Page 3 of The Villain
“Courage, Daphne,” she whispered, repeating the words she’d been saying to herself throughout the long journey. “Have courage.”
She had come this far and could not turn back now. The fate of her family depended upon her walking into that study to confront the man who had ruined them. Cruelly. Methodically. Purposely.
The first step proved the hardest. Once she’d crossed the threshold, she could move more easily, taking slow steps to enter the study. Turning left, she discovered a long room stretching away from her, lit and warmed by two large, yawning hearths cut in the left and right walls. The space was bare of any furniture except for a large mahogany desk before which stood a man who looked as large as the butler. Turned away from her, hands clasped behind his back, he seemed not to realize she had entered the room. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a white linen shirt, and he went without a coat or waistcoat. Fawn breeches clung to his lower body, showcasing powerful legs. Gleaming black boots adhered lovingly to his calves, the muscled limbs filling out the supple leather in a way most London men would envy.
Long, waving strands of dark brown hair fell past his shoulder blades in wild disarray. The deep sable hue of those locks was interrupted by haphazard strands of gold, which caught the light of the fire here and there.
Pausing halfway into the room, she swallowed past the lump in her throat while the warmth of the two fires sank through her soaked clothes and offered a bit of relief. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea and her warm bed.
The man before her suddenly moved, turning slowly to face her, as if possessing all the time in the world. As if he bent time to his will instead of the other way around.
Her mouth fell open, shock rippling through her as she was confronted with the rest of him. The rough-hewn muscles of his form became even more imposing, the evidence of strength in the bulges of his arms showing through the fabric of his shirt, along with the swell of his wide chest. Her mouth went dry when her gaze fell to the patch of skin revealed by his loose buttons, a peppering of dark hair showing in the gap.
She paused there, terrified to look any further, for reasons she did not comprehend. But she sensed his gaze on her, and even without meeting that stare, could feel him studying her, assessing her, stripping the clothes from her body and the flesh from her bones.
Finally, she forced herself to continue, lifting her eyes and taking in the thick cylinder of his neck, and up, up toward a face that looked as if it had been carved from granite. Harsh lines and planes mingled with solid angles, a square jaw set off by a slightly crooked nose that appeared as if it might have once been broken. A mouth that might have been full and lush set in a firm line, pulled tight at the corners. The rough stubble of whiskers sprouted along his jaw, as if he hadn’t taken a razor to it in days.
At last, her gaze clashed with his, and the dread in her belly solidified into a solid, frigid mass of outright terror. In the light of the fire, they appeared golden in color, with a rim of dark brown along the outer edges. The longer Daphne stared into them, she began to detect flecks of green near the irises—creating a convoluted jumble of colors that likely transformed depending on the lighting of a room or position of the sun. That long, wild hair framed his face, though it did nothing to soften the features. She imagined the effect would be twice as intimidating with it pulled back.
He began to move toward her, and the urge to backpedal as fast as her legs would carry her caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on end. Yet, she held her ground, remaining rooted to the spot as he advanced on her with an almost feline sort of grace, the muscles that once appeared hard now liquid with fluidity, rippling and rolling beneath his clothes.
He paused when they stood but a few inches apart, and his scent reached out to her, striking her as decidedly masculine. Cedar, the smoke of a cigar, brandy, and … and something else. Some primitive scent she could only describe as ‘male.’ His eyes gave not a hint of what he thought as he searched out her features beneath her hat. It hid her hair, the long, auburn braid tucked into the collar of her jacket while only a few wispy strands fell around her face.
“You are not Bertram Fairchild,” he said, his voice hard and clipped.
The low, rumbling tones reminded her of a cat’s purr—a verylargecat. A lion. She had never heard or seen one, but she imagined his rough-sounding voice and its underlying purr would be exactly what the big cat would sound like. His cultured tones held a slight Scottish burr—though not as strong as that of his butler and gatekeeper.
Removing her hat, she lifted her chin and revealed herself. “No, my lord, I am not. But your staff would not have allowed me entrance had I not used his name.”
“Lady Daphne, I presume,” he stated.
Not a question, but a mere statement of fact.
Of course he knew who she was. Considering the way he’d gone about tearing apart everything even remotely connected to the Fairchild name, it stood to reason that he would know quite a bit about their family.
“You know who I am,” she said with a resolute nod. “Good. Then we may dispense with pleasantries.”
He quirked one eyebrow up at her, his expression clearly stating he hadn’t been inclined to offer any. “You braved the journey from London and the wilds of Scotland alone to come here. Why?”
Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You, Lord Hartmoor, are a despicable lecher … a villain of the worst order.”
He grinned, the blinding flash of white teeth startling her momentarily. God in Heaven, even when the man smiled, he looked like some wild beast ready to devour its prey. The smile was mocking and lacked humor, causing annoyance to ripple along her spine.
“You came all the way here just to tell me that?”
She clenched her jaw so tight, her teeth began to ache. “I have come to demand an explanation for your vendetta against my family. You have relentlessly pursued our downfall, and I wish to know why. Do not do me the disservice of thinking me daft—I know it was you manipulating events so they would ruin my father, my brother, and my uncle. We are now destitute, my father’s title and lands meaningless without the clout to back them, my brother’s engagement ruined with but a word from your lips, my uncle …”
Her throat constricted as she thought of Uncle William.
“A sad state of affairs when a man is driven to put his own pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger,” Lord Hartmoor replied drolly.
Daphne gasped at the callous way the words fell from his mouth, lashing against her like the crack of a whip. “Have you no couth? No sense of decency? You drove a man to murder himself without cause!”
That eyebrow of his twitched, lifting upward as he pursed his lips at her. “Who says I did not have cause?”
Determined not to be swayed by his avoidance, she braced her hands upon her hips and took another step toward him, feigning a boldness she did not feel. “We have nothing, and my father and brother have become shells of the men they once were. I demand to know why. What on Earth have the Fairchilds ever done to you to deserve such cruelty?”
Folding his arms across his chest, he inclined his head. “What, indeed?”
