The Coachman's Daughter

by Gayle Eden

  Whilst he rode in relative comfort, Deme was also aware she was in the elements. Nothing new there either, but he found himself pounding on the roof about half way there.

  She stopped the team. He stepped out, looking up at her on her perch, her face shadowed in the hood.

  “Are you well.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “It’s raining…”

  “Aye. And in winter it snows.” She shrugged. “I can handle myself and this team, my lord. Your boots are getting ruined.”

  He muttered and climbed back in. so much for bothering. He pulled a flask of his own from his breast pocket. Monty would be shocked if he showed up half way sober. He was not intending to get foxed—but he was desperate for distraction.

  It seemed like a long ride to Wolford Hall, and Deme stepped out finally, watching the livered grooms lead the team to the shelter of Wolford’s fine stables.

  He knocked at the door and was greeted soon by the housekeeper.

  “Welcome, your Lordship.”

  “Thank you. Is your master about?”

  “In the study, my lord.” She stepped back.

  He paused while a chore boy wiped his boots of mud and took his coat. One of them explained the butler had a cold. He said something solicitous and then followed the lad to Monty’s study.

  His friend was there, but so too was Lady Juliette. She looked quite fetching in a quilted bronze gown with white silk chemise showing. Her riot of red blond hair was pulled back.

  Monty was in his shirtsleeves and it appeared they had been playing a cozy game of cards before the fire.

  “Deme.” Monty greeted him.

  “Monty. Juliette.” He nodded to the woman who had stayed with his family for a while, became friends with them—and whom he believed he had a slight hand in finally getting herself and Monty to the alter.

  “Is something amiss at Wimberly?” Monty asked while Juliette invited him to sit in one of the winged chairs before the hearth. She turned her own and moved the card table, and before long, they made a cozy circle.

  “Not at all. Mother is hosting a gathering and I wanted to issue the invite personally.” He told them about James and Aiden, soon realizing Monty was looking at him curiously, knowing full well why. He had hardly been sober, solicitous, or anything but foxed in years. “And—I was going bloody daft in the house.”

  Monty arched his brow. “We shall, of course, attend.”

  Deme moved his gaze and noticed Juliette staring at him too.

  She did not pretend not to, and offered, “You look better, Deme.”

  “I haven’t been ill.”

  Her dry, amused smile reminded him of someone else’s. “That’s debatable.”

  Monty offered, “Dare I hope sobriety is a more constant state in your future, than this path to destruction you’ve been on for years?”

  “No.” Deme grinned lazily. “It’s forced upon me. Mama and his grace seem to be taking the lads leaving rather hard. In fact, they have sprung quite a few things on me this week.” He spoke his father’s wish he take over Wimberly, and the fact the Duchess was inviting Marston down.

  “The lads are growing up.” Monty sighed and shook his head. “And I for one would applaud it if you did have something to do besides rake. You know those tenants and lands.”

  “I do. But I am not you, my friend.” Deme gave his charming smile. “I haven’t the nature to endure life with sobriety. I quite enjoy my vises.”

  Lady Juliette, as unconventional as his own siblings, offered, “You’re spoiled, Deme. It will not kill you to spend some time with your brothers, and at least consider your father’s wishes. As for Marston, I do not know him, but I doubt seriously that Lisette welcomes his being picked for her. You must make sure he is someone she could love and not just a title and fortune.”

  “Lisette will be forced into nothing. As for you summation of my character…” he drawled and looked at Monty before looking back at her. “I whole heartedly agree. I never said I did not get what I wanted. Don’t worry, I quite like my brothers company.”

  Later, Monty said to him when they stood by the open French doors with cheroots, the rain dripping now from the eves, “Stop punishing yourself.”

  “I’m not.”

  Monty turned his head and those brown eyes met his. “Yes you are, or at least you have got it into your head that you don’t deserve better, none of us can undo regrets. I wish you had come with me, back then.”

  “As do I.”

  “But you did not. I was not here for your worst days. However, we have been friends most of our lives. I have found my soul mate, but I still need my friend. You know me as I do you, Deme. This is a rare occasion when I have actually looked at you and seen you view me through clearer eyes— rather than the haze of brandy. It does you no good to protect yourself with it. If you never care again, you will never really get over it and get on with living. You numb yourself. You are over the facts, but you don’t trust anyone or yourself, my friend.”

  Deme blew smoke and looked away. “I don’t know what it is everyone thinks I need to feel or do. My future is secure; I have everything and have had it from the day I was born. My father says I lack passion and fire...” Deme laughed low. “You cannot invent something to give you that, and frankly, I no longer desire it.”

  “You will.” Monty grunted. “You’re a man in your prime. You will.”

  They visited a bit more and then Deme took his leave, giving Juliette a wink when she kissed his cheek.

  “Tell Lisette to come see me if the weather is clear.”

  “I shall.”

  It was not raining when they departed, only muddy and growing foggy out. Half way to the estate, vexed by all the unasked for opinions and peering into his emotions, he tapped the roof and the coach halted. He told her to drive to the village. For a moment, he thought she would ignore him, but with a flick, she took the detour.

  Deme told himself it was restlessness. It was everyone bloody lecturing him. It was one last hurrah, because apparently, everyone expected him to suddenly do a complete about face in his life.

  * * * *

  Four hours of waiting outside the smoky tavern, before Haven went in. It was noisy, crowded, with thick smoke hovering like a cloud overhead. Patrons were drinking, and gambling. Half dozen women in kerchiefs, and wool shawls hunched over pints in the shadows. The serving women ranged from fifteen to sixty, and were dressed in wool skirts and low tucked blouses, with over-corsets that were laced up under their barely covered bosom, and wearing caps. Aprons over the skirts on some were dingy, and much washed. The wenches were as coarse in speech when replying, as the men who yelled out to them.

  Familiar with the Blue Goose Tavern, Haven nonetheless kept her hood up as she entered the main room, turned right through the arch and headed toward a great hearth at the end.

  “What’ll it be?” One of the serving girls asked passing her.

  The brandy from earlier still burned and she was trying to shake off light-headedness. “Bread, cheese, some milk if you have it.”

  “Aye.” The woman met her gaze with a bit of mockery.

  Haven ignored it. At the fire, she took off her wet coat to let it dry, laying it over a bench she later propped her booted foot on, after seating herself in a straight chair. She idly watched the flames, aware of others in the room, but most notably conscious of the Marquis—who was across the way in a corner, his low laugh and murmured words mingling with that of a female.

  Once the woman brought her plate and cup, she consumed the food and milk then set the items on the bench. There were times Deme would not stop drinking until dawn, and she was hoping this was not one.

  She had words with her father, thanks to her exchange with the Marquis. She regretted them. She hardly knew what was wrong with her anymore. Lives were changing, certainly. She always knew they would. Her father told her about his Grace wishing Deme to take over Wimberly, and that pretty much pushed her make her own decisio
ns. Even if Lisette did not care for Marston, there would eventually be someone. There were none of them children any longer.

  Turning her head toward the corner, she caught a flash of green eyes before Deme rather loudly drawled, “I see my watchdog has arrived, Giselle. I fear our tryst is to be cut short.”

  “Greta, yer Lordship. She appears to be a sporting one to me. Seen her before.”

  There was rustling. Haven caught sight of Deme’s hand rubbing the woman’s wool stocking’d limb. Her full stomach tensed. She could tell he was whispering in the blond woman’s ear. A giggle issued from the wench before she lurched to her feet, apparently trying to coax him above.

  Turning her gaze back to the fire with a curl of her lips, Haven reminded herself it was a scene she had witnessed before. The outcome depended upon how well he could walk, and to be sure, it was less risky for him to be tumbling tavern wenches than some of the women he had in London. Titled ladies, widows, they adored Deme, and he appeared game for them most of the time. Their guardians were not so affectionate towards the rake.

  Intending to ignore him, she paid no heed to the scuffle and sound of his boots, or closer giggles from the woman. (Let him go up and tumble her, the quicker he did, the sooner they could leave.)

  She was surprised then, when he unsteadily drew up a chair and draped his arm around the back of hers, leaning over and down so that his face nearly touched hers. “You have lousy timing, Mulhern.”

  Drawing a bit back, yet looking at those sooty lashed eyes, Haven smelled the whiskey on his breath. “You’ve been here four hours. What is another? I was merely coming in to dry and warm myself. If you want her, by all means…”

  He blinked slowly, obviously intoxicated, but those pure green eyes remained on hers. “Want her…” His smile was mocking. “You mistake the matter, m’dear. It has little to do with her.”

  “I am sure I understand perfectly.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and eased him back a bit. “This is not our first trip to this particular tavern.”

  “Right.” He captured her hand before she could move it, never taking his eyes off her. Haven did not know if he was aware of retaining it, but he did and rasped, “My protector, Haven Mulhern, making sure the Wimberly heir doesn’t get gutted by some doxie or break his neck whilst foxed.”

  “Just so.” She refused to look from his stare or react to his mocking tone. She’d already let him push her; effect her, more than she dared.

  He was unconsciously rubbing his thumb over her hand, and his mussed hair tumbled on his brow like that did not help. His shirt was partly undone, the firelight showing his natural dark skin and sinew. It was disgusting that such a… Rake, could look so good.

  Whatever he saw of her own features, whatever the fire enhanced, she heard him murmur, “In a gown, I believe you would be quite ravishing, Mulhern. Decidedly not, like a watchdog.” His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered and then came up to meet hers. “I would almost dare that you could pass for a Lady of quality.”

  “I have no such desire.” She pulled her hand free and glanced away from him. “Go find your wench, my lord, so that we may return home before another downpour.”

  He sighed and stretched out his legs a moment, withdrawing his arm from around her chair back long enough to finger comb his hair. “It seems I am to be deprived of both oblivion and pleasure, Mulhern.” He slid his feet back and stood. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  She did not move for a moment, wondering at his mood, then stood and drew on her coat, eyeing him in the process of raising her hood.

  He stood backlit by the fire, his expression too enigmatic for a man who should be foxed. Oh. God. She really needed to heed her own good sense sometimes.

  With a nod, she left and went out into the damp night. Going to the head of the team, she stroked the horses and spoke to them before climbing up on her perch. When he came out, hat on, coat on, he did not look at her before climbing inside.

  It was slow going, thanks to fog, though the horses could find their way by instinct, so well did they know the roads.

  They were already on Wimberly lands when he knocked on the door.

  She slowed and expected it when he emerged and jumped a ditch to reach the clearing beyond. Haven set the brake and got down; reaching inside the coach, she pulled a case from under the seat and took out a cloth and flask. The flask had lemon water in it. She went in his direction, feeling her boots sink and slide in mud. Finding him at length, slightly bent over, hands on his knees.

  “Here.”

  He took the items blindly, uncapped, rinsed, spit, wet the cloth and cleaned his tongue and teeth, and then wiped his face before straightening and doing the mouth rinsing several times.

  Taking the empty flask, she pushed her hood back and watched him arch his neck, drawing in deep breaths through his nose repeatedly.

  When he lowered it and glanced at her, she refused to let herself respond to that handsome visage. He deserved his misery.

  “I was taking my time.”

  “For a change.” He smiled slightly. “I half expected to be thrown about as usual.”

  “I was tempted, but the fog is too thick, I wouldn’t risk the horses.”

  “I am glad you have a care for the horses,” he said ironically.

  She did not know what to think about that twinkle in his eyes.

  He searched in his watch pocket a moment and then extracted peppermint, sliding it between his white teeth whilst still watching her.

  After a moment of staring at her, he murmured, “Men don’t have a passion for women like that, Mulhern.”

  “I don’t recall asking if you did.” She turned to walk toward the coach, hearing him walking a bit behind her.

  A few steps from the coach he said in the foggy night, “I haven’t made love to a woman in years.”

  “I’m sure you have.” Her foot was on the step to climb up when he caught her arm. She was forced to lower it, stand there, with him holding her arm and very close behind her whilst he leaned his head down and whispered, “These suitors you mentioned, do you make love with them.”

  “No.”

  “No….” He repeated and then spread chills over her skin when his lips nearly touched her ear. “Neither do I…make love.”

  “You have bedded half of London.” She tried to pull away but the coach was before her.

  He snaked his arm across her waist, effectively trapping her for a moment, and Haven was too uncertain of his mood and intent to do more than still herself.

  Somewhere against her hair, he husked, “Bedding. No, not even that. I have nearly forgotten what the heady feeling of desire is. Women are drawn to me, to be sure. They are a complete blur in my mind.”

  “I pity them, then.”

  “Yes. You should. I should be more gallant and turn down all the offers.”

  She snorted and drew in her breath. “What do you expect me to say, that I feel sorry for you? You may well be used, but you do so in turn. If that isn’t what you desire, it’s your fault.”

  “True. Do you know, until recently I did not give much thought to you as woman grown, Mulhern.”

  “It’s nothing to you.”

  “Are you a virgin then? Pure, untouched…”

  “That’s none of your business.” She reached for his arm, pushing it down, and moving her body away.

  Turning to look at him, she saw his slightly mocking smile and said, “You’re intoxicated. I am quite used to your being so. There is no point in trying to provoke me, my lord. Get in the coach. We’re only a mile from home.”

  He reached out so that his fingertips touched her cheek in the shadow of the hood, and then they grazed her lips. Haven’s knees shook. Foxed or no, she was struggling to resist the thrall of him. She was coming to realize what that “effect” he had on her was, and knowing him as she did, knowing too much, she needed to resist.

  His sooty lashes half-mast, a particular glow in those green eyes, he drawled huskily, “Wo
men who don’t know their appeal are rare, very rare. And such a woman… can intoxicate a man in every way.”

  Her breath shallow, Haven watched that hand drop and did not swallow until he moved and got into the coach. For a while, she leaned against it, eyes closed, fingers scoring over her lips. Dear God. She had experienced his drunken sarcasm, his curses, even comical and embarrassing moments with him, but never this. Whatever was his mood, she had not seen it before. He hid everything behind raking and drinking. This was the rake, the seducer, and no wonder women succumbed.

  Once in her seat, having the ribbons, she hardly saw the foggy night or registered the distance. (We do not make love), he had said. She was not so green as to not know he meant being intimate with passion and desire. She had long observed that he took what was offered, and that females cared not apparently. She did not feel sorry for him, but she wished she did not know he made the distinction—and apparently thought much about it.

  They could not arrive at the coach house soon enough for Haven.

  She silently unhitched the team after the Marquis alighted, and then led the horses down to the stable, where she was met by two sleepy eyed lads who took them.

  Back at the coach house, she removed her coat and smoothed her hair, the lads showing up smartly, to back the conveyance in the proper place for cleaning the next morning.

  Sitting on the thick lower step to her father’s apartments, she had assumed Deme was gone, on his way to the manor house. However, after the lads left, she heard splashing, and left her coat where it was, walking to right to find him coatless too, his hat lay with it on a stool, while he washed his face in a pail of water.

  From a lantern left for her by her father, she watched the droplets on his swarthy hands before he shoved his hair into some order. He used his handkerchief to dry his face; his sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

  As he dragged the cloth down, he turned toward her. “Would it wake your father if you fetched me some coffee?”

  “No.” She sighed, realizing he was not going anywhere yet. She motioned to a polished slat door. “In there is a small office, I’ll be right back.”