A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  “Why,” she whispered, “are you glowering at me? I just saved you.”

  “By risking your life? I’m supposed to thank you?”

  “As if I—”

  “Damaris? Is something wrong?” Genova was coming back to them as Ash escorted Lady Thalia to bed.

  Fitz wanted to protest that he could take care of Damaris, could put her to bed, then rub liniment over her injured body....

  “He’s lecturing me about running into danger,” Damaris complained. “A person can hardly help sleepwalking.”

  “Perhaps we should lock your door at night,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Damaris, Fitz,” Genova soothed. “Everyone’s nerves are on edge. Let’s get you to bed. Unless you would prefer to sleep with Thalia tonight?”

  “No, I’ll be all right. Maisie shares my bed.”

  “But clearly sleeps too soundly to be a warden,” Fitzroger muttered.

  Genova was leading the way with her candle, and he followed, aggrieved that there would be no chance for even the slightest impropriety—even though he’d geld himself before he’d commit any.

  At least he did get to put her to bed. He placed his burden on the sheets amid fussing from a wild-eyed Maisie in a mobcap and shawls. Damaris looked up at him, and it seemed strange that in the muted light from a dying fire and one candle he could see the dark line of her lashes and her smooth, pale skin so very, very clearly.

  Her lips moved as if she might say something, but then she smiled in a rueful way before the maid shoved him out of the room and shut the door in his face.

  Wise maid.

  He definitely had to get away from here—because a girl didn’t throw herself downstairs to help a man unless she thought she loved him. And despite all his will and good intentions, he wasn’t sure he could resist if she threw herself into his arms.

  * * *

  He retreated to his room and took refuge in drink, which was very unwise, because half an hour later his door opened, and Damaris slipped in. She was swathed in silvery fur and put a finger to her lips, which was ridiculous, because he’d lost all faculty of speech.

  She hurried toward him, showing no sign of her recent flirtation with death. “We need to try again.”

  “We?” he croaked from a dry mouth and tight throat.

  Try what? He couldn’t even find strength to stand up.

  She was a foot away now, a frowning cat in a frame of gray fur. “Are you drunk?”

  He closed his eyes. “Of course not. Three glasses of brandy is nothing.”

  He heard her hum in that skeptical way she had. “We’d better wait until tomorrow then, but we can plan. Tonight would have gone better if you’d confided in me.”

  His eyes opened on their own from astonishment. “Why the devil should I do that?”

  It wasn’t wise to look. She was standing almost knee-to-knee with him, her eyes steady and censorious, pushing back the hood of her cloak. Beneath it she would be wearing that plain robe over the pristine nightgown. Her hair was still in its plait, falling down her front. He could imagine all too well unweaving it so that it spread around her and down her, veiling her body.

  Her pale, naked body.

  In his bed.

  “Why?” she echoed. “Because you need help. You know you do. You’d have been in a fine pickle if I hadn’t watched you and created a distraction.”

  He needed to escape.

  To escape he needed to stand.

  Standing would put them in contact almost everywhere.

  He scrambled for a way around this, but in the end resorted to bluntness. “Go away,” he said.

  Her hurt expression stung, but he had to protect her and himself.

  “You’re not showing much gratitude.”

  “I didn’t ask you to risk your neck.”

  “And I didn’t. I let out a shriek, thumped on some stairs, then arranged myself tragically at the bottom.”

  “Showing your legs to the world!”

  She leaned forward, brows almost meeting in the middle. “It would have looked rather suspicious, wouldn’t it, if my clothes had arranged themselves in perfect decency? Just as suspicious as your clean, dry slippers, which gave you away.”

  Damned clever virago. He grabbed her plait and pulled her close.

  She resisted, gripping his wrist. “Let me go!”

  “You came here of your own free will, didn’t you? What for, Damaris? What for?”

  He saw sudden fear, but she needed to learn a lesson.

  “So we could go back downstairs and find the papers,” she protested, but he knew better.

  She was flirting with fire and needed to be singed so she wouldn’t do it again. He forced her closer, then captured her head with his other hand and forced a kiss on her. He meant it to be harsh, but if anyone was singed, it was him.

  He tore free of her hot, sweet lips and erupted to his feet, pushing her out of his way so sharply that she staggered. She was staring at him, eyes shocked wide.

  He turned away and dug his hands into his hair. “Now will you go?”

  “Of course.” Her voice sounded small and tearful. “If you’re intent on being unkind.”

  Oh, God. He lowered his hands and turned. “Damaris, you know you shouldn’t be here.”

  “No one will know. Maisie’s snoring again, and besides, she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Servants always gossip.”

  “Not when the gossip might force a marriage the servant doesn’t want to have happen. She wants me to marry a title.”

  “Wise Maisie. But if anyone else found you here, you could end up at the altar with me. And you, too, want to marry a title.”

  “Why would Ashart, Genova, or Lady Thalia come over from the other wing? But if they did, they wouldn’t make me marry you. Everyone agrees that you’re a completely unsuitable husband for me.”

  “In which case Ashart would probably call me out. As you’re a guest in his house, he’d see you as under his protection. Do you want someone to die for your whims? Perhaps you knocked your head when you fell. That’s the only explanation for this.”

  “I didn’t fall,” she protested, but his words seemed to have struck home. “I’m sorry, then. You’re right. But there’s no true danger—”

  “No danger!”

  He dragged her to him for another violent kiss.

  He knew he shouldn’t, knew he was plunging into the heart of the fire, but he couldn’t stop himself. Desire overwhelmed every scrap of sense and control.

  Thought fell away and he could only feel—feel pleasure and hunger for more. He swept her into his arms and carried her to his bed, where he flipped open the catch of her fur-lined cloak and spread it, framing her in silvery softness.

  Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but she showed neither dismay nor fear.

  With unsteady hands he opened her robe, distantly aware of clamorous warnings, but more pressingly aware of imminent ecstasy.

  He looked to those lovely cat’s eyes, perhaps hoping for something to rescue him, but they were dark with desire. She smiled, grabbed him, and dragged him down for more kisses, endless kisses, kisses more wonderful because of her body beneath his hands and the soft, warm scent of her.

  Jasmine.

  Ruin.

  He couldn’t care. Not now. Not when she was kneading his back with hungry hands, surging beneath him with passion, opening her legs so he was nestled between her thighs. His left hand found the wonderful softness of her breast, and he felt her instant gasping response.

  He was probably the first to touch her like that.

  He shouldn’t touch her like that.

  “Oh, yes!” she whispered, hooking a leg over him, locking him closer to her, arching against him. He pushed up her nightgown until he felt the silky heat of her thigh, then scrabbled for his buttons so close by.

  And found a remnant of sense.

  Her chest rose and fell, as did his. Her body vibrated with
need, and she pressed harder against him, clutched tighter at his arms. Her eyes were shut, but he read the change in her expression.

  She was beginning to think, too.

  He kissed her lips the lightest possible way. “Damaris, look at me.”

  Resentfully, she did so.

  Oh, God, how he loved her for this quick and glorious passion on top of all her other gifts. But she wasn’t for him.

  “Do you want to marry me?” he demanded.

  “That’s a very ungracious proposal.”

  “Answer me.”

  She looked away, but he waited, and in time, as he knew she would, she looked back at him. “Maybe.”

  “You want to be a duchess,” he reminded her, unhooking her leg. “One of the grandest ladies in the land.”

  But she clung onto his shirt. “I’m not sure I want to be mistress of a grand establishment.”

  “Don’t take Cheynings as your model.”

  “I’m not. I’m serious, Fitz. I want a home. A real home.”

  He tore free and left the bed. “You certainly won’t get one from me.”

  She raised a hand to him, tears in her eyes, silently pleading. He took it, but used it to pull her up and off the bed.

  “You want to marry a man of title and position, and you should.” He tried to be harsh, but he had to wipe away one trickling tear from her cheek, and he wanted to take her back into his arms and comfort her. “Yes, there’s passion between us, Damaris, but it’s nothing important. If I let it trap you, you’d hate me all your days.”

  He began to refasten her robe, but she snatched free and did it herself. “I might not.”

  Dear Lord, had he done this? With hindsight, he realized he shouldn’t have chased after her that first morning. She’d have been better off by far if caught later by Lord Henry. Even a beating wouldn’t have ruined her life.

  He retreated to the fireplace, where flames licked sullenly at the last of the dark logs. He knew what he had to do, even though it would feel like plunging a saber into his own belly. “It’s time you knew the truth about me.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes that anticipated pain.

  “I am not received in society,” he said. “Ashart and Rothgar are exceptions—Ashart from friendship, Rothgar for Ash’s sake and because I am of use to him. Those who shun me are justified.”

  It took effort to meet her eyes, but he did it. “I had an affair with my brother’s wife. It wounded everyone involved and tore apart my family. It caused a fight with my brother, during which he fell and hit his head. Ever since he’s been prone to wild rages, which makes the situation of my mother and sisters even more difficult. His wife, my partner in sin, threw herself down the stairs shortly after the event and broke her neck.”

  Her eyes were dark with shock.

  “The story is widely known,” he continued, “and my brother still thirsts for my blood. I will not lay the burden on him of killing me, so I must leave the country as soon as I can. Now, go back to your bed and forget this ever happened.”

  She grabbed her cloak, perhaps with a sob, then just stood there, swallowing tears.

  Unable to help himself, he took the fur and placed it around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Damaris.”

  He couldn’t begin to list all the things he was sorry for.

  She looked up at him, wrinkling her face as she sniffed back tears. “But you’re involved in something important here—keeping people safe. You can’t deny that.”

  “The one doesn’t affect the other.”

  “It should.”

  He didn’t attempt a reply to that.

  “Right, then,” she said, chin firm and raised. “I said I’d help and I will. Tomorrow I’ll find a way to keep the dowager occupied so you’ll be able to search again.”

  She left, and Fitz suddenly turned to the wall, shaking with loss, with tears, and with the violent remains of unfulfilled passion.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning Genova and Lady Thalia fussed over Damaris, seemingly unable to believe that she was none the worse for her accident. Quite possibly the signs of her sleepless night and her anguish over what Fitz had told her accounted for that.

  She was a realist. She didn’t expect men, especially worldly men, to be pure. But what Fitzroger had done... The worst possible betrayal of a brother, which had gone on to leave the poor man injured and deranged and his wife dead.

  No wonder his family wanted nothing to do with him—and neither did she. The pain of that thought was measure of her folly, and showed the blessing of her escape.

  At the same time, she’d tasted ecstasy in his arms, and her body would not forget. She felt bruised and almost ill with it. The thin winter sunlight dazzled her eyes, and the cold air abraded her skin. The brush of her own furs made her shiver with remembered need. Her mind could not reconcile what he’d told her with what she knew of him in her heart.

  The men were off somewhere, so she didn’t have to face Fitz yet. She didn’t know what would happen when she did. She had no idea how to treat him.

  As Lady Thalia chattered, Damaris thought of asking her about Fitz’s story, but she had no scrap of doubt that he’d told her the truth. It had rung in every stark word.

  It didn’t bear thinking about, but she couldn’t stop. Even if no one else in the world knew about it, she could have nothing to do with him. As it was, she was weak enough to mind that so many people did know. Any wife would share his shame.

  Wife. Yes, she had been thinking of buying him for her pleasure.

  No more. Her broken heart ached.

  She had to stop this or go mad! Lady Thalia’s story about a youthful adventure suddenly reminded Damaris of other things. There was still the matter of Ashart’s royal blood. If her speculations about Prince Henry were correct, it was important.

  Last night she’d promised to help Fitz search the dowager’s rooms, but it would be better if it weren’t necessary. Lady Thalia had known Betty Prease in her old age, and she might know something.

  She could try again to question her, but she didn’t think Lady Thalia was keeping secrets. She might, however, have forgotten something. If they checked through the last of the Prease papers together, perhaps one would trigger a forgotten memory.

  It was better than sitting here moping.

  She suggested it, and they all went into the library, though Lady Thalia was not enthusiastic. She mostly sat by while Genova and Damaris sorted papers, saying what they were.

  The old lady did come up with some gossip, but nothing that seemed important, and she soon yawned. “Such dull old stuff,” she declared. “I shall leave you to this and read a book. Candide. So wickedly amusing.”

  When the door shut after her, Genova put down a laundry list, showing she had little interest either. “Do you know what Fitzroger was up to last night?”

  “I’m not sure, but he truly does want to find out about Ashart’s royal blood. And if there are any papers to do with that royal affair, the dowager probably has them.”

  “So he was searching her rooms. There’d have been explosions if he’d been caught.” Then she stared at Damaris. “You threw yourself down the stairs to help him escape?”

  Damaris rolled her eyes. “Why does everyone think I’m stupid? Of course not. I made all the right noises, then arranged myself in a tragic sprawl.”

  “How quick-thinking.”

  “I am quite proud of it, though with time to plan I might have done better. Fitzroger keeps things to himself too much.”

  “I suspect it’s his way. With his history.” She cast Damaris a worried glance. “I did ask Thalia for the details.”

  “Don’t worry,” Damaris said quickly. “I know all about it. He’s a wicked, incestuous seducer, and I can’t have anything to do with him.”

  Genova looked shocked at that blunt description, but she didn’t argue.

  “I’m surprised that Ashart and Rothgar allow him in their houses to endanger innocent ladies,”
Damaris snapped.

  “There’s a deep affection between Ashart and Fitzroger,” Genova said gently. “Friendships can be like that sometimes. Almost like falling in love. In Ash’s opinion, the scandal was so long ago it should be forgotten, but the world is not so obliging.”

  “But Lord Rothgar allowed me to come here with Fitz,” Damaris said, relieved to be able to talk about these things with someone. “He instructed me to come here. He must have known I’d be thrown into Fitz’s company.”

  Genova frowned. “Yes. That is strange.”

  “So it’s not so bad?” Ah, pathetic hope.

  “I don’t think that’s it. Perhaps Lord Rothgar takes it for granted that a woman under his protection is untouchable.”

  “Which deprives me of any choice!”

  “Of any wicked choice,” Genova corrected.

  Damaris blushed. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t make my own decisions.”

  “In the eyes of the world, Rothgar is now responsible for your safety and well-being. Damaris, do be careful,” she added with new urgency. “Think of Ashart. In sending you here, Rothgar has in a sense given his guardianship to Ashart. You wouldn’t want a quarrel between Ashart and Fitz over you.”

  Damaris looked at the paper in her hand—a burial record for a stillborn child.

  Genova took her hand and squeezed it. “Dear Damaris, things are so strange just now. In London it will be better. You’ll meet other men. It could be that you’ve known so few, especially of the handsome, charming variety.”

  Damaris hated to cause such distress, and found a smile. “I’m sure you’re right.” She put the paper on the pile she thought of as birth, marriage, and death.

  “Back to Betty Crowley and the king,” she said briskly. “There’s something important about it, so I think we should help Fitz to search the dowager’s rooms. He can’t try at night again, because I’m sure she’ll take extra precautions. So it must be during the day, and we need to draw her out of the way.”

  Genova looked startled, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything like that without Ash’s agreement. Not when we’re talking about stealing from his grandmother.”