Page 29 of The Dove
He’d known she would wish to go out, and his assumption had been proven true when Niall returned to Fairchild House, informing him that she had accepted the invitation to the Mallorys’ winter ball. So, despite hating balls, and dancing, and making small talk with people he barely knew and did not much like, he’d laid out evening attire. He’d shaved and tamed his hair and adorned himself in all the finery an earl would be expected to display at a public event. And he’d come here to lie in wait, to watch for Daphne from his corner of the room.
He’d been approached by several acquaintances since his arrival, though many simply skirted him, preferring to gape over at him from a distance … to speculate with one another over what he might do, and whether Lady Daphne Fairchild might put in an appearance. It seemed as if the purpose of this ball was solely so the people of thetonwould have their entertainment—another juicy tidbit to add to whatever version of his and Daphne’s story they’d decided to accept as true.
What they believed did not matter to him. He only needed them to see him near her in person, to see how he could make her cheeks flush and her lips part in a way that no one could mistake their connection, their chemistry, the visceral threads tying them together.
By morning, every drawing room in the city would be filled with gossip about them. And Bertram would be predictably furious, suffering yet another blow to his pride.
Finishing off a flute and trading it off for a full one courtesy of a passing footman, he gazed down into the bubbly liquid and frowned. Things were falling into place just as he wanted; yet, he couldn’t muster quite as much satisfaction as he’d thought he would. This feeling in the pit of his stomach refused to go away and allow him to bask in his triumph.
It had been Daphne, damn her. She’d gotten to him with her words, her warning concerning the possible outcome of his vendetta. Just like a bloody female, she’d tried to appeal to his softer side, trying to make himfeelthings he would rather not. Such as guilt, or self-doubt.
She simply did not understand. Until recently, she’d never faced hardship in her life … had never known true pain or loss. She could never fathom how it could change a person, ruin them, make it impossible for them to live life the way others might. He could never move forward when the guilt and anger that plagued him concerning Olivia never seemed to let up. He needed to blame the Fairchilds, to direct his hatred at them to keep from remembering that it could have all been avoided if he’d simply been there.
If he hadn’t been so bloody desperate to escape his bastard of a father,hewould have escorted Olivia to London for her first Season … would have been there to protect her from the likes of Bertram Fairchild. He would have been able to see the cur coming and threaten him away from Olivia, do him bodily harm if necessary. He could have guided her toward a suitable husband, vetting each man who wished to court her himself and ensure she was not hurt.
And if she’d been harmed anyway, he would have been there to pick up the pieces, to take care of her, shelter her from gossip and scorn as an unwed mother. She could have given birth at Dunnottar, surrounded by the people who loved her, instead of some dark, cold asylum where she’d gone insane.
Taking the entire flute in one swallow, he grunted, shaking his head and trying to chase away such errant thoughts. They would accomplish nothing, could not change what had happened and what would be. When all was said and done, the Fairchild men had all taken part in destroying his sister, and he would not rest until he’d returned the favor ten times over.
He’d just set his flute aside and reached for a third one when the final strains of a waltz died away, and the low buzz of conversation seemed to come to a screeching halt. The shift in the atmosphere caught his attention, and he lifted his head, eyes darting as he sought the source of the disturbance.
His gaze fell onto the curved, double staircase leading down into the ballroom and a vision standing at its top … an angel among mere mortals. His hand tightened on the champagne flute, and he couldn’t breathe as her name was announced, causing gasps and whispers of shock to ripple through the crowd.
Lady Daphne Fairchild.
They all felt the shift, as well, pulling back from the stairs, making way for her, allowing her into their midst. Keeping one hand on the balustrade, she practically floated down the stairs, head held erect, shoulders straightened, chin lifted in that imperious way of hers.
His teeth clenched as he surveyed the assemblage, the men who watched her with lust and covetousness in their eyes. They wanted his little dove. They wanted to marry her, and coddle her, and protect her. Flaunt her like some pretty little ornament.
But none of them knew that those things would not appeal to her. No, she would be far more amenable to whathewanted.
Destruction, complete annihilation of her senses … oblivion.
She looked like fire come to life, her gold silk gown undulating and rippling with every move she made, the burnished red hue of her hair catching the candlelight and coming alive with gold and amber strands. At her throat and wrist, topaz stones were nearly a perfect match for her gown, glittering with flashes of red and yellow in their inner prisms.
He wanted to cross the room and tackle her to the floor, tear the pins from her hair and send those perfectly arranged curls tumbling down her back … to rip the gown off her body and plunder her right there in front of theton… to sink his teeth into her shoulder and mark her, claim her, show them all that she belonged to him. None of them could have her. None of them could touch her like he could.
Then, the air shifted again, as if the entire room exhaled at once, recovered from their first glimpse of her. Sound flooded the room once again, voices clamoring, music striking up a lively country dance. In a tidal wave of movement, several men rushed toward her, voices raised, eyes bright and eager … like dogs scenting a bitch in heat.
Not a bitch … a dove … my little dove.
He slammed his champagne flute onto the nearest surface, not bothering to see where it landed before setting off across the room. He practically barreled through the crowd, forcing them to part for him, to let him past. The whispers started again, eyes following him as they covered their mouths with fans and gloved hands while they collectively seemed to watch his every move. He left no room to mistake his intention, moving toward her in a straight line, glaring at anyone who dared step in his path.
He found her smiling and speaking politely to a small group of men—all whom seemed far too eager to sign her dance card. Lingering on the outside of the circle, he cleared his throat, annoyed at being made to wait his turn like a child. What need did he have to stand in line? She belonged to him, whether she wished to acknowledge it or not. He’d never stand back and let another man be first when it came to her.
The heads of her admirers swiveled toward him, several shocked and amused glances cast his way. Still, none of them spoke or made any move to stop him as he shouldered past them and stood over her, torn between wanting to make a scene by throwing her over his shoulder and storming out of the ballroom, and adhering to his original plan.
The latter won out, and he held himself in check as she inclined her head at him in greeting before dipping into a curtsy so flawless, he could have balanced a book on top of her head. He imagined her sinking lower—lower until her knees hit the floor and she cowered before him, breasts heaving at the deep neckline of her gown, eyes raised to his, emanating her desire and need. He snapped out of it when she rose, extending a hand to him. He took it and kissed her knuckles, lingering for several seconds, drawing in her scent.
“Your dance card,” he demanded, half expecting her to refuse him, and half hoping she would so he could punish her for denying him.
Instead, she lifted her opposite hand, with an ornate, silver filigreed dance card case dangling from its ribbon around her wrist. Opening the little box, he found a stub of a pencil inside, as well as several names already scrawled in the spaces for the various dances. He found a waltz still available and signed his name with a flourish. Then, he glanced up to meet her gaze and smiled.
“I’m looking forward to it, little dove.”
He saw and felt the shudder that rocked her, as well as the flicker of fire in her gaze. Her expression might seem placid to the others in the room, but he saw her anger, her annoyance with him. If they were alone, she would have taken him to task over whatever it was that had her in a dudgeon. Likely, she’d heard about his occupation of Fairchild House.
He told himself again that it did not matter. She had been warned about his intentions; he’d told her quite clearly that he was not finished with Bertram, that there would be more to come. What had she expected him to do? Back down because she’d tried to make him feel guilty about his thirst for revenge?
