The Mad Lord's Daughter (26 page)

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Authors: Jane Goodger

Tags: #Fiction, #General

BOOK: The Mad Lord's Daughter
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With her gloved hand on his strong arm, she went with him through the large French doors and to the terrace and garden beyond. The garden was lit with paper lanterns, flickering brightly in the gentle breeze. “Why, it’s lovely,” she said.
“At the risk of sounding like a bounder, Miss Stanhope, I would like to say that the candles dim when compared to your own loveliness.”
Diane frowned, which only made Lord Braddock smile. “You do hate compliments, don’t you?”
“I do not trust them,” she said honestly.
They were walking down a dimly lit path, with no others within sight. “I find you quite lovely,” he said, stopping and looking down at her, his expression suddenly fierce. She couldn’t help it; she smiled.
“Yes, Diane,” he said, “please smile. It makes you rather difficult to resist.”
She had her lips pressed together, fighting that smile he was working so hard to see. But at this last, she let it fully bloom. He took a sharp breath.
“My God, Diane,” he said, right before pulling her against him and pressing his mouth urgently against hers.
She went willingly, letting out a small moan of need, as his hands pulled her close, as his tongue entered her mouth in such a blatantly carnal action, her knees nearly buckled. He dragged his mouth from hers, nudging her head back so he could kiss her jaw, her neck, as he pulled her bottom and settled her hard against his arousal.
“I cannot stop thinking of you, Diane. I feel as if I’ve gone a bit mad,” he said hoarsely against her throat. “Why? Why do you do this to me?”
It seemed a rhetorical question, so Diane remained silent, reveling in his words, his touch. He stopped suddenly and placed a hand on either side of her head, peering down at her with such blatant lust, Diane wondered why she hadn’t been set afire by it. What he said next, though, jarred her from her lust-filled reverie.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked, urgent and low.
“Yes.” Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded shaky. He pressed his forehead against hers and uttered a mild curse.
“You are sure?” he asked, laughing a bit.
“Quite.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be up for a romp, then?” His eyes were sparkling with good humor, as if this were a conversation he had every day with women.
“A romp?” She knew what he meant. Sex without consequence. Sex without commitment. Sex just for the pure enjoyment of it. Her body was tingling with desire; she ached for his touch; she was on the verge of taking his hand and placing it on her breast just for the relief it would give her. She was on the verge, she realized with humiliation, of proclaiming her love. And he wanted a romp.
“No. I suppose not,” he said, reading her expression accurately.
“It’s not as if you’re asking me to partner you in whist, you know,” she said a bit crossly.
“We do suit.”
That hurt. Yes, they suited. Quite well, as a matter of fact. But, obviously, they suited just enough for a game of whist or a tumble. Not for anything more permanent. What sort of woman did he think she was? She was thirty-two years old, a spinster and a virgin, and he wanted a romp. A
romp
?
She was outraged and angry and far, far more tempted than she should be. But, no. She would not, even as her aching body urged her to reconsider.
“Thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Braddock, but I do believe I will decline.” With that, her knees still a bit wobbly, she walked away from him. He let her go perhaps twenty feet before following her, and by the time they reached the terrace, he was silently offering his arm.
“I haven’t . . . I don’t . . .” He let out a sigh. “I’m a cad,” he said, finally. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ve never acted in such an ungentlemanly way in my life. If you want to slap me, you may.”
Oh, drat. He was making her love him even more. “Perhaps another time,” she said calmly. “I’m certain you’ll do something in the future to warrant it.”
He threw back his head and laughed, and she swore when he looked down at her, she saw something in his eyes that looked very much like love.
 
 
“Walk with me in the garden,” Charles said after fetching Melissa a cup of watery punch.
“I have to find Miss Stanhope,” she said. “Do you know where she is?”
“We’re practically engaged, Melissa. Surely you don’t need to have your chaperone trailing your every movement.”
She smiled. “Surely I do, sir. Miss Stanhope—and John—gave me very explicit instructions on what is expected of me during a ball.”
He let out a sigh. “All right then. Go and find Miss Stanhope. I’ll be over by the doors.”
Melissa took a thorough look around the ballroom, and quickly determined her chaperone was not among those dancing, nor those sitting along the sidelines. She walked around a bit on the ground floor, finally seeing Laura and relaxing at the sight of a familiar face.
“Have you seen Miss Stanhope?” she asked.
“Sorry. You could try the Pink Parlor. I saw quite a few ladies in there as I was passing. It’s right down this hall.”
Melissa thanked her and turned down the long hall, peeking into each room to determine if it was the Pink Parlor; she imagined the color would give it away. A man was coming in the opposite direction, and she felt the frisson of familiar tension that came upon her whenever she encountered a stranger. She never knew where to look, or whether to greet the person. As she was passing, she looked up to see a middle-aged man, tall and striking, with ruthless good looks and jet-black hair.
“Caroline, what the devil are you . . .” His harsh voice trailed off, startling Melissa, for he was clearly addressing her. The man stopped suddenly, blocking her way. The only way ’round him would have been to squeeze by rudely.
“I beg pardon, my lord?” Melissa said, trying to quell the frantic beating of her heart. She had no reason to fear this man, but for some reason she had the urge to flee his penetrating gaze.
“What is your name, child?” he asked, still staring intently at her.
“Melissa Atwell.”
“Atwell.” His eyes sharpened, and it was at that moment Melissa noted their color—a beautiful and quite unusual lavender. They were precisely the same color as her own eyes.
“
Atwell.
My God,” he said, stumbling back, taking in her features with an intensity that was frightening. “It’s impossible. But your face. You’re my . . . My God.”
Realization of who the man was struck Melissa at the same moment that he was apparently making the connection, and she mirrored his movements, stepping back, eyes intent, mouth open in pure shock. Her father—her real father—was standing in front of her. She stood there dumbly, staring, not knowing what to do or say but feeling a terrible sense of the inevitable. This was her father, this tall, imposing man with the cruel mouth and beautiful eyes.
“Christina’s daughter,” he said raggedly. “I am correct, am I not?”
Melissa could only nod, even though she knew she should deny a connection.
“She never told me. I never knew,” he said, his voice filled with confusion and anger, as if her mother had somehow betrayed him. “Christina’s daughter. All that time, I never knew you were mine. How could it be that I never knew?”
Melissa swallowed and looked behind her. People were milling about, passing by the hall, but they took no notice of the two of them standing there.
His eyes swept her form, and Melissa took another tentative step back. He was not looking at her as a father should look at a daughter, even one he’d apparently not known about.
“Oh, but you need not fear me. I am . . .” It seemed he couldn’t bring himself to say it, so Melissa did.
“You are my father.”
The duke held out his hand, and Melissa stared at it, holding her hands tightly together, a familiar panic hitting her at the thought of touching another person, even with her gloved hands. He smiled reassuringly, then took her arm, leading her into a small study. Melissa didn’t resist—he was a duke and her father, after all. But her instinct told her she should have resisted. She had a sudden urge to break away from him and run, even as her mind told her she was being foolish. “A hallway is no place for this meeting,” he said as he quietly closed the door. The room was lit only by a single wall sconce, creating eerie shadows about the duke’s face. “It’s quite remarkable,” he said, studying her again. “It is your eyes, of course, that mark you as mine. Did you know you look very much like my own daughter?”
She nodded, finding his words—
my own daughter
—strange. She was his daughter, too.
“I wonder why no one has noted it?” he said, studying her face. “Why did I not know? Why didn’t she tell me? I would have made accommodations. I would have welcomed you.”
Melissa shook her head, for she had no answers to his questions. “I only recently learned you are my father. My mother never mentioned you, and I lived in Bamburgh until my father’s death just last year.”
“Father,” he spat, and Melissa’s eyes grew hard.
“He was the only father I knew,” she said, lifting her chin.
He forced a smile, one she suspected was calculated to appease her. “Of course,” he said. “It is only a shock to me to find that the one woman I have ever loved bore me a child and then chose to hide the truth from me. Surely you can see that I would find this upsetting.”
Melissa focused on his phrase, “hide the truth.” Yes, her mother and father had gone to great lengths to hide the truth from her and the rest of the world. Why?
“I cannot get over your resemblance to Caroline. In fact when I first saw you, I thought you were she. Quite remarkable,” he said, studying her face as a man might a fine work of art. “I wonder why no one has mentioned to me that my daughter has a twin.”
“This is my first ball. I’ve been living in Bamburgh quite isolated until this year.”
He smiled, but that smile did not reassure her. Instead, it made her even more wary. But that made no sense. It was just that he was looking at her so strangely, as if he were looking at a juicy bit of prime rib instead of his bastard daughter. She suppressed a shudder. “I should be getting back. My fiancé is waiting for me.”
“Fiancé?”
“Charles Norris. Perhaps you know him? His father is Lord Hartley.”
He shook his head, never taking his eyes from her. “You sound like her, like your mother,” he said softly, taking a step closer. She backed up until she was pressed against the door, her hands behind her clutching the latch. She didn’t know why she was so frightened, for he was calm, his voice soothing. But something in the way he looked at her, spoke to her, was making her flesh crawl.
He put his hands on her shoulders, effectively trapping her, and he closed his eyes. “Say something,” he said. When she remained silent, he squeezed her shoulders painfully. “
Say
something.”
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered.
“Yes, you sound like her,” he said, his voice strained. He leaned forward so that his mouth was nearly against her ear, his eyes still closed, and she turned her face away. “My God, you smell like her. Christina.” She squeezed her eyes shut and began shaking as he nuzzled his head against her hair, breathing in and out harshly, his hands gripping her shoulders with brutal strength. It was almost as if he were trying to inhale her, and the thought sickened her.
“You’re just like her. Like Christina,” he said softly.
“She hated you,” Melissa said, instinctively knowing this was true. Her mother had feared this man, had feared discovery.
He chuckled softly, and for some reason that frightened her even more. “That’s not true. We were in love. I know it,” he said, taking another deep breath.
Melissa stood, stiff and shaking, her hands clutching the latch. But it did no good, for the door opened inward, and he had her pressed against the door. Then she felt him, his stiff
thing
, against her thigh. And then, thank God, she heard voices just outside the door.
“Release me,” she said loudly. And he did, looking dazed, as if he’d forgotten whom he’d been assaulting. Melissa didn’t hesitate; she spun around clutching the latch. He grabbed her wrist, squeezing her painfully, but she wrenched it away and ran out the door. Once in the hall, she knew she was safe, for there were people there—a girl and her mother making a quick repair to a bow. Walking toward them, she tried to calm herself as she made her way to the ballroom. She had but one thought: find John.
 
 
John stood and watched the dancers until he was certain Melissa was not among them. He spied Charles, looking impatient and miffed, by the doors leading to the terrace, but Melissa was not by him. John had begun skirting around the edge of the crowded room when he saw her and knew immediately something was horribly wrong. Her face was tense, her eyes darting about the room, and he saw her visibly relax when she saw him. It took him only a few moments to reach her, but it seemed as if everyone he passed was trying purposely to thwart his progress. Finally he was at her side.

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