Wicked at Heart (2 page)

Slowly, he
raised his head and found himself looking up into the enraged face of the dean.

"
Get up.
"

The voice was
harsh, stone cold and awful.

Miss Sarah,
recognizing the owner of that voice, let out a shriek, threw Damon off, and
scrambled to her feet.  "You beast!  You savage, rutting
beast
,
have you no respect for a woman's virtue?  To attack an innocent woman, to pull
her from her chambers and seduce her!  Have you no honor?  Have you no
shame
?" 
She yanked her skirts down and began screaming at him like a woman gone mad,
leaving Damon to stare at her in numbed shock.  What babble was this? 
Attacked
and seduced her?
  His brows rose and he drew himself up, but before he
could deliver his own scathing defense, she slapped him full across the face
and flung herself into her uncle's arms, letting loose with a convincing
display of tears that would have brought the level of the Atlantic up by at
least a foot.

And still that
awful laughter, echoing out over the courtyard from the window above.

Damon's
well-bred dignity was the only thing that kept him from fleeing.  With as much
disdain as he could muster, he jerked on his trousers and buttoned them, though
only he knew that his fingers tangled with each other and his heart was
pounding wildly.  And all he could hear was that terrible laughter bubbling out
of the window above his head, going on and on and on . . .

And Miss Sarah's
shrill voice.

"He
attacked me, Uncle!  He forced me into this horrible, shameful act, I swear it.
 I am the victim here, please understand!  He overpowered me!  He raped me!  He
— he —  oh-h-h-h . . ."

Cradling the
girl to his chest, the dean fixed Damon with a furious stare.  "Is that
so, Morninghall?"

It wasn't so at
all.  Damn far from it, in fact.  And suddenly the rage swept in on a tide of
hurt, rage that was deep and raw and black, for Damon had been betrayed by not
just The Circle but Miss Sarah herself, and he was not in the mood to feel
gallant.  He raised his head, looked the dean straight in the eye, and hoped
his voice would not betray the maelstrom of emotion that fisted his heart.

"I did not
attack your niece, sir."  And then, unable to help himself, he added
disdainfully, "In fact, the virtuous Miss Sarah was the one who wanted to
do it right here in the Quad.  Personally, I would have preferred a proper bed,
but I'm afraid that
she
was most adamant —"

The resultant
crack of a hand across his face nearly broke Damon's aristocratic nose.  Stars
spun before his eyes, and he felt the ground come up hard against his hip, his
shoulder, as he went down.  It took him a moment to realize the dean had
actually hit him, and gingerly fingering his nose and lip, he looked dazedly up
into the man's thunderous face.

The dean gave him
no time to recover.  Snaring Damon by the front of his shirt, he yanked him to
his feet with a forcefulness that nearly choked him.  "I knew when you
came here you'd be nothing but trouble," he seethed, twisting the shirt
until Damon couldn't draw breath.  "Knew it the moment I laid eyes on
you!  Too damned young!  Too damned smart!  Too damned spoiled!"

Damon stumbled
as the dean shoved him violently backwards.  He lost his balance, landing hard
on his backside.  More laughter burst from the windows above.  He felt his eyes
beginning to burn with tears of humiliation, and knew he was fast losing his
grip on aristocratic indifference.

"Supreme
intelligence has always been your curse instead of blessing, hasn't it?  How
unfortunate that you didn't put that wonderful brain of yours toward the
pursuit of self and science, instead of letting yourself be governed by what
lies inside your trousers!  What a loss to humankind that you're ruled by the
devil you so resemble, instead of by the God you've chosen to ignore!  What's
that, Sarah?  Yes, of course, dearest, I know.  There, there, darling.  It's
all right, he shall not go near you again."  The dean cradled his niece
against his chest and glaring at Damon, shook a finger to emphasize his point. 
"And don't think your money will buy you out of this one, either,
Morninghall.  Titled and rich you may be, but I don't give a bloody damn.  Now
pack your things and get your spoiled little carcass out of my sight!"

Damon finally
found his voice, but it was little more than a pitiful whisper.  "Pack my
things?  But sir, I don't understand —"

"Understand
this
!  From this moment on, you are no longer welcome at Oxford, and I
never want to see your face around here again!  Your studies here are
finished
,
do you hear me? 
Finished
!  I'm sending you back to your mother, where
you damn well belong!"

Sending you
back to your mother . . .

Damon went
deathly pale.  The world began to rush in on him, like a constricting tunnel
from which there was no escape.  Then the facade of aristocratic aloofness he'd
tried so hard to maintain cracked right down the middle, leaving him raw and
exposed and vulnerable.

He whirled and
fled into the night, the laughter of The Circle's members floating out over the
vast courtyard behind him.

~~~~

Young Lord
Morninghall's final night at Oxford was nothing short of hell.  It was a long
time before he finally dropped off, and when slumber finally overcame him, it
was broken by dreams of his mother's cruel hand against his flesh, his mother's
wine bottle smashing into his back as he fled, his mother's tormented ravings
about his devil's eyes, his devil's doings, his devil's deeds . . .

Now, in the sane
light of early morning, Damon was bleary-eyed and depressed, his movements
wooden as he tossed his few things into a satchel and set it down in a chair. 
Outside, dawn's light was just touching the magnificent carved spires that
soared above the city, softening the forbidding stone and toasting the ancient
buildings in peachy washes of pink and gold.  Below his window the carefully groomed
lawn of Peckwater Quad was a misty green; doves cooed from the elegant
courtyard, and sunlight slashed against the stately Corinthian columns of the
library opposite.

Oxford.  It
would be the last time he'd look upon its noble, ancient beauty, the last time
he'd behold its quiet magnificence.  He set his jaw.  He didn't care.  He
hadn't learned a damn thing here, anyhow — except how to make a girl moan and
sob in the throes of passion.

He sat down and
put on his shoes.

I don't care.

But he
did
care.  Despite everything, life at Oxford was still better than life at
Morninghall ever had been, and the thought of returning to his ancestral home
chilled his bones and made his heart accelerate with sudden anxiety.

I won't go
back there
, he vowed, bending over and yanking on his other shoe. 
Mama
will scream at me.  She'll call Reverend Croyden in and make him exorcise the
devil in me.  And after he leaves, she'll take to the bottle and beat me.  Again
and again and again . . .

At Morninghall
there was no place to escape.  Not in the library, where he had once been able
to lose himself in books while hiding from his mother's heavy hand.  Not in the
huge bedchamber, which, with its gloomy, ancient furnishings, heraldic crests,
and magnificent carved four-poster, had always frightened him, for it had
belonged to five other marquesses before him and was still — he used to think
when he woke up, trembling, in the dead of night — haunted by their wandering
spirits.  Not in the house, not in the stables, not even in the fact that he
was the heir to the title and the vast Cotswolds estates that went with it.

For at
Morninghall there was nothing to protect him from his mother's madness.  Nor,
when she learned he'd been sent down from Oxford, her wrath.

The young
marquess finished with his shoes and, without straightening up in his chair,
put his head in his hands.  It would be as it always had been.  Damon the
Devil.  Damon the Beast.  Damon, born on the sixth day of the sixth month in
the sixth year of the decade.  Oh, God help him . . .

His hands began
to shake, his palms to perspire.  He could see it now.  The wailing would start,
then the screaming, the sobbing, the drinking, the beatings . . .

Clawing his
hands over his face, he rose, gathering his resolve and trying to put the
inevitable out of his mind.

The sun was
higher now, burning the mist off the manicured courtyard, turning the
honey-colored stone of the library lemon and gold and sparkling off its
beautiful Venetian windows.  A blackbird sang from somewhere near, and already
Damon could smell the scent of food from the hall's kitchens, could hear
laughter in the adjoining room.  The great university was awakening.  It was
best to leave now, before everyone found out what had happened — if they hadn't
already.  He had been humiliated enough.

He tied his
cravat, pulled on a sober, elegantly fitted jacket, then, picking up his hat
and satchel, turned his back on his room — and, Oxford.  Head high, mouth
carved in stone, he left the stately Palladian building in Peckwater Quad that
he'd called home these past few months, passed the library, skirted the vast,
magnificent Great Quadrangle, and exited Christ Church via the Gateway, above
which the seven-ton bell, Great Tom, had tolled out his impending demise the
night before.  He made his way south down Fish Street, hoping that no one would
recognize him, hoping someone would, and all the while wishing with all his
heart that the dean would come running out of nowhere to call him back.

But no one
recognized him.  No on paid him any attention.  And the dean did not come to
call him back.

He clenched his
satchel.  He kept walking, his face devoid of all emotion, his eyes staring
straight ahead, his brain numbing itself to the fate that awaited him at
Morninghall.

It was some time
before the sounds finally penetrated his misery.  Church bells pealing
gloriously.  Barking dogs.  The distant sound of music, singing, cheering.  And
it was coming closer.

For one brief
moment Damon had a fantasy that it was all on his behalf, that the noise he
heard was a crowd of people coming to drag him back to university.  But that
wish was quickly dispelled as the cheering grew louder and louder and people
began to run past him, bumping into him, knocking him aside, and yelling at him
to get out of the way.  The crowd thickened.  Someone's elbow caught him a
glancing blow in the ribs; a dog and a pack of small boys shot past, heels
flying.  Windows scraped open above his head, and all around, on both sides of
the street, people leaned out, waving brightly colored handkerchiefs and
cheering wildly.  Others came streaming out of buildings, out of the colleges
themselves, and, in a mass exodus, went running down the street.

Thankful for an
excuse, any excuse, to delay his return to Morninghall, Damon straightened his
hat and followed them.

The crowds were
several feet thick by the time he reached their epicenter.  He shouldered his
way through, eliciting outraged looks and curses he pointedly ignored. 
Fortunately he was tall enough to peer over the heads of those nearest the
street, and was thus able to see the object of all the attention.

It was a
carriage drawn by a nervous team of grey horses which had all they could do to
get the vehicle through the overwhelming, cheering crowds.  Trying to see,
Damon stood on tiptoe, his view distorted by hands waving before his face, his
ears ringing with the wild cheering, his ribs squeezed among a mass of hot,
perspiring bodies that were all pressing, shoving, pushing and struggling as
they fought for viewing room closest to the street.  A gap opened in the sea of
heads in front of him, and it was then that Damon caught a glimpse of the one
for whom all the bell ringing, all the cheering, all the shouting, calling,
singing and celebration, was for.

It was only a
glimpse, but it was enough to change the Marquess of Morninghall's life
forever.  A glimpse of a handsome man, his blue-and-white naval uniform
sparkling with gold trim and military magnificence, his hair gleaming like a pharaoh's
gold in the bright morning sunlight.  A glimpse — of a hero.

That hero leaned
out of the carriage, gallantly catching a young woman's hand and raising it to
his lips, laughing as the movement of the carriage dragged him free and she,
crying his name and pressing her handkerchief to her mouth, ran to catch up. 
Courage stamped itself in every plane of his face, humor turned up the corners
of his firm mouth, and a hint of reckless bravado shone in cool, gray eyes which
swept the crowd, seeing all, seeing no one, as he waved to the throngs of
people who had poured into the streets just to pay homage to him.

"Commodore
Lord!  Commodore Julian Lord!  Oxford welcomes you!  Welcome to Oxford,
Commodore Lord!"

Unreasonably
angry and unable to explain why, Damon fought for air and turned to a woman who
was squashed in the throng beside him.  Her gaze flew open when she saw his
eyes, and with a gasp, she tried to step back, one hand going to her heart.

The customary
reaction only fueled his irritation.  "Dare I ask what a national hero is
doing in Oxford?" he drawled, wishing she wouldn't stare at him so.

"H-he's
come here t' receive an hon'ry doctorate from the university," she said
hurriedly, pressing against the mass of bodies in her desire to be away from him. 
"If ye'll excuse me, please . . ."

Dismissing her,
he turned to watch the carriage until it was finally swallowed up by the crowds
that ran to keep up with it.  The celebration, the clamoring, the cheering,
went with it.  In its wake a lonely wind followed, as though it too worshipped
Commodore Lord and had no wish to be left behind.  Damon stood there on the
pavement, a few last people running past, until he was all alone once again, a
few bits of paper skittering past his feet, the sounds of the celebration
fading off as the procession made its way toward the Star Inn.