CHAPTER SIX
dam leaned back in the chair he occupied and took a long, luxurious inhale of the cigar between his lips. The dark atmosphere of the club he sat in combined with the relaxing effects of the cigar and brandy he enjoyed to loosen his tense muscles. After leaving Daphne’s townhome, he’d been in a foul mood all afternoon. He’d shaken the walls of his inn suite when he’d slammed the door, the floorboards shuddering beneath him as he’d paced and scraped his fingers through his bedraggled hair. His palms had begun to sweat, his body wracked with shudders as he’d fought not to lash out at the nearest object. He would rather not have to pay to refurnish his hotel suite after turning the furniture into kindling.
Daphne’s refusal had not surprised him; he had expected her to fight him. But, for her to continue her pretense after he’d so effectively proved to them both that she wanted him … for her to say those things about him …
He had not been this angry at her since the day he’d caught her in his niece’s nursery, in a wing of Dunnottar he had expressly forbidden her to enter. That day, he had thrown her out on the front steps and commanded her to go home, refusing to give her one penny of the money he’d promised her for breach of their agreement. But, she’d stayed, sleeping in his doorway and refusing to be turned away. When challenged to convince him to let her back in, she’d seduced him so thoroughly, he’d had no hope of pretending she did not affect him the way he did her.
The reminder of that calmed him, helped him to see things more clearly. She refused him because of the perceived slight he’d committed by not saying good-bye at the end of their time together … not seeing her home safely himself, or thanking her for the things he’d given her.
Peace. Companionship. A bedmate unlike any he’d ever had—and for a man who’d tasted just about every flavor of woman in England, Scotland, and the entire Continent of Europe, that was saying quite a lot.
Still, one would think she’d be astute enough to see the things he felt without him having to say them. He wanted her. Badly. He was willing to shelter and protect her—a far better offer than a woman in her position was likely to receive.
What else did she want from him?
Deciding that it would only make matters worse to remain locked away with his anger and wandering thoughts, he’d taken dinner in his suite, then dressed for an evening out. He had set out on foot, seeking diversion in the form of cards and drink.
Hours later, he sat in one of his favorite clubs—one that was not quite so exclusive as Brooks’ or White’s. He found establishments such as these to be more to his liking—lacking the strict dress codes and stuffy atmosphere, where a man could enjoy a drink and a few turns of the dice without worrying about seeing or being seen. He had just trounced several opponents at piquet and had begun to think of walking back to his suite upon finishing his cigar. The distraction had been just what he’d needed to get his head on straight, and the brandy had loosened his limbs. He sat just south of inebriation, still possessing his faculties, but feeling enough of a tingle in his veins that the sensation proved pleasant.
After a decent night’s sleep, he would be ready to adjust strategy in the morning and think about how to sway Daphne into accepting his offer. The sooner, the better, so he could return to Dunnottar and look in on his sister. Maeve, the woman who had acted as lady’s maid to Daphne during her stay, did a splendid job of caring for Olivia in his absence, but he did not like being away from her overlong. He also did not like depriving her of Niall, who seemed to calm her in a way no one else could.
He’d been aware for years that the butler loved his sister, and that she at least felt affection in return, if nothing else. However, the differences in their stations had made it impossible for them to be together. Now, he would give anything to see her happy, even if it meant marrying a bloody servant. Bertram Fairchild had ruined any other chance she might have had.
Slouching deeper in the soft leather chair he occupied, he scowled. If he did not adjust the path of his thoughts, he’d drag himself back into a dudgeon.
Shifting his mind to the sister of the man he hated above all others, he took another drag from his cigar, smirking as he exhaled through his nose. She’d been exquisite that afternoon, arms tied above her head, body stretched out and spread open for him. And her taste … he’d forgotten the taste of her, how a single drop of her honey could cause him to crave more and more, unable to ever drink his fill of her.
He’d almost floated away into the memories, reveling in his triumph, when the sound of his name dragged him out of his reverie.
“… Hartmoor, the blackguard.”
He perked up a bit, inclining his head and listening in to a conversation happening at a table behind him.
“…surprised they even let his sort through the doors.”
“If it were my sister he had ruined, I would not allow it to stand.”
“Hear, hear! I’d stride right up to him, slap him across his face, and demand satisfaction.”
His nostrils flared, his teeth grinding together as he turned his head, leaning just far enough to see around the back of his chair. At the table behind him, a group of young men sat playing whist, several decanters of brandy and sherry resting between them—half empty. Narrowing his eyes, he studied them, finding them to be insipid little pups with weak chins and smooth faces. He would not be surprised if they were young enough to have only just graduated university.
Sitting in their midst, holding court, was Bertram Fairchild. His pale skin and shock of red hair drew Adam’s eye like a beacon. His jaw began to ache from how tight he clenched his teeth, and he had to turn around and lean against the back of his chair to keep from leaping across the small space separating them and thrash the man within an inch of his life.
Stubbing out his cigar in a glass ashtray resting on the arm of his chair, he gulped down the dregs of the brandy in his tumbler and set it aside. He needed to leave, before he committed murder. As much as it would satisfy him to strangle Bertram in front of his idiot friends, he had no desire to hang for it.
So, he unfolded his long limbs and adjusted his coat, prepared to walk away and put his nemesis behind him. He had delivered the final blow by debauching Daphne … he had no reason to turn around.
And yet …
“I fully intend to confront the bastard,” Bertram said before Adam could take his first step toward the doors. “You see, gentlemen, a man like that … one who preys on unsuspecting women …they’re the worst sorts of cowards. When faced with a real man, they fold like a deck of cards.”
Adam’s hand curled into a fist, and he swiveled, glaring over his shoulder at the man who had ruined his sister. The irony of Bertram’s statement wasn’t lost on him. He wondered if the fool realized that his words applied to himself. Because, even if Daphne had been prey, she’d been willing prey. His sister most certainly had not.
The good intentions he’d had upon deciding to leave fell to the wayside as he loped toward the table, fixing his face with a sardonic smirk.
“Well, now,” he declared as he approached their table. “Far be it for me to deprive a gentleman of the chance to say his piece to my face.”
Bertram blanched, his tumbler slipping from his hands and falling to the carpet with a thud. His cheeks reddened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The men seated around the table glanced at him, then to Adam and back again, waiting for the promised confrontation.
Folding his arms across his chest, Adam raised an eyebrow. “Do you have something you wish to say to me, Fairchild?”
The fool proved as dense as Adam had known he was, shooting to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at him in a fine display of brotherly outrage for the benefit of his audience.
“Hartmoor, I warn you,” he blustered. “Leave now, or I shall be forced to remove you bodily. This club is for gentlemen, the ranks of which you do not belong to.”
He couldn’t help a dry bark of laughter at that. “Yet, they allowed you inside, so their standards must not amount for much.”
Glancing down at the cards and bank notes scattered over the table, he pursed his lips.
“Careful at the tables, dear Bertie,” he taunted. “You would not want to lose what little you have left, would you?”
With a snarl, Bertram rounded the table, his chest puffed out, his self-righteousness on full display. As he drew near, Adam could see the terror in his eyes, the weakling hiding behind the façade. He stood two seconds away from pissing himself, but did not wish to back down and have his friends realize that the man they kept company with was a coward.
Adam stepped forward to meet him, towering over Bertram by several inches. Glaring down at that simpering idiot, he sneered.
“Please,” he whispered, so only they two could hear. “I’m begging you, give me a reason to expose you to everyone here … to tell them all who the true blackguard is.”
To his credit, Bertram held his ground, clenching his teeth to get his trembling chin under control. “Do you think anyone would believe you, when all the ton is fully aware of what you did to my sister?”
He grinned, flashing his teeth with all the warmth of a predator about to have its next meal. “They know enough … but not the entire story. How entertaining do you think it would be for them all to find out that you accepted ten thousand pounds from me for your sister’s maidenhead?”
Bertram faltered, panic alighting in his eyes, which broke his gaze and made them dart about. “You wouldn’t … it would ruin you just as much as it would us.”
Adam inched closer, his upper lip curling at the rancid stench of sweat, spirits, and fear emanating from the little worm squirming at the mere sound of his voice.
“You see, that is the difference between you and me,” he retorted. “Even if I gave a shite about my reputation, I’m a bloody earl. They would whisper and gossip, but no one would dare give me the cut direct. You, however … they would crucify you. What little clout your father has left would vanish, and there isn’t an establishment in this city that would admit you … money or no money.”
Bertram snorted, shaking his head. “Then do it. Just finish this. It’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”
“Because, your sister does not deserve what such talk would do to her,” he replied. “And unlike you, I do not take pleasure in destroying innocent women who have never done me a day’s harm.”
“No, you only like forcing them into your bed,” Bertram retorted.
This time, his smile was genuine, fueled by sincere amusement. “I can assure you, no force was necessary.”
Bertram growled, lunging as if to attack, fists raised. Adam’s hand whipped through the air between them like the strike of a snake, his palm slamming against Bertram’s throat with enough force to send him staggering back.
Coughing and wheezing for air, Bertram doubled over, pressing his hands to his neck. Adam was on him then, grasping him by his collar and forcing him to stand upright. His eyes watered from the force of the blow, his breaths coming out on a rough wheeze.
“This is the only time you will try that and survive,” he growled, shaking Bertram like a rag doll. “And if you have any doubts about whether or not that was an idle threat, I suggest not trying your luck.”
Tossing Bertram away from him, he scowled at the men who had been seated at his table. They had come to their feet and watched him with varying degrees of shock and horror upon their faces. Yet, not one of them dared approach him or take him to task. None of them would defend Bertram.
Inclining his head at them, he turned to take his leave. His long legs carried him swiftly from the room, but as he stumbled out into the night, the cold air did nothing to cool his ire.
The foul mood was back, exacerbated now by Bertram’s needling. Damn him for not knowing when to leave well enough alone. One would think that a man who had been as thoroughly ruined as Bertram would wish to slink off to some quiet corner of London and live off the money he’d managed to earn in the end. But, no, Adam had arrived to find the cur drinking, gambling, and publicly declaring his intentions to call him out.
It would seem the fool had not learned his lesson … a circumstance that was easily mended.
By the time he reached his hotel, his anger had not abated—it had only grown and swelled, a sweltering fire of rage that crackled in his belly. He nearly tore the door to his suite off the hinges, finding Niall reclining on a chaise longue, a plate holding his half-eaten dinner sitting in his lap.
He straightened at the sight of Adam, setting his plate aside and wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. “What’s got yer smalls in a twist?”
Scowling, Adam slammed the door, approaching the sideboard and selecting the first decanter he got his hands on. Sherry, he realized, after taking his first sip from a tumbler.
“Fairchild,” he fairly snarled, beginning to pace with the glass clutched between his fingers.
Niall was on his feet in a blink, hands clenching into meaty bludgeons. “What’s he done now?”
Shaking his head, Adam took another drink. “He’s flapping his jaw about town … smearing my name. The fool tried to hit me, Niall.”
The butler raised his eyebrows, amusement glittering in his dark eyes. “And he’s still breathin’, eh?”
Adam issued a rough, dry chuckle at the memory of Bertram choking and wheezing after being struck in the throat. “Barely.”
Niall crossed his arms over his chest and inclined his head, giving Adam a knowing look. “I s’pose yer ready to stop muckin’ about and finish this. The father and the uncle might’ve learned their lessons, but he clearly hasn’t.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “You’re right, Niall.”
The man had always been right, as much as he hated to admit it. Adam had been content with the way things lay, especially considering the complication of Daphne. He still wanted her with an intensity that had him questioning his own sanity. However, that did not change what had occurred between his family and hers. He’d shown no mercy with the men of her family from the beginning … why should he exercise such now, just because he was mad for her cunt? She knew the truth, understood his vendetta, had even agreed that her brother had deserved every blow Adam had dealt him.
Bertram had earned what would come next with his little stunt at the club, and he refused to let himself feel the little niggling of guilt at the back of his mind. Daphne had spurned him, so why should he consider her feelings in this? If he could not have peace, then neither would she. He would obliterate what remained of Bertram, and he would use Daphne to do it.
He grinned at the realization that not only could he use her for his own aims, he could also make her like it.
“Whadye want me to do?” Niall offered.
His tone held an eagerness that reminded Adam of the other man’s stake in this. Niall had always been willing to do his part in helping him tear down the Fairchilds. As it turned out, Adam had already decided exactly what needed to be done, and Niall’s help would be instrumental in carrying it out.
“Prepare our things for departure first thing in the morning,” he ordered.
Niall’s expression flickered with a brief moment of shock, before he gave a nod of approval. “Then … you mean …”
“Aye,” he confirmed with a wide grin. “I think it’s time we took up residence at our new townhome, don’t you?”
Daphne settled into the chair before her writing desk—a lightweight piece situated in the drawing room off her bedchamber. Upon it, Clarice had delivered the small collection of invitations she’d received since her performance at the Bellinghams’ musicale. As she opened and read each one, she recognized the names—all friends of Winifred’s family. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. The young woman had obviously reached out to trusted friends to secure these invitations for her. Her determination to see Daphne take her place in society once more had resulted in her being invited to two musicales, a dinner party, and a ball.
Of course, these people might simply wish to make a spectacle of her—to be able to say they’d hosted the infamous Lady Daphne Fairchild at their party. Still, that did not mean she had to refuse them; she simply needed to be selective about which events she elected to attend. Dinner parties were out, as they put her in the position of being made the center of attention too easily. Small musicales were less than ideal.
This left only the ball, which she supposed could be tolerable. While it would expose her to the most people, it would also make it easier for her to avoid conversations that lasted too long, or people she did not wish to address. Besides, she missed dancing—had not danced in ages.
As well, she fully agreed with Winifred’s assertion that she could not hide forever. If she hid, people would only gossip more … and Adam would think her afraid of him.
She would show him; she would show them all. She had ceased cowering and succumbing to fear. She wished to go to a ball—to wear a beautiful gown and drink champagne and dance. And she would do these things with her head held high, showing the ton that she did not care what they thought of her. Showing Adam that she was no longer afraid of him.
Sure, he’d gotten the best of her the day before, but she’d been caught unawares. If her refusal of his insulting offer had not been enough to keep him away, then she’d be prepared for him to approach her again. And just as she had before, she would make it clear that she had no interest in being his mistress.
The nerve of the man, proposing to treat her to the lifestyle of a courtesan … as if it were some great honor. Provided for, protected, well-fucked. It seemed all he was capable of offering her, and while she could appreciate his honesty, it was not the sort of life she wanted for herself. Thanks to his generous settlement, she was no longer desperate enough to accept such a bargain. That he could make her body sing with a touch of his hands was simply not enough to tempt her into such an arrangement.
If Adam truly wanted her, then he would have to offer something far more permanent than becoming his mistress.
“Daff, you’ve gone mad,” she muttered to herself aloud while unstopping her inkwell.
Even if she wanted to marry such a man—which she most certainly did not—there was simply too much bad blood between their families. The fact that her name was Fairchild would be all he needed to keep a certain distance between them. He could never truly care for her … would never love her.
But, she did not want his love. Adam was like a raging fire, consuming everything in his path. He’d burned her once, but she had a chance to avoid being incinerated and flaked away into bits of ash floating on the wind.
Dipping her pen into her inkwell, she focused on the task at hand and put Adam out of her mind. Penning her regrets for the musicale and dinner party, but thanking the ladies for their kind invitations, she blew upon the ink and waited for it to dry before ringing for Clarice. The maid appeared quickly, executing a swift curtsy before approaching the desk.
“Would you please see that Rowney has these sent out as soon as possible?” she said to the maid while stuffing small envelopes with her regrets.
The maid wrinkled her brow at the sight of Daphne’s refusals. She never spoke on it, but seemed concerned that her mistress spent most of her time at home, or in Mrs. Russel’s coffeehouse.
She smiled, holding up the invitation for tomorrow night’s soirée. “All is not lost, Clarice. There’s a ball tomorrow night, and I intend to go.”
The maid’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, my lady, how splendid! You should wear the gold satin!”
Daphne smiled, certain this was the first time she’d ever seen her lady’s maid portray any real emotion. She’d been so formal and distant that she’d begun to worry that Clarice was not fond of her.
As if uncertain after such an outburst, the maid reeled herself in. Clearing her throat, she schooled her face into a passive mask.
“That is, if my lady is amenable,” Clarice added in an even tone of voice.
Reaching out to take the maid’s hand, she laughed. “I think the gold satin would be lovely. It’s never been worn, and I believe I have some jewelry to match it—a few pieces my mother passed down to me. What do you say we choose accessories after you’ve handed those notes off to Rowney?”
Clarice’s smile was back, and she nodded. “That would be splendid, m’lady.”
Daphne sent the maid off before crossing through the open doorway to her bedchamber. By the time Clarice had returned, she’d retrieved the ballgown from its place in her dressing room and laid it across the bed.
For an hour, the two went about selecting the right shoes, comparing bits of jewelry and the small collection of hair clips and feathers that Daphne had purchased to complement her wardrobe. It felt good, turning her mind to mundane things for a short time. Once they had decided on a complete ensemble, Clarice bustled off to get to work, ensuring the gown was pressed and pristine. Which left Daphne with nothing to do until dinner.
Deciding that lunch at the coffeehouse would be just the thing, she retrieved a spencer and shawl and set out on the short walk. If she hurried, Mrs. Russel would have meat pies fresh from the oven. There was a slight spring in her step as she walked, the unusually pleasant weather continuing to grace them with sunshine. She fairly skipped down the street, heedless of the people passing her on the sidewalk, or the open-air barouche pulling up in the intersection between two streets—until it veered into her path, preventing her from crossing the street.
Indignation bristled her spine, a sharp reprimand perched on the edge of her tongue as she stared up at the man seated on the perch. The words died on her lips as she met the gaze of the driver, her heart stuttering to a stop for what felt like ages.
It was Adam, dressed in snappy riding attire, black gloves covering his large hands, which clutched the reins of a pair of beautiful black bays. The horses stamped and snorted, but minded the pull of the reins as he grinned, looking very much like he wished to devour her.
Despite the sunlight shining down upon her, she shivered.
“Pardon me, my lord,” she said and an imperious lift of her chin. “You are blocking the road.”
“Aye, but ask me if I give a bloody damn,” he teased. “Get in, little dove.”
Heaving a frustrated sigh, she backed away from the barouche. Just when she was beginning to enjoy her day, he had to turn up and ruin it. Still, it was difficult to tear her eyes away from the sight of him, his coat and breeches clinging to his bulging muscles, his hair left loose and hanging down his back. He did not wear a hat, but that should not have surprised her. Adam was never proper if he could help it.
“I am enjoying my walk,” she protested. “I’ll thank you to let me be on my way.”
He chuckled, in a better mood than she’d expected after the events of the previous day. “So formal … one would think I had not tied you down and fucked your mouth just yesterday.”
She gasped, her gaze darting left and right to ensure no one who walked past them had overheard. Despite wishing to appear as if he did not affect her quite as much as he did, she felt her face flushing.
“Will you lower your voice?” she hissed.
“Only if you get in,” he countered. “Now, Daphne … before I cause a scene.”
Already, passersby were slowing to stare at them, searching beneath her hat to see who stood on the corner of Half-Moon Street talking to the Earl of Hartmoor. Weighing her options, she realized he had left her with no choice. She had no doubt he would cause the threatened scene if she did not comply.
She would give him what he wanted, if for no other reason than to preserve her dignity. Besides, he couldn’t maul her in an open barouche with all of London looking on.
“Fine,” she huffed, gathering her gown in one hand and climbing into the conveyance.
Adam’s large body took up so much of the seat that when she settled beside him, their hips and thighs met, their bodies mashed together by the confined space on the perch.
Straightening her back, she tried not to think about the heat emanating from his body, the way his hard thigh felt pressed against hers. His scent invaded her senses, overwhelming that of city smog and horse. He gave his reins a snap, and the beasts set off at a canter, pulling them into the light traffic coming and going along the lane.
Once they were well underway, she turned to him. “What do you want, Adam?”
Keeping his eyes upon the road in front of them, he shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t a gentleman invite a woman to ride with him without being accused of having ulterior motives?”
His teasing tone and downright giddy mood only served to further aggravate her. “I have never known you not to possess nefarious intentions.”
“You look bonny this afternoon,” he said conversationally. “New hat? It looks quite expensive.”
She snorted. “It was one I owned before having met you, so do not think to take any credit for it. When my mother left Fairchild House, she made sure to pack my belongings and bring them with her to my aunt’s residence. I was able to procure them from her when I returned to London.”
“Ah,” he replied, his tone still light and jovial. “Is the countess enjoying her newfound freedom as much as you seem to be enjoying yours?”
She turned her head to look at him, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Your quarrel is with my brother and my father … you are to leave her out of any of our dealings. Do you understand? She is off limits, Adam.”
He raised his eyebrows at her, suddenly serious. “If there’s any member of your family who is safe from me, it is your mother, Daphne. Anything she has suffered has been due to mere proximity, nothing more. I hold no grudge against a woman who never had the sense to fly free of her own cage.”
The furrows in her brow softened as she looked at him and realized he meant what he said. It also did not escape her that he seemed to see Daphne’s mother the way she did—a woman who had never had the courage to step outside of convention, to be herself, to challenge the men ruling her life. It had made her weak and naive … two traits Daphne could proudly say did not apply to her any longer.
“Thank you,” she murmured, tearing her gaze away from his.
One shred of decency did not make him a good person. It did not give her leave to love him like some masochistic idiot.
They rode in silence for a time, with Adam navigating the roads and Daphne staring unseeingly at the passing scenery. Her mind wandered, and she found herself daydreaming about him touching her, sliding one of those leather-clad hands beneath her gown and taking hold of one of her thighs, digging his fingers into the tender flesh.
Blinking and shaking her head, she snapped out of her reverie, annoyed with herself for sinking so low. In his presence for barely a quarter of an hour and already, her mind had turned to carnal matters.
“I want you to know that if I were able, I’d keep you safe from it, too,” he said suddenly, his voice low. “My wrath, I mean … but, you’re too tangled up in it now, little dove. I cannot make a move toward him without treading on you, too.”
She frowned, dread making her blood run cold while her mind raced to try to decipher his cryptic words. “What do you mean? What’s happening, Adam?”
He spared her a quick glance and sighed. “Bertram. He’s made it clear that he has not learned from his past mistakes.”
She gritted her teeth, both worried and annoyed at the mention of her idiot of a brother. Why could he not quietly slink into the shadows and lick his wounds? Could he not see that provoking Adam would not end well for him?
“Does it matter?” she asked. “He is ruined, and will never be the same. Even when he inherits the earldom, it will come with nothing but debt and a tarnished legacy. Can’t that be enough for you?”
His jaw tensed, the leather of his gloves creaking as he tightened his fingers around the reins. “No. Not when he still walks about with that smug sense of entitlement … the bloody arrogance that makes him operate under the delusion that he’s better than the rest despite the things he’s done.”
“That makes you the better man,” she whispered, knowing her words fell on deaf ears … knowing his was the sort of anger that could not be reasoned with. “And it doesn’t mean you haven’t won. You got what you wanted … it has to end someday.”
He nodded in agreement. “Aye … someday. But not today, little dove. Not until I’ve taken the rest.”
Gazing down at her hands, she folded them in her lap and tried to get a hold of herself. If Adam was on the warpath again, that meant she stood in the crossfire as she had before—trapped in the never-ending battle between him and her brother.
“When?” she asked. “When should I expect you to make your first move?”
He reached out to her, the warm, soft leather of his gloves caressing her jaw as he lifted her chin and looked her in the eye. She saw not an ounce of regret in his gaze as he answered her, his voice a low, gruff rumble that made her stomach twist.
“Right now, little dove.”
It took her a moment to realize what he could mean … how she’d managed to step into yet another one of his traps. Turning her gaze to the lane before them, she released a strangled cry, the twisting in her gut turning into a sinking feeling that made her feel as if she would be violently ill.
They rode down one of the several lanes leading into Hyde Park—which, at this time of day, was filled wall to wall with members of the ton out to see and be seen.
Turning back to him, her chin trembled, her resolve crumbling as she realized what he was about. “Could you not have warned me first?”
He stroked her cheek for a moment before dropping his hand with a tight smile. “Would you have gotten in the carriage if I had?”
No, she would not have gotten inside an open-air barouche, on full display at his side as they made slow progress down the lane while being gawked at by every person who passed them.
On foot, on horseback, and in vehicles, the faces of the ton swam before her unfocused eyes. Women whispered behind gloved hands, and men smirked knowingly at her, as if undressing her with their eyes. Of course they did … these men thought her a plaything, a whore, a bit of skirt to be passed around when Adam was finished with her.
And for all intents and purposes, it now appeared as if he was not done with her. She had not agreed to be his mistress, but she might as well have for all the damage this would do to the remains of her reputation.
“You see, Daphne,” he said, his voice low while he kept his expression neutral for the benefit of their audience. “There is one member of your family who will never be safe from me. As long as he makes a nuisance of himself, I will make it my business to cut him down to size … to take away any and everything that he holds dear. And if I have to continue using you to do it, I bloody well will.”
Her eyes began to sting with the beginnings of tears, but she blinked them back, determined not to crumble. She could survive this … she had certainly endured worse at his hands. The gossip did not bother her as much as it would Bertram. She supposed that if she had to search for a reason for her hurt, she would find it all-too closely entangled with her confused emotions where Adam was concerned. And she did not wish to even attempt untangling those snarled, convoluted threads.
“I pity you,” she murmured, still avoiding his gaze, as well as those of the passersby. “Not because you’ve been hurt by what was done to your sister, or because your father turned you into a cold brute … but because someday, this will end, and I am going to finally have peace. And you, I fear, will still wrestle with your anger. When Bertram has taken the last of your blows, what then? When he has been vanquished to your satisfaction, what will you have left but your hatred?”
He did not reply, and they spent the rest of their ride in silence, avoiding looking at each other as Adam navigated Hyde Park. They paused a few times while he was greeted by acquaintances, most of whom simply wished to gawk at her. She ignored them all, staring listlessly out over the pristine grounds of the park. After what felt like ages, they broke free of the square, exiting on the opposite side and coming out onto a clogged thoroughfare.
She felt his gaze resting on her from time to time, though he did not speak … not until they had arrived in front of her townhome. Before she could turn to step down from the vehicle, he reached out to grab her arm, holding her with a light but firm grip. Forced to confront him, she turned to face him, not bothering to fight his hold. He would let her go when he was good and ready, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“I’ll have peace, little dove,” he said, leaning closer, until she could make out the flecks of amber and gold amid the dark brown of his eyes. “Knowing that the person who hurt my Livvie has paid for it with everything he has. If I have nothing else when this is over, I will find peace in that.”
She could see he truly believed that, and perhaps this was why he’d pursued Bertram’s downfall so relentlessly … because until he had gotten the desired outcome, the guilt he carried over having been in Europe during Olivia’s ordeal would not abate. He truly thought to ease his own conscience by making amends the only way he knew how.
For the first time since coming face to face with him at Dunnottar, she felt as if she truly understood Adam—what drove him, what haunted him. That only made her pity him more.
“If you truly believe that, then you are lost,” she declared. “And I hope you are able to see that for yourself before it is too late, Adam. I really do.”
She pulled away from him, and he released her arm, seeming content to let her go. Climbing down from the perch, she turned to face the barouche, tipping her head back to look up at him. He stared down at her with pinched lips, his eyes as inscrutable as she’d ever seen them, dark and glowing with amber cinders. They stood that way for what felt like hours, locked in each other’s eyes, the rest of the world still moving around them.
Finally, he spoke, breaking the thrall.
“Prepare yourself, little dove,” he said, his voice coming out clipped and biting. “The consequences of my next move will make themselves apparent soon.”
Before she could reply, he was gone with a snap of his reins, the little barouche disappearing around the corner. With a heavy sigh, she turned toward the house, her shoulders slumped. Amazing, how a short time away had completely changed her mood, dragging her right back into the doldrums. Selling her townhome and finding some far-flung cottage in the country to live in began to sound like heaven.
With a sarcastic snort, she told herself not to be ridiculous. It didn’t matter where she went; Adam would always find some way to reach her and exploit her connection to Bertram.
Ascending the front steps, she found Rowney waiting for her, the door held open.
“My lady,” he said as she entered the house. “You have a—”
“Daphne!” came a desperate voice from the doorway of the drawing room.
She turned to find Bertram barreling toward her, his hair tousled and his clothing mussed, eyes wide and wild with panic.
Furrowing her brow, she backed away a few steps, her nose stinging from the putrid odor of spirits emanating from him. It had a strong, acrid scent that she could not associate with port or brandy.
Gin, she realized. Her brother had taken to swigging gin. Likely because it did not strain one’s pockets quite as much as a more dignified drink.
“Bertram, what are you doing here?” she asked, taking him in from head to toe.
He looked as if he’d slept in his clothing from the previous night, then rolled out of bed, doused himself in gin, and appeared on her doorstep.
Scowling at Rowney, who watched them with a heavy measure of censure and curiosity, Bertram took hold of her arm and guided her back to the drawing room. She squirmed in his grasp, the bite of his fingers hard and relentless.
“Let go of me,” she insisted, wrenching away from him and rounding the couch, putting large pieces of furniture between them.
She was not certain what had gotten into him, but she did not trust him in such a state.
Raking his hand through his hair again, he paced to the window, peering out between the closed curtains. “Was that him? Hartmoor … I saw you leaving a man’s barouche. It looked like him.”
She fought the urge to scream and tear out her hair. Even when Adam was out of her sight, he dominated every space she occupied. She could not even escape talk of him.
“That is none of your affair,” she hedged.
Bertram snorted, turning back to face her with a scowl. “It is when you allow yourself to be used against our family. The man has a vendetta against me, and you join him for afternoon rides as if you’re being courted.”
Weariness slumped her shoulders, and she wanted to sink to the floor and curl into herself, closing her eyes and shutting Bertram out. She’d been twisted and wrung dry, and did not possess the energy to answer him, to explain to him how and why she’d come to be in the barouche with Adam. Not to mention, she did not owe him an explanation for anything.
“Bertram, I am not in the mood to have another row with you,” she replied. “Besides, I know that you tried to provoke him. What could you have been thinking?”
His lips tightened, nostrils flaring as his entire face flushed. He turned red all the way to his scalp, hands shaking as if he wanted to hit something. Hit her.
“While he was at it, did he tell you that he’s moved into his new townhome in Grosvenor Square?” he retorted. “Everywhere I’ve gone today, I’ve had to hear about it.”
Wrinkling her brow, she shook her head. “What does that have to do with us?”
Coming closer, he reached out to grasp her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “His new home is Fairchild House, Daff.”
Shock stole her breath for a moment—her words. She could not make sense of what Bertram was saying. It couldn’t be true. The papers had reported that Adam had taken up residence at a Mayfair hotel. He didn’t own a London residence, as he preferred to remain in Scotland—something she now knew to be because he wished to stay close to his sister.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to bring her racing thoughts under control. He had just warned her—hadn’t he?—that his next move would make itself known to her soon. Had this been what he meant? That he had publicly proclaimed his ownership of her family home?
It was so good, she almost laughed in Bertram’s face. Adam was rubbing her brother’s nose in his defeat, publicly flaunting her at his side, and ensuring he, and everyone in London, knew that he’d purchased the home their father had been forced to sell. If she weren’t so bloody weary of all the games and schemes, she might have been amused by it. As it was, she only experienced a sense of foreboding, because she knew this was not the end of it. Bertram’s pride would not allow him to take this lying down, which meant she could expect him to retaliate, and for Adam to act accordingly.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Bertram snapped, releasing her and backing into the nearest armchair before falling into it with a huff. “The blackguard is making certain I can never set foot in any respectable establishment or home ever again … not without becoming a laughingstock.”
“Perhaps you ought not have incited him,” she replied, sinking into the couch across from him. “If you had just left well enough alone …”
“He ruined you, and then publicly flaunted the fact,” he countered. “You would not expect me to appear a coward in public, would you?”
“Yet, you are surprisingly content to act as one in private,” she muttered, leaning back in her seat and pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples. “Leave, Bertram. I am not interested in listening to you whine and moan about Hartmoor. You’ve brought this all on yourself, you know … and me, as well. He isn’t finished with you. If you were smart, you’d leave London quietly and pray he does not come after you. Perhaps then, we might all be able to get on with our lives.”
He gaped at her in silence for a long moment, red splotches painting his face. He appeared like a petulant child, prepared to throw a tantrum. It only made her despise him more.
“I cannot believe you would turn your back on your own family,” he whined.
Shrugging one shoulder, she rose from the couch, determined to see him out herself if he would not leave. “You saw to that with your despicable actions, Bertram. Now, we have nothing left to say to each other. I trust you will not return here again.”
Their gazes met and held, her brother seeming to vacillate between anger and disbelief. It truly amazed her that he’d seemed to think she would eventually forgive him. He clearly operated under the belief that he’d done nothing wrong … that she was the one being unfair by not wanting to have anything to do with him.
Finally, he moved, shaking his head with a derisive snort. He glared at her as if she were some loathsome creature he wished to smash beneath his heel.
“You have always been so high and mighty, thinking yourself better than the rest of us,” he hissed, venom lacing his words “Do you think I do not know about your wanton behaviors? Even before Hartmoor, you were always a shameless tart. I know about you and Robert … all those summers the two of you would sneak off to be together without me … you coming home with grass stains all over your gowns. Yet, you have the nerve to look down your nose at me, judging me, finding me to be beneath you.”
Instead of the shame his words had been meant to inspire, she experienced only anger, her palms itching to slap him, to ram those words back down his throat. That he could think the follies of her youth comparable to his sinister actions proved to her how delusional he truly was. There was no reason she should allow it to get to her, to let him needle her into flying off the handle.
Taking a deep breath, she gestured toward the door. “I asked you to leave. If you need help locating the door, I am certain my footmen can help you find it.”
His gaze became downright murderous as he swept toward her, then past her, putting her behind him as he made for the drawing room exit. “You are going to regret this … mark my words.”
She followed him to the door, watched as he thundered through the vestibule and out the front door—which Rowney held open for him. As the panel closed behind him, she swallowed past the lump of anxiety his words caused. Not because she truly believed he would harm her, or that he could ever be strong enough to hurt Adam, but because it only confirmed what she’d known to be true for quite some time now.
This thing between Bertram and Adam might never end … not until one of them was dead. Considering the hell both men had put her through today, she was not certain she cared which of them killed the other, so long as they did it quickly and left her out of it.
Turning to Rowney, she put both men out of her mind for the moment.
“I will take tea in my personal drawing room,” she declared. “Oh, and in the future, Mr. Fairchild is no longer welcome in this house. Should he turn up on my doorstep again, you are to turn him away.”
“Yes, my lady,” the butler answered as she turned and made her way up the stairs.