The Rose's Bloom (3 page)

* * * *

The night before, he had slept but a wink. She, as he’d expected, had haunted his thoughts and dreams. Never had a woman affected him so. It irritated him that his mind could not move away from the memory of the woman by the river. His mother’s voice snapped him out of his wandering thoughts.

“Darling, I know you do not wish to attend and do not care for such events, but spare a thought for your mother, yes?”

He looked at his sprightly and cunning mother, a woman whom he cared for more than any other. He saw she did not jest with him—in truth, he knew she missed the
ton
and its events, but wanted to be close to him, and while he remained at his country estate, so would she.

“What is it that you require, Mother?” he asked, feeling somewhat guilty he had not been paying attention to the conversation moments earlier. His thoughts had been nowhere near appropriate enough to be mulled over in his dear mama’s presence.

She beamed at him. “Only to attend the ball being held at Deonsay this evening. Lord Killory will make it a grand event, to be sure. Both his daughters are coming out, I am told.”

Damon’s eyes snapped up from the letters his steward had just brought to him.

“His daughters?”

Seeing she had captured her son’s attention, Lady Yvonne continued, “Yes, I believe his eldest is not known as a beauty, yet her dowry will surely attract a man in need of coin. His youngest by only a year is said to be the beauty, with hair of spun gold.”

Damon’s eyes narrowed. The temptress at the river had not been blonde—instead, her hair had been the shade of a roasted chestnut. His mother must not have her gossip correct. The woman he had pleasured by the stream had been bestowed with more beauty than any other he had ever seen.

“What of the eldest?” he asked.

“Lady Claire? I have never had the pleasure of meeting her. I have seen her sister, Lady Elizabeth. She accompanies her father when he travels, but the eldest does not. It is not a secret he is besotted with his youngest. I have heard the eldest daughter is not as refined, preferring to hunt and the like.”

“What of their mother?”

“Ah, the eldest daughter’s mother died during her birth. Lord Killory remarried, as you know, to the Lady of Beverley and I believe Lady Elizabeth was the result. He does not have a male heir.”

Damon nodded but did not have time to ask anything further before his mother continued.

“So, my dear, can we travel to the ball this evening? I sent our acceptance in the hope you would feel like attending,” she added, looking hopefully at her son.

His brow dipped in irritation at his mother, not caring for her pressure, yet somewhat interested in attending. He now wondered if the woman he had pleasured had been the Lord’s daughter. She did not have hair of spun gold, nor was she displeasing to the eye—quite the opposite, in fact. Who was she? Curiosity was sure to burden him with another sleepless night, if not kill him beforehand.

“Yes, Mother. We shall attend.”

* * * *

“I have not seen so many men in a ballroom outside of London,” Lady Margaret whispered with awe, while she and Claire stood to the side of the room, watching Lady Elizabeth beam.

Demurely hiding her pleasure behind her fan at the attention men were displaying her, Elizabeth radiated delight as she stood beside their father, chatting with several gentlemen.

“Yes, they have all travelled far to court her tonight,” Claire agreed.

Margaret turned to her with a frown. “That is not true. Sir Gerald has asked you for a dance this evening,” she said, pointing down at the dance card which hung loosely around Claire’s wrist.

The smell of the man’s breath had made her recoil, and she had made no attempt to hide her distaste. However, Sir Gerald had not appeared to mind, or to notice. Indeed, he had barely glanced at her as he had asked for a dance, looking longingly instead towards her sister. Claire had heard the gossip of his struggles. Apparently, there were several gaming hells in London where Sir Gerald was no longer given credit. His need to marry, and marry well, was not a shock. She had had the urge to decline his request, but her stepmother had introduced them, giving Claire a stare that was not to be challenged.

Glancing at her friend’s card, she noted no dances were left without a partner. Men had been quick to ensure they got a dance with the Lady Margaret. While Claire did not harbour any jealousy or ill will towards her good friend, she did envy her proper appearance and slim figure. Fortune hunters were all who paid Claire any notice.

Claire had been graced with a larger body than many would deem beautiful. Her height caused her to come eye to eye with most of the men in the room. They never appeared to like that. Her hands were not petite as they clasped her punch glass; instead, her fingers outsized her friends’. Her maid called her stocky, while Elizabeth often likened her to a carriage horse. Claire did not take offence to this, or anything her sister had ever said to her. They did not have a special bond like most siblings. There was nothing remotely resembling affection between the two.

Attempting to take a deep breath, Claire felt the binding under her dress hinder the attempt. Her stepmother had insisted she be bound at the waist to hide as much ‘excess’ as possible. It did nothing but press her breasts higher and hamper her ability to breathe. She was glad she had no partners for the quicker dances. Claire worried she would swoon from lack of air if forced to move with such vigour.

As another guest was announced, Claire simply opened her fan, attempting to cool herself in the hot room, caused in part by the many bodies in attendance, the glowing candlelight and her lack of ability to take in air.

“Oh, my!” Lady Margaret gasped.

Claire paused, noting the surprise in her friend’s voice. “What is it?”

“It’s Lord Belfort and his mother, Lady Yvonne.”

Claire had never seen the lord or his mother. She rarely left the estate with her father when he travelled, preferring to remain, while her sister favoured the excitement of the city. What was surprising was that, since this man’s estate bordered Deonsay, they had never met when he went to town on matters of business.

As the Belforts descended the grand stairs into the ballroom, Claire saw that his mother was quite tall. Despite her height, the older woman still appeared dwarfed next to the man who escorted her. His broad shoulders looked powerful as he held his mother’s elbow. His long legs took sure, powerful steps down the winding stairs without his having to check where he walked.

Claire’s gaze moved down the extended length of his legs before slowly making its way back up his body, lingering on the well-fitted flap at the front of his navy breeches. Heat pooled at her core as a shiver raced through her body. She felt her nipples tighten against the binding surrounding them. She took a deep breath and almost whimpered as more pleasure raced through her blood and body.

Looking back to the man who had unexpectedly released these desires in her, she noted he carried himself with confidence and assurance. Several gentlemen attempted to start a conversation as he walked past. He ignored all of them. Claire smirked, unable to control herself. He did not care to be here either, but she saw with fondness that as his mother spoke to him, he gave her his full attention. While he was harsh, he was also soft. Claire found that a rather endearing quality.

* * * *

Lady Yvonne did not care as much for balls or the
ton
life as her son thought she did. No, she had merely tried to encourage him to attend with her in the hope he would find a girl who captured his attention, and would provide her with a home full of grandchildren for Yvonne to spoil and adore. She had reached her fiftieth birthday last spring, and Yvonne worried she would soon be too old and frail to appreciate the children when they did come.

Damon had surprised her with his quick agreement to attend the night’s ball. His enquiry about Lord Killory’s daughters only intrigued her more. Did he fancy the beautiful Lady Elizabeth? He would not be alone, if that were the case. Yvonne had met the woman in the past and while she deemed her a selfish and dim-witted child, Elizabeth’s beauty was dazzling. Yvonne had not thought her son so shallow, but if that was who he chose she would not chastise him, simply assist him in his quest.

As they approached Lord and Lady Killory, she noted her son did not glance once at Lady Elizabeth, who stood at her father’s side. She inwardly sighed. It appeared this lady had not been the reason for his quick agreement to attend, after all.

Introductions were made and, as at many of these events, Damon appeared bored, gracing the girl with nothing more than a nod when she curtseyed. Yvonne resisted the urge to chuckle in amusement when she saw the young girl’s irritation at this—a rarity, to be sure.

“You have two daughters, do you not, my Lord?” she asked. “Did I hear correctly that it was the coming out for both tonight?”

“Yes,” Lord Killory confirmed as he looked around the room, before gesturing to a girl who had been watching them.

As she approached, Yvonne noted the way she studied Damon. She was rather tall and had a large frame. She was not portly, simply hardy looking, as if she could handle anything which tested her. Her dress was a size too small and her bosom almost popped out of the top of her gown. Who had dressed this poor girl? Though what did not escape her notice was how her brown hair was pinned upon her head, exposing her long neck, or how her light blue eyes moved over Damon. She appeared intrigued.

Interesting.

Damon’s sudden stiffness at her side also made his mother curious. Could this girl be the reason?

“And this is my eldest daughter, Lady Claire. Claire, this is Lord Belfort and his mother, Lady Yvonne.”

The young woman smiled at Yvonne warmly, then her eyes flicked back to Damon as she curtseyed. Damon responded by bowing slightly. Yvonne almost screamed out for joy. So, this was the girl he was interested in. He had never cared for manners or politeness when in the presence of nobility. He only showed respect to his employees and servants. His regard for those in their own class was sadly lacking.

“Are you enjoying the ball so far, my dear?” Yvonne asked Lady Claire.

Her sister, the Lady Elizabeth, giggled and lifted the dance card that hung around Lady Claire’s wrist by a thin, blue ribbon. “Oh, sister, you only have one dance partner for the evening. Such a pity. My card is already full.”

Yvonne looked sharply to the girls’ parents, only to see them beam down at the younger sister in devotion, not chastise her for her foul treatment of her kin.

“How fortunate for me, then,” Damon said tightly beside her. He reached for Lady Claire’s hand and lifted it, looking into her eyes the whole time before he removed a pencil from his jacket. Damon wrote his name under the only other name occupying the card.

It did not escape Yvonne’s attention how her son’s hand lingered on the older sister’s wrist before he released it.

* * * *

Trying to keep her face slightly to the side so she could avoid the foul breath of her dance partner, Claire worried she was about to pass out. Along with her avoidance to breathe in his presence for fear of inhaling his stench, she held concern that her binding was cutting off any air that had managed to work its way into her lungs. Sir Gerald’s breath was revolting! A chamber pot would be more appealing. She could not imagine kissing this man. It made her feel ill just to ponder the action.

As the gavotte stopped, she resisted the urge to cheer, but she did not think she had the energy.

A shadow was suddenly cast over her as her partner stepped back and frowned. Turning, she was surprised to see Lord Belfort there before she recalled he had requested, in a manner of speaking, the next dance.

Sir Gerald shrank slightly under the lord’s harsh gaze, but for some reason it did not affect her in the same way. She did not fear him like the rest of the room did—and that included her friend, the Lady Margaret. Margaret had gasped in horror when Claire had informed her he had the second dance with her. She could not see what they feared. He seemed a little overbearing, but what man of power was not?

“My Lord,” she said, holding out her hands, which he took without hesitation.

He was warm to the touch and, when the music started, she was unsurprised at how surefooted he was as he guided her around the dance floor.

“You are a wonderful dancer,” she commented, thinking it was custom to talk to one’s dance partner. It was the only unchaperoned time they would have to get to know each other, and she found that, strangely, she did want to get to know this man. He intrigued her more than anyone else in the room.

Her hands felt dwarfed in his larger ones, a strange sensation for her, as she normally overshadowed those around her. Without thinking, she opened her palm from around his and he followed her lead, doing the same. His fingertips were coarse and in some way familiar, comforting.
How peculiar.

“As are you,” he said, then added, ”my rose.”

Her gaze snapped up from their hands to his eyes, her own going wide. His rose?

As she looked into his face, she saw the knowledge. He was the man from the river, the man of her pleasure. The man who had given her the most powerful and wonderful gift in the world.

Her eyes flicked to his cravat. He wore a blue one, identical to the article she had hidden in her dresser. He started to caress her hand with his thumb, and the warmth which had built in her yesterday threatened to do the same tonight. Heat travelled from her core to the tips of her nipples. Oh, how she longed to lean into his embrace, feel the strength from his body warm her in the already stuffy room.

All of a sudden, she felt dizzy. Her eyes threatened to drift closed and her body appeared suddenly heavy.

His hands tightened on her own and around her waist. “Are you all right?” he asked, as if concerned.