Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

  She had just disengaged herself from a dizzying conversation with Lady Jersey and Mrs. Benjamin Morton when the red-haired siren Hugh had disappeared with entered the room. Both Lady Letitia and Hugh moved to greet the woman, who was accompanied by a pair of men who could only be relatives, given their distinctive hair color.

  Anne appeared beside her. “That is Lady Euphemia Marlington.”

  So, Lady Amelia had been correct that morning. Well, Daphne was not completely surprised given the sensational stories she’d read about the woman in the broadsheets. Not that she necessarily believed most of them.

  “That is her father, the Duke of Carlisle, and her brother, Marquess of Abermarle. They are a handsome family, are they not?”

  Daphne could not actually see faces, only three auburn heads. Rowena had all but ripped her spectacles from her face before the ball and Daphne had been too agitated about her impending confession to protest.

  “You can’t attend a ball wearing spectacles, my lady. Not with that dress.” The dour woman’s militant scowl had made Daphne believe Rowena might wrestle her to the floor if she attempted to leave the house with glasses perched on her nose.

  Now she was glad of her poor vision. It was evident from the way Hugh had hastened toward the auburn beauty that he held her in high regard. Had he only waited for her to be restored to her family to pursue their relationship? She turned away to gaze sightlessly on some other cluster of guests, struggling against the despair that pooled in the pit of her stomach.

  She felt a light touch on her shoulder and turned, fixing a smile on her face for Anne.

  But it was not Anne.

  “May I have the honor of taking you in to dinner?” Hugh asked.

  Her gaze flickered toward Euphemia Marlington and back to Hugh.

  “Why?”

  He took her hand and placed it on his arm.

  Her entire body thrummed at the feel of his hard, corded heat beneath her parchment-thin glove. Lust twisted inside her, almost driving her to her knees.

  “Why?” she repeated.

  “You know how I am.” His lips curved in a teasing, sensual smile. “I care only about getting my own way.”

  She removed her hand from his forearm. “You had better escort someone of more consequence.”

  “There is nobody who has more consequence to me than you.” A subtle tightening of his facial muscles transformed him from teasing lover into determined predator. “My aunt tells me this ball is partly in my honor. As such I will please myself.”

  Daphne couldn’t see the faces of those around her, but she sensed her hesitation was making the two of them conspicuous. She placed her hand on his arm and he led her to the dining room without speaking. Her eyes widened when she approached the long banquet table, and not only because it groaned beneath more china and silver than she’d ever seen in her life. No, she stared because Lady Letitia had seated her beside Hugh. She didn’t need to look at him to know who was responsible. She could feel him gloating.

  Seated on Hugh’s other side, she saw with a plunging sensation in her stomach, was Lady Euphemia.

  “Daphne,” Hugh said, his voice devoid of its usual humor, “this is Lady Euphemia Marlington. Lady Euphemia, this is the Countess of Davenport.”

  Both women curtsied and Daphne couldn’t help noticing the tiny newcomer’s sinuous grace.

  “I apologize for my intrusion into your house, Lady Davenport. And also for my . . . hasty departure.” She bit her lip and glanced down, her eyes every bit as entrancing without kohl. “I was eager to be reunited with my father and brother after so many years.”

  What could Daphne possibly say to that? She nodded and smiled. “Welcome back to England.”

  A look of relief passed over the other woman’s face, as if she’d expected Daphne to demand explanations. But, as far as Daphne was concerned, it was Hugh’s job to explain, not this stranger’s.

  She turned to her other dinner companion and found Lady Euphemia’s brother, the Marquess of Abermarle. Up close, Daphne could see he was perhaps a few years younger than she. The combination of alabaster skin, light green eyes, and aquiline nose made for a very handsome man. Like his sister, he had dark auburn hair which tumbled in loose, sensuous curls over his smooth, white brow. Here was a man every bit as beautiful as Hugh Redvers—although without the fascinating combination of menace and humor.

  A vindictive smile curved her lips as she greeted her handsome companion; it was time the arrogant Lord Ramsay realized he was not the only attractive man in London.

  Unfortunately, even the charms of a handsome marquess could not keep Daphne from trying to listen to what was being said on her other side.

  Daphne did not hear much, but the few things she did hear were less than lover-like. In fact, it sounded as though Hugh and Lady Euphemia were quarreling—although she didn’t know what about since they were speaking Arabic.

  When Abermarle’s other dinner partner asked him a question, Daphne turned to Hugh, who was waiting for her, a petulant expression marring his handsome features.

  Euphemia Marlington was speaking to the elderly gentleman on her other side. Whatever she was saying to him had caused his eyebrows to meet his receding hairline and his face to turn an alarming shade of red.

  “Making yet another conquest, my lady?” Hugh’s eyes met hers briefly before dropping to her lower than usual décolletage.

  Daphne’s neck and chest warmed under his inspection. “I cannot say the same for you, my lord.” She cast a pointed glance at Euphemia Marlington. “She does not look nearly so besotted with you as she did the last time.”

  Hugh grinned, as if he found her efforts to give him a set-down piquant or charming.

  “Mia knows where my true interests lie.” A huge, hot hand landed on her knee and Daphne jumped.

  Lord Abermarle turned, a frown marring his perfect forehead. “Is aught amiss, my lady?”

  “Pepper,” she lied, taking a drink of water to illustrate she was fine before turning back to Hugh.

  “Are you deranged?” she hissed between gritted teeth.

  “No. Merely aroused.” His hand burned through the thin fabric of her dress like molten lava. “And very bored by this dinner.”

  “If you don’t take your hand off my leg, I will stab it with my fork.”

  He surveyed the array of silverware. “Tell me, my lady, which of these many forks is meant for such a purpose? I’m afraid I’ve quite forgotten.” He removed his hand and Daphne immediately missed it. “At least you’ve not threatened to head-butt me. I’m rather fond of my nose.” He turned so she could view said feature in profile.

  Daphne glanced around the table to see if Hugh’s shocking behavior had attracted any notice. But the only person who appeared to be looking at them was Lady Letitia, and without her spectacles, Daphne was unable to read the older woman’s expression.

  “Will you please behave?” she whispered between her smiling lips.

  “Behave? Behave like what? A man besotted?”

  “Like a gentleman rather than an idiot.”

  He chortled at that. “What will you give me if I behave?”

  “Why should I give you anything?”

  “I am accustomed to a barter economy.”

  A soft hiss escaped her before she could stop it. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Would you rather I did what I really want to be doing to you?” he asked in a voice like velvet.

  When she didn’t answer, he leaned closer. “Would you like a hint?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll give you one, anyway. What I would rather be doing involves your body and mine and no clothing. Or forks.” He leaned forward in a way that must surely be attracting every eye at the table. “But I think you know very well what I would rather be doing.”

  “I will scream,” she hissed.

  Hugh burst out laughing at her empty threat and his distinctive bellow caused conversations up and down the table to stutter. />
  Daphne wanted to crawl under the table. Instead, she turned back to Abermarle, who was waiting for her.

  “I can’t help feeling envious that Lord Ramsay is the beneficiary of your wit, my lady.”

  Daphne somehow doubted the marquess would find being threatened with cutlery and called an idiot as amusing as Hugh had.

  “Is Lady Euphemia your only sibling, my lord?” she asked, steering the topic of conversation away from Hugh and the things that made him laugh.

  * * *

  Hugh leaned back in the hideously uncomfortable chair and hid a yawn with the back of his hand. He knew he was behaving badly, but the stifling atmosphere had brought back all the things he hated about England.

  And he was ready to throttle Mia for her incessant demands. He didn’t doubt she was finding England trying, but returning to Oran would be tantamount to suicide.

  He’d finally had to tell her—baldly—to stop her relentless nagging. She hadn’t liked that one bit and had given him a look that would scald the bristles off a hog. But at least she had stopped nagging. She was now bothering the poor old bastard on her other side and Hugh watched with amusement as she bothered the randy old goat into a state of heightened arousal.

  He glanced around the table and snorted; the meal was hardly half over and already he’d alienated both his dinner partners. He found it diverting that he—the guest of honor—was the only person at the table not engaged in conversation.

  His attention wandered back to Daphne.

  For the last three-quarters of an hour he’d been forced to watch young Abermarle fall head-over-heels for her, and he wanted to reach across Daphne’s glazed, stuffed quail and grab the marquess by the neck and squeeze. But even a savage like he knew such an action would be frowned upon—and not just because cross-table interactions were faux pas.

  So he put the violent image out of his mind and thought about what he would say to Daphne when he finally got her alone, which had to be soon, before he did something damaging to the next unsuspecting male who had the audacity to look at, speak to, or, God forbid, dance with her.

  And that dress she was wearing—good God! It looked as if her demented maid had painted it onto her body. Hugh’s first urge upon seeing it tonight had been to throw his coat over her and not uncover her again until they were alone. Preferably in his bed. He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Her corset thrust her perfect breasts deliciously high until they were two mesmerizing swells above silk stretched taut and near bursting. Her nipples could not be more than a fraction of an inch below the low neckline. He swore he could see them outlined against the silk. The bodice began to expand and expand and he looked up to find Daphne glaring at him through eyes that shot pale blue fire.

  Hugh shrugged at her and shifted in his seat, his erect rod jammed against the placket of his breeches. The brutal, persistent ache in his pants made him hate, more than ever, the superficial entertainments those around him favored. Well, at least the females. The men ringing the table would only be interested in cards, drinking, whoring, and horses, and not in that order.

  Hugh had already whored his way across the globe, lost interest in playing cards more than a decade ago, and he had a good horse. As for drink? Well, he liked a fine brandy as much as any man, but beyond that . . .

  What he wanted was Daphne, and soon.

  Would this dinner never end?

  He closed his eyes and considered the vortex of emotions that had been churning inside him for weeks. Lust, curiosity, anxiety, and—he suspected—love, not that he could be certain. He had never given any thought to the concept of love before, and perhaps he was mistaken. But whatever emotion he was experiencing, it was a singular sensation that both imprisoned and liberated. He felt . . . chained to her; only truly happy when she was near. How could that be? Had he become a slave, yet again? If so, why was he so pleased with his new condition?

  He felt movement beside his chair and opened his eyes in time to see a footman deposit a syllabub. Hugh almost leapt to his feet and yelled, Huzzah! just as Lucien would. It was about bloody time.

  The table broke up soon after that. All Hugh could think about was how long he needed to stay at this wretched affair before he could steal away with Daphne back to Davenport House, where he’d straighten out the situation between them once and for all.

  * * *

  Daphne could not wait to get away from the dinner table. Although she tried to ignore Hugh’s fondling and staring, she was certain the entire table must have noticed her distraction—not to mention her arousal. Her treacherous body responded to his least look. Never in her life had she possessed so little control over her own person. She fully expected the crowd to part in horror as she left the dinner table, pointing and whispering at the wanton Countess of Davenport, a woman so depraved she was obsessed with her dead husband’s nephew.

  Luckily, Hugh could not continue his torment of her—at least not right now. Instead, he stood with his family near the entrance to the ballroom, looking very much like a martyr facing a fiery, agonizing death as he greeted hundreds of guests.

  Daphne looked at the shimmering colors, low-cut gowns, and profusion of jewels on the arriving guests and realized her bodice was no more indecent than most. She’d thought the midnight-blue gauze over a sheath of palest silver had looked simple and elegant when she’d put it on tonight, but now she saw it was almost conspicuously plain.

  Her jewels, on the other hand, were unparalleled. The sapphire choker from Thomas was a work of art, row upon row of pale blue fire interspersed with satiny pearls. The only other accessory she wore was a spray of sapphires in her hair, which Rowena had dressed in a simple knot with curls cascading down her back.

  Daphne fingered the stones at her throat idly as she looked around the room, her eyes drifting again and again to the tall figure at the ballroom entrance. She recalled the way he’d stared at her during dinner and her nipples tightened. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned away from the receiving line. She needed to think of something else, anything else. Preferably something repellent, guaranteed to keep her rebellious body far from arousal.

  “Sir Malcolm Hastings!” Lady Letitia’s majordomo proclaimed from the head of the stairs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hugh couldn’t help laughing. The very man he’d been searching for so diligently in every pesthole, whorehouse, and gambling hell stood directly in front of him, lifting Anne’s gloved hand to his mouth.

  Hastings’s dissipation was etched deeply into his face, but he was still handsome, or at least he would be if his mouth wasn’t twisted into such an annoying smirk.

  “Hastings, what a surprise. You look much improved from the last time I saw you.” Hugh made no effort to keep his own smirk off his face. “I’m pleased to see your nose suffered no permanent damage. I had no idea Lady Letitia enjoyed the privilege of your acquaintance.”

  Rather than appear chastened by Hugh’s not-so-subtle digs, Hastings smiled more widely.

  “Unfortunately, I can claim no acquaintance with Lady Letitia. Rather it is your other aunt who pressed me to attend when she learned I was in town.”

  Hugh snorted. What a brazen, bloody lie. Even from across the room Hugh had seen Daphne freeze like a deer at her cousin’s name. Hugh stared into the man’s unusually light brown eyes as he fought the urge to pick him up and bodily carry him from his aunt’s house.

  Unusually light brown eyes.

  Four other eyes flashed across his mind, and it was like the tumblers in a lock falling into place. Great bloody hell! His brain spun drunkenly and rational thought eluded him.

  And so did Malcolm Hastings, slipping away into the crowd. Hugh looked to where he’d last seen Daphne; she was no longer there.

  * * *

  Daphne struggled to mask her revulsion as Malcolm swayed toward her, his hateful face oozing smug contempt.

  “Hello, sweet cousin,” he crooned, taking her by the wrists and holding her arms out to her sides. His
eyes roamed over her like a swarm of insects before he leaned in and kissed her moistly on each cheek. “What a proud husband you will make me,” he whispered in her ear.

  Daphne tugged at her hands but he only released one. “What a surprise to see you here, Malcolm.”

  “A pleasant one, no doubt?” His eyes danced merrily as he placed her hand on his arm. Daphne darted a quick look to where Hugh was receiving and saw his attention was engaged by a flamboyant woman spilling out of her dangerously low-cut gold silk gown—as was almost every other person in the room. Nobody was paying attention to Malcolm and Daphne.

  “This is hardly the time or place, but I daresay that does not matter to you, Malcolm. You want to discuss something with me?” She glanced around the huge ballroom until she noticed an alcove almost obscured by a potted palm.

  “How astute you are.” His words were slurred and his voice overly loud. If he wasn’t foxed yet, he was almost there. The alcove would not be good enough. Daphne needed to get him away from the ballroom—and the guests.

  “You will lose the hold you think you have over me if you start behaving like a fool in public. The library is behind the second door in the main hall. We can get there through the cardroom and you can say what you came to say in private.”

  “Of course, sweet Daphne—lead on, lead on.”

  But before they could reach the cardroom, Simon materialized beside her.

  “I believe we are promised for the opening set, Daphne.” Simon looked quizzically from her to Malcolm.

  Daphne hesitated, thinking to put him off, but Malcolm took the decision from her hands.

  “By all means, my good man,” Malcolm said, practically shoving Daphne into the other man’s arms. “Dance with my lovely cousin. I’ll step into the cardroom for a few moments.” He gave them an oily smile before lurching away.