by Lily Dalton
“You’ve a preference for fair-haired ladies, that much is apparent.” Laura, of course, had been a brunette.
“Always and only, I’m afraid,” Rackmorton said. “Anything else holds no attraction for me.”
How was it that he could be so crushingly disappointed, and relieved, all at once? Just imagining this man touching his sister sickened him, as did the idea that he might have been Michael’s father.
The duke shrugged. “Strange, I know. I think it all goes back to my nursemaid, Cleotilde, a very loving woman who—” He chuckled, a dirty sound, from deep in his throat. “Ah, but that’s a story for another time. I don’t know you well enough, I’m afraid.”
Cormack felt certain they would never know one another well enough for that particular level of sharing. Well, that was that. His hand itched to look at his watch. Wasn’t it time to go?
“Say, Raikes,” said Rackmorton. “You aren’t offended by this, are you?”
Yet if Rackmorton was a member of the Invisibilis, he was still of use in that he could lead Cormack to the others, and for that reason, he kept the revulsion from his face and extended the conversation with the first blather that came to mind.
“Not at all,” he forced himself to say. “Bondage, when enjoyed by both partners, can be very…exciting.” God, he sounded like an idiot. What else was he to say? “Er…I can only assume your new bride, by necessity, must be blonde?”
He pitied the poor girl, whoever she might turn out to be, who would no doubt enter her marriage an innocent, only to be shocked by her husband’s very noninnocent habits.
Rackmorton reached to straighten one of the frames. “Funny you should ask that. Here, let me show you my newest acquisition, but you must vow on your gentleman’s honor not to tell anyone what you’ve seen.” He grinned wickedly. A paper-wrapped frame leaned against the wall. Setting the lamp on a small table—beside a leather-bound copy of the Marquis de Sade’s Justine—he tore the paper away with great flair and anticipation, as if revealing a masterpiece. “I had it commissioned last month, and have not yet had a chance to hang it.”
Cormack looked at the picture, painted in a florid slathering of oils.
He cleared his throat, and…cleared it again.
Yet from deep inside his chest, anger ruptured up, so hot and untempered he feared it would spew out of his eyes in streams of fire, revealing his emotional weakness toward the subject, one that he hadn’t realized until now that he had.
“Do you recognize her?” Rackmorton prodded in a sly tone.
It took every bit of his strength to speak without inflection. “She looks like the young lady I met two days ago in the park.” He wouldn’t, couldn’t, say her name—not here, in this place, while looking at that damned picture, in which she’d been contorted and tied.
“Yes, the beauty with the parasol. Daphne Bevington.” From a small desk drawer, the marquess produced a hammer and nail. In that moment, Cormack’s glance happened down. Inside the same drawer lay a small leather notebook with Medusa imprinted on its cover—
The sound of hammering jerked him back to the present.
“What do you think?” Rackmorton’s eyes glowed in appreciation, as he affixed the canvas to the wall. “Her sister, Clarissa, is also a beauty, but Daphne…Daphne’s got a certain spark in her eye—an adventurous spirit—that I find very alluring. I wouldn’t spring all this on her immediately, of course, but I think after a few months of marriage she might take instruction well and, eventually of course, perhaps even come to enjoy herself.”
Snap. Glass shattered.
“Good God, man, are you all right?” Rackmorton exclaimed, staring at Cormack’s hand.
The crystal rummer lay in shards at his feet.
“Forgive me—” His open palm revealed a narrow gash. “I don’t know what happened.”
“No, forgive me.” His host offered a handkerchief, one that, yes, now no surprise, bore the same embroidered monogram as the one the girl in the alley had given him.
“I’ve my own, thank you.” He pulled one from his pocket and held it to the wound. “I wouldn’t want to stain yours.” He didn’t want to accept anything from this bastard.
“A defect in the crystal, no doubt. They are purchased by my mother from one of those massive warehouse shops. Who can vouch for their quality? I shall have the remainder inspected.”
A sudden rapping came upon the study door, and the muted burble of a female voice.
“Damn it, that’s her now,” he muttered, before shouting, sounding very much like a peevish boy called in from play, “I will be there momentarily.”
For one fleeting moment, Cormack considered knocking Rackmorton out cold and taking the notebook from the drawer, but numerous people had seen him enter the study in the company of His Lordship, and would certainly observe his exit.
“Just leave the glass for now. The girl will clean it later.” Rackmorton returned the hammer and closed the drawer. With the lamp, he returned to the door. “Ladies. Until next time.”
Cormack followed him to the study and watched him return the key to the desk. Together they returned to the drawing room, where in the time they’d been gone, a rather large company had gathered. The dowager marchioness latched on to him, and the next quarter hour passed in a blur of faces and introductions and invitations—
But everything stopped when he heard her voice behind him.
Like magic, with her arrival the room brightened and crackled with electricity. Faces turned, and gazes sought her out—but he did not move. He simply closed his eyes, savoring the sound as she greeted other guests and responded to compliments, conveying charm with every syllable.
She moved nearer…
Her presence teased the back of his neck and down his spine, as tantalizing as a courtesan’s feather, tempting him to turn.
Which of course, unable to resist her, he did.
*
As soon as she entered the room, she sensed he was there. Her heartbeat increased in tempo, racing toward an exhilaration she knew she ought not to feel. Her ears pricked, listening for his voice, and she searched a sea of faces, careful to keep her expression blank.
He was nowhere. She’d been wrong. Disappointment crashed through her, and she wondered how long they would have to stay before they could politely return home.
“—and this is my middle daughter, Daphne.”
Hearing her mother’s voice, she turned to find the gray-haired Sir Keyes, leaning on his cane, and the elegant Lady Dundalk, in one of her signature velvet turbans, standing beside her mother. Both in their seventies, they had been dear friends of the family for as long as Daphne could remember.
But there was also another man, slim and attractive, with streaks of gray at his temples, in what was otherwise a head of dark hair.
Her mother gestured toward him. “Daphne, this is Mr. Birch, to whom your sister and I were introduced at the Heseldon ball.”
Mr. Birch. Of course! The man her mother had blushed over so furiously when Clarissa had mentioned his name.
“My nephew.” Lady Dundalk beamed.
“Miss Bevington, how do you do?” Mr. Birch smiled warmly at Daphne and momentarily bent his head over her hand.
Yet his attention immediately abandoned her for Lady Margaretta, who peered back at him, her cheeks noticeably bright. Daphne’s heart turned over just then. It had been one thing to hear her mother might have an admirer, but quite another to see the besotted fellow firsthand. She felt unsteady, and not altogether as happy as she should—
“Daphne,” Clarissa whispered, leaning close. “There is the man we saw in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon.”
“What man—” But she already knew. At seeing Cormack, the words evaporated from her lips.
He stood in the midst of a group of gentlemen, dressed impeccably in evening clothes, looking very much like the earl that he was.
Her sister leaned near her ear and said, “I do believe he’s looking at you.”
She back stepped. “I’ll rejoin you momentarily.”
She just needed a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Daphne?” Clarissa said, reaching for her arm.
But she twisted away, smiling as if nothing were wrong. “Truly, I’ll be but a moment.”
Daphne retreated out the doorway, avoiding eye contact with the other guests who might seek to ensnare her in conversation, and found the short hallway that led her to Kate, who, as was customary, had accompanied the ladies of her household to assist in them in whatever way might be required throughout the evening.
There were several other abigails in the room, sitting in small groups gossiping, while some, like Kate, read books. They all looked up when Daphne entered, and Kate stood with a mild look of surprise. “Miss Bevington? I hadn’t thought to see you again so soon. Is something amiss?”
She touched the cluster of curls behind her ear. “I believe the pins in my hair have loosened, the ones on this side. Would you mind checking them?”
They hadn’t, of course. Kate was a veritable master at hairpins, and hers never loosened, not without hours of dancing and activity.
“Of course,” Kate said, agreeably, though her eyes already asked questions.
Seated in the same chair from which Kate had just stood, she submitted to an entirely unnecessary inspection.
“Are the flowers very lovely tonight?” Kate asked.
“White roses and gardenias. Very pretty and they smell divine.” Daphne adjusted her evening glove at her elbow.
“I do hope we can hear the music from here.”
“I’m sure you will. Catalani has astounding range.”
“He’s out there, isn’t he?” Kate murmured, suddenly near her ear.
Daphne froze, remembering the way he had looked, staring at her across the drawing room. Arrogant and self-assured. The moment had thrilled her, more than she would ever confess.
“He who?” she replied in a cool voice.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.” Kate went through the motions, adjusting pins and arranging curls. “Lord Raikes.”
Daphne tapped her finger on the armrest of the chair. “Of course he’s out there. All it took was a fine horse from Tattersalls, and it’s as if he never belonged anywhere else.”
“Is that what bothers you? That he isn’t an outsider, as you first believed?”
“No, Kate.” She straightened in her seat. “What bothers me is that he has so much as threatened to expose me if I do not assist him with the proper introductions about town, but not only that, to include him on the invitation list to my ball.”
“But why? Because he wants social connections, or is there something else?”
“He’s trying to find someone. A man whom he believes moves in these circles. Don’t you see, it is the worst sort of betrayal? He is nothing but a rogue! He kissed me in a way I don’t think I’ll ever forget, but all he wants now is to use me to satisfy some quest for revenge against a mysterious villain he refuses to name.”
“It would certainly liven up the evening, having him there. Or are you concerned he will murder someone on the way to get a sandwich from the sideboard?”
Daphne bit into her bottom lip. “He promised not to.”
“I say invite him.” Kate smiled broadly.
“Did you not hear everything I just said? Fig! It is vexingly hot in here.” Daphne fanned herself, and restlessly readjusted her bodice, which felt unbearably close against her skin. “Someone should open a window. You must all be very uncomfortable.”
She glanced about at the other girls. No one nodded or voiced agreement for a good five seconds, then everyone’s heads went to bobbing.
“Oh, yes, Miss.”
“—terribly warm.”
One of them jumped up. “I’ll open the window.”
“You’re the only one who’s suffering,” Kate whispered under her breath. “Don’t think I don’t know why.” She let out a delighted giggle. “You’re intrigued and despite everything, you like him.”
Daphne turned her head to the side. “I can see I will receive no sympathy or comfort from you.”
“You reap what you’ve sown,” she chided, but in a teasing tone. “Regardless of your motivations, a young lady like you, with your name and your good breeding, should not have gone off like that, unaccompanied, and pretended to be someone you weren’t. Every time I think of what could have happened—” Now her face grew serious, and her hand tightened on the comb. “If he had not saved you, I’d have never forgiven myself for my part in your coming to harm. No matter what you say, I’m forever indebted to him, obviously, in more ways than one.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. This had to be at least the thirtieth time she’d been submitted to the same speech over the last twenty-four hours, with Cormack always the celebrated savior and she the impetuous fool.
“Very well, I shall just leave, then,” Daphne sniffed, and half-rose from the chair.
“Oh, sit down, Daphne.” Kate’s hands pushed her back down.
At hearing that sharp command, spoken so familiarly by a maid to her lady, several of the girls nearby stared at them in wide-eyed dismay. Daphne, and Kate as well, smiled sweetly until attentions were diverted elsewhere.
Daphne whispered, “To think I came here to feel safe, and all you’ve done is ridicule me and make me feel worse.”
“Lord Raikes isn’t going to hurt or embarrass you.”
Daphne stared at her, eyes wide and accusing. “You make him out to be some sort of angel, but Kate, he is badness personified. I don’t understand why you persist in defending him.”
“He saved my dearest friend and paid my father’s debt. I simply can’t believe he is a devil as you have made him out to be. I think if the two of you just talked—”
“Well, that’s not going to happen. I don’t wish to speak to him ever again.”
A resonant bong sounded, filling the room with its deep baritone.
Daphne stood from the chair. “Ah, well, that’s the first gong. The musicale is about to start. I suppose I must rejoin the others or they will come looking for me.”
Her cheeks flooded with heat, she knowing it was only moments until she’d see him again. She’d only just passed into the corridor—
When a hand closed on her wrist, and she felt herself firmly pulled into the shadowed alcove of a nearby doorway. However, shadows didn’t conceal the identity of the broad-shouldered man who handled her so assertively. Her heart pounded in her throat. “Cormack, what are y—”
He dipped, his head and shoulder blocking all light, to smother her words with his mouth. Daphne’s resistance fell away to an overwhelming rush of desire.
Chapter Eight
His hand, warm and long fingered, came beneath her chin. Another laid claim to her waist, then sensuously slid over her dress to seize the curve of her hip. Her body went hot there…everywhere…and her heartbeat came alive.
The night after they’d escaped the Blue Swan, he’d smelled of rainwater and soap. Tonight he smelled expensive, like crisp linen and whatever tonic his valet had used when shaving him. She had feared they’d never touch again, but he had come to find her for this. She inhaled, greedy and wanting more. More kissing, more knowledge of his fascinating male body, more Cormack. They twisted, melting into each other, his hands sliding up her torso to graze, ever so teasingly, the undersides of her corseted breasts.
But then—
“Oh, you.” She pushed at his chest, outraged, but only managing to wedge herself more deeply in
to the wood-paneled corner, because pushing against him was like pushing against a stone wall. “I am angry with you.”
“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” he uttered quietly, bracing her chin between his fingers and thumb. “And I concede I shouldn’t have lied to you. But I believed you when you told me you were a maid. I didn’t want to make you feel any more uncomfortable than you already were.”
“As if now is the time for explanations, when you have made it more than clear that you refuse to hear mine. Truly, Cormack, how dare you kiss me!”
“I was under the impression you liked kissing me,” he said in an almost playful tone.
Oh, she did like kissing him. Terribly much, and that was the problem. So much that she wanted to forget every ugly thing he’d said to her yesterday afternoon in Hyde Park and again last night outside Wolverton’s library window, and just stay here forever in his arms.
But she had more pride than that.
“Well, I don’t like kissing you, so don’t expect any more of it.” She exacted a glare upon him, and gave another push against his stonelike chest—
He only looked amused by her failed efforts to move him, lingering there, scandalously close. As if to prove his physical superiority, he easily planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. “There you go. That’s what I think of ‘no more kisses.’”
Everything inside her warmed at his easy little gesture of affection, which sent her spirits crashing beneath a landslide of shame. She shook her head vehemently, and swiped her nose with her hand.
“The nerve of you, after—”
“By the way, I can’t help but notice Lord Rackmorton has taken an interest in you.”
“And?”
“I don’t wish to go into explanations—”
“No, you wouldn’t, being that you’re so dead set against facts and rational information.”
“Don’t entertain him as a suitor.” His gaze went oddly dark.
She drew back, shocked. “I’m afraid you’ve no say.”
“He is no gentleman. No matter what else is said between you and I, you must remember that.”