most certainly was not her.
“You invited him on purpose, didn’t you?” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down as the others filed behind them.
He gave her one of his predatory smiles, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Who … Mr. Robert Stanley?”
When her only response came as a withering glare, he chuckled.
“Aye, little dove,” He confirmed. “Though, I was not entirely certain he was your past amour. I simply looked into the estates neighboring yours in Suffolk … those with sons who would be of an age with you. I ventured a guess, but was not sure—at least, not until you just confirmed it.”
Snapping her mouth shut, she clenched her jaw, certain she might embarrass herself even more if she spoke. It had just become more difficult for her to endure this night; however, it was not impossible. Robert had always been the genial sort. He would cause her to feel more embarrassed than she already did, and for that, she supposed she must be grateful.
However, it hardly brought her comfort once her next thought thrust to the forefront of her mind.
By inviting Robert here, Adam had just torn the last bit of her innocence to shreds.