A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  They had reached the crux of everything. Damaris breathed in and out twice. “Because you had an affair with your brother’s wife. With Hugh’s wife, I assume. How old was she?”

  He frowned as if puzzled. “Twenty-five, I think.”

  “Ten years older than you.”

  “I was precocious.” He stood and moved away from the firelight. “We shouldn’t speak of such things.”

  “Why not? Apparently all the world does.”

  He faced her, but from the shadows by the bed. “Yes, all the world does. You don’t want anything to do with me, Damaris.”

  “Isn’t that for me to say?”

  “No.”

  She shot to her feet. “You were only fifteen. It wasn’t your fault!”

  “What is fault? I was old enough to know right from wrong.”

  “And you knew it to be wrong?”

  She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “It was half a lifetime ago. I no longer know what I knew or thought or felt or wanted. It is, however, like a thief’s brand. It cannot be removed.”

  She moved toward him. “It’s not a brand—it’s ancient history. Remember what you told me about my embarrassment? It’s etched in your mind, but not in the minds of others.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes, it is. Understand that, Damaris. Hugh let the matter simmer as long as I stayed away, but I made the mistake of returning to England, and of going to Cleeve Court to see if my sisters and mother needed me. It threw pitch on old coals. Now he tells anyone who’ll listen that he’ll kill me on sight. He’s even started a suit, charging me with responsibility for Orinda’s death.”

  That was a sickening blow. “How can he claim that?”

  “She killed herself not long after I left.”

  She gathered herself to fight on. “Do you believe she killed herself for loss of you?”

  A touch of bleak humor flashed across his face. “Too self-glorious for you? No. She cared nothing for me beyond a physical hunger and hatred of Hugh. But I abandoned her, and she chose death.”

  “You were fifteen,” she repeated intensely. “Why did you join the army?”

  “I was dragged there by my father. It was that or starve.”

  Oh, poor lad. But she wouldn’t weaken now.

  “So,” she demanded, deliberately harsh, “were you expected to take her with you as your mistress?”

  “I was expected not to ruin her in the first place.”

  “Fitz, she ruined you.”

  He rocked back.

  She gripped the front of his robe and shook him. “It wasn’t your fault. She used you. You bear no blame for it.”

  He’d retreated before she’d grabbed him, but been stopped by the bed. “Which doesn’t matter a damn.” He gripped her wrists. “My name’s dung, Damaris, and I’ll not drag you into it.”

  “I don’t care! We can fight this. We can fight it together. Why don’t you challenge your brother? Kill him. I’m sure you’re able.”

  He tore free. “Never! I hurt him once. Never again.”

  “Even though he hurts others? He drove Orinda to her death. What’s he doing to your mother and sisters?”

  “Damn you, Damaris. Stop this.”

  “No. I will fight for you, Octavius Fitzroger. For us. I want you,” she said, grabbing his robe again. “I want you happy. I want you at ease, and in silk and diamonds....”

  She was unfastening the robe with trembling fingers, even though it became clear, button by button, that he wore nothing beneath. He pushed her away, but she held on and pushed harder, pushed him onto the bed, and fell over him.

  “You’re mine! Don’t you understand? You’re mine, so your brother is my enemy, and I have money as my weapon. Money can silence him. If he takes you to court, money will buy more and better lawyers—”

  He kissed her.

  She felt his control snap like a silent explosion, and it was too late then for caution on her part. Besides, this was what she wanted; this was what she’d come here for: the fire in her blood, the ecstasy of his touch, the heat that would fuse the shackles around both of them.

  He rolled her, still kissing her, in a crazy tangle of limbs and clothing that made her laugh when her mouth was free, when he was kissing her breasts....

  Had he ripped her nightgown? She didn’t care. She tore at his robe, feeling a button snap free. When she couldn’t release more, she pulled it up, up, until her hands found his firm flesh.

  He rolled away for a moment and stripped. She struggled out of her robe, eyes on him, feasting on him. Dear heaven, but was there anything more beautiful in the world? Her body felt like one strong, starving pulse—starving for him.

  He had ripped her nightgown, tearing through the strong placket. She gripped the sides and ripped it further and further until she reached the hem, which she couldn’t tear.

  He did it for her, but his eyes were on her chest, on the bandage. “You’re hurt.”

  She grasped his hair and pulled him down. “Not any longer. Love me. Love me.”

  The fierce joining of hot mouths blanked her mind of all but need for him, his strength, his smell, his delicious muscles moving beneath silky skin. She kneaded them, possessing them as he ravished her lips, then her breasts.

  She arched high, crying out at that wild pleasure, spreading her legs wide because she knew where she needed him most. She would die if he didn’t come inside her, fill her, assuage the burning need.

  She felt pressure there—“Oh, yes!”—and pushed against it, wanting more, then realized it was his hand. But then what he was doing drove her beyond anything but bliss and need.

  Her body throbbed, her head throbbed, her breasts were full of aching, hungry need. His fierce mouth summoned a miracle of pleasure that shot down to his hand, where that other pleasure was surely going to kill her, but she didn’t care.

  She gripped him tight, writhing in a wild demand for more and more and more, hearing her own gasping attempts to say just that. At the same time she felt almost as if there were something wrong with her, something blocked. Since she couldn’t stop, didn’t want him to stop, she’d die here, like this.

  Then she shattered, or flew, or fell. All she knew was a pleasure beyond anything she’d ever imagined, a pleasure his now gentle touch drew on and on as his mouth sealed her gasps.

  When she spun out of the maelstrom, she ravished him in turn, driven to claim, to capture, to straddle him, wanting more.

  He looked as lost as she in the firelight, drugged and desperate. She licked his face, nibbled his jaw and then his ear. Despite all that wild pleasure she wanted more, and she knew what she wanted. Her body knew what it needed to be complete.

  “Take me,” she whispered, and nipped at his earlobe. “Take me now. Complete me. Please.”

  His hands clenched on her hips. She slid down to lick and nibble at his chest, running her hands over smooth muscles, tracing the arch of his ribs. She’d moved sideways to see him better, so she saw his phallus. So big—and yet a pulse began inside her still-sensitive body, a pulse of passionate recognition.

  “Now,” she said, putting her hand gently around him. He shuddered but didn’t fight her, so she lay back, drawing him to her. She worried that she was doing this badly, even making a fool of herself, but she’d rather do that than lose him. Besides, it seemed natural and right to coax him like this, to look into his eyes and bring them together until he was pressed against her hot, hungry entrance as her heart pounded with need.

  His eyes shut as if he struggled, or was in agony, but then suddenly he thrust into her. There was a moment of sharp pain, but she gritted back a cry and pushed hard up against him. This would not stop here. Could not. It was so eternally right.

  His eyes opened and he looked at her, seeming almost lost but loving. Then he groaned her name and moved in strong, deep thrusts that she met even when they hurt because she wanted this more than a
nything in life.

  Vaguely she noticed how he supported himself, how his torso never pressed where he might hurt her. Even in extremis he thought of her, and she loved him beyond bearing.

  She didn’t quite find that perfect pleasure again, but she loved the swirling madness of it and the signs of his ecstasy. His choked groan, his shudders, the pulsing deep inside her where they were securely, infinitely joined.

  She ran her hands up and down his back from buttocks to shoulders again and again, drifting in sated wonder. She’d never known. It was wrong, she thought, to keep this secret. Everyone should know. Everyone should do this as much as possible.

  Poor Betty Crowley, whose young husband died soon after the wedding, and whose second husband was incapable.

  He stilled, resting his head beside hers, breathing deeply, even desperately. At that moment she sensed something terribly, terribly wrong.

  He pushed back and rolled to collapse on his back. “I had better have killed you.”

  She reached for him. “Don’t be silly—”

  But he rolled back over her. “Damn it all to Hades, Damaris, I just ruined you!”

  “Ouch!”

  He jerked off her. “Zeus, I’m sorry.” But then he looked at her and, teeth gritted, put a hand around her throat. “I really should throttle you.”

  She swallowed, aware of how easily he could do it and that he was truly furious.

  “My chest did hurt,” she whispered, tears stinging in her eyes. “A little. And you didn’t ruin me, because I want to marry you.”

  “Then you ruined me. Rothgar will kill me.”

  “You can defeat him.”

  He practically levitated off her. “You think I would kill a man over this? When I’m in the wrong?”

  She sat up, swallowing tears. No, she didn’t want him to kill anyone, especially not a man who’d been kind to her, but this was a battle—a battle for the treasure she wanted more than anything else in the world.

  “I love you, Fitz. You love me. Deny it if you can.”

  “I deny it.”

  “And I call you a liar!”

  She remembered what he’d once said—that he’d walk away from any woman who doubted his word.

  He turned away, dragging in a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed, head thrown back. She should have her mind on higher things, but truly he was a most beautiful man.

  “I can marry whom I wish,” she said in the calmest voice she could find, “and I wish to marry you. Rothgar has nothing to say about it. I’m of age. He can withhold my money, but a fig for that.”

  “And how do you intend to survive?”

  “With you, and by borrowing from the moneylenders.”

  He dropped his head into his hands, his elbows braced on his knees, and his desperation finally silenced her. He really did see his actions as dire and dishonorable.

  And she understood.

  Too late, she understood what she’d done.

  When he was fifteen a woman called Orinda had stolen his honor, carelessly, in lust and to spite her husband. Over the years, against bitter odds, he’d painstakingly re-created it as best he could, even with fate constantly stepping in his way.

  Tonight she, in seizing what she wanted, had stolen it again. He didn’t believe they should marry, but she’d forced this upon him, where he should marry her or be dishonorable.

  It didn’t even matter if anyone ever knew what they’d done here. He knew, and honor was more than reputation. It lived in a person’s soul.

  How like her selfish, piratical father she was.

  All words seemed shallow. She longed to soothe him, to apologize, and yet still to find a way to possess him. She reached out to touch him but then pulled her hand back. Quite likely he’d throw her off, which would hurt her and slay him.

  He coiled off the bed, picking up his robe and covering his long, lean body. Then he faced her from a distance of about eight feet.

  “This is what we shall do. If you prove to be with child, I will marry you, if you still wish it. In the meantime you will tell no one about this. It will be as if it never happened. We go to London tomorrow, and there we’ll find your heir and eliminate the danger. You’ll follow Rothgar’s plan and enter society. You’ll meet eligible men, many of them far finer fellows than I. The Duke of Bridgewater may be exactly to your taste.”

  “How can I marry another man now?”

  “It’s possible to conceal the lack of maidenhead from most men. And besides, given your financial attributes, your husband will probably put aside any suspicions.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t be cruel.”

  She struggled off the bed, dragging her own clothes together, feeling soiled for the first time. She hurt between her legs, and in her chest, where she’d been wounded twice—one above the heart and once deep inside it.

  “It wasn’t cruelly meant. You will do as I say?”

  She stood with her back to that soulless voice, fumbling with buttons in the dim light. “What choice do I have?”

  “You can tell Rothgar what happened here. Or Ashart, for that matter. It might result in my death, or I might be forced to marry you. Are you a gambler?”

  She turned to look at him through blurred eyes. “Forced? It would be so bad as that?”

  “I’m the worst possible husband for you, Damaris. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “Whether I want to be or not?”

  “Whether you want to be or not.”

  The fire showed only the slightest, surly glow, and drafts nibbled at her bare toes.

  “You’ll thank me one day,” he said. “I hope you’ll thank me—”

  A shriek cut off his words.

  “Maisie!” Damaris gasped, rushing to the door.

  He grabbed her. “You can’t be caught leaving here like that.”

  Her loose hair, her torn nightgown, which was probably stained with blood.

  Maisie let out another yelp, then shouted, “Miss Damaris? Miss Damaris! Save us all, she’s been stolen away!” A moment later an explosion rocked the air, and Maisie really screamed, on and on and on.

  Fitz’s hand had tightened, but now he pushed Damaris away. “Stay here. I’ll see to her. Then you slip back into your room.” He looked her over, then shook his head. “Do the best you can.”

  Then, desperately, he kissed her, and it seemed to her that fate fought against their parting.

  He pulled away and opened the door—to walk into a flood of light. Ashart stood in the archway, the flaring candle in his hand almost blinding Damaris to Maisie, hands over her mouth, behind him.

  Silence crackled around them like thin ice. Ashart turned to Maisie. “Go back to your room and keep your mouth shut.”

  Maisie nodded fiercely and scurried away.

  “Ash? Damaris? Fitz?” Genova appeared with another candle.

  All in all, Damaris would rather have had less light than more.

  Genova understood all at a glance and stepped close to Ashart, close to her tiger. Damaris wanted to faint. As Genova had said, Ashart considered himself her protector, Rothgar’s substitute here in his house. And to him she had been violated.

  Perhaps he’d insist on a wedding? The look in his eyes spoke of death.

  He walked forward, and Damaris and Fitz retreated until they were all in the room.

  “I should kill you,” Ashart said.

  “He didn’t force me,” Damaris protested. “I came here—”

  “And he took advantage of it. I’ve ignored his reputation, which was obviously foolish.”

  “He was fifteen when—”

  Fitz grabbed her arm. “Don’t.” He met Ashart’s frigid gaze. “Yes, I’m in the wrong. But whatever you decide, it would be better if I accompanied you all to London tomorrow to ensure Damaris’s safety.”

  Ashart’s free hand was fisted, but he was otherwise in perfect control of himself. Damaris found it more terrifying than open rage.

  “Ver
y well. Rothgar can deal with you, as you’re his man anyway, I suspect. If I have your word that you won’t flee before hearing his judgment?”

  “No!” Damaris protested.

  But Fitz overrode her. “You have it.”

  Ashart turned his eyes on her. “You will return to your room and stay there.”

  The icy authority almost had her bobbing a servile curtsy. She’d never known he could be so terrifying.

  Genova urged her out of the room. Damaris didn’t want to leave the two men together, but Genova gathered in Ashart on the way so that the three of them ended up on the other side of the closed door.

  “It was my fault,” Damaris insisted. She licked her lips, then bared her shame. “I wanted him, and thought this the best way to break his will.”

  Ashart’s dark eyes seared her. “Then spend the night on your knees praying you haven’t killed a good man in your greed.”

  He grasped her arm and marched her to her room, pushed her in, and closed the door. Damaris leaned back against it, tears streaming down her face, with an ocean more aching in her chest.

  She thrust a hand to her mouth to stifle cries, and Maisie rushed over and took her into her arms. “Oh, I’m that sorry, Miss Damaris! I never guessed. But how could you? Oh, that terrible man. I warned you. I warned you....”

  Damaris burst into racking sobs in her arms.

  Chapter 18

  Damaris slept because Maisie insisted that she take laudanum. She woke when the shutters were opened, dulled by opium, remembering waking from another drugged sleep. Again she didn’t want to face the day or the people who knew her shame, but there was no question this time of running away. She couldn’t abandon Fitz.

  Surely she’d be able to convince Rothgar that she’d brought about her own ruin, wouldn’t she? Even if he barred them from marrying, he couldn’t kill Fitz for being seduced by her.

  But she knew enough of men now to know that he might do it. The challenge would be trumped up over something else to spare her name, but it would happen, and Fitz would die. He wouldn’t defend himself when he thought himself in the wrong.