Confessions at Midnight (5 page)

He stared at her, his breaths as rapid and erratic as her own, his eyes as glazed as she knew hers must be.

Lifting one hand, he gently cupped her face. "I knew it would be like that," he said in an unsteady whisper.

His voice penetrated the sensual fog engulfing her, and the reality of where she was-
who
she was-smacked her like a cold, wet rag. With a gasp she stepped back, out of his grasp. Her shaking find gers flew to her mouth, whether to wipe away Lord Surbrooke's kiss or to seal it to her lips, she didn't know.

Dear God, what had come over her? What had she done?

I'll tell you what you've done
. Her inner voice dripped with condemnation.
You've tarnished Edward's memory
.

A
cry of distress rose in her throat and she clamped her lips together to contain it. She desperately tried to recall the tender wonder of Edward's kiss, but it remained elusive and out of reach. How could she, when the taste of another man remained on her lips? When she still felt the imprint of his hard body pressed against her? When her mind, her senses, were still too inundated with the tempestuous, passionate kiss she'd just shared with-

A man who wasn't her husband.

A plethora of emotions, led by confusion, guilt, and shame, bombarded her, followed by the overwhelming need to escape. "I… I must go," she said, sounding as stricken as she felt.

"Wait." He reached for her, but she shook her head and backed away.

"No. I… please, let me leave."

Without waiting for his response, she darted around him and swiftly made her way back into the party, where she was immediately swallowed by the crowd. She didn't pause to search for her sister or friends, but hurried to the foyer, where she requested her carriage. The five minute wait felt like an eternity, one she spent in a nearby shadowed alcove with her hands pressed to her churning midriff.

The instant she was ensconced in the dark interior of her carriage, she covered her face with her hands, and the sob she'd managed to swallow until then broke from her throat.

What had she done?
How
could have allowed that to happen?

Everything inside her cried out and reached for the memory of Edward she carried in her heart, of his gentle smile and tender touch, of the sweet love they'd shared. But the beloved memories proved elusive. Instead, all she could envision was a devilish highwayman with intense eyes and a captivating mouth who had weakened her knees. Despite her determination to move on with her life, she hadn't anticipated anything like
this
. Hadn't expected this overwhelming flood of unexpected passion.

Yet there was no denying it, and again she cursed her reading of the
Memoirs
, which had set on this ruinous sensual path. So the question remained: What did she intend to do about it?

T
he morning after the masquerade, Daniel sat in his dining room and stared at his uneaten breakfast. His head pounded from a combination of lack of sleep and too much brandy, both of which had proven spectacularly unhelpful in veering his thoughts away from his interlude with Carolyn.

With a groan, he tipped back his head and squeezed his eyes shut. A mistake as far as forgetting her was concerned for she instantly materialized in his mind's eye. An alluring masked goddess who'd fit in his arms as if she were fashioned exclusively for him. Never in his life had he found a waltz so arousing. Her exhilaration, her smile and sense of wonder as they'd circled the floor… he couldn't have taken his eyes from her if his very life had depended upon it. She'd utterly captivated him. And without even trying. What the bloody hell would happen to him should she put some effort into it?

He blew out a long sigh, opened his eyes, and reached for his coffee. Damn it, he knew exactly what would happen. He'd lose control, just as he had in the garden.

Bloody hell. He'd meant to simply give her a teasing kiss. A light brush of his lips over hers. A tantalizing taste to make her want more. But the instant his mouth touched hers, his finesse vanished, replaced by a hunger so primal, so deep, so completely overwhelming, he'd been helpless to stem the onslaught. He
never
lost control like that. He'd desired many women, but never once had one of them shattered his command over himself.

Indeed, it was nothing short of a miracle that he'd managed to stop himself from pressing her against the wall, lifting her skirts, and satisfying the unstoppable craving she inspired. He knew, in his heart, that if they'd been somewhere that afforded them a modicum of privacy, he would have given in to the temptation. And given her heated response to their kiss, he didn't doubt she would have allowed it. Welcomed it. She'd felt the same desperate need, the same hot, sharp stab of desire as he. He'd tasted it in every nuance of her kiss. Felt it with every shudder and quiver that had trembled through her.

He'd expected her to affect him strongly, but never, not even in one of his numerous fantasies about her, had he ever anticipated the impact of that single kiss. He'd intended to seduce her slowly. Obviously their encounter, as well as her ardent response, had caught her equally as off guard, because he knew she wasn't the sort of woman to welcome overt advances. Or a quick grope in the garden. No, that certainly wasn't the way to tempt her. Unfortunately, that's precisely what he'd done, and had accomplished nothing save frightening her off. The profound distress in her eyes when she left the terrace was a look he wouldn't soon forget.

Daniel took a deep swallow of his now lukewarm coffee and asked himself the disturbing question that had circled through his mind the entire sleepless night.

Did she know who she'd been with?

Had she known
he
was the highwayman? Known that the man she'd kissed so hungrily, had responded to so passionately, was him?

Deep, dark satisfaction filled him at the thought that she'd known, was fully aware of whose arms held her. Whose lips kissed her. The notion that she hadn't known, however, all but seared him with white hot jealousy-an ugly emotion he rarely experienced, yet its intensity left no doubt as to what it was. The only woman who'd ever inspired the feeling in him was… her. Certainly Society was filled with men who were wealthier, more handsome, luckier at the faro tables, had more lovers than he-all of which could inspire jealousy. Yet the only man he had ever truly been jealous of was Edward. And only then because of Carolyn.

Surely she'd known it was he behind the highwayman's mask. Hadn't she? The thought of her kissing another man the way she'd kissed him… bloody hell, it made his blood boil beneath his skin to even consider it.

Well, if she didn't know, he intended to see to it that she did. As soon as the hour was more appropriate and this damnable headache abated, he would call on her. And tell her. And allay the concerns that had caused her to flee last night. Whether she cared to admit it or not, she was clearly ripe for an affair, and he had no intention of allowing another man to claim what he wanted.

He lowered his coffee cup and rested his aching head in his hands. Another mistake, as the image that had bedeviled him ever since she left him on that terrace slammed into his mind once again… the conclusion of their heated interlude. Her skirts inched up, her legs wrapped around his waist. His erection buried in her tight, wet heat. Slow, hard thrusts that quickened, deepened, propelling them both over the edge-

A guttural sound rattled in his throat and he shifted in his seat to relieve the growing discomfort in his breeches. Damn it, just what he didn't need-another throbbing ache.

"'Ere ye go, milord." The familiar male voice from directly beside him startled Daniel from his erotic brown study. Samuel, impeccably turned out in his footman's livery, set a tall glass on the mahogany table in front of him. "Nothin' worse than the mornin' after a night spent swillin' blue ruin."

Daniel cast a suspicious eye toward the mud-colored concoction in the glass. "It was brandy, not gin."

"Whichever hogwash ye drank, this'll set ye back to rights."

Daniel frowned at the strapping young man. "Hardly hogwash. This particular brandy was over one hundred years old."

"Still made yer head hurt," Samuel said in his matter-of-fact way that surely should have irked Daniel. He pointed a white-gloved hand at the glass. "Drink," he ordered, as if he were the lord of the house and Daniel the footman. "The sooner ye do so, the sooner ye'll feel better and pinken up. 'Tis a bit pasty yer lookin', milord." At Daniel's scowl, Samuel quickly added, "Beggin' yer pardon for sayin' so."

Bloody hell, he absolutely needed to do something about Samuel's penchant for speaking out of turn. "You should beg my pardon," Daniel grumbled. "You're far too cheeky for your own good."

"Ain't cheeky to tell the truth," Samuel said, his countenance and tone perfectly serious. "I promised I'd never lie to ye, and I won't. Always the brutal truth is what ye'll git from me, milord."

"Thank you, although I think we need to work on making it a bit less brutal." He shot the glass a doubtful look. "What is that?"

"Recipe I learned from the barkeep at a pub in Leeds called the Slaughtered Pig. Weevil were his name. Used to call him Evil Weevil."

"How delightful. However, I made it a rule long ago to not drink things inspired by people named Evil."

"Oh, Evil knew wot he was about, milord," Samuel said in that same serious tone. "You drink that and in twenty minutes you'll be glad ye did. Folks at the Slaughtered Pig swore by it."

"Well, with a recommendation like that, how can I refuse?" Daniel murmured. He picked up the glass then shrugged. Why not? He'd be hard pressed to feel much worse. He took a swallow. And barely refrained from spewing the mouthful across the table.

"Good God," he managed to croak as a shudder ran through him. The look he treated Samuel to should have skewered the lad to the floor. "I've never tasted anything so vile."

"Never said it tasted good," Samuel said, annoyingly impervious to the skewering look. "Suck it right down, milord, all at once."

Not convinced that the cure wasn't going to kill him, Daniel drank the entire contents, then set down the glass with enough force to shatter the crystal. "
Blech
."

"Ye'll be sayin' 'thank ye' in less than twenty minutes."

"Excellent. However, I intend to say '
blech'
until then."

Samuel shot him an unrepentant grin. "A fresh cup of coffee for ye, milord?"

"Please. Anything that might help chase the
blech
away."

Daniel watched the young man move toward the sideboard, and the area around his heart squeezed with pride. Samuel was certainly not the same destitute, desperate, and physically ill footpad he'd met a year ago on a cold, rainy night in Bristol when the lad tried to rob him. He had easily foiled the attempt, so easily he'd at first thought his assailant, who could barely stand, was intoxicated. But when the young man collapsed at his feet, Daniel realized that in addition to being filthy and dressed in rags, his assailant was burning up with fever. And looked as if he hadn't had a decent meal in months.

Sympathy and whispers from the past he'd refused to acknowledge shoved aside his annoyance at being targeted, and instead of turning the ill young man over to the authorities, Daniel carried him back to the inn where he was staying and summoned a doctor.

The lad hovered between life and death for three days, murmuring in his delirium of abuses he'd apparently suffered, things Daniel prayed hadn't actually occurred. On the fourth day his fever finally broke and Daniel found himself being studied through the narrowed eyes of a weak but lucid patient who, after a bit of coaxing, identified himself as Samuel Travers, age seventeen. It required a great deal of convincing to assure the lad that he meant him no harm, did not plan to turn him over to the authorities, and harbored no designs on him. The assurances Samuel needed convinced Daniel that, sadly, the nightmarish scenario the lad had alluded to during his feverish rantings had indeed happened.

At first Samuel refused to believe that Daniel had helped him "just fer the hell of it" with nothing to gain for himself, but over the course of the next several days he slowly came to accept it as the truth. While Samuel rested and ate and regained his strength, they shared stories of their lives, and a tentative trust was forged between them. Samuel told Daniel of his mother's death when he was five, leaving him with no one save a drunkard uncle to look after him. Of never having a true home after his mother died. Of being forced to steal in order to eat. Of moving from town to town to avoid the law. Of finally running away at the age of twelve and doing his best to fend for himself.

Although their childhoods were vastly different, Samuel's stories brought back a barrage of memories Daniel kept carefully and firmly buried. Of his own mother's death when he was eight, and the painful aftermath. Memories he'd never shared with anyone and couldn't bring himself to reveal to Samuel. But the fact that they'd both lost their mothers was a small bit of common ground upon which they built.

As a result of their conversations, Daniel found himself taking a long, contemplative look at his own life. And not liking what he saw, especially when he realized that a mere accident of birth was all that separated him-a wealthy aristocrat who possessed every creature comfort-from Samuel, a young man who'd been reduced to living by his wits, begging and stealing just to survive.

Daniel's introspection culminated in him finally recognizing that the vague feeling of discontent that had plagued him over the past several years was a sense of ennui, of apathy. Nothing seemed a challenge anymore. Nothing truly captured his interest, although how could it when he had everything he could possibly want? Yet what was he doing with his largess?

Nothing, he realized with no small amount of shame. Nothing save frittering away his time and money on transitory pleasures and shallow pursuits. Not that he had any intention of giving those up, but inspired by Samuel, he decided it was time he put some of his money and time to better use. Toward that end, he offered Samuel a job as a footman, with the stipulation that if Samuel ever again tried to rob him-or anyone else-he would toss him out. Samuel accepted the opportunity, and over the course of the past year had proven himself hardworking, reliable, intelligent, and, as Daniel quickly discovered, brutally honest. And painfully outspoken.

Samuel didn't grasp the normal rigid formality that existed between the master of the house and a footman. Daniel occasionally corrected him, but truth be known, he found their verbal exchanges both enlightening and diverting. He especially enjoyed the way Samuel, while always respectful, never kowtowed to him, a truly refreshing change. Thanks to his title and position in Society, he was normally surrounded by sycophants. He certainly couldn't accuse Samuel of ever saying something simply because he believed it was what he wanted to hear.

In moments of unpainted self-honesty, Daniel had to admit that his unusually informal relationship with Samuel was the result of his own reluctance to curb the young man's outspokenness. In a most surprising turn of events, he'd come to look upon him almost as a younger brother. Certainly he felt closer to Samuel than he did to Stuart and George. Neither of his two dissolute younger half brothers had any use for him-unless they needed money or assistance in getting out of some scrape or another.

No, since Samuel's arrival, Daniel could no longer claim his life was boring or lacked challenge. Indeed, things around the town house-as well as his country estate in Kent-more often than not bordered on disorder, thanks to a habit of Samuel's Daniel hadn't anticipated.

As if the mere thought of Samuel's habit conjured up a physical reminder, Daniel was yanked from his reverie when a ball of pure black fluff jumped onto his lap. He looked down and found himself the object of a one-eyed feline stare.

"Ah, good morning, Blinky," he murmured, scratching the cat behind her ears. Blinky immediately narrowed her one topaz-colored eye and leaned into Daniel's touch. A deep purr vibrated in the animal's throat and she kneaded Daniel's linen napkin with her front paws.

Samuel set Daniel's coffee on the table in front of him, after which he gave Blinky's head a quick pat. Then the footman straightened and cleared this throat.

Uh-oh
. Daniel pressed his lips together to contain the half groan, half laugh that threatened to escape. He knew what that throat clearing meant. Knew that
Ye'll never guess wot, milord
would be the next words spoken.