“She usually takes Caswell and he is well able to protect her against Hastings.”
Hugh snorted. “She’s already proven herself more than capable of dispatching that rogue.”
Will unbent enough to chuckle, but Hugh could not join him.
Yes, she might be able to protect herself from Hastings, but who would protect her from Hugh?
Chapter Eight
God ignored Daphne’s prayers, and three days later the morning dawned clear and warm, an almost unprecedented English spring day. As planned, Daphne and Hugh met after breakfast and rode out to inspect the Dower House.
The old house was a ramshackle monstrosity to the west of Lessing Hall, just beyond the boundaries of its well-manicured park. As they rode down the overgrown drive, Daphne realized it had been over a year since she’d last been near the old house—not since before Thomas had been injured.
“My goodness, the roses are in a poor state,” she said, as Hugh helped her dismount and tethered their horses to a post near the long, rose-covered walk.
“They’re not the only thing that wants tending.” Hugh frowned as his eye drifted over the wild lawn and overgrown shrubbery. “I remember coming here as a young boy.” He ducked low under the rose arbor to avoid long tendrils that snagged at his head. “My great aunts Matilda and Mary lived here for many years. They were spinster sisters of my grandfather. I was terrified of them when I was little and hated it when my uncle made me visit. I was certain they were a pair of skinny witches who cooked and ate children.” He gave her a lopsided grin that made her knees weak. “I was a rude little scrod.” They climbed the moss-covered steps and Hugh knocked on the chipped, peeling door. “Who lives here now?”
“Only old Kenwick,” Daphne said absently, her side on fire where his arm brushed against her habit. Would this horrid, embarrassing infatuation never go away?
“Kenwick?” Hugh paused in his brutal pounding on the door to look at her. “Truly? The man was older than dirt when I was a boy. What the devil is he doing living here?’
Daphne hoped the old butler was too deaf to hear Hugh’s none-too-flattering description of him.
“Thomas offered him a cozy cottage with a servant to tend to him, but Kenwick insisted on staying in the Dower House and doing what he could to keep things in order. Which doesn’t look like much,” she admitted, squinting through the dirty sidelight beside the door.
Hugh grunted and resumed his savage knocking. “Kenwick must be even deafer than he used to be. He cannot live here all alone?” His accusatory look made her defensive.
“A girl comes and does his cooking and cleaning. He is not the most . . .” Daphne was still searching for a polite word to describe the crotchety old caretaker when the door creaked open and a very old man stood in the doorway. He resembled a scrawny bird that had been stripped of its feathers and then dressed with extreme care in an outfit a butler might have worn three-quarters of a century earlier.
He peered up at them down the length of his beaklike nose. “Who is making that infernal racket?” His voice was thin and querulous and his joints creaked audibly as he tilted his head and squinted at Hugh.
“Kenwick, you old rascal,” Hugh bellowed. “Don’t you recognize me?” He gave the wizened old man a broad grin.
Kenwick merely blinked under the onslaught.
Hugh laughed. “I thought you should never forget my face after that thrashing you administered when I knocked a cricket ball through the breakfast room window.”
The old man’s jaw unhinged. “Master Hugh?” His bony old hand clutched at the door frame for support.
“None other,” Hugh shouted. He peered over the ancient butler’s head into the room beyond. “I say, Kenwick, must we keep Lady Davenport out here on the stoop while we reminisce? It’s deuced rude to treat her ladyship like a dunning agent.”
“Er, yes, Master . . . that is . . . my lord.” Kenwick glanced from Hugh to Daphne in some confusion before he remembered himself enough to totter backward into the hall and open the door wider. Hugh’s massive body dwarfed the modest entry hall and his golden head grazed the low chandelier, which was festooned with dusty cobwebs.
“Follow me, my lord, my lady.” The old man crept with glacial speed toward the small first-floor drawing room and flung open the door, nearly toppling over in the process. The room beyond was dark and dank with heavy velvet drapes pulled tight to protect its contents. Kenwick inched toward the drapes and gave them an ineffectual tug, an action which sent clouds of dust billowing but only moved the fabric an inch and admitted a sliver of light. He stared at the uncooperative window covering, a mildly offended expression on his face before he dropped his hands to his sides and turned.
“Would you like some tea, my lord?” He spoke in the loud voice that only the very hard of hearing—or Hugh—employed, swaying gently from side to side with the effort of keeping himself upright.
Hugh let out a bark of laughter, unable to hide his amusement at the horrifying vision of the antiquated man lugging a loaded tea tray across the house.
“We don’t want tea, Kenwick. We’ve come to look at the place.” Hugh gently laid one enormous hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Don’t disturb whatever it is you’re doing, we’re just going to have a look about.”
“A look about?” Kenwick yelled. “Well, you needn’t have disturbed me for that, Master Hugh! Mind you don’t break anything,” he admonished before turning to leave. “I’ve not finished my tea. It’ll be cold now.” He inched toward the door, complaining to himself as he heaved it open and then slammed it shut.
Hugh pivoted on his heel to stare at her. “Bloody hell! You should be grateful he hasn’t burnt the place to the ground with himself in it.”
Daphne grimaced. “I hadn’t realized he was so . . . old.”
Hugh grunted and strode over to the largest bank of windows, taking a heavy drape in each hand and yanking the two open to let some light into the room. The action revealed an enormous water stain that ran from the middle of the window frame all the way up to the ceiling.
“Goodness,” Daphne murmured, feeling guiltier by the minute. After all, she had been the one Thomas had left in charge of such matters.
Hugh stared at the spot where the wall met the ceiling. “We had better look upstairs.”
They made their way up the dark, narrow staircase, smelling the problem long before they saw it. The room directly above the drawing room had a window that must have broken some time ago.
Hugh took a few steps into the room and stopped. “We should go no closer.” He pointed toward a window that was covered with a tattered, rotten curtain. “Look at that stain—it runs all the way up under that bed. I daresay half the room is rotted through. This will be no small project to fix,” he concluded, looking from the soggy mess back to her.
Daphne was very conscious of his body beside her, as well as the fact they were alone—not to mention her guilt that her neglect was the reason this problem had festered.
She turned away from him, struggling with the unwanted emotions. She’d taken no more than a few steps when the floor sagged beneath her and she lurched forward. Hugh’s arm lashed out and jerked her back.
He grabbed her shoulders and roughly swung her around to face him. “Just what the devil do you think you are doing? You could have broken your neck. I just told you the floor was unstable.” His green eye sparked with anger and his full lips had thinned to nothing.
Daphne wrenched herself away and turned to look where she’d just been standing, preparing to accuse him of exaggerating. But what she saw made her gasp; the place where she’d just stepped was now a gaping hole. She bit her lower lip. Again she felt his hand on her shoulder; this time his touch was gentle as he turned her.
Daphne felt like a fool, and she didn’t like the foreign emotion. She could not make herself look any higher than his chest, but he took her chin with his gloved fingers and tilted her face up.
His handsome features were
taut and intense, but no longer angry. “Daphne—” He stopped and shook his head. Daphne stared into his emerald eye, mesmerized by the gold shards that glinted in the green, like slivers of sunlight through a forest canopy. His fingers tightened and his disconcerting gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth and then back.
He gave a low groan of frustration. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered, just before his mouth crushed hers.
Daphne closed her eyes.
Finally. The word echoed so loudly inside her head that, for a moment, she feared she’d spoken out loud.
If she had, Hugh did not appear to notice.
He slid one big gloved hand around her nape and drew her close, making her feel as fragile as the stem of a flower. His mouth was hot and demanding; demanding things that
Daphne desperately wanted to give, but didn’t know how. He must have sensed her tension and turmoil because his lips instantly turned soft and teasing.
“Daphne,” he whispered, brushing his lips back and forth, trailing small, gentle kisses over her mouth, again and again, not limiting himself to her tightly pursed lips, but roaming over her chin, cheeks, and even her jaw before nibbling her lower lip.
Daphne realized she was standing on her toes, pressing her face against his, unable to get close enough.
His lips curved into a smile against hers. “Mmmm, you taste so sweet.”
Daphne shuddered and grabbed onto his body to steady herself as his gentle sucking set off colorful explosions behind her eyelids. The tautly bunched muscles of his upper body were hard and hot beneath the smooth wool of his coat and her hands traveled the broad expanse of his shoulders toward his neck, lightly grazing his cravat before she pushed her fingers into his thick, surprisingly wiry curls.
He growled and inched even closer, releasing her lip and then pushing at the seam of her mouth with his tongue, as if he was trying to . . . enter her.
Daphne inhaled sharply and the room shifted beneath her feet as he took her face in both hands and tilted her, stroking into her . . . tasting her . . . licking her.
She had read about kissing and had imagined how it might feel; but her brain—her powerful reasoning ability—had, for once, utterly failed her as he came deeper inside her with each velvet stroke of his tongue.
The few poor, pitiful shreds of reason she’d been clinging to blew away like dandelion fluff in a high wind.
He consumed her, the hot, persistent invasion of his wickedly skilled tongue turning her boneless. She was vaguely aware that one of his hands was moving south, lightly tracing the side of her breast and following the curve of her waist, finally coming to rest on her hip. Daphne tightened her grip on his hair and pulled him close, opening herself as she molded her body to his.
Skill. That’s what it is, nothing but skill. The pragmatic voice that ruled her waking hours sliced through her passion like a razor, leaving it torn and tattered. He is using his skills on you, Daphne. Just as he has used them on countless others.
No, this is different! she insisted. This is perfect... as if it were meant to be. I feel—
You feel exactly like Meg Standish must have felt right before she opened her legs to him.
The words were like a bucket of ice water on her enflamed brain, instantly dousing her roaring ardor.
“No,” she muttered against his mouth.
“Daphne?” His wicked tongue paused its distracting labor and his soft, hot lips came to rest against her ear. “Is aught amiss?” His breath was a warm teasing feather on her sensitive skin. He felt so good; so . . . right. Her hands acted on their own, sliding up his lapels and settling on his shoulders. She pulled him down and down and—
He will despise you when he learns the truth.
Daphne jerked as if she’d been struck by a whip, staggering away from him.
“Daphne?”
She turned away from his heavy-lidded stare, her heart thumping against her ribs hard enough to hurt. What had she done? How could she do such a thing, given the secret between them?
She laid her forehead against the cool wood-paneled wall and sucked in a breath, holding it. Unwilling to face the mortifying vision that threatened to swamp her: that of a gauche country bumpkin desperate for Hugh’s caresses. She was just one more woman in a long line of easy conquests that stretched back decades. And even if he really cared for her now, he soon wouldn’t.
Blame for herself and, irrationally, for him, swirled together inside her, the emotional chaos welling up in her throat. She swallowed and blinked back the tears that threatened to unravel the last of her composure, reminding herself that she’d had the willpower to stop him—and herself. The realization spread through her, leaving strength in its wake. She filled her lungs to bursting and began the long, uphill journey toward her wits and dignity.
When she turned, he was waiting for her, confusion writ large on his handsome face. “Daphne, I—”
She raised a hand. “No. Don’t apologize, my lord.” Her voice was cold and steady. “I could have stepped away, but I did not. We are both complicit in our behavior. All I ask is that you never mention this unfortunate incident, which I have already put from my mind.”
He waited a long time to answer. “As you wish,” he finally said, taking the hand she’d raised and pressing a light kiss into her palm, his breath hot through the thin kid glove.
The simple action set fire to her insides and she clenched her jaws against the wave of lust, anger, and . . . loss that surged through her body. Her hard-earned dignity gave way to self-preservation and she broke away from him and clattered down the stairs, ignoring his calls, not caring if he followed.
* * *
Hugh reached Pasha in time to see Daphne disappear down the drive. How she’d managed to mount her horse in such a hurry was a mystery to him. He leaned against the old rose arbor and tried to find a more comfortable position for his still-hard cock. There wasn’t one.
He shoved back his hat and scratched at his scar. What the devil had just happened? She was upset with him, there was no denying that, but he couldn’t help feeling it wasn’t that simple.
Hugh knew he deserved her anger for instigating the kiss and allowing his hands to wander. She had spent her life in this small community and had no doubt suddenly come to her senses, realizing their behavior far exceeded the bounds of the acceptable nephew/aunt relationship—no matter how tenuous that bond felt in their case.
He couldn’t blame her. There would be plenty of people who’d be horrified by his actions—their actions. Yet somehow he didn’t believe that was the reason for her reaction—at least not entirely. She had been so receptive at first, all but launching herself into his arms when he kissed her. And then something had happened to cool her ardor in an instant. But what?
Hugh squinted at the weed-choked drive as he considered their kiss. As arousing as it had been to finally lay his mouth on hers, there had been something in her response that had been . . . tentative, as if she’d never kissed a man before.
Hugh shook his head; that was impossible—she had children. Almost as soon as the thought entered his head, Hugh realized how asinine it was. Plenty of men took their wives under cover of darkness, viewing sex as a furtive, dirty activity to be used only for procreation. Had his uncle—
The revolting image of the earl taking his young wife’s innocence without even a kiss or caress slammed into him, wiping every other thought from his head. His erection—which had been as hard as a pike only seconds before—was gone in a heartbeat. Perhaps forever.
Hugh tried to shake the distasteful thoughts from his head but could not. Why was he surprised the poor woman had never been kissed—she’d been only seventeen when she’d married the earl.
There were scads of men, both young and old, who took their pleasure from their wives and didn’t bother with their partners’ needs. Indeed, many men appeared to believe wives were some peculiar subset of women—unlike mistresses or whores—who had no physical needs beyond food and shelter and
clothing.
Hugh chewed the inside of his cheek. Was that what had happened to Daphne? Had she given her virginity to a man who’d not even kissed her?
Hugh could not bear the pictures his brain created. He shook his head hard enough to leave him dizzy, but still he could not rid his mind of disturbing images and thoughts.
Hugh knew her inexperience and everything it implied should have killed his desire for her—or at least warned him off. But it hadn’t. No, unfortunately for both of them, he wanted her just as badly as ever.
Chapter Nine
The episode in the Dower House should have sent Daphne running for London like a scalded cat. But of course it didn’t. Especially not after Hugh showed up to dinner that evening and behaved as if nothing untoward had happened—exactly as she had asked. Instead of pleasing her, his behavior incensed her.
Daphne dug in her heels and followed his lead. They chatted about estate affairs, the weather, crops, the current state of affairs in Europe—everything but the hulking matter between them. She even forced herself to spend an hour in the library after dinner, pretending to work on her paper but really eyeing him furtively and fuming. She refused to show him how much the brief interlude had upset her when it clearly meant less than nothing to him.
Daphne might be a naïve, ignorant, woefully inexperienced ninny when it came to men, but she knew what had happened. He’d been amusing himself with her because there was nobody else at hand. A woman would have to be a self-destructive idiot to invest any meaning in his behavior. And Daphne was not a stupid woman. At least not under normal circumstances.
But her common sense had gone begging where he was concerned and it was up to her to get it back. The first step was to behave as if the episode had never occurred.
Daphne was still trying to figure out how to do that the following morning, when something happened to wipe all thoughts of her recent humiliation from her mind.
Barbarous Page 10