The Dove Formatted

by welis

  “It was not until we stood on the brink of losing Fairchild House that I confronted him,” her mother had told her over a late-night pot of chocolate. “He was always so tightlipped about our finances … always assuring me that he had things well in hand. Even when the creditors came calling and we were forced to begin selling our things and … and … oh, Daphne, he used your dowry to cover his debts, and I did nothing to stop him!”

  She had broken into loud sobs then, tears wetting her cheeks, her face flushing scarlet. Daphne had set her cup aside and attempted to comfort her, patting her hand and whispering soothing platitudes.

  “He would not tell me where you’d gone,” she’d continued between sniffles and sobs. “Only that I should not worry, and as always, he had things well in hand. Well, I did something I have never done before—you would have been proud. I snuck into his study while he was out at his club and went through his things.”

  Despite the dire nature of their situation, she had not been able to stifle a smile. Her mother’s small rebellion might be likened to a child sneaking a cookie behind his mother’s back. But Daphne knew what kind of woman her mother was, because she’d been raised to become that same sort of woman. Quiet, demure, submissive to her father in all things, and then, after marriage, submissive to her husband. That her mother possessed the potential for rebellion of any kind made Daphne feel connected to her in a way she never had.

  “I found the letter from Lord Hartmoor … that … that cretin!”

  Daphne had winced at that, certain her mother could not know the entire truth. She might have found the letter Adam had written offering her family ten thousand pounds as recompense for ruining her, but she could not know the reason for his vendetta.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” Lady Fairchild had pleaded, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I allowed myself to remain ignorant of so many things, and I … I let you down.”

  “It is not your fault,” she had reassured her.

  Because, truly, the woman could not be blamed for being a product of her environment. The daughter of a viscount, then the wife of an earl, catered to in the lap of luxury her entire life. She was the consummate image of the pretty little bird Adam had compared Daphne to—always looking her best, saying the right thing, adhering strictly to the dictates of society, never questioning the men who ruled her life, as well as the entire world.

  “I packed my things that very night and called for a hired hack to bring me here,” her mother had continued. “Your Aunt Althea has taken such good care of me. She would be happy to take you in, too, dear, and we will get on quite well together, the three of us.”

  Daphne had lowered her eyes to her hands and sighed. As appealing as the offer had been, she could not retreat into the arms of her mother. Not when Adam had ensured that her ruination had become public knowledge.

  “Mother, I couldn’t possibly,” she’d protested. “I am ruined now. Surely, you and Aunt Althea cannot take such a burden onto your shoulders.”

  Her mother had scoffed. “What nonsense. No one need know exactly where you’ve been or the details of what I’m certain must have been quite an ordeal. It is over now, and you are home. Together, I am certain we can come up with an excuse for your prolonged absence.”

  Daphne had bitten her lip, reluctant to hurt her mother by revealing the truth, but needing her to understand that they could no longer be seen together in public. It would destroy what was left of her mother’s reputation.

  “News of my ruination will soon become public knowledge,” she had confessed. “In a fortnight or less, everyone we know, and everyone they know will be aware of where I’ve been and who I was with. So, you see, to live here would also invite scorn upon you and my aunt. I would never forgive myself if I caused you to become social pariahs.”

  Her mother had begun to weep again, collapsing against Daphne and wailing as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. “Th-that bastard! Why, Daphne? Why would he do such a thing?”

  Patting her hand, Daphne had clamped her lips shut and neglected to answer. Her mother’s independence was still too new, her freedom from her father as fragile as the first beats of a baby bird’s wings. It would destroy her to know all of it—the reasons Adam had sought to tear apart everything their family held dear.

  “I do not know,” she had lied, embracing her mother tight.

  After she had calmed, Daphne had reassured her that everything would be all right.

  “I would be grateful if Aunt Althea would permit me to stay a few days,” she had said. “Just until I have gotten my affairs in order and procured a place to live.”

  “However will you manage?” her mother had asked, still attempting to dry her dampened eyes. “What will you do, Daphne?”

  “Lord Hartmoor did not settle money only upon Father,” Daphne had told her. “Suffice it to say I will never want for anything … so long as I manage it well.”

  Her mother had been full of questions, curious as to why Adam would do such a thing. Daphne had simply told her that he must have felt some guilt over what he’d done. In truth, she knew he felt nothing of the sort. The man had taken as much satisfaction in ruining her as he had her father, brother, and uncle.

  In the three months since she had moved into her own home, Daphne had only seen her mother a handful of times. She’d come to inspect the newly purchased townhouse and deemed it to be acceptable. They had attended the theater together, entering Althea’s private box well before the majority of the ton had arrived and ducking out before the performance had ended—thereby ensuring they would not be seen together by anyone who mattered. While her mother still expressed concern over Daphne living alone and in a part of London not quite as lofty as Mayfair, she seemed to have accepted things the way they were. Just as she now had her own life apart from her husband and son, Daphne must tread her own path.

  Coming back from her wandering thoughts, she found that her maid had dressed and groomed her while she stood about woolgathering. She wore a long-sleeved walking gown of navy blue muslin, as well as her best black boots and a pair of warm stockings. Clarice had arranged her hair into a soft, simple chignon, over which she had sat a veiled hat that matched Daphne’s gown.

  She still risked coming across old acquaintances, even in her new neighborhood. It had only happened a few times in the past three months, but each encounter had left her weary. It became more and more difficult to maintain a stiff smile and bite her tongue when someone went out of their way to approach her, to make it known that they were aware of what she had become. She much preferred it when they gave her the cut direct, turning up their noses and avoiding her entirely. At least then, she did not have to be bothered with them.

  The veil protected her from scorn, but, more importantly, it protected her peace. It allowed her to enjoy the brisk morning air and the pleasant brightness of a sky unobscured by fog. A soft smile curved her lips as she took in the sights and sounds of the street she was slowly beginning to think of as her own. Her residence stood flanked by several others of similar style, many of her neighbors not yet stirring to begin the day. Most of the people sharing the street with her this early in the morning were servants—scullery maids off to the docks or the market to collect goods for their cooks, young boys toting messages, stable grooms exercising their masters’ horses. A few well-dressed men staggered down the lane with tousled hair and rumpled cravats—young blades just coming home from a night of revelry, no doubt.

  She went about her walk unbothered, reaching her destination with hunger gnawing at her belly and thirst drying her mouth. Thankfully, she had just arrived at one of her favorite haunts—a coffeehouse that sold some of the best confections she’d ever tasted. Pushing open the door, she removed her hat and gazed about the large, open main room of the shop. Long, narrow tables lined the space, with rows of wrought iron, cushioned chairs running along each side. Mismatched wall sconces and pieces of obscure art covered the walls while two large windows
allowed in the light of the morning.

  Mrs. Russel, the rail-thin, wizened old woman who ran the establishment along with her husband, Mr. Russel, scurried about the room, seeing to the needs of her guests. The tables had not grown overcrowded, but Daphne spotted several patrons she recognized. Like her, they frequented this coffeehouse often, as much a part of the decor as the dusty light fixtures and peeling wallpaper.

  “Come on in, m’lady, and have a seat,” Mrs. Russel called out as she sat a basket of scones between two young gents who looked as inebriated as those she’d seen staggering about outside. “I’ll have your usual to you in a bit.”

  “Take your time, Mrs. Russel,” she insisted, giving the old woman a smile.

  Mrs. Russel had taken a liking to Daphne from the first time she’d come into this establishment. If she did not visit at least once every week, she was sure to receive a tongue lashing from the proprietress when next she appeared.

  “Good morning, Lady Daphne,” one of the young blades called out, his words slurred.

  She recognized him and smiled, giving him a little wave. “Good morning, Mr. Kent. I trust you enjoyed your evening.”

  The man and his companion chuckled, and Mr. Kent raised his freshly topped-off cup of coffee. “I’ll need a bit more than this to sober up, that is for certain.”

  “I wish you luck with it,” she teased, taking a seat near the hearth in the corner of the room and settling there.

  She found an array of wrinkled but neatly folded papers—both ones containing the news and others holding the latest gossip. Reaching for the first one her eye fell upon, she laid it open on the table in front of her. Before she could begin reading, someone else was greeting her from across the room.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, Lady Daphne,” he called out, his round cheeks ruddy and flushed with glee.

  His wispy white hair was, as always, in disarray, though it only added to his charm. Shabby clothing, charcoal and paint-stained fingertips, watery, unfocused eyes. The markings of an artist … a man she knew only as Theo. He would not stand for her to address him formally.

  “Good morning, Theo,” she said, smiling at him as he sank down onto the chair beside her. “You look happier than I think I’ve ever seen you.”

  “That’s because I’ve finished me painting,” he said, puffing out his chest and beaming proudly. “Worked into the early hours to see it done, but she’s a masterpiece worthy o’ the Royal Gallery.”

  “Oh, pipe down, you old fool,” Mrs. Russel grumbled as she bustled toward their table, laying down a tray laden with all the things she knew Daphne liked best. “Lady Daphne isn’t interested in those atrocious paintings you call art.”

  Daphne giggled, lacing her steaming cup of coffee with a few lumps of sugar and a dollop of milk.

  “Quiet, you old shrew!” Theo countered, scowling at Mrs. Russel while pilfering a biscuit from the basket resting before Daphne. “You wouldn’t know art if it bit you on the arse … and I doubt anything’s bitten you in your shriveled-up arse in half a century!”

  She rapped his knuckles, and he winced, but took the biscuit in two bites, glaring at her as he chewed.

  “Now, now, children,” Daphne teased between sips of coffee. “Play nicely.”

  “I’ll play nice when this old bag of bones finally starts paying for his coffee and biscuits,” Mrs. Russel groused—even though everyone knew she allowed Theo to have his breakfast on the house when he was between paintings. The man often went months without selling a single piece, leaving him in dire straits.

  “Help yourself, Theo,” she told him as Mrs. Russel rushed off to tend another patron. “I could hardly stomach it all.”

  Theo thanked her and helped himself to another biscuit while she selected a scone for herself. After drizzling it with cream, she took a bite and groaned, the buttery, flaky confection melting on her tongue. Mrs. Russel would be as wealthy as a queen if only more people in London knew she made the best scone in all of England.

  While Theo rambled on about his newest painting, Daphne gave him one ear while opening the paper laid before her. Even though she was no longer a part of the London ton, she often found herself indulging in the gossip rags. It brought her an odd sort of satisfaction to be able to read about the latest scandals while detached from it all. A bit of a guilty pleasure—something she often indulged in along with Mrs. Russel’s decadent scones.

  She had drunk half her coffee and began nibbling on a second scone when a certain name upon the paper caught her eye. Sucking in a sharp breath, she nearly inhaled a mouthful, coughing and sputtering as she attempted to catch her breath. Her eyes watered, and her chest burned as she choked on a lump consisting of both pastry and disbelief.

  “I say, Lady Daphne, are you all right?”

  Taking a sip of coffee and then clearing her throat, she could not find the words to answer him … not when her gaze fell back to that name, standing out among the other words on the paper. For a long while, it was all she could decipher, the other letters swimming about on the page, only a fraction of them remaining clear and still.

  Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor.

  Shaking her head to clear it, she blinked, certain she must be seeing things. Yet, the words remained, the other letters surrounding it coming back into sharp focus. Her cup rattled in its saucer as she set it aside, reading over the short report of Adam’s return to London after several months away. The writer noted that the earl rarely visited London and never stayed for long, preferring to reside primarily in Scotland. She scowled as the writer speculated over his reasons for the sudden appearance—whether he might leave with a wife, or if he had simply come for a change of scenery.

  Her mouth went dry, and the shaking of her hands became so violent, she had to clasp them in her lap to still them. Her blood grew hot, the high neckline of her gown suddenly constricting … until she felt as if she would hardly be able to draw breath.

  “My lady? Are you all right?”

  Mrs. Russel’s voice reached out to her, and she glanced up to meet the woman’s kind, concerned gaze. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to calm herself. So, Adam had come to London. That did not mean she would encounter him, or that he had come for her. He had made it perfectly clear with his callous dismissal that she meant nothing to him. Why, then, would he seek her out just because they happened to occupy the same city?

  “I apologize,” she managed, slowly rising to her feet. “I’m afraid I don’t feel very well.”

  Fumbling about for her reticule, she retrieved a handful of banknotes and presented them to Mrs. Russel to cover her breakfast.

  “Perhaps you ought to be heading home now,” the old woman suggested, taking Daphne’s arm and guiding her toward the door. “And straight to bed with you! I don’t want to see you again until you are well.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Russel,” she agreed absently, her head spinning dizzily. “Thank you.”

  She stumbled out onto the street, one hand pressed against her roiling stomach. Though she had convinced herself that Adam could not have possibly come for her, she could not seem to find peace of mind. Her stomach churned, and her heart pounded. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked, certain he might appear from around a corner at any moment, huffing smoke and snorting ash before descending upon her with his teeth bared.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” she huffed under her breath. “You are being ridiculous.”

  Yet, she could not help the cold frisson of dread that trickled down her spine, prompting her to quicken her steps toward home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, released the curtain fisted in his grasp, allowing the heavy material to fall back over the window of his carriage—blotting out the light of the sun as well as his view of the woman racing down the street as if the hounds of Hell nipped at her heels. The irony of such a metaphor made him chuckle, as the heat that had flared in his blood at the sight of her might be likened to the sort of fi
erceness attributed to a Hellhound. Running his tongue over his teeth, he imagined chasing her, capturing her, having his first taste of her flesh. A shudder wracked him, the thick organ between his legs going hard as stone.

  He had waited for what felt like hours for her to emerge from the little townhome on Half-Moon Street, following at a discreet distance to the little coffee shop a few blocks away. His jaw had tightened at the sight of her, one hand clenching in his lap. It annoyed him to no end that she walked about alone—even in broad daylight. She shouldn’t be unaccompanied in the open, where she could be accosted by just anyone. With the money he had given her, she ought to have hired a well-muscled footman to trail her for the purposes of protection.

  Did she think she was hiding anything beneath the prim walking dress, or that veiled hat? Even if he hadn’t known it was her exiting that house shrouded in secrecy, he would have recognized her. There was something about her that set her apart—a straightness to her shoulders and a sway to her walk. An essence … a presence that belonged uniquely to her. It beckoned to him as much as it infuriated him.

  He wanted to yank her hair free of whatever useless coiffure it had been arranged into and send it spiraling down her back. He wanted to wrap his hand around it, yank with all his might, and force her to bend, to break, to contort out of that prim posture of a lady and become his little wanton again.

  Balling his hand into a fist, he banged on the ceiling of the carriage to alert his driver. Outside the conveyance, he heard the snap of the reins and the call of his driver before the carriage lurched, setting off in the opposite direction.

  Slouching a bit in the carriage seat, he closed his eyes and fought to get his urges under control. He had allowed impulse to drive him to London—three months’ worth of frustration and a niggling itch he could not seem to scratch. He felt like a beast clawing at its own skin, desperate for relief, tearing itself to shreds.

  He’d come here on an impulse, but now that he’d laid eyes on her, the sensation had changed. It had calmed, the unbearable itch giving way to a tingle that began at the back of his neck and trickled down his spine, spreading out through his groin. His mouth watered, and his stomach clenched, his veins pulsing with the thrill of the hunt. As much as he wished to barge into her townhouse, throw her over his shoulder, carry her to the nearest bed or couch, and plunder her body, he would refrain. After all, he enjoyed the chase as much as he did the resulting surrender. He did not want a fleeting moment of shock or terror from her. He wanted to stalk her, watch her shiver with the premonition telling her his eyes caressed her body through her clothes. He wanted her to see him from a distance and feel the walls closing in around her.