She’d surfaced from the muddled haze submerging her mind at that, turning to glance at the maid over her shoulder. “He does?”
And here she’d thought he cast all the blame upon Bertram.
“He does,” Maeve replied, closing the ointment jar and wiping her hands clean on her apron. “He and Niall … they take care of her in hopes she’ll find her way back to them someday.”
As the woman had begun pulling her hair into a single braid, Daphne had stared into the vanity mirror, studying the reflection of the maid. Her eyes had been downcast, her hands trembling as she worked Daphne’s damp hair.
“Who is she to him?” she’d prodded, hoping the maid would pity her enough to tell her something … anything. “He told me he loved her.”
“We all love her,” Maeve had whispered, her voice low and hoarse as if she fought back tears.
Then, glancing up to meet her reflection in the mirror, she had paused, her hands tangled in Daphne’s hair.
“Please, ask me no more,” she’d pleaded. “I’ve already said too much. The Master will not be pleased to know I’ve spoken of her to you at all.”
Nodding in understanding, Daphne had let the matter drop, not wanting to invite Adam’s wrath onto the innocent maid. Recognition niggled the back of her mind every time she thought of the mysterious Livvie, and she felt certain if she thought on it long enough, she might remember where she’d seen her before. Things had happened so suddenly last night, she’d hardly gotten a good look at the woman’s face.
She stared silently at her reflection while Maeve finished her hair, the picture that confronted her one she hardly recognized. Her skin had gone pale, causing her eyes to look larger and darker and the red lines from where she’d been scratched to appear meaner. Turning her head slightly, she cringed at the evidence of Adam’s sensual assault, purple bruises beginning to form along her throat where he’d suckled and bitten. Maeve had changed her into a new nightgown—this one an apricot silk with a low-cut bodice that displayed more of the marks along her collarbone and the swell of one breast.
Her cunt contracted, the liquid heat of desire combining with soreness to make her head spin and her stomach lurch. How could seeing the evidence of what had just transpired in the music room affect her this way? She should be sobbing with regret over her lost maidenhead, over the painful invasion that had stolen her innocence, the callous words he’d spewed at her once he’d finished with her. Instead, she found herself clenching her thighs together to stifle the feeling, to smother the longing opening in the pit of her womb.
She’d lain in bed for countless minutes trying to forget, closing her eyes and searching for the sleep that had eluded her the night before. Exhaustion had finally dragged her under, and she’d slept deeply for hours—though her rest had hardly been peaceful. Adam haunted her dreams; the feral glint of his eyes, the flash of white teeth, the sting of his bite, and the searing burn of his cock entering her for the first time.
She came awake gasping and panting, her nightgown clinging to her body, her limbs trembling uncontrollably.
Easing herself from the bed, she opted to freshen up on her own, not wanting to ring for Maeve and have the maid see her in such a state. Approaching the washstand, she peeled the damp nightgown from her body and quickly dipped a scrap of linen into the bowl of fresh rosewater that had been left there. It had long gone cold, but it brought her relief as she bathed the sweat from her skin. She winced when the cloth touched her mons, the tender flesh still swollen and aching. There was no more blood, however, so she supposed she ought to be grateful for that. Despite having bathed the bloodstains from her thighs, she scrubbed them again, certain she might never feel completely clean, as if those stains had sunk in deep, becoming a part of her, a permanent scar that would brand itself indelibly upon her soul.
Crossing to the armoire where her clothing had been hung, she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Her throat looked worse now—the purple stains already beginning to take on a yellowish hue. Tearing her gaze away, she swiftly selected a simple white muslin morning gown, a pair of stockings, and garters. As she slid her feet into a pair of slippers, her stomach growled, hunger beginning to gnaw upon her insides.
She left the room and headed straight for the dining room, knowing an afternoon meal would be available on the sideboard this time of day. Relieved to find the corridors empty save for a few chambermaids dusting the wall sconces, she ducked into the large, airy room, happy to find an array of cold foods that appeared to have been recently laid out. Filling a plate and taking a seat, she thanked the footman who appeared at her elbow with a glass of lemonade.
As she ate, staring out at the picturesque view framed by the dining room’s parted drapes, she could almost pretend to be somewhere else. A beautiful, tranquil place far removed from London, her family, and the other things she would rather outrun than confront.
For instance, the truth that Adam had unearthed concerning the reason for her state of spinsterhood, of the countless marriage offers she had refused. She had wanted love, she’d told herself, and would not settle for anything less.
Yet, she’d loved the boy from the estate neighboring her family’s, had dreamed of becoming his wife more times than she could count. She’d almost surrendered her virtue to him and had come close to letting him compromise her the last time they’d seen each other. At the time, she’d told herself fear had driven her to refuse him, to pull her skirts down over her legs and run from him, whispering a tortured ‘I’m so sorry’ before retreating. She’d been young, afraid, inexperienced. At least, this was what she had told herself.
Could the truth be something far more unpalatable? That she had been waiting for someone who did not handle her like a delicate porcelain doll? Someone who challenged her, frightened her, excited her?
Shaking her head, she clenched her jaw, setting her fork onto her half-empty plate with a loud ‘clang’. No … he was wrong about her, had been from the moment they’d met. She was not some fragile thing he could easily break, nor was she the whore he had accused her of being, just because he’d managed to coax her body to climax with his rough handling. She was a woman who had fallen down on her luck for the time being and had found a way to set it all right. When her time had ended here, she would return home thirty thousand pounds richer … and perhaps wiser for having learned the truth about her family.
That decided, she took up her napkin and folded it, laying it beside her plate before quitting the room. She had grown far too restless to return to her chamber or to practice the harp. Nor did she believe she would find Adam in the gallery so they could spar together. So, she set off on a walk, hoping to explore parts of the castle she had not yet seen.
Adam had never told her she could not explore it on her own—only that she was forbidden to tread into the corridor adjacent to the one her room sat in. Of course, she realized it was because that wing of the palace was where Livvie had been ensconced. Now that she had made her presence known to Daphne, would Adam still want her to stay away?
Deciding to err on the side of caution, she went in the opposite direction. Passing Adam’s study, the library, music room, and other sitting rooms she had already seen, she moved deeper into the third arm of the quadrangle. In it, she found more sitting rooms, and several sets of double doors which led into a massive ballroom. She entered the space, finding it dusty and shuttered, meager light streaming through stained glass windows. The colorful beams illuminated white pillars and large, iron chandeliers which would give the room a gothic yet ethereal feel once lowered and lit. Smooth, veined tiles lined the floors, and a raised dais for an orchestra was flanked by more of the statuesque pillars.
Had soirées ever been hosted at Dunnottar? She would imagine that if this manor had a lady, she would throw open these doors and host extravagant balls. She would be able to see the potential in the cavernous space, perhaps even hosting gothic masquerades or Grecian-themed balls. A sudden image of herself sea
ted in the center of the dais, draped in white silk and strumming the harp before a captive audience, sprung forth in her mind. Uncertain where such a thought had come from, she turned away from the ballroom, swiftly closing the doors she had thrown open to access the room. It had been a preposterous thought, one with no basis in reality. This place was her prison and would continue to be for another twenty days. No matter how beautiful, it would always be the lair of a monster.
Continuing to the end of the corridor, she found stairs winding up a tower that would give her access to the second level. She climbed them and entered another corridor, this one seemingly lined with more bedrooms. She opened the doors to discover her assumption had been right. The rooms were as beautifully decorated as her own, filled with heavy, old furniture that had been remarkably preserved, as well as modern finishes that blended in seamlessly.
The fifth room on the right struck her as being different from the others. Instead of heavy drapes, sheer white curtains covered the windows, allowing in far more light than the other chambers. A large canopy bed flaunted more of the same curtains, though these had been embroidered with delicate pink rosettes. A matching bedspread of pink damask was etched with white flowers while a bench resting at the foot of the bed had been upholstered in a matching fabric. An oak writing desk faced one of the windows, covered in scraps of paper that appeared to have been written on. As she drew closer, she realized they were actually charcoal drawings—of flowers, birds, people. They were quite good, better than anything she’d ever attempted.
“Livvie,” she whispered, reaching out to touch a drawing of a hummingbird drinking from the pistil of a flower.
Some instinct told Daphne this room belonged to her, that she had once filled this chamber with warmth, laughter, and creativity. An artist … and likely the person who had so loved the garden Adam had taken her to.
Glancing up from the drawing, she spotted a large shape in the corner, covered with a white sheet. She looked over her shoulder to ensure no one might be coming who would see her, then approached it. Dropping to her knees on the thick rug, she reached out to move the sheet aside—revealing the large object to be a cluster of paintings that had been stacked together against the wall.
The first one took her breath away—an incredible likeness of Adam. The gilded frame contained a portrait depicting him in sporty riding attire, a crop held over one shoulder. Though he did not smile, humor curved his lips and alit his eyes—which the painter had captured as being mostly green. If she did not know better, she might have thought it must be someone else—someone younger, and happier. Yet, the artist had gotten his hair right, and the slope of his brow and the ridge of his nose, the soft pillow of his mouth. Even the stubble that grew along his jaw had been perfectly translated to the canvas, adding a dangerous allure to the powerful body encased in an athlete’s riding wear.
She stared at the portrait for a long while, wondering what the younger, happier Adam had been like. A charmer, who the women of Scotland and London tripped over themselves trying to impress? A humorous fellow who could have rooms full of men in stitches with nothing but a well-timed joke? It was difficult to imagine; yet, the portrait proved a truth she could not deny. Adam had been irrevocably changed by the circumstances entangling her family with his.
Moving the heavy painting aside, she studied the next one—the image of a man who must surely be Adam’s father. The resemblance was really quite striking. The two men possessed the same dark hair and peculiar eyes. He wore an expression similar to the one she typically found upon Adam’s face—hard and implacable. An undeniable severity solidified his jaw and pinched his mouth into a tight line. Clearly a man of constant ill humor.
She pushed that one aside to reveal a woman, with golden hair and cheer dancing in her blue eyes. A beautiful young lady she did not recognize. Based upon the style of the portrait, it must be decades old—perhaps a likeness of Adam’s mother in her youth. Adam possessed none of her features, having inherited the whole of his aspect from his sire.
Daphne moved the painting aside, unveiling one that sent her heart spiraling up into her throat. The woman staring back at her possessed a flawless alabaster complexion, complemented by glossy black hair and innocent, brown doe eyes. She recognized the pert nose, lightly freckled cheeks, and rosebud mouth. Dressed in finery and portraying the flawless image of a young debutante, she called to mind a girl Daphne had met several Seasons ago.
“Lady Olivia Goodall,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the painting.
“Aye,” said Adam’s voice from the behind her, frightening her half out of her wits.
She gasped, leaping to her feet and spinning to find him lingering in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. His expression indicated neither anger nor disapproval; yet, she shivered beneath his stare all the same. Her skin prickled as if recalling what it felt like to be touched by him, her pulse racing as she fought the urge to run.
“She is a member of your family?” she asked, her mind spinning as she tried to recall what little she knew of the lady.
Daphne had been introduced to her at Almack’s—which she had attended on the arm of a man. A cousin, perhaps. The man had been forgettable … certainly not Adam.
“My sister,” he confirmed, nodding toward the painting. “Well … stepsister, to be precise.”
That would explain why the two shared no resemblance. It began to make sense—why Adam had taken Olivia’s ruination so personally, what Maeve had meant when she’d claimed all the residents of Dunnottar loved her.
“I remember her,” she whispered, the things she had forgotten now coming back to her in a rush. “We were introduced at Almack’s … she was a lovely young lady. All the men wanted to dance with her. Her dance card had been filled within an hour of arriving.”
“I know,” he replied, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “She wrote me countless letters detailing the events of her first Season. After having spent all her life here in Scotland, she found London to be quite exciting.”
Why had Adam remained behind while his young sister went off to enjoy the Season? One would think he’d chaperone her instead of a cousin. Where had their father been?
“I was away on the Continent,” he continued, as if having read her mind. “For my Grand Tour. My father thought it a frivolous waste of time. He thought anything not directly related to the earldom a waste of time. You see, he insisted the Callahan named carried with it bad luck. Countesses who die young, Earls who languish in their absence … a family line dwindled to almost nothing. After my mother’s death, he married Lady Edith, a young widow with a daughter just out of nappies. His second wife did not last half as long as my mother did, and before long, he found himself a widower saddled with two children.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, uncertain what else to say.
Adam snorted. “So was I … for Olivia’s sake, at least. I often think he was cold as a way to guard his heart from any more pain or loss. No matter what Livvie or I did, it was never enough to make him smile … never enough to make him love us.”
“Which was why your cousin chaperoned her for her first Season,” she supplied.
“Her cousin … he was a relative of Edith,” he amended. “But yes, that is why. He could hardly be bothered with her, so he sent her off to London in the company of her cousin and his wife, who would sponsor her coming out and see to it she made a good match.”
“Then, she met Bertram.”
“Aye, little dove,” he replied, inclining his head at her. “Then, she met Bertram.”
She lowered her gaze to the rug, her shoulders sagging as she recalled an evening soirée, watching Bertram bow over the girl’s hand and brush a kiss across the knuckles. Bertram dancing with her twice in one night. Bertram leading her toward the terrace for air, not returning with Lady Olivia for near an hour. Bertram leaning a bit too close as he whispered in her ear.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Daphne held on tight, fe
eling as if she might fall apart. The evidence had been in front of her the entire time, and she’d never realized it, never understood what Bertram had been up to. Or, perhaps a part of her had realized? Could she be as fragile as Adam had claimed, looking away so she did not have to acknowledge the truth?
“I saw them together,” she admitted. “Bertram and Olivia. But, I never knew …”
“No one did,” Adam said when she trailed off.
She glanced up at him, wondering if that could be pity she detected in his tone. Pity for her. As if he felt sorry for her, knowing she had been misled for so long, going about ignorant to the truth.
“Your brother is very good at what he does,” he added with a sneer, all the compassion melting from his tone. “How do you think he’s gone this long without being outed?”
Thinking over the things he had revealed to her just now, she understood where he was leading her. “My father. There is no way Bertram could have ruined so many without an angry papa or two turning up on our doorstep. I can only assume my father did what was necessary to bury the secrets and avoid scandal.”
Adam grunted in response, his expression hardening. Her eyes widened in realization, her stomach lurching as the various threads he had fed her began to intertwine, creating a tapestry of deceit and pain that clearly displayed her brother’s guilt.
“He turned her away,” she whispered, bringing a hand up to her roiling stomach. “When she came to him to tell him what Bertram had done … my father turned her away.”
His jaw ticked with fury barely held in check, his voice coming out strained and clipped when he answered her. “Does that shock you?”
Thinking of her father—of the staunch viscount with the white hair and haughty demeanor—she shook her head. It would have felt like betrayal ten days ago … when she’d thought him above reproach. Perhaps a bit snobby, but not a malicious person. Now, she was beginning to realize nothing was what she’d thought.
The Villain Page 17