The muscles along her neck strained as she attempted to keep her head up. Before she could protest, he slid one of his hands up to her nape and cupped it carefully.
Two warring emotions brewed riotously within him. Sadness that her life had been so bleak and a sudden spark of hope. Perhaps she was the one who could shake him from his darkness. The one who could finally see justice done.
“No,” he whispered, his voice rough to his own ears. “No harm will come to you by me. By anyone. Not now, not ever again.”
“I don’t believe you.” The brittleness in her speech suggested she had had enough experience with cruelty to expect him to declare one thing and then do the very opposite.
Rigid as the poker she had sprinted for, she remained frozen in his embrace. The only sound in the cavernous room was their breathing, ragged and sharp.
Her words somehow found his heart. A heart he’d been so certain had vanished. She was a wise woman to be untrusting, but her wisdom had come from fear. Perhaps he should have let her go, but he needed to see her, to see deep inside the woman who had hypnotized him with her spirit. Nor was he ready to sacrifice this moment in which he suddenly felt so intensely for someone and it had nothing to do with sex.
Though the ache in his chest commanded him to hold her for eternity, if he was to gain her trust, he had to let her go.
Gently, he righted her so that her weight was evenly placed on her feet. He stepped back, restraining himself from trailing his fingertips over her soft skin. Though he wished to give her assurance with the stroke of his hands, more touch would most likely send a woman of her experiences lashing out in fear.
So, instead, Edward Thomas William Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh, a man whose morals were as pristine as a London cesspit, turned away from her and lowered his gaze to the now wet, ornately woven cream-colored Persian rug. “I mean you no injury.”
She didn’t reply. There was the slight clink of metal, then the padding of her feet along the rug. There was a faint rustle of fabric, and then silence.
He waited, his curiosity escalating by the moment. She didn’t really expect him to leave without saying anything, did she?
“May I turn?” The unfamiliar words almost stumbled upon his tongue. Men such as himself did not utter the phrase
“may I?”
But for her he would. For her, he would do many things.
“You
may
not.”
“What
may
I do then?” he teased, hoping to draw her out to see he could be trusted, at least to some degree.
“You
may
go,” she ordered with a surprising amount of authority.
That voice of hers struck a chord within him. Very few of even the most practiced courtesans could replicate the accent and cadence of the most elite of classes. His class. Which indicated very clearly that she must have been born into a home of note. “If you wish it, then I will go, but first you will tell me your name.”
“I will not.”
He shrugged, giving off an air of ambivalence that he did not feel. “Then I will stay.”
“Why do you insist?”
God, how he longed to turn and see her. But he was testing her trust now, by merely staying in the room and not obeying her command. “Because it is what I wish and I always obtain what I wish.”
Another protracted silence was her answer.
“So you are aware, I never jest.” He inched his torso a little to the right, daring to glance back over his shoulder. When she still didn’t respond, he turned a little more until she was finally within the realm of his vision. One of Yvonne’s red silk sheets was wrapped tightly about her. A delicate hand grasped it closed just above her breasts. She stood like a warrior. A frail, desperate warrior. Chin high, but with a look that knew what it was to be conquered.
The rage that he’d pushed into the depths of his soul fought to return at the thought of her struggle. This woman had been used. And used again.
“You have no need to know my name,” she gritted.
“How can I aid you if I do not know your name?” he asked softly.
Her brows drew together and she brandished her captured poker. “I do not wish your aid.”
His little warrior held that weighty iron with her thin fingers wrapped about it in a death grip. It didn’t matter that the thing probably weighed more than both her arms together. “And what will you do with that?” He nodded toward the black rod. “Crack my skull?”
She whitened, her face twisting with distress. “If—if you force me, yes.”
Edward hesitated, sure he had somehow hit a sensitive spot, one he had not meant to probe. Perhaps no one and nothing could reassure her, but that would not stop him from trying. “I promise, the poker is not necessary.”
She lifted the poker higher, her arm shaking. “I don’t believe in promises.”
Edward held out his hands slightly, the universal gesture of supplication. “Nor do I.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “Then why make one?”
Why indeed? He sighed, wishing his answer wasn’t so simple. “Because I wish you to do as I want.”
Her arm lowered ever so slightly. “Why are you being so honest?”
“Because you would not believe my lies.”
She hefted the poker up again. “You are correct.”
A tired wave of frustration hit him. Trust was not achievable tonight. Not now—possibly not ever. This was unlike anything he had ever experienced. At least, not with a human. He’d seen that haunted look before in animals beaten so cruelly by their masters that they were past any sort of taming. “If you will not give me a name, little warrior, I must give you one.”
She shifted on her feet, her wide eyes darting over him, trying to understand his interest. “Will that satisfy you?”
He inclined his head, determined that she would see he respected her. “For now.”
“Then name me and go.”
It would have been amusing, the queenly nature of her fear, the way she ordered him as though he were naught but a serving boy, if it weren’t for the panic still ruling her.
The name hit him like a chunk of star falling from the sky and he breathed it without hesitation. “Calypso.”
The poker in her hand lowered in slow degrees until its point aimed at the floor. Her mouth worked tentatively, as if she was biting back a whimper or a cry.
He smiled, a smile he knew didn’t reach his eyes. None of his smiles ever did. Yet he felt a moment’s warmth. He’d moved something deep within her. Something meaningful.
It was the perfect name.
It was also the perfect time to leave—just when she was intrigued. He didn’t know what gods he needed to thank, but finally he had found the answer to the screaming girl inside his head. Though he longed to stay, he would go now. At long last, he’d finally found someone to save. And once he had, he’d be free.
C
alypso. Goddess. Daughter of the gods. Cursed. Mary lowered the poker and stared at the strange, hauntingly beautiful man across the room. How could he know? How could he know that she had been cursed for making a fatal choice? Was it possible that, like Calypso, she should be bound in agony for the rest of her days?
“It is an apt name,” she replied, her voice as strong as she could remember it ever being, though she could scant draw breath as she studied him.
Dark hair, darker than hers even, fell lightly over his forehead. The effect should have been playful. It was not. Playfulness was absent from his person. Two black slashes served as brows above eyes as empty and cold as an undiscovered cavern. There wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh to him, not even in his face, which was drawn as if he, too, dwelled with never-ending pain.
And it was his pain that tempted her to suddenly open her caged heart and spill her secrets. She had never seen pain the likes of hers on a male face—until now.
Perhaps he was as broken as she.
The thought was preposterous. Men could never be that broken. They, at least, would always have some semblance of power, no matter their status. Didn’t even the poorest men have power over their wives and children?
But this man was not poor. Quite the contrary. From the cut of his black evening coat, his slightly creased white cravat, and the black trousers that clung to his powerful legs, she could see he was a man of wealth. Self-assurance and inherent power rolled off him with the same kind of authority that her father had possessed. Yet for all his hardness, there was a boyish vulnerability to him, as though long ago all his hopes had been crushed like a toy, broken beyond all repair.
She shook off such foolish sympathies and mustered up the remaining arrogance she’d once possessed as a pampered child. “And your name?”
He angled his head to the side, still assessing her as he had done from the moment he had entered the room. “You are interested in it?”
Quickly, she stepped back from the unwelcome question. Why had she asked his name? She didn’t want to know. Did she?
“My name is Edward.” That deep voice, which could have urged water from a stone wall, caressed her cold skin, heating it with a foreign warmth. “Edward Barrons.”
He bowed once again, only this time it was a deeper, more courtly gesture that should have seemed mocking but escaped any sort of insult. “And now, Calypso, I must leave. I have imposed on you long enough.”
Oddly, she didn’t wish to be left to herself. It didn’t matter that, again and again, she had told him to go. She had been left to herself time out of mind.
But as far as she could surmise, there was not one man in this world who could be trusted, not even this one. So instead of begging him to stay and keep her thoughts harbored in safer meanderings, she lifted her chin and said, “Good-bye.”
He didn’t answer but turned without ceremony and left the room almost as quietly as he had entered it. The tall, gold-embossed door closed softly behind him.
She stood in the same spot for several moments, gasping. His very presence had changed the way her body felt. She no longer felt battered or afraid. She felt strong, alive. How had he done that?
Was there any possibility that she had dreamed the entire exchange? Considering her dependence on laudanum, it would not have been out of the question. But his commanding presence lingered in the room, surrounding her in its powerful embrace.
She stared at that golden door, one hand still firmly locked about the crimson sheet, the other gripping the lowered poker, as she attempted to make sense of him. She’d been so terrified. But he had not hurt her. Contradictory to all her expectations, he had even saved her from hurting herself.
While it was clear Edward Barrons wanted her for something, base rutting was not it. His consideration for her feelings and careful distance from her person seemed to confirm that.
“Mary?” Yvonne called tentatively from behind the closed door.
Mary rushed to the fire and replaced the poker on its brass hook. “Yes?”
Yvonne whisked into the room. As she pressed the heavy wood panel closed behind her, her skirts whirled out ever so slightly, the hue catching the firelight. “Are you well?”
The question was ridiculous and not easily answered. Her fingers crushed the silk, bound with her fingers at her breast. How could she give an answer?
Yvonne’s painted mouth dropped to a ruby O as she spotted the pooled water about the bath. “Did you meet the duke?”
“The duke?”
Mary stared at Yvonne, barely able to take it in. Were the heavens laughing at her? Was she to be surrounded by dukes? First her father and now . . .
Yvonne arched a red-gold brow. “Edward Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh.”
Edward.
“Yes,” she murmured. A duke? Her father was a duke, and there were slight similarities between the men—confidence and inherent command—but that was where their commonalities ended. Barrons was as powerful as her father, and born to it in the bargain, but there was no edge of simmering cruelty in his eyes.
Yvonne rushed forward and reached out to take Mary’s hands. Halfway through the gesture she hesitated, then pulled back, recalling clearly that Mary didn’t care to be touched. Those empty, elegant fingers were now folded before Yvonne’s waist. “He didn’t . . . upset you, did he?”
She couldn’t describe the bizarre complication of emotions the man had stirred within her aching heart. “No,” she said.
Relief eased Yvonne’s features. “He mentioned you.”
Mary aimed her gaze toward the fire, feeling more confused than she had in days. Which was truly an accomplishment, considering the last days had been spent in roadside ditches and back country roads. “Did he?”
“He did. He suggested that you were a fascinating young woman.”
Fascinating?
Why in heaven’s name would anyone deem her fascinating? A night specter perhaps. A mad-woman. But not someone who could intrigue such a man.
“Yes.” Yvonne closed the gap between them, leaving only enough room for the full crinoline covered in gold-shot silk. “And I think I may have the answer to our dilemma.”
Mary clutched the sheet more firmly about her, a flimsy shield against the strangeness of the night’s events. “I don’t understand.”
“You can’t stay here, Mary.”
The breath withered from her chest, replaced by gripping panic. She desperately searched Yvonne’s face. Sincerity marked it. There was no hint of jest in Yvonne’s declaration and that meant only one thing. The streets. And all the dangers it possessed. “Please—” She choked. “I’ll do whatever—”
“It is not that I wouldn’t protect you. I’ve cared for you all your life, and even if I had not, your mother’s loyalty to me would have bound my heart to you. But your father . . . This is one of the first places he will look. He knows of your mother’s and my affinity.” Yvonne paused. “Am I right to think he will seek you?”
Mary’s knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor. Sitting naked in a pool of sheets so soft she wanted to bury herself in them, she swallowed back the realization that she had traveled for days for nothing. Foolishly, it hadn’t even occurred to her that her papa, the Duke of Duncliffe, would find her. Not when all she’d had on her mind was escape and getting here to Yvonne, her mother’s only true friend.