To Romance a Charming Rogue tcw-4

by Nicole Jordan

  Turning, Damon gazed unseeingly out at the darkened streets of Mayfair. He couldn't give Eleanor the love she yearned for. He wouldn't allow himself. Not when he knew the devastation of losing his loved ones.

  It had been twelve years, but he still felt the aching loss of his twin's death, still remembered the agonizing helplessness of watching his vital, fun-loving brother waste away from the cruel ravages of consumption.

  Those last, bleak, heartbreaking images would be forever burned into his consciousness: Joshua's skin gray and mottled. His body shrunken by fever and racking coughs and drenching night sweats. His agony while spitting up blood from between his cracked lips as his tortured lungs struggled to draw breath.

  Damon clenched his jaw as he fought to drive back the savage memories. In the last stages of the disease, little could be done to relieve a consumptive's terrible suffering, except to administer heavy doses of laudanum to provide oblivion for a few blessed hours at a time.

  When the end had finally, mercifully come-when his brother was buried in the cold earth decades before his time-Damon was left with a soul-deep rage, along with a stark, soul-numbing loneliness. And then his brother's tragedy had been swiftly followed by his parents’ senseless deaths…

  His grief had hardened him, Damon knew. He would do anything to avoid that pain again-the anguish of losing his very best friend, his shadow, and the parents he'd cherished.

  Emptiness was preferable to feeling, so he'd purposely turned his heart to stone.

  There was danger in wedding Elle, of course. Two years ago he'd allowed her to assume too much importance in his life. He'd let himself become enthralled with her-with her charm, her liveliness, her vitality.

  Yet he was older and wiser now, Damon told himself. He could keep his emotional distance from Eleanor now that he was forewarned. They could have passion in their marriage without any real closeness or intimacy. A simple union of convenience, nothing more.

  He could offer her friendship at least. She would never be lonely as his wife, he could promise her that much.

  And he could and would vow fidelity in their marriage. Eleanor's accusation that he couldn't control his lustful urges and remain faithful to her was far off the mark. He'd been celibate for a while now, certainly since returning to England.

  He hadn't kept a mistress either, not since dismissing his former paramour.

  In truth, he'd decided to end his arrangement with Mrs. Lydia Newling the moment he met Eleanor.

  He didn't miss the beautiful widow, even though their affair had lasted three years. There had been no emotional intimacy between them, because Damon had always taken care to keep their relationship strictly business. In that respect, Lydia was the perfect mistress for him. They'd had a mutually satisfying agreement. Damon paid her lavishly, and Lydia skillfully accommodated him when he sought refuge in sexual release.

  He hadn't seen her since using her to help break off his betrothal to Eleanor, although he knew Lydia had a new protector. Otto Geary had mentioned her just the other day. Reportedly Lydia's sister was ill, so she had recently sought Otto's medical counsel.

  Damon's grim expression turned sardonic as he recognized the irony of his thinking. The relationship he proposed to have with Elle was much the same as he'd had with Lydia: a strictly physical connection. He could understand why Eleanor would not be enamored of the idea.

  He also understood why she would refuse to trust him after the way he had treated her.

  He would have to prove himself deserving of her faith, Damon was well aware. And with patience, he might eventually win her acceptance.

  Yet even if he wasn't able to convince her to wed him, Damon reflected, he would use any means necessary to prevent her from wedding her prince.

  He couldn't save Joshua, but he would keep Elea nor safe.

  Showing interest in another gentleman may rouse his jealousy to good effect, but take care not to go too far or else you may wake a slumbering devil. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…

  To Eleanor's dismay, she dreamed of Damon that night. As he roused her with his breath-stealing kisses and his tender, caressing hands, myriad emotions assaulted her-spellbinding intimacy, spiraling heat, stunning pleasure.

  Her body dissolved beneath his skilled touches… but then somehow her dream changed from sensual fantasy to poignant memory.

  The rose garden was small and secluded, her own private sanctuary at her aunt's enormous country estate. She was still in a daze of happiness since her betrothal to Damon was so brand new, only four days old. The house party had just ended, and this was their first chance to be alone together since the guests departed.

  Making their escape from the manor, Eleanor brought Damon here to show him her special place, a part of her past that she never shared with anyone.

  “This garden was Marcus's gift to me after our parents died when I was ten years old,” Eleanor explained. “He planned to return to university, and when I pleaded with him not to leave me here, he planted a rose bush for me. Then each year on my birthday, he has given me one more.”

  She followed the gravel path where ten large bushes of lush pink roses spiraled out in a pattern. Leading Damon to the very heart of the spiral, Elea nor bent to lovingly stroke a velvet rose petal. “This plant was the first one.” Her voice dropped. “Marcus said he would be with me in spirit as long as I had my roses. And I would have something to remind me of his love. I am never lonely when I come here.”

  Her heart filled with joy, she turned to gaze up at Damon, drinking in the sight of him. “Love vanquishes loneliness, and now that I am to be your wife, I know I will never be lonely again.”

  At first she didn't notice how still Damon had become. “Love?” he asked quietly.

  She smiled shyly up at him. “Yes. I love you, Damon. More than I ever thought to love anyone.” Bending again, she plucked a bud and held it to his lips. “I know you don't return my love yet. After all, it has not even been three weeks since we first met. But I hope that will soon change.”

  After a long hesitation, he reached up to touch her cheek gently. “I don't want to hurt you, Elle.”

  She shivered, wondering at the shadows in his eyes. His response was not the one she wanted, but she would not give up hope. “You could never hurt me, Damon. You would never

  Eleanor started awake in the darkness, hearing the echo of her naive, trusting words, remembering her utter devastation the following week after they returned to London, when she'd spied Damon with his beautiful mistress.

  Even two years later, the ache still burned inside her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she buried her face in her pillow to hold back the tears.

  When she woke again, it was morning. The ache had diminished, but Eleanor was left with a feeling of great sadness, along with an even-greater restlessness. Yet after Damon's vexing visit to her bedchamber last evening, she was more determined than ever to persevere with her plan to employ Fanny's book, Advice to Young Ladies on Capturing a Husband, on Prince Lazzara.

  She would redouble her efforts to win his affections, Eleanor vowed, and to elicit a proposal of marriage from him. More crucially, she would do her utmost to fall in love with him. What better way to forget the alluring Lord Wrexham than to bestow her heart on someone else?

  The major impediment to her plan, however, was that the target of her designs was missing. Eleanor saw nothing of Prince Lazzara that day, although she received a short note of apology from him, explaining that regrettably he would have to forgo their planned afternoon drive in the park, since he was resting his sprained knee.

  Her spirits a little deflated, Eleanor spent a quiet evening at home with her aunt. She was heartened during dinner, though, when they discussed the ball that Beatrix's good friend, the Dowager Countess of Haviland, would be giving the following evening.

  “Mary has not held a ball in over a decade,” Beatrix remarked, “since her health is not robust. But she is eager to get Haviland married off, so she is leaving no stone unt
urned in her effort to introduce him to eligible prospects.”

  Lady Haviland's handsome grandson, Rayne Ken -yon, had come into the title the previous year upon the death of his father, Eleanor knew. His name had been linked with Roslyn Loring's for a time during the summer, but obviously their suspected romance had come to naught since Roslyn had wed the Duke of Arden.

  “The cream of society will be attending Mary's ball, you may be sure,” Beatrix added, “along with a horde of debutantes… At least the ones who did not manage to secure husbands this past Season.”

  Eleanor suspected her aunt was correct. Before the wars ended, Haviland had frequently been out of the country. And more recently, he'd been in mourning for his father. But he was available now. And since a wealthy, unattached earl was a prime catch on the Marriage Mart, there undoubtedly would be numerous young ladies trying out their wiles on Lord Haviland-the very sort of audience that Fanny's book was intended for, although Eleanor kept that amusing observation to herself. She did not wish her aunt to think she was interested in pursuing Haviland. One nobleman at a time was ample.

  And in any event, Beatrix was too focused on Prince Lazzara at the moment to think of pushing Eleanor into any other match.

  “Signor Vecchi assures me that he and the prince will be at the ball,” Beatrix said with satisfaction. “It is a pity that his highness cannot dance with his injury, but even if he cannot, he may watch from the sidelines. We will take care to secure seats beside him, Eleanor, so that you may carry on a conversation with him throughout the evening. It could prove an excellent opportunity for you.”

  Eleanor eyed her aunt with curiosity. Having no fondness for dancing, Beatrix usually escaped to the cardroom to play whist with her cronies as soon as the orchestra struck up the opening tune. “Do you mean to sit with us to act as chaperone, Aunt?”

  “No, no, you hardly need a chaperone, and my presence could impede your progress with Prince Laz-zara. But I intend to remain in the ballroom. It has been a long while since I have actually enjoyed a ball, and Signor Vecchi has asked me for the first set of dances.”

  “Ahh,” Eleanor replied lightly. It was the lure of the distinguished Italian diplomat that would divert her aunt from her long-held habits.

  Surprisingly, Beatrix flushed. “I suppose it is absurd at my age to be cavorting like an ingenue, but I confess I feel like a young girl again.”

  Eleanor smiled with affection. “I think it is perfectly lovely. Age is not always the best indicator of how young at heart you feel.”

  “It is fortunate that we commissioned new gowns for my house party. I had thought to save the lavender satin until then, but I think I will wear it tomorrow instead. And you should take special care with your appearance as well, my dear. You want to look your very best for the prince.”

  “I intend to, aunt,” Eleanor said with all seriousness.

  * * *

  Like her aunt, Eleanor chose to wear one of her new ball gowns the following evening, a stylish confection of rose-hued mousseline de soie that boasted an Empire-waisted bodice seeded with tiny pearls. She dressed carefully and had her hair artfully coiffed by her aunt's dresser, so that her short raven curls were threaded with rose ribbons and pearls.

  They would not arrive fashionably late to the ball as was Lady Beldon's custom. Instead, they would strive for promptness, since Beatrix wished to in fluence the seating arrangements and also to be prepared to dance the first set with the signor.

  The event would likely prove a crush if the receiving line was any indication, Eleanor decided as she and her aunt slowly made their way into the ballroom. They had to wait for nearly ten minutes to be greeted by the silver-haired Lady Haviland and the tall, raven-haired nobleman standing beside her.

  Lord Haviland's features were more rugged than Damon's, although perhaps not as intense, Eleanor thought, unconsciously comparing the two men. But like Damon, the dangerous edge of Haviland's appeal was enough to make every female head turn.

  His smile, too, was just as arresting, and his eyes were rimmed by heavy lashes like Damon's, although the earl's eyes were a vivid blue, nearly the same color as her own, rather than midnight brown as Damon's were.

  As her aunt had predicted, Lady Haviland was intent on matchmaking for her grandson.

  “I am delighted you have come, Lady Eleanor,” the elderly dame pronounced. “You will make Haviland an exceptional dance partner… will she not, my dear?”

  “Indeed,” his lordship responded easily. “I would be honored if you would oblige me with a set, Lady Eleanor.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” she answered in the same vein. Haviland seemed prepared to take his relative's scheming with good grace, and the appealing glimmer of amusement in his eyes made Eleanor like him all the more.

  Once they were through the receiving line, however, she shifted her attention to the swelling crowd and began searching for one particular guest. Her aunt spied Prince Lazzara and his distinguished older cousin first-in the far corner of the ballroom, seated before a cluster of potted palms-and led Eleanor over at once.

  The prince rose with the aid of a cane and bestowed a fond smile and a deep bow on her. “I deeply regret I cannot dance with the most beautiful lady in the room, Donna Eleanora,” he murmured once the salutations were made. “But you would do me a great kindness to keep me company for a short while.”

  “Of course, your highness. I would be very pleased,” Eleanor replied, taking the chair beside him while her aunt stood conversing with Signor Vecchi. “I am sorry your injury is so severe.”

  Prince Lazzara's mouth turned down in a woeful expression. “It causes me no little pain, but now that you are here, it will all be forgotten. And since you mean to sacrifice on my behalf… permit me to provide you with refreshment.”

  He waved a hand imperiously at a footman, who brought her a cup of punch similar to the one the prince was drinking. Eleanor politely sipped hers and made small talk with the Italian royal, and yet she found her mind wandering as she surveyed the assembly. She was thankful she saw no sign of Damon and held out hope that perhaps he would not attend tonight's ball.

  Lamentably, her hope was short-lived.

  She became aware of Damon within seconds of his entrance. But what else did she expect from a bold, dynamic nobleman who always commanded attention? Garbed in formal attire-charcoal gray coat, silver brocade waistcoat, and white satin knee breeches-he was taller, more vital, more striking than any man in the room except for perhaps Prince Lazzara and Lord Haviland.

  His physician friend, Mr. Geary, was with him, Elea nor noted. They made an odd pair, since Mr. Geary was short and portly and more plainly dressed, with bright red hair and a freckled complexion.

  A moment later Damon glanced around the ballroom and found her in the crowd. Eleanor stiffened, cursing the irritating response her heart made whenever he merely looked at her.

  His regard was more intent than usual, however… drifting over her gown, lingering on her bodice. Somehow she knew he was not merely admiring the rich design of the seed pearls. No, he was recalling what had happened between them two nights ago, the wanton way she had responded to his scandalous caresses… devil take him.

  Eleanor felt her skin flush with heat, even before Damon's gaze lifted and met hers. When their eyes locked, she experienced that same idiotic, overwhelming feeling she always had around him… breathless, spellbound, captivated.

  For the space of several heartbeats, the noise and bustle of the ballroom faded away, and it seemed as if she and Damon were the only two people in the room, enveloped in their own private world.

  The spell was suddenly broken as several young ladies hurried toward him, yet Eleanor couldn't help watching in resentful fascination as Damon greeted them with his alluring brand of male charm.

  She was not the only one watching, either. Beside her, the prince muttered a low oath in his own language, having spied Damon.

  “Must he appear every time I have you to my
self? His ubiquitous presence is growing tiresome.”

  “I agree,” Eleanor murmured wholeheartedly.

  Lazzara's brooding gaze was still fixed on Damon. “He seems to be pursuing you, Donna Eleanora.”

  “If so, it is completely against my wishes, I assure you.”

  Tearing his gaze from across the ballroom, his highness gave her a considering look. “Wrexham is a wild and reckless sort. Not the ideal a young lady such as yourself would wish for in a suitor.”

  The comment was posed more as a question than a statement, and when Eleanor responded, “Most certainly not,” the prince seemed satisfied with her answer and turned the conversation to less controversial topics than her choice of suitors.

  After perhaps another quarter hour had passed- during which a number of their acquaintances came up to greet them and sympathize with the prince over his injury-the orchestra began playing the opening minuet. When Signor Vecchi led Lady Beldon onto the ballroom floor, Eleanor was left alone with Prince Lazzara.

  “It is quite warm here, is it not?” he asked after a moment.

  To Eleanor's surprise, his face appeared abnormally flushed and a sheen of perspiration covered his forehead.

  The ballroom did indeed feel rather oppressive with the heat from myriad chandeliers and the press of so many elegantly clad bodies, but no more than usual, she judged.

  “Perhaps you will take a turn with me outside, where the air is cooler,” the prince suggested.

  “Should you be walking, Don Antonio?”

  “I may walk with my cane, even though I cannot dance. And I would very much like to have your attention all to myself.”

  Eleanor did not have to feign a smile. The prince was offering an opportunity for them to be alone, and she intended to take full advantage of it. “I would like that as well, your highness.”

  He took her punch cup and set it on the floor beside her chair, along with his own half-empty one. Then rising, he lightly grasped her elbow and guided her behind the bank of potted palms, through an open French door.