CHAPTER SEVEN
dam took a sip of champagne while he stood perusing the occupants of the crowded ballroom. What he wouldn’t give for something stronger—brandy or port—and perhaps a room without quite so much light or as many people. Who on Earth had thought it was a good idea to light hundreds of candles in a room crammed with people wall to wall? It was too bright, and the din set his teeth on edge. The music harmed as much as it helped, the pleasant strains of the various country dances, quadrilles, and waltzes nearly overtaken by the voices. Greetings, gossip, politics, planned assignations … all of it jumbled together in a continuous sound that made him want to take a dagger to his ear.
Someone, hundreds of years ago, had decided that not only was this a good idea, but that all people of title and wealth should indulge as often as possible. They had called these abominable events ‘balls’, and every young debutante he’d ever met thought of it all as being romantic. He found it a waste of time, but his presence here tonight had a purpose.
After moving into Fairchild House that morning—while most of Grosvenor Square swarmed with those making morning calls, ensuring that everyone would see him coming—he had set Niall to work determining if Daphne had plans for the evening. He had it on good authority that she’d received several invitations and wanted to know if she’d accepted any. While a chit with even a lick of self-preservation might have chosen to hide away at home, his little dove was built differently. She would wish to boldly show him that she wasn’t frightened, that his threats would not rule her every action. As well, being cooped up indoors was sure to have driven her batty by now.
He’d known she would wish to go out, and his assumption had been proven true when Niall returned to Fairchild House, informing him that she had accepted the invitation to the Mallorys’ winter ball. So, despite hating balls, and dancing, and making small talk with people he barely knew and did not much like, he’d laid out evening attire. He’d shaved and tamed his hair and adorned himself in all the finery an earl would be expected to display at a public event. And he’d come here to lie in wait, to watch for Daphne from his corner of the room.
He’d been approached by several acquaintances since his arrival, though many simply skirted him, preferring to gape over at him from a distance … to speculate with one another over what he might do, and whether Lady Daphne Fairchild might put in an appearance. It seemed as if the purpose of this ball was solely so the people of the ton would have their entertainment—another juicy tidbit to add to whatever version of his and Daphne’s story they’d decided to accept as true.
What they believed did not matter to him. He only needed them to see him near her in person, to see how he could make her cheeks flush and her lips part in a way that no one could mistake their connection, their chemistry, the visceral threads tying them together.
By morning, every drawing room in the city would be filled with gossip about them. And Bertram would be predictably furious, suffering yet another blow to his pride.
Finishing off a flute and trading it off for a full one courtesy of a passing footman, he gazed down into the bubbly liquid and frowned. Things were falling into place just as he wanted; yet, he couldn’t muster quite as much satisfaction as he’d thought he would. This feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to go away and allow him to bask in his triumph.
It had been Daphne, damn her. She’d gotten to him with her words, her warning concerning the possible outcome of his vendetta. Just like a bloody female, she’d tried to appeal to his softer side, trying to make him feel things he would rather not. Such as guilt, or self-doubt.
She simply did not understand. Until recently, she’d never faced hardship in her life … had never known true pain or loss. She could never fathom how it could change a person, ruin them, make it impossible for them to live life the way others might. He could never move forward when the guilt and anger that plagued him concerning Olivia never seemed to let up. He needed to blame the Fairchilds, to direct his hatred at them to keep from remembering that it could have all been avoided if he’d simply been there.
If he hadn’t been so bloody desperate to escape his bastard of a father, he would have escorted Olivia to London for her first Season … would have been there to protect her from the likes of Bertram Fairchild. He would have been able to see the cur coming and threaten him away from Olivia, do him bodily harm if necessary. He could have guided her toward a suitable husband, vetting each man who wished to court her himself and ensure she was not hurt.
And if she’d been harmed anyway, he would have been there to pick up the pieces, to take care of her, shelter her from gossip and scorn as an unwed mother. She could have given birth at Dunnottar, surrounded by the people who loved her, instead of some dark, cold asylum where she’d gone insane.
Taking the entire flute in one swallow, he grunted, shaking his head and trying to chase away such errant thoughts. They would accomplish nothing, could not change what had happened and what would be. When all was said and done, the Fairchild men had all taken part in destroying his sister, and he would not rest until he’d returned the favor ten times over.
He’d just set his flute aside and reached for a third one when the final strains of a waltz died away, and the low buzz of conversation seemed to come to a screeching halt. The shift in the atmosphere caught his attention, and he lifted his head, eyes darting as he sought the source of the disturbance.
His gaze fell onto the curved, double staircase leading down into the ballroom and a vision standing at its top … an angel among mere mortals. His hand tightened on the champagne flute, and he couldn’t breathe as her name was announced, causing gasps and whispers of shock to ripple through the crowd.
Lady Daphne Fairchild.
They all felt the shift, as well, pulling back from the stairs, making way for her, allowing her into their midst. Keeping one hand on the balustrade, she practically floated down the stairs, head held erect, shoulders straightened, chin lifted in that imperious way of hers.
His teeth clenched as he surveyed the assemblage, the men who watched her with lust and covetousness in their eyes. They wanted his little dove. They wanted to marry her, and coddle her, and protect her. Flaunt her like some pretty little ornament.
But none of them knew that those things would not appeal to her. No, she would be far more amenable to what he wanted.
Destruction, complete annihilation of her senses … oblivion.
She looked like fire come to life, her gold silk gown undulating and rippling with every move she made, the burnished red hue of her hair catching the candlelight and coming alive with gold and amber strands. At her throat and wrist, topaz stones were nearly a perfect match for her gown, glittering with flashes of red and yellow in their inner prisms.
He wanted to cross the room and tackle her to the floor, tear the pins from her hair and send those perfectly arranged curls tumbling down her back … to rip the gown off her body and plunder her right there in front of the ton … to sink his teeth into her shoulder and mark her, claim her, show them all that she belonged to him. None of them could have her. None of them could touch her like he could.
Then, the air shifted again, as if the entire room exhaled at once, recovered from their first glimpse of her. Sound flooded the room once again, voices clamoring, music striking up a lively country dance. In a tidal wave of movement, several men rushed toward her, voices raised, eyes bright and eager … like dogs scenting a bitch in heat.
Not a bitch … a dove … my little dove.
He slammed his champagne flute onto the nearest surface, not bothering to see where it landed before setting off across the room. He practically barreled through the crowd, forcing them to part for him, to let him past. The whispers started again, eyes following him as they covered their mouths with fans and gloved hands while they collectively seemed to watch his every move. He left no room to mistake his intention, moving toward her in a straight line, glaring at anyone who dared step in his path.
He found her smiling and speaking politely to a small group of men—all whom seemed far too eager to sign her dance card. Lingering on the outside of the circle, he cleared his throat, annoyed at being made to wait his turn like a child. What need did he have to stand in line? She belonged to him, whether she wished to acknowledge it or not. He’d never stand back and let another man be first when it came to her.
The heads of her admirers swiveled toward him, several shocked and amused glances cast his way. Still, none of them spoke or made any move to stop him as he shouldered past them and stood over her, torn between wanting to make a scene by throwing her over his shoulder and storming out of the ballroom, and adhering to his original plan.
The latter won out, and he held himself in check as she inclined her head at him in greeting before dipping into a curtsy so flawless, he could have balanced a book on top of her head. He imagined her sinking lower—lower until her knees hit the floor and she cowered before him, breasts heaving at the deep neckline of her gown, eyes raised to his, emanating her desire and need. He snapped out of it when she rose, extending a hand to him. He took it and kissed her knuckles, lingering for several seconds, drawing in her scent.
“Your dance card,” he demanded, half expecting her to refuse him, and half hoping she would so he could punish her for denying him.
Instead, she lifted her opposite hand, with an ornate, silver filigreed dance card case dangling from its ribbon around her wrist. Opening the little box, he found a stub of a pencil inside, as well as several names already scrawled in the spaces for the various dances. He found a waltz still available and signed his name with a flourish. Then, he glanced up to meet her gaze and smiled.
“I’m looking forward to it, little dove.”
He saw and felt the shudder that rocked her, as well as the flicker of fire in her gaze. Her expression might seem placid to the others in the room, but he saw her anger, her annoyance with him. If they were alone, she would have taken him to task over whatever it was that had her in a dudgeon. Likely, she’d heard about his occupation of Fairchild House.
He told himself again that it did not matter. She had been warned about his intentions; he’d told her quite clearly that he was not finished with Bertram, that there would be more to come. What had she expected him to do? Back down because she’d tried to make him feel guilty about his thirst for revenge?
She simply nodded in response to his words, dismissing him with a turn of her head as another man stepped forward to sign for a dance. He backed away, but only enough to let more of them through. Truly, the longer he watched the spectacle, the more amused he became. They were tripping over themselves trying to gain her notice while his lingering presence put her on edge, unable to keep from flicking her gaze to him once in a while. They all stood a snowball’s chance in Hell with her, and they both knew it.
Eventually, a familiar face broke through the crowd, causing the back of his neck to tingle and his hands to ball into fists.
The Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley … the fool who was in love with his Daphne.
The discomfiture on Daphne’s face as the man came forward and bowed over her hand, gushing about how lovely she looked and how good it was to see her, put Adam’s teeth on edge. He wanted to shove his body between them and slam his fist into the man’s arrogant face. He wanted to take her by the back of the neck and steer her to the nearest empty room so that he could obliterate any feelings she might still have toward Robert, leaving room only for the tempest of emotion he wanted to fill her with.
It infuriated him to no end that the insipid mama’s boy had been the first to touch her, to awaken the passion thrumming through her veins. The first to taste her, to create those lusty sounds from the back of her throat. The first to know what it was to call her his own.
He had not forgotten how Robert had attempted to get Daphne off alone, to kiss and touch his little dove when he’d thought no one was looking. It was only for Daphne’s sake that he hadn’t broken the man’s neck after finding them together, seeing the evidence of their affection for each other.
From where he stood, he saw Robert sign for a pair of country dances, an act that had him grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. That would put them in each other’s company for half an hour, long enough for him to plead his case. If the letter Adam had found in Daphne’s drawing room were any indication, she could expect the man to propose marriage at any moment. He thought himself her white knight, the noble hero who would save her from the beast that had made a ruin of her life.
Yet, as Robert finished signing for his dances and she glanced up to meet Adam’s gaze, he felt as if she shared the exact same thought as him.
She did not wish to be saved.
Nearly an hour after arriving at the Mallorys’ ball, Daphne suffered from sore feet and a pounding head. She had expected attention and speculation, her first true public appearance since returning from Dunnottar. The first time she would step foot into a room with so many members of the ton in over three months.
She’d been unprepared for the number of men who’d wanted to sign her dance card … or for the presence of both Robert and Adam in the same room.
Truly, it should not have shocked her. That Adam would, once again, seek to be seen with her in public fell in line with his vendetta. And Robert, being part of the ton and having just arrived in town, should be expected to attend one of the biggest soirées of the Season.
Yet, knowing these things had not prepared her to feel the weight of both men staring at her from opposite ends of the room—Robert with an almost pitiful sort of longing, Adam with a frightening mixture of annoyance and lust. She felt their pull, the call of both parts of herself—the guilt she felt over not wanting Robert as much as she once had. He was a good man, an honest and amiable one. The sort of man who could marry her, and give her children, and cater to her every whim for the rest of her life. And yet, the thought of life with him made her unaccountably sad. It made her feel as if the bars of a cage constricted around her, so tight she could not breathe.
The other part of her self—the part hidden in the darkest corners of her soul, craved Adam’s eyes on her, enjoyed the thrill of being watched, hunted, stalked. Her skin fairly tingled, even as she engaged in conversation with the few who would address her—mostly men, as the majority of women in the room avoided her as if she carried some offensive odor. Even as she sipped champagne and nibbled on finger sandwiches. Even as she was taken out onto the floor for dance after dance. She remained ever-aware of Adam and his location in the room. Several times, she found herself staring at him, shivers wracking her as she watched him stroke his thumb over the pads of his fingers, as if he imagined touching her, hurting her, squeezing the air from her lungs with that hand around her throat.
By the time Robert approached her for their pair of country dances, she felt as if she would go up in flames. She did her best to affix her bland, polite mask over her face as he took her hand and led her onto the floor amid the others.
“I suppose Bertram gave you my note,” he murmured as they took their places.
She glanced at him and tried to smile, but the memory of Adam holding that envelope made her throat constrict. He’d left it to crumble on the floor after their explosive encounter in the drawing room. She’d smoothed out the rumpled page and read his pleas for her to call upon him at his townhome. He’d stated once again that he did not care about Adam or that she was no longer a maiden. He loved her, and he wished to discuss their future.
“He did,” she replied, turning to face him as the music began. “I have meant to respond, it is just …”
I did not know what to say.
What could she tell him? That she’d become hopelessly ruined by Adam, so much so that she could never enjoy the touch of a man like him? A man who was too soft to give her what she truly needed? A man who did not possess even half the passion and fire that Adam unleashed upon her every chance he got?
“I understand,” he said with that amiable smile of his. “I am certain you’ve been quite busy since returning to London. I’ve heard of your performance at the Bellinghams’ musicale. They are saying you played magnificently.”
She fought the urge to frown. The man was so damned agreeable. Faced with the truth of her neglect and lack of action in regards to his letter, he simply smiled and allowed it to go unchecked.
Adam would have punished her for it, demanded an answer, reminded her that he was never to be ignored.
She sighed and focused on the conversation at hand. Robert was saying something, and she’d missed half of it.
“… allow me to call upon you at home tomorrow afternoon?” he finished, giving her a hopeful glance as they circled each other, parting and coming back together just like the other couples surrounding them. “I should very much like to have that conversation. If you are amenable, that is.”
It took all her willpower to keep from rolling her eyes. Had he always been this bloody polite, even when sliding his hands beneath her skirts? The memories came hazy now, smothered by the recollection of how it felt to be dominated by Adam … but, yes, now that she allowed herself to think on it, Robert had been this courtly even about fucking her. He’d begged to be let inside her, whimpering against her neck while pressing his erection against her hip. He could have pinned her down, demanded she stop teasing him and give in, stoking the hidden desires lying dormant inside her.
She almost laughed at the irony of it all … that for him to go against her wishes would have been exactly what she’d wanted … even if she hadn’t realized it at the time. She truly was sick … and the disease affecting her had a name.
Lord Adam Callahan.
“I think that would be fine,” she relented.
It would not do to string him along. When he came to visit, she would let him down gently—tell him that even though she had fond memories of their time together, she simply could not marry him.
She just did not think she had it in her to tell him exactly why.
His smile was blinding in its joy, making her heart sink even lower into the pit of her gut. He expected her to accept his proposal, seeming all but certain that he’d have her. She felt like the worst sort of person for what she was about to do to him.
“I am looking forward to it,” he said.
After that, they spent the rest of their time engaging in small talk. He asked about her new home, and she told him how much she’d enjoyed her independence thus far, hoping it would serve as a hint of how she would answer his inevitable question. He did not seem to notice, telling her about the suite of rooms he’d rented since his mother had elected to remain behind at their country estate. He asked after Bertram, and she swiftly changed the subject to the Bellinghams’ musicale and the pieces she’d played.
By the time their second dance had ended, they’d exhausted every topic outside of the massive elephant taking up space between them. But then, they would have to wait until they had privacy tomorrow to discuss that. He left her with a kiss upon the hand and his promise to call upon her at ten in the morning.
She turned away as he was swallowed up by the crowd, only to find herself confronted with the front of a man’s stark, black waistcoat. Her heart lurched as the scent of cedar and cigar smoke wrapped itself around her, and the heat emanating off the broad body blocking her view of the rest of the room made her skin flush.
Lifting her gaze to meet his, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her heart taking up a rapid cadence against her breastbone. He grinned at her, that primal motion of lips and flashing of teeth that made her feel as if she were about to be devoured. And she could only stand, trapped in his thrall like some helpless animal about to have its throat torn out by its predator. If he’d decided to sink his teeth into her shoulder just now, she would not have fought him. She would have gone weak in the knees and clung to his neck, letting him bite and taste her until the ache in his gut eased, until he’d had his fill.
“Are you ready to perform for your adoring public, little dove?” he teased, offering her his hand.
It was time for their waltz.
She felt eyes on them, even the couples who gathered around them to partner for the waltz unable to tame their curiosity. Placing her hand in his, she acquiesced with a nod. He used her hand to pull her toward him, molding their bodies together from chest to hip while wrapping his arm around her waist. She bit back a moan at the things his proximity did to her, making the tips of her breasts go hard and her womb pool with liquid heat. His cock flared to life between them, pulsing with blood, throbbing with promise. It was all-too potent a reminder that she hadn’t had that long, hard length inside of her the last time they’d been together. Her inner channel clenched with longing, that primitive part of her not caring what he’d done or who he was—simply recognizing him as her counterpart.
There must have been music, because then, he was twirling her, spinning her about in that hypnotic sway and dip that so characterized the waltz. The world around them whirled, the little pinpoints of candlelight blurring together.
“They love you almost as much as they hate you, you know,” he murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on hers as they moved, back and forth, round and round. “These people … the women, especially. They want to despise you, but they can’t quite manage it. You are too beautiful … too enchanting … too mysterious.”
She lowered her gaze to his tiepin, a huge chunk of black onyx stabbed through the snowy white linen of his cravat. “Is that how you feel about me? You hate me?”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating and resounding from his body and echoing through hers. “What makes you think I hate you, little dove? I have no reason to hate you … even when you vex me to no end. Even when you refuse me.”
She glanced back up at him. “It is the queerest thing … I cannot seem to hate you, either, even when you give me every reason to.”
What was she doing? What was she saying?
It must be the music, or the dizzying feeling of the waltz, or the champagne she’d drunk, or …
She could not fight whatever it might be. It made her reckless.
She might as well proclaim out loud that she loved him.
The notion was so ridiculous, she almost burst out laughing.
“I could not blame you if you did,” he murmured. “But it would not stop me from claiming what’s mine in the end.”
She raised her eyebrows at him in challenge. “Yours?”
“Aye, little dove,” he confirmed. “You. You are mine. What I cannot understand is why you continue to fight it.”
“Perhaps it might have something to do with you moving into Fairchild House,” she countered. “Or your trotting me out to Hyde Park and waltzing with me tonight … your inability to see past your disdain for my family. It is over for me now … I simply wish to move on.”
His hand tightened around hers, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “It will never be over for me. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “I do. Which is why I cannot accept your offer. Aside from the fact that I have no wish to be any man’s mistress, I simply cannot allow you to turn my entire life into your battlefield.”
The hand at her back tightened, his fingers digging into the curve of her waist. “Fairchild House … it could be yours. You could live there again. I’ll give you whatever you want. A harp in every room, a stable full of horses to ride, swords to fence with … name it, little dove, and it is yours. What more could I promise to get you to accept my offer?”
The one thing you could never give.
Aloud, she simply said, “There is nothing you could offer, Adam. I have made up my mind.”
His arm tightened even more, making it difficult to breathe. He was practically carrying her across the floor now, her feet barely touching the tiles as they whirled. Her lungs burned, and her breasts tingled, the valley between her thighs aching, pulsating.
“Damn you, Daphne,” he growled. “You are making it difficult for me to be reasonable about this. I’ve tried to act the gentleman, I’ve tried to give you time to come to terms with it … but I am done. I do not have to give you anything to claim you, to own you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed, all-too aware of how true that statement was. Just as he had in that alley, or in her drawing room, he could have her at any time, lower her defenses with nothing more than the touch of his hand or the brush of his lips. And even if she fought, she would always lose.
“Please,” she pleaded, not caring about the blow to her pride caused by being forced to beg. “I just want to move forward with my life. If you care about me at all … if you have even the smallest shred of affection for me … you will let me go.”
His nostrils flared, green flames igniting in his eyes as he lowered his head until they were almost nose to nose. His breath huffed against her cheek, and his scent became so strong, she almost swooned. Christ, she was a pitiful creature.
“Never,” he growled. “Do you understand, little dove? I will never let you go.”
Defeat washed over her, and she deflated as the dance ended and he held her for a moment longer before putting her back on her feet. The other couples applauded the music and smiled at one another before going off in search of refreshment and their next dance partner. But they stood that way for a long moment, simply staring at each other, Adam’s face a study in stubborn willfulness.
“Run if you please,” he murmured after a moment, lowering his head and pressing his mouth to her ear. “I will chase you. Fight me … you know how easily I can subdue you. Beg me … please, beg me. I love it when you beg. But, Daphne, you will be mine, and that is all there is to it.”
With that, he was gone, turning away from her and shouldering his way through the crowd. She could see in the tension of his shoulders and the tight curl of his fists that he stood on the edge of his control. If they had not been in the middle of a crowded ballroom, he would have taken her to the floor, lifted her skirts, and impaled her.
Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and turned to go in the opposite direction. She still had several dances on her card, but hoped that if she feigned a headache, she might be able to duck out of the ballroom early. A hired hack could have her home in a quarter of an hour.
Coming out had been a mistake, and now, all she wanted was to hide away, find even a brief moment of solitude before Adam delivered on his ultimatum. For deliver, he would.
The crowd parted to let her through, though the murmurs and whispers seemed to build and swell. She glanced up, her brow furrowing as she registered the sudden shift in the room’s energy, feeling it the moment dozens of eyes locked onto her.
One woman sniffed and raised her nose in the air, muttering ‘hussy’ under her breath before stomping away in a huff. A few young debutantes gaped at her openmouthed, their innocent eyes wide and their cheeks flushed. Several men gave her lascivious glances, leaving no doubt as to their intentions.
Her stomach churned, dread building and swelling as she began to realize that something was terribly wrong here. This was not the curiosity and amusement she’d inspired upon first coming into the room. They’d all turned on her in the length of a dance, and she could not be certain if it was because Adam had displayed familiarity so openly, or some other reason.
“Pardon me,” she murmured, trying to get through the crowd faster, to get to one of the doors. She could not fight the instinct to run as far and fast from this room as possible.
She was brought up short when a man stepped into her path. Recognition dawned as he smiled at her—one of the men who had signed her dance card when she’d first arrived. The polite interest he’d worn when first meeting her had turned to something else—something that made her skin crawl and bile rise up in the back of her throat.
“Lady Daphne,” he said, his sly grin widening as he leaned closer … far too close. “It is time for our dance. Though if you are amenable, we may dispense with the pleasantries and cut right to the chase. If ten thousand pounds could earn me thirty nights, perhaps fifty quid would cover one?”
She gasped as if he’d slapped her, rearing away from him as if avoiding the bite of a snake. “How dare you?”
The man pursed his lips, annoyance flickering in his gaze. “Play coy, will you? What’s the matter, my lady? I’m good for it, I can assure you, and it’s far more than the leavings of that ill-bred Hartmoor ought to be worth.”
She went cold, the tips of her fingers and toes numb, all the blood rushing straight to her head and making her dizzy. She felt as if she would collapse then and there, the unrelenting torrent of shame and embarrassment threatening to drag her under.
Suddenly, a hand was on her arm, pulling her into the shelter of another male body.
“Come, Daphne,” he murmured close to her ear. “We must leave … now. Let me see you home.”
Robert.
She turned to find him staring down at her with pity in his eyes, though a frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. She could feel others closing in on them—some with gazes filled with disdain, others curiosity, more of them proving to be men who would surely make the same despicable sort of offer she’d just received.
Left with no choice, she nodded, remaining silent as Robert pulled her through the crowd, his tone clipped and strained as he begged the pardon of everyone in their path.
He stopped to procure her wrap from a servant before leading her out onto the front steps of the townhouse. She sucked in a mouthful of clean, cold night air, the tears that she’d been holding back finally spilling, heating her cheeks.
Robert grasped her shoulders and peered down at her, concern creasing his brow. “Daphne, are you all right?”
Shaking her head, she gasped for air, suddenly feeling as if she would faint. “I … I do not understand.”
He kneaded her shoulders, trying to pull her close, to comfort her. She bristled, squirming away from him and trying to get herself under control. Inside, the muffled sounds of the ball continued—the music, the conversation. Out here, she felt as if her entire world had crumbled into bits of dirt and ash around her.
“Daphne …”
“They’re all talking about me and looking me like … like I’m some foul creature,” she managed between rough pants, her heart refusing to slow, her blood rushing and making her skin tingle with the urge to run and hide, to escape whatever was coming her way. “I do not understand what happened.”
Robert sighed, running a hand over his jaw and looking away. He did not want to tell her whatever it was; that much became clear. Putting her hands against his chest, she pushed him, startling him out of his reverie, forcing him to confront her.
“Damn it, Robert, I am not a fragile piece of glass!” she bellowed. “I need to know what is happening. If you know, you must tell me, now!”
Recovering from the shock of her sudden outburst, he nodded and sighed, taking her arm once more. “Come with me. I will see you home, and we can discuss it in the carriage.
His vehicle was pulling up across the street, waiting for them. She had no choice but to follow, to let him guide her down the stairs and between rows of other carriages clogging the lane. She needed to know what was going on, and all the better if she did not have to wait for a hackney coach.
A footman opened the door, and Robert gave her a hand up, climbing in after her.
“Your address?” he asked.
She gave it to him, and once it had been conveyed to the coachman, the door was slamming and they were on their way. The vehicle swayed, moonlight bouncing around the interior, partially blocked by half-open curtains. Robert’s blond hair gleamed like a halo in the light, his hands folded tightly in his lap. They shook, as if he were as disturbed by what had just happened as she was.
“A group of young men arrived during your waltz with Hartmoor,” he said without preamble, raising his head to meet her gaze. “They had just come from some club … they seemed to be quite foxed.”
Daphne clenched her teeth, biting back a sharp retort. She wanted to tell him to get on with it already, but held her tongue and waited with baited breath.
“They started whispering the rumor the moment they arrived, clearly too drunk to think of discretion,” he continued. “It began to spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the ballroom by the time the waltz had ended. When the news reached me, I knew I had to get to you … to get you out of there, before … before …”
He flushed, seeming to choke on the last word. Whatever it was had truly worked him into a state.
“What, Robert?” she cried, clutching the edge of her seat, her fingers digging into the fabric. “What news?”
His voice trembled when he finally said the words. “They are saying that Hartmoor paid ten thousand pounds to bed you … that you went to Dunnottar and struck up a deal with him. Your virtue in exchange for the funds.”
For a long moment, she did not speak. She did not so much as make a sound. Something began building inside of her—something dark and hot, raging in her belly and licking at her insides like tongues of fire. But, she could not seem to release it, to let it out. She stared numbly at Robert for a long while, lips parted, words perched on the tip of her tongue.
After he seemed to realize she suffered the effects of shock, he leaned across the space between them, taking both her hands between them.
“We can mend this, Daphne,” he insisted. “The gossip is spreading, but … well, I wanted to do this tomorrow morning. I wanted it to be romantic and proper, but there isn’t time.
Releasing her hands, he reached into his inner coat pocket, retrieving a small wooden box.
Horror finally overcame her other emotions as he opened it to reveal a ring … a modest sapphire set in gold.
“Robert,” she croaked, her throat still so tight, she could hardly take in air.
“Daphne,” he replied breathlessly, as if nerves now got the best of him. “Marry me. Now, tonight. We can leave now and reach Gretna Green by morning. The gossip may continue, but marriage will protect you from the resulting fallout. It will make you respectable.”
She blinked, her vision blurring as the carriage seemed to tilt and spin. Her palms grew damp, and she could not make heads nor tails of her feelings. All she knew was that this was all wrong. None of it was happening the way it was supposed to. She was supposed to be prepared to turn him down.
Now, he was offering for her at the absolute worst moment … as well as the absolute best. It would solve all her problems, would it not? A respectable husband who could whisk her away to the country and out of Adam’s reach. One whose good name would replace her tarnished one and bring her back into the fold. She might not live an exciting life with him, but she could be safe. At peace.
And, yet …
“I cannot marry you just to salvage my reputation,” she protested weakly.
“Then marry me because I love you!” he roared, his raised voice fairly shaking the carriage. “Damn it all, Daphne, have some sense, for once.”
At the murderous glare she gave him in reaction to that remark, he winced.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lowering his voice. “I did not mean that the way I said it. It is just … I’ve wanted this for so long, and I need you to know that my feelings have not changed. That blackguard, Hartmoor, he took advantage of you. He knew you were desperate, and he preyed on you like the beast he is.”
No, she thought. No, that isn’t how it happened at all.
“I … I don’t know,” she stammered, glancing at him, then back down at the ring—which he promptly shoved into her hands. “Robert, everything is happening so fast and I … I am not certain what I wish to do.”
He nodded, leaning back in his seat with a sigh. “Then you are refusing me?”
She forced a smile she did not feel and shook her head. “Of course not. I just … I cannot rush off to Gretna Green without thinking things through. Can you understand that, Robert? I need time to think.”
“Of course I understand,” he replied. “It is just … I want to make this go away for you. I want to help the only way I know how.”
This time, her smile was genuine because, even though she could not love him the way he might want, she did think him a good man. A kind one. If she married him, they’d have a partnership based on respect and admiration, if nothing else.
She extended the box back to him, but he shook his head, refusing to take it.
“Keep it,” he told her. “Until you’ve decided. When you come to tell me you’ve accepted my proposal, I hope you’ll be wearing it. I’ve been carrying it on my person since I arrived in town … hoping ...”
Glancing down at the glittering sapphire, she nodded. “Very well. It is a lovely ring, Robert.”
“For your eyes,” he told her. “They are that exact shade of blue.”
She could not find the words to respond, but found she did not need to. They had arrived at her townhome, the carriage rolling to a stop. Robert opened the door for her and leapt down, before helping her to the ground. Closing the ring box, she held it in one fist while he kissed her opposite hand.
“Call on me the moment you have decided,” he told her. “Or for any other reason. Day or night.”
“I will,” she promised him. “Thank you, Robert.”
She leaned in to kiss his cheek, deciding it was the least she could do after the kindness he had shown her this evening. He took advantage of her proximity and gripped her chin with a gentle hand, ducking his head to capture her lips.
Tender … oh, so sweet … romantic.
It was everything a kiss between lovers should be—soft and sweet, with just the lightest taste of his tongue.
And Daphne cursed herself for not being able to enjoy it, for wanting things Robert was not capable of.
Still, she let him drink from her mouth, let him cup her face and stroke her cheek and all the things he wanted. She owed him as much knowing what he was willing to do for her. She was grateful when it was over, glad that he, at least, seemed satisfied by the kiss.
“Good night, Daphne,” he murmured.
He gave her another, shorter, kiss before stepping back and allowing her to go inside.
Rowney stood in the doorway, watching with open curiosity as she bid Robert good night, then turned to scale the front steps. As the carriage pulled away, she swept into the vestibule, handing her wrap off to a footman.
“I trust you had a pleasant evening, my lady?” Rowney asked.
“It was … quite eventful,” she replied. “But it is not over yet. I am going back out right away. I will need a hackney coach summoned while I change my clothes.”
Rowney frowned, staring after her in disbelief. “My lady, where could you mean to go at this hour?”
That feeling in her belly flared hot once again, now that the shock of Robert’s proposal had worn off. Now, she would not be able to rest until she’d unleashed it upon the person responsible for it … for ruining what remained of her life.
“I’m going to Fairchild House,” she declared, before marching up the stairs like a soldier going off to prepare for battle.