CHAPTER 11
D amien supposed it was not such a remarkable thing for many to find themselves in the wrong, but it was a rare occurrence for him.
Yet he had been mistaken. His disapproval of Esmeralda’s book of instruction had been the result of his own expectations of ladies. Both his mother and his sister approved heartily of the volume in question. Indeed, he could not have mistaken Eliza’s enthusiasm for it when they danced. Her eyes shone and she fairly glowed with happiness. He did not even have to glance at Emerson to recognize that husband and wife shared that contentment with their situation.
And Eliza credited their happiness to the book.
He chose not to enquire as to how Eliza had even obtained a copy, for it was clear that there were matters among women that he had never before imagined. He was not entirely certain he wished to know how much they talked to each other, how bluntly or how often, much less what avenues they employed for such communications. A measure of ignorance could not be a bad thing in such a situation.
Even though he was seldom mistaken, Damien knew that being wrong meant one thing: he owed Esmeralda an apology, and the longer he delayed over that, the less sincere it would seem to be.
He finished the dance with Eliza, then declined to dance again, indicating his leg as if it troubled him again. Then he limped from the clearing, lifted a hand for a cup of tea, then headed toward Mrs. Oliver with purpose.
His sincerity in this matter would not be doubted.
Esmeralda felt a smile curve her lips as the duke approached her. She was hot and uncomfortable. Her disguise itched and she chafed with impatience to be more active than Mrs. Oliver was inclined to be. She would have loved to dance, but that was not to be on this day. She let herself feel discontent and even grumpy, for that suited the role she played.
But her mood lifted when the duke drew near.
She could not let him guess as much.
“Your Grace, you cannot leave the dance you have contrived so soon as this,” she crowed and he shook his head as he claimed a seat beside her.
“I can and I do, Mrs. Oliver,” he said genially. A footman brought him a cup of tea, which he accepted with a nod. He sipped of it and settled back in his chair, turning a gleaming gaze upon her. “Yet do not let my infirmity interfere with your own merriment. I will call Addersley to escort you, if you but say the word.”
“Ha!” Esmeralda scoffed. “I am less of a dancer than you, sir, but your offer is kind. Let the young buck dance with his wife on this, their day of days.”
“Fair enough.”
“It was kind of you to summon musicians.”
“You were right, Mrs. Oliver, that a bride who so loves to dance should do as much at her own wedding. I merely sent word to Haynesdale Hollow in the hope that these gentlemen could accommodate us on such short notice.”
“It was kindly, and if she does not think to thank you, I will.”
He saluted her with his cup. “And I thank you, Mrs. Oliver, for the notion. How curious to consider that we might make a fine team.”
She laughed raucously at that, for there was a solemnity in his manner that hinted he might say more, that some of it might be unwelcome. They had an agreement and when it was done, their association would be over. She managed to ensure that she ejected some spittle and he turned away, his expression one of both amusement and resignation.
They sat in a companionable silence that could not be savored, given the reputation of Mrs. Oliver.
Esmeralda poked the duke hard in the arm, for he looked entirely too content to sit with her. He fairly jumped to be so touched, then frowned slightly. That was more fitting.
But she would provoke him yet more – and she had the perfect suggestion to make. She could not fathom how she had failed to think of it sooner.
“You, sir, should be considering your own future, at a wedding no less, not idling with an old widow over a cup of tea.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She waved a hand toward the dancers. “Mlle. LaFleur is the perfect choice for you, and you cannot be oblivious to a detail so evident to all.” She snorted when he stared at her, then dropped her voice to a whisper that would be readily overheard. “How many here, do you imagine, already believe that you intend to claim that fortunate young lady as your own bride when the time is right?”
“Mrs. Oliver, such speculation is inappropriate.”
“As inappropriate as it would be to wed a maiden so very young. But she lives in your house, beneath your care, and I hear that you are indulgent of her on Bond Street.” She nodded sagely. “I can only recommend, sir, that you make your intentions clear to all and sundry. Pledge to her now, in a formal betrothal, lest one of these young men run afoul of the scheme you make for yourself.” She snapped her fingers beneath his nose so that he blinked. “She might be snatched from beneath your very nose by some ardent admirer.”
“Mrs. Oliver,” he began, but she raised a hand.
“You owe me no confession, Your Grace, but I have wits in my head, and eyes as well.” She chortled to herself. “A man would have to be devoid of desire indeed to overlook so fair a flower as Mlle. LaFleur.” She gasped. “Ah! Even her name hints at her perfection.” She laughed at her own jest, while the duke appeared unmoved.
He sipped his tea, staring stonily at the dancers, as if she had offended him.
Esmeralda could not imagine how a suggestion of such good sense should offend him. He was a clever man and a strategic thinker. He had to see for himself how ideal the prospect of wedding Sylvie would be.
If he did not as yet, she would make certain he did before her own departure.
He set his empty cup aside, slanting a glance her way. “As unlikely as it might seem, Mrs. Oliver, I did not come to confer with you upon any nuptial agreements.”
“If you cannot see such an evident truth, perhaps you should have done.”
She earned a warning glance for that. “I came to apologize,” the duke said with soft heat, his gaze seeking her own. He was solemn beyond all expectation, and she could only believe him to be in earnest.
An apology?
Esmeralda’s heart skipped. “Indeed, Your Grace? For what would you apologize? Being too kind to the bride? Granting me too much hospitality?” She leered at him. “Being a fine sight for an old woman’s gaze?”
He shook his head minutely, not taking the bait she offered. “I find myself corrected upon the necessity of your book, Mrs. Oliver, and even outnumbered in that view by those within my own circle.” The duke’s gaze bored into hers, so dark and so compelling that she could not look away. He smiled ever so slightly and his expression turned rueful, as if he regretted his own folly, and she was utterly lost. “I am sorry that I spoke against it and I apologize if I gave offense.”
Oh.
When had Esmeralda known a man to apologize? Very seldom. Never, if the matter was of any significance at all. And yet this powerful aristocrat, who need cede to no one, did apologize to her – after listening to her, and other women, and reconsidering his earlier opinion.
If that was not a deed to steal her heart away forever, Esmeralda did not know what was.
She swallowed and strove to remain consistent with the character of Mrs. Oliver. “Then it would be most ungracious of me to do anything other than accept your apology, Your Grace.”
“You might do more,” he suggested quietly, his tone so silky that it gave her shivers.
“I might, but if I considered the merit of doing more, it would only occur in privacy.”
“Tell me you do not consider an apology to incur a debt?”
“Never, sir. It is fair, though, to believe that an unexpected apology might merit a reward.”
He smiled then drained his cup before setting it aside. His eyes were full of stars when he turned to her again, his amorous intent almost palpable. “I shall live in hope, Mrs. Oliver,” he vowed in a murmur that made her tingle to her very toes.
“Goodness,” she said. “What would the ton think if they guessed I made such a conquest?”
The duke laughed then, a loud merry laugh such as she had never heard him emit before. She stared at him in wonder for he was transformed into a younger and more carefree version of himself. She saw again the merry rake who had both charmed and tormented London society, the daredevil who took any risk and won countless hearts. No doubt so did a number of others, his mother included. That lady stared openly at her son, her expression one of wonder.
“I can well imagine,” he said, then bowed and turned away, making a path for Captain Emerson.
Esmeralda could only watch.
Such a man.
He was utterly seductive.
And she had only a few hours to plan the reward he so richly deserved.
Would he be troubled if she confided the details later in an entry for her book?
Townsend had just left him that night when Damien heard the adjoining door open. He turned to find Esmeralda silhouetted in the frame. She stood as if posed for a painting, one hand braced above her shoulder. She carried a candle in the other hand and its light spilled over her chemise. He could see her breasts illuminated through the cloth, glorious shadows hinting at her curves below. Her features were gilded, her lips reddened so that she looked sultry and alluring. Her dark hair was bound up loosely, tendrils tumbling down her back as if she had just risen from her bath. He thought of Venus and Aphrodite, of Botticelli paintings and Roman sculptures. He was enraptured by the sight of her.
Better yet, she was not only real but possessed a cleverness that rivalled his own. This was no woman to be admired for her appearance alone – this was one with whom he could flirt and argue and debate, then reconcile their differences in mutually satisfactory ways. Their banter on this day, while she was in disguise, had been the highlight of the wedding in his view. An event he might otherwise have found tedious had proven to be a delight instead.
Best of all, she stood before him now, the scent of roses rising warmly from her flesh. She had bathed, then, and he knew her skin would be soft and smooth beneath his hand. There was a glint in her magnificent eyes, though, one that made him smile in anticipation of the discussion they would have first.
Matching wits with this woman was almost as satisfying as claiming her, though their agreement dictated that such intimacy would be short-lived. Was it doomed to be thus? Could he ever win her trust fully? Was he a madman to wish for more – or was that a sign that she held him in her thrall, just as she preferred? He could not say, and truly he ceased to care. No matter how many times they met abed, Damien wanted Esmeralda as he had never desired anything in his life.
Surely that was a hint that this could be no fleeting liaison.
His smile broadened as her gaze trailed over him, also warm from his bath. He wore only a loose chemise that fell to his thighs, and he noted how her gaze lingered on his legs and feet, how she studied his hands, how the light in her eyes had quickened when she met his gaze again.
“Have you come to collect a more fulsome apology then?” he asked. “I can think of no other reason that would prompt such impatience on your part.”
“Perhaps I hasten to deliver your promised reward.”
“I should have abandoned any pretense at dinner had I guessed your scheme.”
She smiled and came toward him, so gracious that she seemed to float rather than walk as a mere mortal would be compelled to do. “It is true. I cannot resist a man’s confession that he has erred, or that he was mistaken. Your admission was particularly sweet.”
“Because I am unlikely to err? Or because I am disinclined to admit as much?”
She laughed lightly and he found himself smiling. “Perhaps both.”
“Perhaps both,” he acknowledged. “Yet wrong in this matter, I was.” Damien bowed his head and inhaled deeply of her scent when she paused before him. He brushed his lips across her cheek. “I have no doubt that you anticipated my surrender to your wisdom.”
Her eyes danced as she smiled up at him. “You are clever, sir. I thought chances were good that you might be taught the error of your ways.”
“My own mother endorses your volume!” He feigned astonishment, wanting only to make her laugh. She did and he grinned at her. “So much so that she wishes for a copy.”
“I find your mother refreshingly sensible,” Esmeralda said. She trailed her fingertips across his chest as if she could not resist the opportunity to touch him, then stepped past him toward the bed. Her light caress stoked the fire within him and he watched her hungrily. How could he distinguish himself from all the men she had known? How could he encourage her to want him alone? It would not be by touch, though he longed to seduce her this very moment.
It would be by winning her trust.
She spun in place, surveying his chamber, and he realized she had never before entered the room. She looked openly, her thoughts so hidden that he wished he knew whether she approved.
“Even your sister credits the success of her own match to the pages she read,” she continued.
“I did not think her first marriage was that much of a success,” Damien said, if only to tease her.
She spun to face him, then laughed. No doubt his expression gave his intention away. “It was not her first marriage she meant, but you knew as much.” She came to him again, abandoning the candle to a table, her eyes brimming with amusement. She framed his face in her hands and leaned against him. “Confess your error to me again,” she commanded and he would have done whatever she asked of him.
His hands fitted around her waist, seemingly of their own volition, and he drew her closer. “I am sorry that I failed to understand the merit of your book, much less the magnitude of influence it might have.”
She ran her fingertips across his mouth. “That did not hurt at all, did it?”
“No, I find it most agreeable to cede to you, Esmeralda.” He stole a sweet lingering kiss, then whispered in her ear. “I might make a habit of it.”
“Heaven forfend that you should be wrong again in such short order,” she teased, smiling in triumph when he smiled. “I am relieved that you no longer disapprove of my project.”
Damien frowned. As unwilling as he was to alter the mood of the moment, his concerns had to be given voice. “But still I am not convinced of the wisdom of publication,” he said, watching her eyes narrow. “For you may face censure as its author, and I would not have you in harm’s way.”
“Do you not think I am accustomed to censure?”
“This may be more virulent. There will be those who disagree with the very premise.”
Esmeralda frowned and moved away. “Then you withhold your approval in the end.”
“No,” he said, waiting for her to turn to him again. “I would merely consider alternatives. It is always best to strategize, in my view.”
“Agreed.”
“Who should be the author of the work? Will it be you?”
“People might be inclined to take my advice in such intimate matters.”
“But what of your privacy and protection? Perhaps the volume should be attributed to Mrs. Oliver.”
Esmeralda laughed. “I cannot imagine that her appearance would give credibility to her counsel.”
“It could be anonymous.”
She shook her head. “I will not hide.”
“It could be written by ‘a lady’ as some other works have been of late.”
“Fiction. They are fiction. This is fact. This is a reference and should have a name upon it to give it authority.”
“I would ask that the name not be your own.”
“For your sake or mine?” she asked, but evidently did not expect a reply, for she continued. “I think it should have my name upon it, for that hint of scandal will ensure greater popularity.”
“And the objective is to provide funds for your own comfort.”
She eyed him then. “You say that as if a desire to avoid starvation is ignoble.”
“I say that as if monetary concerns should not be the sole objective in any matter.”
“They are not in this one.”
“Yet I would not have you put your own welfare in peril.” he said, making another appeal.
“Yet it is my own welfare that drives my choice.” She reached out and claimed his hand. “I have told you. I grow old for this trade. I would continue to live comfortably, which means I must find another source of revenue.”
Damien took a breath and said it aloud. “You could wed. You could wed and have your welfare assured thus, and leave aside the publication of this volume.”
“How on earth would marriage secure my future?” Her tone was chilly with disapproval, but he had expected as much.
“Your lord husband would provide for you, of course.”
“And take control of me, claim ownership of my finances and assets, make my choices in every matter save the most frivolous.” She straightened with disdain. “And when age sets its hand upon me, he too might cast me aside, leaving me with even less than I might have possessed otherwise.”
“Not all husbands do as much.”
“Many do. And I could not bear to know that the man I had pledged to love, honor and obey took to visiting a Cyprian instead of returning home to his own bed when I have been known as the greatest courtesan in England. I will never endure that indignity.”
“Then you must wed for love, it is clear.”
“A woman’s love seldom has influence over her circumstance.”
“But the love of your husband most assuredly would.” He closed the distance between them with purpose, lifting her chin with a touch of his fingertip. “I cannot imagine that any man would think of another woman while you greeted him willingly. I know that I would not.”
“You...” she began but he brushed his mouth across hers, swallowing her protest.
“You are skeptical,” he murmured, drawing her closer. That she moved willingly into his embrace meant either that she was not appalled by his proposal, or that she meant to distract him from such serious matters with her touch. If there had been a wager to be made, Damien would have bet upon distraction. Esmeralda was not troubled by men’s words or notions, for she was certain of her own – and she believed that she could control her lover. “And I understand that. But in this instance, I would convince you of your error.”
“It cannot be done,” she argued.
“Perhaps not, but I will try my utmost to convince you to accept me as your haven and sanctuary.”
“You speak nonsense,” she protested. “You should wed Sylvie.”
“A girl young enough to be my own daughter? I think not. I would take a woman to wife.” He kissed her then, slowly and sweetly, and she welcomed him, her lips parting as she leaned against him, as if her body was already convinced of what she refused to accept.
They belonged together. Damien knew it as well.
He also recognized that he would never find her like, much less another woman who would so fascinate him.
“I told you I would be the kept mistress of no man,” Esmeralda protested when he broke their kiss, but she was pliant in his embrace, as if she yearned for what he had to offer.
“And we are in agreement on that matter, for I have no desire of a kept mistress.” Damien continued before she could retreat. “I speak of marriage, Esmeralda, of your hand in mine forevermore.”
“That would be madness!” She took a step back as if she had to retreat. He was encouraged that she might be as affected by his touch as he was of hers. She spun away from him and paced before the fireplace. “It would be scandalous. Any number of the ton would refuse to acknowledge either of us again…”
“And yet, I believe we would be happy despite that.” He shrugged and leaned against the pillar of the bed. “Perhaps because of it.”
“You jest about a serious matter, sir.”
“And you object so vehemently that I am encouraged.”
“Damien!” She said his name low and hot, the single word explosive upon her lips. Though he knew she meant to chastise him, he loved the sound of it.
He smiled at her and her expression softened.
“Esmeralda,” he replied, once again moving toward her. “Let me show you how good it can be between us.”
“It is always good between us,” she said with a conviction he welcomed, then her gaze flicked to his as she realized what she had ceded.
Damien grinned. “But we have not yet tasted the fullness of possibility, according to your own volume of advice.”
“You cannot overwhelm me by touch.”
“I would not even try.” He caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, placing a kiss on her palm as she watched him with fascination. He felt her shiver and entangled their fingers, leading her toward the bed. “I had understood I owed you an apology.”
“I had understood the same.”
“Then rather than granting any reward, Esmeralda, demand whatever you wish of me. I am yours this night, for the taking.”
“You would not.”
“I do. I assure you of my sincerity.”
Her eyes lit with devilry and he caught his breath at the sight. Then she was in his arms, her mouth upon his, her hand sliding beneath the hem of his chemise. Never had she assailed him with such enthusiasm and he feared for a moment the storm he had unleashed – though he would welcome every moment of it.
“I would test the instructions for the knot,” she whispered, sending a jolt through him to his toes.
“You wish to be restrained?”
She shook her head, her gaze unswerving, a thousand promises in her eyes. “No, no, it must be you who surrenders to this game.”
Damien understood that she needed proof of his own trust before she could grant her own. He smiled down at her. “Then I suggest we remain in my chamber this night, for this bed is more doughty than the one you enjoy.”
He immediately saw her delight. She must have doubted that he would agree, for her eyes shone with a triumph he would have paid any price to witness. He truly was hers to claim and possess, and he vowed to himself that she would be utterly convinced of that fact before the dawn.
No matter what price Esmeralda demanded of him, Damien was prepared to pay.