A Summer Seduction (Legend of St. Dwynwen)

by Candace Camp

  “Yes, I know. It’s a bother, but Lord Rawdon never should have ordered you to bring them here in the first place.”

  “Are we going back home?”

  “Yes. Well, I mean, you are. I plan to leave for Dover this afternoon.”

  “Dover!”

  “Yes. I am making a trip to Calais. In the meantime, you are going to pack up our things and take the carriage back to Chesley.”

  “By myself?” Edith stared. “Why? Why can’t I go with you? I should be with you. Who will do your hair? Your clothes? Are you angry with me?”

  “No. No, of course not. It’s not that I don’t want you with me. But I need to draw some people away. I don’t want them to know about the house in Chesley.”

  “But who, miss? Who is trying to hurt you? Is it them? The ones your poor mother hated so?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Damaris nodded. “I saw Lady Sedbury the other night, and she was very clear that she wanted me to leave London. So I intend to oblige them. I want them to think I am going back to the Continent to live. But I’ll stay only a week or two, long enough to make sure that they are not keeping tabs on me, and I will return to Chesley. That is why I need you to take charge of getting yourself and my things back home.”

  Edith looked somewhat reluctant, but she merely nodded. “Yes’m, I’ll get to packing right away.”

  While her maid was thus engaged, Damaris went downstairs to take a polite leave of the ladies of the house. She found Genevieve and the countess in the sitting room. The countess was by the window, taking advantage of the light to pursue her needlework. Genevieve had apparently abandoned her plans to make calls, at least for the moment, for she sat in a nearby chair, reading aloud from a scandal sheet. The large white cat was curled up asleep in her lap, looking like nothing so much as a large ball of fur.

  Genevieve looked up at Damaris’s entrance and stopped reading, causing the cat to lift its head, too, and stare resentfully at Damaris. “Mrs. Howard. Good morning again.”

  The countess, who had been smiling faintly in response to whatever Genevieve had been reading, assumed her usual contained expression and let her hands fall idle in her lap. “Mrs. Howard.”

  “Lady Rawdon. Lady Genevieve. Pardon me; I do not wish to disturb you, but I wanted to thank you for your kindness in giving me shelter last night. I must take my leave of you now.”

  Genevieve straightened. “Leave? But Alec said you were to stay here.”

  “It is most courteous of him to take such an interest in my welfare, but I am certain that I will be fine now. It is broad daylight, after all, and I will have my maid with me. There are some errands I must attend to before I leave the city.”

  “You are leaving London?” the countess asked, and Damaris could see no sign of regret on her features. “So soon?”

  “Yes, I believe I shall take a trip to Switzerland or perhaps Italy.”

  “Oh. How lovely.” The countess went so far as to smile at this news.

  Genevieve, however, was frowning slightly. “I don’t think Rawdon will like this.”

  Damaris suppressed a spurt of irritation. “Indeed, I hope he will not be distressed. You may assure him that I will have my driver with me, as well as one of the footmen, while I go about my errands. Pray give your brother my regards, as well as my deepest thanks. I shall leave a note for him, if I may, expressing those sentiments.”

  Genevieve obviously remained doubtful about Alec’s reaction to Damaris’s leaving, but there was little else she could say. The countess, on the other hand, was quite cheerful and even went so far as to send a servant to have their town carriage brought round to return Damaris to her house. After a few more expressions of thanks and well wishes, Damaris bid them good-bye and returned upstairs.

  Edith had finished packing the small case of clothes she had brought with her the night before, but Damaris took the time to sit down and pen a short note to Rawdon. She hated to leave in this hasty and secretive manner, but she knew that if she stayed to say good-bye to Alec, it would result in a long and doubtless acrimonious argument. Rawdon was not a man who liked to be gainsaid, and Damaris was too long accustomed to taking care of herself to submit to his making decisions for her.

  Perhaps she was taking the coward’s way out, she thought. If she stayed and discussed the matter with Alec, she would have to tell him the truth about herself, and she did not want to face that. It was better this way, really—quicker and cleaner. There could be no hope of anything between them, ever. It would be easier for both of them to make the break now.

  It was difficult to choose what to say, and she started over more than once, but finally, she gave up and contented herself with a few lines expressing her gratitude for his help. Sealing it, she wrote his name on the front and left it on the hall table, then walked out of the house.

  Eight

  Alec trotted up the steps of his house, realizing with some astonishment that he was whistling beneath his breath. He stopped in the entryway and managed to hand his hat and gloves to the footman with his usual demeanor. A glance in the drawing room told him Damaris was not there, and he considered running upstairs to see if she was in the less formal sitting room. It occurred to him that he was probably a good deal too eager to see her, so instead he headed to his study.

  He spent a few idle minutes there, poking about his desk and thinking of the many matters about which he needed to talk to Damaris. It had taken him longer than he expected to find the Bow Street Runner, and the whole thing had been rather fruitless. By the time he had explained Damaris’s situation and answered the Runner’s questions, he realized that what he did not know about Damaris was a great deal more than what he did. Having assured himself of the fact that there were a number of perfectly adequate and logical reasons for talking to Damaris, he got up and went upstairs.

  He could hear his sister’s voice coming from the sitting room, and he strode toward it, coming up to the doorway, when he saw that Genevieve and his grandmother were talking with his grandmother’s bosom friend, Lady Hornbaugh. He would have liked to back out of the room, but of course they had spotted him.

  “Rawdon!” Lady Hornbaugh trumpeted. The daughter of an admiral, the woman had a voice that could be heard across stormy decks, and governing over a large brood of children and an even larger collection of grandchildren had done nothing to decrease its volume. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you. Come here, young man, and give an old woman a kiss. Bets tells me you’ve been marooned in that castle of yours for months.”

  “Lady Hornbaugh.” Alec forced himself to bow politely and step forward to give the old woman a kiss on the cheek. He had never understood the attraction between his formal and aloof grandmother and the bellowing, even bumptious Lady Hornbaugh. It was also hard to envision the countess being called “Bets.”

  There was nothing for it except to sit down and engage in a few minutes of polite chitchat with the woman. He could not leave without offending her, and he was not about to inquire into Damaris’s whereabouts with Lady Hornbaugh here; he could only praise whatever good angel had prompted his relatives to keep Damaris away from her. After a seemingly unending twenty minutes, Lady Hornbaugh departed, and he was able to turn to Genevieve and ask after Damaris.

  Genevieve shifted a little uneasily, which was not like her, and said, “She left.”

  He stared at her blankly. “Left? What do you mean?”

  “It seems rather self-explanatory. I mean that she came and told us she was leaving, and then she did so. I believe she wrote you a note.”

  Alec stood up. “Genevieve!” He turned to his grandmother. “Is this your doing? Did you say something to send her away?”

  The countess lifted her brows. “Really, Rawdon, are you accusing me? Of what?”

  “I don’t know. But I specifically told you Damaris should stay inside today.” He swung back to Genevieve. “After what happened to her yesterday, how could you have let her go out?”

  Genevieve j
umped to her feet to face him, a dangerous light glinting in her eyes. “I could hardly hold her prisoner here! What did you expect us to do? She said she had things to attend to. She said she planned to leave the city. She is a grown woman, Alec, not a child. I cannot see how I have any right to stop her from doing what she wants.”

  “You could have persuaded her not to go! You could have made a push to get her to stay.”

  “Really, Alec, who is this woman and why are you acting in such an absurd manner over her?” Lady Rawdon chimed in. “I have never heard of her, and suddenly you are thrusting her upon us and berating us because she left.”

  “Who is she? What the—” He stopped, aware that he was on the verge of saying something rude to his grandmother, and drew a breath, then continued in a more measured tone, “She is Lady Morecombe’s friend. And mine as well, I hope. Forgive me for raising my voice. I am concerned about her.” He turned to Genevieve, his voice as cool as it was calm. “When did Mrs. Howard leave, may I ask? Did she say where she was going?”

  “She said she had errands. She took her maid, and we gave her the carriage. I am sure she is quite safe. It was almost two hours ago, I suppose. Not long after you left.”

  He nodded abruptly and stalked out of the room.

  “Alec!” Genevieve called, and hurried out into the corridor after him.

  He turned, waiting for her impatiently at the top of the stairs.

  “She said she was leaving you a note.”

  “I’ll look downstairs.” He started to turn away.

  “What do you mean to do?” Genevieve asked. “You cannot force her to come back, you know.”

  His face tightened. “I have no interest in forcing her to do anything. But she is in some sort of danger, and I must do what I can to protect her.”

  “Alec… do you… do you care for this woman? You scarcely know her.”

  “Of course I don’t—” He stopped abruptly. “I have to leave. There isn’t time to stand about talking nonsense.”

  He turned and trotted down the stairs, leaving his sister staring after him, frowning with concern.

  Damaris held on to the strap as the post chaise bounced into and out of a rut in the road. Perhaps, she thought, she should have taken her own carriage instead of hiring the vehicle. The post chaise’s suspension left much to be desired.

  But no, it was the better way. She was certain that, as she emerged from the Staffords’ carriage, she had spotted a man lurking down the street, pretending to be vastly interested in the railings of the house in front of him. With any luck, he had followed her as she went about getting cash and a letter of credit at her bank and hiring the chaise to take her to Dover. She hoped that he was even now on her trail. If she had taken her own carriage to Dover, there was the possibility that he might follow it back and discover her home in Chesley, which would make all her pretense of fleeing to the Continent for naught.

  There was always the possibility, of course, that the men might follow her and attack her later, but, given that they had seemed more interested in spiriting her away than in harming her, she continued to believe that her grandmother’s only wish was to see her gone, not to have her killed. Surely even Lady Sedbury, dislikable as she seemed, would not be likely to do away with her own flesh and blood. Just in case, though, Damaris had pulled out the dainty pistol her father had given her long ago and loaded it, then put it in her reticule. She often took it with her when she traveled, though she did not usually carry it on her person, preferring to keep it in its box in the side panel of her carriage. This time, however, she wanted it close at hand.

  They had left London without incident and had traveled for two hours without any sign of attackers. So far, the worst aspect of her trip had been the rough ride of the post chaise—that, and having far too long a time to think about the Earl of Rawdon. She could not help but dwell on his reaction when he found out she had left. Would he be furious? Would he feel resentful and betrayed after all he had done for her yesterday? She could not help but feel that leaving his home without telling him face-to-face had been the act of a coward, and she could not blame him if he was angry. Even worse was the thought that he might simply shrug and regard her departure as a problem taken care of without any effort.

  She thought more than once of turning back and going to him, telling him everything. But that, she knew, was folly. She could not remember a man about whom she had felt this sort of chaotic longing and liking. When he had kissed her, every nerve in her body seemed to sizzle. But that, of course, was what made continuing to see him such a bad idea. Quite simply, she liked him too much. He was not someone with whom she could keep up a light flirtation, as she had done with Sir Myles. With Alec, something deep and serious lay beneath the surface; it would be far too easy to be pulled under.

  There was no hope of a future with Alec Stafford, and because of that, she could not allow her feelings to grow. Her parentage might not matter to some other man, but it would to the Earl of Rawdon. He would never marry her, and she refused to be a man’s mistress, so that way lay only heartache. Which did not mean, of course, that she should not give him a better explanation for her actions, but she did not think she could bear to see the look in his eyes change when she told him who she was and why her grandmother did not want her in London. It would be too painful if she saw the subtle alteration of expression that meant he now viewed her as a lesser being, someone beneath his notice except for her obvious attractions of the flesh.

  Damaris enjoyed the spark she saw in Alec’s eyes when he looked at her, the way heat flashed for an instant in the midst of all that cold calm. But she did not want to know that that heat was all he felt for her.

  She was still plunged in her gloomy musings when she heard a shout. A moment later, it came again, this time closer to them. Puzzled, she moved the curtain aside and glanced around but saw no sign of anyone. Finally, turning and leaning out the window, she was able to see directly behind them. A man on a black horse was riding toward them. At the sight of her, he kicked his heels into his steed’s sides and charged after them. His hat flew off, and white-blond hair flashed in the sun.

  Alec!

  Damaris’s heart started beating like a hammer, and happiness leapt inside her. Alec had come after her.

  “Stop!” he shouted again, and the authority in his voice obviously swayed the postilion, who pulled the horses to a halt. Twisted around in the seat as she was, the sudden cessation of movement sent Damaris sliding off onto the floor, where she landed with a thump. She had barely pulled herself back into her seat when the door was flung open and Alec looked inside.

  “Bloody hell, Damaris! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” His silvery blue eyes blazed with temper, the cool demeanor he normally showed the world shattered. “I turn my back for a few minutes, and you’ve sneaked out of the house and taken off!”

  “I am not answerable to you!” Damaris jumped out of the vehicle to face him. She was not about to sit cowering in a carriage while he ranted at her. “The last I heard, I am an adult, free to go where I choose.”

  “Free to get captured again!” he retorted. “What an utterly nonsensical thing to do!”

  Damaris’s eyes narrowed dangerously at this insult. “I beg your pardon! There was nothing nonsensical about it. I gave it a good deal of thought.”

  “All of ten minutes, no doubt. Genevieve said you left the house right after I did. You told me that you would not leave.”

  “I did nothing of the sort!” Damaris shot back, planting her hands on her hips. “You asked me if you had made yourself clear, and I said you were quite clear about it. I did not say that I agreed to stay shut up in your house like some… some odalisque in a harem.”

  “An odalisque!” His eyes flared brighter, and to Damaris’s astonishment, he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her up hard against him.

  She let out a little “Oof” as her body met his, but then his lips were on hers and she was rendered incapable
of speech. For a moment she was conscious of nothing—not the sun bathing them in soft light nor the breeze that stirred her hair nor even the amazed stare of the post boy on the lead horse—nothing but the heat that flooded her and the exquisite pleasure of his mouth. His kiss was hard, almost punishing, and his arms wrapped around her in the same way, pressing her into him as if she could become part of him. His embrace was all strength and passion and fire, explosive in its intensity, as if the emotions inside him were bursting their way out of him and into her.

  Damaris shuddered as dizzying sensations flooded her. She went up on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck, meeting his desire with the force of her own. She felt him twitch, a small groan sounding deep in his throat, and his lips dug deeper into hers. The fire between them was consuming, as if it could burn them into nothingness, but Damaris embraced it willingly, rushing toward the hunger, reveling in the ache that filled her. She wanted him, her entire body trembling with an impetuous eagerness, and the fact that he could bring her to such a state in one deep kiss would have been frightening—if her mind had been clear and cool enough to think.

  At last he tore his mouth from hers, though he did not let her go. “An odalisque,” he murmured again, and his lips, soft and darkened, almost bruised-looking from their fierce kiss, curved up in a trace of a smile. His eyes caught and held hers. “I can imagine you as an odalisque, skin like cream, a wisp of sheerest silk to cover you, lying on the sultan’s couch.” He let out a long sigh, leaning his forehead against hers. “Ah, Damaris, what you do to me… I have never known the like. I am usually a measured man.”

  Damaris could not help but giggle. “Oh, indeed, I have seen how measured you are—bursting into the Priory and smashing your fist into Gabriel’s chin, riding out into the snowstorm to find little Matthew, charging out to track down my traveling chaise.”