Julianne MacLean (14 page)

“Jesus!” He cupped his eye and bent forward.

“You deserve it, you bastard!” she screeched.

Damien straightened. He did deserve it, he knew it, so he was willing to let it go. But when a vase—much larger and undoubtedly heavier than both the perfume bottle and the paperweight combined—was launched at him, his generosity reached its limit. He deflected the vase, and instantly moved to restrain Frances.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, took a few hits, but finally managed to calm her down enough to feel somewhat confi
dent that she wasn’t going to throw any more glass objects at him.

“I hope you rot in hell,” she ground out, breathing hard.

“I’m sure I will.”

He held her like that for a moment or two, feeling deeply ashamed. He had always been honest with Frances. They both knew what their relationship was about, but tonight he had come here to use her to relieve his own tensions and to suffocate his angst and confusion over another woman—a woman who was engaged to his cousin.

He had sunk very low.

Eventually, Frances’s breathing slowed and her body began to relax in his arms. After a long, drawn out silence, she said, “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“I know that, too.” He rested his head on her shoulder, and let out a deep, miserable sigh.

She sighed, too. “Your eye is bleeding.”

She stepped out of his arms and put her hands on his face to examine the gash at the top of his cheekbone.

“Look at this,” she said, shaking her head. “You make me crazy, Damien. No man has ever made me crazy before.” Her voice softened. “That’s what I hate most about this.”

Blood was dripping down the side of his cheek. He wiped it on the back of his hand.

“Maybe I’ll be better off,” she said, going to fetch a cold cloth. “Maybe we both will.”

T
wo days later, Adele sat in her bedchamber at Osulton Manor, staring absently out the window at the Chauncey Maze. Clara knocked softly and walked in.

“Seger and I and the baby will be leaving soon,” she said. “They’re loading everything onto the coach now.”

Adele stood. The thought of her sister leaving sent a sudden, intense wave of emotion through her, and she had to fight the urge to cry—as she often had to do lately, whenever she thought about her family leaving her here alone, or when she thought about never seeing America again. It was not like Adele to cry. She had always been very strong.

She managed, however, to put on a brave face
for her sister, because she didn’t want to lay all that on her shoulders. It helped when she reminded herself she would be going to London soon to visit her other sister, Sophia.

“I’m sure you’ll be glad to get home,” she said. “You’ve been away for a long time now.”

Clara moved fully into the room and took both Adele’s hands in hers. “I will, but I will also leave here feeling very worried about you. Are you sure you’ll be all right? You don’t seem like the same sister I knew back in New York—the sister who always had everything figured out. You’ve seemed sad.”

Sad
. Yes, Adele had indeed been that, which made no sense because she was surrounded by happy people, and she’d gotten what she’d wanted. Damien had gone back to London.

Since then, Harold had taken her on a tour of the inside of the house, Eustacia had taken her and her mother on a carriage tour of the estate and into the village, and Adele had spent many wonderful hours with Catherine, getting to know the elderly woman and enjoying her intelligent conversation. She had participated in each evening’s activities, singing and playing instruments in the drawing room. Everything had been quite perfectly lovely.

“Does it have anything to do with Lord Alcester leaving?” Clara asked, hitting the mark as she always did.

Adele realized finally that she could not continue to keep this problem to herself. Her sister
knew. She had always known. She had simply not pushed.

“Yes,” Adele replied at last.

Clara’s eyes warmed with compassion. She touched Adele’s cheek. “You could have talked to me about it, Adele. I know that you think you have to hold everything together and be the perfect daughter and the perfect fiancée, but you
don’t
have to be perfect. Nobody is. Come and sit down.”

They sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s a wonder you haven’t exploded by now,” Clara continued. “Tell me everything, and I’ll see if I can help.”

Adele nodded. “It started the first night, when he came to rescue me in the cottage.” She recalled her first glimpse of him. “He burst into my room, strong and forceful and extraordinary looking, and he saved my life. I was grateful, but at the same time wary of him, because everything about him was frightening. He’d just killed a man. Then later, I remember wishing that it had been Harold who had come, because somehow I knew Damien and I would experience things together that we should not experience.”

Adele described the conversations they’d had and the trouble she’d had sleeping. She told Clara about Damien sharing her bed.

“He knows me, Clara. He sees inside the real me, and he has made me see inside myself, too. And it happened after three short days. When I’m with him, I say things and feel things that I’ve never felt before. I open up to him com
pletely, and because of that, I find myself doubting my relationship with Harold.”

“You don’t think Harold knows the real you?”

She lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap. “I don’t think he really
sees
me, not the inner me. He talks, but he doesn’t listen. I feel rather invisible when I’m with him. I feel like a shell of a person, whose only purpose is to nod and smile and agree with his opinions. Which is basically the person I was in New York.”

“You’re not that person now?”

Adele shook her head. “Ever since I met Damien, I’ve been questioning who I am, and I think I understand it now. I wasn’t happy when we moved to the city. Our way of life was so strange to me, I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I just did what people told me to do. I clung to rules and tried not to think about my life before. I couldn’t bear the longing. And when Mother introduced me to Harold, I was content to marry him because I had begun to forget the person I was when we lived in Wisconsin. But then I met Damien and I became attracted to the wildness in him. He makes me remember our life before New York.”

“And that was the real you?”

“Yes. I love the outdoors. I love to ride. I don’t need jewels.”

“But what does that mean for your future?”

“I’m not sure yet. One thing I do know is that I need to feel free and do what makes me happy. And that is to enjoy the outdoors more and find a
home
for myself—a place that’s right for me.
New York wasn’t right. I felt displaced and frustrated. I couldn’t be myself there. I need to put my roots into the ground that is
right
for me.”

“Will Osulton Manor be right?”

Adele considered that with great care. “Possibly. I love the countryside. I could become very attached to this place.”

“But you need to become attached to more than just a place, Adele. You need to become attached to your husband.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“What about Damien?” Clara asked.

Adele shook her head. “We said some terrible things to each other just before he left. He compared me to his adulterous mother, and I told him that what we’d done was immoral. I don’t know if we could ever get past that. What is between us definitely does
not
feel right. It feels wrong.”

Clara squeezed Adele’s hand.

“Harold is obviously the better man,” Adele said. “He’s reliable and decent and kindhearted, but I’m not sure we are compatible. I need to find out. I need to see if we can catch up to the level of intimacy that I had with Damien.”

“Maybe you will never catch up.”

Adele sighed hopelessly. “Oh, Clara, don’t say that. I don’t want everything to fall apart. Everyone would be so hurt and disappointed. I’ve promised myself to Harold, who is a good man. I’ve made a commitment to him, and I take my promises seriously. I can’t break his heart, and certainly not for a man I could never trust.”

“Because of his reputation?”

“Yes, and the things he said to me in the library. I’m not sure he’s capable of being a good husband. He had a difficult childhood with tragic parents. He doesn’t know what a happy marriage is. He has never been able to commit to one woman. He’s jaded.”

“You should listen to your heart, Adele—the organ that sees better than the eye. That’s an old Yiddish proverb,” she added. “You say you don’t want to give up on Harold, but maybe you shouldn’t give up on Damien yet, either.”

Adele shook her head. “I would rather forget him. I believe he’s with his mistress now—the actress. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but to think of them together is like a knife in my heart. I want to get over this foolish infatuation. If you can help me with that, I will be eternally grateful.”

Clara thought about it. “All right, here’s what I suggest. Give yourself some time. Even a week can make a difference. I know I said that I wanted you to have a great romance, but I also know from experience that these things
can
be fleeting, especially where an unsuitable man is concerned. Now that Damien is gone, what you feel for him might simply pass, and you might realize you prefer Harold after all. If it does, everything will be very easy. If it doesn’t, you can deal with it then. You’ll be coming to London soon, and you can take the opportunity to see how Damien behaves. If he does something to earn your respect, you might discover that there could be more between you. Promise me
you’ll come to me if you still want him after a week away from him. I’ve been through this, Adele. I know what you’re going through.”

Adele hugged her sister. “Thank you. I will.”

The balls and assemblies that were held over the next few days did not find Damien in attendance, as a black eye on account of an angry mistress was not becoming of a gentleman in search of a wife. Nor was he inclined to flirt when he was irritable most of the time because of his creditors and his London house tenants, who had taken it upon themselves to upgrade the stove in the kitchen and send him the bill.

He was irritable for other reasons, too. He was ashamed of the way he had lost all control in the teahouse with Adele, who, before she’d met him, had never done anything she needed to regret. He was ashamed of the way he had treated her in the library afterward, questioning her integrity, when Damien was the one at fault.
He
had kissed
her
.
He
had been the one to suggest they ride alone to the teahouse, even after she said she would prefer to return with Harold another day. He
had
dragged her down.

She must despise him now. She had every right to. Perhaps it was best.

He was also ashamed of betraying Harold’s unwavering trust—Harold, his closest friend since childhood. He was ashamed for treating Frances badly as well. All in all, he was not proud of himself.

He spent many hours thinking about his fu
ture. He did not wish to continue along this low and sordid path. If he was going to be able to return to Osulton Manor and remain a part of the only family he had—and a decent, good family, it was—he needed a wife of his own. He needed to live a respectable life. But this was not a new wish. He had always wanted to rise above the disgrace that was part of his childhood and therefore part of him. He wanted a proper marriage—a marriage different from what his parents had had—and it had become more than clear lately that he could no longer put it off. Essence House needed funds. It needed its lord and master, and for other more heartfelt reasons, he needed a woman in his life. A woman he could love.

The following week proved slightly less trying. Damien’s eye had begun to heal, his tenants paid their rent, and he was able to pay his creditors something to at least keep them from knocking on his door every other hour.

Regarding his regrets, he was still working at forgiving himself, which was not something he was particularly good at, but he was at least making an effort.

Consequently, he danced, he chatted, he flattered, and he charmed. He met many young women of good breeding, and many wealthy ones on a desperate social climb in an upward direction into the aristocracy. Some were American. Others were English, daughters of businessmen who had recently earned a substantial income, and looked upon an eligible baron as a most beneficial stepping stone.

So he kept busy and appreciated the many pretty faces that were new to the London Season. He had a goal, after all—to find a bride and bring her home to Essence House. And for Damien, a goal was always effective to keep his mind and body focused and disciplined. He thought very little about Adele.

Except on the rare occasions when he let down his guard, often when he was drifting into sleep. It was during those moments he thought of her, and felt a very deep and painful longing.

F
or eight days, Adele did as Clara had suggested. She went on with her life as a guest at Osulton, and she waited. She waited for Damien to fade from her mind. She waited for Harold to do something wonderful and stir her passions. And she waited for the guilt over her intimacies with Damien to pass.

The guilt never did pass. Neither did the two other things happen. She’d said good-bye to Damien eight days ago, and she was still missing him and longing for him, despite all the hurtful things they’d said to each other. She was watching the end of the road, fantasizing about a black horse galloping up the hill with a dark knight on his back—a handsome, dark knight with wind in his hair, coming to rescue
her again, from all her doubts and questions.

That never happened either.

On the ninth day when she woke up in the morning and gazed longingly at the window, she realized she had become utterly pathetic. Surely Damien wasn’t pining away over her. He was the kind of man who could sweep one woman from his heart quite effortlessly—not that any one woman had ever truly been
in
his heart to begin with—and move on to the next. He was probably with his mistress at that very moment—in her bed, kissing her and holding her and laughing with her. Adele had pictured him with the beautiful actress more than once this past week, and each time, she’d been overcome with jealousy, even though she didn’t even know what the woman looked like.

Adele needed to get over this. She sat up and told herself that she didn’t need to be rescued, especially by a man like him. She was in control of her emotions, and her life at the current moment was as close to wonderful as it could be. She was engaged to a respectable and decent English nobleman, her family was proud of her, and she was surely the envy of most women in America, and probably England, too. She had been welcomed with open arms into her fiancé’s family, and she would one day give birth to the next Viscount Osulton. Everything about her life was a dream come true. She
must
forget Damien.

She promptly rang for her maid, for she was ready to get dressed.

That very afternoon, however, in the closed
coach on the way to a neighbor’s house for tea, Damien’s name came up in conversation, and Adele felt her resolve flying out the window.

“Did you know that Damien had a black eye?” Violet said quietly, when Eustacia’s head tipped to the side and she began to snore over the rumble of the rattling coach.

Adele’s stomach lurched sickeningly as the coach went over a bump.

“Supposedly,” Violet said, “it was his mistress who gave it to him. That actress—the Fairbanks woman.” She shook her head at the sordidness of it all.

“What happened?” Adele asked, quite unable to resist asking.

Violet leaned in closer, seeming to enjoy the scandalous details. “She cut him with a glass, or threw it at him more likely. I’m not sure why, but I do know that they have a very turbulent relationship. It’s not the first black eye Damien’s received, I assure you, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It doesn’t stop him from seeing her, and others like her.” She looked intently into Adele’s eyes. “What do you think it is about women like her? Why are they so good at luring men like Damien into their beds? Maybe it’s the risk and the danger. Or maybe if they’re passionate in one way, they’re passionate in others, if you understand my meaning. It’s all a great mystery, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

The coach leaped over another bump, tossing Violet and Adele almost up off the seat cushion. Adele considered her relationship with Damien.
Was that what she had been to him? Something risky and dangerous, because she belonged to his cousin?

“But I suppose Damien is ripe for the picking for a woman who craves sin,” Violet continued. “Have you heard the story about his parents?”

“Some of it,” Adele said. “I know his mother had an affair.”

“Yes, that’s true, but there’s more to it than that.” She leaned closer and whispered. “Damien’s father was so brokenhearted, he killed himself over her betrayal.”

Adele stiffened in shock. “Damien’s father?”

“Yes. Witnesses say he went looking for a fight in the worst part of London and provoked the other man. It was the very day they buried Damien’s mother.” Violet sighed. “Poor man. He was kind and decent like Harold. He even looked like him. He gave his heart to his wife, and she crushed it. She married him for his title and his money, then right away went out and spent as much of it as she could, mostly on her lovers.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, Damien is following in his mother’s footsteps and hunting the streets of London as we speak, looking for a rich wife. He needs money quite desperately, I understand. Perhaps that’s why Frances threw the glass at him.”

He’s looking for a rich wife?
Adele had not known that. She had told Clara that Damien knew her in a way that Harold did not, and she
had felt as if she knew him, too. Intimately. But she had not known this.

She felt very naive all of a sudden. Then her mind darted about at the ramifications. Was that why he’d kissed her in the teahouse? Had he thought he could steal her away from Harold, and get his hands on her marriage settlement? Had he hoped to make her believe that they shared a special connection, only to seduce her into leaving Harold for
him
?

No, she didn’t want to believe that. Yet the doubts and suspicions were coming at her from all angles. Where Damien was concerned, nothing was ever straightforward. Everything about him—the things she heard, the way he treated her—made her feel wary. He constantly said he was loyal to Harold, yet he had kissed her. Obviously, he was not as loyal as he claimed.

But neither was she.

“Well, none of it is any great secret,” Violet said. “I’m sure you would have heard all the scandalous talk eventually.” She leaned closer to Adele—who was now feeling sick from thinking about all this—and touched her knee. “I beg your pardon for revealing so many horrid things, but I thought it would be best if you heard it from one of
us
, and I hope you will not judge Harold by the way Damien lives and treats women. Damien and Harold couldn’t be more different. You chose the right man, Adele, I assure you, and I am so glad
you
are decent as well. You would never do to Harold what
Damien’s mother did to his father.” She gazed out the window.

The coach hit another horrendous bump, and Eustacia stirred in her seat. “Have we arrived?” she asked, looking around in a daze.

Violet patted her mother’s knee. “No, Mother, we have quite a distance to go yet.”

London
One week later

Adele peered out of the coach window and saw her sister Sophia, standing on the steps of her grand Mayfair mansion. Beside Sophia was her husband, James, the ninth Duke of Wentworth, widely known as one of the wealthiest men in London. With them were James’s sister, Lily, and his younger brother, Martin.

Adele and her mother stepped out of the coach, and Sophia came dashing down to greet them. “You’re here! Finally!” she shouted, throwing her arms around both their necks.

James smiled and descended the steps. “Madam,” he said, bowing over Beatrice’s plump, gloved hand and gazing with amusement at the absurdity of her purple hat. “A pleasure, as always. And Adele, how good of you to come. Sophia has spoken of nothing else these past few days.”

Adele smiled, while Beatrice blushed and giggled. “Oh, James, you are too charming for words.”

He smiled again, and gestured to Martin and
Lily on the stairs. “Do you remember my brother and sister?”

“Of course!” Beatrice replied. She gathered her purple skirts in both hands and hurried up to meet them halfway. She threw her arms around Lily’s shoulders and hugged her tightly. “My darling girl, it’s so nice to see you again! You look beautiful! Beautiful! And you, Martin, getting handsomer every day.”

Adele watched her sister grin flirtatiously up at her husband, who smiled back at her. There was heat and love between them. It was as clear as day.

Adele wanted desperately—
desperately
—to share such a close bond with her own future husband. That was what would save her. That was what a real marriage was all about.

She knew that tomorrow, Harold was coming to London with Eustacia and Violet, and they would be spending time together at a few balls for which they had already received invitations.

Adele looked into her sister’s joyful eyes—the eyes of a happily married woman and the proud, loving mother of two beautiful boys—and decided firmly that she, too, wanted a close, happy marriage. She did not want to spoil her chances for that by losing sight of the secure future that was within her reach.

Perhaps, she thought at last, it was time to flirt with her fiancé, and try a little harder to fall in love with him.