On the contrary, he'd simply wanted to try to mitigate any hard feelings Eleanor bore him so they could put the discomfiting past behind them. That, and to ascertain how serious her feelings for Prince Lazzara were.
So why in hell did you succumb to the fierce urge to taste her lips again? Damon wondered dryly. You should know better than to play with live coals.
Yet despite the risk of being burned, he couldn't regret kissing her. Her mouth was everything he remembered and more. She was everything he remembered: vibrant, lush, alive with a warm radiance that still had the power to captivate him.
Eleanor Pierce fired his blood more than any woman ever had, and possibly ever would. She had intoxicated him tonight, just as she had two years ago-
Damon felt the carriage rock as his portly friend, Mr. Otto Geary, settled heavily on the leather squabs beside him.
“Thank the saints that ostentatious display is over and done with,” Otto declared with a relieved sigh as the carriage pulled away from Carlton House. “I beg you never to drag me to another of these tedious, priggish affairs ever again.”
Forcibly shifting his thoughts away from Eleanor, Damon curved his mouth wryly at his friend's complaint. “You know very well why I ‘dragged’ you here tonight. To get you away from your hospital for a few waking moments. Otherwise you would bury yourself there with your patients. No doubt you did so for the entire two years I was away.”
When Otto tugged at the swaths of his formal cravat, a shock of bright red hair fell into his eyes. “I am perfectly content to bury myself with my patients. The ton, on the other hand… I don't know how you bear it, Damon. I fancied you had little fondness for Prinny.”
“You fancy correctly, but His Royal Highness can provide you with advantages I cannot. And since he covets my support in financing his many pleasures, he is willing to lend his patronage to your endeavors as a favor to me.”
Otto sighed again. “ ‘Tis a blasted shame it takes a bloody fortune to run a hospital.”
Damon understood quite well how expensive operating a private hospital could be, since he had supplied a significant portion of his own fortune to first fund Otto's medical studies and then help him to establish the Marlebone Hospital in northern London some half dozen years ago.
Through hard work, dedication, and sheer brilliance, Otto Geary had become one of England's most respected physicians. But the Regent's patronage could garner him even more respect-and more crucially, support and charitable contributions from wealthy British society.
“I doubt, however,” Otto said leadingly, “that securing the Regent's patronage for me was the only reason you came tonight.”
In the light of the carriage lamp, Damon saw his friend studying him. “What other reason could there be?” he hedged.
“Because you are enamored of a particular genteel young lady, perhaps?”
“When have I ever been enamored of a young lady?”
“Two years ago, in fact.” When Damon sent him a penetrating glance, Otto went on with amusement. “You have been uncommonly restless and irritable for the past four days, my good man. I can see it, even if you pretend otherwise. If I had to make a diagnosis, I would say your symptoms were due to the anticipation of seeing Lady Eleanor again.”
An ironic smile pulled at Damon's lips. “How the devil did you guess?”
Otto laughed. “You forget I know you too well, old chap.”
Damon couldn't deny the statement. They had met long ago under grim circumstances, when Otto had taken over the deathbed care of Damon's sixteen-year-old twin brother, Joshua.
“Lady Eleanor is exceptionally beautiful, I must say,” Otto probed. “Did you manage to speak to her tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And? Is that all you mean to tell me?”
“There is nothing more to tell.” Damon had no intention of explaining his feelings for Eleanor, particularly when he wasn't certain exactly what he felt for her now.
“You cannot be happy that Prince Lazzara is courting her,” Otto stated.
That was emphatically true. Upon hearing that Eleanor was being wooed by the Italian prince, Damon had returned to England a week sooner than originally planned. He'd rightly wanted to protect her from being hurt by Lazzara's libertine propensities… although he was hard-pressed to justify the savage surge of jealousy he'd felt at seeing her together with the handsome noble tonight, since he had absolutely no claim on her any longer.
“No, I am not happy about it,” he acknowledged in a low voice.
Otto pursed his lips in a frown. “You should take care, Damon. You would do well to keep away from the lady entirely. You do not want to give her or anyone else a false impression about your intentions by showing too much interest in her.”
“I bow to your superior wisdom,” Damon returned, making light of the moment. Yet he was in full agreement with his friend's advice.
Eleanor was compelling, dangerous, addictive. She had left a deep mark on him, so deep that for the past two years he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind. Indeed, since those few exhilarating weeks of their brief courtship ended, his life had seemed as bland as blancmange pudding, despite the excitement of his travels and the satisfaction of achieving several long-held ambitions.
Damon's frown returned as he averted his head to gaze out the carriage window at the dark streets of London. Until tonight, he'd convinced himself he had conquered his feelings of ardor for Elle. Perhaps that was partly why he had kissed her, because he'd had some vague notion of proving to himself that he was over her. Yet his ill-advised experiment had confirmed just the opposite.
The sparks between them still burned as hot as ever-which made her supremely dangerous to his resolution to keep away from her.
It was probably fortunate that Eleanor was still furious at him for the way he'd treated her. She was unlikely ever to forgive him for his transgressions during their betrothal.
He deeply regretted hurting her and knew he was fully to blame for the entire painful affair. He also knew he never should have proposed marriage to her in the first place, since he couldn't give her what she wanted.
Admittedly, he'd been bowled over by the high-spirited raven-haired beauty with the quick wit and warm laugh. Eleanor had totally set him on his ear when they first met. She'd made him feel truly alive again for one of the first times since his family's deaths. What was more inexplicable was the uncanny bond he felt with her, a closeness almost as powerful as the one he'd shared with his twin.
Which was the prime reason, Damon conceded, that he'd impulsively asked for her hand in marriage. That and the fact that he had wanted her so badly, he was afraid he might take his desire beyond mere kisses and dishonor her if he didn't legitimize his passion with matrimony.
Her shy, sweet declaration of love the next week, however, had stunned him. As soon as he realized how ardent Eleanor's feelings for him had grown- and comprehended how perilously intense his own attraction to her had become-he'd taken steps to end their relationship. He hadn't wanted to compound her pain any further by letting her fall in love with him more deeply, rationalizing that the sooner he made her break off, the sooner she would recover.
You should let the past be a warning to you, an insistent voice in his head admonished. Otto was right, Damon knew; he ought to keep far away from Eleanor. And practically speaking, now that he had seen her again, he should be able to move on with his life.
Except that he felt uneasy leaving her as a target for Prince Lazzara, a charming Lothario who was possibly a fortune hunter and most certainly a rake. In Italy, Lazzara had not only left a trail of broken hearts, he'd ruined a woman of good family and refused to take responsibility.
Damon didn't think Lazzara would actually besmirch Eleanor, since her family and social connections were so powerful. He was worried, however, that the prince could hurt Eleanor just as he himself had done-that she would fall in love and wed Laz-zara and then be devastated by his infidelities.
Damon's mouth curled at the corner. He suspected that in addition to protecting Eleanor, he wanted to salve his own conscience, to absolve his guilt in some measure.
Wishing to take his mind off her, he was glad when Otto changed the subject to speak about his pet topic, his precious hospital. Nor did Damon regret being left to himself when the carriage set the preeminent physician down at his lodgings in Marlebone near the hospital and then proceeded on to the Wrexham mansion in Cavendish Square in Mayfair, London's most fashionable district and home of many of the aristocracy.
The house had been in Damon's family for several generations, but the empty quiet that greeted him as he entered bore little resemblance to the memories of his childhood. The corridors had rung with laughter when he and Joshua were boys.
Now those corridors seemed painfully empty and only echoed the grief he'd felt at age sixteen when he lost his beloved twin brother to consumption, a ravaging lung disease with no cure.
His twin's death had dealt Damon a powerful blow, since the two of them had been as close as shadows. Losing his parents to a violent storm at sea a short time afterward had left Damon bereft of immediate family and purposefully devoid of feeling. From that moment on, he'd buried his emotions so deep, he would allow no one close enough to matter to him. Instead, he had pushed people away.
He'd turned reckless as well, certain he had nothing more to lose. For the next decade, he defied fate at every opportunity and earned himself a wicked reputation.
A reputation that had never concerned him until he met lively, beautiful heiress Eleanor Pierce during her first Season, when she made her social debut under the auspices of her high-stickler aunt, Lady Beldon.
Accepting a lamp from the footman who admitted him, Damon mounted the sweeping staircase and made his way down the hall on the right, to the master's quarters. Entering his bedchamber, he went straight to the windows to throw them wide open.
For two years now the house had been closed and shuttered, the furnishings shrouded in Holland covers. The musty odor that still permeated the rooms even after thorough airings came not from death and sickness-the foulness that normally pervaded hospitals and sickrooms-but from disuse. Yet Damon still couldn't abide the smell.
Turning, he shed his brocade evening coat, loosened his cravat, and poured himself a stiff brandy. His mind was still far away as he sank into a wing chair before the hearth, where a small fire burned cheerfully.
A respectful rap on the door, however, eventually brought him out of his reverie.
When Damon bid entrance, his elderly valet stepped into the bedchamber. “May I be of service, my lord?”
Damon frowned at his longtime servant. “It is late, Cornby. I believe I told you not to wait up for me.”
“So you did, sir.”
“But then you rarely heed my orders, do you?”
“Not in this instance, my lord. What kind of proper servant would I be if I shirked my duty whenever I felt the urge?”
Damon couldn't hide a smile at the impossible notion of the gray-haired Cornby shirking his duty. The old man had been in the Stafford family's employ for many years, long before Joshua took sick, and he'd cared diligently for the dying boy. In gratitude for such loyal service, Damon had kept the manservant on well past the time he should have retired.
Yet Cornby refused to accept anything resembling charity and so acted as Damon's valet and general factotum. Despite his advanced age, he'd accompanied Viscount Wrexham on his travels in foreign lands. Admittedly, there was many a time when Damon was glad to have Cornby's familiar presence at hand. The two of them shared the easy camaraderie of long acquaintances, with far less formality than usual for a nobleman and his manservant.
“Did your attire this evening meet your satisfaction, my lord, if I may ask?” Cornby inquired.
“Yes, it was quite satisfactory.”
Just then Cornby spied Damon's coat draped over a chair, and he gave a small moan of dismay. “My lord, you should not be so careless! That coat cost more than a pretty penny.”
Gently picking up the garment-a superbly tailored new evening coat fitted by Weston-he carefully smoothed the rich brocade. “Truly, your lordship, I am astonished. But then perhaps it has served its purpose. Attending the Regent's fete was a special occasion, was it not? This evening you primped in front of the cheval glass longer than I have ever seen you do.”
Damon shot the old man a glance. Granted, he had dressed carefully this evening in anticipation of seeing Eleanor, but he hadn't expected his efforts to be so obvious. “I beg to differ. I did not ‘primp.’ ”
“If you say so, sir.”
Biting back amusement, Damon fixed the manservant with a stern stare. “You do realize, Cornby, that I do not pay you to make observations on my behavior?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“One can only hope that sometime in the next decade or two you might learn to show a modicum of respect for your employer.”
“I expect that is highly unlikely, my lord. You know the saying-that it is difficult for an old dog to learn new tricks.”
Damon shook his head sadly. “I shall have to reconsider your employment. Remind me to terminate your post in the morning, Cornby.”
“You fired me a fortnight ago, before we left Italy, sir. Have you forgotten?”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because you need me. You have very little staff to see to your welfare.”
“That is no longer the case,” Damon responded. “We hired an appropriate staff when we returned to London.”
“But none of them know just how you like things, my lord.”
That was certainly true, Damon silently admitted.
“My lord, if you will pray excuse me for a moment,” Cornby added, “while I hang your coat properly…?”
“Yes, of course.”
He took a long swallow of brandy as Cornby left to hang the coat in the suite's dressing room.
Upon returning to the bedchamber, the manservant glanced pointedly at the brandy snifter in Damon's hand. “Are we beginning early this year, my lord?”
“No, we are not beginning early. I merely decided to have a nightcap.”
“I have ordered you a cask of prime brandy as you requested.”
“Good.”
Damon rarely overindulged in spirits, but once a year, on the anniversary of his brother's death, he got thoroughly soused in a futile effort to drown out the sorrow he still felt. The fateful date loomed just ahead, in less than a fortnight, but he hadn't yet begun to observe his yearly ritual of grief. Even so, he didn't care to be reminded of it, even by a faithful servant.
“Cornby?” Damon said, glancing at the old man over the rim of his glass.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I will raise your salary considerably if you will leave me in peace.”
“You pay me exceedingly well now, my lord. If it is all the same to you, I will forgo further monetary remuneration for the pleasure of needling you now and then.”
“If it were only now and then, I could bear it with more equanimity,” Damon muttered in exasperation, even though they both knew he was jesting. He would not have enjoyed the fawning subservience most servants showed their aristocratic masters.
With polite dispassion, Cornby stood awaiting the viscount's orders, and when none were forthcoming, he prodded mildly, “Are you certain there is nothing more I may do for you, my lord?”
“Actually, there is one thing. You can have my riding clothes ready by seven in the morning.”
Eleanor was likely to be in Hyde Park early tomorrow, Damon suspected. A superb horsewoman, Elle relished a brisk morning gallop. And if she was riding with that Italian royal… Rightly or wrongly, Damon felt obliged to make certain she was not getting in over her head.
“Very well, sir. Will it be another special occasion-”
“Pray, go to bed, Cornby,” Damon said, not giving the valet a chance to quiz him more about Lady Eleanor. “
You look fatigued enough to keel over, and I don't want your demise on my conscience.”
“Aye, my lord. As you wish.” The old man went to the door, then paused. “I must say, it is good to be home and to be privileged to sleep in a good English bed. Those foreign contraptions that pass for mattresses are scarcely fit for livestock. Sleep well, my lord.”
Damon acknowledged the servant's adieu with a slight nod of his head. It was indeed good to be in his own bed after living for so long on foreign soil. Yet he knew it would be damned hard to sleep after kissing Elle tonight. Too many memories had been stirred up, both good and bad.
He had never let himself become emotionally involved with any woman until Eleanor. After enduring so much grief, he'd refused to let himself care for anyone, never wanting to again risk the pain of losing someone he loved.
But her joie de vivre had enchanted him so utterly that he'd ignored the warning signs of their growing intimacy until her fateful admission of love.
The danger she presented had only been underscored by yet another death-when his distant cousin, Tess Blanchard, had lost her betrothed in the Battle of Waterloo. Seeing Tess's shock and devastation savagely reminded Damon of the grief he risked if he went through with his marriage to Eleanor.
It was why he had driven her away. He knew the anguish and emptiness he'd felt at his brother's tragic death and his parents’ untimely demise would be even greater if he lost Eleanor after the incipient bond between them had strengthened and deepened.
Damon had resolved to make her call off their betrothal, however, since a gentleman could not honorably jilt a lady. And so he'd arranged a public scene where she was sure to see him with his former mistress.
He had not actually been unfaithful to Eleanor; he'd merely let her believe him so-and therefore think him the lowest cad in nature.
To spare her further pain and humiliation, Damon had left England the following week.
Fortunately, during his travels on the Continent he had a mission for his pent-up passion and disillusionment, a larger purpose for himself. Perhaps it was because his family's senseless deaths had left him with a fierce need to control fate, but with Otto's guidance and connections, Damon had spent the past several years trying to save some of the unfortunate innocents who were struck by the devastating malady that had taken his brother.
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