by Gayle Eden
“It’s not my birthday.”
He did not answer in jest, but sat then, by her feet, drawing his hands out of his coat pockets. In one was a box.
Rubbing his thumb over it while he regarded her, he murmured, “Do you regret it?”
“What?”
“Us.”
She shook her head, searching his face. “No. Not for a moment.”
“Neither do I.” He nodded slowly. Looking down at the box, he said softly, “This holds a question and an answer.” He met her gaze again, “But before either is satisfied, I have a confession to make.”
Haven stiffened and murmured, “Who is she?”
He blinked. “What?”
“The confession. I assume—or was it some nameless wench at a tavern?”
He was across the seat and cupping her face before she could sound the last word.
Haven’s heart was nearly in her throat from the action. The look in his eyes did not ease it any.
In tones, she had never heard from him before, tight and rough, he growled, “How can you even ask me that? Never mind that I told you in the coach I would not lay with another. Have I somehow been experiencing what is between us by myself?”
“No. Of course not.” She covered his hands, her voice strained and alarmed. “I’m sorry. I—it just—”
She closed her mouth because the way he stared at her told her she had done worse by uttering those words.
His hands released her and he stood.
Haven sat up, now half deaf from the pound of her heart and blood in her head. His expression was terrible.
“I’m sorry.” She tried. “I don’t know what made me think that.”
“Trust. You do not trust me.”
“I do. I know you have changed. I just ca—”
“Changed?” he rasped. “Is that what it is?” He smiled. It was cold, distant, lacking any warmth his voice had previously carried.
Tossing the box on the seat, Deme did not take his eyes off her, but uttered, “Yes. Yes, I have. I am not the same man who did not know how to taste, breathe, or feel any pleasure in life. I’m not the one who drank so he could sleep and be numb of the memory that at twenty one, barely a man— he’d killed someone, because he trusted a woman.”
“Deme.”
“I’m not even the amusing and droll fellow who couldn’t walk a block without falling on his face. The one—, who for all the beds he crawled in, all the skirts he tossed, couldn’t force his cock to want what it should.”
She swallowed. “Deme, please…”
“Please.” He blinked and then shook his head. “I didn’t, and they didn’t. I didn’t know what that desire was until I looked into a pair of tawny eyes and felt as if I’d been struck by lightning.”
“I don’t know what else to say.” She cried, “It was stupid of me, and I am sorry. Please don’t look at me like that.”
However, he did and he said softly, “I couldn’t get enough of you. Of looking at you, listening, dreaming, smelling your perfume. I did not need whiskey or spirits because I became intoxicated from your kisses. Even after being in you, I burned to have more. Changed. By God, Haven! I don’t bloody even know who I am anymore.”
He took a step back. “Some obsessed with you, lovesick fool, who could not even be happy the day you went to see your Aunt—because I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”
Weeping by now, Haven got to her feet, her hand outstretched. “I believe you. I trust you. I just have never felt this way before. You make me crazy in ways that—”
He cut her off. “I started the rumor.”
Shocked she stuttered, “You, but we were—”
“That’s the confession—I started it,” he said bluntly. “I sent a few letters, unsigned, to known gossips. I started it—because I knew when I returned that everyone would notice what Monty and my father—the Viscount, already had. Because—it would give me an excuse to be seen with you. I knew you would enjoy the challenge. That my family would take it in stride, even foster it.”
Her hand lowered. Haven looked at his handsome face, blinking the tears away, she murmured, “All you had to do was tell me. We were honest enough in our desires. All you had to do was tell me what you felt.”
Deme motioned to the box. “I was trying to.” He turned and walked across the room and out.
First, Haven crumpled and cried. She wept hard, emotional, unrestrained, for a long time. Finally, she got up, cleaned her face, and picked up the box. She was sitting with it, unopened, when her father entered.
He stopped at seeing her, but then after looking at her face, he slowly drew off his coat and hung it up. Patrick removed his boots, his eyes going from her mussed hair to her red cheeks and eyes. Lastly, to the box she held in her hand.
He padded over, and without a word sat beside her and gathered her against his comforting chest. Stroking her hair softly, he held her a good hour before asking if she wanted to talk to him.
She did. She told him much about her feelings for Deme, and ones she had not admitted to herself, until those moments. She talked much of him, the real Deme—she had seen on the trip north. She told him of his visit, and why she had wept.
After holding her a bit longer, he sat up and allowed her to do so.
Patrick said, “The one thing a rich man envies a poor one, is pride, because the rich can’t buy it. Nevertheless, when a man falls in love, they are all equal. Because we all become vulnerable, and no longer care what anyone thinks of us—but her. Our pride is defined thorough her eyes.”
She shuddered. “It wasn’t doubt in him. It was my own—insecurity.”
“I know.” He reached for the box, opened it, and whistled.
She stared at the beautiful ring, topaz, emeralds and diamonds rimmed a band. Reaching to close the lid, she said, “Take it back to him,” and stood
However, Patrick stood too, and offered dryly, “You’re no daughter of mine, if you give up on love that easily.”
She turned, her eyes watering, “What can I do?” She shrugged. “I’ve lost him. Deme doesn’t let people see him like that.”
Patrick rolled the ring box in his palm a moment, and then said with a smile, “I’ll let you know when I get back.” He tossed the box to her on his way to get his coat. He pulled on his boots.
“Where are you going?”
“You’ll see…”
He left.
She looked forlornly at the box. “It’s too late. I know him. It is too late.
* * * *
Deme blinked at the thick smoke, seeing the interior of the Tavern thought a haze so dense the music, laughter, sounds of patrons, blunted his ears in waves. He was trying to set the bottle back on the table when it rolled off and clinked on the floor.
Reaching for it, his arm was grabbed by a gloved hand. Though his reflexes were slow, he looked up the same moment he was hauled out of the chair.
“Marston?” He weaved on his feet.
That black-clad figure simply grunted and half carried, half drug him across the room, and to the door. Soon, they were in a blustery wind and snow.
“Bloody everlasting hell.” Deme cursed when the frigid air cut though him.
“Get in.” Marston had a coach door open, and with some doing, they got him inside and on the seat.
Joining him, the Viscount tossed his coat at Deme when the coach pulled out.
“What are you doing here?” Deme put the coat on. It took three tries to get his arms in the sleeves. Afterwards he slumped in the corner.
“It’s obvious what I’m doing here,” Elisha Roulle said dryly. His hard visage was illuminated when he lit a cheroot. Blowing a stream of smoke, he offered it to Deme, and when he had taken it, Marston lit another.
Jolted by the coach, Deme muttered, “Your man drives like someone else I know. Can you not get him to walk this bloody team?”
“No.” The man was studying him and merely laughed when Deme groaned and raised the flap to suck in
cold air.
It was a short trip, thankfully. Deme assumed they were at his address, but after stumbling out, having to lean on the Viscount, they entered a house unfamiliar to him.
With his stomach churning and head spinning, he was aware of servants, people inside, but the décor of the room spun round him.
He heard Marston say to someone, “Your usual concoctions, Smith. And a pail, please. In the study.”
Deme was trying to lean against something, because his legs were giving out when the Viscount hauled him up again. Then they were weaving towards a set of oak doors. Opened, they revealed a gentleman’s study. All Deme cared was that Marston took him to a settee before a fire, and let him drop down in it before he keeled over.
The fireplace near him wafting heat. Deme could hear the Viscount speaking to someone, before something was shoved into his hand.
“Drink it all.” Marston ordered.
Deme drank, but half way to swallowing, he realized it was bloody foul. He opened his mouth to spit—but Marston forced his chin up and poured the stuff down his throat.
“You son of a bitch.” Deme shuddered.
A hand on his neck forced his head down, about the time his stomach lurched. He saw the pail between his booted feet just in time for his guts to spew up. The next few moments were misery, agony. The sounds of his wrenching and groaned filled the study.
“Thank you, Smith.” He heard the Viscount say, and then an icy towel was on his neck.
Marston’s deep voice above him told Deme who held it there. The man said helpfully, “Breathe in, through your nose.”
Deme did, feeling another glass being put in his hand. He made a shuddering noise and Marston grunted, saying, “Rinse your mouth. It’s naught but citrus water.”
Only half trusting him, Deme took cautious sips. Realizing it was indeed that. He rinsed and spat in the pail several times.
When the glass was taken, the pail removed, Marston moved the towel and edged him to sit back.
Deme did it more like falling, and felt another cold towel pressed in his hands. His immediately leaned his head back and held it to his face.
It took some time for his guts to settle and his body to receive the relief of having the whiskey out of it, and the towel on his face.
He dragged it down a bit, and saw the Viscount sitting in a chair, one boot on a stool, facing him.
“Why?”
One of those black brows rose. “Have you forgotten that everyone is preparing for Lisette’s birthday ball?”
“That’s not until…”
“—And you’re having a night of debauchery would certainly spoil it for her. As well as the Duke and Duchess—who are obviously pleased by your recent displays of maturity and moderation.”
Those silver eyes held his. “Selfish of you, don’t you agree, to once again dash their hopes, and steal the attention from your sister’s big day.”
“Don’t scold me like some school boy, Marston.” Deme growled and lowered the towel. “Only a prig like you would call drinking whiskey debauchery.”
If the insult hit, Marston did not show it. He merely drawled, “Why were you?”
“What?”
“Drowning in a bottle of whiskey? I may not like you, Fielding, but even I had to begrudgingly admit you were changed. Decidedly more responsible and tolerable, I might add. Since your wit tends to turn nasty when you are in your cups. I saw you as a different man with Miss Mulhern.”
At the mention of her name, Deme looked away from him. Spared from answering a moment, while a male entered with coffee, serving a cup to them both.
He was sipping, aware of those silver eyes still studying him, when Marston said, “Trouble in paradise?”
“Keep your bloody quips to yourself.” Deme took another drink, and then attempted to get to his feet—only to discover that despite purging, his legs were unsteady.
“Sit down. It will take a while for the remedy to work” Marston removed his foot from the stool, and set his cup on a low table. Sitting forward to ask, “Tell me what happened.”
Deme sneered at him. “Why would I do that?”
“Because, we might be kin someday.” The man winked.
“Ha. Keep dreaming. Lisette will not have you. And good for her.”
Deme rubbed his temple a moment.
Grunting, Marston said mildly, “We shall see. In the meantime, pretend we might at some point find each mildly tolerable, and inform me. For all I was among the most skeptical that you’d be faithful to the beautiful Mrs. Mulhern, I believed what my eyes witnessed to be, two people in love.”
“She doesn’t trust me.’
The Viscount’s brow arched. “And that surprises you.” He grunted. “You have one of the worst reps in England.”
“Yes. By God. It does. Because I—”Deme looked away from him.
“—Promised her. Gave your word?”
“Yes. But I also thought I proved—” Deme leaned his head back. It pounded with pain. “What’s the bloody use? It bloody well don’t matter.’
“Of course it matters. Why don’t you begin at the beginning? I am afraid I have only heard the gossips version. Rather a romantic and filled with drama tale that I knew immediately was rubbish.”
“Not all of it.’ Deme lifted his head and regarded him—insulted since he had been the author of it—even though it was overly dramatic. “Some of it is based in truth.”
The Viscount got his cup again and settled back, boots propped on the stool. “Go ahead.” He nodded and sipped from the cup. “Pretend I’m just a good listener.”
Deme sighed and sat up, finishing the coffee, then turning his body so he could get comfortable on the seating. His one leg rested along the cushion, his back to the side, and one booted foot on the floor.
Rubbing that ache between his eyes with a finger and thumb, he began talking—preferring not to view it as sharing some heart to heart with Marston. Rather he needed to hear it out loud, for himself, because tonight, half way through that bottle, he felt like he was losing his mind, having the same thoughts chasing around and around in it.
He talked, seeing the moments, hours, days, in his mind, somewhat without consciousness of the man sitting in the chair across from him. Deme found his emotions going all over the place too, particularly when he thought of her humor, when he talked about her effect on him, and her sweet passionate giving.
At some point, he fell silent and became aware of the crackle of the fire and the ache in his head easing. He opened his eyes glancing at the Viscount.
The man said softly, “You loved her enough to give up your vices, and moderate your drinking. Enough to know you wanted to experience her without the numbness. You loved her enough—so that her birth did not bother you. And enough, to start a rumor that painted you as some love sick suitor dashing across England to win her hand.”
That black brow elevated again. “You loved her enough to show it in front of all society and your family. But not enough—to tell her?”
“I was bloody telling her,” Deme husked. “She’s not a fool. Don’t you think she knew what I had been, how I was—and saw the changes?”
“Ah, so she was supposed to just know, that was for her?”
“Yes. She should have. I was going to tell her. I took her the ring and I—”
“—Didn’t love her enough to realize that such a question might still be justified, considering you brief reformation. That perhaps, it was not so much her mistrust in you, as her insecurity at not knowing you loved her. What possibly could she think—other than, she was just your lover? Just another woman in your path?”
“Because. I was not playing some game with her! I know that she knew that.” Deme growled, “I gave her my word and kept it.”
Marston sighed and sat up again, placing the empty cup on the table. Boots on the floor, he lightly locked his fingers and studying Deme. “And you no longer love her?”
“Of course I do. What sort of bloody ques
tion is that?”
The Viscount smiled and got up; he went over and nudged one of the logs on the fire to kindle it.
Deme made it to his feet, feeling steadier. He looked around the room, caught sight of a portrait over the mantle and uttered, “Who in God’s name is that?”
The Viscount stepped back. Hands behind his back, he considered the painting while flames flickered over the man's face. In almost casual tones, he supplied, “One of the most cruel and evil bastards that ever lived.”
Coming to stand beside him, Deme was immediately struck by his resemblance to the Viscount. “Some kinsman?”
“My father.”
Deme turned his gaze and looked at that hard profile; the craggy visage was as stone—save for a nerve that ticked in his jaw.
He turned back to the painting and murmured, “You don’t look much like him on closer inspection. His eyes are dead.”
“So’s his rotting corpse.” The Viscount looked down and muttered something, then went back to stand by the fire screen.
He glanced at Deme. “Your pride was bruised. You have had your way most of your life, and taken it for granted. Everyone forgave and forgives you any flaw, Demetrius. Haven is the sort of woman you changed and fell in love with—because she makes you want to do and be more. She knows you are capable of more, and will not let you slide by. Her love is the same. You two are much alike. But desire needs fuel—just as the heart needs it...”
Deme walked over, hand on the mantle shelf as he looked into the flames. “It’s madness. This love. This kind of passion.”
“She’s not just any woman, Fielding. She is the only woman for you. She’s the only woman you dream, eat, breathe, and think of.”
“Did I say that?” Deme laughed at himself.
“Yes. You did. And more.”
He looked at the Viscount. “She has pride too. I all but threw that ring.”
“You can’t go getting sotted every time you two argue.”
“No.” Deme shuddered. “My body can’t handle it.” He laughed. “There’s no doubt in me of that anymore.”
“So what are you going to do.?”
“I don’t know. When she gets over being hurt—”He winced. “Mulhern has a temper of her own.”