The Coachman's Daughter (9 page)

“Oh, I say, that’s generous of you.”

“Not at all.” Deme winked at him. “The best
asset of a lawyer is discretion. Someone who knows and understands
this family will someday have to weed out the complexities of our
parent’s relationship, as it pertains to the offspring and their
inheritances. I envy no one that.”

Chapter Four

Haven finished helping the lads brush down
the mounts, preparing for the guests to arrive, while thinking of
her brief lunch with Lisette, who was nearly as comical as she was
dramatic over the imminent arrival of Viscount, Elisha Roulle.

Today, she had vowed over a plate of tarts,
“I shall go mad, I tell you. Mother is seating us together,
suggesting I show him the gardens, or fawn over him. I am sure she
would never do over another of any bloody rank. It’s as if she has
lost her mind.”

Laughing, Haven chided, “It is only for a few
days. The Duchess is kind and warm to everyone who comes to
Wimberly; you are putting too much into normal things. Of course
you should be polite to him.”

“He won’t bother. Never speaks above
civilities. Those eyes…” she shivered. “I tell you, Haven. I have
never met a man so remote in my life.

Haven soothed and assured, reminding Lisette
that if she did not care for him; the Duchess would not force him
upon her.

“You are coming over this evening, aren’t
you? Left with Mama, I will end up pretending to take to my
sickbed—and you know how desperate I’d have to be to do that.”

“Of course. I am here for you. I just urge
you to not panic. It will be fine. Treat it as any other gathering
the Duchess has had here.”

Haven finished in the stables, bathed and
dressed for going over to the manor house. Patrick was busy along
with the grooms with preparations. There had been strain between
them since he had waiting for her when she entered after
that—tryst—with Deme.

She had been emotional for once. Though she
said little, she did not seem to need to. She had gone to her room
after his asking flat out if she had been with the Marquis.
Somewhere between muttering curses and weeping in her pillow, she
realized her father likely heard them below.

She was glad that Lady Juliette was coming to
the party. She would be with Lisette. Haven needed time to solve
her own problems and not panic herself. She discovered much about
herself in that tiny office, and no matter what was said
afterwards, she was still in something of a dream state. Until he
touched her, kissed her, she could tell herself anything. She could
assume how she might respond. Now she knew too much about the both
of them. She knew what happened when they kissed or touched. It was
the most intense thing she had ever experienced in her life.

* * * *

When Deme descended the stairs, preparing for
his meeting with Patrick, he could hear his mother directing the
servants back toward the small ballroom/music room. He knew his
father was sneaking a nap in the study, and the brothers were at
billiards. Lisette and Haven were in that sister’s chambers.

Servants were going about duties, obviously
preparing for the guests so he waved off the butler who stopped in
the middle of wiping down the door and instead grabbed his
broadcloth ankle-length coat and drew it on, letting himself out.
His gloves were in the pocket, but he did not don them. His mind
was far ahead as he strode to the coach house.

Entering, he took the stairs and knocked on
Mulhern’s door.

It opened. The Coachman stepped back,
obviously having just bathed and changed. He was butting his
shirt.

“Come in.” He finished the task and then as
Deme divested himself of his coat, went over to the fireplace
flanked by two chairs and a low table.

Deme looked around the comfortable space that
was divided by a smaller freestanding shelf from the kitchens. It
was a combination parlor and study, but the sheer number of books
and trophies, the ribbons on one wall, was impressive.

He finally regarded Patrick as the man bent
down, pouring two glasses of whiskey from a bottle. The amber
glowed from the fire. Joining him, Deme accepted the one offered to
him, while admitting, “His grace told me about Haven’s mother.”

Patrick waved him to sit, though he stood by
the mantle. His mature and weathered face handsome but showing the
etching of tension—pain too. When Deme sat, the Coachman drank from
his glass, his hand rested on the mantle shelf. He rocked the drink
in his hand and stared broodingly at it, as if seeing the past.

“I haven’t told Haven as yet, but I
will.”

“She should know.” Deme sipped the whiskey, a
good year, mellow and welcome.

Patrick took another sip before uttering, “I
was born William Fitzpatrick. My father was of the Black
Watch.”

Deme was stunned at that. “Scottish
aristocracy?”

“Yes. He was stationed in Ireland. Had a wife
and children.”

Patrick took the other chair with the low
table between them. His long legs slightly parted, he leaned
forward resting elbows on his knees while he rolled the glass of
whiskey in his palms.

Deme rather thought he was only
half-conscious of his presences. Certainly his expression was
remote.

“My Mother was a Mulhern. She was sixteen.
Her parents had died when she was a child. She had found employment
as governess in one of the manors. In any event, they had had an
affair, which was obviously doomed from the start. He was sometime
later killed in the colonies. By then, she had lost her position
after becoming pregnant and the only folks to take her in were a
vicar and his wife. She had to agree to give me up.”

“I’m sorry.” Deme mentally cursed, knowing
now what Patrick had to do with Haven years later.

The man said, “It wasn’t as bad as it could
have been. It happened that the vicar’s brother, a man of minor
gentry took a liking to me and sent me to school. When I was
twelve, he got me a position at one of the manor houses, working
with the groom; I quickly showed an aptitude at the whip. The Lord
took note of it, and I was sent to one of the best coaching
schools. I gained a reputation there and afterwards while employed;
I was allowed to enter the races. Eventually—there was some dispute
between us and I left that position. I had enough saved to buy my
own coach and team, and at that point, I entered every sort of
race, coaches, buggies, anywhere I could win prize or purse.”

“And you met Haven’s mother.”

“Yes, Lady Alienor.” The fire crackled and
Deme saw the spasm of pain on Patrick’s face before the man
finished the whiskey and poured another.

His eyes touched Deme’s briefly, before he
sat back and gazed at the fire. “Her brother was at the races. I
knew of him because of the heavy wagering he did. It was some time
before I met her sisters, Jane and Elizabeth. However, I will never
forget the moment I was climbing up to my seat before a race and
that haunting face caught my eye. Her hair was the deepest red, and
those eyes, like jasper. Thinking back on it later, after
everything was done, I do not know how she kept her spirits up. Her
brother made their lives hell. They were in desperate straits.” He
sighed. “You know the details.”

Deme told him what the Duke had said,
watching Patrick nod here and there.

The coachman told him when he finished,
“There’s no mother listed on the parish register of Haven’s
birth.”

Deciding not to probe the question of if he
believed her mother died, Deme murmured, “Which sister contacted
you?”

“Jane. She wrote to me later too. How she
found me, I do not know. Her brother died and Elizabeth shortly
after. The estates were lost to creditors. Jane had fled shortly
after Alienor wed, and married a Lord Weatherly. She lives in York.
She bade me allow her to meet Haven someday.”

Finishing his own glass of whiskey, Deme slid
up and refilled it, and then got to his feet. He walked over to a
bay window. A drizzle left runnels over the glass. Sipping, mulling
over the tale, he said at length, “You should tell her,
tonight.”

“I have planned to.” Patrick sighed
heavily.

“I’ll take her to York.” Deme turned, meeting
Patrick’s gaze when the man turned to at that announcement. “After
the party, and the lads leave.”

“Why?”

“She’ll want to go. There will be no swaying
her. I have an excuse to be escort since two of our holdings lay en
route, and I have offered to oversee them. I’ll meet with the
steward, look over the books.”

The coachman’s gaze went over him. Deme knew
what he was thinking. He decided to be as honest as possible
because there was no use lying to a man who had just spilled his
guts.

“I want her. I will not insult you by
pretending I do not. I am not a saint, and never shall be. I do not
have some insight into the future or some list of promises to you
that I do not know if I can keep. She and I are at each other’s
throats more often than not. Nevertheless, I can promise this, I
will not use her vulnerability or anything else to get what I want.
She’s strong and mature enough and knows me well enough, to decide
what happens between us.”

“You’ll take her there, because you want
her.”

Deme shrugged. “I trust myself with her more
than without her. I’m hardly reformed.” He grinned dryly. “And she
can handle me. It will be a novelty to actually ride in a coach
with her instead of having her drive it, I am sure. Samuel can
drive us and we’ll take the mounts.”

“And you think two of you will get along
during a trip to York.”

“Good God, no.” Deme snorted as he took a
pull of whiskey. Afterwards adding. “But I’ll be a diversion for
her and she me.” Taking his glass over, he set it down by the
bottle and regarded the man who stood two inches over his own six
foot. “She’s going to assume I find her acceptable because I know
her parents both have blue blood, proved or not. She’s never going
to make it easy for me to get what I want.”

“That’s comforting.”

Hearing the sarcasm in that, Deme grinned.
“Does it comfort you knowing the truth—that I have never in my
adult life, and I am speaking of after the worst mistake I
made—cared about a woman enough to pursue anything with her.”

“Not really.” Patrick returned bluntly. “But
I trust her judgment. I know her. She is twenty and two, a grown
woman. I don’t treat her like a child.”

“I don’t either. She’s intelligent and
strong, as you say.”

“I won’t ask for your word or mention honor,”
Patrick murmured, “But I will tell you this, you be certain of what
you want, my lord, before you take it for granted.”

Nodding, Deme supplied before taking his
leave, “Escort her to the party—and make sure she wears a
gown.”

“I’d already been invited by the Duke,”
Patrick said dryly.

“Just make sure she doesn’t take off.”
Getting his coat, he pulled it on and left.

* * * *

Later that night, he thought the whiskey he
had consumed with Patrick should have let him sleep. Yet, he was
awake, and in his bare feet and trousers, standing with his hands
braced on the mantle and looking into the fire.

He wondered how she was taking the words her
father spoke to her, revealing things she’d likely asked him about
for years. He had thought of little else. He asked himself if made
a difference knowing her truths. In essence, it did not. The
difference happened for him in that small office, when she was just
pain-in-his-arse, Mulhern, a woman turning his blood molten and
making him heady with the softest mouth, the wickedest tongue, and
a lithe little body that he would see in his dreams every
night.

Even if his intent was motivated by something
else at first, it was the taste of her, the scent of her, and the
captivating expression in her tawny eyes when she was aroused that
changed it. That she was a strong woman, one who never cared what
his rank was when she had something to say, only made that sensual
transformation all the more potent for him.

He could still remember the slide of her
tongue, the feel of her lips, the way she breathed. He remembered
the sight of her shapely legs, the feel of her soft creamy thighs,
and the red curls of her sex—the humid heat, the silken
dampness.

Cursing, he straightened and raked hands
through his hair. His skin and muscle were tense as the memories
aroused him. Firelight flickered over his skin, the defined
shoulders, upper arms, and ridged stomach. He absently brushed a
hand over his chest. His nipples were rigid. His cock was too. Deme
went to his bed, lying there, calming his blood. He was not going
to have some easy conquest with Haven Mulhern.

Chapter Five

Haven slept late for the first time in her
life. She awoke and lay with a hand to her forehead after scraping
her hair back, and with her mind reflecting on everything her
father had told her when she came home from the manor.

They had wept.

She’d at first cried, “You should have told
me!” However, when she realized he was crying and saw his wet
cheeks, she’d fell to her to knees beside his chair and they had
embraced each other, weeping like children though they were both
adults...

It was a sad story. Her birth. His loss of
love. No matter how it turned out. Or, the advantages she had,
thanks to the Duke and Duchess, it was still heart rending to think
of what her father gone through. What her mother—one she would
never know—went through.

Haven shoved the covers down and sat up,
scooting to the side of the bed. She smelled the hearth fire and
coffee. Her father would have been out since dawn.

She got herself up and went to the bathing
room, lingering on her reflection once her wool gown was removed,
seeing a petite woman’s body that wasn’t, in the way Lisette’s or
the Duchess’s was. They had fuller breasts and rounder hips.