The Coachman's Daughter

by Gayle Eden

  “She knows you’re an ass,” Marston intoned dryly. “This is about something more serious. You were going to purpose, I presume?”

  “Yes.” Deme knew he had overreacted. He knew with clarity, that he had earned that rep for a long time, and been a careless rake. “I hope this gets easier,” he offered sardonically.

  “I doubt it does.”

  “My father, my mother too, said that we learn from our mistakes.”

  “There’s hope in that.”

  Hearing the humor in the Viscounts tone, Deme looked at him. “I’m still not thanking you for dragging me here and poisoning me.”

  The man almost smiled. His eyes were certainly doing so. “I didn’t expect you would.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Deme said, “May I trouble you for a lift to my townhouse?”

  “Yes.” The Viscount went to the door and spoke.

  It was open behind him when Deme walked over.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” Deme admitted and went to pass him. He stopped and met his gaze again. “I know all about living with ghosts. Either you destroy them, or they destroy you. Do not give them the power. Take my advice--Burn that bloody painting, Marston.” Deme gestured toward it.

  He waited for the man to nod before he went onward.

  Deme was soon on his way to his house—wondering how the bloody hell he was going to purpose now. He had worked on that other scene for hours, finding just the right words, everything. Now he had acted like a pride-filled horse’s arse. He had to think of something—quickly.

  * * * *

  It took everyone’s assistance to help Haven avoid Deme the day of Lisette’s ball. Haven had talked to the Duchess, and her father, and the Duke, so the staff and everyone else, intercepted his messages, and Deme himself, a dozen times.

  She felt a bit guilty overhearing his frustration, but found her smiling while standing by the window—seeing the Duke out on the street with him, hearing him say, “You will see her at the ball, my boy. You know how these ladies are before such a to-do. It takes nigh all day just to curl their hair or what not.”

  “I don’t give a bloody damn about her hair. I need to see her.”

  “And so you shall.” His Grace was patting Deme’s shoulder, nudging him closer and closer to his coach. “Best get out of this wind and snow, eh. You will have your valet in a snit if you do not get home in time to do yourself up. You need a shave, Demetrius.”

  Biting her lip, she heard Deme growl something foul, but the Duke was good in his role. After Deme departed, he entered, looked at her and vowed, “I should have been on the stage!”

  She laughed. “You did very well.” She kissed his cheek. “I know it is difficult for you. It is hard for me to see him suffer. His note was so eloquent I nearly scratched the whole plan and took the fastest horse to get to him.”

  In truth, that note melted her heart because there were a dozen promising scratched out romantic lines, before the one he had not marked through. It said (I am an ass. Deme.)

  “You’ll do noting of the sort.” His grace took her by the shoulders and winked. “My wife is more excited—come to that, Lisette is more excited— to see this play out, than they are about the birthday ball.”

  “It will be a shocking scandal.” She grimaced.

  He dropped his hands. His brows raised on a beaming smile. “Good. We have been behaving entirely too civilized since Ellen got this Marston thing in her head for Lisette. Even she admits it. What better way to end it than setting the ton on its ear?”

  He chuckled and walked toward his study. “I can hardly wait.”

  Haven paced and rubbed her tense stomach. She fluctuated between thinking herself, and her father—who came up with the idea, brilliant—or completely mad. In the end, she knew it did not matter. What mattered was what Demetrious Wimberly, Marquis of Fielding, thought of it.

  * * * *

  Deme had chaffed the whole bloody time the valet was dressing him in formal evening ware. In the coach, on the way, he cursed the snow, cursed the traffic, and then seeing the congestion of conveyances at his parent’s mansion—he had cursed them, until finally jumping out of his coach and walking towards the door. Since that was also crowded with guests, he turned sharply right, and went around the crowds.

  He took the shoveled side path, leading to the study, knowing those doors would be unlocked—and seeing before reaching it—that Monty and the Viscount were outside the French doors, smoking cheroots.

  Joining them, he asked, “Have the ladies entered the ball room as yet? It’s a damned crush already.”

  “Yes,” Monty answered. Then grabbed his arm as Deme made to go past. “But not Haven.”

  “Bloody hell” Deme wheeled around.

  “Where are you going?’

  “To the coaching house.”

  “She’s not there,” Marston, told him, catching up and turning him around again. “I’m sure she got your notes—”

  “She’s left London—” Deme began. Not wondering at that moment how they knew he had written any note.

  Monty handed him a cheroot with a grin. “It wasn’t that dramatic of a scene, my friend. I’m sure she is merely making a late appearance.”

  “I need to—”

  “—Attend the ball and dance with your sister. It’s her birthday and his grace is—”

  “Listen here, Marston.” Deme cut him off. “I may be slightly grateful for your assistance last eve—though given the condition of my guts, that is debatable—but do not lecture me on my familial duties. You are not, nor doubtless ever shall—outside your dreams, be any kinsman to me.”

  Monty was laughing, but the Viscount, shaven cheeks ruddy in the nippy air, drawled, “Oh, I’ll be one, never doubt it.”

  Deme blew a stream of smoke and eyed him narrowly, then Monty. “What? Are you enjoying my misery too?”

  “A little.” Wolford chuckled but pat his shoulder. “The tables were turned not so long ago, eh?”

  “Yes. But this is different. Juliette was—”

  “A lot like Haven,” Monty said dryly. “Believe me, nothing but bearing your soul makes them melt after you’ve made an ass out of yourself.”

  “I didn’t make an ass out of myself,” Deme said, but then he laughed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back a moment. “I had no idea I’d react like that.”

  When he lowered it, Marston muttered, “It’s those delicate sensibilities you pampered rakes have.”

  “I’m going to plant him one.” Deme told Monty.

  Monty was enjoying their badgering, and after chuckling said, “That face looks awfully strong and hard. Besides, he, we’re—merely trying to distract you.”

  “She ain’t here.” Deme muttered and looked around in panic. “Is her father—”

  “—He’s busy with the footmen and grooms trying to keep the arrivals going smoothly,” Monty said.

  They were finished their cheroots and went inside the warm room, closing the doors behind them. Everyone drank a brandy but Deme. He found some tepid coffee and drank it.

  They left the room afterwards, going down a back hall, thanks to Deme’s familiarity with the house. There was music, a roar of voices and chatter, and the sound of boots and slippers on polished wood—and the butler’s voice reached them, announcing Lady or Lord this or that in loud tones.

  Sliding open a door, they were in the card room, as yet unoccupied, which would lead directly out into the back of the grand ballroom.

  There was such a crush inside when they entered, that he was some time finding his parent’s in the receiving line. Monty’s parents were present, —His brothers were there, in full dress uniform, looking smart and dashing, as was Lisette—a vision with her long hair tumbling in curls over a high crown of diamonds, her gown was flowing pearl silk, with gossamer aqua silk skirted over the material. It draped over one shoulder held by a pearl and diamond broach. She looked like a Greek God
dess, despite her short stature.

  As he went with Monty and the Viscount to meet them, Deme was shamefully thinking he would get the greetings done, and then search the house for Haven, and if she was not there, he would—

  He bowed to his father, kissed his mother’s cheeks, and thought, what the bloody hell, giving his brothers an un-Marquis like embrace and slap on the back.

  When he reached Lisette, Deme kissed her hand. “Happy Birthday. You look amazing.”

  “Thank you.” She rolled her eyes. “My feet are killing me all ready.”

  Laughing, he kissed her cheeks, but under that guise murmured, “Where is Haven? Did she get my note—?”

  “She’s about somewhere, I am sure. Yes. She got your note.” Then his sister saw Marston advancing down the line and toward her. She groaned, “Bloody hell.” And looped her arm thorough his. “Quick, let’s do the opening waltz.”

  He took her hand and turned her around, forcing her back in place with a laugh. “That is father’s honor, puss.”

  He was there when Marston took her hand and bowed over it. Even as Lisette was pulling it back, the Viscount murmured, “I shall have to keep you by my side, fair Lisette. Else someone might carry you off, so tempting are you in that lovely gown.”

  Lisette jerked her hand away and glared at him. “It is more like I may run off, Marston. “

  He chuckled. “From me. Nonsense. I’m your future husband.”

  “Bugger you are.” She pushed him aside and went stomping up the line, to her father.

  Deme muttered, “I’ll give you one thing, Marston. You’ve got balls.”

  The Viscount arched his brow, “I was told it was a prerequisite for anyone insane enough to want a Wimberly.”

  “Ha.” Deme laughed. “True. Your sort don’t usually mix with our sort. And everyone in this room would be happy to tell you so.”

  Elisha found Lisette with his gaze and murmured, “I don’t want the whole damn family, your Lordship. I want her.”

  Before Deme could retort, the orchestra struck up the opening waltz. His father was leading Lisette out on the floor. Deme went to the line to partner his mother, and so the ball began.

  Over the next hour and a half, he tried every way on earth to get out of that ballroom. He was by now in a major panic, because if it was not someone blocking his way, it was one of his family or Monty distracting him from his purpose.

  “Haven Mulhern Fitzpatrick.” The loud announcement sounded over the music.

  It was about bloody time!

  Deme’s head snapped round toward the entry, already hearing gasps and whispers rippling. His heart rammed his ribs. He need not shove people aside to get to her—, which he was fully prepared to do—they were parting like waves on either side. Even the music halted.

  Over the murmurs, gasps, that distinct ring of boot heels on his mother’s ballroom floor already had his grin forming. But, my God. Sweet Christ. When she was in sight—he did not care if everyone was looking at his face for reaction—and many were.

  Haven, her straight, blood red hair gleaming, was in perfectly tailored formal ware. Male—formal ware—right down to her polished boots.

  The clothing on her was so close fitting that every full stridden step she took called attention to her shapely legs, curved hips—and were it not for that spill of lace serving as her cravat, he was sure her breasts moved too.

  Love, lust, desire, pride, determination was in her every step. The subtle cosmetics and lip color enhanced her femininity, contrasting with the clothing—and only made it more scandalously alluring.

  She stopped a bit away from him. He could see her eyes glittering, breasts rising and falling—and he saw it too, his ring—glittering on her finger.

  Deme smiled and sauntered toward her.

  Stopping, he stared down into her face, understanding everything suddenly—knowing his family had a hand in this grand entry of hers.

  His hand touched her cravat. The whispers and gasps rose.

  He raised it slowly, until a finger was stroking across her chin and then touching her lips. Deme lowered his head, letting his lips hover near hers while his arm went round her, and pulled her roughly to him.

  Chatter and more gasps echoed.

  Their breaths mingled seconds before he went that inch, covering her mouth, using his tongue, kissing her most passionately.

  He felt her arms go round him, felt her lifting up and into his embrace

  Somewhere his mind Deme heard clapping from his family and a, bravo, from Lisette.

  When he lifted a few inches—waiting for lashes to part and those golden eyes to look at him, he said roughly, “I love you. I adore you. I desire you more than breath. I need you more than life itself.” His hand rose to cup the back of her head, “Haven Mulhern Fitzpatrick. Make me the happiest man on earth, save me from my sleepless nights, from my madness. Marry me.”

  Her hands moved to cup his face. She stared deep into his eyes. “Should a Marquis wed himself to one such as I. a simple coachman’s daughter?”

  He heard the shouts of yes, yes. Moreover, someone replied, (she is an heiress in disguise, tell him!)

  He wondered if she felt as much an actor on stage as he did. Apparently, the guests were getting wrapped up in the drama.

  Enjoying it. Enjoying her. Deme replied succinctly, “There is nothing simple about you, my love. As is proved this very moment in your dress and entrance.”

  There followed a ripple of laughter.

  He saw it then, the twinkle in her eye, the smile teasing her lips. She husked, “Oh, my lord. As you have pursued me to the ends of England, killed your horses and forded rivers…how could I do no less?”

  Struggling with laughter at her wit. His green eyes gleamed.

  Deme lowered his hand and stepped back, but only to hold that hand wearing his ring.

  He turned toward his family, seeing his father was grinning, all of them were enjoying it. He said, “Where is her father? The Coachman. I must have his blessing.”

  “Here.” Mulhern, not in livery but in formal black and white answered.

  “I want her.”

  “That’s been noticeably obvious,” Mulhern said to laughter from the guests.

  Deme led her over and bowed to Patrick, who bowed in turn. Under talk and chatter of the guests, Deme muttered, “Your idea?

  “I had a hand in it.” Patrick shrugged and winked.

  “Thank you.”

  The coachman murmured. “Pride is a funny thing…”

  Deme looked at Haven. “Yes it is. I would be proud to have such a woman with me through life.”

  Patrick waited for Deme to look at him and murmured, “Make her happy or I’ll take her back.”

  Deme laughed. “I shall try, every day of my life, I will try.”

  “Now, now,” Haven cut in. “Let’s not tame him too much, papa. I want a long honeymoon.”

  Deme turned, sweeping her in his arms and holding her tightly. He whispered in her ear, “Those trousers are sinful. How long until I can take them off and pleasure you?”’

  “Mmmm.” She turned and whispered in his ear, “As soon as you find us somewhere private.”

  He kissed her again.

  Music started and there were voices and noise. Coming up for air, there was a tap on his shoulder. Deme eyed his father with a raised brow.”

  “This is my waltz—with my future daughter in law.”

  Deme set her on her feet, and then watched his father waltz his male-garbed future wife around the ballroom.

  The Duchess came and put her arm through his, watching them also. “I thought it would take you forever to see it. In fact, I despaired you ever would.”

  “Haven. Yes. I was too blind to notice her.”

  “Yes, that. But also, my boy, that she has loved you since she was only a child.”

  Deme felt everything inside melt hearing that before it began to burn for the woman who now laughing with his father.

 
; Oblivious to everyone in the room. He husked, “Will you excuse us if we disappear early, madam?”

  She answered, “You’re no son of ours, if you don’t.”

  He kissed her cheek and then strode over to the couple, tapping on his father’s arm, and when the Duke stepped back, he took Haven’s hand.

  “Come with me.” His eyes captured hers.

  “Anywhere.”

  They ran actually, out of the ballroom— were running still through the hall and up the stairs to her rooms.

  He released her hand when they entered, and leaned against the door, watching her stride to the bed and turn up the lamp. Facing him, she shrugged out of her coat and let it fall then pulled the lace cravat loose.

  Watching her for moments, aroused by her, Deme husked, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. So too am I.” She let that fall and began unbuttoning her shirt. “I love you, Deme.” She pulled the blouse free and had nothing under it. “I want you too.”

  His heart rammed his ribs. He pushed away and held her gaze while stripping his clothing.

  Muffled sounds of the ball, music and laughter, seemed a world away.

  Completely nude at last, they met, skin to skin, eyes clinging and hands reaching, to touch and caress. Deme kissed her breathless and whispered, “I was in love with you before we left for York. I have fallen deeper every day since.”

  Smoothing her palms up his back she returned, “I have loved you for many years, but I was afraid you were lost to me, lost to yourself. When you kissed me though, I knew, I hoped. On that trip, I was falling deeper too.”

  Kissing deeply, passionately, their hunger flamed and he drew her to the bed. There they could taste, touch; stroke the fires hotter, and hotter. Lips clung, limbs sliding against limbs. His hand found her sex. Lips rimming her nipple, Deme brought her to exquisite climax. When the ripples faded, he moved between her legs, and filled her, buried himself, deeply.

  “I’ve had a special licensee since we were in York.” He gazed at her face.

  “Soon then, we can do this at our leisure?”

  “I don’t intend to sleep another night without you.” He flexed his hips and was rewarded with her moan. “We leave for Wimberly. The family can join us whenever. Mother will want to throw you a wedding. But you are mine, Haven, and I’m yours.”