“You impudent little cat!”
“Now, unless you want to arouse precisely the sort of interest among the Staffords’ guests that you profess to hope to avoid, I suggest that you get out of my way.” Damaris started forward, moving around Lady Sedbury.
To her surprise, Lady Sedbury reached out a hand and clamped it around Damaris’s forearm, stopping her. “I will protect my family, just as I have always done. Get out of London. Immediately. Or I shall make sure that you will wish you had.”
With that parting shot, she turned and walked away, leaving Damaris gaping after her.
A little shudder ran through Damaris; she was suddenly cold despite the warmth of the crowded ballroom. She blinked away the tears—of fury, she told herself—that had formed in her eyes, and strode through the open doors into the hallway beyond. Pausing only long enough to get her light silver tissue wrap for her shoulders, Damaris left Rawdon’s home.
It was wrong of her, she knew, not to at least take her leave of her hostesses, and she felt sure that Lady Genevieve and her grandmother would take note of her rudeness. But she could not face hunting them down in the throng of guests and making the excuse of a headache. And, really, what did it matter? She would not see either of the women again. She should have listened to her inner voice and not come to this party; from now on, she would follow her own advice.
Damaris stopped on the stoop, remembering only now that
Rawdon had escorted her tonight, so she did not have her carriage. After a moment’s hesitation, she started down the street, thinking she would hail a passing hack. She heard something rustle off to the side of her, deep in the shadows between the houses, and she turned her head toward the sound, startled. But at that moment, she heard a voice calling from the stoop behind her.
“Mrs. Howard!”
She whirled and looked back, her heart sinking. It was Lord Rawdon. She could not ignore him, but talking to him was the last thing she wanted right now. She tried to summon up a smile.
“Lord Rawdon.”
“Are you leaving? Is aught amiss?” He frowned as he came toward her. He wore no hat, having obviously left in a hurry. “I saw you go out the door, and I… was concerned. I hope no one upset you.”
She wondered if he had witnessed the scene between her and Lady Sedbury. Damaris brightened her smile. “No, indeed. It is a lovely party, and I appreciate so much your inviting me. It was most rude of me not to bid you good-bye. But I have a headache, you see, and I—”
He shook his head. “There is no need to explain. I am sorry that you are not feeling well. I shall give your good-byes to Genevieve and Lady Rawdon. You must not worry about that.” He came another step closer and looked down into her face. “I can see that you are… not feeling yourself.” He reached up to trace the line that had formed between her eyes.
Damaris felt the muscles in her forehead relax. She had not even realized that she was frowning. His gentle gesture made
her feel foolishly like bursting into tears. She looked down, swallowing the impulse. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
“Let me see you home.” He took her arm, turning her back around and moving down the walkway alongside her.
“It really isn’t necessary…”
“Nonsense. I brought you here; I will escort you back.”
Damaris gave in and tucked her hand into his arm. The truth was, it was easier not to think of the scene with Lady Sedbury now that Rawdon was with her. He tended to crowd out all thoughts of anything besides himself.
“I spoke the truth, did I not?” he asked, and when she looked at him quizzically, he added, “About the men lining up to sign your dance card.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Yes. I would almost think that you urged them to it.”
“Hardly. I am not known for my generosity.”
“Come, now. I believe you are the same man who went out into a snowstorm last Christmas to hunt for Matthew.”
He made a half shrug. “It was a matter of a child. Somewhat different from giving up my advantage where you are concerned.”
“Your advantage?” Damaris could not resist a saucy smile up at him.
“I already know you. That is an advantage, is it not?”
“And now so do they.”
He grinned. “Ah, but I know in which village you live.”
She laughed. “True. Yet somehow I doubt that you—or any of them—will trek out to Chesley to call on me.”
“’Tis most unfair of you to say so. I was just there.”
“To see your godson,” she reminded him. “On your way to London.”
“One trip can have multiple delights.”
Damaris chuckled. “Very well, sir, you have bested me.”
Rawdon raised his hand as they reached the cross street, and a hackney pulled over beside them. Rawdon helped Damaris step up into it, but when she turned to take her leave of him, she saw that he was climbing into the vehicle after her.
“But what are you—”
“I told you I could not let you leave unescorted. I shall see you to your house.”
“No, that is too much trouble,” Damaris protested, but the driver had already set the carriage in motion.
“Nonsense. ’Twill be only a short walk home, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but you are neglecting your other guests.” When he shrugged, she said, “Your sister and grandmother surely will not be happy about that.”
“I have already stayed at the thing longer than I normally do,” he told her lightly. “I am sure they will be well pleased with that.”
He seemed to realize that his words had revealed perhaps more than he would have liked, for he glanced away, looking out the window. Damaris was content to sit in silence and study Rawdon’s profile. She remembered that her friend Thea had expressed surprise when Damaris had once described Lord Rawdon as a handsome man. He was not, of course, the very pattern card of male attractiveness that Gabriel Morecombe was. Lord Rawdon was unusual, with his soaring
cheekbones and pale, shaggy hair and those striking blue eyes. Damaris was sure that there were women who found Rawdon more fierce than good-looking, cold rather than ardent.
But Damaris was all too familiar with smooth, handsome men who spoke easily of passion and devotion. Weak men like her father. Scoundrels like Barrett Howard. Those who promised love one day and slipped away the next, leaving one with only sorrow to hold. Damaris was drawn to the strength in Alec’s face, the steady resolve beneath his cool exterior. He was the sort of man you could not forget once you’d met him.
Apparently feeling her gaze, Rawdon turned to look at her, and he smiled. And when that rare event happened, Damaris thought, his face was more compelling than that of any man she had ever known.
He escorted her to her front door, as he had promised, and surprised her by following her inside.
“There is no footman here to open the door?”
Damaris turned an amused gaze up at him. “Not all of us are earls, my lord. I took the servants with the house when I let it. There are not many, and I saw no sense in anyone staying up to answer the door. My maid is doubtless waiting for me in my chamber.” She stopped, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Somehow, with Rawdon’s gaze upon her, it was embarrassing even to allude to the nightly ritual of changing into her bedclothes.
His eyes darkened, his mouth subtly softening, and Damaris knew he was thinking of the same thing. His reaction stirred a new sensation inside her, something entirely different from embarrassment. She could not help but think now
of what it would be like to have his hands, not her maid’s, on the fastenings down her back, of his fingers slipping beneath the opened sides of the gown and pushing them apart, gliding over her bare skin, brushing the lace of her chemise. Just imagining the touch of his fingers, her skin was suddenly alive with anticipation. Heat curled deep in her abdomen. She could not help but wonder what the reality of his touch would be like.
Would he be tender or forceful? His hands rough and impatient or slowly stoking the heat in her? It would be easier, perhaps, to still be a maiden, she thought, to have no idea of what lay between a man and a woman. If she had never known a man’s kiss, she would not wonder now how Alec’s mouth might taste or how soft his lips would be against hers. She would have no hint of the way fingertips brushed over her bare flesh could make her shiver. But she did know, and she could well imagine…
Alec reached out, brushing his thumb along the line of her cheek. Damaris looked up into his face. She knew she should protest, should move away, but she could not.
“Your eyes are so beautiful,” he murmured. “Their color…” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “No doubt hundreds of men have written poetry to your eyes.”
“Hardly hundreds.”
“I have no way with words. But when I look into your eyes, I feel as if… I am drowning and I have no wish to be saved.”
“I think,” Damaris breathed, “that you are doing quite well with your words.”
His eyes widened just a fraction, his lips pulling back in a flash of a smile, and he bent and kissed her.
Damaris stiffened, her hands coming up to his chest, but instead of pushing him away, her fingers curled into his jacket, holding on as he pulled her into him. His mouth lingered on hers, answering all questions of how he would kiss her. He tasted her as one might a fine wine, his lips and tongue teasing and exploring, slowly savoring her.
A long shiver ran down Damaris. She felt as if her whole body was opening up to him as surely and completely as her mouth. Her hands relaxed and moved up his chest to loop around his neck. She stretched upward, her body sliding up his, until she stood on her tiptoes, her lips locked with his. She was washed with heat, intensified by the furnace of his body.
Rawdon was flush against her all the way up and down, his arms wrapped around her, enveloping her. His kiss deepened, his mouth consuming her, and his hands glided down to her hips, pressing her up into him so that she felt the length of his desire digging into her. She was dizzy with the taste and scent and feel of him, and she thought that she might fall into a limp, trembling mass on the floor were it not for the hard strength of his arms clasping her to him.
His hand came up to curve around her breast, and her gasp was swallowed by his kiss. He caressed her, his fingertips burning through the material and arousing her nipples to hard points of yearning. A liquid warmth pooled between her legs, spurred by the delicious ache forming there.
With a groan, he pulled his lips from hers and buried his face in her hair. She could feel the stir of his breath upon her
hair, hear the thunder of his heart. She felt strangely will-less, loath to move away or to pull herself back under control.
He released a long breath, a faint shudder of a laugh at the end, and pressed his lips once, softly, to her hair. “Sweet God.” His voice trembled slightly. Then he released her and stepped back, tugging his jacket into place. “I should apologize.” He hesitated, then added, “But I fear that I cannot. I enjoyed kissing you far too much, and I am not at all sorry for it.”
Damaris glanced up at him, a laugh gurgling up in her throat. “My lord!”
“Do not ‘my lord!’ me.” He grinned at her, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her up for a hard, quick kiss upon her lips. “My name is Alec, and I should like to hear it on your lips.”
“Alec,” she whispered, and he kissed her again, this time neither as hard nor as fast.
His hands dropped away from her arms and he stepped back reluctantly. “Good night, Damaris.”
“Good night.” She watched him walk out of the house. Her legs folded beneath her and she sank down onto the bench in the entry, landing with a small thud.
What had she just done?
The next morning Damaris still
was not sure of an answer to her question. Lord Rawdon—Alec—was a mystery to her, and right now she felt somewhat the same way about herself. She was rarely so careless, so impetuous. The lessons she had learned had been hard, but well remembered.
Yes, she was a woman who enjoyed life, who lived more or
less as she pleased, but she made certain to always stay on a clear, easy path, one where she could not be harmed, where she would not stumble or fall. One, in short, where she was above suspicion and free from danger. From the kind of heartbreak that could never be forgotten.
But last night she had apparently taken leave of her senses and jumped right into—well, she was not sure what it was, but clearly it was anything but safe.
How could she have been so foolhardy? She had ignored all the warning signals her brain had sent her. The Season was still at its peak; Rawdon was an
earl
, for pity’s sake. Of course some member of her father’s family would be there. That was where they belonged; she was the one who was out of her element.
And of course they had seen her, no matter how large the ball was. She was a stranger; it would be of some note when the Earl of Rawdon singled her out for the first waltz. Moreover, she was not so foolish as to deny that an attractive mystery woman was bound to receive a certain amount of attention from all the male guests, especially since the earl had shown her such obvious favor. The cluster of men about her all evening would have drawn anyone’s eye.
Damaris could see now that she had been willfully naïve in believing there would be no harm in accepting Rawdon’s invitation. And more so still not to foresee what had happened last night when Rawdon brought her home. It had been simmering beneath the surface since they first met. She had seen the glances he sent her way during her Twelfth Night ball six months ago. Even during Matthew’s baptism four months ago, her eyes
had kept returning to Alec—no, Rawdon; she must keep the formality—only to find each time that he was watching her.