by Nichole Van
He didn’t want her resignation.
He wanted her anger.
He wanted her to believe in herself enough to be angry at him for his behavior. To demand more.
Daniel clenched his jaw.
Dimly, part of him recognized that Fossi felt this way because she cared about him.
Just as he cared for her.
Yes, they were friends. But there was decidedly more between them too.
More that could only lead to heartache.
He would bring Simon back. Daniel would not give up on his son.
Fossi would forget about him.
Would he forget her too?
And why did just the thought make his chest squeeze and his breathing tight?
He sat beside her on the bench.
She did not look at him, instead focusing on the patterns the braziers were casting on the wall opposite.
“You sang beautifully,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
“I am terribly sorry I missed our waltz. No sense dancing around the subject.”
He meant it as a joke.
She didn’t smile.
Instead, she flinched at his words. Gave her head a tiny shake, as if trying to drive something from her mind.
“There is nothing to apologize for. We had not formally agreed to dance—”
“Oh, but we had.”
“—and Mr. Thomas was most kind to ask me.” A brazier popped, sending sparks upward into the night. “It was lovely.”
He studied her profile with its magnificent edges. “I have disappointed you. I have disappointed myself.”
“My lord, there is nothing—”
“Call me Daniel.” Pleading in his tone. “Please, Fossi.”
Nothing for a moment. And then . . .
“Wouldst that it might have been . . . ”
“Pardon?”
“Fosse,” she whispered. “Wouldst that it might have been.”
He scrambled to catch up with her train of thought.
“My name in Italian,” she explained. “Fossi means ‘wouldst that I had been’ . . . fossi, fosse, fossimo . . .”
She whirled through several conjugations and then gave a one-shouldered shrug.
“Wouldst that we might have danced together.” She shook herself and then smiled. Soft. Wan. “Sorry. You are seeing me at my most maudlin tonight.”
Silence.
“There will be another waltz later this evening. I insist on dancing it with you.” Even to Daniel’s ears, the promise sounded too little, too late.
“Of course. If you wish. You most certainly should feel no obligation.” So polite. So proper.
So Fossi.
Not being a martyr. Just not wanting to make waves. Rock the boat.
“Please tell me there is something else on your list I can help you achieve as a penance.”
She plucked at her shawl. “This beautiful shawl is more than enough—”
“No. I insist on being allowed to atone for my sin.”
That finally got him a censorious narrowing of her eyes.
“Daniel—”
“I hope your list is actually a spreadsheet. Everything entered and tallied.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled then. A real smile. Genuine. But still tinged all around with that sadness.
“Who was the woman you were speaking with? The blond one?” she asked.
Bingo.
Suddenly everything made sense, like the sun breaking through on a gloomy day.
Fossi was . . . jealous. She had seen him with Georgiana and was green-eyed of it.
Elation jolted through him.
Which, really, was not the correct emotional reaction. But he couldn’t help it.
He liked her feeling possessive of him.
Damn. Talk about a caveman response—
“I appreciate you asking,” he replied. “The lady in question is Georgiana Carew, Lady Stratton.”
A frown wrinkled her brow. “Arthur’s sister?”
“Yes.”
He related to her Georgiana and Sebastian’s unexpected arrival and the chaos that had ensued. As he spoke, her shoulders relaxed and her expression eased from resignation to understanding.
“Lady Stratton requested that I introduce you to her as soon as we return to the great hall. Would you be amenable to the connection?”
Fossi blinked and then chuckled, low and throaty. “Heavens, such a question. I should be honored to be introduced. As if I would scorn the friendship of a countess.”
“Your father would.”
“Yes, well. That is my father for you.” She swallowed. Pulled her shawl around her again. “My father would disapprove of a great many things I do, I suppose.”
Silence again, only less fraught this time.
“So,” he began, “are you ready to tell me what other item on your list I can fulfill to appease my poor guilty conscience?”
“Daniel.” A heavy, weary sigh. “I was sincere a moment ago. There is nothing for which you need atone.”
“No, I insist. If you won’t tell me, then I shall be forced to guess.”
She pursed her lips and shot him a rather effective glare. If she hadn’t been obviously stifling a laugh at the same time, he might have been worried.
But as it was . . .
“Hmmm. What else could be on Foster Lovejoy’s spreadsheet of wishes?” He made a show of stroking his chin in thought. “Visit the Royal Menagerie in London?”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“I take that as a No.” He thought further. “Own a horse?”
“I am not much for riding.”
“Own a penguin, then?”
“You are absurd.” But she did grin.
“I will ferret this out.” He paused and pointed a finger at her. “It isn’t a ferret, is it?”
“Stop.” She giggled.
“You wish to keep house for dwarves and are terrified of poisoned apples?”
Fossi laughed in earnest. “You are impossible.”
“I have it.” He snapped his fingers. “You wish for true love’s first kiss.”
The words just popped free. It was only after they escaped that he realized how it sounded.
Or, perhaps, it was Fossi’s frozen reaction and huge eyes darting a glance at his mouth before instantly looking elsewhere.
Well.
Well, well, well . . .
Bullseye.
A deep, scarlet blush washed up her neck, likely as painful to feel as it was to watch.
Daniel thought to back down, kindly push the remark away—
He ought to back down.
It was just . . .
That word hung between them now.
Strung taut. Potential-laden.
Kiss.
And, suddenly, all he could think about was kissing Foster Lovejoy.
Her soft lips on his. The lushness of her body wrapped in his arms. The give and take of breaths as she rose on her tiptoes to brush her mouth across his—
His heart tripled, booming against his ribcage.
It would be so right, kissing her. It would feel like home.
A wise man would leave it be. Make some inane comment about the weather and escort her back inside.
But wisdom was not something he embraced when it came to Fossi.
Clearly, he wanted more literal embracing.
To that end, he stood up and grasped her gloved hand in his.
“Dance with me?”
“Pardon?” Her eyes flew wide, searching his in the moonlight. “Here? Now?”
“Answering questions with a question is my job.” He clicked his tongue. “And yes. Here and now.”
He tugged her to her feet. She rose. Not reluctantly, thank goodness.
Music from the great hall wafted to them, the violins carrying bright and clear in the still night. The crisp smell of autumn and wood smoke swirled around the courtyard.
He pulled her forward, drawing her closer.
She stumbled.
He steadied her, taking the excuse to wrap his free hand around her waist, drawing her even nearer. Not quite into a full embrace. But . . . close.
He kept her other hand in his, forcing her to place her opposite hand on his shoulder.
He was a thousand ways a fool.
Guilt tried to reason with him.
They had no future together. Nothing beyond this simple moment.
Not if he were to restore Simon.
And yet . . .
She would not remember him. She would forget his slight this evening.
Forget that he held her in his arms while they danced in an ancient torch-lit courtyard under twinkling stars.
Forget the magical beauty of here and now.
The thought tightened his throat. He adored Fossi.
He didn’t want her to forget him.
Would he remember her? Or would that be taken from him too?
Fossi stared up at Daniel.
His words buzzed and hummed and would Not. Be. Silenced.
True love’s first kiss.
Oh!
If only one could die of mortification . . .
But he had said it and she had thought it and now it rested between them like a schoolyard taunt—
Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!
She desperately wanted to stop looking at his mouth. But it was proving nearly impossible.
She had never experienced a kiss.
For years, she had wondered if she would even enjoy such a thing. It seemed too . . . personal. Too intimate.
But the thought of kissing Daniel—
Heavens.
It made her heart leap and her blood burn and rendered every last inch of her skin so achingly alive.
His hand was a delicious weight in the center of her back, his chest a blaze of heat against her front.
He pulled her closer. Which did nothing to assuage her fiery blood and electric skin.
Let this be enough, she whispered to herself. A dance will suffice.
But even she could hear the lie in her own thoughts.
He danced with her then. A slow waltz and with each step, he pulled her closer.
Closer. And closer.
Until her skirts jumbled in his legs in earnest, and he had to curtail his waltzing.
He adjusted and spun her in an unhurried circle instead.
Closer, closer, closer until her chest pressed against his.
It was such a relief, that contact.
Something so vitally needed.
Finally Fossi could rest her head against his shoulder and sag her weight into him and set every other care free.
His touch soothed an irritant within her that she had never known existed. And when everything clicked back into its proper place, peace and calm and harmony descended in a profound rush.
And still he drew her closer. Until their legs tangled and they merely swayed side-to-side, his cheek resting on her head.
She breathed in deep heady lungfuls of him. His typical scent of peppermint and bay rum, but this close there was something else. An under-note of earthiness and pure male that could only be Daniel himself.
So this is what heaven feels like.
It was a decidedly florid thought but true nonetheless.
This had to be what heaven felt like. Which explained her next action.
She snuggled closer, unconsciously nuzzling her nose into his throat.
It simply felt too natural. She was compelled. Her own heart and very nature conspiring against her.
Daniel and she were simply two halves of a separate whole and now that they had joined again, she couldn’t get close enough.
His reaction was deliciously gratifying.
He inhaled deeply and clutched her closer, stopping them entirely.
“Fossi.” His voice the barest whisper.
Her name a plea. Or perhaps a benediction.
She really didn’t care.
All she knew was that she wanted this.
When she was eighty years old and living alone with only cats and knitting for company, she wanted to be able to dust off the memory and relive kissing Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor, on a crisp autumn evening underneath the stars.
To that end, she lifted her head from his shoulder. Wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck, sliding her gloved fingers into his hair.
She arched up on her tiptoes.
He bent his head.
Her arms trembled, her knees shook.
It was her own personal earthquake.
Her eyes drifted closed.
His breath skimmed over her lips, not quite touching.
Close.
So close—
“By all that is unholy, you will unhand my daughter immediately, sir!”
The cry of a thunderous Reverend Josiah Lovejoy rent the night.
Chapter 19
The library
Whitmoor House
October 2, 1828
You, sirrah, are a scoundrel.” Reverend Lovejoy paced before the fire in the library, pointing an angry finger at Daniel. Fossi winced at her father’s words. “A villain of such a degenerate mien—”
“We understood your point the first twenty-three times you stated it.” Lord Linwood’s dry voice cut her father off. His lordship flicked a speck of fluff from his elbow where it rested against the mantelpiece. “Please say something relevant or cease this tiresome repetition.”
Her father shot a baleful look at Lord Linwood—who returned an equally haughty, condescending scorn. Had Fossi not already seen Lord Linwood behaving as a devoted husband and doting father, she would have believed him truly proud and arrogant.
Fossi twisted her fingers in her lap, fighting yet another vicious blush.
They had all retired to the library to ‘discuss the matter’ after her father, Will and Strength had interrupted her moment with Daniel in the courtyard.
Lords Linwood and Stratton had quickly joined the fracas. Though Fossi was left to wonder if they were there to support Daniel or simply provide droll commentary.
Of course, part of her marveled how quickly one could move from Heaven to Hell. And which part, in the end, was the Heaven? And which the Hell? The almost kissing Daniel? Or the embarrassment of having her father interrupt a private moment between her and her . . .
Mmmm. Here Fossi had to pause. What was Daniel to her?
Her employer? Certainly. A friend? Most definitely.
But beyond that?
She couldn’t call him a suitor or an admirer. Certainly not her lover.
Her father had made his opinion on the matter abundantly clear—
Daniel was a reprobate of the worst sort. Only the good reverend’s timely arrival had saved Fossi from certain ruin.
For his part, Daniel stood still and silent beside Lord Linwood, expression utterly unreadable. He had withdrawn deep inside his fortress. Surely reinforcing his battlements and preparing to vigorously defend himself.
Lord Whitmoor at his most formidable.
Lord Stratton sat in a chair opposite Fossi, tapping his fingers on his knees. A look of bemusement on his face.
Between Lord Stratton and Fossi, Reverend Lovejoy paced, raining down fire and brimstone on everyone within the room. Will and Strength stood beside Fossi’s chair. Strength reflected his father’s outrage. Will remained impassive. If she knew him, Will had come simply to keep his father and brother in check and ensure that Fossi made decisions of her own free choice.
Reverend Lovejoy jabbed a finger at Daniel. “I will not cease shouting my opinions of this man—”
“Daniel is taking this quite well, I do say.” Lord Stratton looked up at Lord Linwood.
“Indeed,” was Lord Linwood’s reply. “Though I do not expect him to remain so calm for long. I predict an impressive eruption of temper.”
Daniel shot the two men a quelling look.
They ignored him.
“One can always hope.” Lord Stratto
n nodded toward the bell pull. “Do you think we could ring for some popcorn?”
Reverend Lovejoy was not amused. “This man is a scoundrel—”
“Father!” Fossi could not remain silent. “Please stop. I beg of you.”
Her words had the effect she intended. Her father whirled on her.
“You will be silent, woman! You have brought shame upon our entire family through your thoughtless, wanton behavior—”
“Come now.” That from Lord Stratton.
“Father!” That from Will.
“Enough.” Daniel sliced a hand through the air, the suppressed fury and force in his voice instantly silencing the room.
He was Lord Whitmoor. A man of authority. Radiating command and power.
Reverend Lovejoy glared daggers at him.
“You have said enough, sir.” Daniel held her father’s gaze. “Fos—Miss Lovejoy has been welcome in my employ—”
“Employ as what, sirrah? Your doxy?”
Oh!
“Drat. This really does need popcorn,” Lord Stratton whispered to Lord Linwood.
“Father.” Will again, voice pained. He turned to Daniel. “You must forgive him, my lord. He did not mean to imply that—”
“I most certainly did mean to imply what I did. Her behavior was already suspect when she ran off. But once we realized she had visited Mister Ashton’s townhouse in London . . . well, that’s when I knew. As further proof, he has dressed her as his strumpet and we all saw them engaged in that carnal embrace.”
“Hear, hear.” Strength added his opinion, shooting Will an angry glower.
“Carnal embrace? Hardly.” Lord Linwood sounded amused.
“The good reverend clearly doesn’t get out much.” Lord Stratton leaned toward his friend. “Perhaps someone should break down the differences between carnal versus non-carnal embracing for him.”
Fossi clutched a hand to her stomach and pressed the other against her fiery cheek.
Would that she could pass two minutes without her skin going up in flames.
Daniel didn’t respond instantly. Instead, he clenched his jaw, pinched the bridge of his nose and appeared to be saying a silent prayer.
The sounds of music and chatter and gaiety drifted in. The harvest ball was still underway.
“Miss Lovejoy has been a model of virtue and decorum in her time in my employ,” Daniel said. “What you witnessed this evening was an extension of the regard in which I hold her—”