Samantha James (18 page)

She couldn’t help feeling the outsider, but she knew she couldn’t leave so soon, either. Though everyone she met was gracious and hospitable, she was relieved when Paige arrived. By then guests were milling everywhere. Servants offered tempting trays of hors d’oeuvres. Conversation and laughter filled every corner of the salon and
ballroom. Dinner was a sumptuous feast served in the formal dining room. Heather had to consciously stop her jaw from dropping; the faces at the opposite end of the table were just a blur.

Just after dinner, Mama developed a headache. Miles sought Heather out and told her they’d decided to leave early. Heather would have left along with them, but Paige pleaded for her to stay. Mama encouraged her as well and said they would send the carriage back for her. Heather decided to remain. She’d thought the evening would be tediously boring, but so far that hadn’t been the case at all.

Paige snagged two glasses of champagne from a tray and nodded toward two velvet chairs against the far wall of the salon. When they were seated, she handed one to Heather.

“Well, Heather, what do you think of Lady Seton’s ball? Was I right? Is it
the
event of the year?”

Heather glanced around. The scent of perfume mingled with the heady aroma of fresh flowers. Brocades and satins shimmered beneath the light of a thousand candles. Jewels glistened everywhere—the women were adorned in rubies and diamonds and emeralds; the men, in finery no less extravagant.

“That I wouldn’t know,” Heather chuckled. “I do know I’ve never seen such an array of jewelry and clothing in all my days!” She lowered her voice. “Before she left, Mama pointed out the Prime Minister.”

Paige’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Heather nodded. Draining her champagne, she handed the glass to a passing footman. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the majordomo announcing several latecomers.

Suddenly Paige nudged her with an elbow. “That’s him!” she gasped.

Slender black brows drew together. “Who?”

“Didn’t you hear? That’s him, the man we were talking about yesterday…the Earl of Deverell!”

Heather wrinkled her nose. A mere earl, she thought loftily, wasn’t nearly so impressive as the Prime Minister, no matter how handsome he might be.

Her eyes drifted toward the newcomer. Her mind registered a tall, overwhelmingly masculine form, dark hair above a devastatingly classical profile.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her stomach twisted inside her. A staggering dread gripped her heart. The man who had just arrived, the Earl of Deverell…

…was none other than Damien.

The grasp of her mind faltered. It couldn’t be. Dear God, it couldn’t be. It was the champagne, she thought dizzily. Too much, too quickly.

But it wasn’t. It was
him
.

The very sight of him made her knees weak. He was riveting, splendidly attired in black evening dress. Skintight pantaloons shamelessly outlined every bulging muscle in his legs. The dazzling white of his shirt brought out the bronze in his skin.

Dimly she noted that he was talking with Lady Seton. He chanced to turn his head in her direction.

Their eyes grazed…then collided head-on, a moment that lasted but an instant—a moment that dragged on forever. His gaze seemed to reach her very soul, yet she resented him fiercely, for while she felt she was flying apart inside, his every thought lay shuttered behind the screen of his eyes.

A slight inclination of his head, and she was dismissed.

Pain ripped through her heart like a knife.

She fought a precarious battle for control…fought and won.

“Heather?” Paige tugged at her sleeve. “Heather, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Through sheer effort of will she summoned a smile. “I’m fine, Paige. The earl merely reminded me of someone familiar, someone I met long ago at Lockhaven.” But she wasn’t fine. Indeed, she was seething, engulfed in fury. She wanted to march across to him and demand an explanation. What was he doing here? Why had he come to Lockhaven as Damien Lewis? What was the pretense?

Lady Seton was at his side, introducing him to those in the salon. Beside her, Paige sat up straighter. “We’re actually going to meet him, Heather! Oh, won’t you have a story to tell Bea tomorrow!”

Heather was burning inside. If she only knew…

They were next. Lady Seton had slipped a familiar hand inside his elbow. Heather wanted to rip the lovely lady’s heart out.

But she had no claim over him. Dear God, she didn’t even know who he was….

“My lord, may I present to you Paige Winslow, younger sister to the Viscountess Wyburn. Her husband, Daniel, is a captain in His Majesty’s Navy, presently away at sea. Paige, Damien Tremayne, Earl of Deverell.”

Paige had risen to her feet. She dipped a quick curtsey. “My lord.”

“My pleasure, madam.” Damien had taken her hand and was smiling down at her. “You must find it lonely without your husband.”

“I do, my lord.” Paige’s tone was breathless. “Indeed, I count the days until his return.”

“A happy marriage, then. If I dare say so, you are lucky, madam, both you and your husband.”

Paige beamed. Heather gritted her teeth.

The pair now stood before her. Heather remained where she was, her mood mutinous. By God, she’d be neither cowed nor humbled by the rogue—whoever he might be!

“My lord, Miss Heather Duval, ward of Miles Grayson, Earl of Stonehurst.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” There was a slight edge to her voice. Her gaze was cool as an English wind. She did not smile or offer her hand, but kept her fingers firmly linked in her lap.

Anger kindled in his eyes. Heather was past caring.

“Miss Duval, I am honored.” His tone was oh-so-pleasant.

And then they moved on. It was over. Paige chatted endlessly, but Heather scarcely heard. Indeed, she should leave. Now, for she had no desire to remain in the same house with him.

The thought had no sooner chased through her mind than he appeared directly before her. One small hand was seized without preamble. He gave her a low bow, then straightened.

“It’s an enchanting night, Miss Duval. Would you care to take a turn about the garden?”

She wanted to refuse. She wanted to slap his vile face. Her chin tipped high. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers—a warning, she realized.

Her gaze flew to his eyes. What she saw there stripped from her the courage to defy him.

“If you wish, my lord.”

She rose. Her hand still lay clasped within his; boldly he tucked it into the crook of his elbow. He bent and handed her her cane.

It was but a short distance to the French doors that led to the terrace. The night was warm, the air sweetly fragrant with the scent of roses and perfume. The lights from the house spilled through the windows, bathing the pathway in a pale shade of gold. There was a small stone bench near a tinkling fountain, and it was there that he guided her.

A dark bleakness seeped into her soul. She could imagine no setting more inviting or romantic….

As soon as they stopped, she snatched her hand away as if he were a leper.

Damien couldn’t blame her. She didn’t realize that seeing her here was no less earth-shattering for him. But no matter…

He’d felt the tremor in her hands, the iciness of her skin. And now she stood there, as beautiful and frail as a flower bending in the wind. It was all there, stark and open and glaring—the bitter hurt, the angry betrayal, the wrench of despair. Yet she faced him unflinchingly. With undaunted courage. Uncertain, yet so very brave. Gripping her cane as if it were all that held her upright.

He couldn’t have been more proud of her….

Never had he despised himself more.

The urge to touch her was overpowering. He trailed a finger down her cheek and found that memory had not failed him. Her skin was as downy-smooth as he remembered. His gaze wandered down her form almost greedily.

He smiled slightly. “You look beautiful,” he said softly.

Her eyes were huge and wounded, suspiciously moist. He saw her swallow and sensed she held back tears.

“I’ve missed you, Heather.” His voice was softer still. “Smile for me, sweet.”

Her gaze turned blistering. She bared her teeth.

His hand fell to his side.

The silence that yawned between them was as wide as the sea.

It was she who broke it. “I confess I am at a loss,” she said stingingly. Flippantly. “What am I to call you? Mr. Lewis? Or Lord Deverell?”

His gaze was steady. “We’re on far more intimate terms than that, Heather. Or have you forgotten?”

Her gaze slipped. His tone was so gentle, his eyes so tender. All at once she was achingly aware of him, and wishing she weren’t. She couldn’t look at him, fearful of revealing a hunger for him that had yet to die—a hunger she feared would
never
die.

From somewhere deep inside, she found the iron strength she needed so sorely. Slowly she raised her head. “I’ve forgotten nothing,” she
said bitingly. “And you’ve not answered my question, my lord…or is it Mr. Lewis?”

“Ride with me tomorrow in Hyde Park and I’ll tell you.”

She flared immediately. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

His smile was taunting. “Well, then, you won’t find out, will you?”

In that moment she hated him, hated him as she’d never hated anyone. “Tell me, Damien. Tell me who you are. Tell me what’s going on!”

Several other guests had drifted onto the terrace. She watched as his gaze flickered behind her. “Now is not the time, Heather,” he said quietly.

Her jaw locked tight. “I don’t care. Tell me.”

“I’ll call for you at eleven.”

“No!”

“I’ll call for you,” he repeated.

She took a deep, ragged breath. Weakened by doubt, by her own treacherous longing, the tears she’d been trying so valiantly to withhold struggled to the surface. She was trying so hard to be calm. Not to be angry. Yet now she felt as if the very ground beneath her feet were crumbling away. Crumbling, as she was crumbling…

His voice stole through the dark void surrounding her. “Trust me, Heather.”

“Trust you!” She cast back her head. “Trust me, he says! Yet how can I, when he deceived me so…or did he? God, I”—her voice broke—“I don’t even know who you are!”

Strong arms came around her. She was swept close—close!—for a mind-splitting instant. His
arms were hard and tight against her back. She sagged into his chest, trapped in a haze of conflicting emotions. The beat of his heart echoed beneath her ear, reassuring and steady. His embrace was warm and comforting, all she’d longed for, everything she’d yearned for.

But was it just another lie
?

Despair dragged upon her chest like a weighted stone.

A tiny sigh escaped, a sound born of a weary resignation. It was like a dagger through his breast. Slowly he drew away so he could see her. With his fingers he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, resisting the impulse to linger.

Her lips trembled. “I have to know,” she whispered. “Damien, I must know…who you really…are.”

He was silent. “My name is Damien Lewis Tremayne.”

“So you are—the Earl of Deverell?”

He nodded, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips. “I’ll explain the rest tomorrow, I promise, Heather. Please, love, just trust me.”

Loye
. Her heart squeezed. His careless endearment was torture. He was an earl. An
earl
. He didn’t love her. He would
never
love her. He cared nothing about her, or he would never have betrayed her so.

But she wouldn’t let him see her hurt. Not again. Never again. She squared her shoulders and looked up at him. “It seems I have no choice, do I?” She couldn’t quite hide her bitterness.

They went back inside. Paige, she noted dimly, was blessedly absent. Damien summoned the
carriage and handed her inside. He squeezed her fingers lightly. She pretended not to notice. She didn’t look back as the carriage lurched forward.

It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

At home, the rest of household was already asleep. Heather was eternally grateful, for she knew she wouldn’t have been able to disguise her troubled spirits. Sleep that night was slow to arrive.

She awoke late the next morning. By the time she made her way downstairs, everyone was gone but the servants.

Promptly at eleven the bell rang. Despite the fact that Heather was expecting it, she jumped. Not wishing to appear overeager, especially when she’d protested so heartily, she waited in the drawing room until Nelson, Papa’s aging London butler, came to fetch her.

“A caller for you, Miss Heather—the Earl of Deverell.”

Picking up her shawl from beside her, she rose. “Thank you, Nelson,” she murmured. “Should anyone ask, I shall be with the earl this afternoon.”

“Very good, Miss Heather.”

Damien was waiting in the entrance hall. Along with his presence came a pulsating tension. He turned upon hearing the swish of her skirts.

“My lord.” She was proud of her dignified manner; inside she was a jumbled mass of nerves. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

His features were inscrutable, his tone faultlessly polite. “Not at all.” A faint consternation
crossed his face. “Damn,” he murmured. “It only occurs to me now that perhaps you should have a chaperone—”

Heather’s chin came up. “I’ve been doing business on my own for some years now without benefit of a chaperone,” she said levelly. “Besides, I am twenty-five years old—in the eyes of Society, quite over the hill.”

“Very well, then.” He opened the door and waited for her to precede him outside.

His carriage was a sleek, ruby-red affair, built both for speed and comfort. Seated opposite each other in the richly appointed interior, they neither touched nor spoke. His pose was casual and indolent. His arms were crossed over his chest, one booted leg thrust out before him. Heather pressed her lips together. She would neither demand nor plead for the answers that so tormented her. She’d done that last evening, to no avail. He glanced out one side of the carriage. She gazed out the opposite.

But when they passed Hyde Park, she drew in a sharp breath. Her gaze cut back to him accusingly; it was disconcerting to discover those crystalline eyes already fixed upon her profile.

A dark brow rose. “I’m not kidnapping you, Heather. I merely thought a location where we can be alone would be more suitable for our discussion.”

“Of course.” Turning her attention to the landscape rolling by outside, she tried to force the stiffness from her shoulders.

It wasn’t long before they stopped. They were just outside the city, the setting pastoral and
serene. The sky above was endlessly blue and cloudless. Damien helped her alight, then went around to speak with the driver. As he turned to come back to her, the carriage rolled off.

“I asked the driver to return in several hours,” he said, answering the silent question in her eyes.

Several hours! Surely what he had to tell her would not fill half that time!

His smile was grim. “Do you think you can suffer my presence that long?”

Her words were no less grim. “It appears that I shall have to.”

A stream gurgled nearby, parallel to the road. There was a small stand of oak trees a short distance away, and it was there that they headed. In his hands were a small basket and blanket. He spread the blanket on the grass, then gestured for her to sit. Heather gingerly lowered herself to the ground. His movements brisk, he unpacked wine and bread, cheese and fruit. Heather forced herself to eat from the plate he handed her, but she might have been eating dust for all she knew.

Finally she set aside the plate. A genuine smile creased her lips for the first time since she’d seen him last night. “If I didn’t know better,” she murmured, “I might think you brought me here to seduce me.”

His smile was as fleeting as hers. “I’m trying to make this as”—he seemed to be searching for the right word—“as painless as possible,” he finished at last. Something that might have been regret flickered across his face. “But I’m not sure I can, Heather. So I may as well just get on with it.”

Heather clasped her hands together in her lap. Her knuckles shone white. The moment she’d waited for was upon her, only now she wasn’t certain she was ready for it.

He had discarded his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt against the warmth of the noonday sun. One booted leg drawn up toward his chest, he rested his wrist upon his knee and stared off into the distance. His expression was brooding, and she sensed in him the same suffering and bleakness she’d captured in her sketch the first day they’d met.

“What I’m about to tell you, Heather, is not easy for me. Indeed, when I first came to Lockhaven, I never considered that I might have to. But now that I must, I find I don’t know what to say.” His gaze returned to her, and now it was piercingly direct. “I want you to know, Heather”—the pitch of his voice had grown very low—“I don’t want to hurt you.”