CHAPTER 14
D amien’s dark gaze collided suddenly with Esmeralda’s and her heart jumped for fear that he would read her thoughts. “There was an understanding or an honesty or perhaps both between us that night, and it seemed to me that time was of no relevance at all,” he said, still speaking with quiet heat. “In the end, it was, of course. I stayed overlong and had to pay more before being allowed to leave the house. My brother took me back to our lodgings but I could not stop thinking of her. I had the idea that she might be my bride, that I might take her back to England with me. James scoffed at me, but I went back to that house the next night, only to find that she was gone.” He shook his head. “The same woman who had taken my coin denied ever having seen the girl or me.” His voice dropped. “I never knew her name. I never knew what became of her, and I doubt that I would even recognize her if she crossed my path again, but that girl holds a place of pride in my heart.”
“Still?” Esmeralda had to ask.
“Still,” Damien said with a firm nod. “I suppose you will laugh at me as my brother did, and mock me for finding any romance in such a transaction.”
“Not I.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because romance is what gives us hope. Romance makes it possible to believe, and to continue.”
“That it does, Esmeralda,” he agreed with a nod, then considered her. “Though I would not have expected you to make that argument.”
She shrugged, unable to summon a word to her lips.
He waited, then spoke softly. “I thought I might find her again, you know. I dove into a sea of indulgence after that, becoming a rake and a wastrel of the highest order before assuming my duties in Spain.”
“Or perhaps the lowest.”
His smile flashed. “Indeed, that would be a more accurate assessment.” He sobered then, turning again to the fire. “I could not believe that something so lovely could be lost so readily. I could not believe that what I had felt that night was false or merely the result of a commercial exchange. I think I wanted to prove to myself that either I could find it again, repeatedly and reliably, or that it was as rare as I had hoped.”
“And your conclusion?”
“That night was extraordinary. I never felt the same again.” He smiled. “Though these nights with you, Esmeralda, have come the closest.” He held her gaze, his own conviction clear. “That is why I would not put this aside without an argument. This time, I would hold fast to a treasure, regardless of what anyone else might say.”
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to have that precious faith in his promise.
But Esmeralda had seen too much and been hurt too many times to dare to believe.
She smiled as she stood up. “Then we must beg to differ, Your Grace, for I think it inevitable that you would grow weary of such a choice in time. I would rather part while there is goodwill between us than see your manner change to scorn.”
He caught her hand and pulled her to his side, his thumb sliding across her palm. “I will convince you, Esmeralda. I know that you have been betrayed time and again, but I swear to you, this is no empty promise.”
“I know you believe it in this moment,” she said, bending to touch her lips to his hand. “But I cannot.”
“I will convince you,” he vowed, but she shook her head.
“It cannot be done.” She hoped she could be as resolute as she knew she should be. Even now, though, she found her resistance to him dissolving in steady increments.
“Esmeralda!” Damien rose to his feet in one smooth gesture, catching her up in his arms and silencing any protest she might have made with a potent kiss. Esmeralda closed her eyes and surrendered to that one kiss. When he lifted his head, though, and a familiar gleam lit his eyes, she stepped away, professing exhaustion.
He did not believe her, it was clear, but he let her go.
Of course, he did. She could rely upon him to do that. Once in her chamber, she closed the adjoining door and leaned back against it, closing her eyes. If only she dared to rely upon the duke even more than that, but his tale tonight had shaken her. She could not regret that she finally knew the identity of the young nobleman who had made her first time so sweet, the man who had introduced her so tenderly to the art of love.
More than that, she finally knew the name of Sylvie’s father.
God in Heaven, what a mistake she had nearly made in encouraging the duke to take Sylvie as his wife.
The question was how she might ensure Sylvie’s future otherwise.
Damien had not slept well. He had hoped that Esmeralda might return to his room, but she had not. He had remained awake for hours in restless hope, a sure indication of his need to have her securely in his life.
His slumber was troubled by dreams when he did finally sleep, though he did not remember any of them when he awakened. He was possessed, though, of a sense of urgency that had him tossing back the covers and crossing to that adjoining door.
It was secured against him and his soft knock aroused no response.
That could be no accident, nor was it likely to be a whim. Something had changed between them with the telling of his tale, though he could not name it. Perhaps Esmeralda did not like that he still thought of that long-ago maiden with some affection.
Perhaps she feared her own capitulation to his proposal.
Her comments about his amorous technique gave him an idea. It was surely possible that a romantic conquest could have much in common with a military one, that one could assail a barricaded heart much as one might attack a citadel.
In both instances, the key to success might lie in an understanding of the fortress itself. What were its strengths and weaknesses? Where did one find its vulnerabilities – and how did one use such information to one’s own advantage?
He had a suspicion that Esmeralda considered intimate matters to be one-sided. They were transactions for her, and exchanges in which she always kept the upper hand. That was imperative for her personal safety, to be sure, but it also was a choice on her part. He was aware that she always composed herself for their encounters, and he supposed that every element of her appearance was intended to direct his thoughts to the ultimate goal. She drove him toward the consummation of his desire and did as much both persistently and persuasively.
He already had noted how it surprised her when he insisted upon her desire being satisfied.
He wondered what else he had not divined about his enigmatic seductress.
He guessed there might be a clue in the volume she was composing. And so, that afternoon when Esmeralda was dressed as Mrs. Oliver and attending his mother in the garden – undoubtedly listening to the endless possibilities of the new layout and placement of each specific rose, he retrieved the duplicate key to the lock in the adjoining door between their chambers. Once in the dark blue room, he surveyed the neat organization of her belongings. The pages of her book were in the drawer of the writing desk, a reasonable place to leave them when she was confident that the room had been secured.
He took all of the pages, closed the drawer so it was precisely as it had been, and retreated to his own chamber. He secured the door behind himself, leaving no hint of his presence, and secured the pages in his own writing desk. His possessed a doughty lock, to which there was only one key.
Then he joined the ladies, cane in hand, though he found it difficult to quell his anticipation of what he might read later that night.
The pages were gone!
Esmeralda could not believe it. She had returned to her room to dress after dinner with an addition for her book that she wished to write down immediately. The desk drawer, however, was empty. She had left the pages there and she knew it. She searched the desk again, as well as every other drawer or cabinet in her chamber. She even checked the ashes in the fireplace, but no papers had been burned there of late, to her relief.
She was looking in her traveling trunk when Ophelia returned with her hot washing water and they searched together. Esmeralda’s dismay rose with every moment, though she strove to hide as much. Ophelia protested her innocence and swore she had not surrendered the key to another.
“What if there is a second key?” she whispered and Esmeralda turned to stare at her.
Of course, there was another key. There might be any number of copies of the key. In a house of this size, they could be in any number of hands, and for legitimate reasons. But there was one person who would possess a key to every lock in this house, and one person who had a keen interest in her book.
Esmeralda stared at the adjoining door to the duke’s bedchamber. In hindsight, she doubted that she possessed the sole key to that lock either.
She finished her toilette, then dismissed Ophelia. When she was alone, she went to the adjoining door and listened. She could hear nothing. No men conferred, no closets were opened or closed. Did she hear the crackle of the fire? Did she hear the rustle of pages being turned? There was only one way to know for certain.
She tapped on the door softly, then heard Damien’s voice. “Enter,” he said in a low rumble and Esmeralda turned the knob.
She was surprised to see that his bed was not turned down and it took her a moment to spot him seated before the fire. He was still dressed, his jacket cast over the end of the bed, his cravat loosened as he lounged in the one great chair. His legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, his boots gleaming in the firelight. And there was a pile of loose papers in his lap, a stack that looked suspiciously familiar even before she could discern her own handwriting upon them.
He held one page up as he read it. His gaze never moved to her but he was clearly aware of her presence, for he began to read aloud.
“ Upon the matter of secrets. ” He set down the page in his lap and looked at her. “Secrets, Esmeralda. You speak of their exchange as a means of gaining intimacy.”
His gaze was too piercing. She feared what he might say, but she strove to hide her discomfiture. He was too perceptive by half and she fought her inclination to fold her arms across herself as if that might defend her. Instead, she moved to the other chair, letting her hips swing, then lowered herself slowly upon it. He watched her with a welcome hunger, so she had the asset of desire on her side at least.
Perhaps he could be distracted.
“Of course,” she said, keeping her voice soft.
His gaze flicked to the paper, then back to her. “But the exchange of secrets is a tool for you, is it not? Perhaps even a weapon.”
“I do not know what you mean,” she lied.
“I mean that such measures are not reciprocal. You ask about secrets. You invite confessions. You initiate such discussions to increase your lover’s trust of you, but you offer nothing in exchange.”
A chill ran through Esmeralda, though she knew she hid her reaction well. “I knew you did not like me asking about the war and I apologize.”
“There is no cause for that. My inability to recall Badajoz is no secret among the survivors of my company.”
“Then no harm has been done by my inquiry.”
“No harm, no, but I have questions, too, Esmeralda.”
“I suppose you would like an invitation to ask them.”
He smiled. “Just one.”
“You are the duke. You do not need my permission to ask a question of a guest in your own home.”
He wagged a finger at her. “Do you hear the hostility in your tone? You do not like to surrender your own confidences. You do not trust them.” He set the pages aside, then sat back to confront her. He even smiled, the wretch, so confident was he that he had discerned her hidden truth. How she wished he was wrong this time – but he was not.
“You are a veritable tower, Esmeralda, buttressed and gated, one with nary a window nor a door. The moat is filled and the parapet bristles with spears. You have told me yourself that you will not be claimed, that you will be no man’s captive.”
“It is a sensible choice for a woman in my trade.”
“But by your own admission, you will leave that trade, though you will not abandon it for the security of marriage.”
“Because I do not believe marriage would offer any such security.”
“And so you will remain alone, locked within your tower. Who will aid you when you have need of an ally?”
Her blood ran cold at even the mention of such a possibility. No, it was a reminder, for she had needed an ally desperately in recent months and only the duke had stepped forward. Without his intervention, she knew her incarceration would have ended differently.
She might have lost her life. What then might have happened to Sylvie?
But she kept her tone light, as if he had not named her deepest fear. “Perhaps I will never need one such.”
“But perhaps you will. We all grow older, Esmeralda, and with age comes a measure of frailty. Who will you summon when you have need of help?”
She had to admire that he did not remind her that he had already helped her.
She shrugged. “Someone I employ, undoubtedly.”
“Someone whose wage makes them trustworthy.” The duke shook his head. “When loyalty is bound to money, there may be a higher bid. I regret to inform you that money cannot buy loyalty.”
“Then what does? I am certain you will tell me for this conversation has the tone of a lesson.”
“Perhaps it does.” He did not smile. “I will tell you. The key is trust, no more and no less.” He leaned forward, his gaze compelling. “And how is trust won, Esmeralda? With the exchange of secrets and confidences.”
She straightened and looked into the fire, anticipating his suggestion, fearing it – yet in a curious way, welcoming the prospect. No one had ever dared to ask her for more than she willingly gave.
Until this man.
Until Damien.
“I am not so bad of an ally,” he said softly, his voice low and silky. “You, of all people, should know as much, given recent events.”
It was true that she owed him a great deal, perhaps more than several weeks of pleasure would repay. “Is this the toll you would demand then, that I bare my soul to you?”
Damien shook his head with resolve. “Never that. I would never demand anything of you, Esmeralda, for I know how you would despise me for such a request.”
That claim surprised her and she met his gaze, watching him study her, watching his smile of satisfaction dawn slowly.
“Are you so astonished that I have learned something of your nature?”
“No, for I know you are perceptive.” She took a breath and dared to admit more. “My surprise is that you had any interest in such a detail.”
“Because men routinely do not. They take and they are content.”
“I ensure their contentment.”
“But you are not just an amusement for me, much less a diversion. You fascinate me, Esmeralda, because I recognize that I have met my match in you.” His words made her heart leap, and she yearned to believe him. Men had made similar promises to her in the past, though, and she knew that the moment she relied upon another, that person would remove his support. She held his gaze. “I would have true intimacy between us. I would be more than just another man in a sequence of many.”
“And so you have a request to make of me.”
“Indeed.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his dark gaze locked with hers. “Tell me a secret, Esmeralda, a detail you have never shared with anyone else.”
“And if I do not?”
“Then you do not. I will consider our association ended and your debt to me paid. You may linger here as long as you like.”
“With no repercussions for denying you?”
“You are accustomed to men making demands, Esmeralda. I make a request: the choice of whether to fulfill it remains entirely your own.”
Oh, this man. He gave her a choice and she would have wagered that he knew how precious that was.
“And Sylvie?” she managed to ask.
He shrugged, though his eyes revealed that he was not indifferent. “She may remain, if she so chooses. I will arrange a match for her when the time comes and it will be a worthy one. You need not fear for her future. What you would lose in refusing my request is not security or wealth. I have no scheme to punish you, but I must know if you have any inclination to meet me halfway. The price is only trust. And the choice is yours.” He sat back then and waited, expectant yet patient. Resolved in his choice.
He asked for so little, but he knew it would cost her dearly.
Just one secret. But the surrender would create a breach in the walls of her fortress, perhaps one that would lead to her own capitulation.
He asked for her trust.
Damien DeVries, Duke of Haynesdale, understood her as no other man had ever done. And that meant that Esmeralda would do as he requested. Such opportunities did not present themselves often and she, too, was curious about the result. Would he prove worthy of her trust? She thought perhaps he might. Would he keep her secret? Of that, she had no doubt.
Better yet, Esmeralda knew precisely the truth she would share.
The truth was in her eyes, when it could be discerned at all. Every detail of Esmeralda’s appearance was part of her performance. She was a composition, perhaps even an illusion of feminine perfection, intended to tempt, to distract, to give pleasure. It was a highly successful foil, and not just because she was beautiful beyond expectation. Her dark hair contrasted perfectly with the sheer white of her chemise. The touch of lace at the throat only made her look more delicate and feminine. The hint of the curve of her breasts, shadowed beneath her chemise, the split side that revealed her calf at tempting intervals, her lovely bare feet, so pale against the floor, all contrived to draw Damien’s thoughts in a predictable direction. Her lips were soft and slightly reddened, inviting his caress.
The way she moved contributed to the spell she cast, and how she watched her companion so closely without appearing to do as much. Each gesture was a response to his own words and actions, and once Damien became aware that she was a mirror to his desire, he could not dismiss his knowledge of it.
When his gaze lingered on her mouth, her lips curved almost in a smile. Her expression was both alluring and receptive.
When he considered the length of her legs, the pearly length of thigh revealed by her chemise, she moved, giving him more of a glimpse, letting him hear the soft whisper of skin upon skin.
If his gaze lingered upon her hair, she might reach up a hand and remove a pin, letting an ebony lock fall over her shoulder or across her breast. Every move, every word, every suggestion was intended to draw him more deeply into the web of desire she wove so artfully. He wondered if she even chose such reactions deliberately or if she had done as much for so long that they had become instinctive.
Damien wanted more than the illusion. He wanted her truth and her honesty, as well as her trust. He wanted to know all of her secrets – not just one – and he wanted to lose himself in the truth of Esmeralda, not her illusion.
On this night, he had realized that her eyes held the truth of her thoughts. They flashed with alarm when he demanded more of her. They narrowed slightly when she disliked his suggestions. They darkened with promise when he touched her. Since she had entered his chamber, they had been filled with a wariness that belied every other element of her appearance, and Damien knew Esmeralda was afraid. That only encouraged his own need to defend her against any foe, to gather her close and keep her safe forever.
She averted her gaze and looked into the fire at his request, as perfect a vision of femininity as could be contrived, but he glimpsed indecision in her glorious eyes in that moment before she looked away. When she turned back to him, long moments later, she was so composed that he feared he had lost this battle and perhaps even the war. But he would not conquer her. He would not force her and he did not desire her surrender. He wanted her to welcome him, to meet him halfway, though he knew it would be difficult for her to do as much. He wanted to be allies with her, to join forces in pursuit of any goal they chose, to combine their efforts, compensate weaknesses of one with the strengths of the other, and become unassailable.
“You must have guessed that my name is not Esmeralda Ballantyne,” she said and relief flooded through him that she had chosen in favor of his request.
Of course, she had. Esmeralda was bold, audacious even, and would never surrender to her fears.
“I wondered,” he ceded.
“You might have assumed my surname to be LaFleur, like that of Sylvie.”
“Unless she, too, has an assumed name.”
“She does not. That is her name. The convent insisted upon the truth.” She stared at the fire again, her uncertainty palpable, and he wished he knew how better to reassure her. He had supported her household. He had defended her sister. He had ensured her freedom. He had offered his all. As much as he hated to be powerless and passive, all he could do was wait.
Perhaps Esmeralda was not the only one to be tested this night.
She lifted her gaze to his, her expression filled with resolve. “My name is Alienor LaFleur.” She raised her brows and shook her head, looking momentarily lost. “Or it was, once upon a time. It has been so long that the girl who answered to that name seems like a distant dream. Or perhaps it was a name belonging to someone else, someone I used to know.”
“I will guess that it did belong to someone other than the most famous courtesan in London.”
Her smile was sad and he watched her throat work. “It belonged to a girl, orphaned along with her younger sister, who was only a baby at the time.” She shook her head and a tear fell like a gem to splash on her hand, though she did not seem to notice it. Her voice turned husky. “It belonged to a girl who had to learn quickly to do what she could to survive. Sadly, only her beauty was of interest to others.” She straightened, looking noble, proud and so vulnerable that Damien ached for her. “They named her for the color of her eyes, and she let them, for her past life had no relevance to her future. Indeed, she did not even know whether she would possess a future.”
“But you made yourself one,” Damien murmured. “Seemingly out of nothing at all.” He felt a fierce pride in her strength and resilience.
She swallowed and looked down at her hands. “I did.”
“And you saw your sister defended.”
She nodded again, her gaze still lowered.
“And you are, I believe, the strongest and most admirable person I have ever known.”
She eyed him then, almost smiling. “Despite my trade, of which you so disapprove?”
“I apologize for my comments that long-ago night. I had no notion what a young girl might have to do to survive, much less to thrive as you have.”
She made a scoffing sound, but it was soft. “You knew.”
And there it was again, her fearlessness in challenging him, her refusal to accept a pretty lie when she could have the truth instead. Admiration flooded through him with new vigor. “Perhaps logically, but I had seen little of the truth.”
“The underworld is neither pretty nor kind.”
“And yet, you, even after years within it, are both.”
She stared back at him, a softness dawning in her eyes that made his throat tighten. They stared at each other for long moments, while the fire crackled, then she swept to her feet.
“So, you have your secret, sir,” she said, as if she might leave the room.
“And I will use it,” he vowed, watching surprise light her expression. He smiled. “Alienor,” he said, the word an exhalation from his very soul. “Stay with me tonight.”
Her lips parted but she made no sound, as if she knew it would be different between them now.
But she did not leave.
Damien rose to his feet and closed the distance between them with a single step. He touched his fingertips to her chin and she met his gaze, so lovely that his heart skipped a beat. “Choose me, Alienor,” he murmured and she smiled a little. Her gaze roved over his face, as if he was a stranger, or as if she saw him clearly for the first time.
“I do,” she whispered, her words husky, then slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders.
He caught her in his embrace, feeling how she shivered to her very toes.
“Damien,” she replied, his name falling readily from her lips this time. She then leaned against him and he cradled her in his embrace. He felt a shudder pass through her then she leaned fully against him, her arms wrapped around him and her cheek upon his chest. She exhaled, as if she had found a sanctuary, and he gathered her closer, grimacing when he felt the water of her tears.
“Alienor,” he whispered and kissed her temple, wanting her to know that he recognized how precious he found her confession to be.
She tipped her head back, her fingers sliding into his hair to pull his mouth down to hers, and kissed him with a power that set his very soul afire.
This was no performance, and he would welcome all she chose to give.