Page 22 of The Dove
And that was why she had to stand her ground. Adam was dangerous to her in every possible way—her body, her mind, her soul. She had barely survived their last arrangement.
“When you finally fold, I am going to punish you for this,” he whispered. “The longer you put me through this—the more you refuse me—the more creative I will be in making you pay. And, little dove, youwillfold. You always do.”
With that, he sauntered out into the corridor, giving her butler a sardonic smile before blowing past the man and letting himself out.
Ignoring the questioning glance of the servant, she slammed the drawing room door and leaned against it. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the carpet, hands coming up to cover her face. They shook violently, and her pulse thumped at the base of her throat. Apparently, her body would need time to recover from the encounter.
She hoped Adam would heed her words and give up his pursuit. For her own sake, but also for his. She had seen the way revenge had consumed him, had witnessed the evidence of how it had changed him. Now that it was over, they would both do well to move forward and put all this behind them. Nothing good could come of their being together in any way … even if a part of herself longed for it with every fiber of its being.
CHAPTER SIX
dam leaned back in the chair he occupied and took a long, luxurious inhale of the cigar between his lips. The dark atmosphere of the club he sat in combined with the relaxing effects of the cigar and brandy he enjoyed to loosen his tense muscles. After leaving Daphne’s townhome, he’d been in a foul mood all afternoon. He’d shaken the walls of his inn suite when he’d slammed the door, the floorboards shuddering beneath him as he’d paced and scraped his fingers through his bedraggled hair. His palms had begun to sweat, his body wracked with shudders as he’d fought not to lash out at the nearest object. He would rather not have to pay to refurnish his hotel suite after turning the furniture into kindling.
Daphne’s refusal had not surprised him; he had expected her to fight him. But, for her to continue her pretense after he’d so effectively proved to them both that she wanted him … for her to say thosethingsabout him …
He had not been this angry at her since the day he’d caught her in his niece’s nursery, in a wing of Dunnottar he had expressly forbidden her to enter. That day, he had thrown her out on the front steps and commanded her to go home, refusing to give her one penny of the money he’d promised her for breach of their agreement. But, she’d stayed, sleeping in his doorway and refusing to be turned away. When challenged to convince him to let her back in, she’d seduced him so thoroughly, he’d had no hope of pretending she did not affect him the way he did her.
The reminder of that calmed him, helped him to see things more clearly. She refused him because of the perceived slight he’d committed by not saying good-bye at the end of their time together … not seeing her home safely himself, or thanking her for the things he’d given her.
Peace. Companionship. A bedmate unlike any he’d ever had—and for a man who’d tasted just about every flavor of woman in England, Scotland, and the entire Continent of Europe, that was saying quite a lot.
Still, one would think she’d be astute enough to see the things he felt without him having to say them. He wanted her. Badly. He was willing to shelter and protect her—a far better offer than a woman in her position was likely to receive.
What else did she want from him?
Deciding that it would only make matters worse to remain locked away with his anger and wandering thoughts, he’d taken dinner in his suite, then dressed for an evening out. He had set out on foot, seeking diversion in the form of cards and drink.
Hours later, he sat in one of his favorite clubs—one that was not quite so exclusive as Brooks’ or White’s. He found establishments such as these to be more to his liking—lacking the strict dress codes and stuffy atmosphere, where a man could enjoy a drink and a few turns of the dice without worrying about seeing or being seen. He had just trounced several opponents at piquet and had begun to think of walking back to his suite upon finishing his cigar. The distraction had been just what he’d needed to get his head on straight, and the brandy had loosened his limbs. He sat just south of inebriation, still possessing his faculties, but feeling enough of a tingle in his veins that the sensation proved pleasant.
After a decent night’s sleep, he would be ready to adjust strategy in the morning and think about how to sway Daphne into accepting his offer. The sooner, the better, so he could return to Dunnottar and look in on his sister. Maeve, the woman who had acted as lady’s maid to Daphne during her stay, did a splendid job of caring for Olivia in his absence, but he did not like being away from her overlong. He also did not like depriving her of Niall, who seemed to calm her in a way no one else could.
He’d been aware for years that the butler loved his sister, and that she at least felt affection in return, if nothing else. However, the differences in their stations had made it impossible for them to be together. Now, he would give anything to see her happy, even if it meant marrying a bloody servant. Bertram Fairchild had ruined any other chance she might have had.
Slouching deeper in the soft leather chair he occupied, he scowled. If he did not adjust the path of his thoughts, he’d drag himself back into a dudgeon.
Shifting his mind to the sister of the man he hated above all others, he took another drag from his cigar, smirking as he exhaled through his nose. She’d been exquisite that afternoon, arms tied above her head, body stretched out and spread open for him. And her taste … he’d forgotten the taste of her, how a single drop of her honey could cause him to crave more and more, unable to ever drink his fill of her.
He’d almost floated away into the memories, reveling in his triumph, when the sound of his name dragged him out of his reverie.
“… Hartmoor, the blackguard.”
He perked up a bit, inclining his head and listening in to a conversation happening at a table behind him.
“…surprised they even let his sort through the doors.”
“If it weremysister he had ruined, I would not allow it to stand.”
“Hear, hear! I’d stride right up to him, slap him across his face, and demand satisfaction.”
His nostrils flared, his teeth grinding together as he turned his head, leaning just far enough to see around the back of his chair. At the table behind him, a group of young men sat playing whist, several decanters of brandy and sherry resting between them—half empty. Narrowing his eyes, he studied them, finding them to be insipid little pups with weak chins and smooth faces. He would not be surprised if they were young enough to have only just graduated university.
Sitting in their midst, holding court, was Bertram Fairchild. His pale skin and shock of red hair drew Adam’s eye like a beacon. His jaw began to ache from how tight he clenched his teeth, and he had to turn around and lean against the back of his chair to keep from leaping across the small space separating them and thrash the man within an inch of his life.
Stubbing out his cigar in a glass ashtray resting on the arm of his chair, he gulped down the dregs of the brandy in his tumbler and set it aside. He needed to leave, before he committed murder. As much as it would satisfy him to strangle Bertram in front of his idiot friends, he had no desire to hang for it.
So, he unfolded his long limbs and adjusted his coat, prepared to walk away and put his nemesis behind him. He had delivered the final blow by debauching Daphne … he had no reason to turn around.
And yet …
