Andrea Kane (14 page)

Damen shook his head slowly from side to side. “Not rumpled. Genuine. Uninhibited. Free-spirited. There’s a big difference.” He tugged off one of his gloves, capturing a strand of her hair and rubbing it between his fingers. “You embrace life, live it to its fullest. Never make light of that. It’s a great blessing.”

Anastasia’s heart began hammering against her ribs. “You’re speaking from experience.”

“Um-hum.” His knuckles caressed her cheek, his forefinger slipping beneath her chin to tilt it upward. “I’m much the same way. I seize life with both hands, savor every opportunity it hands me.” His gaze fell to her lips. “Every one.”

He lowered his head, capturing her mouth beneath his.

This kiss was nothing like the one he’d given her last night; nothing like anything she’d ever experienced. It was intense, commanding, his lips molding and shaping hers, urging them apart, his hands gripping her shoulders, gliding down the sleeves of her gown, then settling on her waist, tugging her closer as he deepened the kiss.

Anastasia shivered as his tongue touched hers, then claimed it in a slow, purposeful melding she felt down to the soles of her feet.

She moaned, torn between dizziness and drowning, and clutched at Damen’s waistcoat, much more for balance than resistance. The truth was, resistance was the farthest thing from her mind. Not when what was happening was so unbearably exquisite.

“Put your arms around me,” Damen instructed hoarsely, seizing her arms and bringing them up and around his neck. “Yes. Like that.” His own grasp tightened, one arm anchoring her at the waist, the other tangling in her already disheveled hair. “Now give me your mouth.”

“Damen, I…”

“Kiss me.” He gave her no time to reply before swallowing her words, tasting and awakening her in a way that made her entire body start to tremble.

She sank into the kiss, her fingertips feathering over the nape of his neck, discovering the damp strands of hair that lay against his cravat, and exploring their silky texture. In contrast, his body was hard and powerful, his muscles flexing beneath her touch, his entire frame taut even through the confines of his shirt and waistcoat.

As if sensing her thoughts, Damen sharpened her awareness of him, drawing her closer, then crushing her fully against the unyielding wall of his chest. Anastasia’s breath expelled in a rush, her breasts tingling beneath the onslaught, her entire body shimmering to life.

The kiss burned on and on.

When they finally broke apart, it was long minutes later, and they stared at each other in mutual astonishment, their breath coming in harsh rasps.

“God,” Damen muttered, half to himself. His fingers, of their own volition, continued sifting through her hair, letting damp strands trail across his palm, between his fingers, then watching as they feathered slowly to her shoulders. “I expected fireworks. But
that
—that was …” He shook his head, as if words escaped him.

Anastasia licked her lips, trying desperately to gain control of herself. She felt wobbly, as if she’d run a great distance, and her heart was racing its accord. Her skin felt hot and shivery all at once, and there was a dull ache inside her—one that made her feel strangely empty and yet simultaneously full. Worst of all was her reeling mind, which seemed unable to grasp even a thought, or much of anything else for that matter.

Damen framed her face between his palms, his expression still reflecting amazement, his tone husky. “Are you all right?”

Reflexively, she nodded, although she doubted it was true. “I
…
yes.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m not either.”

“I’m not sure what just happened,” Anastasia blurted out. A bright flush stained her cheeks. “I mean, I realize what happened, I just don’t…”

“I understood what you meant.” Damen’s thumbs stroked her cheeks. “And I felt it, too.”

Swallowing, Anastasia tried once again to collect herself, to right her upended emotions. “Our bank,” she said, grabbing hold of the first coherent thought that flitted through her brain. “We should name it.”

“Coward,” Damen teased gently. But he followed her lead, letting his arms drop to his sides and taking a deliberate step away. “Very well, do you have a suggestion?”

“Yes.” Anastasia was glad she’d mulled this over last night. There was no earthly way she could conjure up something profound in her current dazed state. “I think we should call it by the terms through which it was formed: Fidelity Union and Trust.”

Damen’s nod was almost instantaneous. “I agree. Lockewood and Colby. Fidelity Union and Trust. Fitting. Consider it done. I’ll issue instructions to my assistant, have him draw up the papers with Fenshaw this very day. I’ll look them over when I return to London tomorrow night. And you and I can sign them the next morning in my office.”

“Wonderful.” Anastasia averted her gaze, gripped Whisper’s reins securely in her hand. “I think we should bring back the horses. It’s nearly time for breakfast.”

Silently, Damen studied her, and she could feel his steel-gray stare bore through her, even without turning her head for firsthand confirmation. “Fine,” he said at length. “But we will talk about what happened here, Anastasia. Count on it.”

George rose from behind his study desk, scanning the note he’d just penned.

Rouge,
it read,
Received your meager draft. Consider it an installment on our agreed-upon sum. Be advised that, as my costs have risen, so have yours. Therefore, the shipment you received was fair and adequate. Nonetheless, you’ll be pleased
to
learn that I’ve found a new source of supply which will improve both the quality and the quantity. To demonstrate my good faith, a more extensive lot will be leaving in two to three weeks. The cost of that shipment is seven thousand five hundred pounds, including the fifteen hundred pounds due on the previous shipment. I’ll advise you when the cargo is ready to sail. Rest assured, if you don’t want the merchandise, another buyer will.—Medford

That said it all. Clear, direct, and without revealing any of the worry that gripped his gut.

With a terse nod, George folded the note in two, slipping it into the envelope he’d addressed beforehand and sealing it.

Two could play this game of threats.

Unfortunately, only one could win.

Pressing his lips tightly together, George yanked open his drawer and returned his writing paper to its proper home. He hated leaving things out of place. In fact, he hated disorder of any kind.

In the process of shutting the drawer, he paused, extracting the miniature portrait he kept hidden in back. Staring at the delicate features and flawless skin, captured so perfectly on the tiny canvas, he scowled, the familiar rage starting to churn in his blood. Damn her. Damn them both. Things could have been so different. If only this part of his life had fallen neatly into line, everything else would have followed suit. His life, his family, his business—everything would have been in perfect order.

Well, it hadn’t. And now chaos was everywhere.

With that, he shoved away the picture, shut and locked the drawer, and snatched up his letter. There was no time for brooding. He had work to do.

Purposefully, he strode down to the entranceway door, signaling for Wells as he did.

“I need this delivered immediately for dispatch to the Continent,” he instructed the butler.

“Of course, sir.” Wells glanced at the envelope as he took it. “Is it going to the customary address in London?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see to it at once, my lord.”

“Good.” George glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. “It’s after ten. Have the first guests awakened yet?”

“A few have made their way in for breakfast. A dozen or so of the gentlemen went out early, some to fish, others to hunt. All the ladies are still abed.” A tender smile. “With the exception of Miss Stacie, of course.”

“Anastasia? Is she in the dining room?”

“No, my lord. Although I should think she’d be ravenous. She was up and out before the sun, and returned to the manor, along with Lord Sheldrake, before eight.”

“Returned?” That brought George up short. “Returned from where?”

“Why, from their ride, sir.”

George stiffened. “You’re sure it was Anastasia and not Breanna who went with Sheldrake?”

“Quite sure, sir. According to Miss Stacie, she and the marquess had some business to discuss.”

“They left together?”

“No. Lord Sheldrake left the manor first, Miss Stacie about a quarter hour later.” Wells frowned. “They were only gone a few hours, my lord.”

“And then what?”

Wells’s frown deepened. “Then they returned, each requesting that hot water be sent up to their respective bedchambers. After that, they went their separate ways. Lord Sheldrake came downstairs for breakfast and left the manor again about a half hour ago. And Miss Stacie is upstairs, waiting for Miss Breanna to awaken. She wants to have breakfast with her cousin.”

“Did the marquess mention where he was going?”

“No, he didn’t, my lord. He sent a message off to Mr. Cunnings at the bank, then headed out. I didn’t get the impression he’d be gone long. Perhaps he joined the other gentlemen at the stream.”

“Perhaps,” George muttered, his lips thinning into a tight line of disapproval. “Then again, perhaps not.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Anastasia paced restlessly about. She’d been unable to sit still—with the exception of her long soak in the tub—since she’d returned from the stables. And she knew exactly why.

It was that kiss she’d shared with Damen. Not only the kiss, but its significance—
and
its complications.

A deluge of guilt crashed down upon her shoulders, shattering the last vestiges of her earlier daze and bringing to light an issue she’d been evading since last night’s ball.

Breanna. Or rather, Damen and Breanna.

Last night the prospect had hovered on the periphery of her consciousness, but had been eclipsed by her quest for financial backing, and later by her fascination for Damen. But there was no longer any excuse for dodging the all-too-crucial questions that today’s kiss had accentuated.

Could
a relationship between her cousin and Damen ever exist—not now, but in the future? True, they were merely acquaintances now, but might that change? Might they develop feelings for each other—feelings stemming from mutual respect and compatibility? After all, Breanna was changing, coming into her own. Damen himself had noticed that. Was it possible her feelings for him might change, too—or, if not change, grow? She
had
said she found the marquess charming, handsome, and intelligent. And as for Damen …

Almost against her will, Anastasia remembered Damen’s observation of Breanna last night, what he’d said as they’d waltzed by.

She’s enjoying all the newfound attention. Which is why it’s too soon for her to be dancing with the same partner all night, and far too soon for her to be tied down to just one suitor.

By one suitor, had he meant himself? And if so, had he meant it as a response to Uncle George’s obvious attempts to push him in Breanna’s direction, or as a response to his own inclinations? Could Damen’s comments be an indication, inadvertent or otherwise, that he intended to wait for Breanna, to indulge her until she came into her own? Was he destined to be the partner who ultimately stood at Breanna’s side?

If so,
Anastasia thought wildly,
then what happened this morning could completely undermine Breanna’s future.

She chewed her lip, her mind racing. Whatever had occurred between her and Damen, it had been based on passion, attraction, fascination; call it what you will. But it wasn’t the kind of emotion that futures are based on. And if he and Breanna were meant to share a future—not one inspired by Uncle George’s selfish whims, but one rooted in devotion—then what had she been doing, kissing Damen, losing herself in his arms and wanting never to stop?

Dejectedly, Anastasia dropped onto the edge of her bed, wondering how in the name of heaven she was going to deal with this. She couldn’t speak to Breanna about it. She knew her cousin only too well. Breanna would always place her cousin’s happiness above her own. If Anastasia so much as hinted at her attraction to Damen, Breanna would immediately squelch any feelings she might be developing just so as not to stand in Anastasia’s way.

My way to what?
Anastasia questioned herself.
There’s no reason to assume Damen thinks of me as anything more than an exciting diversion.

But if he did …

If he did, then there was something else to consider, something just as critical as Breanna’s feelings, and perhaps a great deal more dangerous.

Uncle George. Uncle George and his reaction if a relationship were to develop between his niece and the man he intended to be his daughter’s husband. Lord only knew how angry he’d get—and how he would vent that anger.

Or on whom.

Anastasia’s jaw tightened. That settled it. She couldn’t let this flirtation between Damen and her continue. She’d have to put an end to it—now—before it really began.

George was in a foul mood.

He continued to trudge across the eastern portion of the grounds, having already covered the western and northern sections, searching for any sign of Damen Lockewood. The marquess hadn’t been in the expected locations: the stream, the hunting or riding areas, as the other guests had been. In fact, wherever he was, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was alone. Because the only guest who, according to the others, was out and about and who George had yet to come upon during this unwelcome excursion about Medford’s grounds, was Viscount Crompton.

Predictably, the viscount had left the group he’d been hunting with to engage in target shooting on his own. As a retired military general, he prided himself on his superior skill with both rifles and pistols—a passion the other guests soon grew tired of hearing about and being forced to watch. And, as far as George knew, Damen had no particular affinity for the viscount and no interest in marksmanship. So, unless the two men were chatting about business, Sheldrake was alone.