by welis
“I wasn’t nearly finished with you,” he added, still steadily teasing her through her gown.
Her chin trembled, and her brow furrowed, her gaze boring into him as if she searched for something. Answers to questions she could not have answered otherwise. His face would betray nothing, and neither would his eyes. Like his father, he’d practiced the art of coldness … of holding people at the distance he dictated.
“You certainly seemed to be finished when you sent me away from Dunnottar,” she accused. “You could not even be bothered to say good-bye. After you used me, embarrassed me, and destroyed any chance I might have had for marriage or a future, you … you did not even have the decency to show your face the morning of my departure.”
Some unfamiliar emotion opened in the pit of his gut, lodging itself in places that made him want to squirm. Could it be guilt?
He certainly hadn’t relished locking himself away in his study while waiting with baited breath for her to leave Dunnottar under Niall’s care. But, it had seemed like the best course of action. A clean break. A fitting end to their short time together.
Only, that time had not been enough, and here he stood, ruining the clean break that had seemed so important to him three months ago.
“You are angry with me for not saying good-bye,” he murmured, gripping her chin and stroking her lower lip. “Let me make it up to you.”
She tried to dislodge his hold again, but failed, wincing when his fingers bit into her jaw. “There is also the matter of the ten thousand pounds you paid my father. ‘Compensation’ for one’s only daughter, I believe you called it.”
That feeling in his gut increased, twisting cruelly. He didn’t like it one bit.
“I paid you more,” he reminded her.
She shook her head. “After you’d already paid them … knowing that I was ignorant to the truth … knowing they would take it and do nothing.”
“I believe the words you are searching for would be ‘thank you’,” he snapped, agitation ruining the good mood that had followed fucking her. “‘Thank you, Adam, for showing me the truth about my despicable family, and giving me enough money that I never have to depend on them again for as long as I live.’”
She sneered at him, her upper lip peeling back to expose her perfect, white teeth. “Thank you, Adam. Now, kindly sod off.”
He released her, laughing as she spun on her heel and began marching back toward the street. “We are not finished, little dove. You do realize that, eh?”
Pausing at the mouth of the alley, she swiveled to face him again, hands braced upon her hips. “Actually, we are, Lord Hartmoor. You see, I do not believe you could afford the amount it would cost for me to let you back into my bed.”
He raised an eyebrow, both amused and intrigued by her words. His little dove wasn’t the spoiled, pampered little chit she’d been when he’d first met her. She’d grown a spine and sharpened her teeth a bit, now able to give as good as she got. It only made him want her more.
Watching her disappear around the corner, he fished in his coat pocket for his cigarillo case, retrieving another one of the cheroots from inside. His blood hummed in his veins as he took the first inhale. Slowly releasing it, he allowed the flavor of the tobacco to linger on his tongue, along with the remaining taste of Daphne.
“And so, the chase begins,” he murmured to himself as he made his way back to the sidewalk, turning in the opposite direction she’d taken.
She had no idea what she’d just gotten herself into. Maybe if she’d given in, if she hadn’t fought him or tried to make him feel guilty for adhering to the boundaries of their agreement, he might have been satisfied with a few more tumbles.
But, no … she’d mauled his face and thrashed in his arms and reminded him how goddamn good it felt to chase her, to clench his teeth around her and slowly tighten his jaw until she stopped resisting and admitted defeat. She had reminded him exactly why he’d come all the way to London just for another taste of her.
He laughed, taking the cigarillo between his teeth and shoving his hands down into his pockets as he quickened his pace, lowering his head against the cold.
This was going to be fun.
CHAPTER FIVE
he following morning, Daphne trudged into the dining room, her head in a fog. Returning home after her unexpected encounter with Adam—in an alley, of all places—she hadn’t possessed the energy to do much more than fall into bed after undressing. She’d done that bit herself, not wanting her maid to see her chafed inner thighs, or the bite mark left behind on the side of her neck. With the candles doused and the coverlet pulled up over her head, she had squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find escape in sleep, to sink into darkness and silence and forget.
With startling predictability, Adam’s phantom presence refused to allow it, his face filling the insides of her eyelids, and his voice, rough and raspy as he laughed at her—taunted her—seemed to echo from the walls of her chamber.
Despite her best efforts, she had been unable to put him out of her mind, or stop reliving their frenzied mating in the alley over and over again. She could still feel him—his mouth on hers, his tongue shoving its way between her lips, his hands clenched around her wrists, his big body pinning her against the rough, stone wall. Her cunt ached, throbbed with each beat of her heart, the tender flesh swollen from being so brutally used after months of abstinence.
His scent had clung to her clothes, but even after taking them off, she could still smell that unique combination of cedar and musk, the spicy aroma of the last cigar he’d smoked layering over it all. It clung to the strands of her hair, and even seemed indelibly ground into her skin. It had taken hours of tossing and turning before she could fall asleep, but it had not been restful. She’d awakened several times throughout the night, her heart pounding, skin tingling and breaking out in a sheen of sweat.
As if some part of her had been awakened—the part that sensed she was being hunted, stalked for the kill—and now, she could not put it back to sleep. She half expected to open her eyes to find him on top of her, holding her down and rasping ‘little dove’ into her ear before forcing his way into her body.
Equal parts relief and disappointment flooded her upon waking up alone.
Now, the sun had risen, and she could not rest, no matter how exhausted she was from lack of sleep. So, she had left the bed and dressed, determined to carry on with her day—with her life. However, as she settled into her seat at the head of the small dining room table, waiting for a footman to pour her tea, Adam’s words from the night before echoed through her mind.
I came for you, little dove.
She could not fathom why. They’d had an agreement and had both met their ends of the bargain. It did not matter that she’d begun to see him as a victim instead of a villain—that she’d begun to understand him in a way she suspected few people did. Nor was it of any consequence that her heart had softened toward him, so much so, that by the end of their time together, she’d begun to think …
No, she could not do this to herself yet again. She would not fall prey to delusion. Adam had made it clear the morning of her departure that he had finished with her.
If that were the case, then why was he here?
I came for you, little dove.
Blinking, she glanced down to find that the footman had not only poured her tea, but placed a plate arrayed with offerings she was known to like in front of her. All while she’d sat woolgathering like some cotton-headed fool. Glancing up to find the man now standing in the corner of the room like a sentinel, she gave him a tentative smile.
“Thank you.”
The footman nodded at her, but did not speak, nor did he return her smile. Sighing, she turned her attention back to her breakfast. She could not hide from him forever, but she would take this day to recover before going out, prepared to confront Adam once again. This time, she would make it perfectly clear that if he’d come to London for her, he might as well pack his bags and ret
urn to Dunnottar. She did not appreciate him turning up without warning and attempting to upend her life.
That decided, she helped herself to toast and tea, lamenting that she was not enjoying Mrs. Russel’s flaky scones. She made do, and ate her fill while perusing a copy of the Morning Post. She had just polished off her second cup of tea when another footman entered the room, bustling over to the butler, who stood watch near the sideboard. The two whispered in hushed tones for a moment, before the butler turned to Daphne, clearing his throat.
“Pardon me, my lady, but there is a caller.”
She gestured for him to approach the table, and he obeyed, extending a calling card to her. Her throat constricted when she laid eyes upon the name etched onto the card in elegant cursive.
Lord Bertram Fairchild.
She had not seen her brother since the night she had returned to London and made her way to the flat he shared with their father. Memories of that night, of the moment she had looked her brother in the eye and seen him for who he truly was, made her stomach churn.
“Shall we show him the door, my lady?” Rowney asked when she did not immediately respond.
Shaking her head, she forced her limbs into motion and slid her chair back from the table. “No. You may show him into the drawing room, and I will be there directly. And, Rowney?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“He is not to be served refreshment,” she declared. “He will not be staying long.”
“Of course, my lady.”
The butler left, the footman trailing after him. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed a stray strand of hair back from her face. While she refused to cower and hide, she did not relish this visit. Three months had passed since her return to London … three months since the night she’d written off her father and brother forever, vowing to herself that they would never see so much as a ha’penny from her. Nor would she become a part of their so-called ‘family’ ever again. If it had been within her power to change her surname, she would have. She wanted nothing to do with either him or her father, and she intended to tell him so right now.
Squaring her shoulders, she swept from the room, determined to keep her composure no matter how much she might wish to assault him. Attacking him would accomplish nothing, and besides, her brother had already paid for his sins—continued to pay for them as his reputation sank further and further into the gutter.
Entering the drawing room, she pulled the door closed behind her, not wanting servants listening in. When she glanced up, it was to find her brother lingering near one of the windows, staring out at the street. Daphne folded her hands before her and cleared her throat to gain his attention.
For a moment—at the exact second he turned away from the window and the light of the sun enveloped him from behind—he looked like the young man she’d known and loved. The charmer who could turn a stranger into a dear friend with nothing more than a smile. The person who had seemed to understand her better than anyone else. His hair glowed the same auburn shade as hers, and he cut a dashing figure in his morning coat and breeches, his form long and lean.
But then, she blinked, and he began to approach. The light that had clung to him receded, and the true Bertram showed his face. She almost gasped at the ghastly sight he made—pale, gaunt, blue eyes lifeless and surrounded by dark circles. His hair stood on end and did not hold the same luster it once had. A figure that had once been lean and sinewy now seemed downright emaciated. His clothing was threadbare, his coat a few more wears away from needing patches, his boots scuffed and worn.
If it weren’t for the things she knew he had done, she might have pitied him. Instead, a part of her was a satisfied as a cat after a saucer of cream. Seeing what Adam had reduced him to brought a smirk to one corner of her mouth.
“Bertram,” she said coolly, inclining her head at him. “How may I help you this morning?”
Scraping a hand through his disheveled hair, he scoffed. “Well, good morning to you, too. Is this how you greet your brother?”
A bark of sarcastic laughter came out before she could stop it. “Brother? I have no brother.”
“Dash it all, Daff,” he snapped. “Must you always be so bloody dramatic? I realize you are angry with me, but that is no reason—”
“But, I am not angry with you,” she told him—and it was the truth. “I am not angry, or sad, or, really, anything at all when it comes to you, Bertram. I am simply … done.”
Gesturing around her simple but elegant drawing room, he snorted. “Obviously, you are, if it pleases you to live in the lap of luxury while Father and I are practically starving.”
Pursing her lips, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Starving, Bertie? Now you are the one who’s being dramatic. I seem to recall the pair of you receiving the substantial sum of ten thousand pounds—”
“Not nearly enough for men of means to live off of,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.
His flippant dismissal made her blood boil, her palms burning with the need to slap him. “It was enough to pay for the loss of my maidenhead!”
He gestured toward her with one hand, then once again indicated the room they stood in. “Apparently, the man very much enjoyed what he sampled, given your sudden financial independence.”
Despite knowing he’d meant to anger her with that little jibe, she couldn’t help but grin. “What bothers you more, Bertram—that he paid me at all, or that I earned several times more the amount he paid you?”
His face fell, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “How much more?”
Brushing past him, she stomped toward the window, needing to occupy herself, to keep from bashing him over the head with the nearest vase. She stared out at the street, watching as carriages and people on foot came and went. Narrowing her eyes, she spotted what she thought might be a familiar figure.
Large, broad, masculine. Not Adam … someone else with the same proportions and build.
Niall.
“That is none of your affair,” she snapped, trying to keep her voice even and not let on that Adam’s butler appeared to be loitering across the street.
“None of my affair?” Bertram blustered. “Has your self-righteousness caused you to forget familial loyalty? Every family of the ton has secrets, Daphne, many of them far more scandalous than ours.”
Glaring at him over her shoulder, she shook her head. “Do the secrets of other families weigh upon your conscience? I can tell you … yours, Father’s, Uncle William’s … they weighed upon me every day that I spent at Dunnottar. They consume me still.”
He made the mistake of approaching her again, reaching out to take her arm. “And now that he’s here, what will you do? Will you go on letting him use you to tarnish our family name and make us look like fools?”
Her nostrils flared as she reached the limit of her patience. She fairly shook with rage when she thought of the things she’d endured for his sake.
“Hartmoor’s presence in London does not frighten me nearly as much as it seems to have terrified you,” she lied, even as her stomach twisted at the mention of his name.
I came for you, little dove.
“My involvement in his little vendetta has come to an end, and so has my association with you—both public and private,” she added. “If you wish to know what he might be up to, might I suggest taking it up with him yourself?”
Bertram blanched, as if even the mere notion made his blood run cold. As well it should.
“You disappoint me, Daphne,” he murmured, releasing her arm. “I had hoped you might at least wish to help restore our reputation, as mine and Father’s are directly linked to yours. Do you not understand? If we are social outcasts, then so are you.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I have always been different, and we both know it. I was never a part of their world.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But we all have to live in it.”
Turning to leave, he muttered curses under his breath, and something that sounded vaguely like �
��spoiled, ungrateful little bitch.’ If he still held any power over her, she might have allowed herself to react to that, to rage and cry and scream. But as she took in his haggard appearance, she realized that in the end, she had truly won. She had gained her freedom, and it was far more valuable to her than the naiveté she’d once hidden behind.
Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back at her. “By the way … Robert is in town. He arrived not long before Hartmoor, but of course, a mere baron’s son does not garner quite as much attention from the papers.”
Her mouth went dry, her pulse fluttering as she thought of the man she had almost married—the first man she’d ever loved. However misguided, her feelings for him had been real … though not strong enough for her to wed him, to allow herself to settle for a mediocre and passionless marriage. Oh, Robert had awakened her sexual cravings and taught her a woman’s pleasure … but he could never be the sort of man who satisfied her, who read the truth in her eyes and unlocked the deepest of her secret desires. He just did not have it in him.
“Oh?” she replied, keeping her voice light.
“He called upon Father and me and asked that I deliver this,” he said, retrieving an envelope from his coat pocket and holding it up for her to see. “I do think he’s still in love with you, Daff … enough that the scandal will not deter him from pursuing you. My advice might not mean much these days, but you ought to consider it. He is respectable enough to salvage at least your own reputation.”
He placed the letter on a small decorative table near the door and turned away once more.
Before he could leave, she took a step toward him, a sudden need compelling her.
“Bertram, wait.”
He paused, turning back to her with a hopeful expression. It gave her great pleasure to rob him of it immediately by blurting out the question that had been on the tip of her tongue from the moment she’d discovered the truth about him.
“Why did you do it? Olivia, Cassandra … the rest. Why?”
Furrowing his brow, he shook his head, his eyes darting as if he searched for the answer himself. As if unable to explain his despicable behavior, even to his own self.
