Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

  “My mother was my only relation and I’m afraid my stepfather’s behavior mitigated against developing any friendships.” She shrugged, lifting the piano lid. “I am as much—if not more—to blame as Thomas for the lack of entertaining.” Color began building yet again in her cheeks. “Most of our neighbors were not comfortable with our marriage, as much as they tried to hide it.”

  Hugh could imagine. “What about my family? We were never terribly close, but my aunt and cousins did occasionally visit.”

  “Thomas said Amelia was enough for him to bear and too much interaction with Lady Letitia was fatiguing, so he rarely issued invitations to Lessing Hall.”

  Hugh laughed. “I can’t argue with him there.”

  She seated herself on the piano bench. “We went to London on occasion, but I am not inclined to fashionable pursuits and I prefer to spend my time with my sons, reading, or seeing to estate matters. My days feel very full to me.” She looked up. “Have you any preference in music?”

  “I count Herr Beethoven as my favorite, but I will leave the choice to you.”

  She riffled through the pile of sheet music until she found what she wanted.

  “Shall I turn for you, my lady?”

  “Please.”

  The piece she chose was of recent vintage, Sonata quasi una fantasia, and her playing was superb. Hugh wasn’t surprised; she struck him as the type of person who would approach every activity or pursuit with intelligence and dedication.

  He took the opportunity of standing so near to study her. Even up close she was flawless, with creamy skin and blond curls that set off her pale blue eyes to perfection. Her lower lip was deliciously full, a sensual counterpoint to her prim upper lip and aloof gaze. She was tall, willowy, and sylphlike and even the monstrous garment that swathed her from toes to neck could not hide her beautiful body. But she’d spoken the truth when she said she was not fashionable. Her spectacles, gravity, and natural dignity did not lend themselves to giggling, mincing, and frivolity. But while her exterior was that of a beautiful, untouchable ice queen, she burned as she played, her lithe hands plying the keys with erotic mastery that made his body hum with desire just watching. Watching and wanting those hands on his body.

  Tendrils of her luxuriant hair had come loose as she played. Some spiraled wildly, glinting pale gold in the light, some lay damply against the exposed skin of her throat. Each time Hugh turned a page, he bent lower than necessary, breathing her in, inhaling her. She smelled clean, unper-fumed with anything but the vague scent of soap. Never had Hugh realized just how heady another human’s natural scent could be.

  By the time the final notes came to a crashing conclusion, Hugh ached with the effort of holding his body in check. The cavernous music room was silent but felt crowded and small, the atmosphere heavy with a maelstrom of emotions he had no interest in examining.

  Her arms trembled with the mere physicality of the past moments and a slight shudder passed through her, as if she’d just come out of a trance. She followed his hand—which rested on the piano—up to his face and blinked, surprised to find she wasn’t alone.

  Hugh gazed into her heavily lidded eyes and was astounded by the violence of his need to touch her—embrace her. Instead, he took a small step back, even that much a struggle.

  “You are magnificent,” he said, his voice hoarse. He took her hand and held it for an indecently long time while he drank her in. “I thank you for an enjoyable evening, Daphne. However, I believe the fatigue of a very long day has caught up with me,” he lied, kissing her fingers in a way he knew to be scandalous.

  His treacherous brain hurled compelling reasons to stay, complete with graphic imagery. Most of the images were variations on a common theme: Hugh lifting Daphne’s dreadful gown and mounting her like a depraved animal. He looked from her parted lips to her questioning eyes and released her, dropping a necessarily stiff bow before striding toward the door.

  Hugh cursed in several languages as he made his way toward the wing that held the family quarters, his mind still back in the music room. It was no wonder his uncle had decided to wed again after so many years. The simmering sensuality in her was enough to animate a block of wood. But could she have loved the earl? Or had she married him for a title and security? Hugh could not believe that was the answer, but neither could he imagine her going to Thomas Redvers’s bed, no matter how much she might love his library.

  Not that any of that mattered. What mattered was this situation had all the makings of a disaster. He’d been near her less than one damned day and was already well down the path to obsession. Hugh had no experience when it came to denying his passion; he had no experience when it came to denying himself anything. Denial had no part in his life. He’d spent every moment since escaping Babba Hassan’s prison living his life to the fullest—a vow he’d made all those years ago. And that vow had been especially true when it came to the fair sex. Hugh loved women, adored them, and he pursued his sensual appreciation as often and as vigorously as possible.

  He had subdued his urges tonight, but he would not continue to be so lucky. Even if his obsession led to something more than recriminations and heartache—which was not likely if his past relationships were anything to go by—a union between an aunt and nephew was considered beyond the pale in England, even without any blood relationship.

  “Blast and damn.” Here he was again, tangled and tied and twisted by society’s expectations and his own warring desires; the very reason he’d fled England to begin with! The situation was a bloody powder keg, and his pitiable lack of self-control was an open flame to a very short fuse.

  Kemal was waiting in Hugh’s chambers, his mouth already open before he’d even shut the door.

  “Please, not tonight, Kemal,” Hugh said, stopping his servant before he could get started. “Unless it is an emergency, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  The older man grunted. “There is no emergency.” He undressed Hugh in silence before helping him into his favorite robe.

  “You must be tired,” Hugh said, all but pushing Kemal out the door when he began fussing with Hugh’s evening clothing. “You can leave that,” he ordered, gently removing his coat from Kemal’s hands. “Get some rest, good night.” Hugh closed the door behind his servant with a decisive click. The only person he wanted in his room tonight was Daphne. And what he wanted with her didn’t involve clothing.

  He poured a stiff brandy and stretched out on the bed, balancing the cut-glass tumbler on his chest, watching it rise and fall as he considered the cool enigma he’d left in the music room. It wasn’t that he was vain—his lips twitched into a smile; well, perhaps he was a little vain—but women generally threw themselves into his bed. Thus far Daphne did not appear to view him as anything other than an inconvenience, which enflamed his interest more than all the lace negligees or come-hither stares in existence.

  An image of her face rose up in his mind—the way she had looked at dinner, when she’d so fleetingly exhibited that tiny flash of humor.

  Hugh shook his head and drained half his glass in one gulp.

  He knew the signs. When tiny looks—or looks of any kind, for that matter—piqued his interest, things were going to become uncomfortable. He had always reveled in his obsessions, pursuing them with ruthless single-mindedness, not stopping until he was satiated. Sometimes that took a night; sometimes it took a year.

  Hugh massaged his pounding temples and rose from the bed to refill his glass. He set the drink down, removed his eye patch, and tossed it onto his dressing table. Looking at his scarred face and blind eye in the mirror sobered him and reminded him who he was. He was a killer, not an English gentleman. He was a man who lived for vengeance and justice and had done so for fifteen years—and would continue to do so until justice had been served, even if that took the rest of his life. Hugh groaned as his overactive imagination suggested appealing scenarios. He had come here for one simple purpose: to protect her, not to debauch her or embroil her in a sca
ndalous liaison.

  Tomorrow he would speak to William and they would make every effort to get to the bottom of the threats. And after the matter was settled Hugh would remove himself from this country and from his uncle’s distracting young widow and go back to the only thing he knew: revenge.

  * * *

  Daphne ran her hands over the keys as she considered Hugh’s abrupt departure. No doubt he’d found the evening an agonizing bore and couldn’t wait to get away. Her fingers wandered back to the Presto agitato, the intensity of the piece feeding her already unsettled mood.

  He was the kind of man who would be accustomed to sparkling conversation with beautiful, sophisticated women. His appetites would be prodigious in that department and women would flock to him.

  According to Rowena, his amorous adventures had always been legion; why should that be any different now? Surely he would soon relocate to London, where opportunities for such activities were so much greater. And just why had he come back to Lessing Hall?

  Daphne realized she was pounding the keys with unnecessary violence and stopped. She lowered the protective cover and rose from the bench, going to the large mirror across from the piano.

  The face that looked back at her was familiar and bland. Aside from her hair, which she acknowledged to be attractive, she could discern nothing remarkable. Her eyes, although large, were a shallow, pale blue, the color made even more insipid when paired with pale skin and light hair. She could not see without the aid of glasses and she was unfashionably tall, just as her mother had been. In fact, other than her deceased husband—and now his nephew—she couldn’t think of a man who did not have to look up at her.

  No, she thought, as she looked at her milk-and-water reflection, there was nothing about her appearance to excite any ardor.

  The same could not be said of Hugh Redvers. He’d only just arrived and already she was falling under his spell. She should be appalled at her desire; after all, he was Thomas’s nephew. But her attraction to Hugh Redvers did not disturb her—at least not for moral reasons. But for just about every other reason? She shook her head; just thinking about untangling this mess was painful.

  How could she give Hugh back what was his without disclosing the truth not only to him, but the world? And what was the legality of such a situation? Daphne shuddered at the thought of consulting a solicitor. And if—when—she told him the truth, how could she convince him she had not duped the earl into marrying her? Would he ever believe staid and proper Thomas had conceived of such an immoral deception? Why would he? Nobody would believe it.

  If only she had some proof.

  Daphne snorted. “If wishes were horses, then poor men would ride.”

  Chapter Six

  It was not yet daybreak when the sound of a loudly whispered argument outside Hugh’s bedroom door woke him. He rubbed the sand from his eyes and pushed himself out of bed, shrugging into his robe before tying the patch over his eye. He found Lucien and Richard seated at the foot of his door, each in possession of some fine metal soldiers.

  Lucien grinned up at him. “Cousin Hugh, you’re awake! Mama said we were not to bother you until you’d woken up.”

  At which point they were to bother him at will, Hugh supposed. He peered down at the armies assembled at his feet. “Are you lads having a battle?”

  “The Battle of the Douro and—”

  “Mr. Philbin calls it the Second Battle of Porto,” Richard corrected.

  Lucien rolled his eyes. “That’s because he’s a curate and he has to be stodgy.” He cut Hugh a quick glance. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

  “Which side are you?” Hugh asked, dodging the issue of stodgy curates altogether.

  “I am Wellington and Richard is Soult.” Lucien sounded smug at being on the winning side. Probably not for the first time, Hugh guessed.

  Richard appeared unperturbed at being assigned the role of the unfortunate Soult. Hugh wouldn’t be surprised to learn the quiet twin had a trick or two hidden up his sleeve for his more gregarious brother.

  “Is it true, Cousin Hugh?”

  “Hmm? Is what true, Cousin Lucien?”

  “Caswell said your ship is the Batavia’s Ghost? That is the ship that saved the Agamemnon. She’s also taken more vessels under letter of marque than any other.” He bit his lip and squirmed. “If that is your ship, then—”

  “You are Captain One-Eyed Standish,” Richard said with cool certitude. At that moment he looked exactly like his mother—other than his eye color.

  “You are correct, Richard, that is my ship.”

  “One-Eyed Standish,” Lucien breathed, savoring the words as if they were a magical talisman.

  Hugh chuckled. “But you must continue to call me Hugh, Cousins.”

  They did not seem to hear him and hero worship blazed in their eyes. Hugh shook his head. Bloody hell.

  Lucien was the first to recover. “Rowena says the Ghost is anchored off Eastbourne.”

  “That is true.”

  “Sometimes Papa would take us into Eastbourne to see the ships. You can watch them from the Pig and Whistle. They have splendid lemonade,” he added helpfully.

  “Is that so? I am partial to lemonade.” Hugh paused, as if something had just struck him. “Would you care to come and inspect my ship today and perhaps have some lemonade afterwards?”

  “Yes, please!” The boys leapt up, soldiers forgotten at their feet.

  “Lucien, Richard.” The admonishment came from behind Hugh and he turned. “I told you not to pester Lord Ramsay and—” She stopped in mid-scold, her eyes dropping from

  Hugh’s face to the V of his silk banyan, a garment designed for comfort rather than concealment. As if on cue, a treacherous red stain began its painstaking journey up her neck. She was wearing another atrocious gown, this one a dreary gray the texture of tree bark.

  Hugh decided he liked her eyes on his body. “Good morning, Daphne.” He also decided he liked saying her name first thing in the morning.

  Her eyes jerked up, and she blinked, as if surprised to find a head connected to his body. Her rigid posture and flushed countenance gave away her unease but her expression was as cool and rippleless as a frozen pond.

  “Lucien, Richard, please gather your soldiers, it is time for your breakfast.”

  “But, Mama—”

  Daphne raised her eyebrows and Lucien heaved a pained sigh but began collecting his toys, muttering beneath his breath.

  She looked anywhere but at Hugh, her compressed lips and stern expression only making him harder. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the door frame, the movement causing his robe to open wider. “I’ve offered to take the boys to see my ship today.”

  Her eyes flickered up at the statement and became stuck on his chest.

  She cleared her throat. “That is very kind of you.”

  Hugh grinned at the almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. “I would welcome your company, if you have the time.”

  “Perhaps. We can discuss the matter at breakfast.” She looked away. “Once you’ve had time to put on some clothes.”

  Hugh laughed at her chiding tone, the same one she’d used on the boys.

  She ignored him and hustled the boys down the hall.

  * * *

  Daphne shepherded the twins toward the schoolroom, cursing herself for a bumbling and blushing ninny in the face of nothing more than a naked male chest. Well, and he’d not been wearing a nightshirt beneath his ridiculous silk robe, either. What kind of man wore such outrageous, sensual clothing?

  Daphne shook her head, irritated by the stray thought.

  Besides, it hadn’t been the robe so much as what was beneath it. She might be ignorant when it came to sexual relations between men and women, but she understood the biology of male arousal. The man was outrageous to be standing about in broad daylight like a stallion in rut. And she was an idiot to have reacted like a slack-jawed chit.

  Daphne pushed away the memory of his monstrously tente
d robe, instead recalling his offer to take the boys with him today. She felt an unpleasant smile curve her lips. The arrogant and mostly naked man might know how to fluster gauche countrywomen, but he had no idea what an outing with two enthusiastic young boys entailed.

  Her smile grew at the image of the imperturbable rake after a day spent with Lucien and Richard, running amok and unchecked. It would be no less than he deserved if she allowed him to take the lively twins with nobody but himself to curb their behavior. Indeed, that was what she should have done—left him with them.

  Instead, she had simpered. Simpered! How very kind of you. We can discuss it at breakfast, she mimicked under her breath.

  Well, it could have been far worse. Her first impulse when she’d seen his bare chest had been to flee in terror. Instead, she’d stood like a post, torn between her fear his robe would open wider and the desperate desire that it might. Thankfully, that portion of hallway was dimly lighted so at least he hadn’t been able to see her wretched blush.

  Daphne cringed at the memory of the brief exchange. She was a respectable widow, not a girl in her first Season. It was time she learned to behave like one.

  * * *

  Hugh, Daphne, the boys, Kemal, and Rowena departed for Hugh’s ship shortly after breakfast. Daphne could not decide whether Rowena had come along to watch her, Hugh, or the boys.

  For his part, Hugh looked as amiable as ever and seemed to notice nothing amiss, focusing his attention on the boys rather than Rowena’s raptor-like stare. He fielded their nonstop questions with an easy competence that made it seem as if he’d been doing nothing but raising boys all his life.

  Rowena sat across from Hugh and stared, unblinking and harsh-faced, like some pagan totem—as if she suspected he might produce a cutlass from his impeccably tailored coat and kill them all where they sat.