Loretta Chase

by The Lion's Daughter

  “It most assuredly is not the mature lady in the morning room.”

  “But she’s no more than a child. Varian couldn’t possibly—”

  He broke off as the low voices within grew louder. Cautiously, Damon opened the door another fraction of an inch. At that instant, the little girl hurled her reticule at his brother. Varian ducked aside, and the reticule bounced against the mantel, then onto the floor. The girl began pacing furiously, in a whirl of green skirts, and her voice burst out at full volume.

  “I shall never forgive you!” she raged. “You are impossible. Your stupidity is immense beyond belief. Also, you are a great, filthy liar!”

  “Esme, I did not—”

  “You lied! There, I have said it. Will you defend your honor? Go ahead, find your pistols. And I shall find my own and shoot you through your black heart. And with better reason. It is I who am dishonored. You have shamed me. All the world will laugh at me—more loudly than they do now.”

  She spat out something in a foreign language, and Varian started to move toward her. Her hand went up, waving him back. “Do not come near me,” she warned. “Do not tempt me. I shall strangle you.”

  Varian subsided, to lean against the mantel once more and watch her march to and fro, her heels making a steady drumbeat on the bare floor.

  She went on with another stream of what could only be vituperation, then recommenced in English. “Three letters every week you send me, and never once do you tell me the truth. Only stories and jokes—as though I am a child, to be amused. Your debts were paid. There was no more of the danger you spoke of—as though I care about danger. But you tell me nothing. You leave me with my grandmother, which is a great disgrace in my country, but I bear it because this is another country and all the English are crazy.”

  “Darling, I hadn’t any way to keep you.”

  “I do not need keeping! I am not a sheep or an ox. How do you think I have lived in my country with no money? I have slept in caves and under bushes. But I know what it is.” She stopped short. “I am not a child, nor yet a weak woman. You could have told me the truth, that you did not want me with you. But your conceit is even more vast than your stupidity. Did you think I would die of grief?” She marched up to him and folded her hands across her bosom. “Hah!”

  Though her back was turned to him now, Damon had no doubt of her expression. Her small, rigid frame vibrated defiance.

  “We oughtn’t be eavesdropping,” Gideon murmured.

  “Yes, it’s vulgar, but ever so interesting.”

  With a reproving glance at his brother, Gideon loudly cleared his throat.

  The girl was again belaying Varian in her own tongue and evidently didn’t notice the sound. Varian did. He looked toward the doors.

  Gideon pushed them fully open.

  “Ah, here they are,” Varian said in a strained voice.

  The girl swung round. A becoming shade of pink washed her high-boned cheeks, and her eyes opened very wide.

  “Quite green,” Damon said under his breath.

  Varian moved to take her arm. “May I present my brothers, my dear? This sturdy fellow is Gideon.”

  Gideon made a courtly bow.

  “And this one with his mouth hanging open is Damon.”

  Damon’s bow was rather less graceful. This was due to a temporary disarrangement of his wits. Now that he saw her up close, it was clear she was by no means a child, but a young woman. An astoundingly appealing young woman. Also exceedingly cross at present, but that only made her the more attractive. He’d never seen anything quite like the green fire in her eyes. Evidently, Varian never had, either. That must explain it.

  “They’ve been perishing to meet you,” Varian said.

  Her ladyship eyed the two brothers with patent suspicion. “Then you should have brought them to see me,” she said curtly. “At least my grandmother would have fed them.”

  “I say, we don’t look as bad as all that, surely?” Damon protested with an abashed smile.

  She clicked her tongue. “It is disgraceful. It is plain you do not eat or sleep properly.” She stepped a bit closer to Damon, making his heart thump oddly. “You are much too thin,” she told him. “Who cooks for you?”

  “I have been delegated the position of chef, my lady,” said Gideon.

  “Yes, and he’s a dab hand with boiled eggs,” Damon assured her, “though I’m afraid he hasn’t quite got the knack of—”

  “I shall beat you senseless,” she told Varian. “You are a great idiot.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t Varian’s—”

  She gave Damon a withering look. He shut his mouth. Clearly, he would not be allowed to complete a sentence.

  “He is head of the family,” she said austerely. “It is his responsibility. Unfortunately, he has no sense. But the mistress is here now. I shall make a proper meal for you.”

  Varian began to say something, received a deadly shaft from the green eyes, and also decided to hold his tongue.

  “Go have a bath,” she told him. “You make me ashamed.”

  Then she marched past them, her half-boots tapping an ominous tattoo, and swept through the doors.

  Damon looked at his oldest brother. “I say, Varian, she won’t really beat you, will she?”

  “I had better have a bath,” Varian said. And left.

  Following a surprisingly amiable luncheon, the dowager spent several hours minutely examining the house. Gideon followed her, dutifully jotting down her comments in a notebook. Damon, much to Varian’s annoyance, trailed Esme about like a lovesick puppy. Nonetheless, his lordship knew better than to go with them on their tour of the grounds. Esme needed time to calm down. Meanwhile, he could occupy himself in doing something about the shambles in the master bedroom.

  He had thought he’d rather die than let her see him in this state, in this squalid house which so loudly proclaimed all his villainies. And he had died, a hundred small deaths of shame and guilt. Having endured the worst, however, he knew he could certainly endure rejection of his amorous advances.

  He knew well enough he’d no right to make any, and was mad to even consider it, let alone hope. He just couldn’t help himself. After the first stunned—and shortlived—embrace, he hadn’t found another chance to touch her. Not with strange servants scurrying about, and his brothers or Percival or Lady Brentmor popping in at inopportune moments—and Esme all this while in an awesome state of temper.

  God help him, he’d even missed her demented rages.

  Varian smiled bleakly as he smoothed the shabby bed linens. Today’s display had shown a new imperiousness. Not that it wasn’t to be expected, after two months of her grandmother’s tutelage. By now, his brothers must think him thoroughly henpecked. That was because they didn’t understand. Nor had Varian any intention of explaining.

  He knew Esme was deeply hurt, and it was he who’d hurt her.

  He didn’t know how to undo it. She’d shown him the letter from Mrs. Stockwelt-Hume—the reason for the unexpected visit—and found his response thoroughly unsatisfactory. Varian had tried to explain that until his fellows saw her for themselves, they’d kept on creating their own solutions to the mystery of Lady Edenmont.

  He knew this was his fault, and said so: his scandalous reputation, a bride from a little-known land—wild stories were bound to result. Yet he hadn’t the means to introduce her properly, which meant, at present, that the dowager must do so. That was when Esme had exploded.

  He understood now that she believed his miserable condition reflected upon her as an inadequate wife. That was merely a cultural difference. What troubled him was her certainty that he believed her inadequate. She thought he was ashamed of her, or tired of her.

  Which was perfectly insane. Unfortunately, insane beliefs are by definition not amenable to reason. She refused to believe a word he said.

  Varian stuffed his dirty clothes into the wardrobe and looked about him. The furnishings had been salvaged from the discards of a partially-b
urnt house in Aylesbury. Only the bedroom furniture had been usable. Or so he and his brothers had believed.

  Now, he noticed a faint odor of firedamp, despite the hours of scrubbing and diligent application of herbs and oils. The bed linens, too, were second—or more likely, third or fourth—hand, shabby and gray, though Annie Gillis had scrubbed them mercilessly. The draperies were even worse. Ancient and moth-eaten to start with, they were rapidly crumbling, thanks to the kittens’ busy attentions.

  Varian groaned and sat upon the bed. What the devil had he been thinking of, to even consider seducing his baroness in this sordid cell?

  “Varian?”

  It was Esme’s voice outside the door.

  Varian experienced a cowardly urge to scramble under the bed. Instead, he gripped the edge of the mattress and prayed she’d look elsewhere, so he might slip out before she caught sight of his ghastly room.

  The door swung open with a protesting squeal.

  He closed his eyes.

  “I thought you would be hiding from me,” she said. “You ought to hide. But I have promised your brothers I will not kill you. They say they cannot afford the funeral.”

  He opened his eyes. She stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.

  “Also,” she said, “Gideon does not wish to be baron. He says he would rather be hanged.”

  After staring at him for a moment, she abandoned her defiant pose, stepped into the room, and gazed casually about her. “This is a very large room. All my house in Durres would fit inside. But it is the same with my grandmother’s house, and so I am not amazed.”

  Varian rose. “It’s a dreadful room, though it was elegant once, in an old-fashioned way. I wish you could have seen it then—the entire house.”

  She shrugged. “It is not so bad. With a few women to help, I might have made it very clean in a week, perhaps a bit more. You must get another mouser, my grandmother says, and I agree. Though what the poor mice find to eat, I cannot tell.” She threw him an accusing glance. “Damon tells me you work very hard. He thinks I am blind, perhaps.”

  “For ten years, I never worked at all. I’ve a good deal to make up for.”

  “He says you do this for me. He thinks I am stupid, too.”

  “You are stupid if you don’t believe him. What other reason could I have, Esme?”

  She answered with another shrug. “My grandmother wishes to spend the night at the inn.”

  “The Black Bramble.”

  “Yes. She did not bring food enough to make the evening meal. I am sent to invite you to dine with us. She has invited your brothers, also.”

  Varian swallowed his pride in a painful gulp. “Is that where you plan to spend the night?”

  A long silence. He waited.

  No answer came. Finally, she turned to the door.

  “Esme, please.”

  “Please, what?” Ret voice was taut, like her posture.

  “I’ve missed you, darling.”

  She turned back to him, her eyes wary.

  “I…I wish you’d stay.”

  Her glance darted to the bed, then back to him. “You told me I must go to London.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t want you! Goddammit, Esme—” Varian caught himself up short. “I’m sorry. I promised myself…but it’s no use, never is. I’ve tried to explain, but I just can’t make you understand. Why is it so difficult, love? I know you want to help me—but if my peers were to hear my wife was slaving for me, I could never look them in the eye again. Nor could I live with myself.”

  She said nothing, only watched him.

  Varian gazed helplessly about him while his mind frantically sought the right words.

  “I would be disgraced,” he said at last. “Worse than I am at present. Far worse. I know it sounds crazy to you, but that’s the way of my world. Ask anybody.”

  Esme considered for a frustratingly long while.

  “Ask anybody,” Varian repeated, “when you get to London. If even one member of the Beau Monde tells you different, you may tell your grandmother to send you right back to me.”

  She folded her hands tightly in front of her. “Do you promise this?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  She studied the grimy floor a moment. “I do not like this country,” she said. “The people have no sense.”

  “So it would appear.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I have a dancing master, you know. And a maid of my own. She thinks I do not know how to dress myself, and so I must pretend I do not or I will hurt her feelings. It is tiresome sometimes to be a lady, and I become cross. I told your brothers I was sorry for my rudeness. I told them my temper is very ugly, and it cannot be helped.” She flushed, and his heart gave a desperate lurch in answer.

  “I love your temper,” he said. “They did, too. It was the most excitement any of us have had in weeks.”

  “I do not wish to be exciting. It is not ladylike.”

  “I like you just the way you are.”

  “Tsk.”

  “I do,” he said firmly. “Very much. I’ve missed you very much. I’m not happy without you, Esme.”

  “I—I am glad,” she said. “You should be unhappy.”

  Varian moved past her and shut the door.

  “They are waiting for us, Varian.” Her voice was low, shaky.

  “I never dine before eight o’clock.” His eyes fell upon the shabby counterpane. It was wrong, he told himself, and he was selfish and base. But he was also desperate.

  He caught Esme by the waist and deposited her upon the bed, then knelt before her. “In any case, I’ve two months of conjugal duty to make up for.”

  Her beautiful eyes were filled with doubt…hurt as well.

  Varian looked down. He’d make it better, he told himself. He knew how. It was the one thing he did well.

  He removed one ridiculously tiny half-boot and stroked her foot. “Silk,” he said softly. “Only a concubine would wear silk upon her feet.” He looked up at her. “I wanted you then.”

  “Because you are wicked.”

  “Yes.” Varian removed the other boot. Then, very slowly, he slid his hand up her leg and unfastened the lacy garter. Slowly again, he inched the stocking down. Her toes curled. He dealt with the other garter and stocking with the same deliberation. She shivered.

  He trailed his hands up her bare legs, drawing her muslin frock up over her knees. He kissed each knee. Her scent swam in his head. His fingers tightened on her thighs. He looked up into eyes dark as the forest depths. Watchful. Waiting.

  Varian shivered. His trembling hands moved swiftly to the fastenings at her back. Then he took his time again, letting his fingers trail along her creamy skin while he eased the frock down to her waist and past her hips until it sank to the floor.

  She wore a gossamer-thin chemise, embroidered in a lacy pattern of twining rosebuds. The rosy peaks of her firm breasts were already hard, trembling against the fragile fabric. His breathing grew labored.

  His fingers stiff with the effort not to hurry, Varian slowly removed the pins from her hair. Rippling over his fingers, the loosened tresses tumbled to her shoulders. “Garnet and pearls,” he murmured. His voice seemed to come through a fog. “How I’ve missed looking at you. And touching you.”

  “I have not missed you so much.” Her voice, too, was muffled. “I have been very busy.”

  Varian watched the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. “Liar.”

  “Tsk.” But her eyes told more even than her quickened breathing. Longing shimmered in their green depths, making his heart ache.

  He wanted to throw her down and have her there and then, that instant, and let anguish burn up in the savage fury of passion.

  Instead, he stood and, his gaze locked with hers, pulled off his clothes. Her darkening glance slid the length of his lean torso, pausing for one dazed instant where his desire was so blatantly evident.

  “As you observe,” he said hoarsely, “your husband is prepared to do
his duty.”

  A small, choked sound escaped her.

  Varian silenced it with a kiss, quick and hungry. Then he drew the chemise up over her head and impatiently tossed the flimsy garment aside.

  “Eager to do his duty,” he amended. He nudged her, and Esme inched back upon the bed. Kneeling between her legs, he bent over her and took her mouth in a deep, fierce kiss that drove her down onto the mattress. He drew away to nuzzle her breasts. He heard her catch her breath, but she made no attempt to hurry him or even touch him. He teased with his tongue and with his hands. Esme simply accepted, her response a breath of a sigh.

  He lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were sleepy, unfocused, yet he discerned the glint in them.

  “Esme.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want you.”

  “Yes. Want me.” Closing her eyes, she gave a throaty sigh.

  Varian’s hand tightened over her breast. She moved sinuously, and the faintest of smiles curved her mouth.

  “I want you now,” he said hoarsely.

  Slowly she slid her hand over her sleek body until it rested at the bottom of her belly. “No. Not yet.”

  He swallowed a groan. “No, first you want to drive me insane.”

  “Yes.”

  “Revenge.”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Very well, my lady,” he growled.

  Ravaging her mouth with needy kisses, he stroked and caressed, infusing her with his heat. She gave him soft moans and sighs, and stirred under his touch, but unhurriedly. Yet he felt pleasure vibrating within her, felt it growing into urgency while he kissed every inch of her silken skin.

  Every art he’d ever learned became part of one tormenting search to make her fully wild as only she could he, and as he wanted. Then, even when she reached for him at last, her strong hands dragging him down to her, he wanted still more. Even when she was maddened fully, sobbing and laughing at once, he wanted more. Then, as she wrapped her hot, supple body tightly about him, his words spilled out. Not the easy endearments of a practiced lover but harder truths: of regret and shame and loneliness…and something else. It was this last he uttered most painfully of all, the words tearing his throat.

  “I love you, Esme.”