by Kate Rolin
Unable to look away, she watched his eyes narrow into slits as he peered down at her, something that always made it impossible for her to read his thoughts. “But Argel, there is something you must do for me, if you are to work here every day, alongside me.”
“Yes?” she asked softly as their handshake slowed—and her pulse picked up.
“Allow me one kiss every day. Nothing improper, mind you, only like this,” and slowly he drew her hand up to his lips. Slowly, he turned it over exposing her wrist. And slowly, oh, so slowly, did he place his warm mouth there, his firm lips searing her skin as much as his eyes were now doing to her soul.
“Very well,” she answered hoarsely as her mouth had gone dry. There was no denying now that this dark prince was just as attractive to her now as the stormy day they had first met. If only things had not transpired as they had, leaving her feeling so…uncertain. Hesitant.
Deciding not to dwell on it all for the time being, Argel quickly snatched her hand away. “Well, then, there’s much to do.” She turned away and walked over to the far corner of Damon’s office.
“Argel, what are you doing?”
She paused from the stack of papers she’d gathered and peeked over her shoulder at him, “Working. There’s no time like the present, and,” she glance around the room, “clearly much to be done.” Looking back to him, she noticed his frown. “Don’t worry, you needn’t pay me for today. Think of it as more preliminary work than anything.” She smiled to herself at Damon’s shocked expression and turned back to her work. It would take all day, but she was determined to have things more organized, certain that Damon would appreciate it once it was done.
“Erm, do you plan to work in here all day?”
“I expect it will take that long, yes, but—” It registered with Argel then that he sounded apprehensive. She whirled around to face him, “Oh! Am I disturbing you? I hadn’t thought about that. I can come down to work tonight if need be.”
“No, no. Go right ahead. You’re not…you’re fine.” Damon sat down at his desk slowly.
Argel gave him another smile before returning to the chaos before her. Did he seem a little…strained?
Odd.
He’d been perfectly at ease just a moment before when he’d—
Her cheeks warmed at the memory and she shook her head. She was just imagining things. “I thought,” she began as she reached up for more documents on the shelf above, “that I would like to go see that play tonight—that is, if you still wanted to. What’s it about again?”
“Erm, what?”
Argel continued working, not turning around, “The play. What is it about?”
A throat cleared behind her, “Oh, the play. I, uh, don’t recall. But, yes, we can go.”
“Well, that will keep it a mystery, then. Makes it seem all the more exciting, don’t you think? I wonder if we’ll run into that nice couple, the Gages, again.” Argel bent over to gather pages from the floor. “And to think Lady Gage is the Bow Street artist who’s drawing led you to my unc—”
A chair loudly scraped the floor causing Argel to start.
“I’ve a client to visit,” came Damon’s gruff voice.
Argel looked up to find him rather agitated.
“I’ll be back in time for the play this evening,” he grumbled. And without another word he snatched up his hat and stormed out of the office.
A second later, she heard the front door slam so loudly it fairly shook the building.
“Hey! What’s all this?” Titus shouted from his office, but she didn’t answer him.
Instead, she merely stared at the empty doorway and couldn’t help but wonder again—was it something she said?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Damon paced in the lodging’s small parlor, as much as he could anyway, waiting as Argel readied for that evening’s outing. He’d returned home earlier that afternoon, readying himself before Argel came up from the office. He hadn’t seen her since the fiasco that was that morning.
He ran a frustrated hand through his raven hair, throwing his locks askew. Oh, what a morning it had been! It had taken him a good hour of wandering aimlessly about London before he was able to call on a client—any client—so worked up was he over what Argel had done.
Nothing intentional, he knew. She didn’t know that every stretch of her arm and arch of her back as she reached for another stack of paper was pure torture before his very eyes.
Yet, he’d tried to keep his attention down on the work in front of him. He could get through the day like that. He would enjoy her company—if he didn’t look at her.
And then, she had asked about that wretched play and the Gages and he’d given in—he’d looked up. All he had seen before him was a shapely backside presenting itself as she bent to retrieve things off the floor. That was the end of his self-control.
Was there to be no mercy?
He’d fled the room as quickly as Joseph from Potiphar’s wife—though in this instance it was his own wife he fled from.
Perhaps that’s what made this so much more excruciating—he could…if he wanted. And he did, oh, how he did want. But he’d promised, given his word.
And, so, he’d left.
Damon huffed, forcefully tugging on his gray coat sleeves. “Of all the—” He began muttering unintelligibly as he made another turn in front of the glowing fireplace. At this pace, he’d have to buy a new parlor rug before the week was out.
“They say talking to yourself is a rather poor habit. Should I be concerned?”
The soft voice held a hint of laughter and he turned to see Argel standing in the doorway, no less tempting in a dark green silk. If she’d felt hurt by his abrupt departure that morning, she didn’t show it. She stood with her head held high, an arched brow, and a dimpled grin.
He would not survive the evening.
A few hours later, Damon realized that, somehow, he was indeed surviving—largely due in part to not having a private box at the theatre. There was something about a crowd that tended to diffuse passion—temporarily at least.
It was the intermission now, as Damon and Argel made their way down a curved staircase to the lobby for some refreshment.
“That ghost of King Hamlet is awfully terrifying, don’t you think?”
Damon looked down at his beautiful wife and laughed despite his earlier misgivings. “Have you seen many spirits to compare him to?”
“Only one,” she smirked, “but he turned out to be no demon at all.”
There.
That look in her eyes.
It reminded Damon of how she had looked at him before all of the mess with her uncle came to light. Was she warming to him, at last? He’d believed he had seen glimmers of this look more and more lately, but was afraid to consider it to be anything more than his own wishful thinking. But tonight, he was sure it was there. That, along with the way the lamplight glinted off the gold in her brown hair, the way her green silk dress complemented her milky skin, and the way a few silken curls teased her graceful neck and shoulders proved to be his undoing. It was enough to make him forget about all of the damage he had done—not to mention their surroundings. Damon stopped in his tracks, pulling his wife to a stop beside him. He decided then and there that he was going to kiss her—room full of people or not.
“Oh, Mr. Westmoreland! Mrs. Westmoreland! What luck finding you here!”
Damon groaned inwardly at the interruption before turning to see a familiar couple making their way over.
“Lady Margaret Gage, Mr. Gage,” he nodded as Argel curtsied beside him. He remembered at the last minute that Lady Gage’s husband was not titled, narrowly escaping a blunder.
“Oh, phoo! Call me Margaret,” the lady in purple silk insisted.
“And I am Robert,” the man beside Margaret extended his hand.
“Damon,” he replied as he shook it. It was clear that the man was ex-military by his stance, firm grip, and black patch coverin
g one eye. “You’ll remember my wife?”
“Please, call me Argel,” his wife smiled to the pair.
“Aar-jhuhl!” Margaret exclaimed, clasping her gloved hands. “What an unusual name!” Damon realized then that the two women looked to be about the same age. Perhaps they could become friends, something to help Argel better adjust to her new life.
“My wife heralds from the wilds of Wales,” Damon teased with a grin, sure that his eyes must belie his adoration as he looked to Argel.
“But…I’d heard you were the missing Phillips girl—or was that wrong?” The tall, dark-haired woman looked to Argel, confused.
He noticed Argel blush, “Yes, ’tis I. I am Mary Phillips, but I grew up in Wales and have gone by Argel nearly my whole life.”
“Oh! I’d just love to hear your story sometime! The papers were filled with news of your return these past weeks. Perhaps—oh, here come my parents now. Let me introduce you.”
As Lady Margaret turned, Damon looked to Argel beside him. She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. That first news article hadn’t been the last. They had both read the many stories about her famous return, even had to turn away writers wishing to do an interview.
Despite his best efforts, Damon had been unable to discover who had leaked the story. He’d gone back to St. Helen’s and drilled the clergyman until convinced of his innocence. After paying penance, he’d questioned Pendenny, hating himself for even suspecting him. At last, he decided it must be some anonymous source, someone merely wanting to earn a pound or two from a bit of gossip. And that was the way of London—everyone knew about your business, sometimes before even you knew yourself.
“Here we are,” Margaret said, returning to them. “Mother, Papa, allow me to introduce my new friends Mr. and Mrs. Damon Westmoreland. And these are my parents, the Duke and Duchess of Alston.”
“Your Grace,” Damon and Argel spoke in unison as he bowed deeply and she dropped into a low curtsy. He had no idea Lady Margaret was the daughter of the well-respected couple.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” the duchess smiled warmly. Damon noticed she looked to be significantly younger than His Grace, but the affection between them both was evident in the way she gently caressed his arm, and in the way he watched her as she spoke.
Damon envied them both.
“Mother, Mrs. Westmoreland is the missing Phillips girl you read about last week!”
“You don’t say!” Her Grace smiled, clearly intrigued.
“Yes, and Papa, Mr. Westmoreland was one of my clients. I drew a portrait for him a few years ago and it was quite successful in aiding his search for a criminal.”
“Is that right?” The duke turned towards Damon, “You were wise to come to my girl. Best artist in all of England.” The tall man nearly looked severe with his white hair in stark contrast to his black evening dress. His face clearly relaxed, however, as he beamed with pride at his daughter—just as he did any time he looked at his wife.
“Oh, Papa.” Lady Margaret blushed.
“That she is,” Robert spoke now as he slipped an arm around his wife, love evident in his eyes.
Damon shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling very awkward next to his own wife amidst this circle of obvious affection.
“Come, my dear,” the duke alerted his wife, nodding to a couple nearby. “There are the Hubers. We must speak with them.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Well, a pleasure to meet you both.” The duchess smiled and turned to leave before pausing. “Oh! We are throwing a little house party tomorrow evening. Nothing fancy, mind you—a little music, maybe some dancing. Just to mark the start of the season. You’ll both attend, won’t you?” She looked to Argel expectantly.
“We, erm, yes, of course, Your Grace!” Argel curtsied.
Damon nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Splendid! See you then,” the duchess smiled as she and the Gages all turned to leave.
“A duke and a duchess,” Argel breathed beside him. “And they invited us to their home!”
“I confess, I am as shocked as you,” Damon said as he turned to lead his wife to the nearby punch. “Though I knew Lady Margaret was of noble birth, I did not realize how noble. Her parents are the most admired couple in all of London, I’d wager.”
“And we are to attend their house party—tomorrow! I believe ’tis better to be so soon, otherwise I’d have days to worry over the whole affair!” Her eyes were round as they reached the table glittering with crystal cups.
Damon bent to retrieve one and handed Argel a glass of the burgundy liquid. “I must go ahead and request a dance from you now, for I fear they will all be claimed as soon as the other men see you step through the door tomorrow evening—married or not.”
“Oh don’t be silly, now,” Argel laughed, but he caught the slight dip of her head and pink tinging her cheeks.
He cocked a brow, watching her as she quickly brought the glass to her lips in what appeared to be embarrassment.
Hmm.
Perhaps this party could give him more opportunity to court his wife. He’d done all he could up to this point: he’d been on more outings these past weeks than he’d been on in his entire life; he’d bought her chocolates, flowers, and trinkets; and he was continually denying his own desires for her best interest. As excruciating as the past few weeks had been, however, he knew she was most definitely worth it.
The crowd began dispersing as everyone was now making their way back to their seats, and Damon and Argel followed. Returning to their seats, neither said a word as they waited for the curtain to rise again. When it did, anyone looking on would have said that Damon watched with rapt attention, but they would have been wrong. Instead, he thought on further ways that he might woo his wife throughout the remainder of the play. It was only Hamlet after all—he’d seen it before.
And when they arrived at home later that evening, he sat in the parlor and pondered the matter some more before going up to bed.
Even here in London, he’d willingly continued sleeping uncomfortably on a sofa in the room they shared—just as he’d promised—but it had become their habit that Argel readied for bed quite early and he waited long enough to ensure she was fast asleep before going up himself. Every morning, he was always gone before she awoke. This spared both he and Argel any discomfort—though for very different reasons.
Heaven knew he already had enough discomfort in his life where she was concerned.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was hot—so hot.
Argel could feel the sweat soaking her skin, but it did little to quench the unbearable heat. Her lungs felt so tight she couldn’t breathe. She turned her head this way and that, but it was so dark, she couldn’t see.
Suddenly, her eyes popped open to see flames—everywhere! They surrounded her four-poster bed, licking up the velvet bed curtains as they raced towards her. She tried to sit up, to leap out of the bed, but her body was immobile, refusing to budge. “Help me!” she managed to cry at last.
A burning beam from the ceiling came crashing to the floor near the foot of her bed and she knew she hadn’t much time. She screamed again as her eyes quickly scanned the room, looking for a way out. Surely someone would hear her plea!
A scarred hand slowly appeared, reaching for her through the flames. At last, her uncle was here—she would be saved!
The hand reached in closer, closer still. Yet, instead of pulling her through to safety, it clasped about her neck, squeezing as if to choke her.
“No!” Argel struggled to move, to fight it off, but her movements were sluggish at best. “No, get away! Please, someone—anyone—help me!”
“Argel!” She heard a deep cry coming from beyond the flames and before she knew it, a black cloak descended on the room about her, extinguishing the flames and the deadly hand in one fell swoop.
“Argel,” she heard again as she felt a jolt. “Argel, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”
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Argel opened her eyes to a dark room free of flames, lit only by the dim moonlight coming in through the window directly across from her bed. She touched a shaky hand to her face, discovering that she was indeed covered in sweat.
“Argel, are you alright?”
She realized then that the voice belonged to Damon and he still had his hands firmly gripping her shoulders after trying to wake her. “Yes, Damon, I-I thought I was there again, in the fire.” She swallowed. “I suppose the-the play and Hamlet conversing with his dead father are to blame. It reminded me of my own parents.”
“Oh, Argel,” he gently stroked her cheek, “you nearly scared me to death. I thought someone was actually in the room at first when I heard you scream.”
She took several deep breaths, but they were not enough to completely expel any lingering effects of her dream. “I saw…the hand…”
He had pulled her to his chest, but immediately his arms stiffened. “Your uncle?” he asked tightly.
“Yes, but,” she took another deep breath, still reeling from her nerves, “he wasn’t saving me this time. He-he was trying to kill me.” Tears began to fall and Argel was unable to stop them.
“Shhh. It’s alright, love. You’re safe here with me.” Damon began smoothing her hair back from her dampened face. His touch was so gentle it caused her tears to fall more freely, quickly soaking his own nightshirt.
“Damon, you were there too, in my dream,” she sniffed. “I couldn’t see you, but I know it was you. You saved me from the fire, from my uncle. It was almost as if—” She paused and moved away from him to sit up in the bed, “What do you think it could all possibly mean?”
“Argel, ’tis nothing but a bad dream. You’re in London, safe. Now go back to sleep, you’ll need your rest if you’re to begin working tomorrow.” He tweaked her nose—something she had come to realize he often did to subdue his own emotions. Suddenly, the bed shifted as he adjusted to better sit up beside her. “Besides, I’d hate to have to let you go on your first full day on the job,” he teased, warming Argel’s heart.