All was right with the world.
Or those were the words that had been printed in the paper about Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, and his peculiar departure from depravity and sin, into a seeming calm of respectability.
Having spent the past three nights at his tables at Forbidden Pleasures, he had shattered all confusion about his true character. Of which there could be no mistaking—corruptible, dark, selfish, and all things black, he lived for his own gratification.
… We’ve grown up. Become different people whose lives have traveled divergent paths…
He downed his third tumbler of whiskey and stared into the empty glass. His path had been solidified long, long ago, when he’d raced Alistair across the turbulent lake in the middle of a summer rainstorm.
…grab my fingers… I said grab my fingers, Alistair, please…
He’d resisted thinking of his brother for more years than he could remember. Mayhap it was Daphne’s reentry into his life that brought everything rushing forward. But he was tired of battling back his past. He’d spent nearly his whole life running from the young man he’d been and the pressing weight of guilt. Only, doing so hadn’t made the pain of loss disappear.
Now he allowed the memories in.
Memories long buried. Of failings and loss. Of a brother who’d only stepped into that water because of his taunting, and then his parents’ keening misery at finding their son dead because of Daniel’s inability to save him.
Having entered into the world but twelve minutes behind his brother, he had always striven to prove his worth. To prove he was better than Alistair in some way. But for swimming, Alistair had excelled in everything. So desperate to prove his own worth, he’d raced Alistair, and his brother, the weak swimmer that he was, had been carried away by a violent current. If not for Daniel’s inherent need to be better at something, his brother would even now be alive and his family would have never fallen apart as they had.
Drawing in a slow breath, he stared at the lone drop of whiskey that clung to the glass like a teardrop. Bile stung his throat as he glared into his glass. But to blast his deceased father’s memory, he’d not thought of his family in too many years to remember. He’d not thought of how his family had once been smiling and his parents equally proud of him and Alistair. Until that dark night when no boys should have been outside the lofty walls of their estate, when everything changed.
He briefly squeezed his eyes closed.
In the darkest days after Alistair’s death, his own culpability and his father’s shouts, rightfully blaming Daniel, there had been one person there with him, through it all—Daphne. She’d been steadfast in her devotion. When he’d wept with guilt and the agony of losing his twin, she’d held him. When he’d engaged in riskier and riskier pursuits to gain his family’s notice, she’d attempted to talk him out of his wickedness. It was just one of the reasons why he’d cut her out.
I was not there for her.
Through the raucous din of laughter and coin striking coin upon the gaming tables, Daniel firmed his jaw. Bloody hell, in his advancing years, he was turning into a maudlin bastard. He swiped his bottle from the table. Damn and blast Daphne for not staying buried. She, with her expressive eyes filled with disappointment one moment and hunger in the next.
The lady was right to take him to task for thirteen years of neglect. But for the rogues and rakes he kept company with in London and the beauties he took to his bed, he’d kept the world insularly out. That had been the easiest course and he had been a man who’d long proven he only ever took that particular route.
From the day his mother died trying to birth a better child than him, he had vowed to never again care or let anyone in. Not the babe his mother had left behind. Not the girl he’d once called friend. No one. That was, no one except the miserable blighters like himself. Those wastrel lords, who didn’t give a frig. And so he’d retreated from the world, descending more and more into a level of sin and debauchery from which there could be no coming back.
…I was in London for more than three months and not once did you visit. Were you too busy…?
Yes, he had been too busy. Whoring. Cavorting with unhappily married women. Bedding both sad and joyfully free widows. Attending orgies. Hosting orgies. All of it, dark acts committed by a coldhearted rake. And through it, she’d been waiting for a visit. He winced as an image trickled in of Daphne as she would have been, a girl of seventeen, at the window. Alone in a world she’d never been part of, one that he had been wholly born to. In the end, she’d been an easy quarry for a rake who preyed on her innocence and earned her virginity.
His stomach churned and with unsteady fingers, he set the glass aside. Too much bloody drink. There was no other accounting for it.
“You look to be in need of company.”
Daniel abruptly glanced up at the Marquess of Tennyson.
Both were former spares to the heirs who’d found themselves ascended to the ranks of nobility. Rivaling Daniel in depravity, they got on famously well since Oxford and, more importantly, Tennyson wasn’t the happily married blighter St. Albans had become. Rather, this marquess was a ruthless bastard in the market for an heiress. Daniel motioned to the vacant seat and the marquess plopped his tall, wiry frame into the chair.
“You have been absent from Town,” the other man remarked, as he claimed a seat.
He gave a wave of his hand. “I have the additional responsibilities of a sister now,” Daniel reminded him.
“Ah, yes, that is right,” Tennyson said, layering his hands on the arms of his chair.
With neither sisters nor brothers underfoot, the marquess didn’t know a thing about those responsibilities. Not that Daniel did, either. Not truly. He just knew of late with his well-ordered life now thrown on its ear by his miserable uncle.
“So you’ve become a devoted brother, then?” By the mocking smile on Tennyson’s lips, he believed that as much as Lord Claremont.
Daniel snorted. “Hardly. My uncle is ransoming eight thousand pounds left me by my mother, if I behave.”
The marquess went still and then tossed his head back, howling with laughter until tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, this is rich. And here, members of the ton befuddled by it all. Of course, you’d only ever be driven by a wager.”
“Of course,” he repeated tightly. Had the other man always been this bloody aggravating? Mayhap Daniel would rather do with St. Albans’ concerned probing than this prig’s taunting. He took a long sip.
“There have been wagers placed,” Tennyson said without preamble. How many times had he planted information to aid Daniel in a bet placed at White’s or Brook’s? He’d long been without the moral scruples to feel humility at cheating another lord.
In the past, it had filled Daniel with a thrill of certain wicked victory. Now, it left him oddly bitter. “Wagers?” he drawled because really, something was expected of him.
“About you,” the marquess clarified, motioning over a scantily clad beauty with red hair and crimson lips.
He gritted his teeth. Must the woman have goddamned red hair? “Oh?” he forced that reply out in bored tones.
“About the young woman you’ve hired.” Tennyson accepted the glass from the lush creature and tugged her unceremoniously onto his lap. She let out a little squeal and then promptly layered herself to the young lord, nuzzling his neck while she worked her hands over his body.
Bloody hell. Now Tennyson would drag Daphne through his thoughts. With a scowl, he poured himself another whiskey and took a quick drink.
The marquess shoved the whore off his knee and then swatted her on the backside, sending her off. He sighed. “The wagers are rich on how soon you’ll debauch your sister’s companion and where.”
Daniel inhaled his swallow and dissolved into a fit, strangling on his spirits until tears flooded his eyes. He set his glass down hard and liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass.
The marquess sat sipping away, indifferent to his gasping, heaving attempts for breath. The ton was well within their right to question Daniel’s intentions toward any young woman, but having Daphne’s name thrown about cast a haze of red over his vision.
After he managed to draw in a shuddery breath, Tennyson dragged his chair closer. He stole a glance about. “Eight thousand pounds is a near fortune, but,” he dangled that one word. “We can manipulate the wagering to secure you a sizeable sum that doesn’t require you to behave.” The other man waggled his blond eyebrows. “Anything but.” Of course, with the other man being an equal wastrel also with depleting coffers, he’d stand to earn nothing from Daniel honoring the terms set forth by his uncle. It was no secret to Society that Tennyson had entered the Marriage Market in search of a biddable miss with a fat dowry.
“You’d have me throw away eight thousand pounds to secure you a few hundred?”
The marquess slapped his hand to his chest. “I’m insulted, chap. I’d wager far more than a few hundred pounds on a sure bet.”
Daniel had influenced more wagers than most bookkeepers could properly track. Odd, he had never felt any compunction about a bet; neither the type, nor amount, nor persons involved.
Until now.
Tennyson and the ton would turn him into the very man who’d once ruined Daphne. And, mayhap, he had some good left in his soul after all, because even as he wanted to bury himself between her welcoming thighs, he could never be the man to ruin her on a wager. To keep from burying his fist in the marquess’ blasted face, Daniel balled his hands tight. “I am not debauching my sister’s companion,” he said icily. Even breathing the possibility of it aloud sent nausea roiling through him in waves.
Understanding registered in Tennyson’s cold blue eyes. “Ah, I see.”
Do not ask. Do not ask. Let the matter die…
“What do you see?” he snapped.
“She is long in the tooth.”
“She is not—” Daniel snapped his mouth closed so quickly, his jaw ached. He’d said too much and the hard grin on the marquess’ lips said as much.
“Then, I suspect eight thousand pounds is an exorbitant amount to throw away on a straitlaced spinster. Though, there is something,” he smacked his lips, “delicious in breaking those ladies free of their constraints, isn’t there?”
Actually, he couldn’t say. He’d never bothered with the reproachful ladies and their disapproving eyes. “I am sorry to disappoint,” he said with a droll edge, setting down his glass. “But I’ve no intention of corrupting my sister’s companion, nor accepting any wager that would compromise,” Daphne’s reputation, “my uncle’s funds,” he settled for. “Now, if you’ll pardon me,” he said, shoving to his feet before the other man could launch a series of comments or questions about Daphne that would earn him a fist in the face.
Tennyson inclined his head, but he’d already shifted his attention to the nearby whore, sauntering by.
Daniel stalked through the crowded hell. The disreputable club was heavy with the thick plume of smoke from too many cheroots. The acrid smell blended with the pungent odor of floral fragrances worn by the women working the floors. Such scents had never bothered him before. Now, they invaded his senses so that he increased his stride, eager to step out the doors and draw in a cleansing breath.
He gathered his hat from a servant and jammed it atop his head. Then, shrugging into his cloak, he fastened it at his throat. The guard at the front held the door open in anticipation of Daniel’s exit and he stepped outside. He paused, blinking to adjust his eyes to the darkened London streets. Filled with a restiveness, he motioned to the street urchin waiting with his mount. The boy rushed over and handed over the reins. Daniel fished around inside his jacket and withdrew a guinea. He held the coin out, when his gaze snagged on the emblazoned George III. Tucking it back inside, he reached for another.
The boy coughed loudly, holding his fingers out.
Daniel dropped the different coin into his palm and climbed astride his mount. Perhaps it was the impending financial doom which hovered, only just now really acknowledged by him. Or mayhap, it was the tiresome company of Lords Tennyson and Webb, discussing the same wicked topics, seeking out the same wanton pleasures, but with each stride that carried him farther and farther away from the unfashionable end of London, which had always been home, some of the tension eased in his chest.
For the first time, ever, as he reined in Satan, there was a greater ease in being at his white stucco townhouse than his clubs. Daniel dismounted and a waiting servant came to gather the reins. Cloak whipping wildly at his ankles, he strode up the steps and through the doors opened by his butler. “Tanner,” he greeted, turning over his cloak and hat to the tired-eyed servant.
“My lord.”
Dismissing the aged servant for the night, Daniel briefly eyed the top of the stairs. Alas, after a lifetime of living on no sleep with only sin and spirits to sustain him, retiring at the eleven o’clock hour was as possible as having the power to manipulate time. He strode down the corridor, seeking out his offices. No doubt, Daphne had long retired by this late hour. After three evenings spent at his clubs and various ton functions, but for glimpses of her and Alice during the day, he’d had little interaction with her.
Given the vicious wagers being bandied about Town, it was for the best. Nor, with the charges she’d leveled at him of disloyal friend, of which he most decidedly was, did she care to see him, nor should he wish to see her. He’d long existed for nothing outside his own comforts and happiness and, as such, was not in the habit of suffering through the company of people who didn’t desire his presence.
Why should she desire my presence? He’d all but forgotten her existence, abandoned her during her Season, and coerced her into assisting Alice, withholding letters of reference she desperately required. The greatest crime, however, had been the inadvertent one—the one that had found her prey to a rake, when he, with his own unscrupulous experience, could have watched for those other ruthless bastards.
His stomach muscles clenched reflexively and he paused at the corridor leading to his office. Then, something pulled him away from that room, where he’d do nothing more than continue his path to inebriation. He wandered down the hall and stopped beside the open doors that spilled out to the ballroom.
Tomorrow evening, would be the beginning of the end to Daphne’s tenure. Alice would make her official entry into Society and from there Almack’s. Then there would be an endless parade of infernal affairs until she found a husband. A fortnight ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to be rid of his sister and free to resume his carousing. Now, hovering outside the room, he wanted to freeze time, keep it still, where there was Daphne, unafraid to tease him, scold him, or talk with any real freeness. Or rather, discourse that didn’t begin and end with the ultimate goal of sexual gratification.
He yanked his silver flask from inside his jacket and uncorking it, raised it to his lips. …When you drink, you aren’t really present. You are a ghost… With a curse he recorked and pocketed his flask. Good God, he must be tired. Or insane. Or mayhap both. He, Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, rightly feared by all proper mamas, waxed on in silent maudlin thought for Daphne’s inevitable departure. Not even a healthy dose of liquor would help this madness. Daniel started to turn, but froze mid-movement.
Moonlight streamed through the floor-length window down the left wall of the ballroom, bathing the cavernous space in a soft glow. The bluish-white rays danced upon the neat row of chairs positioned at the far corner of the room. A lone figure sat perched on the edge of the middle seat, her hands folded on her lap, and her cane resting on the adjacent chair.
He should leave. Pretend he’d not seen her tucked away in the corner. Then, he had never done what he was supposed to—not as a mischievous boy and certainly not as a rakish man.
Mayhap he didn’t see her. Mayhap, he’d turn on his heel, that silver flask in hand, and lose himself in spirits, as rogues and rakes often did.
“Miss Smith.” His quiet baritone echoed in the empty ballroom.
She sighed. Daniel had never done what was expected of him. Then, neither had she.
“My lord,” she greeted, struggling to her feet.
He held a hand up. “There is no need to stand on my account,” he assured, stalking forward. Daphne studied him as he took strong, confident strides, easily closing the space between them. She had been without proper use of her left leg for so many years that she no longer recalled whether such movements came as natural gifts of elegance or rather were something one strove toward.
So many times, envy gripped her when presented with such ease. But staring at Daniel’s assured steps, her mouth went dry with an appreciation that stirred low in her belly.
In one fluid movement, he settled into the seat directly beside hers and stretched his legs out, hooking them at the ankles. He draped his arm along the back of her seat, brushing her nape with his fingers. Dangerous shivers radiated from the point of his absent touch.
Rakes were men who filled voids of silence with empty talk and clever words. Daniel, however, just sat staring out, his gaze fixed on the pillar directly across from them, draped in garland made of ivory and white hydrangea. The fragrant floral scent permeated the ballroom and Daphne inhaled deep.
Three days ago, she’d resurrected the needed barriers between them. For as she’d said, he was no longer a friend, but a rake, dangerous in what he made her feel, longing she’d not even known with Leopold. But this was Daniel and she would never, ever be able to truly shut him out. “It is beautiful,” she said wistfully.
He glanced around, perplexed.
She motioned to the ballroom, adorned in boughs and garlands of white and green hydrangea. Grabbing her cane, she pushed to her feet and limped to the middle of the dance floor. “How very empty and silent it is now. Tomorrow, it will be ablaze with life and music and laughter.” A wistful smile played on her lips. In a way, she rather preferred it with only they two here and the hum of silence their only music.
“Did you enjoy it?”
She looked to him.
“Your Season,” he clarified, his gaze, even in the dimly lit space, radiating a somberness so different than the charmer he was.
“When I was a girl, when I arrived in London, all I wanted was to attend my first ball. I had dreams of how it would be.” She motioned to the empty dais where the orchestra would be set tomorrow evening. “There would be haunting waltzes and lively reels.” She closed her eyes to the music playing in her mind. “When I came to London,” she said, losing herself in that remembrance. “I was filled with such excitement, I didn’t allow myself to think about how it would be.” As a cripple. She let those words go unsaid. Daniel watched her so closely, her skin pricked with the intensity of the gaze he trained on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly and heat flooded her cheeks.
She’d not have his pity. “For one month, I was lonely. Miserable. Wanting to go back to my father’s cottage.” She pivoted around to where he still lounged. The tightness around his hard lips belied his relaxed repose. “I sat in those chairs.” She smiled. “Well, not those chairs, but wherever the neat row was set up for forgotten ladies were the ones I occupied. I did not dance one set,” she murmured, her gaze unseeing, fixed on the gold candelabra behind him. “Not one.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “But then, I forced myself to explore the world around me, a place I’d never been, and came to appreciate the museums and parks.” Daphne smiled, recalling the moment she’d stepped outside the townhouse, determined to command her happiness.
Daniel shoved slowly to his feet. “I should have been there,” he said, his tone gruff as he came closer.
She offered him a half-smile. “Yes, you should have.”
“If I had been there, where you were…” She’d not have had her innocence so calculatedly stolen.
Sadness assailed her. “Many times you were.”
He started.
She looked away, staring out at the orchestra’s dais once more. That long ago night flitted forward. The first glimpse she’d caught of Daniel upon arriving in London. How gloriously handsome he’d been in his impeccable black garments and wearing a half-grin on his face. “We attended many of the same events.”
“Surely not?” he demanded, hoarsely.
“Surely,” she countered. “You just…did not see me, Daniel. You were too busy.” Flirting on the sidelines with gloriously clad beauties and voluptuous creatures with rouged lips and eyes. How she’d despised those ladies for having replaced her and earned Daniel’s affection in ways she’d only dreamed. “I sat in those seats, in awe of your confidence amongst the ton.” She chuckled. “I spent so many nights hating you for your ease.”
Daniel caressed his knuckles down her cheek in a whispery soft touch. “I am so sorry.” He stilled. Then, as long as she’d known him, he’d never been one to apologize. He’d often found a roundabout way of distracting a person from any crime he’d been guilty of before uttering them.
She frowned at him. “Don’t you dare go pitying me.” Not wanting that pulling emotion, Daphne stepped away, wandering deeper into the ballroom. “It was not all bad.” For a time, it had been gloriously wonderful. Ultimately, she’d paid the price for that excitement. She stopped in the middle of the dance floor, under the enormous chandelier. “After a month of misery, I met him.” She tilted her head and stared at those crystal teardrops dangling from that grand piece.
“Did you love him?” Daniel called behind her, bringing her attention back.
The flippant words on her lips about rakes not knowing of or believing in love faded with the somber set to his chiseled features. “I loved what he told me,” she said, in truth. “I loved how he made me feel and the excitement that came with a man such as him ever wanting…” A woman such as me. She grimaced. With a woman’s eyes, she now saw what easy prey she’d been for a man like Lord Leopold Dunlop. The second son of a powerful nobleman, he’d been untitled, but that truth had never mattered. She’d been so desperate for affection she’d given him a gift he’d never deserved. In the days after his betrayal, she’d resolved to never be a weak, pathetic woman dependent on any gentleman. She straightened and then gasped, finding Daniel a handful of steps away. Her heart thumped hard at his nearness. “Do you know how many times he danced with me?”
He gave his head a slight shake, dislodging a chestnut lock. “How many?” His was a harsh demand.
Daphne stretched her fingertips and brushed the loose strand back; luxuriant like satin. Unlike Lord Leopold’s who’d caked his hair in thick oil. “Not once, Daniel,” she murmured. “Through the whole of my Season, we didn’t dance even one set. I told myself it was because he loved me and didn’t wish me to humiliate myself. I later learned different.” Never before had she breathed word of Lord Leopold Dunlop to anyone. He existed as nothing more than a past mistake, one she didn’t allow herself to think on. In speaking of those three months to someone, there was something freeing that left her with a lightness in her chest. Of course, it should be Daniel. There had only ever been him in her life. Terror battered at her senses. For there could never be anything between her and Daniel. Nothing, honorable.
An animalistic growl rumbled deep in his chest. With the fiery rage burning from within the depths of his eyes, he was the boy who’d beat one of the villagers’ sons for having stolen a kiss from her when she’d been a girl of ten. “No wonder you hate me. It was my fault.”
She puzzled her brow.
He slashed the air with his hand. “If I had been there—”
Her small bark of laughter cut into his misplaced guilt. “The arrogance of you, Daniel Winterbourne, taking ownership of my mistake.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “It was my mistake and you being my friend would have never undone it.”
A thick silence descended on the ballroom.
Daphne shattered it. “I should return to my—” Her words ended on a gasp as he shot an arm out and curved it about her waist. With his spare hand, he tossed aside her cane, where it landed with a noisy clatter upon the marble. She eyed the brown stick and then swiveled her gaze up to Daniel’s. “What are you doing?” she asked, breathless from the press of his hand through the fabric of her dress.
He lowered his lips close to her ears and the hint of brandy and cinnamon, an intoxicating blend of strong and sweet, filled her senses. “Eighteen years is entirely too long to not dance or swim or ride. I’m dancing with you, Daphne.” How many times during her Season had she secretly wished to be waltzed about by him? “The bastard who stole your virtue was a bloody fool, without a jot of sense to see the treasure he held.”
And God help her for the folly from which she would never recover from, Daphne fell deeper in love with him, there amidst the empty ballroom with the London stars twinkling outside the crystal windows as her witness. It was folly and dangerous, and far worse than any mistake she’d made with Lord Leopold and, yet, it had always been Daniel. With her mind churning slowly, he guided her through the first step.
“Relax, Daphne,” he whispered, against her ear. “I’ll not bite.” He flashed another one of his seductive grins. “Unless you wish it.” And just like that, the panic dissipated and she laughed. Relaxing in his arms, she turned herself over to this moment.
She’d loved Daniel Winterbourne since he’d carried her across the countryside. And she loved him for being a man who didn’t see her disfigurement…a man who saw she was capable and not an object to be pitied. And a man who made her feel alive. In ways she’d never had in the whole of her life. There would never be more, could never be more. With his love for wickedness, Daniel would never be constant and she could never be with a rake. But there would be this and it would be enough.
Liar. I want all of him… Daphne faltered and he gripped her, deepening this relentless hold he’d managed. “I am falling all over you,” she said, under her breath.
Daniel gave her a slow, wicked wink. “I am accustomed to it, love,” he purred, startling another laugh from her. He joined her, that deep rumbling from his chest was unfettered and deep, pure in his joy. And how beautifully wonderful it was to share in his unfettered abandon.
“You are hopelessly arrogant, Daniel Winterbourne,” she said, after their like amusement had faded. Handsome. Clever. Charming. He was nearly everything most ladies aspired to. Nearly. He’d never be faithful and, for that, there could not be anything with him. Her heart paused. Of course there couldn’t. To him, she’d only ever be the girl he’d once been friends with and, now, was a companion for his sister. His gentle caress and tender embrace were no different than anything he’d given to so many women before her.
Daniel guided her in a small circle and she tripped again. He easily caught her to him, angling her so her weight shifted over to her right leg. She winced, as her muscles strained in protest to the foreign movements. As though in concert with her body, Daniel drew her close and anchored her to him while he twirled her in slow circles. He touched his lips to her temple and she slid her eyes closed in response. “You deserved a waltz to an orchestra’s hum.”
That hoarse declaration squeezed at her heart. This is all I ever needed. A wave of regret clenched at her with a vicious tenacity—a useless wish that he’d been anything but a rake. With his gaze, he roved a path over her face. Slowly, he brought them to a slow stop beside the dais.
Daphne’s chest heaved with the force of emotion. Just over a week ago, he’d called her spiritless, but ultimately, he’d opened her eyes to the truth. In the eighteen years since she’d fallen, she had not truly been alive. She’d existed, but not truly lived. The one time she’d dipped her toes in the water of living, it had ended in folly. A folly that had made her retreat within herself. I don’t want to run anymore. She wetted her lips and his gaze went to her mouth. “Daniel,” she whispered.
He briefly closed his eyes and his mouth moved, as though in prayer. “You should go, Daphne,” those words emerged garbled.
“Why?” She brushed her palm over the tense muscles of his cheek.
Daniel sucked in a slow, jagged breath. “Because I want to kiss you. I want to do a whole lot more with you and I’m trying to be honorable.” His chest rose and fell quickly, and tenderness unfurled within her at his struggle.
A war raged within his brown eyes. Warmth filled her chest. The world saw only a rake and, yet, for all his efforts to prove the contrary, there was a gentleman alive within him. “I want you to kiss me.” She wanted his embrace once more and would not feel guilt or shame. Nearly thirty, a woman grown, she’d know his kiss, if he let her.
“You don’t understand,” he rasped, dropping his brow to hers. “There are wagers and questions, and everyone believes I’ll ruin you. And I want to debauch you, more than I’ve ever wanted another.”
Her lips twitched at that rambling entreaty. “I expect you’ve far more charming words than ‘I wish to debauch you’,” she teased.
“Precisely. Normally I would.” Daniel nodded jerkily, knocking her forehead. She winced. “Nor would I ever bump a woman in the head, until you, Daphne. What have you done—?”
She leaned up and kissed him. His entire body turned to stone against her and she braced for him to pull away.
With a groan he covered her mouth with his and there was nothing gentle about the meeting. He scooped her buttocks in his hand, anchoring her close, as their mouths met over and over again. He parted her lips and the taste of him flooded her senses. It tore a keening moan from deep inside where her greatest hungering for this heady passion lived.
Never breaking contact, Daniel guided her down, lowering her upon the dais, and coming over her. He dragged his mouth from hers and her soft cry of protest rang from the rafters. But he only moved his lips lower, finding the soft flesh where her pulse beat hard.
He suckled the flesh and she arched her head back, opening herself to his ministrations. He reached between them and shoved her bodice lower. The cool air slapped at her exposed skin and her nipples puckered.
At his absolute silence, her eyes fluttered open. He remained motionless, his gaze on her small breasts. She curled her toes as reality intruded. How many women had he taken to his bed? Beauties with abundant curves and, certainly, flesh that wasn’t so freckled. Daphne fluttered her hands up to cover herself from his silent inspection, but Daniel captured her wrists, staying those movements.
Their gazes locked and the thick haze of passion clouding his eyes robbed her of breath. “Do not,” he ordered. He touched his fingertip to the smattering of freckles between her breasts. “I wondered whether you’d still have these marks here.”
“Alas, even without swimming n-naked in the lake under the summer sun, I’m still hopelessly freckled.” All hopes of levity were lost by the faint tremor to that breathless admission.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, touching his lips to the smattering of specks. Heat pooled at her center, filling her with a restless yearning.
She wasn’t. But when he looked upon her with his molten hot gaze, she could believe those words spoken in his husky baritone.
He drew his mouth away and she mourned the loss of that tender caress. But then a soft cry escaped her as he closed his lips around the tip of her right breast and suckled that flesh. Toying with it. Teasing it, until she existed as nothing more than a bundle of throbbing nerve endings. Daphne moaned, arching her hips, desperate for his touch on that sensitive area he’d stirred to life.
Reaching between them, he tugged her skirts up. I should not do this… And yet, she was a woman, in control of her life. There would be no marriage or suitors, but there would be this. If he stopped, she’d be left with a dark, hollow emptiness, an unfulfilled ache. He palmed her mound and she gasped. “Daniel,” she pleaded, needing more.
With strong fingers, he began to stroke her, toying with her nub, and she grew wet between her thighs. He claimed her mouth again for a searing meeting and he thrust his tongue inside to the rhythm he set with his fingers. His touch drawing her higher and higher, up an impossible climb. Her undulations grew frantic, taking on a pace driven by a frantic yearning for more. “Come for me, love,” he pleaded against her mouth, quickening his strokes. She hovered on a precipice, hanging suspended.
He closed his lips around a nipple, drawing the bud deep into his mouth, while his fingers continue to work her and she shattered. A low tortured moan of agonized bliss spilled from her lips as she lifted her hips in a frenzied undulation, into his touch, coming on wave after wave, until she collapsed.
Eyes closed, Daphne lay there, her body humming and sated. Daniel came down beside her and draped an arm around her waist. His breath stirred the strands of curls at her ear that had come loose from her exertions. He placed a kiss there with such tenderness that tears pricked at her lashes.
“I am so s—”
“Daniel Winterbourne, if you apologize to me,” she said breathlessly, “I’m going to bloody your nose.”
A grin danced at the corners of his lips.
“I have never felt anything like that.” How very inadequate those words were to capture the explosive bliss that had left her body weak, still. “Thank you,” she whispered. For the first time in her life, she’d known passion that had touched her soul. And how right it was that Daniel had been the man to awaken her body to the power of lovemaking.
Wordless, he touched his lips to her temple and drew her back against him. “I love you,” she said quietly. Against her ear, she detected the frantic rhythm of his heart. “I did not tell you that because I expect anything, Daniel,” she said on a rush, when he remained frozen in silence. “I told you…” Why did I tell him? “Because I needed you to know how I feel,” she finished lamely.
And she knew the precise moment she’d severed the connection with him.
He edged away from her. “You don’t know me, Daphne. I’m not a good man.”
She shifted in his arms, blocking his retreat. “I’d wager I know you better than you know your own self.”
“I am a rake,” he said, panic in his eyes. “You’ve confused what we’ve done here as love.”
“I may have little use of my leg, but I know my mind,” she shot back. Poor Daniel, how long he’d gone without any love or good in his life. She gentled her tone. “This is not about what’s happened here. This is about a man who doesn’t see me as nothing more than a cripple. A man who didn’t laugh at my dreams of finding employment and encouraged me to make those dreams real,” she finished as he swung his long legs over the edge of the dais, settling his feet on the floor.
“Do you love the man who forgot you existed for thirteen years?” His words sucked the air from her lungs and she battled back the onslaught of hurt.
When she and Daniel had been children, they’d come across a wild cat that had caught his paw in a hunter’s snare. The creature had snapped and hissed, lashing out in his pain. How very much he was like that wounded creature. She slowly eased over to where he sat on the edge of the dais. “You let your father in here,” she touched her fingertips to his forehead. “And it has scarred you here, Daniel.” She lowered her palm to his chest, where his heart pounded wildly. “You have to trust that you deserve love and are capable of giving it.” Until he did, he would never be free of his past.
His throat worked and there was a softening of his tense features. And then as quickly as it had come, the cool mask was back in place. Daniel disentangled her hand from his person. “Because there can never be more with me,” he said succinctly. “I am incapable of giving you more.”
And with that cold reminder, he stalked out of the room, leaving her alone—once more.