Samantha James (21 page)

“No. If he should find out someone else is making inquiries, that might well send him even farther into hiding. Besides, he is a violent man.”

Heather went very still inside. “Would it put you in danger, if he knew someone other than you were looking for him?”

“In all honesty, I don’t know, Heather. But I suppose it could.”

And that was something she would not do, no
matter what. Heather chafed inside, even as her heart cried out. How much longer could she stand not knowing if this horrible man were truly her father?

Damien sensed her distress. “In time, your questions will be answered, all of them,” he said quietly. “Now, may we not speak of this again? May we not even think of him this day?” He pressed his thumb against the softness of his lips. “I wanted to take you away from everything, Heather. I wanted you to have a day with no cares, no worries, no distress.” His eyes darkened. “But most of all, I wanted to have you all to myself. Will you let me?”

His low, husky murmur turned her inside out. Disarmed her. Stole her will from her as if it had never been her own to possess.

Tenderness lurked in his gaze—a world of it—a tenderness she was still so afraid to believe in…. Yet she nodded, unable to tear her gaze from the sight of it.

It was the most wondrous day of her life.

He took her to a place near a small lake, surrounded by woodland. They shared a leisurely luncheon beside a fallen tree trunk near the shore—and with the family of chipmunks that resided within. Heather laughed at their antics as she hadn’t since she was a child. They watched clouds drift across a powder-blue sky. Together they strolled hand in hand near the shore, watching dappled sunlight dance upon the waters. It was a day filled with quiet contentment, occasional laughter and undemanding camaraderie…

The stuff of which dreams were made.

So it was that she wished the day would never end. Yet all too soon, streaks of pale pink painted the horizon, and a purple haze gathered above the treetops.

She was pierced by a bittersweet ache when the coach drew to a halt before her parents’ London house. Damien led her into the garden, near the spot to which he’d lured her this morning.

He drew her into his arms.

On guard, her hands came up between them. They stood so close that her slippers were wedged between his booted feet. The tips of her breasts brushed the fabric of his jacket.

Lean fingers stole beneath the fall of her hair. A hazy sensuality glimmered deep in the crystalline depths of his eyes.

Alarm raced through her, yet she was plagued by a paralyzing uncertainty and couldn’t move. Her fingers curled and uncurled on the plane of his chest. She confined her attention to the wiry tangle of hairs at the base of his throat.

“Damien, please,” she said shakily. “Please do not do this.”

“Why not?”

Her heart faltered. Her resolve crumpled. “Because I can’t fight this,” she cried softly. “I can’t fight you.”

His fingers slid down her throat. “Nor can I,” he whispered just before his mouth closed over hers.

His kiss was all a kiss should be. Sweetly persuasive. Hotly passionate. Heady and devouring. A kiss of remembrance…a kiss of prom
ise. With naught but the pressure of his mouth he coaxed from her a response she was helpless to withhold. With a low moan she wrapped her arms around him and clung. He made a sound low in his throat; his arms were tight and hard around her back.

Reluctantly he released her mouth. His thumb beneath her chin, he brought her face to his. “Do you know,” he murmured, “I have been waiting for that since the moment I saw you again at Lady Seton’s ball.”

His quiet declaration made her want to cry. She averted her face before she embarrassed herself totally and completely. She tried to step back.

He wouldn’t let her. His hands snared her waist. There was a heated silence before he spoke.

“Do you think,” he asked softly, “that what I feel is less than what you do?” His fingers caught at hers, bringing her hand up between them. Slowly he wove his fingers through hers, palm to palm. “I assure you, sweet, it is not.”

Heather trembled. She had no weapon to fight such tenderness—such gentleness. She had no strength to vie against his will—or her own traitorous longing.

“Damien, please, if there can be nothing else, at least let there be honesty.”

“I would have it no other way, Heather.”

“Then let me speak plainly. Damien, I—I’ve lain with no other man. You know that. But you…oh, I’m not such a fool as to believe there have been no other women in your life.”
She swallowed, unable to look any higher than the hollow of his throat. Then all at once the words were tumbling out, one after the other. “You are a man of the world—a man of experience. And I know I cannot compare to all the other women you’ve known—”

“Stop,” he said. “You assume there have been scores of women in my life. There have not.”

Her gaze came back to his. “Truly?” she whispered.

“I will not lie to you, Heather. I am a man, and I have not lived a celibate existence for nearly thirty years. Of course there have been other women in my life. And yes, I’ve had a deeper affection for some than for others—but nothing lasting.” He paused, and his gaze delved deep into hers. “There’s never been anyone like you, Heather,
never
. You’re”—he hesitated—“you’re different from every woman I’ve ever known.”

She made a faint, choked sound. “Yes, and we both know why—”

Anger kindled in his voice. “Don’t!” he said almost roughly. “Your limp doesn’t matter to me; it never has. Don’t you know that?”

Her eyes clung to his. She wanted to believe him. But there was so much at risk here. Her very heart…

His hands came up to cup her shoulders. “You’re kind and sweet and good. You’re bright and beautiful. Heather, you—you’re different,” he said again. “In every way that’s good. In every way that’s
right
.”

She trembled. “But what about now? Damien,
you are the toast of London.” It hurt to hear the words aloud, yet Heather could withhold them no longer. “You could be with any number of beautiful women. You could
have
any woman—”

“I want only you, Heather. Only you.”

Even as the words sent joy winging through her, she plummeted to the depths of despair. She shook her head. “No. This…it’s not possible. We must put these feelings aside, for this can never be—”

“And what about the night we spent together? Or have you forgotten?”

A pang swept through her. Dear God, how could she? She relived those wondrous moments in the stark loneliness of her bed, in the hours where memory filled the empty corners of her soul. She would cherish them, hold them close in her heart forevermore.

“I have not.” Her voice was but a breath. “But we are not the same people we were then, neither of us. You were Damien Lewis—not the Earl of Deverell. And I was simply Heather Duval. But now”—she swallowed, steeling herself against a wrench of pain—“now it may well be that I am the daughter of a murderer.”

Something flashed in his eyes; she glimpsed an arrogance in him that was foreign to her. “You forget; I knew who you were then. And it doesn’t matter that you knew me as Damien Lewis. You cannot dismiss this so easily, Heather. You cannot dismiss
me
so easily.”

She was swept into his arms. His mouth trailed fire along the curve of her cheek, the corner of
lips that parted in sweet surprise. And then he claimed her mouth in a hot, blazing stamp of possession that plumbed the very depths of her being and left her dizzy and breathless.

He let her go so suddenly she nearly stumbled. Strong arms caught at her anew and brought her close—so close they shared the very same breath. Stunned at his intensity, she stared up into fiercely glowing eyes.

His regard was unsmiling. “I am going to court you, Heather. I am going to woo you.” His eyes darkened. “And I am going to win you.”

There was scarcely time to catch hold of the thought. Another wild, mind-stealing kiss was bestowed on her lips…and then he was gone.

He meant it, for Damien Tremayne, Earl of Deverell, was a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

And what he wanted was her.

It was impossible. Unthinkable. Unbelievable.

And wholly wonderful.

Heather had never been so terrified in her life.

She couldn’t give in to him—she couldn’t. Deep inside, she was afraid she didn’t have what it took to keep a man like Damien—indeed, any man. Oh, she did not doubt her worth as a person. She was quick-witted and intelligent, staunch and independent in an age where women were seldom afforded such opportunity; Lockhaven was the proof, for she ran her estate with an eye to detail that many a man would have envied, and she was proud of it. But when it came to being a woman…

That was another matter entirely.

She was not a perfect little beauty, like those
who paraded through Hyde Park. Like those who graced the elegant drawing rooms of Society’s most elite citizens, in the company of the most handsome of men. She was not…whole.

She admitted her desperate fear only to herself.

In time, she would lose him. In time, he would not want her. He was surrounded by the most beautiful women in all England. What need had he of her? Wasn’t it better to keep her distance, to know the pang of loss now, than to experience heartache later?

It was a battle she waged daily.

But Damien was persistent. Relentless. He called on her often. Nor did her family make it any easier on her. Many were the evenings that Damien shared supper with them as well, at Mama or Papa’s invitation. When he occasionally went riding or hunting with Papa, he inevitably stayed afterward.

Whenever Damien chanced to be near, a secret glimmer of approval shone in Mama’s eyes before she demurely lowered her lashes. Almost daily, Bea declared how wonderfully romantic it was to be pursued by someone as dashing as Damien. Papa enjoyed having port and cigars with him after supper—the privacy of their conversations alerted Heather’s suspicions that one of the subjects discussed was James Elliot, a subject she sensed everyone went to great pains to avoid in her presence.

Yet indeed, Heather speculated in mingled frustration and resignation, it would have done little good to refuse Damien entrance into their
home, for Mama or Papa or Bea would surely have invited him in—or even one of the servants, whom he now called by name!

He did not shower her with flowers, or bonbons, or simpering poetry. But his eyes were ever upon her…. She lost count of the times she had only to glance over at him to meet his gaze full upon her, burning and direct. It was disconcerting. Distracting.

Thrilling, beyond all measure.

Little wonder that she was so torn….

But these were the least of her worries, for Heather harbored a secret, a secret she could share with no one…

For their one night together had yielded a consequence she’d never dreamed would happen—not to her. And she wasn’t certain if she was terrified or elated….

One evening she was to attend the opera with Mama and Papa. Unfortunately, by midafternoon, Mama was not feeling well. Papa asked if she would mind crying off, for he hated to leave Mama at home in such a state. Heather hid her disappointment, for the evening was one she had looked forward to. Damien called soon afterward; it was Papa who spied him in the drawing room with Heather.

“Have you plans for the evening?” he asked, striding boldly as was his way.

“None,” Damien assured him.

“Then perhaps you’d be willing to escort Heather to the opera tonight at Covent Garden. Victoria and I had planned to attend as well, but Victoria is unwell—”

“Papa!” Heather couldn’t hide her distress. “I cannot believe you would be so forward—”

“Forward?” To her horror, Miles appeared vaguely amused. “My dear, Damien is hardly a stranger. Besides, you’re a friend of the family.” He glanced at Damien. “What do you say? Are you free?”

Damien’s gaze was on Heather, who could not bear to look at him. Her cheeks were flaming. “I would be honored to escort her, sir.”

Heather’s pulse was fluttering madly. She wanted to refuse…but she longed to spend the evening with Damien far more….

Such was the nature of her wayward heart.

She dressed carefully that night. The gown of burgundy velvet she wore lent her the courage to go through with the evening…a courage she was about to discover she would sorely need.

Damien was waiting in the entrance hall when she came downstairs, dark and striking in evening dress, his hands behind his back. At the swish of her skirts, he turned and looked up. Hunger blazed in the silver of his eyes, a hunger that made her weak in the knees.

“Ready?” he murmured.

Heather nodded, unable to do more. He dropped a matching cape around her shoulders, his fingers skimming the bare skin of her upper arms in a warm and fleeting caress.

She tensed as they approached the Royal Opera House. This was the first time she’d been alone in public with him, and the strain on her nerves was almost more than she could stand.
But it appeared that no one took notice of them; the crowd streamed all around, and they were swept inside the vestibule along with the others.

Their box was in the upper tier. When they reached it, Heather sank gratefully into the plush seats. In the pit, the orchestra had begun to tune their instruments. The crowd scurried to find their seats before the performance began. Beside her, Damien chatted politely. Stiff with apprehension, Heather nodded now and again, her smile frozen in place, only half aware of what he said. Then, finally, the crimson draperies parted, and all else was forgotten. She leaned forward, enraptured as the strains of a lilting soprano aria filled the air.

She sighed in envy when the first act ended. Damien turned to her. “Shall we go down for refreshments?”

Dark brows lifted slightly, as if in challenge. Though Heather longed to decline, she didn’t dare. If she did, he would accuse her of hiding away….

Her chin tipped. “Certainly,” she replied. As she placed gloved fingertips lightly on his arm, she thought she detected a gleam of admiration.

Delicate lace fans fluttered like butterflies in the spring. Brocade and satin rustled as women flitted like peacocks, showing off their finery. Diamonds and gold flashed brightly beneath crystal chandeliers. But as they slowly descended the wide staircase, color rose high and bright to her cheeks. Heads were turning; opera glasses were raised to many an eye. Inside she cringed,
for she could almost hear the horrified whispers that had already begun.
Whatever is that lame girl doing with the Earl of Deverell? No doubt he feels sorry for her. Indeed, why else would he be with her
?

The worst moment came when Damien briefly left her to fetch a glass of wine. One woman walked past, staring at her boldly, her expression fairly hostile. Heather felt herself pale. Her hands were shaking, her fingers as cold as if she’d plunged them in ice.

Damien handed her the glass of wine. “Pay no attention to them,” he murmured. He took her cane and tucked her free hand into his elbow.

“I cannot help it. I—I dislike being on display.”

His hand came to rest atop her own. She knew he could feel her trembling. “Besides,” he said lightly, “I confess, I find I rather like this.”

Heather blinked. “You
like
being stared at?”

“I like showing you off.” His voice took on a note of huskiness. “I’m the envy of every man here, you know. They’ll go home and tonight, and they’ll lie beside their dowdy wives—”

“Dowdy! Why, I doubt any woman here tonight is dowdy.”

“Hush, sweet.” His head lowered. He spoke for her ears alone. “They’ll lie beside their dowdy wives, but they’ll be thinking of you. They’ll wonder what it would be like to be with you—this very night. They’ll imagine what it would be like to strip your gown from you, little by little. They’ll wonder how small your feet are, how long and white are your legs. They’ll wonder
whether your nipples are pink or brown, tilt up or outward.”

Heather couldn’t help it. Though she was secretly scandalized, she listened, mutely fascinated by this glimpse into the male psyche. “Men are utterly captivated by the size of women’s breasts, you know. Why, they’ve even been known to place wagers on the size and shape of a woman’s breasts—whether they’ll fit into a champagne glass, like Helen of Troy, or if they’re the size of ripe melons…don’t look so shocked, my dear. Women are no different. In secret they whisper to each other, speculating about the size and endowments of whomever they plan to take on as lover that night. Is he the size of a shriveled carrot, or—”

Heather gasped. Her gaze shot to his face, only to find his eyes alight with amusement. As her expression changed from shock to a righteous indignation, Damien laughed softly.

Unbelievably, she found her lips twitching in return. She knew then what he was about—he’d merely been trying to take her mind away from her anxiety. “You are incorrigible,” she accused without heat.

He clicked his heels and brought her hand to his lips. “I stand guilty as charged, m’lady.”

The crowd had begun to disperse, heading back to their seats. Damien cocked his head toward the staircase. “Shall we?”

She nodded, turning a smug smile his way. “I knew you were lying,” she informed him loftily. “Of course a gentleman would never think such outrageous things about a lady.”

Damien nearly groaned. If she only knew what had been going through his mind these past weeks…

The rest of the evening passed without incident. When they were home, he escorted her to the door. His gaze roved her features, one by one, coming to rest on her lips. Her heart knocked wildly. Heather held her breath, awaiting the moment he would draw her into his arms. But he merely lifted her hand to his lips, the proper young gentleman…. She made her way to her room, vastly disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her mouth.

Her dreams were most improper that night, so much so that she debated the possibility that Damien had not been exaggerating after all….

The next day at breakfast, Bea filched Papa’s copy of the
Gazette
. Of particular interest to her was the social column. Heather always laughed at her, for she gobbled up the juicy tidbits as a child would a sweet treat. Mama merely smiled indulgently. But Bea’s eyes nearly fell from her head as she caught sight of a familiar name. In earnest, she read on:

Beatrice lowered the paper to her plate. “Oh, my,” she breathed.

Victoria glanced up from her croissant. “What is it, Bea?”

Bea couldn’t say a word. All she could do was thrust the paper at her mother. Miles leaned over as well.

The dishes leaped from the table as he slammed a hand down. “Damn!” he swore, his face like a thundercloud. “This is why I hate London!”

Bea look unhappy. “Why must they be so unkind? Heather is not old!”

Victoria sighed. “It does little good to complain, dear. ’Tis simply the nature of the gossips.”

Miles had begun to pace. “This is my fault. I was the one who asked him to escort her.”

“Papa,” Bea spoke quickly, “don’t let Heather see this.”

“Don’t let Heather see what?”

It was too late. Heather stood at the door. Her gaze slipped from one to the other.

It was Victoria who rose and handed her the paper. “I’m afraid you and Damien have made the news, dear,” she said softly. “Take heart, love. It happens to all of us at one time or another.”

Heather’s cheeks grew pale as she read the column. When she was done, she laid it aside. “We did attract any number of glances” was all she said, reaching for the teapot.

Miles and Victoria exchanged glances. Bea
trice blinked at her aplomb. “Heather! You act as if it doesn’t bother you in the slightest!”

Heather smiled slightly. “Oh, it does, Bea. But at least they didn’t mention my limp.” She poured a generous dollop of cream into her tea.

Bea was in a state. “Well, if he had, I should march down to the
Gazette
, find who wrote this column, cut off his leg and see how
he
likes it!”

Victoria’s brows shot up. “And if you don’t learn to curb your tongue, Bea,” she said dryly, “you’ll soon find yourself the subject of that very same column.”

Bea tossed her head. “Well, as you said, Mama, it’s bound to happen to all of us! Perhaps it’s best if I become accustomed to it now.”

Victoria sent Miles a look that said “Heaven help us.” Heather hid a smile in her teacup. But it appeared that was not the end of the morning’s excitement. They were just rising from the table a short time later when the butler came in with a letter for Miles.

“It’s from Lyndermere,” Miles said with a frown. He broke open the seal and scanned it quickly. His expression sober, his eyes sought Victoria’s.

“There’s been an accident, love. A fire in the kitchens. Several of the servants were injured”—he laid a restraining hand on her arm when he spied the leap of fear in her eyes—“but Arthur and Christina are unhurt.”

She nodded. “I think we’d best return at once, Miles.”

“I agree, love. We can leave this afternoon and have the rest of our things sent on later.”

“I’ll have the maids start packing,” Bea said quickly.

“Yes. Yes, please do, Bea.”

“I’ll have the carriage readied.” Miles was already striding through the doorway.

Victoria began to follow him, only to whirl around. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, no!” she cried. “It completely slipped my mind. Sophie’s ball is tonight. Of course we can’t stay…I know she’ll be disappointed, but it can’t be helped.” She glanced toward the study. “I must send a note—”

“Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll tell her myself. Tonight.” Heather could see that Victoria was in a tizzy.