Lord of Fire (54 page)

“Because you’re angry at me?”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“What?” Lucien demanded. “You’ve been treating me like a bloody leper.”

Damien’s glance swung to him. “Yes, because I just wanted to ignore this—problem—and I knew you wouldn’t let me. Nobody can hide any damned thing from you. It’s vexing.”

“Do you mean to say you’re not bitter toward me for leaving the army?” he exclaimed.

“No, Lucien. I was glad you left. If you would’ve gotten killed, like so many of our friends . . .” His words trailed off, grief hanging upon the air between them.

Lucien’s voice was quiet, thunderstruck. He shook his head dazedly. “I thought you hated my choice of professions.”

“Part of me dislikes it. It’s a dirty job, but as
Wellington says, a necessary one. I couldn’t do it, I freely admit that. I don’t have the skill. I tell you, Lucien, I had to respect you for following your conscience after
Badajoz. That took bottom.”

“You son of a bitch,” Lucien said, laughing quietly in amazement. “You had me utterly fooled.”

“Did I? Well, that’s something.” Damien’s wistful smile faded. “I suppose the charade’s over now.”

“Well, don’t worry. I keep a secret pretty well. But listen to me. You’ve got to quit worrying about your men and take care of yourself for a while. You’re not indestructible, contrary to popular opinion. There’s no shame in it.”

“The hell there’s not. You’re not the one going mad. By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “I do hope you’ve come to your senses about marrying
Alice. You’re a fortunate man to have found someone so loyal. She is pure sterling. Turned down my offer, you know. She told me in no uncertain terms that she’s in love with you.”

Lucien grinned as he sauntered to the door. “So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard! I assure you, the sentiment is most ardently mutual, and marry her I shall—which reminds me. Will you stand as my groomsman?”

Damien cast him a wry look. “If you don’t mind having a lunatic in your wedding party, I’d be honored.”

Lucien paused in the doorway and gave him a look of reassurance. “We’re all a
little
mad, my friend. Keeps life interesting. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Lucien nodded and left the room. He walked down the corridor to his bedroom, savoring his victory. When he opened the door, he found his dim chamber glowing intimately with candles. The bed had been turned down, and
Alice was waiting for him over by the smoldering fireplace, scantily clad in her thin cotton chemise. Her glorious hair cascaded over her shoulders as she bent down, swirling her hand in the steaming bathing tub, which she must have had prepared for him, he realized, while he was talking with Damien.

Ah, it was good to be a man,
he thought, casting her a devilish smile as he pushed the door shut soundly behind him—and locked it. “Well, well, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I think I shocked your butler when I asked him to show me to your room,” she said, blushing prettily as she dried her hand on her hip. “I tried to explain we are engaged, but he looked, well, doubtful.”

“Did he?” He just stared at her, feeling his very soul well with love as she padded toward him, barefooted. He loved her eyes; he loved her smile; he loved her pale, slender arms. He loved her dainty ankles, skimmed by the hem of her chemise. He loved her gliding walk and the way her long, thick hair swung around her waist as she hurried toward him. God help him, he was her slave.

He lowered his chin, mute with adoration, as she came to stand before him. Laying hold of his still-damp lapels, she lifted up onto her tiptoes and kissed his lips, then passed a wifely, assessing gaze over him, her Chartres-blue eyes full of youthful earnestness. It made him smile faintly.

“How are you?” she asked soberly.

“Wet.”

“So you are. What did you do? Fall in the river?”

“Something like that.”

“Come.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the bed, then pushed him down to sit on the edge of it, nudged in between his thighs, and began undressing him.

“How efficient you are, my lady.”

“I want you out of these wet clothes and into that hot bath before you catch cold.”

“Only if you’ll join me.”

She smiled at him as she unbuttoned his sodden waistcoat, blushing prettily. “I don’t see why not. Peg put Harry to bed, so you have me all to yourself.”

“That, Miss Montague,” he said, smiling as he pulled her into his arms and deftly tumbled her onto the bed, “is my definition of heaven.”

EPILOGUE

They were married two weeks later by special license in the village church at
Basingstoke with a grand reception afterward at
Glenwood
Park
.
Alice’s mantua-maker had hastened to fashion her exquisite blush-satin bridal gown, while Lucien had searched for the most obscenely large diamond he could find for her ring. This had permitted time for Their Graces of Hawkscliffe to return from
Vienna along with Lady Jacinda and Miss Carlisle. Now the Knight family, with the exception of the black sheep, Lord Jack, was gathered in the crowded, cheerfully noisy drawing room at
Glenwood
Park
.

Alice
was enchanted with her new brothers- and sisters-in-law.

The handsome duke, Robert, and his ravishing bride, Bel, had announced that they expected a blessed event in the spring.
Alice found Robert, the patriarch of the family, a bit intimidating, though it was clear that he doted shamelessly on his wife. She had adored the witty, down-to-earth Bel from the moment the woman had hugged her in greeting and called her “sister.”

Lucien’s maiden sister, Lady Jacinda, was a beautiful, vivacious imp with apple cheeks and a cloud of golden curls. Though she would not make her debut until next year, to
Alice’s eye, the seventeen-year-old had already mastered the finer points of flirting and had quickly enchanted all five of Lucien’s young rogues, who had also been invited to the wedding. Lady Jacinda’s shy, serious, and dignified companion, Miss Carlisle, stood by the wall, ready to lend a moment’s hand wherever she was needed, but Alice distinctly noticed Miss Carlisle staring with a look of helpless, painful infatuation at the golden Lord Alec, the youngest of the Knight brothers, who was not yet thirty. Alec was a fashionable rake with a teasing manner toward those he liked, the hauteur of a prince toward those he did not, and the looks of an Adonis—which got him anything in the world that he desired.

As for Damien, one short week ago he had been made the earl of Winterley, awarded a manor house and a thousand acres in
Berkshire. He had stood proudly at the front of the church as Lucien’s groomsman, but he still seemed restless.
Alice worried for him.

On the other side of the room, she was presently engrossed in a conversation with Bel and some of the genteel neighbor ladies about everything having to do with babies. Since neither woman had a sister or a mother living,
Alice shared the young duchess’s excitement wholeheartedly over her first pregnancy. At great length, they discussed nursery arrangements, possible names, whether or not to use a wet nurse, when to wean a child, and how many they wanted to have.

Just then, Harry came tearing through the drawing room chasing the kitten that Lucien had finally persuaded
Alice to let the boy adopt from among the strays in the garden behind the townhouse. The child’s big, satin bow tie flopped under his chin as he gave chase, but the kitten fled toward the couch and scrambled up Mr. Whitby’s leg. The old man yelped, drawing Lucien’s attention at once.

Elegantly attired in his dove-gray morning coat with long tails, the bridegroom turned from laughing with his brothers just in time to stop the kitten from scrambling any farther up the old man’s person. He picked the kit-ten up by the scruff of its neck and turned to Harry, who hopped around impatiently, begging to have his kitten back.

Harry let out a peal of laughter, however, when Lord Alec picked him up and tossed him in the air, then held him upside down, to Harry’s vast hilarity, and deposited him gently on the couch behind them. Harry scrambled upright and ran back to Alec, begging to be thrown in the air again.

“How nice to see you’ve finally found a friend of your own august maturity, Alec,” Robert said drily.

Alec’s grin was undaunted, though the guests standing around them had a jovial laugh at his expense. Lucien, however, had caught
Alice’s eye. They exchanged a gaze from across the room that set her soul on fire. He slid a furtive glance toward the door, then raised his eyebrow discreetly in question. She sent him a sly, answering wink.

A moment later, she made a polite excuse to Bel and the other ladies who were standing nearby chatting with them, and stole off to meet the rogue in secret.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next thrilling Gaelen Foley novel,

Lord of Ice.

The story of Damien Knight unfolds . . .

CHAPTER
ONE

Berkshire

With a hard-eyed stare, Damien Knight, the earl of Winterley, swung the long-handled axe up over his head and slammed it down with savage force, cleanly splitting the upright log down the middle. The sharp crack of the blow ripped across the snow-frosted field like a gunshot, rousing the squabbling blackbirds that fed upon the frozen stubbled cornstalks. His movements were smooth, his mind blissfully blank as he threw down the axe, adjusted one of his thick leather gloves, and picked up the splintered halves of wood, stacking them on the fortresslike pile that had grown over the past weeks to looming proportions, as though no amount of fuel could build a fire capable of warming him. Positioning the next log on the tree stump that served as his chopping block, he dealt it, in turn, a death blow.

He repeated this ritual again and again, concentrating intensely on the task, allowing it to absorb his tattered mind, until suddenly, in the nearby field, he noticed that something had caught his stallion’s attention.

His white warhorse was his only companion in this place. The stallion had been idly pawing through the frost, nibbling at whatever bits of grazing it could find, but now it lifted its head and pricked up its elegantly tapered ears toward the drive. Damien wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm, rested his other hand on the axe’s handle, and squinted against the white glare of the mid-December day, following his horse’s stare.

The stallion let out a belligerent whinny and raced toward the fence, its ivory tail streaming out like a battle pennant. He watched the animal for a moment in simple pleasure. It must have been a month since Zeus had worn a saddle. Both of them were reverting back to a state of nature, he thought, scratching the short, rough, black beard that had grown in on his jaw. Without surprise, only a dim flicker of distress, he watched as his identical twin brother, Lord Lucien Knight, came cantering up the drive astride his fine black Andalusian.

Zeus raced alongside them on the opposite side of the fence, trumpeting challenges to the black for encroaching upon his territory. Fortunately, Lucien was too skilled a rider to lose control of his mount.

Damien dropped his chin almost to his chest and let out a sigh that misted on the crisp, cold air. He supposed his brother had come to check up on him.

He did not fancy the notion of anyone seeing him like this, but at least with his keenly perceptive twin, he did not have to pretend that he was right in the head.

Lucien and his bride of three weeks,
Alice, were living in Hampshire, a two-hour ride from Damien’s ramshackle manor house, newly bestowed on him by Parliament along with his title. Not that he knew much about being an earl. His new rank seemed merely to have made him the servant of the bloody politicians. Picking up his last split logs and adding them to the woodpile, he cast an uncertain glance toward the run-down, overgrown mansion they had given him. Constructed of white-gray limestone, Bayley House, circa 1760, was modeled on a classical Greek temple with a triangular pediment atop four mighty columns. Damien thought it looked like a mausoleum.