Jo Beverley (25 page)

H
e put extra wood on the fire, every movement speaking to her of his wonderful body.

Temptation put her wickedness into words.
If we make love here tonight, he will never leave me. His honor will forbid it.

Flames licked, then flared, brightening the room.

She returned to one chair; he took the other, leaning back, pale gold and burnished in the fire’s light.

“Tell me about your life in Worksop,” he said.

Damaris hid a smile at the skillful move. She’d meant that they should talk about him. All the same, she did talk about life at Birch House, dull though it was.

“My mother was a strange woman, an only child of elderly parents, and her mother died when she was three. She was raised by my grandfather, who was a distant man. He was a physician, but also a gentleman scholar. He died when I was ten, but I’d already realized that he’d have been happier if all his patients were statues. I mean without demanding emotions.”

“Automatons, like those Rothgar so admires.”

“Yes, exactly. Cogs and springs.”

“It can’t have been a pleasant home,” he said.

He seemed relaxed, or at least resigned. Perhaps talking like this would be enough, for it was sweet. But talking wouldn’t bind him, and she wanted him bound. Against all laws of friendship, honor, and society, she wanted Octavius Fitzroger shackled to her without hope of escape.

“No,” she said, “but I lacked comparison. There weren’t even any close relatives. Grandfather had some family in the west country—Devon, I think—but he never traveled, and they didn’t come to us. If there’d been contact with my grandmother’s family, it ceased with her death before I was born. My father was estranged from his family.”

“Did you have a governess?”

“My mother taught me. Because she said there was no money to hire anyone.”

“You must have attended church, at least.”

“Diligently, but we never lingered. I think perhaps my mother found my father’s absence embarrassing. Even for a merchant engaged in foreign lands, it was strange.”

“Did she love him, do you think?”

“Perhaps to begin with, but if so he killed it. By the time I had any powers of analysis, I’d say she believed she owned him. Her attitude to him always seethed with anger. At some point she learned that he kept a mistress in London, and that infuriated her, but I don’t think she was hurt by it. Just furious. Because she thought she owned him. Because she’d bought him with her dowry.”

Damaris realized that a similar rage of ownership had boiled in herself over Ashart. What a blessing it had come to nothing, for it had been no different except for the price.

“I wouldn’t have thought that a mistress in London was much use to a man so much abroad,” he remarked.

“True, but I doubt she was mistaken.” It was peculiar to be talking about such things with a man, but Damaris said, “I suppose he paid her to be available on the rare occasions he wanted her.”

“Neatly efficient. Was she mentioned in his will?”

“I don’t know. It’s exactly the sort of thing my trustees wouldn’t tell me.”

His lips twitched. “I’m sure. But your mother was entitled to be bitter and angry if he took her money and left her in poverty, especially as he grew rich and squandered money on other women.”

“But he didn’t. I discovered that after her death. He always sent money, and the amounts grew over the years. In that, at least, he was honest. We could have lived in luxury, but she used as little as she could and pretended that was all he sent.”

She shook her head and sighed. “It was a type of madness. Did she think it would force him to return? To abandon Sarawak, Moluccas, and Java for Birch House, Worksop, because she was depriving herself and me?”

“If she truly hated him, she could have hated his money.”

“That’s as good an explanation as any. But what of your family and early life?” she asked.

She intended to marry him despite the scandal, but she still hoped to find a way to erase it. Thus she needed to know more about his family. “You went into the army at fifteen?”

“Yes.” He turned his head to look into the fire. “We weren’t isolated, as you were. The Fitzrogers of Cleeve hold an important place in the county, having been there since the Conquest. Not far from my home there’s a ruin of Carrisford Castle, built by one of my ancestors. Fitzroger of Cleeve was king’s champion to Henry the First and became one of the great barons. There’s a romantic story attached about his capture of an heiress….”

He broke off then switched the subject. “So we weren’t isolated, but nor were we happy. My mother bore too many children, ten in all, and lost too many. My father blamed fate, not himself. My older sister, Sally, was simple from birth. She’s thirty-one but thinks and acts like a child.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” she asked. “Living, I mean.”

He faced her. “Hugh—he’s the oldest. Lord Leyden now. There was another Hugh before him, but he died. Sally, Libella, and me.”

Four out of ten, and one was simple, another a brute. His poor mother.

“Libella?” she asked.

He smiled. “The last and smallest, but with the most spirit. Libella means a tenth, or a little bit, but we always called her Libby. She’s trapped there now, looking after Mother and Sally, and trying to prevent Hugh’s cruelties. I’d free her if I could, but I can’t.” Some trick of the fire put flames in his eyes. “I am completely powerless over my life.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

They had reached the crux of everything. Damaris breathed in and out twice. “Because you had an affair with your brother’s wife. With Hugh’s wife, I assume. How old was she?”

He frowned as if puzzled. “Twenty-five, I think.”

“Ten years older than you.”

“I was precocious.” He stood and moved away from the firelight. “We shouldn’t speak of such things.”

“Why not? Apparently all the world does.”

He faced her, but from the shadows by the bed. “Yes, all the world does. You don’t want anything to do with me, Damaris.”

“Isn’t that for me to say?”

“No.”

She shot to her feet. “You were only fifteen. It wasn’t your fault!”

“What is fault? I was old enough to know right from wrong.”

“And you knew it to be wrong?”

She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “It was half a lifetime ago. I no longer know what I knew or thought or felt or wanted. It is, however, like a thief’s brand. It cannot be removed.”

She moved toward him. “It’s not a brand—it’s ancient history. Remember what you told me about my embarrassment? It’s etched in your mind, but not in the minds of others.”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes, it is. Understand that, Damaris. Hugh let the matter simmer as long as I stayed away, but I made the mistake of returning to England, and of going to Cleeve Court to see if my sisters and mother needed me. It threw pitch on old coals. Now he tells anyone who’ll listen that he’ll kill me on sight. He’s even started a suit, charging me with responsibility for Orinda’s death.”

That was a sickening blow. “How can he claim that?”

“She killed herself not long after I left.”

She gathered herself to fight on. “Do you believe she killed herself for loss of you?”

A touch of bleak humor flashed across his face. “Too self-glorious for you? No. She cared nothing for me beyond a physical hunger and hatred of Hugh. But I abandoned her, and she chose death.”

“You were
fifteen
,” she repeated intensely. “Why did you join the army?”

“I was dragged there by my father. It was that or starve.”

Oh, poor lad.
But she wouldn’t weaken now.

“So,” she demanded, deliberately harsh, “were you expected to take her with you as your mistress?”

“I was expected not to ruin her in the first place.”

“Fitz,
she
ruined
you
.”

He rocked back.

She gripped the front of his robe and shook him. “It wasn’t your fault. She used you. You bear no blame for it.”

He’d retreated before she’d grabbed him, but been stopped by the bed. “Which doesn’t matter a damn.” He gripped her wrists. “My name’s dung, Damaris, and I’ll not drag you into it.”

“I don’t care! We can fight this. We can fight it together. Why don’t you challenge your brother? Kill him. I’m sure you’re able.”

He tore free. “Never! I hurt him once. Never again.”

“Even though he hurts others? He drove Orinda to her death. What’s he doing to your mother and sisters?”

“Damn you, Damaris. Stop this.”

“No. I will fight for you, Octavius Fitzroger. For us. I want you,” she said, grabbing his robe again. “I want you happy. I want you at ease, and in silk and diamonds….”

She was unfastening the robe with trembling fingers, even though it became clear, button by button, that he wore nothing beneath. He pushed her away, but she held on and pushed harder, pushed him onto the bed, and fell over him.

“You’re mine! Don’t you understand? You’re mine, so your brother is my enemy, and I have money as my weapon. Money can silence him. If he takes you to court, money will buy more and better lawyers—”

He kissed her.

She felt his control snap like a silent explosion, and it was too late then for caution on her part. Besides, this was what she wanted; this was what she’d come here for: the fire in her blood, the ecstasy of his touch, the heat that would fuse the shackles around both of them.

He rolled her, still kissing her, in a crazy tangle of limbs and clothing that made her laugh when her mouth was free, when he was kissing her breasts….

Had he ripped her nightgown? She didn’t care. She tore at his robe, feeling a button snap free. When she couldn’t release more, she pulled it up, up, until her hands found his firm flesh.

He rolled away for a moment and stripped. She struggled out of her robe, eyes on him, feasting on him. Dear heaven, but was there anything more beautiful in the world? Her body felt like one strong, starving pulse—starving for him.

He had ripped her nightgown, tearing through the strong placket. She gripped the sides and ripped it further and further until she reached the hem, which she couldn’t tear.

He did it for her, but his eyes were on her chest, on the bandage. “You’re hurt.”

She grasped his hair and pulled him down. “Not any longer. Love me. Love me.”

The fierce joining of hot mouths blanked her mind of all but need for him, his strength, his smell, his delicious muscles moving beneath silky skin. She kneaded them, possessing them as he ravished her lips, then her breasts.

She arched high, crying out at that wild pleasure, spreading her legs wide because she knew where she needed him most. She would die if he didn’t come inside her, fill her, assuage the burning need.

She felt pressure there—“Oh, yes!”—and pushed against it, wanting more, then realized it was his hand. But then what he was doing drove her beyond anything but bliss and need.

Her body throbbed, her head throbbed, her breasts were full of aching, hungry need. His fierce mouth summoned a miracle of pleasure that shot down to his hand, where that other pleasure was surely going to kill her, but she didn’t care.

She gripped him tight, writhing in a wild demand for more and more and more, hearing her own gasping attempts to say just that. At the same time she felt almost as if there were something wrong with her, something blocked. Since she couldn’t stop, didn’t want him to stop, she’d die here, like this.

Then she shattered, or flew, or fell. All she knew was a pleasure beyond anything she’d ever imagined, a pleasure his now gentle touch drew on and on as his mouth sealed her gasps.

When she spun out of the maelstrom, she ravished him in turn, driven to claim, to capture, to straddle him, wanting more.

He looked as lost as she in the firelight, drugged and desperate. She licked his face, nibbled his jaw and then his ear. Despite all that wild pleasure she wanted more, and she knew what she wanted. Her body knew what it needed to be complete.

“Take me,” she whispered, and nipped at his earlobe. “Take me now. Complete me. Please.”

His hands clenched on her hips. She slid down to lick and nibble at his chest, running her hands over smooth muscles, tracing the arch of his ribs. She’d moved sideways to see him better, so she saw his phallus. So big—and yet a pulse began inside her still-sensitive body, a pulse of passionate recognition.

“Now,” she said, putting her hand gently around him. He shuddered but didn’t fight her, so she lay back, drawing him to her. She worried that she was doing this badly, even making a fool of herself, but she’d rather do that than lose him. Besides, it seemed natural and right to coax him like this, to look into his eyes and bring them together until he was pressed against her hot, hungry entrance as her heart pounded with need.

His eyes shut as if he struggled, or was in agony, but then suddenly he thrust into her. There was a moment of sharp pain, but she gritted back a cry and pushed hard up against him. This would not stop here. Could not. It was so eternally right.