The Coachman's Daughter (20 page)

“She’s left London—” Deme began. Not
wondering at that moment how they knew he had written any note.

Monty handed him a cheroot with a grin. “It
wasn’t that dramatic of a scene, my friend. I’m sure she is merely
making a late appearance.”

“I need to—”

“—Attend the ball and dance with your sister.
It’s her birthday and his grace is—”

“Listen here, Marston.” Deme cut him off. “I
may be slightly grateful for your assistance last eve—though given
the condition of my guts, that is debatable—but do not lecture me
on my familial duties. You are not, nor doubtless ever
shall—outside your dreams, be any kinsman to me.”

Monty was laughing, but the Viscount, shaven
cheeks ruddy in the nippy air, drawled, “Oh, I’ll be one, never
doubt it.”

Deme blew a stream of smoke and eyed him
narrowly, then Monty. “What? Are you enjoying my misery too?”

“A little.” Wolford chuckled but pat his
shoulder. “The tables were turned not so long ago, eh?”

“Yes. But this is different. Juliette
was—”

“A lot like Haven,” Monty said dryly.
“Believe me, nothing but bearing your soul makes them melt after
you’ve made an ass out of yourself.”

“I didn’t make an ass out of myself,” Deme
said, but then he laughed and closed his eyes, leaning his head
back a moment. “I had no idea I’d react like that.”

When he lowered it, Marston muttered, “It’s
those delicate sensibilities you pampered rakes have.”

“I’m going to plant him one.” Deme told
Monty.

Monty was enjoying their badgering, and after
chuckling said, “That face looks awfully strong and hard. Besides,
he, we’re—merely trying to distract you.”

“She ain’t here.” Deme muttered and looked
around in panic. “Is her father—”

“—He’s busy with the footmen and grooms
trying to keep the arrivals going smoothly,” Monty said.

They were finished their cheroots and went
inside the warm room, closing the doors behind them. Everyone drank
a brandy but Deme. He found some tepid coffee and drank it.

They left the room afterwards, going down a
back hall, thanks to Deme’s familiarity with the house. There was
music, a roar of voices and chatter, and the sound of boots and
slippers on polished wood—and the butler’s voice reached them,
announcing Lady or Lord this or that in loud tones.

Sliding open a door, they were in the card
room, as yet unoccupied, which would lead directly out into the
back of the grand ballroom.

There was such a crush inside when they
entered, that he was some time finding his parent’s in the
receiving line. Monty’s parents were present, —His brothers were
there, in full dress uniform, looking smart and dashing, as was
Lisette—a vision with her long hair tumbling in curls over a high
crown of diamonds, her gown was flowing pearl silk, with gossamer
aqua silk skirted over the material. It draped over one shoulder
held by a pearl and diamond broach. She looked like a Greek
Goddess, despite her short stature.

As he went with Monty and the Viscount to
meet them, Deme was shamefully thinking he would get the greetings
done, and then search the house for Haven, and if she was not
there, he would—

He bowed to his father, kissed his mother’s
cheeks, and thought, what the bloody hell, giving his brothers an
un-Marquis like embrace and slap on the back.

When he reached Lisette, Deme kissed her
hand. “Happy Birthday. You look amazing.”

“Thank you.” She rolled her eyes. “My feet
are killing me all ready.”

Laughing, he kissed her cheeks, but under
that guise murmured, “Where is Haven? Did she get my note—?”

“She’s about somewhere, I am sure. Yes. She
got your note.” Then his sister saw Marston advancing down the line
and toward her. She groaned, “Bloody hell.” And looped her arm
thorough his. “Quick, let’s do the opening waltz.”

He took her hand and turned her around,
forcing her back in place with a laugh. “That is father’s honor,
puss.”

He was there when Marston took her hand and
bowed over it. Even as Lisette was pulling it back, the Viscount
murmured, “I shall have to keep you by my side, fair Lisette. Else
someone might carry you off, so tempting are you in that lovely
gown.”

Lisette jerked her hand away and glared at
him. “It is more like I may run off, Marston. “

He chuckled. “From me. Nonsense. I’m your
future husband.”

“Bugger you are.” She pushed him aside and
went stomping up the line, to her father.

Deme muttered, “I’ll give you one thing,
Marston. You’ve got balls.”

The Viscount arched his brow, “I was told it
was a prerequisite for anyone insane enough to want a
Wimberly.”

“Ha.” Deme laughed. “True. Your sort don’t
usually mix with our sort. And everyone in this room would be happy
to tell you so.”

Elisha found Lisette with his gaze and
murmured, “I don’t want the whole damn family, your Lordship. I
want her.”

Before Deme could retort, the orchestra
struck up the opening waltz. His father was leading Lisette out on
the floor. Deme went to the line to partner his mother, and so the
ball began.

Over the next hour and a half, he tried every
way on earth to get out of that ballroom. He was by now in a major
panic, because if it was not someone blocking his way, it was one
of his family or Monty distracting him from his purpose.

“Haven Mulhern Fitzpatrick.” The loud
announcement sounded over the music.

It was about bloody time!

Deme’s head snapped round toward the entry,
already hearing gasps and whispers rippling. His heart rammed his
ribs. He need not shove people aside to get to her—, which he was
fully prepared to do—they were parting like waves on either side.
Even the music halted.

Over the murmurs, gasps, that distinct ring
of boot heels on his mother’s ballroom floor already had his grin
forming. But, my God. Sweet Christ. When she was in sight—he did
not care if everyone was looking at his face for reaction—and many
were.

Haven, her straight, blood red hair gleaming,
was in perfectly tailored formal ware. Male—formal ware—right down
to her polished boots.

The clothing on her was so close fitting that
every full stridden step she took called attention to her shapely
legs, curved hips—and were it not for that spill of lace serving as
her cravat, he was sure her breasts moved too.

Love, lust, desire, pride, determination was
in her every step. The subtle cosmetics and lip color enhanced her
femininity, contrasting with the clothing—and only made it more
scandalously alluring.

She stopped a bit away from him. He could see
her eyes glittering, breasts rising and falling—and he saw it too,
his ring—glittering on her finger.

Deme smiled and sauntered toward her.

Stopping, he stared down into her face,
understanding everything suddenly—knowing his family had a hand in
this grand entry of hers.

His hand touched her cravat. The whispers and
gasps rose.

He raised it slowly, until a finger was
stroking across her chin and then touching her lips. Deme lowered
his head, letting his lips hover near hers while his arm went round
her, and pulled her roughly to him.

Chatter and more gasps echoed.

Their breaths mingled seconds before he went
that inch, covering her mouth, using his tongue, kissing her most
passionately.

He felt her arms go round him, felt her
lifting up and into his embrace

Somewhere his mind Deme heard clapping from
his family and a, bravo, from Lisette.

When he lifted a few inches—waiting for
lashes to part and those golden eyes to look at him, he said
roughly, “I love you. I adore you. I desire you more than breath. I
need you more than life itself.” His hand rose to cup the back of
her head, “Haven Mulhern Fitzpatrick. Make me the happiest man on
earth, save me from my sleepless nights, from my madness. Marry
me.”

Her hands moved to cup his face. She stared
deep into his eyes. “Should a Marquis wed himself to one such as I.
a simple coachman’s daughter?”

He heard the shouts of yes, yes. Moreover,
someone replied, (she is an heiress in disguise, tell him!)

He wondered if she felt as much an actor on
stage as he did. Apparently, the guests were getting wrapped up in
the drama.

Enjoying it. Enjoying her. Deme replied
succinctly, “There is nothing simple about you, my love. As is
proved this very moment in your dress and entrance.”

There followed a ripple of laughter.

He saw it then, the twinkle in her eye, the
smile teasing her lips. She husked, “Oh, my lord. As you have
pursued me to the ends of England, killed your horses and forded
rivers…how could I do no less?”

Struggling with laughter at her wit. His
green eyes gleamed.

Deme lowered his hand and stepped back, but
only to hold that hand wearing his ring.

He turned toward his family, seeing his
father was grinning, all of them were enjoying it. He said, “Where
is her father? The Coachman. I must have his blessing.”

“Here.” Mulhern, not in livery but in formal
black and white answered.

“I want her.”

“That’s been noticeably obvious,” Mulhern
said to laughter from the guests.

Deme led her over and bowed to Patrick, who
bowed in turn. Under talk and chatter of the guests, Deme muttered,
“Your idea?

“I had a hand in it.” Patrick shrugged and
winked.

“Thank you.”

The coachman murmured. “Pride is a funny
thing…”

Deme looked at Haven. “Yes it is. I would be
proud to have such a woman with me through life.”

Patrick waited for Deme to look at him and
murmured, “Make her happy or I’ll take her back.”

Deme laughed. “I shall try, every day of my
life, I will try.”

“Now, now,” Haven cut in. “Let’s not tame him
too much, papa. I want a long honeymoon.”

Deme turned, sweeping her in his arms and
holding her tightly. He whispered in her ear, “Those trousers are
sinful. How long until I can take them off and pleasure you?”’

“Mmmm.” She turned and whispered in his ear,
“As soon as you find us somewhere private.”

He kissed her again.

Music started and there were voices and
noise. Coming up for air, there was a tap on his shoulder. Deme
eyed his father with a raised brow.”

“This is my waltz—with my future daughter in
law.”

Deme set her on her feet, and then watched
his father waltz his male-garbed future wife around the
ballroom.

The Duchess came and put her arm through his,
watching them also. “I thought it would take you forever to see it.
In fact, I despaired you ever would.”

“Haven. Yes. I was too blind to notice
her.”

“Yes, that. But also, my boy, that she has
loved you since she was only a child.”

Deme felt everything inside melt hearing that
before it began to burn for the woman who now laughing with his
father.

Oblivious to everyone in the room. He husked,
“Will you excuse us if we disappear early, madam?”

She answered, “You’re no son of ours, if you
don’t.”

He kissed her cheek and then strode over to
the couple, tapping on his father’s arm, and when the Duke stepped
back, he took Haven’s hand.

“Come with me.” His eyes captured hers.

“Anywhere.”

They ran actually, out of the ballroom— were
running still through the hall and up the stairs to her rooms.

He released her hand when they entered, and
leaned against the door, watching her stride to the bed and turn up
the lamp. Facing him, she shrugged out of her coat and let it fall
then pulled the lace cravat loose.

Watching her for moments, aroused by her,
Deme husked, “I’m sorry.”

“I know. So too am I.” She let that fall and
began unbuttoning her shirt. “I love you, Deme.” She pulled the
blouse free and had nothing under it. “I want you too.”

His heart rammed his ribs. He pushed away and
held her gaze while stripping his clothing.

Muffled sounds of the ball, music and
laughter, seemed a world away.

Completely nude at last, they met, skin to
skin, eyes clinging and hands reaching, to touch and caress. Deme
kissed her breathless and whispered, “I was in love with you before
we left for York. I have fallen deeper every day since.”

Smoothing her palms up his back she returned,
“I have loved you for many years, but I was afraid you were lost to
me, lost to yourself. When you kissed me though, I knew, I hoped.
On that trip, I was falling deeper too.”

Kissing deeply, passionately, their hunger
flamed and he drew her to the bed. There they could taste, touch;
stroke the fires hotter, and hotter. Lips clung, limbs sliding
against limbs. His hand found her sex. Lips rimming her nipple,
Deme brought her to exquisite climax. When the ripples faded, he
moved between her legs, and filled her, buried himself, deeply.

“I’ve had a special licensee since we were in
York.” He gazed at her face.

“Soon then, we can do this at our
leisure?”

“I don’t intend to sleep another night
without you.” He flexed his hips and was rewarded with her moan.
“We leave for Wimberly. The family can join us whenever. Mother
will want to throw you a wedding. But you are mine, Haven, and I’m
yours.”

He drew back, thrusting in a cadence that had
them both in the grip of erotic thrall. Her nails scored him. His
hips circled and pleasured her, and amid raspy whispers, the
pleasure built until Deme felt it explode in him. Shuddering,
holding her, he said, “I love you.”

“I know.” She smoothed his damp back.

An hour later, washed and laying in the bed,
they watched the firelight, their hands joined,

She rolled her head and studied his face,
beautiful, with that muss of hair over his brow.

He sensed her stare and turned, his green
eyes finding hers and probing.