by Candace Camp
Damaris raised an eyebrow. “I thought family was all to you Staffords.”
“Oh, it is what has made us who we are,” he replied, his voice dry. “That does not necessarily mean it is a good thing. I think I could have spent all my days quite happily without my father.”
“He was a strict man?”
“He was a tyrant,” Alec replied flatly. “The lord of the castle, and none of us ever forgot that. It was, I think, generally the way of the Staffords. He believed in absolute rule and in toughening up his son. There are those who found Eton harsh. I thought it was much more pleasant than home.”
“I’m sorry,” Damaris said softly.
He tightened his hand around hers for an instant, then released it. “’Tis somewhat absurd to whine about the rigors of one’s life when one is an earl. Don’t you think?”
“I think it is possible to have both arrogance and misfortune.”
He looked at her and grinned. “At least you do not mince your words with me.”
She smiled back. “Would you rather I did?”
“No. It is one of the things I like most about you. You are neither scared of me nor plying your wiles.”
“Plying my wiles?” Damaris laughed. “Is that what women usually do with you?”
“The prospect of a title will have that effect on some ladies.”
Damaris turned to look up at him, her expressive eyes brimming with laughter. “And, pray tell, exactly how do they ply their wiles on you?”
“Careful, you will make me blush.”
“That is something I should like to see.” She tilted her head and crossed her arms in the manner of a tutor awaiting an answer. “Go on. Tell me about these devious ladies. What do they do?”
“You should know that better than I,” he retorted. “They flutter their eyelashes, just so.” He held an imaginary fan to face and batted his eyelashes at her above it.
Damaris broke into giggles. “You are terrible at it!”
“And they carelessly drop a kerchief.” He mimed tossing a handkerchief onto the deck beside him, then cast her a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “They put a hand on your arm, thus”—he reached over and took her hand, placing it on his arm—“so that they can lean in a bit and whisper to you.” He leaned closer to her, his face only inches from hers.
Suddenly the playfulness dropped from his face, and she saw the desire spark in his eyes. A breathless excitement swelled in her in response, and for a moment the very air between them seemed to shimmer with possibility. Then he broke from her, stepping back, and turned to gaze out across the water.
“There it is,” he said. “The sea.”
Damaris followed his gaze. The river had been growing ever wider as they sailed, and now it spread out in front of them, emptying into the limitless blue sea. The sun was sinking, and the sky in front of them was growing darker, dipping down to mingle with the deep-blue water stretching in front of them. A shiver ran through Damaris, in part from the cool breeze of the approaching evening at sea and in part from anticipation. Alec put his arm around her, pulling her close to his side, and they stood together, watching, as the ship carried them forward.
Dinner was plain sailor’s fare, a distinct decline from their supper the evening before at the inn. But they ate it as they had then, alone together in their cabin, the tray on the bed between them, and that made up for any lack in quantity or taste. After supper, Alec was restless, as if he could not find comfort whether he stood or sat. The cabin seemed to shrink around them, and the bed loomed larger as the minutes passed. Damaris ran out of topics of conversation; every time she thought of something to say, she realized that it contained some innuendo that rendered it unsuitable or would lead inevitably to a subject that was better left unsaid.
Being alone like this in a tiny cabin with a virile male like Alec made any situation fraught with a seductive undertone.
“Perhaps we should take a turn around the deck,” she said finally as she watched Alec prowl the room.
He practically leapt to open the door, and they went up onto the deck. It was dark, with only a half-moon and the stars for light, and there was a hush over the ship, broken only by an occasional flap of a sail. They might have been alone in the world. They walked along the boards, talking in the hushed tones that the setting seemed to call for, and stopped at the prow of the ship to look out over the sea. Moonlight revealed the ripples of the waves before them, and the boat rocked soothingly as it sliced through the calm waters. The rush of air was cool against Damaris’s face and sent the strands of her hair flying once again. Alec stood so close that she could feel the brush of his arm against hers, and the touch sent a shiver through her.
“Cold?” he asked, and shrugged out of his jacket to hang it about her shoulders.
The warmth of the jacket enveloped her. It smelled like him, a scent that was somehow both reassuring and exciting. She liked the feel of it around her so much that she felt obliged to protest, “No, you must not give it to me. Now you will be cold.”
“Don’t worry about that.” His voice was smooth and deep, with an undercurrent of amusement and something else, something darker and dangerously alluring.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, settling her back against his chest, his chin resting lightly on her head. She felt cocooned by him, warm and safe and yet vulnerable in a way that made her knees weak and her nerves dance with anticipation. They stood that way for a long time, lost in the beauty of the night, unwilling to break the moment of unspoken connection.
“I was married,” Damaris said and stopped, surprised at herself. Her marriage was a story she never told anyone. Not even her best friend in Chesley, Thea, knew the particulars of that part of her life. Indeed, it was a time that Damaris herself would just as soon forget. Yet for some reason, here in the dark, surrounded by Alec’s strength, the words had just popped out.
Alec made no movement. She could feel his solidity against her back, the steady rhythm of his heart. His lips brushed her hair. He did not speak or urge her on, but she could feel him waiting, his silence, his presence somehow encouraging her. The need to tell him swelled in her, and she began to talk, the story flowing out of her.
Sixteen
I was young—seventeen—and barely out of school,” Damaris began. “I was thrilled to be attending parties and plays and the opera. My mother and I were in Italy then, in Venice. My friends were Italian, but there were other Englishmen around. One of them was Barrett Howard. He was… oh, the sort of man young girls dream about: handsome and sensitive, with a very poetical lock of hair that fell engagingly across his forehead when he grew emotional.”
Alec let out a derisive snort, and Damaris sighed. “Yes, I was very young and terribly foolish. He loved me, he said, and I was certain I loved him, too. My mother was charmed by him, but she said we must wait. I was too young. When I pressed her, she wrote to my guardian. My father was dead by then, but he had left us well provided for. There was a trust for us, and one of the trustees was a friend of my father whom he had named as my guardian. This guardian wrote back that he would not allow it. He would travel to Italy the next summer, when I was eighteen, and if we were still of a mind to marry, he would meet Barrett then.”
She hesitated, and Alec’s arms hugged her a little closer. “I take it this chap did not want to wait.”
“No. No doubt you have already guessed the rest of the story. Barrett could not bear to be without me so long. We were too much in love; my guardian was a dry, cold, aged man who did not understand the strength of young love. I was flattered by the thought that Barrett could not live with out me, and I, too, thought my guardian, who was not even a man who knew me well, was stuffy and unreasonable. I did not like being thwarted, especially by one of those aristocrats who belonged to the world that had taken my father from me. Even though he was my father’s friend, I felt certain he hated me and wanted only to hurt me. So when Barrett suggested that we elope and marry without their
permission, I was happy to agree. When my gaurdian saw how much we loved each other and how we could not be kept apart, then of course he would give his permission.”
“Which he did.”
“Yes. After I had run off with Barrett, my reputation would have been in tatters if I had not married him. As it was, of course, it was a scandal. And it brought one of the other trustees to Italy—not my father’s friend, but his solicitor.”
“Ah…” Alec said in a knowing voice.
“Yes. Ah…” Damaris kept a firm rein on her voice as she went on, “Mr. Carstairs proceeded to explain the terms of the trust to Barrett. Neither my mother nor I had any control over the trust. Even after I turned twenty-one, the money would not yet be mine. It would continue for my mother’s benefit and then for mine, and would not come to me until I was thirty.”
“In other words, Mr. Howard would not get his hands on the full amount.”
“Precisely. He could not have the principle or, indeed, any money that the trustees did not want to give us.”
“I see.”
“So did he. He was infuriated. He railed at Carstairs, to no avail, and then he came home and railed at me. He told me that he did not love me; indeed, he had no interest in me except for my money.” Damaris’s voice caught and she waited a moment, swallowing as though to force down the old emotion that threatened to rise in her.
“He was a fortune hunter,” she went on in a dispassionate voice. “He came to Venice looking for some wealthy woman to swindle or some heiress to marry. I am not even certain if Barrett Howard was his actual name. When he saw me, he thought he had found the perfect victim. Local society was not aware of my exact origins; there were various colorful rumors about me. I believe he thought I was the granddaughter of some wealthy merchant or banker who had been sent abroad to acquire polish and an aristocratic husband. He had no desire to shackle himself to a wife, but I was a more appealing prospect, apparently, than some raddled old widow. He had thought that once he was married to me, my money would all be in his hands as my husband. And then, he said, he had planned to take my money and leave.”
Alec turned her in his arms, pulling her in and bending to lay his head against hers. “The man was a scoundrel,” he said fiercely. “And a fool.”
Damaris breathed out a little humorless laugh. “I was the fool. I didn’t see him for what he was.”
“How could you? You were seventeen, and he took great care not to show you what he was. You can scarcely be blamed for believing his lies.”
“I found out soon enough. Barrett told me he refused to live with me for the next thirteen years until my trust came to me, begging for scraps from my trustees. The morning after Carstairs visited us, I found that Barrett had disappeared during the night. He had taken my jewels and all the money Carstairs had given us to set up household. I suppose he thought that would somewhat make up for not getting all my money.”
Alec let out a ripe curse. “He should have been horsewhipped. I’d like to get my hands on him for a few minutes.” His hands knotted into fists at his side.
“Thank you for the sentiment. But I am afraid that has been taken out of your hands. He was caught in a fire in an inn a few days later and burned to death.”
“Good,” Alec responded unsympathetically. “It is the sort of death he deserved. Though I am sorry he is not still around so I could show him what I think of him.”
Damaris smiled, leaning back a little to look up into Alec’s face. “You are a fierce man.”
“No doubt that’s true.” His face softened and he raised his hand to brush her cheek. “But not to you. Never to you.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and leaned down to kiss her.
His mouth was gentle on hers and tender. Yet it caused heat to rise in her, filling her belly and spilling out all over her body. Damaris wrapped her arms around him, rising up on her toes to kiss him back. In an instant, the kiss changed, turning hot and needy. Alec slid his hands around her beneath his jacket, pulling her up and into him as his mouth moved against hers greedily. His skin flared with heat, and his body grew taut as he pressed her to him, his hands roaming her back.
Damaris’s body responded to him reflexively, her breasts heavy and aching, and a fiercer, hotter need sprang to life deep inside her. She dug her fingers into Alec’s back, pressing her body into his as if she could melt into him. The fire he had started in her the other morning, banked since then, roared to life. She knew how it had felt to have his hands caressing her, and she wanted it. She remembered the pleasure rippling through her, the breathless burst of delight. She wondered what it would be like to lie under him, to have him inside her, to hear his labored breath, to feel his damp, hot skin sliding over hers.
Perhaps it was wrong to want him this way; maybe her nature was truly wanton, and she was a wicked widow. Right now Damaris did not care. All she cared about was him—the taste and sound and feel of him.
Alec broke their kiss. He raised his head, gazing down at her, his eyes glittering fiercely in the dim light, his breath rasping in his throat. “We should not. Anyone could see us.”
“I don’t care.”
He let out a little groan, tipping his head down to rest his forehead against hers. “You make it very hard to act the gentleman.”
“I don’t want a gentleman,” Damaris replied boldly. “I want you.”
Alec let out a breathy chuckle and pressed his lips against her head. “You should go below.”
Despite his words, his arms did not loosen around her, and Damaris smiled to herself, leaning her head against his chest. “All right.”
He released her, his arms falling away from her reluctantly. Damaris took his hand and started toward the steps.
“No.” Alec remained where he was, their arms stretching between them. “I should stay here for a while. It’s, um, better that way. Safer.”
Damaris looked at him. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest. “I don’t want ‘safer.’ “
She started once more for the stairs, and Alec followed.
Inside their cabin, Alec closed the door and turned to face Damaris. His face was taut, his eyes bright and intent on her face, his whole body fairly radiating tension. He picked up her hand and brought it to his mouth, laying a kiss in her palm. His skin seared hers; his lips were soft as velvet. “Are you sure?” he asked.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He pressed his lips against her palm again, then cradled her hand to his cheek. He moved even closer, cupping her face in his hands, and bent to kiss her, touching his lips softly to her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes, before settling finally on her mouth. The kiss was leisurely, exploring, signaling that they had all the night before them and he intended to savor each moment of it.
Damaris relaxed against him, and his arms slid around her. Damaris had never been so aware of her body. Every inch of her was alive and tingling, and where his hands moved over her, her skin blazed. A pleasurable ache started deep in her abdomen and grew with each kiss, each caress. He let his hands drift down over her back and up again, moving with a feather-light touch. They curved over her buttocks, and his fingers flexed, digging into the fleshy mounds and lifting her up against him. She could feel the rigid line of his manhood pressing into her, pulsing and eager.
He guided her back to the bed and tugged her down to sit on the edge, then went down on one knee before her. He lifted one of her feet, placing the sole of her half boot upon his bended knee, and began to unbutton her shoe. Damaris realized with surprise that something stirred deep inside her at the sight of him tending to her. She wasn’t sure what it was—the nimble movement of his long, agile fingers on the leather or the care he took with her or perhaps it was simply the thought of him serving her—but heat blossomed between her legs and sent teasing tendrils up through her.
When he had removed her shoes, Alec stood, taking Damaris’s hand to pull her up with him. He found the few remaining hairpins that had not been dislodged by the
wind and plucked them from her hair, sending it tumbling down around her face and shoulders in a heavy curtain. Then he pulled her to him, burying his face in her tresses.
His searching lips found her ear, and he took the fleshy lobe between his teeth, worrying it gently, then tracing the shell of her ear with his tongue. Hot shivers of longing shot through her, bursting into a liquid ache low in her abdomen. He kissed his way down her throat, and Damaris let her head fall back, exposing the tender flesh to him more fully. He nibbled at the taut cords, his tongue trailing designs over her skin, working his way ever lower.
She drew in a sharp breath when he reached the soft top of her breast, and he pulled his head up. Damaris feared for a moment that her reaction had stopped him, but Alec took the top button of her dress in his fingers, slipping it through the material. He looked down into her eyes as he unfastened the neat little row, his gaze holding her as surely as his hands had. She felt each movement of his fingers, so close to her skin, and her breath hitched in her throat.
As each button fell to his advance, the dress sagged open more, revealing the creamy tops of her breasts above her shift. His fingertips brushed the valley between her breasts, and her insides quivered, a dark ache starting low inside her. Slowly he eased the dress from her shoulders and pulled it down, letting it drop to the floor. He ran a forefinger along the neckline of her chemise, the touch sending a trail of fire across her skin. He watched the path of his teasing finger, his eyes turning dark and heavy-lidded, then slipped his finger inside the soft cotton, gliding his nail over her nipple.
The bud tightened in response, and Damaris felt the movement all through her. Alec untied the center bow, loosening the garment, and rolled it slowly downward, revealing her breasts to his gaze. The cotton rubbed over her nipples, and he watched, with a sultry satisfaction, as the buttons of flesh prickled under the caress of the cloth.
Damaris was filled with a curious combination of embarrassment and pride as Alec drank in the sight of her bare breasts. No man had ever looked at her so. During her brief marriage, she had never undressed before her husband, and he had never removed her nightgown when they lay together. Certainly he had never gazed at her like this, as if he could consume her whole, as if his life lay in watching her.