Wicked at Heart (16 page)

Gwyneth snapped,
"He does not deserve the honor of an introduction, Rhiannon."

Damon ignored
the waspish comment.  "I see that beauty runs in your family, Miss
Evans," he said chivalrously, bowing low over the girl's hand and brushing
it with his lips.  He looked wickedly out through his lashes at her, and was rewarded
with a swift wash of color across her cheeks — and a sparkle in her eye that
was not horror but excitement and delight.  As he straightened up, he saw the
protective, angry look that tightened Lady Simms's mouth, and secretly
gloated.  "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Evans."

"And you,
my lord.  My sister lacks for male companionship, so it is indeed an honor to
have you here.  I do so hope you'll stay for tea."

"
Rhiannon
!"

"In fact,
I'll go put the kettle on now, so that the two of you may . . . talk.  Up,
Mattie!" she chirped, calling the arthritic old dog up off the grass and
moving toward the door.  "Time to go inside!"

"Lord
Morninghall will
not
be staying," Gwyneth said sharply.

"Oh, but I
think I will," Damon countered smoothly.  He directed his most charming
grin at the girl.  "Tea would be lovely, Miss Evans.  Thank you."

Eyes sparkling,
Rhiannon slipped into the house, and Damon was alone with the object of his
torment.

Awareness of the
previous day's encounter burned in both of them.  Damon's memory throbbed with
it, and he could see the dark flush in her cheeks, the embarrassed evasiveness
in her eyes.  Here among her flowers, the sun slanting down through the leafy
green branches of a chestnut tree and dappling her straw hat, her tumbledown
curls, the lemony muslin of her simple gown, she was earthy and girlishly
sensual — a far cry from the militant woman who was doing her damnedest to turn
his life upside down and the Transport Office on its ear.  He had a mad urge to
throw her down in those daisies and dandelions and finish what he had started.

Instead, he
looked at her and waited for her to speak.

She turned her
face away and pushed freshly turned earth against a rock, her trowel scraping
against tiny pebbles in the dirt.

"And you
accuse
me
of rudeness," he said softly.

She did not look
up at him.  "My sister is a born matchmaker.  Worse, she does not know
trouble when she sees it."

"Surely she
is wasting her efforts if she thinks to push
us
together."

"Indeed.  I
cannot imagine anyone more heinous, horrible, and rude to be paired with than
you, Morninghall."

"Spare your
poor imagination the effort, then, as I have an equal abhorrence to being
strapped to someone who makes Boadicea seem like a daisy-faced angel."

"Thank God
for small miracles."

"Indeed."

She kept her
head down, intent on her task, her trowel flashing and chunking in the dirt as
she mutilated the leaves and roots of a dandelion plant which had dared venture
into the sacred boundaries of her flower bed.  But he could just see her mouth
beneath the wide brim of the hat, and it was turned up at the corners in a
reluctant smile, as though she were enjoying this little exchange despite
herself.

Oddly, that
pleased him.  He was enjoying it too, though he'd be damned if he'd ever admit
it.  On a sudden impulse he reached up and pulled a springy branch of white
lilac down to his nose.  She was still digging in the dirt, a little faster
now.  He eyed her, wondering what she would do if he broke off a blossom and
offered to her.

How he would
feel if she rejected it.

He released the
branch as though it had burned his hand.  It bounced violently back to its
rightful position, and something twisted angrily in his gut.

"So, was
your first husband as wretched as you find me?" he asked, more harshly
than he had intended.

She raised her
head, a disappointed look in her eyes.  "I should've known that a pleasant
conversation with you was doomed to a premature end.  But since you ask,
Morninghall, William wouldn't have known 'wretched' if it up and bit him on the
nose."

"Ah, so he
was a model husband, then."

"He was a
good man."

"Perfect, I
suppose.  I cannot imagine
you
settling for anything less."

"He was far
from perfect.  And do you have to inject anger into what might otherwise be a
civil, if not enjoyable, conversation?"

"Forgive
me."  A wary smile flitted across his face, was gone.  "I shall
inject vanity instead and ask you how he compares to me."

"Why
Morninghall, I
do
believe that forbidding demeanor of yours has cracked
in a smile.  Such interest you have in my late husband!  But if you must know,
William was old, feeble, decidedly unpassionate." 
Unlike you with your
sensual mouth, your devil's eyes, your sinister, dangerous charm, your lethal
hands, your face like a fallen angel's . . .
  She tilted her head, watching
him.  "He was very different from you.  You challenge me.  He coddled me. 
You infuriate me.  He calmed me.  He was easy to figure out.  You're
impossible.  But enough of that, because I'm sure you did not come here to talk
about my dead husband."

"You're
absolutely correct, I did not."  He bent at the waist to sniff a tiny,
delicate rosebud.

"Then why
did
you come here?"

He straightened
up, brows raised, his dispassionate, unsettling gaze moving over her. 
"Why, to return something that is yours."  He reached into his pocket
and, to her horror, withdrew her little notebook, the binder of which was
stained and warped from the dunking in the prison ship's brine. 
"Here."

She snatched it
away, her cheeks going hot all over again.  "I must have dropped it when I
swooned."

"Yes."

"I suppose
you've read it."

"Of
course."

She thinned her
lips.  "And?"

"Interesting
observations."  He struck a thoughtful pose, head tilted, finger tapping
his mouth, gaze fastened intently, unnervingly, on her.  "I rather liked
the one about me.  'The Marquess of Morninghall is a man with a diabolical,
exceedingly handsome countenance and no shortage of vanity.' 
Exceedingly
handsome
.  That rather makes up for the abuse you've hurled at me over the
short span of our acquaintance, does it not?"

"You had no
business reading my notes."

"They were
confiscated property.  I especially applaud the one you wrote to yourself.  Something
about checking the contractors' records against the naval ones to ensure that the
prisoners are not being cheated.  How magnanimous of you, my lady, to start
investigating the problems at their source instead of laying them all at my
door."

"You
agree?
"

"Of course. 
Though you'd be wise to have me accompany you when you visit the contractor
from whom we purchase the prisoners' clothing."

"Why?"

He sat down on a
low bench, one arm draped lazily over the top, hat dangling from his fingers as
he challenged her with his unflinching gaze.  "Radley says he is not to be
trusted around women."

"And you
are."

He smiled, just
the briefest, tiniest reflection of genuine amusement, and in it she saw the
man he could be, the man that perhaps, in a kinder, more innocent time, he had
been.

Her heart
tripped, missing a beat.

His gaze
remained on hers, penetrating, amused.  Gwyneth, to her chagrin, could not hold
that gaze.  Lips pursed, face growing hot all over again, she bent her head and
attacked a blade of grass springing up between the rocks.  "Very well
then, I shall expect your company tomorrow afternoon, as that is when I intend
to check those records."

"My
pleasure.  Be on the pier at two o'clock, and I shall meet you there."

"But my
appointment with Mr. Rothschild is at three!"

"So? 
Change it."

"You are
impossible, Morninghall."

"I
know."  His grin was spreading.  "Damned infuriating, aren't I?"

"Yes, you
are.  But as you have asked such a personal question of me, I now find I have
one for you.  Tell me, Morninghall.  You once had a promising career.  Now you
hate the navy, hate Bolton, and apparently hate yourself."  Sitting back,
she cocked her head and gave him a speculative look.  "Why is it that Bolton
put you — not only a nobleman but a promising young officer — in charge of a
prison hulk?  Why did he demote you when he could've just thrown you out of the
navy?"

He jerked his
head, indicating her notebook.  "You tell me."

"It's
something to do with that duel, isn't it?"

"The duel
was the culmination of everything that had gone before it.  And yes, the reason
that Bolton put me in charge of a prison hulk.  It was his way of avenging that
sniveling brat he called his son."

"There's
got to be more to it than that."

He shrugged, set
his mouth, and looked away, as though the whole thing were no longer worth
taking about.  "It was simple, really.  Adam Bolton and I were rivals from
the day we first met each other as lieutenants on the same ship.  He hated me
because I was higher born than he, and I hated him because he was a swaggering
braggart, not above using his father's influence to excuse his failings, his
ineptitude, and his cowardice."  He looked away, his eyes hard now with
remembrance, his body taut and defensive.  "When promotion time came, I
was passed over and the post of commodore was given to Adam — though I was the
one with more seniority and, if I may be so bold, more laurels.  But what did
that matter?  Adam was the son of an admiral, and I lacked such a weighty
sponsor."

Gwyneth sat back
on her heels, quietly listening.

"Needless
to say, Adam Bolton took great delight in ordering me around, giving me the
most ignoble assignments, and spreading slander about me throughout the fleet. 
Naturally, I got resentful, but he was spoiling for a fight.  So was I.  One
day he went too far and I took a swing at him."

"Ah.  So
this must've been the reason for the court-martial."

"Yes.  But
the cocksure little bastard didn't stop there.  When he chose a naval gathering
to accuse me publicly of slandering his father to the First Lord of the
Admiralty — a ridiculous accusation as I'd never even met the fellow — I
challenged him to a duel.  You know the rest."

"Yes, it
becomes very clear now.  The Boltons effectively ruined your naval career, pulled
the rug right out from under you, didn't they?"

He turned away,
a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Why didn't
you resign, Morninghall?  Why suffer the indignities they've heaped upon your
head?"

"I have my
reasons.  And you've already gone tit for tat as regards our questions.  I've
answered yours, as you answered mine."

"I see.  Enough
for one day, eh?"

"You could
say that."

Gwyneth went
back to her weeding, surprised and oddly happy she'd got even this much out of
him.  "Fair enough.  We could discuss our forthcoming visit to the
contractor, instead."

"We
could."

"I mean, I
am
grateful for your gesture of concern on behalf of the prisoners."

That smile —
fleeting, wary, hesitant — came back to his unforgiving mouth.  "Do not
delude yourself, Lady Simms.  The concern is not for them . . . but for
you."

She jerked her
head up, but at that moment the door opened and Rhiannon swept out, looking
from one to the other like a hen overseeing her chicks.  She held a tray in her
hands; a teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of scones competed for space
atop it.

The concern
is not for them . . . but for you.

Gwyneth's mouth
was suddenly dry, and butterflies beat in her stomach.  Standing up, she shook
the weeds from her skirts and shot him an equally wary look.  The marquess was
watching her, still smiling, still dangling his hat from his hand with
negligent abandon.

"Cream and
sugar, Lord Morninghall?" Rhiannon called, pouring tea into little china
cups and interrupting the fragile moment.

"Please,"
he said, turning his all-too-considerable charm on her innocent sister. 
"Three sugars, if you will."

"
Three
sugars,
my lord?"

"I'm sure His
Lordship needs all the
sweetness
he can get," Gwyneth put in,
wryly.

"Indeed,"
he responded, with a hot, private glance at Gwyneth that left her wishing for a
cool breeze to come up.  He took his cup and a plate from Rhiannon and, to the
raised eyebrows of both sisters, slathered so much honey on his scone that it
required a supreme balancing act on his part to keep it from dribbling onto his
fine white shirt.

Gwyneth watched
as he lifted the pastry to his mouth, his tongue slicing out to catch drops of
the honey as it oozed from the top of the crumbly pastry.  Then, slowly licking
the sweet syrup from his lips, he slanted her a wicked, sidelong glance from
under his lashes that said all the things his mouth didn't.

Gwyneth choked
on her tea.

He merely lifted
an eyebrow, a mocking smile touching one corner of his mouth.

Gwyneth's cup
began vibrating madly against her saucer.  She set them both down on the grass.

"Are you
well, Gwyn?" her sister asked, cocking her head and looking at her with concern.

"Yes — yes,
the tea is just a bit hot, 'tis all."

Morninghall
lifted his cup, his eyes wicked behind the rim.  "Yes.  Very hot," he
said, still watching her.

Rhiannon was
oblivious to this silent communication.  She buttered a scone and lifted it to
her lips, her eyes dancing with excitement.  "So, my lord.  Gwyn tells me
that you gave her a tour of your ship yesterday."

"Yes.  At
gunpoint, I am afraid."