To Tame a Savage Heart

by Emma V. Leech

  His eyes did widen at that, and she could see that he was shocked indeed, but then curiosity seemed to override that immediate response.

  “Which did you read by de Sade?” he asked, frowning at her now.

  Crecy cleared her throat, aware that her cheeks were burning. “Philosophy in the Boudoir,” she said, aware that she sounded defiant.

  He gave a short, astonished bark of laughter. “Good God,” he whispered. “And still you pursue a man like me? Did the story not give you enough reason to stay clear? What if I’m like the fellow in the book?” He paused, staring at her, his eyes hard now. “What if you’re like the girl?”

  Crecy flushed harder, but refused to look away or allow him to intimidate her. “I’m not like that girl,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “And … well, yes, all right, I was deeply shocked, if you must know.”

  His mouth quirked a little, a smug smile at his lips.

  “But I learned a lot, too,” she added as DeMorte gaped at her and then cursed. He turned away, muttering under his breath, and then looked back just as fast. His expression suggested he hadn’t the faintest idea what to make of her. “And you are not at all like him,” she added, praying that that was, indeed, the case.

  He let out a huff of laughter. “You have no idea if that’s true.” His voice was scornful, his expression a sneer as he dared her to believe he was anything less than a debauched monster.

  Crecy nodded. “I know,” she said, realising her hands were clenched tight, the material of her skirts bunched up and creased in her anxious grip. “But I believe it is, and … and until you let me know you better, I can only be guided by my feelings for you.”

  DeMorte looked faintly nauseated by this and grimaced. “And what,” he barked in disgust, his words becoming a harsh whisper as he lowered his voice. “What if I allowed you to know me better?” The tone of his voice implied a very physical manner of getting to know him, and Crecy’s breath caught in her throat. “What if I take advantage of your outrageous advances and ruin you as you so clearly desire … and then you discover that I am every bit as dark and twisted as the characters in that book. What then?” His voice was low and hard and angry, and Crecy swallowed, knowing he was giving her fair warning. She might well be wrong, she might become a scandal, a fallen woman, a figure of ridicule and shame to everyone who knew her.

  “At least I’ll know,” she whispered, feeling a lump in her throat at the idea she might never win this war for his soul, for his heart, this battle of wills. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough, brave enough. Perhaps she simply wasn’t … enough? “At least I’ll have done something about taking my destiny into my own hands,” she said, knowing that in this, at least, she was certain. “Instead of marrying a man who will own me and control me and never, ever know me.”

  DeMorte held her gaze, and she hadn’t the slightest idea of what he was thinking. He looked away from her then, staring at the book in his hand.

  “I liked this one, it was … amusing. I don’t own a copy, either.”

  Crecy nodded, trying hard not to smile and feeling as though she’d won a victory, albeit a small one. He looked up then, those eyes still full of suspicion.

  “How the devil did you get hold of such titles?” he asked, his dark brows drawn together, though his expression was more intrigued than disapproving.

  “After my father died, we had to pack up his library. Many of the books were sold, as we couldn’t afford to keep them,” she added with real regret. That had been a very dark time in her life. “But I found this secret box, and those books were there, and … well, we could never have sold them, in any case,” she said, feeling a little indignant at the glitter of laughter in his eyes. “S-so I gave them new covers and … and new titles and hid them in my bedroom.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw his shoulders shake a little.

  “And what … pray,” he asked, pinching his nose and closing his eyes as though he feared the answer, “is the new title for de Sade’s little masterpiece?”

  Crecy gave a little, dignified sniff and pursed her lips. “Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake.”

  She watched the internal struggle behind his eyes with curiosity until it was clearly too much for him, and, to her delight, he burst out laughing. In that moment, he seemed transformed, his face alight with mirth, his eyes suddenly the blue of a hot summer sky instead of a glacial ocean. Crecy stared. She had the sensation that her heart had been somehow exposed, it felt raw and vulnerable and she knew in that moment that she had been right about him. The thought gave her courage, and she determined that Gabriel Greyston would be hers. No matter what she had to do, what risks she must take. She would give everything for the chance to save him from the darkness he so obviously dwelt in.

  Chapter 6

  “Wherein our heroine is suspected of witchcraft.”

  Gabriel was brought up short, the strange sound echoing around the high ceilings of the book shop. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. A real laugh, that was, one born of genuine amusement and pleasure, rather than the kind he reserved for those who thought to seek pity or beg for his understanding. That laugh he knew well enough. It was cruel and hard and unforgiving and summed him up quite perfectly well. If only this foolish young woman would open her eyes to the truth, she would see that in an instant. Yet those lilac eyes did not seem to have romanticised him. Indeed, the more she looked, that direct gaze piercing now, the more uncomfortable he became. He had the strangest sensation that she could see right through him. It was disturbing.

  “You have a good laugh,” she said, smiling at him. “I would like to hear it often.”

  His face fell back into its naturally taciturn expression, the brooding glower far more comfortable than the unnatural upturn of his lips, which felt foreign and strange and somehow false.

  “I’m laughing at you, you ridiculous child,” he said, knowing it was a lie, but needing her to leave him alone. He didn’t want the unnerving young woman around him, unsettling him - making him laugh for no good reason.

  Crecy snorted, and he found himself raising one eyebrow at the scorn she managed to convey.

  “For such a bad man, you’re a dreadful liar,” she said, looking amused. “And I think you can tell … I am no child.” This was added with a rather smug look that dared him to try and pretend her obviously feminine curves were anything less than they were.

  Gabriel felt his irritation climb another notch.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he demanded, his voice harsh now. He was growing impatient, a strange and uneasy feeling beneath his skin that was disturbing. “Shouldn’t you be at the assembly rooms or taking tea with friends or shopping or anything else, blast you?”

  Her face fell, and for a moment he hoped he’d succeeded in offending her. But she just let out a groan and rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, don’t remind me,” she muttered, looking really disgusted now. “I have to go for a fitting this afternoon.”

  Gabriel frowned, curious to discover that she did not enjoy such things. “Most women love spending money on new gowns.”

  She returned a scathing look, one elegant blonde brow arching at him. “I think we’ve already established, I am not most women.”

  Gabriel suppressed the desire to chuckle, keeping his lips from curving upwards with difficulty. She was amusing, this peculiar creature. Absurd and irritating beyond belief, but amusing.

  “So what are you looking for here today?” he asked, gesturing to the shelves around him. “I don’t think you’ll find any de Sade on the shelves,” he added with a smirk. To his disappointment, she didn’t blush.

  “No, I shouldn’t think so,” she replied, her voice even and quite unembarrassed. “I shall have to borrow yours.”

  The directness of her gaze, the bold manner of speaking to him - Gabriel knew anyone else would have been shocked, disgusted even. But she was … intriguing.

  “In
fact, I came to put in an order for a book,” she said, her eyes suddenly full of enthusiasm. “I heard about it from a friend of the author and it sounds quite fascinating.”

  Gabriel watched her with interest. Vivacity seemed to light her up from the inside, a spark of joy glowing within her that was hard to resist. He would extinguish any such spark in little time if she continued to follow this dangerous path, though. Yet he wanted to hear her tell him about the book that had so captured her imagination.

  “It’s a retelling of the story of Prometheus,” she said, taking a step closer to him. “It tells the story of a scientist and how he creates life itself. He takes bits of lots of different dead bodies and sews them all back together and creates a creature that actually lives and breathes and thinks!”

  Gabriel blinked, staring at her in astonishment.

  “Just imagine it,” she said, sounding almost breathless with excitement. “A hideous, towering monster that goes on to hunts its creator when the scientist rejects him. It appears to be the story of the creation of a monster, but from what I can tell, the scientist is more monster than his creation.”

  Though he hated to admit it, Gabriel’s curiosity was indeed piqued by this unnatural tale. “When will it be published?” he asked, hating that he was interested, but wanting to know just the same.

  Her face fell and she gave a huff of frustration. “Not until the new year,” she said, looking so utterly dejected that Gabriel almost allowed himself to smile again. “The only reason I know is that my friend is a relation of Mary Wollstonecraft. The book is being published anonymously, but in fact, it’s her daughter who has written it.” Miss Holbrook sounded quite evangelical by this point. “Just think,” she said, looking positively gleeful. “How shocked everyone will be when they discover such a work as this - as it must create a furore - and it was written by a woman.” There was such triumph in her eyes at this that Gabriel snorted with amusement.

  “For my part, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that a woman could create such a macabre tale,” he said, his tone dry as he eyed her with distrust.

  Miss Holbrook gave a delighted laugh and seemed to forget herself, stepping closer to him and taking hold of his hand.

  “No, of course you’re not surprised. You know me too well to doubt the possibility.”

  Gabriel froze as her warm fingers curled around his and he snatched his hand away.

  “I do not know you at all, Miss Holbrook,” he said, his voice cold and indifferent.

  He had turned a little away from her, frowning at the book he still held in his hands and avoiding the openness of her expression. Nonetheless, he could feel the heat of her gaze upon him, as warm as her hand had been upon his skin.

  “Yes, you do,” she said, her voice low. “If you read my letters, you must do.”

  “I burnt them, every one of them,” he snapped, turning back to her with a burst of anger. Who the devil did she think she was, anyway? What right had she to speak to him so intimately?

  She stared at him for a moment and he forced himself to hold her gaze, knowing he looked angry and vengeful. To his consternation, after studying him for a moment more, she let out a breath of relief.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and smiling at him. “You didn’t. You read them, every one.”

  Gabriel gaped at her, a prickle of anxiety running over his flesh. The woman was a blasted witch. How could she possibly know that?

  “I know you, Gabriel,” she said, answering his unspoken question and bewildering him further still. The use of his name was shocking. That she should be so bold in the first place was astonishing enough, but to hear it spoken with such tenderness … She reached out and placed a tentative hand against his chest and Gabriel resisted the urge to bolt. He was too curious to know how. How could she know him? “I know your soul,” she whispered, stepping closer. “It belongs with mine.”

  Gabriel took a step back, every instinct telling him to get away from this strange creature, this beautiful temptress who threatened to know him, who implied she already did.

  “It’s all right,” she said, her voice soothing as she dropped her hand and moved away, as if she was aware she’d pushed him as far as she could. “I must go now. But I’ll be in the Sydney gardens tomorrow afternoon at two. At least, I will be if I can sneak away,” she said with a devilish grin. “Will you meet me there? Please?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t say anything, her eyes searching his face in a way that made him deeply uneasy.

  “Well,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll be there, by the bridge over the canal. I’ll wait for you.” She gestured to the book in his hand. “I do hope you enjoy it.” With that, she gave him a last, dazzling smile and a look that spoke of regret, before turning and leaving him alone.

  Gabriel simply stood there, rooted to the spot and wondering what in the blazes had just happened. He was still there, staring at the stupid book with a vacant expression when the shop keeper found him and asked if he could be of any assistance. Gabriel thrust the book at him without a word, paid the price given, and stalked back to his hotel room feeling thoroughly vexed.

  ***

  Crecy tried to behave herself during the dress fitting and to show enthusiasm for all the lovely things she was shown. Indeed, Violette, who was most insistent that they spend as much of her brother’s money in as short a time as possible, had exquisite taste. That being the case, Crecy simply left herself in Violette’s hands and allowed her to take charge of her purchases. This left her time to return to her conversation with Gabriel and daydream about that kiss.

  If Belle thought it odd that she didn’t complain or huff with impatience even once, whilst she was poked and prodded and pinned, then she said nothing. In fact, she suspected she had never in her life been more docile and biddable, but she wanted to study every second she had spent in Gabriel’s company, turning it with care in her mind’s eye, reliving it.

  My word, but he was afraid. Crecy knew that most people would laugh at the idea. That Viscount DeMorte, a man who was feared and reviled, that such a powerful man could possibly fear anything at all would seem a ridiculous thing to say. But to Crecy, it was obvious. She knew the rumours, knew he used blackmail and gambling debts to force others to his bidding. She could not condone his actions, but she could understand them. He was alone and always had been, from what she could tell. She knew that his parents had died young. His mother had committed suicide on the very same day that his father had shot himself, before Gabriel’s very eyes. What must that have done to a young boy? The people who ought to have loved and protected him did that to him, leaving him all alone in the world, and in such a violent manner. Her heart bled for him.

  That he was afraid, to trust, to hope, to live … that seemed a perfectly reasonable reaction to everything he had suffered. Crecy was no romantic fool, however. She knew well that the path she was set upon was fraught with danger. He was a grown man and his character not one that would welcome change. That he didn’t trust her enough to let her in, well, that was quite clear. Yet she had sensed his interest, his curiosity, and she had certainly felt his desire.

  She drew in a sharp breath, feeling herself flush. The young woman pinning a rather fetching blue carriage dress around her exclaimed in distress, believing she had pierced her skin instead of the gown. Crecy blushed harder and accepted her apologies with an anxious smile before returning to her thoughts. Though she had read all manner of things that a young woman ought never to set eyes on, she had still been a little startled by the physical evidence of his arousal. Not least by her own reaction to it. She had felt molten, as though a fire had been lit deep inside her and everything around it was liquefying, heating her blood, burning her from the inside out. She had longed for him to return her kiss, to pull her into his arms, to devour her. The strength and urgency of that desire was really rather terrifying, but Crecy determined to embrace it. She would have Gabriel, in every sense possible, and at least then, if she
failed to capture his heart, at least she would have lived and experienced what it meant to love him for herself.

  That evening, they went to the Theatre Royal on Beaufort Square. It was a sumptuous building, and Crecy was delighted that Violette’s husband, Aubrey, had secured a box for them. From here, she could see everything. The walls were richly papered with a crimson-stamped cloth and an Egyptian pattern fringed with a gold stripe. The seats and edges of the boxes were likewise covered in cloth, and Crecy smoothed her fingers over the plush feel of it, revelling in the experience. The front of each box was painted the same deep colour, with four broad stripes of gold with golden scrolls at the centre. It was truly a magnificent building.

  Such opulence and the chance to enjoy a really excellent theatrical performance would usually have been enough to have Crecy in raptures. Tonight, however, once the initial drama of her surroundings wore off, she found it hard to concentrate on the actors or their theatrics. She felt herself plunged into a far more dramatic tale in her own life, and her thoughts returned time and again to Gabriel, to the startled look in his eyes when she had kissed him, to the haunted, hunted expression that she had seen, albeit fleetingly, flickering behind the perpetual sneering, scornful mask he wore.

  Crecy wondered if he would come tomorrow or if she was wasting her time. She must not be disappointed if he did not show, she told herself, even knowing it was hopeless. She was desperate to see him again, after all. If he did come, then surely there was hope, surely she had made enough of an impression to intrigue him a little? A small voice in the back of her head warned her that Gabriel would use her if she allowed it and drop her when he was done, but she refused to listen to it. She had made her choice now, decided to take the chance, so now, she must play her hand with the cards given her.