Touch of Passion (33 page)

“Oh no,” Loris murmured, horrified.

Tauron glanced at Dyfed. “I wasn't allowed to touch anyone after that—neither of my parents, none of my relatives—until I grew older and could begin to learn control. But even then I made mistakes, if I was distracted or ill or overly weary. I could almost always reverse the change in time. But not always. And sometimes it was too late, regardless. One of my schoolmates at Eton was mysteriously found dead one morning. He'd made the mistake of playing a jest on me in the middle of the night, and caught me unawares and half-awake. I turned him back as quickly as I could, but he seemed to have suffered some kind of heart failure. Probably from shock and terror. I don't know. Morcar removed me from school the next day and sent me home to Caerffill.
By the time I was old enough for university, fortunately, I had learned how to avoid making such mistakes, and was allowed to attend Oxford. There were no further incidents.”

“Until two years ago,” Dyfed said.

“Aye.” Tauron agreed, looking at Loris as if he wanted her to understand. “It was at a family gathering at Llew. Some of my younger cousins—just foolish lads—thought it would be amusing to lace my wine with something rather stronger, not understanding that I choose to avoid more powerful spirits for a purpose. They understood quickly enough when one of them ended up a statue.” He paused. When he next spoke it was with greater difficulty. “I was too drunk to change him back.”

“Oh, Tauron,” Loris said, lifting a hand to touch his sleeve. Dyfed's own hand shot out to stop her before she could make contact.

“His parents were devastated,” Tauron went on. “Of course they would be. And Morcar was angered to have lost a greater wizard. But the rest of my relatives . . .” His eyes were haunted, filled with pain. “They almost seemed amused. Even the other boys. That's”—he stopped, looked away for a silent moment before turning back to her—“that's what Dyfed means when he warns you to be careful of me, Loris. Of any Cadmaran. Because that's what we are. Evil.”

“But you're not,” she told him. “No matter what you've done. If it weren't so, the Guardians would have punished you by now with the hope of teaching you otherwise.”

“He's a
Cadmaran
, Loris,” Dyfed told her. “He knows what he's speaking of.” When she looked at him sharply he said, “I don't blame him for what's happened. I never have. Kian is a harsher judge, but you know that better than I do. But he's not alone. Even the Earl of Llew forced Tauron to remain within the confines of his home in Caerffill until he felt it safe to cut him loose. I'd wager anything that's why he came to Town.”

“Wouldn't you?” Loris demanded, pulling free of Dyfed's grip. All she could think of was how desperately lonely and
sad Tauron had been. Just as she was lonely. As she knew Kian was. “
And
you called him King Midas,” she added hotly.

Dyfed made a sound of impatience. “Very well, I was wrong and insulting. I apologize.” He shot a look toward Tauron. “But he's a Cadmaran, and if you'll recall, Tylluan is suffering just now because of a Cadmaran—”

At this, Tauron stiffened. “It is?” he asked, looking at Loris. “You said nothing of this earlier, when we spoke of your home.” To Dyfed, he said, “And though it's no business of yours, I was in Town last year for the Season. That you never saw me is no fault of mine. Morcar knew that I was safe in public. He had no reason to force me into isolation even for one year.”

“I don't care about your past visits to Town,” Dyfed countered tautly. “I don't care why you've come to Town this year. The only thing I do care about is your staying away from Loris. She's not on your list of potential brides.”

“Dyfed Oliver Arnallt Seymour,” she said angrily, “I will not be told who I can and cannot see. If I wish to maintain an acquaintance with Tauron—with
anyone
—I will.”

The sound of music died away in the house beyond, signaling the end of another dance.

“No, Loris, you'll not,” Dyfed stated firmly. “And I don't care that he's a friend of Lord Perham's. You're not to speak with him after tonight. You're not to dance with him, go driving with him, be in company with him at your grandfather's home, or acknowledge him at all.”

“Dyfed,” Tauron said reasonably as Loris made a sound of fury. “I certainly don't mean Miss McClendon any harm. My only desire is—”

Dyfed sprang at him with unexpected speed, gripping the taller—and much larger—man by the collar and dragging him near.

“I
know
what your desire is, Brecmont. I'm neither blind, as your cousin is, nor a fool. You're looking for a wife, and what better wife than one of our sympathetics? Especially
one like Loris, who is both beautiful and completely at ease with our kind?”

The French doors opened once more, but those on the terrace paid no mind to the number of interested individuals who were seeking fresh air while there was a break in the music.

“Dyfed!” Loris said sharply, grabbing one arm with both hands to make him let Tauron go.

“He doesn't deny it, do you, Brecmont? Your goal is to seek a wife, and Loris is the ideal candidate. You even claim a friendship with her grandfather—how very fortunate—so that you can more easily gain privileges that other men could only dream of. Taking her driving in the park, for example, as I understand you did today.”

“Dyfed, stop!” Loris demanded, tugging harder. “You're making a fool of yourself.”

Dyfed ignored her. “He doesn't deny it, does he?”

“He can't speak,” she told Dyfed. “He can scarce breathe, you idiot!” She shook him so hard that she thought the material of his coat would tear. “Let him go! Let . . . him . . .
go!
”

“Deny it, then,” Dyfed demanded, releasing his captive.

Tauron smoothed his hands over his coat and strove to collect himself. It was plain to Loris that he could have readily pounded Dyfed into dust if he'd wished, he was so much taller and bigger, but had purposefully allowed himself to be held.

“I don't deny it,” he said. “It would be an insult to Miss McClendon to do otherwise. I came to London seeking a wife, as all the world seems to know, and she was among the first candidates suggested to me by friends. But this will be no surprise to you, for there are any number of men in Town who have hopes where she's concerned.”

“Truly?” Loris asked. She'd heard this from Julia previously but thought it ridiculously silly.

“Of course,” he went on, “I'd heard of her and knew who she was, and that her grandfather is my friend only made the connection more desirable. And she was not unaware that he
approved a potential union. But I'm not a fool, either, though you think me one. I understand the difficulties such a match would encounter between our families.”

“You'll never have to worry over that,” Dyfed told him hotly. “Loris is already spoken for. By a Seymour. She's one of
us
, and always will be. You can cross her off your list. Permanently.”

“Dyfed,” Loris said, touching his arm.

He ignored her.

“Do you understand me, Brecmont? Because if you don't, I'll be happy to find another way to explain it.”

“Dyfed,” Loris said again, and he seemed to hear the warning in her tone.

He looked up—Viscount Brecmont looked, too—to find that they had a large gathering of interested listeners. Niclas was there, and Lord Perham as well. And, standing beside them, the Earl of Graymar, looking thunderously angry.

The scene that took place later that evening in her grandfather's study wasn't merely unpleasant, but painfully so.

Loris sat in the far corner of the room, exhausted and furious, wishing that society wasn't so ridiculously foolish as to make so much of what had been a private disagreement—well, perhaps not so private, as they had been on Lord and Lady Hamlin's terrace. Still, why should everyone care so much about what the
ton
thought? Loris didn't care, and it was her reputation they were discussing, after all. Dyfed, who looked somewhere between regretful and insulted, sat next to her. They had both fallen silent almost immediately after arriving in the room, having been told numerous times by Niclas, Malachi, and Lord Perham to keep quiet.

“I insist upon satisfaction, sir,” her grandfather told Malachi, his voice rising a fraction louder than usual. “That young man has made a spectacle of my granddaughter and destroyed the reputation that has already been so precariously balanced.”

“He's done no such thing,” Malachi stated, his own voice
quite calm, if rather weary. “He made a fact public. What of it? Do you mean to say you have some objection to your granddaughter marrying a Seymour?”

“I object to the manner in which you seem to think you can direct Loris's life, sir,” said Lord Perham. “I am not insensible to the debt of gratitude I owe you—the entire Seymour family—for rescuing my granddaughter from a life of poverty and misery, but she is my granddaughter, and
not
a Seymour. I will decide what's best for Loris.”

“Lord Perham,” Niclas said reasonably, “surely we can come to an understanding without making Loris out to be an object of ownership. She has been a member of our family for ten years. The Seymours have every right to an interest in her welfare, as you do.”

“They do not, sir!” Lord Perham thundered. “If I must I shall bring the law into the matter, and you know as well as I that the tie of blood will decide who has the right to determine Loris's affairs.”

Malachi rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked, to Loris, not simply tired but irritable and impatient. The Earl of Graymar had reached the end of his tether and was quickly growing weary of having to deal with the troubles of others.

“What do you propose, my lord?” he asked. “What is it that you desire? Apart from the fact that you wish all Seymours to the devil.”

The Earl of Perham drew himself up and considered the matter. Then, more calmly, he said, “I shall take Loris home to Cumberland for the remainder of the Season following her come-out ball. Any further word of an understanding between her and anyone else is to be denied.”

“No!” Loris said loudly, standing.

“Silence, young lady,” Lord Perham demanded. “You've done enough this night.”

“I'll not be silent,” she said, striding forward. “I have a right to decide where I wish to go and in what manner.”

Malachi dropped his hand and looked at her. “And what is it that you want, Loris?”

Lord Perham looked as if he'd been struck by lightning. “This is
precisely
why she should have nothing to do with the Seymours,” he said furiously. “You have no appreciation for the fact that she doesn't understand society and the ways of—”

Malachi lifted a hand and Lord Perham froze midsentence. He froze in every way. Even his scolding expression was fixed in place.

“Oh,” Loris said, instantly distressed. “Oh, Malachi, how
could
you? To my grandfather?”

The Earl of Graymar looked at her with thin patience. “Easily,” he said. “I've spent the past two days dealing with my cousin Steffan. You know him well, do you not?”

She nodded. Steffan Seymour was a redheaded Seymour, and redheaded Seymours, like Niclas's infant daughter, tended to be mystics. Steffan was exceptionally gifted; he was also quite troublesome and insisted upon making his living as a highwayman, robbing travelers with the help of his band of wild men. They lived, Loris had been told, in a cluster of caves just inside Wales's border.

“He and his men were arrested in Herefordshire and I was made to contend with the local squire—who also serves as sheriff—who proved to be a mere mortal of fantastic proportions. And I do
not
mean in the physical sense. I vow I have never in my life encountered such an astonishing combination of obstinacy and abstractedness. I could write a comedy about the experience and
no one
would believe it to be anything but complete farce.”

He moved closer, rubbing at the space between his eyes again.

“I am not in the pleasantest of moods. I'm very weary and not terribly happy with Lord Perham. He seems determined to wrest you from us in any manner that he can, and my dear young cousin's execrable behavior”—he looked at Dyfed, who glared back defiantly—“has only given him further ammunition for doing so.”

“He wants to marry her off to a
Cadmaran
, Malachi,”
Dyfed said furiously. “Only think of it—our Loris an accursed Cadmaran.”

“Be quiet, Dyfed,” Niclas said. “You know very well that Loris is free to marry as she pleases. The
unoliaeth
doesn't force her to wed Kian. Or even to love him, for that matter.”

“But
not
a Cadmaran!” Dyfed exclaimed.

“Aye, even a Cadmaran,” Malachi stated with finality. “And I find it strange that you should be the one to protest so much, Dyfed, considering that you're so eager to take a dark sorceress as your mate.” Malachi speared his younger relative with such a heated look that Dyfed sat down and fumed in silence.

“However,” Lord Graymar added, turning back to Loris, “I confess that I should do everything in my power to prevent such a thing happening. And so would Morcar. Tauron's not a bad fellow, for a Cadmaran, but I can't think Loris would be happy wed to him.”

“Would you all please stop speaking such nonsense?” she begged. “I have no intention of marrying a man I only just met, no matter how well my grandfather—or anyone—thinks of him.”

“Of course we know that,” Niclas said calmly. “But Dyfed informed half the
ton
that you're spoken for, and your grandfather is determined to deflect gossip by either making the statement true or taking you away.”