by welis
He gave her another, shorter, kiss before stepping back and allowing her to go inside.
Rowney stood in the doorway, watching with open curiosity as she bid Robert good night, then turned to scale the front steps. As the carriage pulled away, she swept into the vestibule, handing her wrap off to a footman.
“I trust you had a pleasant evening, my lady?” Rowney asked.
“It was … quite eventful,” she replied. “But it is not over yet. I am going back out right away. I will need a hackney coach summoned while I change my clothes.”
Rowney frowned, staring after her in disbelief. “My lady, where could you mean to go at this hour?”
That feeling in her belly flared hot once again, now that the shock of Robert’s proposal had worn off. Now, she would not be able to rest until she’d unleashed it upon the person responsible for it … for ruining what remained of her life.
“I’m going to Fairchild House,” she declared, before marching up the stairs like a soldier going off to prepare for battle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
dam took his time walking home from the ball, the collar of his overcoat turned up to ward off the chill of the evening air, a cigarillo held between his teeth. He’d hoped the walk would help clear his head. But, he was having the devil of a time being rational. It was Daphne, damn her, and this game she now played with him. She insisted on fighting him, even though they both knew she would eventually lose. It seemed a part of her nature to run from him … to squirm and kick and writhe, even as he closed his teeth around her and held fast.
Never … I will never let you go.
The words had come out of his mouth before he could think over their meaning. Even now, he was not certain why he’d said them, especially considering they both knew her place in his life could never be permanent. The spite amongst their families would always hang between them like some tangible thing. As long as Bertram was near enough for him to torment … as long as this need for vengeance ate away at him like some indestructible parasite … as long as he could use her to gain his own ends, things would always be this way between them.
It would be best for everyone involved if, after he’d ground Bertram into the dirt one last time, he turned away and let her go—return to Dunnottar, to his sister and niece, where he belonged. He had already been away from them for longer than he preferred, and he could see that being separated from Olivia was wearing on Niall.
But, the thought of leaving without her—without at least knowing he could return to London and lay eyes on her whenever he wished—made his stomach twist. The feeling was annoyingly similar to the sensation he felt at being disconnected from Olivia and Serena … and he despised the similarity. Daphne was not his family, not someone who held a place in his heart. Aye, she was beautiful, and intriguing, and his counterpoint in so many ways … in all the ways that mattered. That didn’t need to mean anything. She was not the first woman to earn his respect and affection, and he doubted she’d be the last.
Even knowing this in his rational mind, some deeper part of him rebelled, clinging to the idea of her, wrapping itself around her and baring its teeth, snarling at anyone or anything that tried to take away his little dove. He wanted her, and he did not accept her rejection. That was all there was to it. Rationale had nothing to do with it. This was instinct … something visceral. Something he could not deny.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath as he reached Fairchild House and tossed aside the spent stub of his cheroot.
He needed a few tumblers of brandy and a good night’s sleep, if he could manage it. In the morning, he’d be able to think clearer.
The front door opened, and instead of the butler that had come with the residence, Niall hovered in the gap. Adam’s heart plummeted into the depths of his stomach as he took in the man’s haggard appearance—cravat removed, shirt askew, hair mussed, eyes bloodshot. He looked as if someone had jammed a knife into his heart.
His feet propelled him swiftly up the front steps, and Niall backed away from the door to let him in.
“What happened?” he demanded, slamming the panel behind him.
The figure of a woman appeared at the top of the stairs, and he watched, openmouthed, as Maeve descended, hands clenched in front of her, her face as tortured as Niall’s. She had been crying, he could see, her cheeks splotchy and moisture still pooling in her eyes.
His heart seemed to stop beating, his vision swimming as he tried to grapple with what her sudden appearance in London must mean.
Something was terribly wrong.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as she reached the vestibule. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
Sniffling, Maeve avoided his gaze, as if she were afraid to look him in the eye. “I did not know what else to do, Master. She’s been so despondent the past few days … and then … I only turned my back for a moment … there was glass … it all happened so quickly …”
He shoved past her, his chest aching as he barreled up the stairs, not bothering to ask where she was. He knew Niall well enough to realize where, so he went there now, his long legs carrying him up two flights of stairs and down the corridor to the room he had claimed as his own. The master suite.
Throwing open the door, he gazed around the dimly lit room, his mouth going dry and his entire body tensing, bracing him for what he would find.
Olivia lay in his bed, one of her prim nightgowns covering her willowy body. She looked worse than he’d seen her in some time, her eyes seeming overlarge in her gaunt face, the dark circles beneath them telling him she hadn’t been sleeping. His gaze dropped to the hands resting in her lap—the slender forearms covered with clean, white bandages. He released his breath on a tortured sigh, the evidence of what had occurred at Dunnottar in his absence tearing him through him like the slash of a dagger.
He approached the bed slowly, not wanting to set her off if she was still in a fragile state. It had been years since she’d hurt herself. And even though he’d known she might never be whole again, he had hoped it meant she had gotten better—not cured, but perhaps well enough that she did not need to be watched every hour of every day.
“Ah, butterfly,” he whispered, sinking onto the mattress at her side. “What have you done to yourself?”
She glanced up at him, not bothering to fight when he reached out to take hold of her hand, pulling her arm taut and carefully unwinding her bandages. Remaining silent, she simply blinked, a lone tear rolling down one cheek. As he reached the linen closest to her skin, he paused, his throat constricting as he found the telltale bloodstains. His breathing accelerated, his eyes stinging with tears he knew he would be unable to shed.
He hadn’t wept in five years … his heart and soul finally scarred over from all the hurts.
Pulling away the last layer of linen, he revealed her forearm and the series of deep, ugly cuts she’d gouged into them. Maeve said she had used glass, and he could see that Olivia had sunk it deep, as if she’d been trying to tear something loose.
As if she had wanted to spill her own blood until there was nothing left.
A sound akin to a sob came from him, and he lowered his head, clinging to her slender arm.
“Why, Livvie?” he rasped, his chest and throat burning as if he might weep. Yet, the tears would not come, the emotions compressing in his middle with so much pressure, he thought might explode.
“Why?” he repeated, leaning in to rest his head on her shoulder, to gather her close, to try to hold her together in his arms. He did not think he’d ever be strong enough.
She fell limp against him, eerily silent for so long, he feared she had retreated back into the state she’d been in upon first returning home from the asylum. She hadn’t spoken for days, and when she’d first opened her mouth, her words had been broken, senseless fragments that he and Niall had been forced to piece together themselves. It had taken her weeks to form coherent thoughts again.
Finally, she spoke, her voice
muffled against the fabric of his coat.
“The laudanum … it takes everything away … all the feelings.”
He nodded. “Aye, butterfly. I know.”
She shook her head, her hair tickling his jaw. “I just wanted … I wanted to feel again, Hart. I couldn’t feel anything.”
Drawing back to look down at her, he considered her words. The physicians had told him that the laudanum seemed to be the only thing bringing her peace. Over the years, it had been the only way to stop her tears and screams, to help her sleep when terrors plagued her dreams. Yet, the more she drank it, the less effective it became, and the more of it she needed to function.
Had he and Niall done this to her? Made it to where she was drinking so much of the stuff that she could no longer feel a thing? They’d meant well, but perhaps they had been pushing her toward her death. If she’d cut herself any deeper … if Maeve hadn’t discovered her … if …
“No more laudanum,” he declared. “Not unless you truly want it.”
She nodded in agreement, another tear slipping down her cheek. “No more laudanum.”
They sat staring at each other in silence for a moment, before she spoke again.
“I’m sorry, Hart … I don’t mean to hurt you … I don’t mean to make you worry.”
He shook his head, tightening his hold on her shoulders and placing a kiss on her forehead. “Never apologize to me for things you cannot control. It is my duty to worry, and I’d suffer a thousand hurts if it meant you would be all right.”
She issued a sigh, a sound that carried in it a thousand thoughts and emotions.
“This will not be easy,” he warned her. “Your body will crave the laudanum. It won’t be pleasant.”
The smile she gave him broke his heart. “I know … I want that, too.”
He understood what she said as well as what she did not say. She wanted the pain, the sweating and the trembling of withdrawal. She wanted it, because it was better than numbness, better than swimming in a void of darkness.
He had just opened his mouth to reply to her when Niall’s voice came from the doorway.
“Master … there is someone here demanding an audience with you.”
Scowling at the man over his shoulder, he wondered who the hell could be calling on him this time of night. “Whoever it is can sod off, Niall. Now is not the time—”
A commotion in the hallway had him falling silent, another familiar voice ringing out through the open door.
“Where is he? I will not be put off! Tell the bloody coward to come and face me!”
Daphne.
He was on his feet in an instant, moving toward the door without a second thought, drawn toward the sound of her voice. She sounded angry … no, furious … but he did not care. He only wanted to lay eyes on her, to have a taste of his own addictive drug … his opium … his little dove.
He entered the corridor just in time to find her barreling toward him, hands balled into fists at her sides, her face a mask of unrestrained wrath. Before he could speak, she was on him with an enraged snarl, her slight body colliding with his big one. She stunned him into passivity for a moment, and he could do nothing but stand there as she slapped him over and over, screaming at him. Her words came out in a jumbled screech he could not decipher, but he felt the weight of each one, heard the accusations she leveled at him, felt the anger in every strike of her hand against his face.
He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground, trying to wrestle her into stillness. She thrashed and flailed in his hold, her feet striking his shins, her fists pummeling every inch of him she could reach.
“You bastard!” she shrieked as he began carrying her into the room adjoining his—the feminine suite that had once belonged to her mother. “You snake!”
Her blows were starting to affect him, stoking his anger and his lust all at once, until the feelings became one—his blood heating and rushing in his veins, going straight to his groin and engorging his cock so fast, it was uncanny. Fighting down the urge to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture and silence her with the ram of his cock into her cunt, he threw her away from him.
She landed on the bed with a huff, falling silent momentarily when the wind was knocked out of her. He stalked to the open door and peered out at Niall, who was staring after them with a mixture of confusion and annoyance upon his face.
“Stay with Olivia,” he barked before grabbing hold of the door. “No laudanum.”
Without waiting for a response, he slammed the door. He had just turned to address Daphne when she came flying at him again, grunting and snarling as he grabbed hold of her wrist before she could land another blow.
“I hate you!” she bellowed as he spun her about and slammed her against the door. “I hate you, you bloody bastard!”
Her other hand came at him, and he plucked it out of the air, pinning it above her head along with the other. She bucked against him, but he overcame her easily, using his body to press her against the door. Genuine confusion wrinkled his brow as he gazed down at her, finding tears in her eyes and her face reddened with fury.
He wanted to believe she might be angry with him over their encounter at the ball—the things he’d said to her during their waltz. However, he quickly realized that it must be something else, as he’d never seen her so angry, trembling with the force of her rage, her chest heaving as she attempted to get her breathing under control.
“I realize you have many reasons to hate me,” he said calmly, hoping that being reasonable might help him get to the bottom of whatever had upset her. “Perhaps you might tell me what it is that’s made your loathing especially potent just now?”
She bucked against him, her pelvis bumping his and making him grit his teeth. Goddamn it, being this close to her was a terrible idea when she was in such a state—because she had murder in her eyes, and all it did was make him want to expel that fury from her, ram her full of his cock and drill it right out of her.
“I knew you were despicable, but I never would have believed you capable of something like this,” she spat, narrowing her eyes at him. “It was foolish of me to think you capable of any form of decency.”
Her cryptic words began to annoy him, and he gave her wrists a squeeze, pressing her tighter to the door, obliterating what was left of the space between them.
“You are going to have to be more specific, little dove,” he snapped.
“How could you?” she retorted. “How could you let them all know the truth about us? Now, everyone leaving the Mallorys’ ball is spreading the word that Lady Daphne Fairchild sold her cunt for ten thousand pounds!”
Shock rendered him speechless for a moment as her words, as well as their implications, sank in. He’d left the ball as soon as their waltz had ended, knowing that remaining so close to her would have him going out of his mind after a while. In order to keep from taking her down to the ballroom floor and embarrassing them both in front of a room full of the London ton, he’d made a hasty retreat.
Whatever had occurred after he’d left was what had her in such a state.
Shaking his head to clear it, he peered into her eyes and found the truth there—along with a healthy dose of anger directed solely at him.
“Daphne, I didn’t—”
“I do not believe you,” she interjected. “It all makes sense, your warning that I’d soon feel the consequences of your next blow … that it would all become clear to me. You could not be satisfied with ruining me and flaunting me in front of the entire ton, could you? You just couldn’t help ensuring they all knew that I was paid to act as your whore?”
“Daphne,” he tried again, but she was beyond hearing him, tears spilling from the eyes burning into his with every ounce of the hatred she claimed to feel for him.
“Did you know that the moment our dance had ended, I was approached by a man who wished to buy a night with me for fifty quid?” she sobbed, closing her eyes and causing more of the tears to fall.
> The fire in his belly roared, his neck going hot and his entire body tensing as her words fell on him like the lash of a whip. His hold on her wrists tightened even more, until she whimpered and squirmed in his grasp. But he was beyond the limits of his control, murder on his mind, his vision going black at the edges.
“Who?” he growled from between clenched teeth. “Who was the man?”
“Does it matter?” she whispered, going limp against him, the fight finally leaving her body.
“Yes,” he snarled, releasing her and pacing away, running a shaking hand through his hair. “It matters. I want his name, Daphne. I want his name, and I want his blood.”
She pursued him across the room, jabbing his chest with her index finger. “Why, when this is a mess of your own making? When you are the one who ousted me as a woman whose body is for sale to all of London!”
“Goddamn it, Daphne, I told you it was not me!” he roared, his voice filling the room and practically shaking the rafters.
She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “If not you, then who? Who else would be so cruel, so calculating?”
He had just been about to retort that he had no bloody idea when it all became clear. Through the muddled haze of anger, pain, and grief that had overtaken him, the answer came at him a rush of clarity he could not deny.
“Who, indeed?” he hedged, inclining his head and returning her stare. He needed her to understand on her own … to arrive at the truth using logic. Otherwise, she would simply accuse him of casting blame to shift her anger away from him. “Yes, I will admit that this sounds like something I might do. However, I want you to remember that I have never lied to you, or about you, little dove. Not once. I have only ever been honest about who I am, what I want, and what I will do. If I were to reveal the specifics of our arrangement, do you not think I might have actually spread the truth?”
She frowned, her brow knitting and her eyes darting as she seemed to try to make sense of his words. “I do not understand.”
He came closer and took hold of her face, cupping her jaw and looking into her eyes, willing her to see the truth … to not only see it, but believe it.