by Meara Platt
Damaris said nothing, merely clasped her hands before her and waited.
Her father faced her, his hands on his hips, his heavy moustache quivering with disapproval. “Your mother and I were under the impression that you were ill, but it has been brought to my attention that you actually dared to attend a Cyprian’s Ball at the Argyll Rooms!” He huffed. “Of course, I defended your actions, although I am curious as to why you weren’t here when we arrived.”
This was it. She could either lie and salvage her reputation, or…
With shaking fingers, Damaris reached up and unbuttoned her cloak and let it fall to the floor, exposing the red dress. “I’m afraid it’s true, Papa.”
Her father instantly slammed a fist down on his desk, causing the inkwell to upend, but no one seemed to notice, or care. His face turned an alarming shade of red. “What is the meaning of this insubordination?” he roared.
Damaris lifted her chin and stared her father directly in the eye. “You drove me to this by not releasing me from Lord Dornville’s proposal. I had no choice.”
“Well, you have effectively ruined that prospect, as well as any others because of your shameful behavior,” her mother piped up. “Lord Dornville has an income of at least five thousand pounds a year. You should have been so lucky. Now you will become firmly upon the shelf, ostracized and shunned by your peers.”
Damaris refused to back down. She had truly made her bed, and now she must face the consequences of her actions. With her body still humming from the pleasures of the evening, she stated, “If I’m meant to be a spinster, then so be it. I would rather have no husband at all than to be the wife of any man who makes my very skin crawl.”
Her father glared at her. “You say this now for you are young and foolish, but mark my words. You shall come to lament your actions, daughter, for you shall regret them for the rest of your days.”
Chapter Two
Damaris returned to the present as the carriage hit another rut in the road.
She put a hand to her stomach and prayed that she wouldn’t become ill. While the morning sickness had eased over the past couple of weeks, her mother had told her that it could return. And that was all she’d said on the matter.
There had been no teary farewells from the lady when Damaris had been sent on her way, no gruff goodbyes from her father. Ivy, who still dared to visit her when she could get away under some other pretense, was the single person who had shed a tear for her departure. Her ladies’ maid, Prudence might have done so — if she still had that position. But unfortunately, she had been let go the day after the ball for her role in assisting her mistress. Damaris was thankful, at least, that her parents hadn’t sacked her without a reference.
Damaris recalled the day she’d found out she was with child; as if the lack of her monthly cycle wasn’t enough of a clue that something was amiss. But refusing to believe that Ivy’s warnings had come true, it wasn’t until the early queasiness had begun that she started to fear the worst. Her mother had been the first to notice her reluctance to eat, so with a pinched expression she’d called for the physician. Once their suspicions had been confirmed, her parents had effectively disowned her.
“Without the benefit of a husband, your child will be a known bastard. No one will accept you in polite society after this,” her father had scorned. “While I might have eventually accepted the slight against your reputation, and even the fact Lord Dornville rescinded his suit, I cannot abide this.” He had sat down at his desk and penned a short missive. “With no other option available, and because I’m not so heartless as to toss you into the streets, I’m sending you to your Cousin Genevieve in Northumberland. She lives in a small village called Haltwhistle and its remote location will be the perfect place to have this child in secret. Perhaps once the issue is dealt with I will allow you to return.”
Damaris tried to pretend that his words didn’t hurt, that the idea of having their grandchild, however illicit, could be something they could easily sweep under the rug and dismiss without causing them a bit of distress. But, they did.
Now, after traveling for more than a week, Damaris’s journey was finally nearing its weary end. She was tired of being stuck inside the cramped confines of a hired carriage, her limbs continually cold from the winter chill, even though she had a warming brick at her feet and the proper attire. Even her parents hadn’t been so cruel as to send her this far north without the appropriate coverings.
But not only was the brisk wind howling outside enough for her to yearn to arrive at her destination, but she was ready to stretch her legs for more than a few moments at a time. While she wasn’t sure what she would find when she reached her cousin’s establishment, the only inn to be had in the village, it had to be better than what she was currently enduring.
But as the conveyance finally stopped in front of a weathered sign that proclaimed The Blue Duck and Damaris’s trunks were unloaded from the top, she glanced around with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Small, stone cottages lined the modest, cobblestone street, but while there were a few people moving about in the middle of the day, it was a far cry from the busy streets of London that she had grown accustomed to.
Holding her valise tightly in her grasp, Damaris walked inside the inn. She was enveloped in a cheery warmth, but had to pause and adjust her eyes to the dim light. When she did, she found that only three occupants sat in the taproom, older gentlemen who were playing a round of cards. As she walked by they didn’t even acknowledge her presence. No doubt “outsiders” this far north were frowned upon. She was only a few miles from the Scottish border, after all.
But thankfully much farther from the Highlands, she told herself, but then quickly dismissed the thought.
She stood at the bar for a moment, and then cleared her throat and called out, “Hallo?”
“Aye. I’m comin’!” A gruff, female voice called from the back. Moments later, a rather buxom woman appeared around the corner. She was shorter than Damaris had imagined she might be, with graying, brown hair pulled back into a bun. She wore simple attire, a peasant blouse and a full-length skirt with a corset over the top. It was something that might have been popular in Medieval times, rather than the current, high-waisted gowns that Damaris currently wore, but she had the feeling the people of Haltwhistle didn’t care much for things like fashion.
The moment the older woman spied Damaris, she grinned broadly. “Ye must be my cousin, Damaris. I’ve been expectin’ ye.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel near the bar. “Although I must say I didn’t think ye’d be arrivin’ until this evenin’.”
Damaris dipped into a polite curtsy, noticing that her cousin carried a defined Scottish lilt to her voice, even though she was completely English. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Cousin Genevieve.” She paused and then added, “Although, I didn’t realize my mother had any…living relations.”
“Well,” the older woman winked. “I daresay I wasn’t someone my dear cousin cared to associate with, especially after the scandal I caused the family some years ago.” She shrugged. “But it’s all water under the bridge now, I suppose. I have a comfortable life in Haltwhistle. It was all meant to turn out as it did.”
Damaris wondered if she’d also ended up in the “family way” herself but decided that such personal questions weren’t appropriate for a first meeting. Perhaps once they got to know each other better Genevieve might be inclined to confide in her.
“I assume yer mother allowed ye t’ bring more than that valise?” Genevieve pointed to the bag Damaris carried.
“My trunks are outside.”
“I’ll have my hired man fetch them.” She addressed one of the men sitting at the table. “Hey, Mac! Come an’ meet my cousin from London.”
A wiry, gray-haired man stood and lumbered over to them. “Miss Damaris Honeywell, this is Mac O’Dowell. He’s my man-of-all-trades. He’s Scottish, but dinna hold that against him!” She chuckled. “When he came to our little En
glish village he sort of hung around, so I took him on t’ work for me.”
While he was brawny, the lilt to Mac’s Scottish accent was gentle and kind. “Aye, I’ve only been here for the past twenty or so years.” He winked at her, and Damaris wondered if he wasn’t the “scandal” her cousin had been referring to. He turned back to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet ye, miss.”
“Would ye mind gatherin’ her things from the yard?” Genevieve said. “I’m going t’ take her next door an’ get her settled in.”
“You don’t live at the inn?” Damaris asked, assuming she would be in some cramped room upstairs.
Genevieve laughed. “Oh, heavens, no! It gets entirely too raucous in the evenings, especially when the coal miners from Alston Moor are here.”
Damaris didn’t doubt that. Although it wasn’t something she was particularly looking forward to.
With her valise in her grasp, Damaris followed her cousin out the back of the inn, shivering when a sharp gust of wind blew her cloak around her legs. “The stables are down that way.” Genevieve pointed toward the left. “If ye ever want t’ ride, Mac can saddle ye up a docile mare.” She glanced at Damaris’s still flat stomach. “But then, ye probably won’t be wanting to do much o’ that until after the babe’s born.”
Damaris was sure that her cheeks turned pink, but she didn’t reply as followed Genevieve across a small worn path to a modest limestone cottage next door. While it was a far cry from her father’s elegant townhouse in London, it was comfortably furnished and Damaris found a certain charm to the atmosphere. She liked the vase of fresh flowers sitting in the middle of the table in the kitchen that held two simple chairs. There was also a cast iron cooking stove and a hutch filled with plain china plates.
Genevieve led her into the living area with a fireplace, a blue settee and two matching chairs, and a table separating one from the other. “There’s a privy out back,” Genevieve noted, as she led Damaris upstairs. “But I made sure t’ get ye a chamber pot in case the morning sickness returns.” She pointed to a door on the left at the top of the stairs, but opened the one on the right. “That is my room, an’ this…is yers.”
Damaris walked in and glanced about the single bed, wardrobe and washstand. She couldn’t help but think that the servants at her father’s townhouse had better accommodations, but since she didn’t wish to appear uncharitable, she turned to her cousin with a smile. “It’s lovely.”
“It’s kind o’ ye t’ say.” Genevieve smiled. “I ken it’s not what ye’re used t’, but this is yer home for th’ next seven months, so I hope ye’ll find some measure o’ comfort.” She paused. “Did ye know what ye’re gonna do with the babe?”
Damaris swallowed heavily. “If I’d like to return to London, I will have to give the baby to a welcoming family.”
“And if ye choose t’ keep it?” Genevieve prodded.
Damaris let her silence speak for itself.
“I see.” Genevieve clucked her tongue, as if she wasn’t pleased with her parents’ decision. “Well, I’ll leave ye t’ get settled in. I’m sure ye’ll want t’ rest after yer journey.”
“Thank you.” After her cousin departed, Damaris set down her valise and sat down on the bed. It wasn’t nearly as soft as the one she’d had in London, and she felt as if the walls of the small room were closing in on her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to ward off the sudden panic. She had a feeling she knew why her father had chosen this place for Damaris’s laying in. It was to remind her of everything that she would be giving up if she decided to keep this child.
She put a hand to her flat stomach as a single tear seeped from the corner of her lid. But how could she give up a part of herself and live with such a choice?
She tried to push such maudlin thoughts aside as she curled up on the bed and eventually allowed sleep to claim her.
“Callum? Did ye no’ hear me?”
After the sound of his name finally penetrated his brain, Callum blinked and shoved aside his mug of ale. It wasn’t as if it helped anyway. Nothing had managed to wipe away the sight of that bonnie lass and her—
“There he goes again, staring off into space. I think he’s lost his bloody mind.”
“Ye kin both shut those worthless holes in yer face,” Callum snapped.
“Ah,” his brother Jamie replied. “So he does speak after all.”
“But it took nigh o’ an hour for him t’ quit mooning over some Sassenach wench,” his other sibling Gavin remarked. “He’s no’ been the same since we came back from that wretched island.”
Callum slammed a fist on the table in the great hall of Castle O’Donogue where they had all gathered to have their midday meal. “I warn’t ye t’ quit yer blathering. Dinna make me come t’ blows.”
While his brothers were both full-grown men with equal brute strength, it was a fool who dared to challenge the authority of the laird of the clan. As the oldest member of the family who had carried the most responsibility after their father had died, Callum had earned the respect of his tenants and servants. It was only through his generosity that he allowed his brothers to continue to reside at the massive stone structure that had been around since the time of the Romans. And they both knew it.
They wisely remained silent as Callum stalked out of the room to find some blessed peace and quiet.
He went outside and headed for the stables. A swift ride on his black stallion in the brisk, late-winter breeze always helped to repair any dark mood.
“Good afternoon, my laird.” His head groomsman inclined his head as he led out Wha Hae. “Ye came at just the right time. This one’s been itching for some exercise.”
He’d named his horse for the lyrics penned by Robert Burns as a form of the speech given by Robert the Bruce before the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314. As a proud patriot of Scotland, Callum thought it only fitting that he should name his steed after the song that had become a sort of national symbolism for the country.
Wha Hae stamped his foot and snorted, tossing his magnificent, glossy head. Callum patted his neck and spoke a few, comforting words of Gaelic to the animal, as he threw a leg over the saddle and took up the reins. “Bi luath,” he murmured. “Let’s feel the wind in our hair today.”
An hour later, as they topped the crest of a hill to catch their breath, Callum dismounted and let Wha Hae graze for a moment while he sat against the trunk of a tree and looked out over his lands. This was one of his favorite spots, for it gave him a clear view of his castle lying in the valley, with the tenant fields beyond. For all that he’d traveled across the continent in his younger days, he had never come across any place akin to the beauty of the Highlands. It was his home — until the past several weeks when he’d realized that something was missing.
His brothers, for all their blustering, were faithful companions who merely enjoyed bedeviling him. But while they were moving on with their lives, preparing for a future that included taking a wife and siring bairns, Callum had no such outlook ahead of him. Then again, he’d always thought he had other duties that required his attention.
But now that the estate was prospering more with each passing harvest, and the fact he was nearing his thirtieth year, he decided that perhaps he should seriously consider settling down and planting more roots. He would be proud to pass on the title to his own son. He could even imagine the bairn as he screamed into life with his dark hair and bright, blue eyes…
Callum groaned as he slammed his head back against the bark. And there it was again. His brothers were right. He was mooning over some chit, but Lady Chemistry had been unlike any other woman he’d met before — or since.
And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to forget her since returning to Scotland. He’d even gone to the village to try to expunge her existence by finding another willing wench, something that had never been hard for him to find. But for the first time he’d been unable to complete the task of bedding a woman when all he kept seeing was her face, h
earing her voice, and feeling her touch.
Maybe Gavin was right and he was going mad, for surely there couldn’t be any other explanation for it. After all, it wasn’t as if Callum believed in such idiotic romantic nonsense like love at first sight.
And yet…
He closed his eyes and saw those expressive, blue eyes staring up at him through the holes of her red half-mask. And when he bent down to kiss those petal-soft lips…
This time he groaned for an entirely different reason. Lust filled every core of his being.
Not for the first time, he considered returning to England to find the mysterious Lady Chemistry, but he didn’t even know where to begin, or if she would even be receptive to his suit should he ever find her again. And what if the fantasy had been just that — an illusion? What if his mysterious lover was nothing more than a spoiled chit, some well-bred daughter of a nobleman out to find a little thrill in her stiff-laced life?
Even now, her abrupt departure and willingness to sacrifice her virtue so easily had shocked him, something a female had seldom managed to accomplish. That night, after she’d disappeared behind the curtain, it had taken him a moment to realize that he’d just been dismissed. By the time he’d come to his senses and decided that he was owed an explanation, she had been well and truly gone.
Now, if only he could face the fact that the only woman he might have ever loved was lost to him forever…
Chapter Three
Three months later
Haltwhistle, Northumberland
Late May
* * *
“I daresay it willna be long before we start letting out your gowns.”
Damaris glanced down at her slightly rounded belly, the bump readily visible when she was in her chemise, but she had no doubt Genevieve was right.