Jo Beverley (8 page)

She loved the image of that. “Kiss me,” she whispered, “and perhaps I will.”

His lips pressed against hers and she relaxed into delight. She’d wanted this since their kiss in the coach. She reached her arms up around his neck and tilted her head to savor him the more, astonished at how a kiss, how lips to lips, could stir her whole body into pleasure.

She pushed away from the wall to be closer, and his arms came around her, molding her to him, exactly as she wished. She would fuse with him if she could. She’d never known such bliss, never known it existed. She turned her head, seeking to be closer, opening her mouth wider to explore him, the heat and taste of him, so special, so right….

He eased them apart and she opened her eyes. “You look startled,” she said, smiling. How could she help it?

“Terrified, more like. But you’ll come to Cheynings? You set a kiss as your fee and I paid it.”

She pushed him away, but he grabbed her arms. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You seem to say a great many things you don’t mean!” she snapped.

“Only with you.”

She ceased her struggles. “I think I like that.”

“Virago,” he said, but with warmth in his eyes. “It does make sense, Damaris. You don’t want to stay on here.”

“But Cheynings…?”

“And me.” He moved his hands to her waist and she put her own on his shoulders, playing her fingers there. “Cat,” he said. “Keep your claws sheathed.”

She knew her tilted eyes gave her the look of a cat. Until now she’d thought that a bad thing. “Won’t it be improper? Ashart and Miss Smith? You and me?”

“And the dowager. And Lady Thalia will be there, too. She is fond of Genova. And she wants to visit her childhood house.” He began to drop kisses on her nose, her cheeks, her lips again. “You’ll come?”

“Satan,” she muttered, trying to think.

The bleak house. The dowager. Ashart and Miss Smith, sickeningly in love.

Fitzroger. Mysterious Fitzroger, whom she wanted to explore. More kisses…

With Ashart and Miss Smith sickeningly in love, and their chaperones two elderly ladies who would need naps, wouldn’t there be considerable time alone with him? A wise woman would avoid that as if it were the plague, but how could she be wise when his lips played softly against hers?

There was so little time until she had to be sensible. Before London, and a suitable husband…

She shifted away, feeling her clothing brush against her sensitive skin. Temptation warred with sense, and sense did not entirely lose. She captured his face in her hands. “Will you promise not to seduce me there?”

His eyes widened, but then became steady on hers. “I promise not to seduce you anywhere, Damaris. Not because my baser nature wouldn’t like to, but because my honor won’t permit it. And also,” he added ruefully, “I have a healthy instinct for self-preservation. My apologies if it seems paltry, but I would not care to make Rothgar my deadly enemy.”

Damaris took a deep breath, feeling as if it were the first in a long time. “Then by all means, if Genova Smith can bear it, I will accompany you all to Cheynings.”

He stepped back. “Good.”

The library door opened, and they both turned as Ashart strolled in. “Rejoice! I’m still in one piece. Does Miss Myddleton agree to come with us?”

Damaris stared at Fitzroger, shockingly hurt. He’d just kissed her into agreeing with an already established plan. Why couldn’t he have simply told her? And why, now she came to think of it, was Ashart speaking as if she weren’t even here?

“Miss Myddleton does,” she snapped, which at least made Ashart look at her.

Warily, she noted with satisfaction. She wasn’t proud of her recent behavior, and given the opportunity she’d wipe it out. But she liked the fact that the powerful Marquess of Ashart was nervous of her.

He bowed. “My apologies, Miss Myddleton. And apologies in advance for the discomforts of Cheynings.”

“I have been there, my lord.”

He frowned for a second before saying, “Ah, yes.”

Damaris’s teeth clenched. Did the pestilential man not even
remember?
He had been there, paying charming attentions to her. Or rather, to her money.

“It will be even more uncomfortable now,” he said, and she realized he’d be pleased if she refused to go. Well, good. She’d enjoy being a constant thorn in both his and Miss Smith’s consciences.

“I will survive, my lord.
I
was not raised in indulgence.”

He shot her an unfriendly look, and Fitzroger intervened. “At the fencing, Ashart will be Genova’s favored champion. Will you be mine?”

He picked up her shawl, which must have slid off during their kiss, and came toward her. Damaris snatched it and wrapped it tight around herself. She knew it would harm her cause to object to this latest plan, but she was furious with him.

“Very well,” she said. “Does that mean you and Ashart will fight each other?”

“Probably.”

“Then I hope you kill each other,” she said sweetly, and left.

“Tiresome shrew,” Ash said.

Fitz controlled a desire to pound his friend to a pulp, not least for interrupting and saying the wrong thing. “She’s had a hard time of it, and you bear some of the blame.”

“I never offered for her.”

“The dowager made promises on your behalf, and you didn’t object. Before you met Genova—after you met Genova!—you intended to marry Miss Myddleton’s money.”

Color flared in Ash’s cheeks. “No longer—so why is she agreeing to tag along to Cheynings? Rothgar’s her guardian now.”

“You’ve clearly had an interview, too.”

“A brief one. I was sent to rescue her and informed of the plan. I hoped she’d refuse.”

“I had to talk her into it. She’ll be better away from here. She’s not part of the family and has no true friends here. And I don’t want to abandon her.”

Fitz wished he hadn’t said that. A great many faculties seemed to be slipping out of his control.

Ash’s brows rose. “Have you hopes? Good luck to you, but don’t count any chickens. She’s after the highest title she can buy. By the way, Rothgar has a strange request.”

Fitz welcomed the change of subject. “What?”

“He asked if there were documents at Cheynings relating to Betty Crowley. You know—my great-great-grandmother?”

“One of Charles the Second’s many mistresses, and thus source of the royal blood supposed to run in the Trayce veins? I believe the dowager might have mentioned her once or twice.”

Ash laughed, for his grandmother made sure to mention the “royal connection,” as she called it, as often as possible, though heaven knew, descendants from the Merry Monarch’s liaisons weren’t rare.

“What’s Rothgar’s interest?” Fitz asked.

“He’s Betty’s great-great-grandson, too. Perhaps he’s filling in his family tree. It seems an innocuous request, and I’ve decided that peace between us would be wise.”

“Thank heavens. Are there any documents?”

“There must be. Though Betty married Randolph Prease, she bore only the one child, the royal one. He went by the name Charles Prease and later became Lord Vesey. His only surviving child was Grandy, so the title died with him and Storton House was sold. She was then Marchioness of Ashart, so the Prease papers were removed to Cheynings. I believe they were stored in the attics. I said I’d check while we’re there.”

“You,” Fitz asked, “or me?”

Ash grinned. “You can’t expect me to neglect Genova. Recruit Miss Myddleton to help you, and make love to her over the musty papers. Just make sure she doesn’t harass Genova. I won’t have her made unhappy.”

“Genova can hold her own. And I’m sorry if this will dent your pride, but I doubt Miss Myddleton lusts after your title and grandeur anymore.”

“She said as much to the dowager, and I liked her better for it.”

“She is likable, Ash. She’s no gentle, blushing maiden, but she has spirit.”

“You are smitten! I thought you planned to make your future in Virginia.”

“I do.” Fitz walked toward the door, hoping to escape. “We should prepare for the fencing. How’s it to be arranged?”

“You, I, Rothgar, and Lord Bryght, along with any other gentleman who cares to take part. Each to fight the others.”

“There’s thirty or so men here. It could last all day.”

“Given Rothgar’s skill, I doubt many will try their blade. Lord Bryght’s good, too. Should I have asked if you wanted to take part?”

Ash was clearly remembering that Fitz’s performance at fencing had been unimpressive.

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Why are you looking wolfish?”

“I haven’t exactly shown my full range of abilities. I’m hoping to beat Rothgar.”

“’Struth! You think you can?”

“I’ve never seen him fight, but yes, it’s possible.”

Ash laughed. “Why hide your light under a bushel?”

Fitz shrugged. “I’ve preferred not to draw attention, but this I cannot resist.”

“Then I hope you do beat him. A blow for the Trayces.”

“My apologies, but it will be a blow for the Fitzrogers.”

“Perhaps it will win the heart of the heiress and make her forget the hunt for a coronet. I tell you, Fitz, I don’t like the look of things in the colonies, and here you’ve a fortune ripe for the plucking.”

“Zeus, Ash. I’ve no profession, no home, a scandal stuck to me like pitch, and a family I’d rather not bring into contact with anyone I cared for. If Damaris Myddleton offered herself to me on a plate, I’d have to refuse.”

Ash looked as if he’d been hit on the head. “Do you want me to find you a position? As estate manager, perhaps? Or something in government?”

The offer was generous, but pointless. Employment had never been raised before, but at this point it was the least of Fitz’s problems. He ended the embarrassing moment by leaving the room.

Fitz went to the bedchamber to tidy himself for dinner, which would follow the fencing. He did so quickly, preferring to avoid Ash for now, then whiled away some time by wandering the corridors of the great house making plans for a safe journey tomorrow.

At least, he tried to. His mind persisted in returning to Damaris Myddleton.

Why had he not realized that flirting her into going to Cheynings would be so dangerous? Fire blazed when they touched. If he were free to do so he might woo her, but he wasn’t. He’d spoken the truth: He’d bring no person he cared for into the mess of his life.

Temptation prickled all the same. Her fortune might enable him to save his mother and sisters from his brother, Hugh. He couldn’t do anything directly about Hugh, but with money he could afford to take Libby and Sally with him to America and protect them there.

He pushed trepidation away. He doubted it would work, and he’d not abuse any woman by marrying her for a reason like that.

A
t a quarter to two Fitz went to Damaris’s room. He knocked and she opened the door herself, glowing in a gown the color of flames and indeed looking ready to run him through. He had to suppress a smile of pure pleasure at her straight shoulders, firm chin, and challenging eyes.

“Come in,” she commanded.

He obeyed, noticing only when she shut the door that her maid was absent.

“You shouldn’t have tried to trick me into agreeing to go to Cheynings,” she stated. “You should simply have told me it was arranged, and why.”

“But that wouldn’t have been nearly so delightful.”

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be teasing her, not when they were alone. He simply couldn’t resist.

Her color almost matched her dress. “You will not do anything like that again.”

“Kiss you like that?”

“Try to persuade me like that! And kiss me.”

“Damaris, you asked me to kiss you.”

“I admit it, but you used it.”

“I also enjoyed it. I wanted to kiss you. As I do now. You look quite ravishing in that shade.”

She frowned. “It’s called Autumn Sunset. Idiotic, for sunsets in autumn are no different in hue than in other seasons.”

He took her hands. “No poetic temperament, I see.”

“None.”

“A poetic temperament isn’t a weakness, you know. Poetry can combine with courage and power.”

He shouldn’t do it, but he kissed one long, elegant hand, fine and nimble from years at the keyboard. Hands that he could imagine touching him, even in intimate places. Her bed framed her. He wasn’t insane enough to carry her there and do what he wanted to do, but he wasn’t exactly sane, either.

“You have an example as proof?”

“What?” He had no idea what she was talking about.

“An example of a poet who is also brave and powerful.”

He laughed softly and let her force him back to sense, if a nonsense conversation could do such a thing. They were due downstairs, and the bed was too tempting by far. He picked up a heavy silk shawl woven in browns, golds, and pinks and draped it around her shoulders.

“Let’s see.” He linked arms with her and led her to the door. “Many of last century’s poets were forced into the civil war. Then we have Sir Philip Sidney, who died in battle in Tudor times.”

“Was he a good soldier?” she asked as she pressed her hoops together to pass through the doorway. “Or a good poet?”

“Both, they say, but I confess, I cannot quote him.”

“Having better things to do than to study the literary arts.” She looked directly at him. “What is your real purpose here, Fitzroger?”

Her shrewdness caught his breath. “To enjoy Christmastide.”

“And before that? You’ve been Ashart’s boon companion for months, which can hardly be challenging.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, but lightly, as if this were a game. “When I left the army, I decided to indulge in amusement for a while.”

She made a thoughtful humming noise. “My life in Worksop was quiet, but that gave time for observation. People seek amusement that matches their natures. The idle amuse themselves in another type of idleness. The active are active in a different way. It even affects illness. The idle embrace bed rest too much, whilst the active fidget themselves out of bed and into trouble.”

“And what trouble could I be fidgeting myself into here?”

“Me?”

The truth silenced him.

“What’s more,” she said, “you strike me as a hawk in a cage of singing birds.”

Easy to laugh at that. “Do you truly see Rothgar, Ashart, Lord Bryght, and the rest as chirping canaries? You’ll see your error soon.”

“Perhaps it’s just your army experience.”

“What?”

“The glow around you.”

“You see me as a saint now?”

“I didn’t say halo, sir. It’s as if you have a purpose when everyone else is idle.”

’Struth.
He must definitely be more on guard. He did feel more alive when involved in an important mission, and she was wickedly observant.

Two women emerged from a corridor just ahead. They turned to go downstairs, but not before giving Fitz and Damaris a speculative glance. He remembered their purpose here—to persuade everyone that Damaris was heart-whole.

“Perhaps the glowing effect comes from you,” he murmured. “My pretty autumn sunset.”

She stared at him. “Don’t be foolish.”

“I’m attempting brave poetic flirtation.
For effect
.”

He saw her remember. They were approaching the head of the great staircase where others milled. From below, the murmur of voices indicated people already gathered for the swordplay. A middle-aged couple approached from the opposite direction. The Knightsholmes were good-hearted people who hadn’t cold-shouldered him, so they’d start their performance before them.

Fitz stepped back and declaimed: “Damaris steps in russet hue, which suits her as well as her cloak of blue. Her eyes so sharp affect my heart, and soon will pierce me through!”

People chuckled, and Damaris did, too. “I hope you fight better than you rhyme, sir.”

He put a hand to his chest in pretend hurt. “I thought it clever for an impromptu, and it sprang sincerely from my broken heart.”

“In badly broken verse, Fitzroger,” drawled Lady Knightsholme, causing more chuckles. “You seem well recovered, Miss Myddleton.”

Damaris paled, but Fitz raised her hand and kissed it, holding her eyes. “Join me in poetry, sweet lady. You and I together mend.”

She stared, and he thought she couldn’t do it, even with a simple rhyme, but then she said, “You will your steady presence lend?”

“Even if the heavens rend.”

“Then I thank you, my dear friend.”

Lady Knightsholme led applause, and Fitz linked arms with Damaris again and moved toward the stairs. The crush parted, so they led the way down, their audience following. He heard people comment on the clever exchange.

Had they been as surprised by her quick wit as he had? No, he’d not been exactly surprised, but impressed by its emergence despite panic. Damaris Myddleton was remarkably brave, and might be one of those people who achieved brilliance only when pushed to their limit. He wondered if God sometimes made mistakes. If she’d been born a boy, might she now be like her successful, piratical father?

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, he reminded her, “Smile and adore me.”

“Only,” she said, sweetly beaming, “temporarily.”

Damaris hoped her smile didn’t look as grotesque as she feared. This nonsense rhyming helped, but she still felt shaky to be facing the people who’d witnessed her behavior yesterday, so many of whom eyed her as if anticipating more of the same.

“Relax,” he murmured into her ear as they mingled with the guests who were already in the hall. A circle of chairs awaited the audience, and some were already filled. Damaris felt as if they settled to observe her, not the swordplay.

She tried to act as if yesterday had never happened. A smile for middle-aged Miss Charlotte Malloren, uncertainly returned. A comment on the weather with Dr. Egan. An inquiry about Lady Walgrave’s baby to Lady Bryght Malloren.

She turned to Fitzroger, trying to think of something witty to say, but nerves blanked her mind.

“There’s nothing to fear. Nothing to hurt you here.” Then he winced. “The deuce, I didn’t intend that to rhyme.”

It made her laugh, and she silently thanked him. “Do you think rhyming’s addictive? If so, I’ve found the curative. What could rhyme with
addictive
?”

He raised a brow and she winced. “I didn’t mean that, either. We’re stuck in a rhyming trap!”

“Endlessly spouting pap.”

“Forcing our tongues to flap—”

“Fitz.”

They both turned, midlaugh. Ashart had come over with Genova Smith, her blond beauty enhanced by happiness, on his arm. Damaris held on to her smile. She had a part to act here, and what point in resenting Miss Smith’s looks? As well curse the sky for being blue. Besides, the future Marchioness of Ashart was clearly as tense and wary as she.

“Fair friends,” Fitzroger orated, “we greet you on this merry day, ready as always for most elegant play.”

Ashart laughed, but in confusion. “What the devil…?”

“Miss Myddleton and I are trapped in a rhyming curse.”

Damaris’s brain and tongue unlocked. “Than which, I assure you, nothing could be worse.”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Smith. “We could all be stuck in a hearse.” But then she frowned. “That’s terrible.”

Ashart kissed her hand. “Thank God. We’re un-blighted.”

“Except by love,” Fitzroger said. “You are by Cupid benighted. Perhaps that’s the key to protection.”

“A magical antidote derived from affection?” Damaris offered. “Then we must seek devotion. Let’s put it in motion!”

Ashart applauded, as did some people nearby. They were becoming a center of attention again, but creating the right impression.

“Your rhyming is skillful,” Ashart remarked, “but you both scan atrociously. You could turn this curse to profit on the stage, however.”

“A curse that leads to a fortune from bad verse?” Damaris asked.

Fitz grinned. “Such a fate could cause a man to expectorate.”

“Internal rhymes now,” Ashart said. “’Tis bad, ’tis very bad.”

“Sad, very sad,” Fitzroger said.

And Damaris realized that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She assembled a passage and turned to Fitzroger.

“Sir, before this curse grows worse we must both become very terse. No one can turn a single word to verse.”

“Bravo!” cried Ashart, leading widespread applause. “Single words only from now on, Fitz. ’Tis my duty as your friend to keep you safe.”

“Aye,” said Fitzroger.

“Why?” asked Lady Arradale, newly arrived in the hall.

The whole place exploded with laughter. Ashart explained and their hostess laughed. “A duel of rhymes. We should try it again. But for now, everyone, please be seated for a duel of blades.”

Damaris took her place beside Genova Smith, grateful for a moment to settle. She’d been swept up in the moment, but last time that had happened, she’d been swept to disaster. Most people’s interest now seemed amused or even kindly, but she caught Lord Henry glaring at her. Doubtless he thought she was too bold. She almost glared back, but remembered she was free of him and inclined her head. He turned puce, which was a victory of sorts.

Rothgar stepped into the oval through the one-chair space left open. She was shocked to see him undressed down to stockings, breeches, and shirt. Would Fitzroger fight in a similar state?

“My friends, my cousin Ashart and I have long wanted to test each other’s skill with the sword. Hence, this tournament—merely for amusement, I assure you. No blood will be spilled.”

A ripple of laughter stirred, because only days before a duel between the cousins might well have been to the death.

“A tournament with a small prize to lend excitement.” Like a conjuror, Rothgar produced a spray of jewels on a golden chain. “A trinket, no more, but a pretty gift for a favored lady. At present the contestants are myself, Ashart, Lord Bryght, and Mr. Fitzroger, but any of you gentlemen are welcome to compete if you wish. We fence to first contact. A three-minute bout without contact will count as a draw. Sir Rolo has agreed to be timekeeper.”

Sir Rolo Knightsholme grinned, holding up a large pocket watch.

“I would like to take part.”

Lieutenant Osborne stepped forward, and Damaris suppressed a groan. He’d been a persistent suitor here, and she’d sometimes encouraged him to try to make Ashart jealous. She didn’t want him to make a fool of himself over her, but she certainly didn’t want him to win.

Another young gentleman, Mr. Stanton, rose, and he and Osborne left to take off confining layers of clothing. Lord Bryght joined his brother in the center of the oval, carrying two foils and also stripped down.

“Note well,” Lord Bryght said to everyone, as he tossed his brother a foil, “that I have never claimed to be a better swordsman than Rothgar.”

Even so, as soon as the match began he seemed brilliant to Damaris, who was shocked and gaping. She’d never seen men fence before and had imagined, especially in “play,” some sort of delicate, tapping dance.

Instead, they hurtled backward and forward on strong, supple legs, blind to all but each other and to seeking an opening for the delicate buttoned blades. She couldn’t follow it, and could only react to the violent danger it pretended to be. Lord Rothgar’s button touched his brother’s chest, the blade flexing like a birch twig, and the bout ended.

Damaris breathed and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, my!”

“Indeed,” said Miss Smith.

Damaris glanced sideways. “This is new to you, too?”

Miss Smith was flushed with excitement. “No, but I’ve never seen such speed. I doubt Rothgar need fear to give up his trinket.”