Enjoy this sneak peek of , The Dove!
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CHAPTER ONE
London 1819
he sting of cold stones against the bottoms of her bare feet reverberated up her legs, the frigid air lashing at her legs as she held her skirts aloft and ran. Her heart thundered in her chest and her lungs burned as she struggled to breathe past the knot of fear that had lodged itself in her throat. The surface of her skin fairly tingled with awareness, the hairs on the back of her neck rising to stand on end. Glancing over her shoulder, she kept going, desperate to outrun the monster chasing her through the winding corridors of the dark, ominous castle. Torchlight cast shadows against the walls, and behind her, the hallway loomed like a never-ending tunnel with no bends or turns. Her eyes told her that nothing chased her, that the corridor behind her remained empty. Yet, her body, her very soul, told her something else.
He was coming.
The beast who had tormented her for weeks, torn her apart and made her like it … he was on her heels, breathing down her neck, snorting fire and ash. He delighted in tormenting her, toying with her like a cat playing with a mouse before sinking its teeth in and ripping it to shreds. Fear twisted in her gut, even as anticipated flooded her senses, her lips parting to allow the taste of the pursuit to dance upon her tongue. His scent clung to the air around her, the constant reminder of his presence unrelenting. Cedar … smoke … brandy. She could smell him, taste him, hear his voice in her head.
“Yes, little dove,” he rasped in the dark, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Run! You know how I love to chase you.”
His demented laughter echoed from the walls around her, vibrating through her entire being. A desperate cry fell from her lips—part fear, part arousal. Her palms were as damp as the mound between her thighs.
Something slammed into her from behind and she was thrown forward, face first onto the unrelenting stone floor. She gasped, struggling to recapture the breath that had been knocked from her. Kicking and flailing, she fought against the hands grasping her ankles and dragging her back into the darkness … into the jaw of the beast.
“No,” she whispered, even as he climbed over her, pinning her to the floor with his hard, massive body. “Please … no!”
Her lips protested, but her body surrendered, her back easing into a deep arch when he grasped a handful her hair and yanked. She cried out, her scalp stinging and her back aching, her cunt pulsing with need and her nipples going to stiff points. She could not see him, but she felt him, his thighs straddling her hips, the press of his chest against her back, the rasp of the stubble on his jaw against her ear, the sweep of his long, dark hair falling around her like a curtain. The hard ridge of his thick cock pressed against her buttocks.
She heard him, his heavy, rasping breaths in her ear from the exertions of the chase, his deep, resonate voice when he spoke.
“Mine,” he grunted in her ear.
Then, he was pressing her head against the stones, holding her captive with a brutal hold on her hair as he began snatching up her skirts. She kicked squirmed beneath him, yet he only laughed again, shoving a rough hand between her legs. Her screams of terror melted into moans of delight as he stroked her, invaded her with his fingers.
“Please,” she moaned, lifting her hips to invite him in deeper, the salt of her tears invading her mouth as she wept. “Please … just let me go!”
The blunt tip of his cock touched her entrance, his mouth grazing her ear as he poised himself to enter her. His teeth scraped her earlobe, sending a shudder through her.
“Never,” he rasped, just before shoving the full length of his cock inside her sheath.
Lady Daphne Fairchild awoke with jolt, her lips parted on a cry that echoed through her bedchamber. As her mind slowly floated up out of her vivid dream, she absorbed her surroundings. The mauve damask canopy and sheer white curtains surrounding her bed tinted the light of the morning sun, turning the air around her into a soft pink haze. The matching sheets and counterpane were soaked with her sweat, while dampened strands of hair clung to her face and neck. Her nightgown clung to her skin, and the cool air caused by a waning fire made her skin break out in goose bumps. She would have liked to blame her hard, aching nipples on the chill in the air, but her throbbing cunt proclaimed the truth.
As frightening as her dream had been, her body had become aroused.
With a heavy sigh, she plopped back onto the pillows and closed her eyes, slowing her breaths and trying to bring her galloping heart down to a normal cadence. Behind her closed eyelids, remnants of the dream flickered and flashed. Her nipples tingled as she remembered the feel of Adam’s chest against her back, his breath in her ear. Her cunt clenched at the memory of his cock shoving into her. Whimpering, she bit her lower lip, squeezing her legs together to try to stifle the pounding between them … to smother the unrelenting desire that seemed to plague her day and night. The sensation only increased, her depraved longing becoming too strong to ignore.
Releasing a frustrated huff, she reached beneath the bedclothes and lifted the hem of her nightgown. She would never be able to leave this bed until she did something about the agitation overwhelming her entire body. Tossing the bedclothes aside with one hand, she palmed the mound between her legs with the other, hissing from between clenched teeth on contact. She was swollen, aching, pulsating in time with each beat of her racing heart. Sinking a finger between her lower lips, she encountered her engorged clit, agitating it with slow circles. Staring at the canopy hanging over her head, she released a sigh of relief, allowing her legs to fall open and her body to relax into the mattress.
Self-pleasure was not something she had done often before the thirty days and nights she had spent in Scotland, entombed in Castle Dunnottar. Now, however, she could hardly go two days without the need for climax, for relief from the longing that gnawed at her gut.
In truth, there were many things she’d never done before entering her ill-fated agreement with Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor. She had never allowed a man to shove his cock down her throat, or penetrate her every orifice. She had never delighted in being spanked, or choked, or debased in all the countless ways he had thought of to use her. Yet, not only had she allowed it all, she had enjoyed it all. Every unseemly act.
Another sound of impatience simmered in her throat and she quickened her strokes, the soft pads of her fingers hardly affecting her. She needed calloused hands and a commanding touch. She needed a rough, masculine voice in her ear and the brutal clench of a man’s hand on the back of her neck.
She needed dominance.
Closing her eyes again, she did something she had promised herself she would never do again … She thought of him.
Raising her hips from the bed, she slipped two fingers into her sheath, then a third, trying to fill herself the way Adam did. A moan fell from her as she ground against her own hand, imagining his large body on top of her, his fingers wrapped around her hair and bending her neck to near-impossible angles. She slammed her fingers into herself, the heel of her hand making contact with her clit with each thrust.
She became the wanton he’d often accused her of being, forgetting the risk of her lady’s maid walking in on her, not caring that her small household staff might hear her moaning and panting as she pleasured herself. All that mattered was easing the ache, scratching the itch, finding a moment of perfect oblivion.
Sucking in a deep breath, she held it, imagining one of his hands wrapped around her throat, his fingers biting into the vital veins supplying her pulse. She had never spent harder or longer than she did when he deprived her of air, waiting until she began to splinter to allow her to take a breath. It was not the same, yet, her body fed off her memories, hurtling toward climax. Her breath came out on a sharp cry as released unfurled from her center, light spasms gripping her fingers while her clit pulsed and fluttered against her palm.
Her tense muscles relaxed as she used shaking hands to lower her nightgown back over her legs. Her breath had slowed a bit, but her pulse still raced. The heady feeling that typically followed an orgasm faded swiftly … much faster than it ever had, leaving her feeling bereft. Biting her lower lip, she blinked back tears, the moment of pleasure not near enough to ease the ache in her heart, the pain caused by waking up the same way she had each morning for the past three months. Cold, shivering, and alone.
One of the tears slipped free, tracing a hot path back toward her hairline. Shaking her head, she tried to get a hold of herself. It was ridiculous, really. She mourned the presence of a man who had not only callously used her, but who had tossed her aside when he was finished.
When Daphne had left London, riding off to Scotland in search of answers, she had never expected for things to turn out the way they had. She had hoped to confront the man who had spent five years ruining her family, to demand an explanation for Lord Hartmoor’s vendetta against her father, uncle and brother. She had found those answers—in exchange for her maidenhead. Thirty days and nights in his bed had been the price she’d paid for the truth … yet, Daphne had lost so much more than that. Not only had she lost her virginity, but she had also been robbed of her innocence. She had ridden to Dunnottar to confront the villain who had been plaguing her family, only to find he was not the villain after all … but a black knight seeking vengeance for the things her family had done to his.
She had paid the penance for them all, letting Adam use her body and destroy her reputation. He had done much more than that, however. He had also exposed her innermost longings, giving her a taste of the sort of pleasure she had once been afraid of, but began to crave at his hand. He had even led her to believe that he might care about her, despite the evils her family had committed against his. Even knowing she should guard her heart from him, she had let down her guard and given freely of herself. While one part of her had never forgotten who and what he was, some other part—a foolish, reckless part—had allowed him in. Now, despite the hundreds of miles separating them, or the amount of time they’d been apart, she was hard-pressed to remove him from her mind. Even her body still echoed with the resounding effect of his touch.
“You bloody fool,” she chastised herself with a sob. “He achieved his aims, and is now finished with you. It is over.”
A fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes, the feeling of betrayal lashing against her like the blow of a whip. During her last night at Dunnottar he had used her, brutally and exquisitely. Then, he had bathed the sweat and stains of his seed form her body and carried her back to his bed, laying her down and making love to her, his tenderness at odds with her earlier treatment. He had kissed her and held her, and whispered in her ear—words that gave her hope, that made her believe there could be more between them than hatred, pain, and vengeance.
Yet, the following morning, she had awakened alone, greeted by a servant who would prepare her for the journey home. He had not even come out of his study to see her off, to say good-bye, to…
“What did you expect?” she groused, swiping at her tears with angry swipes of her hands. “He was never going to ask you to stay.”
Sitting up in the bed, she gathered the strength to stand, to put aside her depressing thoughts. She would not allow herself to sink into melancholy, or to mourn the touch of a man who would rather kill her than kiss her. He had used her, yes, but she had gained something from him, as well. Freedom. Independence. Money.
She was now a wealthy woman, in possession of a fortune even greater than what her dowry had been. The money had been meant for her family, to set right the debt that they had incurred. She could have even used part of it to buy back Fairchild House, the Grosvenor Square townhome her father had been forced to sell.
The things he’d revealed to her about her family had changed everything. She would not give her father or her brother, Bertram, a single cent. They had turned out to be the worst sorts of men—the kind of men who destroyed the lives of others without a second thought, without a bit of remorse.
Throwing aside her bed curtains, she stood, taking in her surroundings. This bedroom, with the lovely mauve, white, and pale pink decor was her own, inside a townhome on Half-Moon street that she’d purchased for herself. There was a housekeeper, butler, trio of footman, lady’s maid, cook, and handful of women who functioned as both chamber and scullery maids … all of whom were in her employ. The dressing room adjoining her bedchamber was filled with modest but well-made clothing from one of London’s most talented modistes. She’d had her eye on a pair of beautiful black bays at Tattersall’s, and hoped to own a barouche and team soon.
Everything inside this home belonged to her free and clear. And she’d gained it all without having to marry someone she did not love … without having to share any of it with her undeserving father or brother.
And so, the man who had been the bane of her existence had also become her savior, opening the door to her gilded cage and setting her free.
Squaring her shoulders, she shrugged off the remnants of sadness, the fear and lust her nightmare had inspired. She was free, and would not allow herself to wallow in self-pity. The world sat in her palm, hers for the taking. The time had come for her to start enjoying the things she had gained, the things that were now hers without the obstruction of the men who had once controlled every aspect of her existence.
Nodding resolutely, she then crossed to the painted screen concealing her washstand. The clean rosewater she used to wash her hands and face had gone cold, but went a long way toward relieving her flushed skin and tear-stained cheeks. She took her time grooming herself, removing her nightgown—a lilac satin affair that she would never have worn as a debutante— and swiftly washing with the rosewater and a cake of soap that smelled like orange blossoms. Finding a clean chemise hanging over the screen, courtesy of her maid, she pulled it on, then swiftly made use of the tooth powder and brush arranged neatly beside her brush, comb, and the various vials and jars of cosmetics.
She came out from behind the screen to find that the maid had entered the room and begun making her bed.
“Good morning, m’lady,” the young woman murmured, giving Daphne a wary smile.
Her household staff were polite and diligent in their duties, but stiffly formal. They did not know her, and what little they knew of her reputation was unsavory. Despite enjoying certain aspects of her newfound freedom, one thing she did miss were the comfort of a familiar home and the friendly warmth of servants who knew her. However, the staff of Fairchild House would likely be retained by whomever owned the property now. She was loath to admit it, but she would even settle for the friendly smiles of Maeve and the surly disposition of Niall—the two servants she had encountered most often during her stay at Dunnottar. It did not matter that they’d worked for him; she had forged a kinship of sorts with the woman who had served as her lady’s maid. And Niall … well, Adam’s stoic butler had made not secret of the fact that he despised her because of her surname. However, his surly nature had become a part of the castle’s appeal for her, a darkly charming as the overgrown courtyards and ancient stone facade.
“Good morning, Clarice,” she replied.
“Will you spend the morning at home, or do you have plans to go out?” the maid asked. “It is a lovely day for a stroll, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Parting the drapes of a nearby window, she found Clarice’s claim to be true. The past few days had been dreary and cold, with a damp fog in the air. Today, the sun shone brightly, and the feel of the glass beneath her palm proved slightly less frigid than yesterday.
“I believe I shall take a walk,” she replied. “Tell Cook not to bother with breakfast for me after you set out a walking dress for me.”
“Right away, m’lady.”
Daphne busied herself at her vanity table, unbraiding her hair and running a brush over the snarled locks. Her auburn locks waved softly around her face, falling down her back. She’d been told the shade made her blue eyes appear darker … so dark one might think them brown or black until they drew closer. She wrinkled her nose, noticing a few new freckles along with the others smattered over the bridge of her nose. Her mother would lecture her on the merits of wearing a hat when out of doors to keep them from spreading.
Her mother … she had not seen the woman in weeks. Not since she had returned to London from Dunnattor to find that she had taken residence in the home of her sister. She had gone to find her after leaving Bertram and her father—who lived together in a tiny flat in a questionable part of the city.
“It was not until we stood on the brink of losing Fairchild House that I confronted him,” her mother had told her over a late-night pot of chocolate. “He was always so tight-lipped about our finances … always assuring me that he had things well in hand. Even when the creditors came calling, and we were forced to being selling our things and … and … oh, Daphne, he used your dowry to cover his debts, and I did nothing to stop him!”
She had broken into loud sobs then, tears wetting her cheeks, her face flushing scarlet. Daphne had set her cup aside and attempted to comfort her, patting her mother’s hand and whispering soothing platitudes.
“He would not tell me where you’d gone,” she continued between sniffles and sobs. “Only that I should not worry, and as always, he had things well in hand. Well, I did something I have never done before … you would have been proud. I snuck into his study while he was out at his club and went through his things.”
Despite the dire nature of their situation, she could not help but smile. Her mother’s small rebellion might be likened to a child sneaking a sweet behind her mother’s back. But, Daphne knew what kind of woman her mother was, because she’d been raised to become that same sort of woman. Quiet, demure, submissive to her father in all things, and then, after marriage, submissive to her husband. That her mother possessed the potential for rebellion of any kind made Daphne feel connected to her in a way she never had.
“I found the letter from Lord Hartmoor … that … that cretin!”
Daphne had winced at that, certain her mother could not know the entire truth. She might have found the letter Adam had written offering her family ten thousand pounds as recompense for ruining her, but she could not know the reason for his vendetta. She had no idea that her husband and son were the true cretins.
“Can you ever forgive me, my dear?” her mother had pleaded, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I allowed myself to remain ignorant of so many things, and I … I let you down.”
“It is not your fault,” she had reassured her.
Because, truly, the woman could not be blamed for being a product of her environment. The daughter of a viscount, then the wife of one, catered to in the lap of luxury her entire life. She was the consummate image of the pretty little bird Adam had compared Daphne to—always looking her best, saying the right thing, adhering strictly to the dictates of society, never questioning the men who ruled her life, as well as the entire world.
“I packed my things that very night, and called for a hansom cab to bring me here,” her mother had continued. “Your Aunt Althea has taken such good care of me. She would be happy to take you in as well dear, and we will get on quite well together, the three of us.”
Daphne had lowered her eyes to her hands and sighed. As appealing as the offer was, she could not retreat into the arms of her mother. Not when Adam had ensured that her ruination became public knowledge.
“Mother, I couldn’t possibly,” she’d protested. “I am ruined now. Surely you and Aunt Althea cannot take such a burden onto your shoulders.”
Her mother had scoffed. “What nonsense. No one need know exactly where you’ve been or the details of what I’m certain must have been quite an ordeal. It is over now, and you are home. Together, I am certain we can come up with an excuse for your prolonged absence.”
Daphne had bit her lip, reluctant to hurt her mother by revealing the truth, but needing her to understand that they could no longer be seen together in public. It would ruin what was left of her mother’s reputation.
“News of my ruination will soon become public knowledge,” she had confessed. “In a fortnight or less, everyone we know, and everyone they know, will be aware of where I’ve been and who I was with. So, you see, to live here would also invite scorn upon you and Aunt Althea. I would never forgive myself if I caused you to become social pariahs.”
Her mother had begun to weep again, collapsing against Daphne and wailing as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. “Th-that bastard! Why, Daphne? Why would he do such a thing?”
Patting her mother’s hand, she had clamped her lips shut and neglected to answer. Her mother’s independence was still too new, her freedom from her father as fragile as the first beats of a baby bird’s wings. It would destroy her to know all of it—the reasons Adam had sought to tear apart everything their family held dear.
“I do not know,” she had lied, embracing her mother tight.
After she had calmed, Daphne had reassured her mother that everything would be all right.
“I would be grateful if Aunt Althea would permit me to stay a few days,” she had said. “Just until I have gotten my affairs in order and procured a place to live.”
“However will you manage?” her mother had asked, still attempting to dry her dampened eyes. “What will you do, Daphne?”
“Lord Hartmoor did not only settle money upon father,” Daphne had told her. “Suffice it to say I will never want for anything for as long as I live … as long as I manage it well.”
Her mother had been full of questions, curious as to why Adam would do such a thing. Daphne had simply told her mother that he must have felt some guilt over what he’d done. In truth, she knew he felt nothing of the sort. The man had taken as much satisfaction in ruining her as he had her father, brother, and uncle.
In the three months since she had moved into her own home, Daphne had only seen her mother a handful of times. She’d come to inspect Daphne’s new townhome and deemed it to be acceptable. They had attended the theater together, entering Althea’s private box well before the majority of the ton had arrived, and ducking out before the performance had ended—thereby ensuring they would not be seen together by anyone who mattered. While her mother still expressed concern over Daphne living alone and in a part of London not quite as lofty as Mayfair, she seemed to have accepted things they way they were. Just as she now had her own life apart from her husband and son, Daphne must tread her own path.
Coming back from her wandering thoughts, she found that her maid had dressed and groomed her while Daphne stood about woolgathering. She wore a long-sleeved walking gown of forest green velvet, as well as her best black boots and a pair of warm stockings. Clarice had arranged her hair into a soft, simple chignon, over which she sat a veiled hat that matched Daphne’s gown. While Half-Moon Street and the surrounding area might not be as lofty as her previous residence, she still risked encountering old acquaintances. It had only happened a few times in the past three months, but each encounter had left her weary. It became more and more difficult to maintain a stiff smile and bite her tongue when someone went out of their way to approach her, to make it known that they were aware of what she had become. She much preferred it when they gave her the cut direct, turning up their noses and avoiding her entirely. At least then she did not have to be bothered with them.
The veil protected her from scorn, but, more importantly, it protected her peace. It allowed her to enjoy the brisk morning air and the pleasant brightness of a sky unobscured by fog. A soft smile curved her lips as she took in the sights and sounds of the street she was slowly beginning to think of as her own. Her residence sat flanked by several other residences of similar style, many of the occupants not yet stirring to begin the day. Most of the people sharing the street with her this early in the morning were servants—scullery maids off to the docks or the market to collect goods for their cooks, young boys toting messages, stable grooms exercising their master’s horses. A few well-dressed men staggered down the street with tousled hair and rumpled cravats—young blades just coming home from a night of revelry, no doubt.
She went about her walk unaccosted, reaching her destination with hunger gnawing on her belly and thirst drying her mouth. Thankfully, she had just arrived at one of her favorite haunts—a coffeehouse that sold some of the best confections she’d ever tasted. Pushing open the door, she removed her hat and gazed about the large, open main room of the shop. Long, narrow tables lined the space, with rows of wrought iron, cushioned chairs running along each side. Mismatched wall sconces and pieces of obscure art covered the walls, while two large windows allowed in the light of the morning.
Mrs. Russel, the rail thin, wizened old woman who ran the establishment along with her husband, Mr. Russel, scurried about the room, seeing to the needs of her guests. The tables had not grown overcrowded, but Daphne spotted several patrons she recognized. Like her, they frequented this coffeehouse often, as much a part of the decor as the dusty sconces and peeling wallpaper.
“Come in, m’lady, and have a seat,” Mrs. Russel called out as she sat a basket of scones between two young gents who looked as inebriated as those she’d seen staggering about outside. “I’ll have your usual to you in bit.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Russel,” she insisted, giving the old woman a smile.
She’d taken a liking to Daphne from the first time she’d come into this establishment. If she did not visit at least once every week, she was sure to receive a tongue lashing from the proprietress when next she appeared.
“Good morning, Lady Daphne,” one of the young blades called out, his words slurred.
She recognized him and smiled, giving him a little wave. “Good morning, Mr. Kent. I trust you enjoyed your evening.”
The man and his companion chuckled, and Mr. Kent raised his freshly topped-off cup of coffee. “I’ll need a bit more than this to sober up, that is for certain.”
“I wish you luck with it,” she teased, finding a seat near the hearth in the corner of the room and settling there.
She found an array of wrinkled but neatly folded papers—some containing the news, and others holding the latest gossip. Reaching for the first one her eye fell upon, she laid it open on the table before her. Before she could begin reading, someone else was greeting her from across the room.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Lady Daphne,” he called out, this round cheeks ruddy and flushed with glee.
His wispy white hair was, always, in disarray, though it only added to his charm. Shabby clothing, charcoal and paint stained fingertips, watery, unfocused eyes. The markings of an artist … a man she knew only as Theo. He would not stand for her to address him formally.
“Good morning, Theo,” she said, smiling at him as he sank down onto the chair beside her. “You look happier than I think I’ve ever seen you.”
“That’s because I’ve finished me painting,” he said, puffing out his chest and beaming proudly. “Worked into the early hours to see it done, but she’s a masterpiece worthy o’ the Royal Gallery.”
“Oh, pipe down you old fool,” Mrs. Russel grumbled as she bustled toward their table, laying down a tray laden with all the things she knew Daphne liked best. “Lady Daphne isn’t interested in those atrocious paintings you call art.”
Daphne giggled, lacing her steaming cup of coffee with a few lumps of sugar and a dollop of milk.
“Quiet, you old shrew!” Theo countered, scowling at Mrs. Russel while pilfering a biscuit from the basket resting before Daphne. “You wouldn’t know art if it bit you on the arse … and I doubt anything’s bitten you in your shriveled up arse in half a century!”
She rapped his knuckles, and he winced, but took the biscuit in two bites, glaring at her as he chewed.
“Now, now, children,” she teased between sips of coffee. “Play nicely.”
“I’ll play nice when this old bag of bones finally starts paying for his coffee and biscuits,” Mrs. Russel groused—even though everyone knew she allowed Theo to have his breakfast on the house when he was between paintings. The man often went months without selling a single piece, leaving him in dire straits.
“Help yourself, Theo,” she told him as Mrs. Russel rushed off to tend another patron. “I could hardly stomach it all.”
Theo thanked her and helped himself to another biscuit, while she took a scone for herself. Drizzling it with cream, she took a bite and groaned, the buttery, flaky confection melting on her tongue. Mrs. Russel should be as wealthy as a queen if only more people in London knew she made the best scone in all of England.
While Theo ambled on about his newest painting, Daphne gave him one ear, while opening the paper laid before her. While she was no longer a part of the London ton, she often found herself indulging in the gossip rags. It brought her an odd sort of satisfaction to be able to read about the latest scandals while detached from it all. A bit of a guilty pleasure—something she often indulged in along with Mrs. Russel’s decadent scones.
She had drank half her coffee and began nibbling on a second scone, when a certain name upon the paper caught her eye. Sucking in a sharp breath, she nearly inhaled a mouthful, coughing and sputtering as she attempted to catch her breath. Her eyes watered and her chest burned as she choked on a lump consisting of both pastry and disbelief.
“I say, Lady Daphne, are you all right?”
Taking a sip of coffee and clearing her throat, she could not find the words to answer him … not when her gaze fell back to that name, standing out among the other words on the paper. For a long while, it was all she could decipher, the other letters swimming about on the page, only a fraction of them remaining clear and still.
Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor.
Shaking her head to clear it, she blinked, certain she must be seeing things. Yet, the words remained, the other letters surrounding it coming back into sharp focus. Her cup rattled in its saucer as she set it aside, reading over the short report of Adam’s return to London after several months away. The writer noted that the earl rarely visited London, and never stayed for long, preferring to reside primarily in Scotland. She scowled as the writer speculated over his reasons for the sudden appearance—whether he might leave with a wife, or if he had simply come for a change of scenery.
Her mouth went dry and the shaking of her hands became so violent, she had to clasp them in her lap to still them. Her blood grew hot, the high neckline of her gown suddenly constricting … until she felt as if she would hardly be able to draw breath.
“My lady? Are you all right?”
Mrs. Russel’s voice reached out to her, and she glanced up to meet the woman’s kind, concerned gaze. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to calm herself. So, Adam had come to London. That did not mean she would encounter him, or that he had come for her. He had made it perfectly clear with his callous dismissal that she meant nothing to him. Why, then, would he seek her out just because they happened to occupy the same city.
“I apologize,” she managed, slowly rise to her feet. “I’m afraid I don’t fell very well.”
Fumbling about for her reticule, she retrieved a handful of banknotes and presented them to Mrs. Russel to cover her breakfast.
“Perhaps you ought to be heading home, now,” the old woman suggested, taking Daphne’s arm and guiding her toward the door. “And straight to bed with you! I don’t want to see you again until you are well.”
“Of course, Mrs. Russel,” she agreed absently, her head spinning dizzily. “Thank you.”
She stumbled out onto the street, one hand pressed against her roiling stomach. Though she had convinced herself that Adam could not have possibly come for her, she could not seem to find peace of mind. Her stomach churned and her heart pounded. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked, certain he might appear from around a corner at any moment, huffing smoke and snorting ash before descending upon her with his teeth bared.
“For Heaven’s sake,” she huffed under her breath. “You are being ridiculous.”
Yet, she could not help the cold frisson of dread that trickled down her spine, prompting her to quicken her steps toward home.