The Dove Formatted

by welis

  He grinned, flashing his teeth with all the warmth of a predator about to have its next meal. “They know enough … but not the entire story. How entertaining do you think it would be for them all to find out that you accepted ten thousand pounds from me for your sister’s maidenhead?”

  Bertram faltered, panic alighting in his eyes, which broke his gaze and made them dart about. “You wouldn’t … it would ruin you just as much as it would us.”

  Adam inched closer, his upper lip curling at the rancid stench of sweat, spirits, and fear emanating from the little worm squirming at the mere sound of his voice.

  “You see, that is the difference between you and me,” he retorted. “Even if I gave a shite about my reputation, I’m a bloody earl. They would whisper and gossip, but no one would dare give me the cut direct. You, however … they would crucify you. What little clout your father has left would vanish, and there isn’t an establishment in this city that would admit you … money or no money.”

  Bertram snorted, shaking his head. “Then do it. Just finish this. It’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”

  “Because, your sister does not deserve what such talk would do to her,” he replied. “And unlike you, I do not take pleasure in destroying innocent women who have never done me a day’s harm.”

  “No, you only like forcing them into your bed,” Bertram retorted.

  This time, his smile was genuine, fueled by sincere amusement. “I can assure you, no force was necessary.”

  Bertram growled, lunging as if to attack, fists raised. Adam’s hand whipped through the air between them like the strike of a snake, his palm slamming against Bertram’s throat with enough force to send him staggering back.

  Coughing and wheezing for air, Bertram doubled over, pressing his hands to his neck. Adam was on him then, grasping him by his collar and forcing him to stand upright. His eyes watered from the force of the blow, his breaths coming out on a rough wheeze.

  “This is the only time you will try that and survive,” he growled, shaking Bertram like a rag doll. “And if you have any doubts about whether or not that was an idle threat, I suggest not trying your luck.”

  Tossing Bertram away from him, he scowled at the men who had been seated at his table. They had come to their feet and watched him with varying degrees of shock and horror upon their faces. Yet, not one of them dared approach him or take him to task. None of them would defend Bertram.

  Inclining his head at them, he turned to take his leave. His long legs carried him swiftly from the room, but as he stumbled out into the night, the cold air did nothing to cool his ire.

  The foul mood was back, exacerbated now by Bertram’s needling. Damn him for not knowing when to leave well enough alone. One would think that a man who had been as thoroughly ruined as Bertram would wish to slink off to some quiet corner of London and live off the money he’d managed to earn in the end. But, no, Adam had arrived to find the cur drinking, gambling, and publicly declaring his intentions to call him out.

  It would seem the fool had not learned his lesson … a circumstance that was easily mended.

  By the time he reached his hotel, his anger had not abated—it had only grown and swelled, a sweltering fire of rage that crackled in his belly. He nearly tore the door to his suite off the hinges, finding Niall reclining on a chaise longue, a plate holding his half-eaten dinner sitting in his lap.

  He straightened at the sight of Adam, setting his plate aside and wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. “What’s got yer smalls in a twist?”

  Scowling, Adam slammed the door, approaching the sideboard and selecting the first decanter he got his hands on. Sherry, he realized, after taking his first sip from a tumbler.

  “Fairchild,” he fairly snarled, beginning to pace with the glass clutched between his fingers.

  Niall was on his feet in a blink, hands clenching into meaty bludgeons. “What’s he done now?”

  Shaking his head, Adam took another drink. “He’s flapping his jaw about town … smearing my name. The fool tried to hit me, Niall.”

  The butler raised his eyebrows, amusement glittering in his dark eyes. “And he’s still breathin’, eh?”

  Adam issued a rough, dry chuckle at the memory of Bertram choking and wheezing after being struck in the throat. “Barely.”

  Niall crossed his arms over his chest and inclined his head, giving Adam a knowing look. “I s’pose yer ready to stop muckin’ about and finish this. The father and the uncle might’ve learned their lessons, but he clearly hasn’t.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “You’re right, Niall.”

  The man had always been right, as much as he hated to admit it. Adam had been content with the way things lay, especially considering the complication of Daphne. He still wanted her with an intensity that had him questioning his own sanity. However, that did not change what had occurred between his family and hers. He’d shown no mercy with the men of her family from the beginning … why should he exercise such now, just because he was mad for her cunt? She knew the truth, understood his vendetta, had even agreed that her brother had deserved every blow Adam had dealt him.

  Bertram had earned what would come next with his little stunt at the club, and he refused to let himself feel the little niggling of guilt at the back of his mind. Daphne had spurned him, so why should he consider her feelings in this? If he could not have peace, then neither would she. He would obliterate what remained of Bertram, and he would use Daphne to do it.

  He grinned at the realization that not only could he use her for his own aims, he could also make her like it.

  “Whadye want me to do?” Niall offered.

  His tone held an eagerness that reminded Adam of the other man’s stake in this. Niall had always been willing to do his part in helping him tear down the Fairchilds. As it turned out, Adam had already decided exactly what needed to be done, and Niall’s help would be instrumental in carrying it out.

  “Prepare our things for departure first thing in the morning,” he ordered.

  Niall’s expression flickered with a brief moment of shock, before he gave a nod of approval. “Then … you mean …”

  “Aye,” he confirmed with a wide grin. “I think it’s time we took up residence at our new townhome, don’t you?”

  Daphne settled into the chair before her writing desk—a lightweight piece situated in the drawing room off her bedchamber. Upon it, Clarice had delivered the small collection of invitations she’d received since her performance at the Bellinghams’ musicale. As she opened and read each one, she recognized the names—all friends of Winifred’s family. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. The young woman had obviously reached out to trusted friends to secure these invitations for her. Her determination to see Daphne take her place in society once more had resulted in her being invited to two musicales, a dinner party, and a ball.

  Of course, these people might simply wish to make a spectacle of her—to be able to say they’d hosted the infamous Lady Daphne Fairchild at their party. Still, that did not mean she had to refuse them; she simply needed to be selective about which events she elected to attend. Dinner parties were out, as they put her in the position of being made the center of attention too easily. Small musicales were less than ideal.

  This left only the ball, which she supposed could be tolerable. While it would expose her to the most people, it would also make it easier for her to avoid conversations that lasted too long, or people she did not wish to address. Besides, she missed dancing—had not danced in ages.

  As well, she fully agreed with Winifred’s assertion that she could not hide forever. If she hid, people would only gossip more … and Adam would think her afraid of him.

  She would show him; she would show them all. She had ceased cowering and succumbing to fear. She wished to go to a ball—to wear a beautiful gown and drink champagne and dance. And she would do these things with her head held high, showing the ton that she did not care what they thought of her
. Showing Adam that she was no longer afraid of him.

  Sure, he’d gotten the best of her the day before, but she’d been caught unawares. If her refusal of his insulting offer had not been enough to keep him away, then she’d be prepared for him to approach her again. And just as she had before, she would make it clear that she had no interest in being his mistress.

  The nerve of the man, proposing to treat her to the lifestyle of a courtesan … as if it were some great honor. Provided for, protected, well-fucked. It seemed all he was capable of offering her, and while she could appreciate his honesty, it was not the sort of life she wanted for herself. Thanks to his generous settlement, she was no longer desperate enough to accept such a bargain. That he could make her body sing with a touch of his hands was simply not enough to tempt her into such an arrangement.

  If Adam truly wanted her, then he would have to offer something far more permanent than becoming his mistress.

  “Daff, you’ve gone mad,” she muttered to herself aloud while unstopping her inkwell.

  Even if she wanted to marry such a man—which she most certainly did not—there was simply too much bad blood between their families. The fact that her name was Fairchild would be all he needed to keep a certain distance between them. He could never truly care for her … would never love her.

  But, she did not want his love. Adam was like a raging fire, consuming everything in his path. He’d burned her once, but she had a chance to avoid being incinerated and flaked away into bits of ash floating on the wind.

  Dipping her pen into her inkwell, she focused on the task at hand and put Adam out of her mind. Penning her regrets for the musicale and dinner party, but thanking the ladies for their kind invitations, she blew upon the ink and waited for it to dry before ringing for Clarice. The maid appeared quickly, executing a swift curtsy before approaching the desk.

  “Would you please see that Rowney has these sent out as soon as possible?” she said to the maid while stuffing small envelopes with her regrets.

  The maid wrinkled her brow at the sight of Daphne’s refusals. She never spoke on it, but seemed concerned that her mistress spent most of her time at home, or in Mrs. Russel’s coffeehouse.

  She smiled, holding up the invitation for tomorrow night’s soirée. “All is not lost, Clarice. There’s a ball tomorrow night, and I intend to go.”

  The maid’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, my lady, how splendid! You should wear the gold satin!”

  Daphne smiled, certain this was the first time she’d ever seen her lady’s maid portray any real emotion. She’d been so formal and distant that she’d begun to worry that Clarice was not fond of her.

  As if uncertain after such an outburst, the maid reeled herself in. Clearing her throat, she schooled her face into a passive mask.

  “That is, if my lady is amenable,” Clarice added in an even tone of voice.

  Reaching out to take the maid’s hand, she laughed. “I think the gold satin would be lovely. It’s never been worn, and I believe I have some jewelry to match it—a few pieces my mother passed down to me. What do you say we choose accessories after you’ve handed those notes off to Rowney?”

  Clarice’s smile was back, and she nodded. “That would be splendid, m’lady.”

  Daphne sent the maid off before crossing through the open doorway to her bedchamber. By the time Clarice had returned, she’d retrieved the ballgown from its place in her dressing room and laid it across the bed.

  For an hour, the two went about selecting the right shoes, comparing bits of jewelry and the small collection of hair clips and feathers that Daphne had purchased to complement her wardrobe. It felt good, turning her mind to mundane things for a short time. Once they had decided on a complete ensemble, Clarice bustled off to get to work, ensuring the gown was pressed and pristine. Which left Daphne with nothing to do until dinner.

  Deciding that lunch at the coffeehouse would be just the thing, she retrieved a spencer and shawl and set out on the short walk. If she hurried, Mrs. Russel would have meat pies fresh from the oven. There was a slight spring in her step as she walked, the unusually pleasant weather continuing to grace them with sunshine. She fairly skipped down the street, heedless of the people passing her on the sidewalk, or the open-air barouche pulling up in the intersection between two streets—until it veered into her path, preventing her from crossing the street.

  Indignation bristled her spine, a sharp reprimand perched on the edge of her tongue as she stared up at the man seated on the perch. The words died on her lips as she met the gaze of the driver, her heart stuttering to a stop for what felt like ages.

  It was Adam, dressed in snappy riding attire, black gloves covering his large hands, which clutched the reins of a pair of beautiful black bays. The horses stamped and snorted, but minded the pull of the reins as he grinned, looking very much like he wished to devour her.

  Despite the sunlight shining down upon her, she shivered.

  “Pardon me, my lord,” she said and an imperious lift of her chin. “You are blocking the road.”

  “Aye, but ask me if I give a bloody damn,” he teased. “Get in, little dove.”

  Heaving a frustrated sigh, she backed away from the barouche. Just when she was beginning to enjoy her day, he had to turn up and ruin it. Still, it was difficult to tear her eyes away from the sight of him, his coat and breeches clinging to his bulging muscles, his hair left loose and hanging down his back. He did not wear a hat, but that should not have surprised her. Adam was never proper if he could help it.

  “I am enjoying my walk,” she protested. “I’ll thank you to let me be on my way.”

  He chuckled, in a better mood than she’d expected after the events of the previous day. “So formal … one would think I had not tied you down and fucked your mouth just yesterday.”

  She gasped, her gaze darting left and right to ensure no one who walked past them had overheard. Despite wishing to appear as if he did not affect her quite as much as he did, she felt her face flushing.

  “Will you lower your voice?” she hissed.

  “Only if you get in,” he countered. “Now, Daphne … before I cause a scene.”

  Already, passersby were slowing to stare at them, searching beneath her hat to see who stood on the corner of Half-Moon Street talking to the Earl of Hartmoor. Weighing her options, she realized he had left her with no choice. She had no doubt he would cause the threatened scene if she did not comply.

  She would give him what he wanted, if for no other reason than to preserve her dignity. Besides, he couldn’t maul her in an open barouche with all of London looking on.

  “Fine,” she huffed, gathering her gown in one hand and climbing into the conveyance.

  Adam’s large body took up so much of the seat that when she settled beside him, their hips and thighs met, their bodies mashed together by the confined space on the perch.

  Straightening her back, she tried not to think about the heat emanating from his body, the way his hard thigh felt pressed against hers. His scent invaded her senses, overwhelming that of city smog and horse. He gave his reins a snap, and the beasts set off at a canter, pulling them into the light traffic coming and going along the lane.

  Once they were well underway, she turned to him. “What do you want, Adam?”

  Keeping his eyes upon the road in front of them, he shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t a gentleman invite a woman to ride with him without being accused of having ulterior motives?”

  His teasing tone and downright giddy mood only served to further aggravate her. “I have never known you not to possess nefarious intentions.”

  “You look bonny this afternoon,” he said conversationally. “New hat? It looks quite expensive.”

  She snorted. “It was one I owned before having met you, so do not think to take any credit for it. When my mother left Fairchild House, she made sure to pack my belongings and bring them with her to my aunt’s residence. I was able to procu
re them from her when I returned to London.”

  “Ah,” he replied, his tone still light and jovial. “Is the countess enjoying her newfound freedom as much as you seem to be enjoying yours?”

  She turned her head to look at him, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Your quarrel is with my brother and my father … you are to leave her out of any of our dealings. Do you understand? She is off limits, Adam.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her, suddenly serious. “If there’s any member of your family who is safe from me, it is your mother, Daphne. Anything she has suffered has been due to mere proximity, nothing more. I hold no grudge against a woman who never had the sense to fly free of her own cage.”

  The furrows in her brow softened as she looked at him and realized he meant what he said. It also did not escape her that he seemed to see Daphne’s mother the way she did—a woman who had never had the courage to step outside of convention, to be herself, to challenge the men ruling her life. It had made her weak and naive … two traits Daphne could proudly say did not apply to her any longer.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, tearing her gaze away from his.

  One shred of decency did not make him a good person. It did not give her leave to love him like some masochistic idiot.

  They rode in silence for a time, with Adam navigating the roads and Daphne staring unseeingly at the passing scenery. Her mind wandered, and she found herself daydreaming about him touching her, sliding one of those leather-clad hands beneath her gown and taking hold of one of her thighs, digging his fingers into the tender flesh.

  Blinking and shaking her head, she snapped out of her reverie, annoyed with herself for sinking so low. In his presence for barely a quarter of an hour and already, her mind had turned to carnal matters.

  “I want you to know that if I were able, I’d keep you safe from it, too,” he said suddenly, his voice low. “My wrath, I mean … but, you’re too tangled up in it now, little dove. I cannot make a move toward him without treading on you, too.”