The Coachman's Daughter (18 page)

“The first is more tempting, but the second
is necessary.” She snorted. “Your mother’s maid insisted I couldn’t
have more than tea and fit in this gown. That may be true, but I’m
hearing my stomach over the coach wheels.”

He grinned. “Dinner it is.” He winked next.
“And I shall return you to the Duke’s house, in plenty of time to
pleasure you before they get home.”

She dampened her lips. “I’ll see that it’s
mutual.”

“Will you.” His lids dipped slightly. “In
that case, I’m glad dinner requires one have a napkin on their
lap.”

She laughed with him. “You say the most
shocking things.”

He took that as a compliment. “I do them
too.” He moved to sit beside her and soon was kissing her, hot,
slow, sensual.

Raising his head, their breath bathing each
other’s lips, he added, “You enjoy that about me. A tame man would
not do for you, my dear.”

“Mmm. She cupped his cheek. “I don’t think
we’re going to make it to dinner.” Then kissed him.

They did not. Hands sought and found. Under
cloaks, they pleasured each other, arriving back at the dukes and
eating from a tray in the study instead.

He left shortly afterwards—before they
tempted each other beyond discretion.

* * * *

The week following was a wonderful time for
Haven, although she was not impressed with the sedate pace of rides
in the park, and on suggestion from the Duchess, attended many
amusements with only the Duchess and Lisette. There were enjoyments
to be had at the salons. Her favorite outings, when she and Lisette
went to the museum or to a lecture. She found it intellectually
stimulating.

The second week, she and Deme went to a
Masque ball and could hardly keep their hands off each other.

He had been busy also, and gone to his club,
or about with the Duke—Deme jested to her that having that prior
rakehell rep, there were more dropped jaws when he walked into a
club and ordered coffee, instead of his usual bottle of
whiskey—than when old Lord Pombsby’s trousers had fallen off during
the reel at Carlton house.

Secreted with him in an alcove, the window
behind them frosted with snow, Haven took his supple kisses on her
throat and her nape, and his caresses under the silk cloak she wore
over a black gown. In their masks, their eyes glittering in the
shadows, it was exciting and arousing to have him ease up her
skirts under the cape and stroke her to feverish climax.

Deme leaned her against the wall, freed his
sex and entered her afterwards. Their breathing tight and fevered,
her hands under his cape holding to him and his lifting her,
lowering her. They hissed sultry breaths through clenched teeth at
the intense carnal pleasure of it. When he came, they clung to each
other, trembling.

Two days later, they were at a gathering and
Deme forgot himself and kissed her nape in full view of several
gaping people.

It was deuced difficult to keep their hands
off each other.

* * * *

It was the evening before Lisette’s ball. The
Duchess’s house was all a frenzy with florists and bakers and all
manner of people in and out.

Escaping the madness after going with Lisette
to collect her ball gown, an amazing creation that would be talked
about for the rest of the season, Haven spent time in the carriage
house, seeing her father when he was not busy running
errands...

The social events had been wonderful .London;
through eyes of someone in society was a different experience too
for Haven. Yet much of that was because of the Marquis—and she
needed time to herself to process it all.

In a simple winter gown of chocolate hue, she
did a cleaning and straightening of the apartments then brewed tea
before sitting in the jutting upper window, absently watching
coaches and vehicles manage the snow-laden streets—sipping,
reflecting—and feeling much of the intoxication at the memories as
she had in the moment.

When the door opened, she assumed it was her
father and looked that way. The Marquis stepped inside, hatless,
his coat open, and a scarf dangling under the lapels.

“I was half afraid you’d commandeered a coach
and headed to Wimberly.” He grinned, taking in her comfortable pose
and gown. “It’s madness inside the house.”

“It is.” She tilted her head and noticed he
took neither his coat off nor sat. “Tea?”

“No. Thank you.” He walked over to stand near
her. Deme looked out the window for a moment before meeting her
gaze. “I’ve something to give you before the ball.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

He did not answer in jest, but sat then, by
her feet, drawing his hands out of his coat pockets. In one was a
box.

Rubbing his thumb over it while he regarded
her, he murmured, “Do you regret it?”

“What?”

“Us.”

She shook her head, searching his face. “No.
Not for a moment.”

“Neither do I.” He nodded slowly. Looking
down at the box, he said softly, “This holds a question and an
answer.” He met her gaze again, “But before either is satisfied, I
have a confession to make.”

Haven stiffened and murmured, “Who is
she?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The confession. I assume—or was it some
nameless wench at a tavern?”

He was across the seat and cupping her face
before she could sound the last word.

Haven’s heart was nearly in her throat from
the action. The look in his eyes did not ease it any.

In tones, she had never heard from him
before, tight and rough, he growled, “How can you even ask me that?
Never mind that I told you in the coach I would not lay with
another. Have I somehow been experiencing what is between us by
myself?”

“No. Of course not.” She covered his hands,
her voice strained and alarmed. “I’m sorry. I—it just—”

She closed her mouth because the way he
stared at her told her she had done worse by uttering those
words.

His hands released her and he stood.

Haven sat up, now half deaf from the pound of
her heart and blood in her head. His expression was terrible.

“I’m sorry.” She tried. “I don’t know what
made me think that.”

“Trust. You do not trust me.”

“I do. I know you have changed. I just
ca—”

“Changed?” he rasped. “Is that what it is?”
He smiled. It was cold, distant, lacking any warmth his voice had
previously carried.

Tossing the box on the seat, Deme did not
take his eyes off her, but uttered, “Yes. Yes, I have. I am not the
same man who did not know how to taste, breathe, or feel any
pleasure in life. I’m not the one who drank so he could sleep and
be numb of the memory that at twenty one, barely a man— he’d killed
someone, because he trusted a woman.”

“Deme.”

“I’m not even the amusing and droll fellow
who couldn’t walk a block without falling on his face. The one—,
who for all the beds he crawled in, all the skirts he tossed,
couldn’t force his cock to want what it should.”

She swallowed. “Deme, please…”

“Please.” He blinked and then shook his head.
“I didn’t, and they didn’t. I didn’t know what that desire was
until I looked into a pair of tawny eyes and felt as if I’d been
struck by lightning.”

“I don’t know what else to say.” She cried,
“It was stupid of me, and I am sorry. Please don’t look at me like
that.”

However, he did and he said softly, “I
couldn’t get enough of you. Of looking at you, listening, dreaming,
smelling your perfume. I did not need whiskey or spirits because I
became intoxicated from your kisses. Even after being in you, I
burned to have more. Changed. By God, Haven! I don’t bloody even
know who I am anymore.”

He took a step back. “Some obsessed with you,
lovesick fool, who could not even be happy the day you went to see
your Aunt—because I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

Weeping by now, Haven got to her feet, her
hand outstretched. “I believe you. I trust you. I just have never
felt this way before. You make me crazy in ways that—”

He cut her off. “I started the rumor.”

Shocked she stuttered, “You, but we
were—”

“That’s the confession—I started it,” he said
bluntly. “I sent a few letters, unsigned, to known gossips. I
started it—because I knew when I returned that everyone would
notice what Monty and my father—the Viscount, already had.
Because—it would give me an excuse to be seen with you. I knew you
would enjoy the challenge. That my family would take it in stride,
even foster it.”

Her hand lowered. Haven looked at his
handsome face, blinking the tears away, she murmured, “All you had
to do was tell me. We were honest enough in our desires. All you
had to do was tell me what you felt.”

Deme motioned to the box. “I was trying to.”
He turned and walked across the room and out.

First, Haven crumpled and cried. She wept
hard, emotional, unrestrained, for a long time. Finally, she got
up, cleaned her face, and picked up the box. She was sitting with
it, unopened, when her father entered.

He stopped at seeing her, but then after
looking at her face, he slowly drew off his coat and hung it up.
Patrick removed his boots, his eyes going from her mussed hair to
her red cheeks and eyes. Lastly, to the box she held in her
hand.

He padded over, and without a word sat beside
her and gathered her against his comforting chest. Stroking her
hair softly, he held her a good hour before asking if she wanted to
talk to him.

She did. She told him much about her feelings
for Deme, and ones she had not admitted to herself, until those
moments. She talked much of him, the real Deme—she had seen on the
trip north. She told him of his visit, and why she had wept.

After holding her a bit longer, he sat up and
allowed her to do so.

Patrick said, “The one thing a rich man
envies a poor one, is pride, because the rich can’t buy it.
Nevertheless, when a man falls in love, they are all equal. Because
we all become vulnerable, and no longer care what anyone thinks of
us—but her. Our pride is defined thorough her eyes.”

She shuddered. “It wasn’t doubt in him. It
was my own—insecurity.”

“I know.” He reached for the box, opened it,
and whistled.

She stared at the beautiful ring, topaz,
emeralds and diamonds rimmed a band. Reaching to close the lid, she
said, “Take it back to him,” and stood

However, Patrick stood too, and offered
dryly, “You’re no daughter of mine, if you give up on love that
easily.”

She turned, her eyes watering, “What can I
do?” She shrugged. “I’ve lost him. Deme doesn’t let people see him
like that.”

Patrick rolled the ring box in his palm a
moment, and then said with a smile, “I’ll let you know when I get
back.” He tossed the box to her on his way to get his coat. He
pulled on his boots.

“Where are you going?”

“You’ll see…”

He left.

She looked forlornly at the box. “It’s too
late. I know him. It is too late.

* * * *

Deme blinked at the thick smoke, seeing the
interior of the Tavern thought a haze so dense the music, laughter,
sounds of patrons, blunted his ears in waves. He was trying to set
the bottle back on the table when it rolled off and clinked on the
floor.

Reaching for it, his arm was grabbed by a
gloved hand. Though his reflexes were slow, he looked up the same
moment he was hauled out of the chair.

“Marston?” He weaved on his feet.

That black-clad figure simply grunted and
half carried, half drug him across the room, and to the door. Soon,
they were in a blustery wind and snow.

“Bloody everlasting hell.” Deme cursed when
the frigid air cut though him.

“Get in.” Marston had a coach door open, and
with some doing, they got him inside and on the seat.

Joining him, the Viscount tossed his coat at
Deme when the coach pulled out.

“What are you doing here?” Deme put the coat
on. It took three tries to get his arms in the sleeves. Afterwards
he slumped in the corner.

“It’s obvious what I’m doing here,” Elisha
Roulle said dryly. His hard visage was illuminated when he lit a
cheroot. Blowing a stream of smoke, he offered it to Deme, and when
he had taken it, Marston lit another.

Jolted by the coach, Deme muttered, “Your man
drives like someone else I know. Can you not get him to walk this
bloody team?”

“No.” The man was studying him and merely
laughed when Deme groaned and raised the flap to suck in cold
air.

It was a short trip, thankfully. Deme assumed
they were at his address, but after stumbling out, having to lean
on the Viscount, they entered a house unfamiliar to him.

With his stomach churning and head spinning,
he was aware of servants, people inside, but the décor of the room
spun round him.

He heard Marston say to someone, “Your usual
concoctions, Smith. And a pail, please. In the study.”

Deme was trying to lean against something,
because his legs were giving out when the Viscount hauled him up
again. Then they were weaving towards a set of oak doors. Opened,
they revealed a gentleman’s study. All Deme cared was that Marston
took him to a settee before a fire, and let him drop down in it
before he keeled over.

The fireplace near him wafting heat. Deme
could hear the Viscount speaking to someone, before something was
shoved into his hand.

“Drink it all.” Marston ordered.

Deme drank, but half way to swallowing, he
realized it was bloody foul. He opened his mouth to spit—but
Marston forced his chin up and poured the stuff down his
throat.

“You son of a bitch.” Deme shuddered.

A hand on his neck forced his head down,
about the time his stomach lurched. He saw the pail between his
booted feet just in time for his guts to spew up. The next few
moments were misery, agony. The sounds of his wrenching and groaned
filled the study.