by welis
He’d been approached by several acquaintances since his arrival, though many simply skirted him, preferring to gape over at him from a distance … to speculate with one another over what he might do, and whether Lady Daphne Fairchild might put in an appearance. It seemed as if the purpose of this ball was solely so the people of the ton would have their entertainment—another juicy tidbit to add to whatever version of his and Daphne’s story they’d decided to accept as true.
What they believed did not matter to him. He only needed them to see him near her in person, to see how he could make her cheeks flush and her lips part in a way that no one could mistake their connection, their chemistry, the visceral threads tying them together.
By morning, every drawing room in the city would be filled with gossip about them. And Bertram would be predictably furious, suffering yet another blow to his pride.
Finishing off a flute and trading it off for a full one courtesy of a passing footman, he gazed down into the bubbly liquid and frowned. Things were falling into place just as he wanted; yet, he couldn’t muster quite as much satisfaction as he’d thought he would. This feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to go away and allow him to bask in his triumph.
It had been Daphne, damn her. She’d gotten to him with her words, her warning concerning the possible outcome of his vendetta. Just like a bloody female, she’d tried to appeal to his softer side, trying to make him feel things he would rather not. Such as guilt, or self-doubt.
She simply did not understand. Until recently, she’d never faced hardship in her life … had never known true pain or loss. She could never fathom how it could change a person, ruin them, make it impossible for them to live life the way others might. He could never move forward when the guilt and anger that plagued him concerning Olivia never seemed to let up. He needed to blame the Fairchilds, to direct his hatred at them to keep from remembering that it could have all been avoided if he’d simply been there.
If he hadn’t been so bloody desperate to escape his bastard of a father, he would have escorted Olivia to London for her first Season … would have been there to protect her from the likes of Bertram Fairchild. He would have been able to see the cur coming and threaten him away from Olivia, do him bodily harm if necessary. He could have guided her toward a suitable husband, vetting each man who wished to court her himself and ensure she was not hurt.
And if she’d been harmed anyway, he would have been there to pick up the pieces, to take care of her, shelter her from gossip and scorn as an unwed mother. She could have given birth at Dunnottar, surrounded by the people who loved her, instead of some dark, cold asylum where she’d gone insane.
Taking the entire flute in one swallow, he grunted, shaking his head and trying to chase away such errant thoughts. They would accomplish nothing, could not change what had happened and what would be. When all was said and done, the Fairchild men had all taken part in destroying his sister, and he would not rest until he’d returned the favor ten times over.
He’d just set his flute aside and reached for a third one when the final strains of a waltz died away, and the low buzz of conversation seemed to come to a screeching halt. The shift in the atmosphere caught his attention, and he lifted his head, eyes darting as he sought the source of the disturbance.
His gaze fell onto the curved, double staircase leading down into the ballroom and a vision standing at its top … an angel among mere mortals. His hand tightened on the champagne flute, and he couldn’t breathe as her name was announced, causing gasps and whispers of shock to ripple through the crowd.
Lady Daphne Fairchild.
They all felt the shift, as well, pulling back from the stairs, making way for her, allowing her into their midst. Keeping one hand on the balustrade, she practically floated down the stairs, head held erect, shoulders straightened, chin lifted in that imperious way of hers.
His teeth clenched as he surveyed the assemblage, the men who watched her with lust and covetousness in their eyes. They wanted his little dove. They wanted to marry her, and coddle her, and protect her. Flaunt her like some pretty little ornament.
But none of them knew that those things would not appeal to her. No, she would be far more amenable to what he wanted.
Destruction, complete annihilation of her senses … oblivion.
She looked like fire come to life, her gold silk gown undulating and rippling with every move she made, the burnished red hue of her hair catching the candlelight and coming alive with gold and amber strands. At her throat and wrist, topaz stones were nearly a perfect match for her gown, glittering with flashes of red and yellow in their inner prisms.
He wanted to cross the room and tackle her to the floor, tear the pins from her hair and send those perfectly arranged curls tumbling down her back … to rip the gown off her body and plunder her right there in front of the ton … to sink his teeth into her shoulder and mark her, claim her, show them all that she belonged to him. None of them could have her. None of them could touch her like he could.
Then, the air shifted again, as if the entire room exhaled at once, recovered from their first glimpse of her. Sound flooded the room once again, voices clamoring, music striking up a lively country dance. In a tidal wave of movement, several men rushed toward her, voices raised, eyes bright and eager … like dogs scenting a bitch in heat.
Not a bitch … a dove … my little dove.
He slammed his champagne flute onto the nearest surface, not bothering to see where it landed before setting off across the room. He practically barreled through the crowd, forcing them to part for him, to let him past. The whispers started again, eyes following him as they covered their mouths with fans and gloved hands while they collectively seemed to watch his every move. He left no room to mistake his intention, moving toward her in a straight line, glaring at anyone who dared step in his path.
He found her smiling and speaking politely to a small group of men—all whom seemed far too eager to sign her dance card. Lingering on the outside of the circle, he cleared his throat, annoyed at being made to wait his turn like a child. What need did he have to stand in line? She belonged to him, whether she wished to acknowledge it or not. He’d never stand back and let another man be first when it came to her.
The heads of her admirers swiveled toward him, several shocked and amused glances cast his way. Still, none of them spoke or made any move to stop him as he shouldered past them and stood over her, torn between wanting to make a scene by throwing her over his shoulder and storming out of the ballroom, and adhering to his original plan.
The latter won out, and he held himself in check as she inclined her head at him in greeting before dipping into a curtsy so flawless, he could have balanced a book on top of her head. He imagined her sinking lower—lower until her knees hit the floor and she cowered before him, breasts heaving at the deep neckline of her gown, eyes raised to his, emanating her desire and need. He snapped out of it when she rose, extending a hand to him. He took it and kissed her knuckles, lingering for several seconds, drawing in her scent.
“Your dance card,” he demanded, half expecting her to refuse him, and half hoping she would so he could punish her for denying him.
Instead, she lifted her opposite hand, with an ornate, silver filigreed dance card case dangling from its ribbon around her wrist. Opening the little box, he found a stub of a pencil inside, as well as several names already scrawled in the spaces for the various dances. He found a waltz still available and signed his name with a flourish. Then, he glanced up to meet her gaze and smiled.
“I’m looking forward to it, little dove.”
He saw and felt the shudder that rocked her, as well as the flicker of fire in her gaze. Her expression might seem placid to the others in the room, but he saw her anger, her annoyance with him. If they were alone, she would have taken him to task over whatever it was that had her in a dudgeon. Likely, she’d heard about his occupation of Fairchild House.
He told himself again that i
t did not matter. She had been warned about his intentions; he’d told her quite clearly that he was not finished with Bertram, that there would be more to come. What had she expected him to do? Back down because she’d tried to make him feel guilty about his thirst for revenge?
She simply nodded in response to his words, dismissing him with a turn of her head as another man stepped forward to sign for a dance. He backed away, but only enough to let more of them through. Truly, the longer he watched the spectacle, the more amused he became. They were tripping over themselves trying to gain her notice while his lingering presence put her on edge, unable to keep from flicking her gaze to him once in a while. They all stood a snowball’s chance in Hell with her, and they both knew it.
Eventually, a familiar face broke through the crowd, causing the back of his neck to tingle and his hands to ball into fists.
The Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley … the fool who was in love with his Daphne.
The discomfiture on Daphne’s face as the man came forward and bowed over her hand, gushing about how lovely she looked and how good it was to see her, put Adam’s teeth on edge. He wanted to shove his body between them and slam his fist into the man’s arrogant face. He wanted to take her by the back of the neck and steer her to the nearest empty room so that he could obliterate any feelings she might still have toward Robert, leaving room only for the tempest of emotion he wanted to fill her with.
It infuriated him to no end that the insipid mama’s boy had been the first to touch her, to awaken the passion thrumming through her veins. The first to taste her, to create those lusty sounds from the back of her throat. The first to know what it was to call her his own.
He had not forgotten how Robert had attempted to get Daphne off alone, to kiss and touch his little dove when he’d thought no one was looking. It was only for Daphne’s sake that he hadn’t broken the man’s neck after finding them together, seeing the evidence of their affection for each other.
From where he stood, he saw Robert sign for a pair of country dances, an act that had him grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. That would put them in each other’s company for half an hour, long enough for him to plead his case. If the letter Adam had found in Daphne’s drawing room were any indication, she could expect the man to propose marriage at any moment. He thought himself her white knight, the noble hero who would save her from the beast that had made a ruin of her life.
Yet, as Robert finished signing for his dances and she glanced up to meet Adam’s gaze, he felt as if she shared the exact same thought as him.
She did not wish to be saved.
Nearly an hour after arriving at the Mallorys’ ball, Daphne suffered from sore feet and a pounding head. She had expected attention and speculation, her first true public appearance since returning from Dunnottar. The first time she would step foot into a room with so many members of the ton in over three months.
She’d been unprepared for the number of men who’d wanted to sign her dance card … or for the presence of both Robert and Adam in the same room.
Truly, it should not have shocked her. That Adam would, once again, seek to be seen with her in public fell in line with his vendetta. And Robert, being part of the ton and having just arrived in town, should be expected to attend one of the biggest soirées of the Season.
Yet, knowing these things had not prepared her to feel the weight of both men staring at her from opposite ends of the room—Robert with an almost pitiful sort of longing, Adam with a frightening mixture of annoyance and lust. She felt their pull, the call of both parts of herself—the guilt she felt over not wanting Robert as much as she once had. He was a good man, an honest and amiable one. The sort of man who could marry her, and give her children, and cater to her every whim for the rest of her life. And yet, the thought of life with him made her unaccountably sad. It made her feel as if the bars of a cage constricted around her, so tight she could not breathe.
The other part of her self—the part hidden in the darkest corners of her soul, craved Adam’s eyes on her, enjoyed the thrill of being watched, hunted, stalked. Her skin fairly tingled, even as she engaged in conversation with the few who would address her—mostly men, as the majority of women in the room avoided her as if she carried some offensive odor. Even as she sipped champagne and nibbled on finger sandwiches. Even as she was taken out onto the floor for dance after dance. She remained ever-aware of Adam and his location in the room. Several times, she found herself staring at him, shivers wracking her as she watched him stroke his thumb over the pads of his fingers, as if he imagined touching her, hurting her, squeezing the air from her lungs with that hand around her throat.
By the time Robert approached her for their pair of country dances, she felt as if she would go up in flames. She did her best to affix her bland, polite mask over her face as he took her hand and led her onto the floor amid the others.
“I suppose Bertram gave you my note,” he murmured as they took their places.
She glanced at him and tried to smile, but the memory of Adam holding that envelope made her throat constrict. He’d left it to crumble on the floor after their explosive encounter in the drawing room. She’d smoothed out the rumpled page and read his pleas for her to call upon him at his townhome. He’d stated once again that he did not care about Adam or that she was no longer a maiden. He loved her, and he wished to discuss their future.
“He did,” she replied, turning to face him as the music began. “I have meant to respond, it is just …”
I did not know what to say.
What could she tell him? That she’d become hopelessly ruined by Adam, so much so that she could never enjoy the touch of a man like him? A man who was too soft to give her what she truly needed? A man who did not possess even half the passion and fire that Adam unleashed upon her every chance he got?
“I understand,” he said with that amiable smile of his. “I am certain you’ve been quite busy since returning to London. I’ve heard of your performance at the Bellinghams’ musicale. They are saying you played magnificently.”
She fought the urge to frown. The man was so damned agreeable. Faced with the truth of her neglect and lack of action in regards to his letter, he simply smiled and allowed it to go unchecked.
Adam would have punished her for it, demanded an answer, reminded her that he was never to be ignored.
She sighed and focused on the conversation at hand. Robert was saying something, and she’d missed half of it.
“… allow me to call upon you at home tomorrow afternoon?” he finished, giving her a hopeful glance as they circled each other, parting and coming back together just like the other couples surrounding them. “I should very much like to have that conversation. If you are amenable, that is.”
It took all her willpower to keep from rolling her eyes. Had he always been this bloody polite, even when sliding his hands beneath her skirts? The memories came hazy now, smothered by the recollection of how it felt to be dominated by Adam … but, yes, now that she allowed herself to think on it, Robert had been this courtly even about fucking her. He’d begged to be let inside her, whimpering against her neck while pressing his erection against her hip. He could have pinned her down, demanded she stop teasing him and give in, stoking the hidden desires lying dormant inside her.
She almost laughed at the irony of it all … that for him to go against her wishes would have been exactly what she’d wanted … even if she hadn’t realized it at the time. She truly was sick … and the disease affecting her had a name.
Lord Adam Callahan.
“I think that would be fine,” she relented.
It would not do to string him along. When he came to visit, she would let him down gently—tell him that even though she had fond memories of their time together, she simply could not marry him.
She just did not think she had it in her to tell him exactly why.
His smile was blinding in its joy, making her heart sink even lower into the pit of her gut. He expected
her to accept his proposal, seeming all but certain that he’d have her. She felt like the worst sort of person for what she was about to do to him.
“I am looking forward to it,” he said.
After that, they spent the rest of their time engaging in small talk. He asked about her new home, and she told him how much she’d enjoyed her independence thus far, hoping it would serve as a hint of how she would answer his inevitable question. He did not seem to notice, telling her about the suite of rooms he’d rented since his mother had elected to remain behind at their country estate. He asked after Bertram, and she swiftly changed the subject to the Bellinghams’ musicale and the pieces she’d played.
By the time their second dance had ended, they’d exhausted every topic outside of the massive elephant taking up space between them. But then, they would have to wait until they had privacy tomorrow to discuss that. He left her with a kiss upon the hand and his promise to call upon her at ten in the morning.
She turned away as he was swallowed up by the crowd, only to find herself confronted with the front of a man’s stark, black waistcoat. Her heart lurched as the scent of cedar and cigar smoke wrapped itself around her, and the heat emanating off the broad body blocking her view of the rest of the room made her skin flush.
Lifting her gaze to meet his, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her heart taking up a rapid cadence against her breastbone. He grinned at her, that primal motion of lips and flashing of teeth that made her feel as if she were about to be devoured. And she could only stand, trapped in his thrall like some helpless animal about to have its throat torn out by its predator. If he’d decided to sink his teeth into her shoulder just now, she would not have fought him. She would have gone weak in the knees and clung to his neck, letting him bite and taste her until the ache in his gut eased, until he’d had his fill.
