Page 2 of The Dove
Raising her hips from the bed, she slipped two fingers into her sheath, then a third, trying to fill herself the way Adam did. A moan fell from her as she ground against her own hand, imagining his large body on top of her, his fist wrapped around her hair and bending her neck to near-impossible angles. She slammed her fingers into herself, the heel of her hand making contact with her clit with each thrust.
She became the wanton he’d often accused her of being, forgetting the risk of her lady’s maid walking in on her, not caring that her small household staff might hear her moaning and panting as she pleasured herself. All that mattered was easing the ache, scratching the itch, finding a moment of perfect oblivion.
It was not the same; yet, her body fed off her memories, hurtling toward climax. Her breath came out on a sharp cry as release unfurled from her center, light spasms gripping her fingers while her clit pulsed and fluttered against her palm.
Her tense muscles relaxed as she used shaking hands to lower her nightgown back over her legs. Her breath had slowed a bit, but her pulse still raced. The heady feeling that typically followed an orgasm faded swiftly … much faster than it ever had, leaving her bereft. Biting her lip, she blinked back tears, the moment of pleasure not near enough to ease the ache in her heart, the pain caused by waking up the same way she had each morning for the past three months. Cold, shivering, and alone.
One of the tears splashed her cheek, tracing a hot path toward her hairline. Shaking her head, she tried to get a hold of herself. It was ridiculous, really. She mourned the presence of a man who had not only callously used her, but who had tossed her aside when he’d finished.
When Daphne had left London, riding off to Scotland in search of answers, she had never expected for things to turn out the way they had. She had hoped to confront the man who’d spent five years ruining her family, to demand an explanation for Lord Hartmoor’s vendetta against her father, uncle, and brother.
She had gotten those answers—in exchange for her maidenhead. Thirty days and nights in his bed had been the price she’d paid for the truth … yet, she had lost so much more than that. Not only had she surrendered her virginity, but she had also been robbed of her innocence. She’d ridden to Dunnottar to confront the villain who had been plaguing her family, only to find he was not the villain, after all … but a black knight seeking vengeance for the things her family had done to his.
She had paid the penance for them all, letting Adam use her body and destroy her reputation. He had done much more than that, however. He had also exposed her innermost longings, giving her a taste of the sort of pleasure she had once been afraid of, but had begun to crave at his hand. He had even led her to believe that he might care about her, regardless of the evils her family had committed against his. Despite knowing she should guard her heart from him, she had let her guard down and given freely of herself. While one part of her had never forgotten who and what he was, some other part—a foolish, reckless part—had let him in.
Now, despite the hundreds of miles separating them, or the amount of time they’d been apart, she was hard-pressed to remove him from her mind. Even her body still echoed with the resounding effect of his touch.
“You bloody fool,” she chastised herself with a sob. “He achieved his aims and is now finished with you. It is over.”
A fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes, the feeling of betrayal lashing against her like the blow of a whip. During her last night at Dunnottar, he had used her, brutally and exquisitely. Then, he had bathed the sweat and stains of his seed from her body and carried her back to his bed, laying her down and making love to her, his tenderness at odds with his earlier treatment. He had kissed her and held her and whispered in her ear—words that had given her hope … that had made her believe there could be more between them than hatred, pain, and vengeance.
Yet, the following morning, she had awakened alone, greeted by a servant who would prepare her for the journey home. He had not even come out of his study to see her off, to say good-bye, to …
“What did you expect?” she groused, dashing her away tears with angry swipes of her hands. “He was never going to ask you to stay.”
Sitting up in bed, she gathered the strength to stand, to put aside her depressing thoughts. She would not allow herself to sink into melancholy or to mourn the touch of a man who would rather kill her than kiss her. He had used her, yes, but she had gained something from him, as well. Independence. Money. Freedom.
She was now a wealthy woman, in possession of a fortune even greater than what her dowry had been. The funds had been meant for her family, to set right the debt that they had incurred. She could even have used part of it to buy back Fairchild House, the Grosvenor Square townhome her father had been forced to sell.
Yet, the things Adam had revealed to her about her family had changed everything. She would not give her father or her brother, Bertram, a single cent. They had turned out to be the worst sorts of men—the kind of men who destroyed the lives of others without a second thought, without a bit of remorse.
Throwing aside her bed curtains, she stood, her gaze darting about the chamber. This bedroom, with the lovely mauve, white, and pale pink décor, was her own, inside a townhome that she’d purchased for herself on Half-Moon Street. There was a housekeeper, butler, trio of footman, lady’s maid, cook, and a handful of women who functioned as both chamber and scullery maids … all of whom were in her employ. The dressing room adjoining her bedchamber was filled with modest but well-made clothing from one of London’s most talentedmodistes. She had her eye on a pair of beautiful black bays at Tattersall’s, and hoped to own a barouche and team soon.
Everything inside this home belonged to her free and clear. And she’d gained it all without having to marry someone she did not love … without having to share any of it with her undeserving father or brother.
And so, the man who had been the bane of her existence had also become her savior, opening the door of her gilded cage and setting her free.
Squaring her shoulders, she shrugged off the remnants of sadness, the fear and lust her nightmare had inspired. She was free and would not wallow in self-pity. The world sat in her palm, hers for the taking. The time had come for her to start enjoying the things she had gained, the things that were now hers without the obstruction of the men who had once controlled every aspect of her existence.
Nodding resolutely, she then crossed to the painted screen concealing her washstand. The clean rosewater she used to wash her hands and face had gone cold, but it still went a long way toward relieving her flushed skin and tear-stained cheeks. She took her time grooming herself, removing her nightgown—a lilac satin affair that she would never have worn as a debutante—and washing with the rosewater and a cake of soap that smelled like orange blossoms. Finding a clean chemise hanging over the screen, courtesy of her maid, she pulled it on, then swiftly made use of the tooth powder and brush arranged neatly beside her hairbrush, comb, and the various vials and jars of cosmetics.
She came out from behind the screen to find that the maid had entered the room and begun making her bed.
“Good morning, m’lady,” the young woman murmured, giving Daphne a wary smile.
Her household staff were polite and diligent in their duties, but stiffly formal. They did not know her, and what little they’d heard of her reputation was unsavory. Despite enjoying certain aspects of her newfound freedom, one thing she did miss was the comfort of a familiar home and the friendly warmth of servants who knew her. However, the staff of Fairchild House would likely be retained by whomever owned the property now.
She was loath to admit it, but she would even settle for the friendly smiles of Maeve and the surly disposition of Niall—the two servants she had encountered most often during her stay at Dunnottar. It did not matter that they’d worked for him; she had forged a kinship of sorts with the woman who had served as her lady’s maid. And Niall … well, Adam’s stoic butler had made no secret of the fact that he despised her because of her surname. However, his brusque nature had become a part of the castle’s appeal for her, as darkly charming as the overgrown courtyards and ancient stone facade.
“Good morning, Clarice,” she replied.
“Will you spend the morning at home, or do you have plans to go out?” the maid asked. “It is a lovely day for a stroll, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Parting the drapes of a nearby window, she found Clarice’s claim to be true. The past few days had been dreary and cold, with a damp fog in the air. Today, the sun shone brightly, and the feel of the glass beneath her palm proved slightly less frigid than yesterday.
“I believe I shall take a walk … perhaps have breakfast and coffee while I am out,” she replied. “Tell Cook not to bother with a meal for me after you set out a walking dress.”
“Right away, m’lady.”
