The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel

by Victoria Vale

  When she’d reached the age of her coming out, Robert had sensed she was not ready to wed, and so—true to form—he had done the noble thing. He’d withheld his proposal and stood back while she went off to London for her first Season. If what she wanted was to experience more of the world outside their little corner of Suffolk, then she deserved that much. Perhaps she’d even find she preferred the city and they would live there together after he’d made her his wife.

  Idealistic dreams of appearing in London on a whim and winning her once and for all had sustained him in the years separating them. He’d been so certain of their destiny, and had convinced himself that they were fated to end up together. Nothing could stop that, not even a brief time apart. When the moment was right, Lady Daphne Fairchild would be his.

  Except, when they’d finally found their way back to each other, someone else had already set himself firmly between them. The one person with the power to destroy the future he had thought to be set in stone.

  Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor.

  The man had cast his spell over Daphne, and while Robert had tried to convince himself that what the two shared could only be carnal, he’d been forced to face the truth. Hartmoor loved Daphne. That much had been proven when the earl had come to Robert only a few weeks prior, asking a favor of him.

  “I am leaving London,” he had told Robert while sitting in the small drawing room of his bachelor’s lodgings in Town. “Daphne will not be coming with me.”

  That had come as a surprise, as the man had struck Robert as quite possessive, his obsession with Daphne obvious to anyone who paid even the slightest bit of attention.

  “I see. Forgive me, my lord, but I’m afraid I do not understand.”

  “I do not like you, Mr. Stanley. I think you weak and simpering … a milksop still latched onto his mother’s teat.”

  He’d flinched, but said nothing, as he’d been well aware that Hartmoor thought these things of him. He might have said he found the earl to be crass and ill-mannered, that he was a conscienceless beast who'd preyed upon his Daphne in her hour of need, and that he wasn’t fit to lick the soles of her boots ... but he refrained. Firstly, because the man was built like an oak tree and while Robert wasn’t a small man he also was not daft enough to think he could survive being on the other end of Hartmoor’s fists. Secondly, because he was still curious about why the man had come to him without provocation.

  “But,” the earl added. “You are as honorable a man as any I’ve ever known. You come from a good family and you have wealth, which means you can provide well for a wife. Most of all, you love Daphne. Do you not?”

  Now more confused than ever, Robert hadn’t known how to respond to the backhanded compliments other than to say, “Well, yes, of course.”

  Hartmoor had studied him in silence for a while, his gaze both assessing and intimidating. Had he been born small of stature, he would still seem a force to be reckoned with. That searing stare alone was enough to make any man feel two inches tall.

  “You should give Daphne a bit more time … a few weeks, perhaps. Then, with me out of the way, you will be free to pursue her again. Ask her to marry you, beg her if you must.”

  Robert had frowned, his mind spinning as he’d tried to make sense of it all. This man had taken Daphne as a lover, ruining her in the eyes of society before casting her aside. Then, he’d followed her to London and publicly made her his mistress. Despite all that, the woman still seemed to care for him. Robert would be willing to bet she’d have Hartmoor as her husband despite all that.

  It was obvious Hartmoor was mad for her. So, what was stopping him from putting them both out of their misery and marrying her himself?

  “The last time we spoke, you made yourself quite clear where Daphne is concerned,” he managed. “I did not miss your warning. You wanted her for yourself and did not appreciate my interference. Why the sudden change of mind?”

  “It does not matter why. What matters is that I am leaving and I want her taken care of. Her reputation is in tatters due to the scandal her brother caused. Her attachment to me has only made matters worse. You can make her respectable again, and I know you won’t abuse or neglect her.”

  “Of course not … I love her. I have since I was a boy, and nothing that has happened can change that.”

  It had been shocking to find out that Daphne’s brother had been getting away with raping the debutantes of the ton for years with no one the wiser. Many in their social circles would shun her now that he’d been put on trial, convicted, and executed for his crimes. That she had engaged in an illicit affair with the earl only thickened the dark cloud of scandal hanging over her head.

  But, none of those things had been enough to put him off. His love for Daphne had gone deeper than any scandal or gossip, and he wanted nothing more than to be the one to save her from a life of loneliness and scorn.

  And so, he had agreed to try his damnedest to make Daphne his once she’d had time to mourn the loss of both the earl and her brother —who had been executed just this morning after a lengthy trial. The wait had been easy enough—he’d been waiting for what seemed like his entire life to have her. He’d practiced what he would say, had his valet polish the ring for the umpteenth time to ensure it looked its best when he presented it to her. He’d even worn his best navy blue coat, wanting to cut a dashing figure for what would prove the most momentous day of his life.

  In the end, he had not been able to go through with it.

  Arriving at Fairchild House prepared to drop to one knee and plead his case, Robert had been ushered into the drawing room to find her standing before the hearth. She'd turned to face him, giving him his first glimpse of her lovely face in weeks. She’d been so much like the girl he’d always loved … yet everything about her had changed. In that moment, Robert had seen for the first time what he’d refused to understand before.

  He had lost her.

  He could not pinpoint exactly when, but somewhere between letting her leave Suffolk and finding her again, he had given up his chance at happiness with her. Deep in the prisms of her dark blue eyes, Robert had seen her misery over Hartmoor, as well as her longing.

  Yes, he’d wanted to be the gallant knight riding in to save her from a life of loneliness. And, he might have won her hand had he done what the earl suggested and proposed marriage. Now that Hartmoor had set her aside, she might decide to settle for a comfortable life with him.

  But, Daphne was too good for that. She was too beautiful, fiery, and smart to settle for anything less than the passionate love she deserved. The sort of love she’d had with Lord Adam Callahan.

  So, instead of proposing to her, he had suggested she try one last time to convince Hartmoor to take her with him to Scotland. He told her he still loved her, and would be willing to marry her if it was what she wanted. But, he’d been very clear that he understood she was in love with the earl, not him, and he wanted her to be happy.

  That had led to this—standing on the side of the road, watching as Hartmoor drove away with the love of his life.

  The earl had been right about him. He was a spineless, weak, mama’s boy, unable to do anything other than watch with stinging eyes as Daphne ran off with one of England's most notorious rakehells. To make matters worse, he’d even suggested that they stop off in Gretna Green on their way home. Within hours she would become the Countess of Hartmoor, putting her out of his reach for good.

  “Fucking wonderful,” he muttered, trudging back to his barouche.

  His black bays stomped and snorted with impatience, undoubtedly tired of standing about and watching him brood. But, where was he to go? He had his suite of rooms in London, the rent paid up for several more weeks. His valet remained there, along with many of his things. Going back there was the last thing he wanted to do, for once he arrived he would have to face his man and explain that he’d come home without a fiancée. The pitying gaze of Felix as he took the ring to store it in the safe among his other valuabl
es would only make him feel worse.

  He supposed he could have dinner at his club, but he would surely be recognized by old school friends or some such. Knowing he would not be fit company, he ruled that out, along with the half dozen invitations resting on his desk.

  Climbing up into his equipage and taking hold of the ribbons, he turned back toward London. He gave the horses their head, his mind wandering as they dragged him back toward Town. He was unsure what he would do once he got there, but could not very well stand about woolgathering on the side of the road. Or, maybe he could.

  Maybe he could have stood there until he dropped dead.

  It would kill Mother.

  The thought always sprung forth the instant he considered that anything dangerous might befall him. He should not walk in the rain despite liking the way it felt on his skin, because he might grow ill and die, and it would kill his mother. He ought not drive his phaeton too fast, because he might crash it and break his neck, and of course it would kill his mother.

  He should not put a pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger, succumbing to this swift, sudden, and painful loneliness opening in the depths of his soul … because it would kill his mother.

  So, he drove at a reasonable pace and kept an eye out for rain clouds and uneven spots in the road, the careful son as always. Not that she would know the difference. When he had insisted on coming to London to pursue Daphne, she had remained in Suffolk with his father.

  After a while, he came to a fork in the road. Pulling up on the ribbons, he wondered where the other path might lead. London and his empty West End flat loomed straight ahead. Wrinkling his nose, he veered right, deciding to avoid Town for at least a few hours more. Even if this road led him nowhere interesting, a nice, long ride would help him clear his head.

  About half an hour later, he came upon a public house. It was not one he’d ever frequented, but from the outside it appeared much like any other he’d ever seen. Its edifice was plain but sturdy, its courtyard crawling with horses and conveyances coming and going. Smoke huffing from the chimney promised a warm fire, and if Robert was not mistaken, the inside would offer spirits in which to drown his sorrows.

  Perfect.

  He pulled into the yard, slowing his barouche behind a coach stopping in to rest its horses. From the looks of the driver—whose boots were caked with mud, and whose cape held a heavy layer of dust—it had stopped in the midst of a long journey.

  “Afternoon, me lord!” a stable boy in filthy trousers and a threadbare coat called out as he approached. “I’ll ’ave your beasts groomed and fed in a blink!”

  Leaping down, Robert retrieved his purse from the breast pocket of his coat. Laying a shilling in the boy’s dirt-smudged hand, he then proceeded toward the open front door.

  “Take your time. I intend to be here for a while.”

  “Aye, me lord!”

  Robert ducked past a man toting a valise, glancing up at the wooden sign hanging over the door.

  “The White Cock,” he murmured, interpreting the white rooster emblazoned across wooden signage. “Charming.”

  He did not care about the place’s name—only that no one here would know him, and he could find oblivion in liquid form. A few heads turned as he strode toward the rough, wooden bar, but he ignored them, used to such. The men likely noted his fine clothes and recognized him as nobility, while the few scandalously dressed women lounging about on laps and against the wall wondered how much blunt they could milk out of him. Apparently, his expression indicated that he held no interest, because none approached him.

  “Well, ain’t you a sight,” said the woman behind the counter, lips curved into an amused smirk as she eyed him.

  Short and rotund, she wore a gown far too small to contain her oversized bosom. The apron tied about her waist had seen better days. A worn kerchief tied stringy, brown hair back from her round face, though a few stray strands clung to her forehead, damp with sweat.

  “Good afternoon,” he murmured, sinking onto one of the stools pushed up to the counter.

  She laughed, the sound thick and hearty, her large bosom heaving with each chuckle and snort. “We’re a humble establishment your Lordship. No need for your airs and manners around here. Say what you want an’ I’ll fetch it for you.”

  With a sigh, Robert went back into his purse. “Whisky … the best you have.”

  “Nothin’ to eat?”

  He hadn’t eaten breakfast, but found himself without an appetite.

  “No, th-”

  He gritted his teeth around the ‘thank you' and held it in. This woman would not appreciate it, anyway.

  “Whisky, comin’ right up.”

  She bustled away and returned a moment later with a pint-sized bottle. It smelled bloody fantastic when she uncorked it and poured a healthy amount into a clean glass. Glancing down the counter at the other men seated with their drinks, he noted that his was the cleanest tumbler to be found. He supposed his appearance and airs had earned him that, despite her insistence otherwise.

  “Leave the bottle,” he said, before she could take it away.

  She held her hand out to him, accepting his payment. After retrieving a purse from within the bodice of her overstretched gown, she stashed the coins inside and nestled the money safely between her breasts.

  “Shout if you’ve a need,” she said before moving on to another patron.

  He was certain the pint would keep him occupied for a while. Lifting the tumbler, he took a swallow—one so substantial it burned going down, making his eyes water. He gritted his teeth and bore the discomfort, knowing there would be numbness on the other side.

  And while he sat here feeling as if someone had shoved a fireplace poker down his throat and pulled his heart out through his mouth, it was the best he could hope for.

  He finished off the first measure far too fast, his head already spinning as he poured another. He took his time with this one, gazing around the taproom as the warmth of the whisky suffused through his body. The occupants ranged from shabby to well-dressed, a common enough occurrence in a posting inn so close to London. However, the two ladies he spotted seated at a table near the large hearth drew his eye, striking him as out of place.

  Both finely clothed in carriage dresses, cloaks, hats, and gloves, they were accompanied by a lone servant. The man sat eying the occupants of the room as if ready to strike out at anyone who thought to accost either of the women under his protection.

  Robert might not have stared for long if not for the sudden recognition that dawned on him as his gaze fell on one of the two. Funnily enough, it was not the most attractive of the two who achieved his notice. Another man might not have noticed the woman seated across from the ravishing blonde.

  But this particular woman seemed to require closer inspection every time Robert laid eyes upon her, and now proved no exception.

  Lady Cassandra Lane would be considered plain in comparison to the ton’s other eligible chits. A fair complexion seemed washed out by red hair masquerading as blond—strawberry, his mother would have called it. The shade did not have the vibrant luster of Daphne’s auburn, or her companion’s gold, falling into some muddle between the two. A light smatter of freckles lent a bit of girlishness to a face composed of sharp lines and angles.

  He knew her to be a spinster firmly on the shelf. If she hadn’t been, then the recent scandal embroiling her and several other young women would have placed her into the ranks of the ineligible.

  He wasn’t certain what it was about her that gained his notice. Perhaps it had something to do with the sullen expression she wore, and the fact that he’d never seen her smile. It could have something to do with the unflinching way she’d faced public scrutiny through what might be one of the beau monde’s most scandalizing trials. Whatever the case, Robert found his curiosity about her reaching its peak.

  Predictably, she perked up a bit, tensing as if she felt eyes upon her. A natural reaction to being watched, for certain. But, as sh
e turned her head, eyes darting as if to ferret out the person watching her, Robert found himself unable to breathe. He sat as still as death and waited for her to find him.

  That breath left him in a rush when her unsettling stare fell upon him and held. There, he found her hidden beauty—a pair of eyes in the most puzzling shade of pale blue. Much lighter than his own eyes, they seemed almost gray at times. Not that he’d spent much time staring into them, as the woman almost always kept them cast down as if loath to look upon anyone, or have anyone look at her. He’d bumped into her once at a soirée, and she’d had no choice but to look up at him while murmuring an apology.

  They were mystifying, those eyes, like a clear stream one could see straight through. Yet for all their clarity, he still could not quite puzzle her out. They were as mysterious and shuttered as her expressionless face.

  Robert blinked when she looked away, turning to speak to her companion. The hairs on the back of his arms stood on end when the blond woman glanced at him before turning back to Cassandra. The two exchanged words, and he held no delusions about the subject of their conversation.

  Him.

  The prickling sensation increased as Cassandra stood with a few last words to her friend. Then, to his utter shock, she turned and began to cross the taproom toward him.

  WHAT THE DEVIL am I doing here?

  The thought flitted through Cassandra’s mind for the umpteenth time, yet she couldn’t force herself to rise from her chair and vacate the taproom. Coming here had been a mistake, she realized that now. Millicent had insisted she was ready for this, yet her roiling belly and sweating palms proved otherwise.

  “Cass,” her friend snapped, pulling her out of her reverie.