How the Lady Was Won

by Shana Galen

  That must have been her breaking point because she slammed the glass down, sloshing the contents on the table. She took a deep breath, perhaps to compose herself. “I do not want you here, Mr. FitzRoy. I want you to go back to wherever you were and leave me alone.”

  “I can’t. The other night you all but confirmed you are in trouble, and I’ll have no peace until I rescue you from it.”

  “You never cared if I was in any trouble before.”

  “Perhaps I’ve changed.”

  She gave him a long assessing look, and he felt the skin under his collar heat. Her gaze still intent, she stepped forward. They were quite close now, and he could smell the champagne on her breath and the tart, fruity scent of...something familiar. It was probably her perfume, but he liked to think of it as wafting from the flower-shaped bows on her gown. “You haven’t changed.”

  It unnerved him how easily she saw through him.

  “And I do not need you to rescue me. I am perfectly capable of taking care of the problem on my own.”

  “So you admit there is a problem.”

  “I do, and that problem is you!” she shouted. The color in her cheeks was high and her eyes bright. Her chest heaved as she gulped in air.

  She looked magnificent.

  “Why are you so out of sorts?” he drawled.

  Her jaw dropped and she all but hissed. “Because I have built a life these past seven years without you. Then here you come, like a toddler who sees a block tower and knocks it down without a thought. You are ruining everything!”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “You would say that. I’ve known you and your family since childhood. You like everything calm and composed, sterile and emotionless. Well, I am not emotionless, and I am feeling one emotion very strongly right now.” She moved even closer, and he had the urge to step back—that or take her into his arms and show her...what? She had described him accurately. “Do you know what emotion I am feeling right now?” she asked. He pretended to study her and contemplate. Her cheeks were pink, her chest heaved, exposing the pale flesh of her breasts, and her blue eyes burned into him. He did not think it was the same emotion he was feeling.

  “I’ll answer if you do,” he said.

  She tossed her head. “Ha! Who can ever tell what you are feeling? I don’t even think you have feelings.”

  “They may be primitive and embryonic, but I have them. If you can tell me what I am feeling right now, I will defer to your anger”—he paused to make certain she knew he had acknowledged her emotion—“and leave.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you’ll take the brute with you?”

  “Yes.” Colin couldn’t really make that promise. Duncan did what he wanted, and Colin certainly didn’t have the strength to make him leave if he chose to stay. It didn’t matter. She’d never guess what he felt. He’d made a career out of playing a part, schooling his features, remaining dispassionate even while everyone else was panicking.

  “And as a gentleman, if I guess you will tell me the truth.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Very well.” She tilted her head to one side, the silvery curl she’d worn trailing down from her elaborate coiffure sliding over her shoulder and along her arm as she did so. He stood very still as she studied him, but his skin warmed as her gaze slid over it. First his eyes, then his mouth, then his lips; his throat, back to his eyes. Thank God she hadn’t looked lower. She would have guessed easily.

  She tapped a finger to her rosy lips, and he couldn’t drag his gaze from that finger.

  “You are feeling...smug.” She smiled, quite smugly.

  “No.”

  Her smile dropped, and anger flashed in her eyes. She really couldn’t keep anything she felt hidden. He could read her like a child’s primer.

  “Then what?”

  “Shall I show you?”

  “You? Show an emotion? By all means.”

  He didn’t wait for another invitation. He snagged her around the waist, pulled her close, and pressed his body against hers. She was warm, as though there really was a fire burning within her, producing all the glorious color infusing her skin. She gasped, and he supposed she had felt his erection. One hand slid up her arm, the silky strands of her curl tickling his skin, until he cupped the back of her neck. He looked down at her, his gaze flicking to her mouth and then her eyes. Her eyes were wide with surprise, but they’d also gone dark with desire. He didn’t know when she’d last been kissed—an hour before or seven years ago—but he had not kissed anyone since her, and that was a very, very long time ago.

  He lowered his mouth to hers, capturing her lips slowly to allow her time to turn and give him her cheek. She didn’t move, and his lips tasted hers without any hesitation. He knew what he wanted, and he took it, opening her mouth and deepening the kiss so he could taste the champagne she’d drank. She was compliant and soft in his arms, her body relaxing against him, as his mouth took hers. Her hands clutched at his bicep, and when he slid his tongue along the roof of her mouth, she gave a small moan.

  That moan almost undid him. Except he was not an impatient young man any longer. He had her wanting him as much as he wanted her, and he wanted to leave her wanting.

  Colin pulled back, keeping his arm around her to make certain she didn’t stumble. She tried to pull him back, to kiss him again, but he edged away. “Do you know what emotion I am feeling now?” he asked, echoing her earlier question.

  She nodded.

  “I’m pleased we sorted that out.” He stepped away from her and straightened the sleeves of his coat. “And since I am a gentleman, I will honor your request and leave the musicale. I’ll take Mr. Murray with me, but I may have to promise him you’ll introduce him to a chit at some other point.” He raised a brow in question.

  She nodded again, still staring at him.

  “Good night, my lady.” He walked out, closing the door behind him. Several of the footmen were still standing on the other side of the door, and they turned to go back inside. Colin shook his head slightly. “Give my wife just a moment. She’s a bit out of breath.”

  And then he walked away. Truth be told, he was out of breath himself. He’d always known he would have to deal with his wife again one day, but he never thought he would find any pleasure in it.

  Perhaps he had been wrong.

  “DAPHNE,” HER FATHER said, awakening her from her thoughts as she sat in the morning room embroidering. Well, she was holding her embroidery. She hadn’t actually embroidered anything. Her mother and aunt were chatting away, quite ignoring Daphne, but at the duke’s entrance, all conversation ceased.

  Daphne looked at her father and frowned. She couldn’t imagine why he was waving the paper at her.

  “Is this true?” he demanded. He was a short man, just a little over five and a half feet, but he had a commanding presence. His hair was white and curled about his face, until it merged into side whiskers that extended to the base of his jaw. She had his eyes, and right now his were a too-bright blue.

  She glanced at the paper he held, not able to see anything but the title. “I didn’t know you read the Morning Chronicle,” she said.

  He crossed the room and slammed the paper on the couch beside her. Her embroidery bounced off her lap, but she ignored it and lifted the paper.

  “What is it, Your Grace?” the duchess asked. The duke ignored her and pointed to the paper.

  “Page three,” he told Daphne.

  Daphne lifted the paper and turned the pages until she reached the third page. Nothing jumped out at her, but by habit she glanced at Mrs. Tattle’s Tidbits and Titterings column. She did like to keep up on all the titterings as the Ladies Isabella and Pavenley were sure to mention them.

  With a shock, she saw her own name there—not a mention of the Three Suns. She was often mentioned in that way, but she’d been singled out this morning.

  Lady D— and her estranged husband shared a breathless tete-a-tete at Lady R—’s musicale
last night. One person who was nearby said the gentleman emerged from the servant’s chambers tousled and counseled that the lady needed a moment to catch her breath. Is it a bit warm in here, dear reader?

  Daphne felt her cheeks flush hot, and to avoid having to look at her father, who had surely read the same column, she read it again. Lord, but she hated Mrs. Tattle.

  “Care to comment?” her father drawled.

  Daphne shook her head.

  “What does it say?” her mother asked.

  The duke glanced at his wife. “Only that your daughter was having a liaison with Mr. FitzRoy in the servant’s chambers at Rosemont’s musicale last night.”

  Her aunt covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, but her mother did not hold back. “Daphne, really! Have we not raised you better than that?”

  She wished the couch would open up and allow her to slide underneath. “Mr. FitzRoy and I were having a private word. That is all.” Mostly. “And I should think the real scandal is that Mama sent FitzRoy to follow me like a puppy, not that I was in a room alone with my own husband.”

  Now her mother’s cheeks blushed pink. Daphne was quite satisfied to see it.

  “I was only trying to do what was best for you,” the duchess replied stiffy.

  Daphne rose. “I do not need you to interfere in my marriage.”

  “What marriage?” her mother asked. “You and FitzRoy never even speak.”

  This was true, but Daphne did not wish her mother to point it out. “You might have spoken to me about it instead of seeing him without my knowledge.”

  The duchess rose now too. “I would not have had to resort to such measures if you would do as I suggested and go to see him when he first returned from the war.”

  “I will not chase after him. And you, Mama, had no right to tell him I was in trouble.”

  “Trouble?” the duke’s brow furrowed. “What kind of trouble and why was I not informed?”

  Now her mother gave the duke a look full of exasperation. “Warcliffe, the trouble is if Daphne and Mr. FitzRoy do not mend fences soon, the entire ton will be talking about it. There is only so much even I can do to keep the gossips at bay.”

  The duke pointed to the paper. “Articles like that will only flame the gossip. But that is not the only gossip. Last night, I heard your name mentioned in the same sentence as Lord Battersea’s,” her father said, his blue eyes narrowing. “Daphne, I have told you to stay clear of Lord Battersea. He’s a bad sort.”

  Oh, she knew that well enough. “I do stay clear of Lord Battersea.”

  “But I have seen you in conversation with him,” the duchess objected. “And then you still gave me no account for the times you have gone out and no one knew where you were and you came home at all hours.”

  “I am sure those are simply misunderstandings,” Daphne said. She hadn’t realized her mother paid that much attention. “That is no reason to go to FitzRoy and tell him to follow me to see what sort of trouble I am in. I am in no trouble.”

  Her mother crossed her arms over her chest. “What about your dress allowance?”

  “What of it? It’s the Season. I must have new dresses.”

  “I agree,” her mother said. Then she pointed to Daphne’s rose-pink dress with its dozen bows at the hem. “Then why are you wearing dresses from two Seasons ago?”

  Daphne looked down at the dress. “I like this dress.”

  “That may be but where has your dress allowance gone if not to buy new gowns?”

  The duke raised a hand and Daphne’s retort died on her lips.

  “I can tolerate no more talk of gowns or silks or lace. Daphne, answer me this, are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “No.” It was nothing she could not handle herself.

  “Good.” He looked at his wife. “You may cease worrying about the matter.”

  “Warcliffe—”

  He held up a hand again. “However, you are right to show concern for her marriage. When FitzRoy was away on the Continent, his absence was unavoidable. And then when he joined that troop, we all thought he would be killed, and Daphne would marry again. I suppose we began to think of you as a widow.”

  Her aunt nodded her head, obviously agreeing.

  “But you are not a widow, and your husband has been home almost two years. I myself have heard the talk about you and FitzRoy, but I chose to ignore it and give you time to remedy the situation on your own.”

  This Daphne knew was not true. Her father hated FitzRoy and his entire family, and he was happy to pretend her husband didn’t exist as long as possible.

  “But as you have not remedied the situation, we will take matters into our own hands.”

  Daphne absolutely hated when her father began speaking in the royal “we.” He might be a duke, but he was not the king.

  “We will invite Mr. FitzRoy to dinner and discuss the matter. Mary”—he looked at his wife—“I leave the arrangements to you. Daphne...” He sighed. “I expect your full cooperation.”

  And with that pronouncement, he strode out of the room. Daphne watched him go and then when her mother and aunt tried to speak to her, walked out as well. Back in her room, she sat at her dressing table and stared in the mirror. She supposed she had always known that things could not go on as they were forever. She was a married woman, and while she enjoyed the freedom and privileges that gave her—no chaperones, no marriage proposals—some of that freedom would inevitably end now that her husband was back from the war.

  They had said their vows before God, and they were stuck together forever. At one time that idea would have thrilled her. She’d thought Colin FitzRoy the most handsome, most mysterious man she had ever met. He was taciturn and silent, and when she’d been eighteen, she’d thought that romantic.

  She’d also thought his personality would change once they were married. She planned to tell him everything, and he would tell her everything. They would share secrets and confidences, not to mention do the things ladies were not supposed to know about.

  But her wedding night had quickly disabused her of that ideal of marriage. Not only had Colin shown no interest in talking to her or getting to know her, he’d shown no interest in bedding her. He’d done the act, almost as though it were a chore, and then he’d left her.

  She’d lain in bed, alone, wondering what she had done wrong. She’d wondered too why the poets and playwrights wrote about bedsport in such lofty terms. It had hurt, and she had felt no pleasure in it. She could not even be certain FitzRoy had felt pleasure. She certainly didn’t care if she ever did it again.

  And FitzRoy had not come to her again.

  The day after their wedding night, he’d left her father’s house on business. He said he had much to do to prepare to go to war. She saw him a few more times after that, and she tried to speak to him, to find out more about him, to try and forge some relationship with him. Before he left to join his regimen, she’d planned to tell him that she loved him. She’d never had the chance.

  He’d been cold and remote and uninterested in speaking about anything beyond the prescribed topics of conversation. He’d left without a good-bye, and she hadn’t seen him again until the ball the other night.

  Now, she was glad she had not told him she loved him. She’d been such a child then. She hadn’t even known what she was feeling. It hadn’t been love. It was merely infatuation. But she could well imagine what his response would have been if she had said she loved him. He would have said thank you or that’s nice. He hadn’t loved her back—not then and not now. He had made it quite clear he did not want her, and that had hurt most of all.

  But after last night, she was no longer certain he didn’t want her. She’d known nothing of men when she’d been a debutante. She knew a bit more after seven years in the company of the debauched wives of the ton. Colin might not love her, but he did desire her. That was clear enough from his behavior at the musicale. Why? Why now?

  She looked at herself in the mirror, trying to see herself as
he might. She was no longer eighteen, but five and twenty was not so old. She bared her teeth, which were good, and moved her nose this way and that to ensure it was straight.

  Daphne’s hands then trailed down to her lips. She had thought of the kiss they’d shared almost without respite since arriving home last night. She wished she could give him a taste of his own medicine and reject him as he’d rejected her all those years. But to her annoyance, she had enjoyed the kiss. She’d melted inside and kissed him back. She’d even wanted him to kiss her again. She might even want him to do more than kiss her, except she knew the end result was nothing to shout about. And even if she were to tolerate his bedding her, that alone would not give them any sort of marriage. Marriage to him would be like marrying a rock. Except the rock had more feelings.

  It wasn’t a life Daphne wanted for herself...even if it was an option. But she couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine—in her marriage or in her life. She was in trouble, a lot of trouble, and she could only blame herself for that.

  Four

  “There she is,” Duncan said, pointing across Bond Street to a figure in pink exiting a modiste’s shop. “Does the lass always wear pink?”

  Colin nodded. “Always. Pink and bows.”

  Duncan tilted his head. “I doona see the bows.”

  “Look by her feet. There must be a dozen on the material there.”

  “Aye. You’re right.” The two men moved away from the wall and began to follow her on the opposite side of the street. “Why does she dress like she’s six?”

  It had seemed natural enough when they’d been younger, but Colin wondered why her style had not changed at all. “I think it’s because it makes her look sweet and harmless. She lulls her prey into submission then strikes when one isn’t expecting it.”

  Duncan gave him a sidelong look. “Are we still speaking of the lass?”

  “You’ll see,” Colin said.

  Duncan shrugged. “I only hope there are other ladies as fearless as you make her oot to be. The lass I was introduced to last night began to cry when I offered to fetch her lemonade.”