by Cheryl Holt
“I better not.”
“Scared, Miss Fogarty?”
“No, not scared. I simply don’t like you, and I don’t wish to fraternize.”
“You don’t like me? You barely know me. How could you have gathered sufficient facts to have formed an opinion?”
“Why aren’t you out at the barn?”
“Doing what?” He frowned. “Oh, you’re referring to my party.”
“Yes, why aren’t you there?”
“I wanted to sit up here, like a king in his castle, and survey my domain.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Was what?”
“Your quarrel with Miles. Was it worth all this upheaval?”
“Definitely.”
“Well…good. I’m delighted to hear it.”
“Are you?”
“Absolutely,” she lied.
He barked out a laugh, the one that always sounded rusty and unused. “You’re the worst liar.”
He downed his liquor, then poured a third glass, and she wondered how long he’d been drinking and brooding.
“Are you a drunkard, Mr. Drummond?”
“Not usually.”
“Why are you over-imbibing?”
“I’m not over-imbibing. So far, I’ve had just enough.”
“In my experience, men drink to excess when they’re feeling bad or unhappy. Which is it with you?”
“I’m drinking because I can, Miss Fogarty. I had the butler bring me several bottles of Miles’s best brandy, and I’m enjoying every drop.”
“It’s not because you feel a tad guilty? Your conscience isn’t bothering you?”
“First of all, I never feel guilty about anything. And second of all, I don’t have a conscience.”
“Everyone has a conscience, Mr. Drummond.”
“Not me. It was hammered out of me at a very young age.”
He assessed her with those dark eyes of his, his gaze hard and cold. Was it possible for a person to lack a conscience? She didn’t think so, but then she could be wrong.
“What did Miles do to you all those years ago?”
“You didn’t ask him?”
“I asked him, but I don’t necessarily believe what he tells me.”
“You’re a smart girl then.”
“He said you told some lies about him so he’d be in trouble.”
“He said that, did he?”
“Yes.”
“I’m bigger than he is these days. Perhaps I’ll pummel him into the ground for making slurs against my character. I couldn’t when I was ten, but I’m betting I could now.”
She pictured him stomping over to Drummond Cottage, dragging Miles out and delivering a thrashing. The prospect had her weak with fatigue.
“I won’t have you strutting around pummeling people, Mr. Drummond.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
“You humor me, Miss Fogarty. I’ll say that for you.”
He stood and walked over to her. Again she urged herself to run out, but she didn’t. He was always trying to intimidate her, and she wasn’t about to let him. He leaned in, trapping her against the doorframe, and still she didn’t move back, didn’t shove him away. She peered up at him, her stern expression apprising him that she wasn’t afraid of him and he couldn’t bully her.
“Miles wrecked my life,” he quietly said, “and killed my grandfather.”
“He wrecked your life and killed your grandfather? That’s quite a list.”
“Isn’t it though?”
“How did he wreck your life?”
“He was sent home from school, and he was bored and getting into mischief.”
“What sort of mischief?”
“He would ride out on the road and pretend to be a highwayman. One afternoon, he actually robbed an aristocrat who was traveling by. When the man’s outriders came searching for the culprit, I told them the truth—that Miles was the bandit.”
“What happened to Miles after you told?”
He snorted with disgust. “Nothing happened to him, Miss Fogarty. It all happened to me and my grandfather. You’ve lived here for years. You’re aware that no one can tell the truth about Miles.”
“You were evicted because you told the truth?”
“Yes. What would you suppose the result to be?”
“Why didn’t you inform Edward of what had occurred? Why didn’t your grandfather speak up for you?”
“Miss Fogarty, you’re not a dunce. My grandfather did speak up for me. Edward was standing there. He had to pick a side: mine or his son’s. Which side would you predict he picked?”
It was a rhetorical question that required no reply.
“You said Miles killed your grandfather? How? I thought your grandfather was fired.”
“He was proud and decent, and he was crushed when he was let go.”
“I don’t see how that amounts to a killing.”
“He dropped dead on the streets of London. He couldn’t bear the shame and disgrace of being terminated. His father and grandfather had been estate agent before him. His heart gave out and he died.”
“What became of you after that?”
For an eternity, he gaped at her, then finally said, “What do you imagine became of me? I was a young boy in a very large and strange city, and my only relative was dead at my feet.”
“Oh.”
She waited, expecting him to expound, to explain how he’d weathered his grandfather’s passing. But he simply stared at her, looking aggravated that she’d forced him to conjure painful memories.
“How did you survive the ordeal?” she asked.
“That’s none of your business at all.”
“You seem to have recovered and thrived through adversity.”
“Haven’t I just?” he sneered.
“You claim to be rich too.”
“I couldn’t spend my fortune if I had ten lifetimes to try.”
“How did you acquire it?”
“That’s none of your business either.”
“You’ve prospered—in spite of everything.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Tell me how you managed. I’m genuinely curious.”
For a fleeting second, she noted a sign of old torment. Yet as quickly as it flashed into the open, it was concealed.
“You’re annoying me, Miss Fogarty.”
“I don’t mean to. I’m merely desperate to understand what’s transpired.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“You’re so obstinate.”
“You have no idea.” He stepped away and pointed to the door. “Would you go?”
“No.”
“I thought I was intrigued by your visit, but I’m not. You exhaust me with your questions.”
“You don’t feel I have the right to ask them?”
“No. I think you need to buck up and prepare to face the slings and arrows that are about to come winging in your direction.”
“Stop being so cruel to me and my family.”
“I don’t want to stop. I’m having too much fun ruining all of you.”
“But why me? I’d never even met you prior to your arriving at Kirkwood, and I played no part in your earlier troubles. Why punish me?”
“Because I can, Miss Fogarty.” He leaned nearer and hissed. “Because I like it. Now drag your shapely ass out of here before you wish you hadn’t stayed.”
Damian glared at Miss Fogarty, and she glared back.
He’d had too much to drink and was in a foul mood. He should have been celebrating. Not down in the barn with his men and his servants. He wasn’t overly social, and he hated crowds, but he’d assumed he’d revel in his achievement.
Instead he was wondering if it had all been worth it. He was back, but the prize was something he didn’t really desire. He’d sailed the globe and traveled the world. He’d grown obscenely rich and survived adventures he never should have survived.
His days trapped at Kirkwood str
etched like the road to Hades. He’d decided he would remain on the property just long enough to be rid of the Marshalls, then he’d torch the house and ride away.
In the interim, he was bored and lonely and sickened by the blasted place. Considering that he’d spent most of twenty years planning for this very moment, it was a vexing and humbling realization.
He grabbed her arm and urged her toward the door, but she wouldn’t depart. He could have lifted her and tossed her into the hall, but for some reason, he’d rather not act like a barbarian.
Idiotic as it sounded, he wanted her to…to…like him, to see that he had a few manners hidden under his tough, violent exterior.
To his consternation, she dropped to her knees and clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Please, Mr. Drummond, don’t kick me out.”
“Get up, Miss Fogarty.”
She didn’t heed him, but took his hands and held them in her own. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Miles will return to town. Sophia will wed Harold Bean, and Augusta will traipse off to reside with her cousins.” She gulped with dismay. “What about me?”
“Go with Augusta. Go with Sophia and her new husband.”
“They’ll never let me.”
He never succumbed to emotional overtures or pretty pleas. Coldly he stated, “It’s not my problem what happens to you, Miss Fogarty.”
“I was happy here. I was safe. Don’t throw me out into the world where it’s not safe. I can’t bear to live like that again.”
He scowled, hating to hear that she’d once been in jeopardy, that her life had been difficult before she’d moved to Kirkwood. He couldn’t figure out why he cared, and when it dawned on him that he was feeling remorse, he actually blanched.
“Get up,” he said again, and he pulled her to her feet.
“How can I spur you to mercy?”
“You can’t. I’m receiving payment for a debt that’s been owed to me for two decades.”
“Miles owes it to you. Edward owed it. How can I owe you anything?”
“Your surname may be Fogarty, but Marshall blood runs in your veins. It’s all that counts with me.”
“There must be a way to encourage you to relent. Tell me what it is.”
“I already told you.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“I will be at Kirkwood for several weeks. During that period, you can be my mistress.”
She stiffened, but didn’t try to slap him, which he viewed as progress. She didn’t get to ever slap him again. About that one fact he’d been extremely truthful. No one was ever permitted to hit him.
“I would never be your mistress,” she said.
“Then there’s naught to discuss.”
He wasn’t really interested in having her as his mistress. He loathed innocent women and had no patience with them. When he enjoyed intimacies with a female, it was in a bawdy house with trained doxies who knew what he liked without his having to explain. He’d rather be boiled in hot oil than teach a virgin what she had to learn. He was too busy to fuss with them.
But he was determined that she be convinced he could be horrid. It would increase his reputation as a brute, would have others wary of what sort of monster he was deep down.
He needed her to be wary too. She tugged at his buried conscience so the oddest feelings were roiling him. But his sojourn at Kirkwood was for business reasons: to complete the foreclosure, to take possession. None of those dreary tasks left room for a flirtation to develop.
She’d wandered in and had caught him in a melancholy mood that he rarely suffered and always ignored. She couldn’t sneak in ever again. She had an allure he couldn’t resist, and if he allowed future visits, he’d start to anticipate her stopping by.
He’d yearn to help her, but he never helped anyone. It made him too vulnerable. It made him remember all that he didn’t have, all he’d lost, and he’d yearn to get some of it back. But he couldn’t abide ties or connections. They only brought misery and regret.
In all the years since he’d fled Kirkwood, he’d only let three people grow close: Michael Scott Blair, his mother Anne, and Kit. They were all as damaged by circumstances as Damian had been so they understood his demons, and they never pressured him to be or give more than he was able.
He had to chase Miss Fogarty away. She was so prim and proper, so indignant about him and his motives. It wouldn’t require much effort to persuade her to leave him alone.
“You seem like such a smart person,” he told her.
“I like to think I am.”
“You claim you want safety and security, and I’m offering them to you.”
“On terms I can’t accept.”
“Why can’t you? Have you ever had a lover?”
“A…lover!” She scoffed. “Of course not. How insulting of you to ask such a question.”
“If you have no idea what an affair entails, how can you be sure you wouldn’t like it?”
“I’m a moral woman, and I know right from wrong.”
“Do you? Then answer this if you can. How can it be wrong to save yourself?”
He’d flummoxed her, and she frowned. “I’d have to commit many sins to acquire that protection, and as opposed to some people”—her glower indicated she was talking about him—“I don’t believe the end justifies the means.”
“I’m guessing you’ve never even been kissed—except by me last night.”
“I have too.”
“How many times.”
“Oh…dozens.”
“Dozens?”
“Yes.”
He laughed, and her cheeks flushed bright red. She glanced away, confirming that the brief peck he’d bestowed had been her only experience.
To his great surprise, it bothered him to imagine her wasting away at Kirkwood. She was like a wilting flower, her best years behind her. With no dowry and no prospects, she’d never be able to alter her path so it would probably be highly beneficial for her to participate in an amour.
Why shouldn’t she? It wasn’t as if she was hoarding all that virginity for a bumbling spouse, but he wouldn’t be the one to take it from her. Even if she begged to give it to him, he never fussed with innocents.
But she ought to be thoroughly kissed, and if he pushed the issue, he’d get his wish. He’d send her fleeing, and she wouldn’t return.
He stepped in again, his body pressed to hers all the way down.
“What are you doing?” she asked, looking worried.
“You should have a taste of what you’re missing. It might change your mind.”
“You could never change my mind.”
“Would you like to bet me?”
He slipped an arm around her waist, those pesky sparks suddenly sizzling. The sensation produced a giddy sort of joy he’d never encountered before and didn’t care to encounter ever again, but it was intriguing nonetheless.
He dipped down and brushed his lips to hers, then he drew away, and he felt very discomposed. It had been sweet and thrilling in a manner he didn’t comprehend, and the strangest rush swept through him. He wanted to kiss her all night.
“Let me go!” she scolded.
“No.”
“I can’t stand here kissing you.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I don’t even like you—and you don’t like me.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“It’s not appropriate.”
“I’m proving a point, Miss Fogarty, remember?”
“What point?”
“I’m proving that you should consider my offer.”
“I’ve told you I never would.”
“And I’ve told you that I never listen to women.”
“Mr. Drummond!”
“Hush.”
He dipped down and kissed her again, and this time it was no chaste brush of his lips to hers. This time, he kissed her as if he’d been waiting to try it his whole life.
In the entire history of kisses,
he wouldn’t have described it as being overly passionate. He didn’t run his hands over her torso, didn’t stroke her breasts, or flex his loins to her private parts.
He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more. She spent a few seconds attempting to deflect his advance, then she joined in, throwing herself into the embrace with a bit of reckless abandon.
The longer he continued, the more satisfying it was. He’d planned to teach her a lesson, but his purpose was swiftly lost in the fog of the moment. He had no ulterior motive. He merely yearned to get as close to her as he could—and stay there forever.
When he caught himself growing too aroused, when he caught himself wondering if he should carry her over to his bed, he realized he was in trouble.
He would never proceed to fornication. She wasn’t a doxy, and in the society where he was currently located, carnal behavior had to be rectified by a hasty wedding. He refused to be ensnared in her world and would leave as quickly as he could.
Still though, it was with a great deal of regret that he slowed and pulled away.
They froze, awkwardly gaping, and there was the oddest charge in the air, as if the universe had been watching them, as if they might have altered their fates. The impression was so eerie that he almost felt he’d been bewitched.
If he’d believed in superstitious nonsense—which he didn’t—he’d have raced out to find a white witch, would have bought a charm to ward off Miss Fogarty’s potent appeal.
“That was quite…nice,” she murmured, obviously stunned.
“Yes, it was.”
“You shouldn’t have done it though.”
“I’m not one to dilly dally. If I see what I want, I take it.”
“You want me?”
She seemed amazed, as if it had never occurred to her that she might be enticing to a man. In light of her reduced circumstances, she’d likely never had the chance to learn that she was, but he didn’t really want her. Some other fellow might, but not him.
“Yes, I want you.” Crudely he added, “But then I’m partial to anything in a skirt.”
“You’d kiss just anybody?”
“Yes. Just anybody.”
“Yet you’ve propositioned me. Not anybody else. Me.”
“It’s because you need something from me, and you have something I’m very interested in having.”
“My virginity?”