by Mara
“Whereas I have understanding of this world in abundance, which you, Miss Myddleton, significantly lack.”
She fired a look at him. “Then you understand that I am ruined.”
“No, but this mad flight might do it.”
She looked away again, out at the bleak scene. “I won’t be here to find out.”
But how did she escape? Fitzroger looked impervious to reason or tears. Despite his obvious poverty, she didn’t think he could be bribed.
“You have a fighting spirit,” he said, “but a fighter needs to understand the terrain. Running away won’t help, because you’ll have to meet all those people again one day. Unless you intend to live like a hermit.”
When in doubt, attack. “It’s Ashart who should be ashamed. He was supposed to marry me. You know he was.”
“He was supposed to marry your money.”
It hurt to have the truth stated so bluntly, but Damaris met his eyes. “A fair bargain. My wealth for his title. He’ll not survive without it.”
“A penny saved is a penny earned.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “He’s planning economy? Ashart? He of the diamond buttons and the splendid horses?”
“A point, I grant you, but what’s done is done. It is your future that matters now.”
She suddenly wondered if she saw the reason for this interference. Fitzroger was a mystery to her, but he was clearly poor. He survived as unpaid companion to Ashart.
“I’ll not trade my fortune for less, sir, if that is your plan.”
If the truth hurt him, he hid it well. “I wouldn’t aspire so far above my station. Think of me as Sir Galahad, Miss Myddleton, riding to the maiden’s rescue from pure and noble motives.”
“I don’t need rescue. I need only to be allowed to go on my way.”
He looked as if he might shake her, but then he relaxed, stretching out his long legs so they brushed her wide skirts. She almost shifted away but stopped herself in time.
“I embarrassed myself once,” he said. “I was fifteen, a freshly minted ensign, proud of my uniform but certain that everyone knew I was a lad pretending to be a soldier. I was hurrying across the busy barracks square one day and stepped back to make way for one of the officers’ wives. Alas, I hooked up the skirts of another with my sword. It tangled with some ribbon or some such and I couldn’t pull it free, so I turned, which made matters worse. Her legs were exposed up beyond the knees, and she was shrieking at me to stop. I was sweating and desperate. I tried to back away. Something ripped.... I was certain that no one would ever forget it. I’d have taken ship to the Indies if I could. But after some teasing, it ceased to matter.”
She could imagine all too well, and felt some sympathy, but said, “It’s hardly the same.”
“True. My misfortune was pure accident, whereas yours is to some extent willful. You wanted the prize you’d picked out, and if I hadn’t stopped you yesterday—”
“Stopped me! I still have the bruises.” But the whole horrible event rushed back to her as if it were happening right then. She leaned forward in desperation, pulling her hands from her muff to beg. “Please let me go. Please! I’m going to my old home. I’ll be safe.”
He took her hands. She tried to tug free, but strength seemed to have deserted her, and her vision was blurred by tears.
“Flee and your bad behavior will be fixed in people’s minds. Return, seem in good spirits, and everyone will doubt their own memory of events.”
She blinked, trying to read truth or error in his face. “Every detail must be etched in their minds.”
“Every detail is etched in yours, as my sword misadventure was etched in mine. In the minds of others, it’s merely part of a tumult of fascinating drama, and for the most part you were the injured party. We can return you to that, to the point where people sympathize.”
She snatched her hands free. “With a pitiable creature, jilted because all her jewels and riches couldn’t compensate for a plain face, awkward manners, and inferior birth.”
She froze, unable to believe that she’d just exposed her secret shame to this man; then she covered her face with a hand.
He swung over to sit beside her and gently tugged her hand down. “Begging for compliments, Miss Myddleton?”
Damaris had to look at him, but she could hardly think with his body suddenly so close in the confinement of the coach seat. She’d lived most of her life in a world without men, without their effect at close quarters. Now this man pressed against her at leg and arm, and his strong, warm hand enfolded hers.
“You can’t compete with Genova Smith in beauty,” he said. “Few can. But plain, no. And I’ve seen nothing amiss with your manners except when strain over Ashart rode you. Come back with me. I promise to stand by you, to make sure everything turns out as you would wish.”
His tone as much as his words shivered along her nerves, weakening her will. Was it possible?
“How can I? What will I have to do?”
“Face them and smile.”
Damaris’s mouth dried, but she recognized the second chance she’d prayed for in the night. She wasn’t sure it was possible to regain her foothold here, but she had to take the opportunity if only to prove to herself that she wasn’t a coward as well as a fool.
Logic didn’t defeat fear, however, and she had to fight a tight throat to speak. “Very well, I’ll return and put on a glad face. But I hold you to your promise. You will stand by me?”
His smile was remarkably sweet. “I will.”
He had to have an eye on her fortune—no other reason explained his apparent kindness. “Before you go any further, Mr. Fitzroger, please understand that while I appreciate your help, I will never, ever offer you my hand and fortune.”
“Damaris, not every man who does you a service will be after your money.”
“Are you claiming to have no desire to marry riches? I cannot believe that.”
He shrugged. “I’d take your fortune if you offered it, but you won’t do anything so foolish, will you?”
“No.”
“Then we know where we stand.”
How could he tie her in knots by agreeing with her?
“Lord Henry is taking you to London for the winter season, isn’t he? You’ll have your pick of the titled blooms there. A duke, even. Think of it. As a duchess, you’ll outrank Genova, Marchioness of Ashart.”
He seemed to see right into her petty soul, but she couldn’t deny the appeal of that. That list of the needy, titled gentlemen had included a duke—the Duke of Bridgewater. She’d passed over him because he’d sounded dull, but high rank had its charms.
“What are you plotting now?” he asked in lazy amusement. “You make me nervous.”
“I wish that were true.”
“Any sensible man gets nervous when confronted with an inexperienced lady weaving plots.”
“Inexperienced?” she objected, but in truth she could hardly claim otherwise.
“Very. Are you experienced enough, for example, to choose your husband wisely?”
“Are you offering to guide me?”
At that moment, perhaps from some reaction of his, she recognized that she’d spoken flirtatiously. She would have said that she didn’t know how to flirt, but she was doing so, and it shook her.
If she were going to flirt, it should never be with this man. If she’d asked her trustees to draw up a list of the least suitable men she might meet in polite society, Octavius Fitzroger would have been near the top of it.
Octavius was the name given to an eighth child, so he came from a large and probably impoverished family. He was without employment, seemed to enjoy idleness, and she’d heard rumors at Rothgar Abbey about some dark scandal in his past. She’d been too intent on pursuing Ashart to find out more, but she knew some of the guests were surprised, even shocked, that he’d been allowed in the house.
All the same, when he took her hand and raised it to his lips, when he murmured, “I could be your gui
de in many things...” Damaris’s grasp on common sense faltered.
He’s kissing your hand, nothing more, she told her misty mind, but it didn’t help. Her heart pounded, and moisture gathered in her mouth, forcing her to swallow or drool. When he leaned closer she recovered enough to put a hand on his chest. “No, sir!”
“Are you sure?”
No. His body felt like fire beneath her palm, for only his shirt covered his hard chest. If she slid her hand higher, her fingers would touch naked skin at the base of his throat....
“Practice,” he murmured, “leads to perfection.”
“Practice?” she squeaked. “At what?”
“Flirtation.” He raised a hand and brushed his knuckles down her slack jaw. “If you’re happily flirting with me, no one will be able to believe that you’re still pining for Ashart, will they?”
“Why would I ever choose you over him?” The question was rude, but the desperate truth.
His eyes danced with wickedness. “For Christmastide amusement. You’re a wealthy young woman who is soon going to London to marry well, but for the moment you amuse yourself with me.”
They were fixed in place, he stroking her jaw, she holding him off. It created a strange illusion of being within a magical circle, one she didn’t want to break.
“Very well,” she said, but clung to reason. She pushed at his chest and said, “There’s no need to embrace here.”
Her push achieved nothing but to press her hand harder against his heat and make breathing more difficult.
“No kiss as a reward, fair lady?” His fingers brushed between the fur lining of her hood and the skin of her neck. “Chinchilla,” he murmured, making the word sound like a whisper of sin.
Oh, he was wicked, and she should push harder, even scream for help, but she wanted his kiss. Her mouth tingled for it.
“Just a kiss,” he said softly. “Nothing more, I promise.”
He dislodged her hand that was still feebly trying to hold him off and took her into his arms. She couldn’t remember ever being touched like this before, with such tender power.
Resist, resist!
He caught any protest in a kiss.
She was helpless, but his embrace felt not at all forceful, except as a force of nature. Thought evaporated, and Damaris let him tilt her head so he could deepen the kiss, then let him crush her to his strong, hard body, enfold her, protect her.
His lips freed hers. Damaris opened stunned eyes to look into his. Silver blue around endless dark. But he looked insufferably pleased with himself.
She gripped his hair. His eyes widened. Good. Before he could resist, she pushed him back against the side of the coach and kissed him as thoroughly as he’d kissed her. She’d never done such a thing before, but let instinct rule as she whirled with him back into the storm.
When she broke the kiss to pant for breath, she realized she was straddling him. Her breasts ached, and she pressed them against him, returning stinging lips to his again and again and again—
He twisted away. “Damaris, we have to stop!”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Then she heard what he’d heard.
Gravel. They were nearing the stables!
She was back at Rothgar Abbey, and tangled in disaster again.
What had she been thinking?
She’d not been thinking at all. She’d been overtaken by a force as fierce as the panic that had driven her into flight. Heaven alone knew what would have happened if they’d not had to stop. As the coach rattled into the stable yard of Rothgar Abbey she stole one quick glance at him.
Her look clashed with his. She instantly looked away again, trying to interpret his dark, blank expression.
Lord Henry Malloren wrenched open the carriage door. “Pox on you, you plaguey chit! What in the name of the devil are you up to now to shame us all?”
Chapter 2
Fitz stared at the sinewy, red-faced man, trying to think what to do for the best. When Lord Henry grabbed his ward’s arm, however, instinct took over. He chopped at the man’s hand as he’d chopped at Damaris’s, but a great deal harder. Lord Henry cursed and backed away, but he flailed the riding crop in his other hand. The crop he’d intended to use on his ward?
“Devil take you, sir! I’ll have you in court for abduction and assault!”
Fitz swung around Damaris and out of the coach, putting himself between her and danger. “Be quiet and have some sense, Lord Henry. Do you want to provide a show for the stable yard?”
Lord Henry was old, scrawny, and a head shorter, but he leaned forward. “She’s already made herself a laughingstock. What’s one more folly?”
Damaris appeared by Fitz’s side, hissing, “Stop it!” but Fitz didn’t take his eyes off his opponent.
“We can discuss this in the house—”
“We will discuss this nowhere, cockerel!” Though Lord Henry didn’t take his eyes off Fitz, he addressed his ward. “Get back in the coach and stay there, girl. We’re leaving within the hour now that you’ve embarrassed us so badly.”
“Not unless she wishes to.”
Lord Henry curled a lip. “Her wishes have nothing to do with it, cockerel. She’s under my thumb until she’s twenty-four or marries with my consent. So you’ve years to wait before she can fall into the clutches of a scandal-ridden fortune hunter like you.”
“I have no intention—” Damaris cried.
But Lord Henry cut her off with a blistering, “Do as you’re told!”
Fitz used all his strength to control himself. “Lord Henry, no one is traveling far today. It will soon snow again.”
The man glared at the gray heavens as if they were a personal affront, then turned on Damaris. “Then you’ll come with me and be locked in your room.”
He reached for her, but Fitz moved between them again. “No.”
He worried that Lord Henry would expire with rage, so deep a red he turned, but then the man snapped, “So be it. You know the consequences, girl.” He turned and marched off toward the house.
Fitz watched him go. “What did that mean?”
“If I don’t do as he says, he will withhold my money.”
He turned to look at her. She was almost as white as the snow. “All of it?”
“Every last farthing. Until, as he said, I’m twenty-four or marry with his consent.”
“ ‘Struth. Three years isn’t a lifetime, but it’s long enough without a penny. But wouldn’t running away have had the same effect? How did you hope to survive?”
“In poverty,” she said flatly. “But I’m no stranger to that. The Worksop house is mine. That was my mother’s, so it isn’t governed by my father’s will. I have a home, and I’d sell the contents down to the pots and sheets if necessary.”
“No need for such high drama, is there? The emeralds you wore on Christmas Day would support most people for a few lifetimes.”
She turned stark eyes on him. “But they do come under my father’s will, you see.”
Lord above. One of the richest women in England might be reduced to selling household items to survive. Of course, it would never come to that, because she could not be allowed to live unprotected. It would be like leaving a gold nugget in the street and expecting no one to steal it.
There had to be a way around this, but Fitz needed more information, and he needed to get to a fire. His exposed skin was burning with cold. He’d been an idiot to rush out so inadequately dressed, but when he’d looked out of the window and glimpsed the coach, some instinct had told him whom it contained and why. He’d dashed to prevent her flight without a thought.
Now, after that kiss, his urgency was warning of a problem he definitely didn’t need to add to his quota. He could not grow too close to Damaris Myddleton. At least he’d have her full cooperation in that. She intended to marry the highest title she could buy and would never consider a man like himself, as she’d made crisply clear.
He put an arm around her and urged
her out of the stable yard. “We must return to the house. I’m cold, and even though you’re in furs, in my experience ladies never wear warm enough shoes.”
“You think we should wear boots?”
“Why not? A grand heiress can do anything she wants.”
“Not obviously,” she dryly pointed out.
It made him laugh. She was forthright and clever, and over the past days he’d often found himself delighted with her, even as he’d been exasperated by her unseemly pursuit of Ashart.
As they crunched through snow toward the house he laid out her situation. “Listen to me. Forget Worksop. You cannot live unprotected. Every fortune hunter in England is after you.”
“I suppose you’d know.”
“I am not a fortune hunter.”
She flicked him a skeptical glance. “I don’t see any problem, anyway. If I don’t have my money, there’s nothing for them to hunt.”
“That shows your ignorance. Your husband could borrow against the expectations.”
“Oh.” She frowned, and Fitz thought he’d won that point, but then she looked up at him. “So I could borrow against my expectations.”
He felt as if his hair must be standing on end. “No one would permit it.”
“How could they prevent it?”
“They’d find a way. In truth, I’d find a way.”
“It seems most unfair.”
“And that surprises you?”
As he’d suspected, at heart she was practical. “No unfairness perpetrated on women surprises me. But it’s a relief to know that if the worst happens, I need not beg in the streets.”
The worst? She had no idea of the worst. She was a lamb in a forest thick with ravenous wolves. A lamb who thought she had sharp teeth.
She needed a strong protector, someone to guide her through this dangerous world and teach her how to survive. He certainly could be neither protector nor guide, even though he had the knowledge. His hold on a place in the highest social circles was by the fingernails, and besides, he planned to leave England as soon as he was able.
The snow hid the paths, so they were making a beeline for the house, but his booted foot suddenly sank deep. He held her back, found more stable footing, and helped her to it.
