A Summer Seduction (Legend of St. Dwynwen)

by Candace Camp

  “The city renders my company more desirable?” Damaris tossed back.

  “My dear Mrs. Howard, I am sure you realize that your company is always desirable.” His sideways glance held a flash of heat. “But in the city, there is so much more competition. I feared if I did not lay my claim early, I would lose all hope of a waltz with you.”

  “I would not have thought you the type to shy away from competition, my lord.”

  He let out a soft chuckle. “I confess, I do not… in most situations. But you see, with you, I must seize every advantage. You have not heretofore seen me at my best.”

  Damaris glanced up at him. “Indeed. Perhaps not. Have I seen you at your worst?”

  He lifted his brows a trifle. “I sincerely hope you will not witness me doing anything worse than knocking a man down in his own house.”

  Damaris’s mouth curved up provocatively. “Still, I have not yet been frightened away.”

  She saw the little leap of light in his eyes, and she glanced away, startled by the sizzle that ran through her in response. Lord Rawdon was not the sort of man it was wise to tease. It was even stranger that she should have the desire to do so. Since the disaster of her impulsive marriage and the further pain of its aftermath, she had been the most cautious of women, unflappable and steady, even a trifle boring. When she had flirted, it had always been with someone like Sir Myles, uncomplicated and lighthearted, the sort of man who enjoyed the art of flirtation itself and would press for nothing more.

  Yet here she was, with a man who was anything but uncomplicated, beneath whose still surface lay a wealth of dangers—and she found herself wanting to push at that controlled calm just to see what would rise to the surface. She had for years avoided danger, and now she was enjoying the thrill of standing on the edge. It was beyond foolish, she knew, but somehow she could not seem to turn away.

  They stopped at the periphery of the dance floor and watched as the cotillion wound to a halt. Then Alec led Damaris onto the floor for the first waltz. She realized suddenly that nearly every eye in the place was on her and Rawdon. She had not taken into account the ripple of interest that would follow when Lord Rawdon took the dance floor with a stranger to the ton. Clearly she would not be unnoticed, as she had foolishly hoped.

  But still, she reminded herself, no one would know who she was; they would not know her connections. Even if Rawdon or his sister were willing to answer any questions about her—and she could not imagine either one of them deigning to respond to impertinent inquiries—they knew nothing about her, really. The curiosity would die down as soon as she returned to Chesley; the ton was nothing if not fickle. There was no need to worry.

  She refused to waste this dance fretting about such matters. It was a heady feeling to be standing so close to Rawdon, almost in his embrace. Whatever careful inches separated them, it was impossible not to feel surrounded by him. The heat emanating from his body warmed her; the faint scent of cologne, cigar, and brandy teased at her nostrils. Damaris looked up into his face. She was so close she could see the clear striations that ran through his light blue eyes like shards of glass, giving his gaze its glittering quality. His strong-boned face was compelling. She realized that she would like to run her fingers across the flaring bones of his cheeks. She wanted to see that firm mouth curve once again into a smile. She wanted, in fact, to feel that mouth against her own.

  Damaris realized that she had been staring into his face for far too long, and she pulled her gaze away, glancing across the dance floor. She saw Genevieve dancing with Sir Myles, and the pair of them made a pretty picture, with Genevieve all white and silver beside Myles’s dark green jacket and golden-brown eyes and hair.

  Rawdon did not try to make conversation as they danced, and Damaris was grateful. She was too full of unaccustomed sensations. It was so much nicer simply to float in the music and the pleasure of dancing, to gaze up into Alec’s face and think about kissing him, to feel the pressure of his fingers at her waist, subtly guiding her through the turns. It was with regret that she heard the music build to its crescendo and stop. They remained standing together for a moment after the music ended, then his hands dropped away from her. There was a hint of regret in his eyes, and Damaris wondered if he could see the same emotion in hers.

  As they walked off the dance floor, first one man and then another made his way toward them to greet the earl. Casting a dry glance at Damaris, Rawdon introduced her to each of them, and in a few moments, she found herself in the midst of an admiring group. Rawdon, with a bow, excused himself, and Damaris spent the next few minutes bantering with the men as she filled up her dance card.

  The rest of the evening was filled with dances and conversation. Damaris could not help but feel a touch of pride to think that even though she was all of twenty-eight years old now and a widow from the country, she could still fill up her dance card and have a covey of admirers clustered around her. Yet she could not suppress a niggling sense of disappointment that Rawdon did not return to join her as the evening wore on. She saw him dancing at one point with his sister and another time with his grandmother, and now and then she caught sight of him around the room, engaged in conversation. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he was enjoying himself or filled with boredom.

  It was circumspect of him, of course, not to stand up with her more than once on this, her introduction to London society. Nor would it do for him to dance attendance on her. Such things would only serve to make her noticeable in the wrong way. Still, she could not help but wish that he were a little less able to stay away from her, no matter how correct it was.

  And no matter how foolish she was to wish it.

  Damaris realized that a small headache was beginning to form at the base of her skull and she wanted very much to slide out of her slippers for a few minutes. She had left one dance empty on her card before the midnight supper, out of an unacknowledged hope that the earl might return and claim it. Now she seized the opportunity to slip away and enjoy a few minutes of solitude. Making an excuse to her last partner, she made her way toward the other side of the ballroom, where a set of double doors lay open to a side corridor.

  A knot of people stood not far from the doors she sought, and for a moment, Damaris thought that there was something vaguely familiar about one of the men whose back was turned toward her. Quickly she looked away, for fear he might turn and see her and she would have to stop politely to chat. As she walked past, a woman said, “Excuse me, Mr. Stanley.” Ah, so not someone she knew, after all—the name Stanley was unfamiliar to her. But a moment later the woman strode past her, then whirled to stand directly in Damaris’s path.

  The lady who faced her rather belligerently was younger than Rawdon’s grandmother, perhaps, but not by many years. Her hair was still brown in the back, but the front and sides were heavily streaked with pewter gray, and her eyes, hooded by age, were an oddly similar hue. Those metallic eyes now flashed at Damaris.

  “You!” Her low voice shook with barely suppressed rage. “How dare you come here? In front of all the ton!”

  Four

  Damaris stared at the older woman. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.” The other woman came two steps closer, and it was all Damaris could do not to back away from her fierce gaze. “Do you think you can appear here and humiliate us like this? Do you intend to try to wring some gold from us in order to save ourselves the embarrassment?”

  Damaris blinked. She had never seen the woman before, but it was not hard to guess who she was. “I presume you are Lady Sedbury.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful you did not try to call me Grandmother.”

  “Trust me, I will never do that.” Damaris carefully kept her voice dry and detached. She could see the resemblance to her father in the woman’s gray eyes. His had been a lighter shade, with a hint of blueness, but the shape was the same, large and wide-set, though age had made the woman’s lids heavier.

  “Why are you here?” La
dy Sedbury went on. “You must leave immediately.”

  “I am here because I was invited, and I hardly think it is your place to order a guest out of Lord Rawdon’s home.”

  “Just how do you think the Staffords would like it if they knew that their ‘guest’ was the bastard daughter of a common actress?”

  “I think they would be most surprised to learn that my father was your son,” Damaris replied, relieved that her voice did not shake. “Do you care to tell them?”

  “Of course not! Is that what you are threatening?”

  “I threaten nothing. I believe it was you who mentioned explaining my birth to the earl and his family.”

  “It has been so long—I thought you at least must have the decency not to show yourself in polite society. Lord knows, your father left you well enough provided for that you should have no need to importune us.”

  “I have no interest in you,” Damaris said flatly. “Whatever you think, you are wrong. I would have lived the rest of my life quite happily never seeing your face. Nor do I have any interest in ‘disgracing’ your name or whatever you imagine I am about. I have said and done nothing to suggest to anyone that I am in any way connected to the Sedbury family.” Lady Sedbury’s face flamed with dangerously high color, but before she could say anything, Damaris plowed ahead. “However, just because you were able to make your son desert his child and the woman he loved, just because you could bend him to your will and make him marry a ‘suitable’ girl, do not for an instant think that you are able to make me do anything. As you said, I am amply provided for, and you have made it clear that there is no familial feeling between us. You have no power over me, and I shall live where I see fit and visit whom I wish.”

  “You impudent little cat!”

  “Now, unless you want to arouse precisely the sort of interest among the Staffords’ guests that you profess to hope to avoid, I suggest that you get out of my way.” Damaris started forward, moving around Lady Sedbury.

  To her surprise, Lady Sedbury reached out a hand and clamped it around Damaris’s forearm, stopping her. “I will protect my family, just as I have always done. Get out of London. Immediately. Or I shall make sure that you will wish you had.”

  With that parting shot, she turned and walked away, leaving Damaris gaping after her.

  A little shudder ran through Damaris; she was suddenly cold despite the warmth of the crowded ballroom. She blinked away the tears—of fury, she told herself—that had formed in her eyes, and strode through the open doors into the hallway beyond. Pausing only long enough to get her light silver tissue wrap for her shoulders, Damaris left Rawdon’s home.

  It was wrong of her, she knew, not to at least take her leave of her hostesses, and she felt sure that Lady Genevieve and her grandmother would take note of her rudeness. But she could not face hunting them down in the throng of guests and making the excuse of a headache. And, really, what did it matter? She would not see either of the women again. She should have listened to her inner voice and not come to this party; from now on, she would follow her own advice.

  Damaris stopped on the stoop, remembering only now that Rawdon had escorted her tonight, so she did not have her carriage. After a moment’s hesitation, she started down the street, thinking she would hail a passing hack. She heard something rustle off to the side of her, deep in the shadows between the houses, and she turned her head toward the sound, startled. But at that moment, she heard a voice calling from the stoop behind her.

  “Mrs. Howard!”

  She whirled and looked back, her heart sinking. It was Lord Rawdon. She could not ignore him, but talking to him was the last thing she wanted right now. She tried to summon up a smile.

  “Lord Rawdon.”

  “Are you leaving? Is aught amiss?” He frowned as he came toward her. He wore no hat, having obviously left in a hurry. “I saw you go out the door, and I… was concerned. I hope no one upset you.”

  She wondered if he had witnessed the scene between her and Lady Sedbury. Damaris brightened her smile. “No, indeed. It is a lovely party, and I appreciate so much your inviting me. It was most rude of me not to bid you good-bye. But I have a headache, you see, and I—”

  He shook his head. “There is no need to explain. I am sorry that you are not feeling well. I shall give your good-byes to Genevieve and Lady Rawdon. You must not worry about that.” He came another step closer and looked down into her face. “I can see that you are… not feeling yourself.” He reached up to trace the line that had formed between her eyes.

  Damaris felt the muscles in her forehead relax. She had not even realized that she was frowning. His gentle gesture made her feel foolishly like bursting into tears. She looked down, swallowing the impulse. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  “Let me see you home.” He took her arm, turning her back around and moving down the walkway alongside her.

  “It really isn’t necessary…”

  “Nonsense. I brought you here; I will escort you back.”

  Damaris gave in and tucked her hand into his arm. The truth was, it was easier not to think of the scene with Lady Sedbury now that Rawdon was with her. He tended to crowd out all thoughts of anything besides himself.

  “I spoke the truth, did I not?” he asked, and when she looked at him quizzically, he added, “About the men lining up to sign your dance card.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Yes. I would almost think that you urged them to it.”

  “Hardly. I am not known for my generosity.”

  “Come, now. I believe you are the same man who went out into a snowstorm last Christmas to hunt for Matthew.”

  He made a half shrug. “It was a matter of a child. Somewhat different from giving up my advantage where you are concerned.”

  “Your advantage?” Damaris could not resist a saucy smile up at him.

  “I already know you. That is an advantage, is it not?”

  “And now so do they.”

  He grinned. “Ah, but I know in which village you live.”

  She laughed. “True. Yet somehow I doubt that you—or any of them—will trek out to Chesley to call on me.”

  “’Tis most unfair of you to say so. I was just there.”

  “To see your godson,” she reminded him. “On your way to London.”

  “One trip can have multiple delights.”

  Damaris chuckled. “Very well, sir, you have bested me.”

  Rawdon raised his hand as they reached the cross street, and a hackney pulled over beside them. Rawdon helped Damaris step up into it, but when she turned to take her leave of him, she saw that he was climbing into the vehicle after her.

  “But what are you—”

  “I told you I could not let you leave unescorted. I shall see you to your house.”

  “No, that is too much trouble,” Damaris protested, but the driver had already set the carriage in motion.

  “Nonsense. ’Twill be only a short walk home, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, but you are neglecting your other guests.” When he shrugged, she said, “Your sister and grandmother surely will not be happy about that.”

  “I have already stayed at the thing longer than I normally do,” he told her lightly. “I am sure they will be well pleased with that.”

  He seemed to realize that his words had revealed perhaps more than he would have liked, for he glanced away, looking out the window. Damaris was content to sit in silence and study Rawdon’s profile. She remembered that her friend Thea had expressed surprise when Damaris had once described Lord Rawdon as a handsome man. He was not, of course, the very pattern card of male attractiveness that Gabriel Morecombe was. Lord Rawdon was unusual, with his soaring cheekbones and pale, shaggy hair and those striking blue eyes. Damaris was sure that there were women who found Rawdon more fierce than good-looking, cold rather than ardent.

  But Damaris was all too familiar with smooth, handsome men who spoke easily of passion and devotion. Weak men like her father. Scoundrels like Barrett Howa
rd. Those who promised love one day and slipped away the next, leaving one with only sorrow to hold. Damaris was drawn to the strength in Alec’s face, the steady resolve beneath his cool exterior. He was the sort of man you could not forget once you’d met him.

  Apparently feeling her gaze, Rawdon turned to look at her, and he smiled. And when that rare event happened, Damaris thought, his face was more compelling than that of any man she had ever known.

  He escorted her to her front door, as he had promised, and surprised her by following her inside.

  “There is no footman here to open the door?”

  Damaris turned an amused gaze up at him. “Not all of us are earls, my lord. I took the servants with the house when I let it. There are not many, and I saw no sense in anyone staying up to answer the door. My maid is doubtless waiting for me in my chamber.” She stopped, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Somehow, with Rawdon’s gaze upon her, it was embarrassing even to allude to the nightly ritual of changing into her bedclothes.

  His eyes darkened, his mouth subtly softening, and Damaris knew he was thinking of the same thing. His reaction stirred a new sensation inside her, something entirely different from embarrassment. She could not help but think now of what it would be like to have his hands, not her maid’s, on the fastenings down her back, of his fingers slipping beneath the opened sides of the gown and pushing them apart, gliding over her bare skin, brushing the lace of her chemise. Just imagining the touch of his fingers, her skin was suddenly alive with anticipation. Heat curled deep in her abdomen. She could not help but wonder what the reality of his touch would be like.

  Would he be tender or forceful? His hands rough and impatient or slowly stoking the heat in her? It would be easier, perhaps, to still be a maiden, she thought, to have no idea of what lay between a man and a woman. If she had never known a man’s kiss, she would not wonder now how Alec’s mouth might taste or how soft his lips would be against hers. She would have no hint of the way fingertips brushed over her bare flesh could make her shiver. But she did know, and she could well imagine…