The Coachman's Daughter (19 page)

“Thank you, Smith.” He heard the Viscount
say, and then an icy towel was on his neck.

Marston’s deep voice above him told Deme who
held it there. The man said helpfully, “Breathe in, through your
nose.”

Deme did, feeling another glass being put in
his hand. He made a shuddering noise and Marston grunted, saying,
“Rinse your mouth. It’s naught but citrus water.”

Only half trusting him, Deme took cautious
sips. Realizing it was indeed that. He rinsed and spat in the pail
several times.

When the glass was taken, the pail removed,
Marston moved the towel and edged him to sit back.

Deme did it more like falling, and felt
another cold towel pressed in his hands. His immediately leaned his
head back and held it to his face.

It took some time for his guts to settle and
his body to receive the relief of having the whiskey out of it, and
the towel on his face.

He dragged it down a bit, and saw the
Viscount sitting in a chair, one boot on a stool, facing him.

“Why?”

One of those black brows rose. “Have you
forgotten that everyone is preparing for Lisette’s birthday
ball?”

“That’s not until…”

“—And you’re having a night of debauchery
would certainly spoil it for her. As well as the Duke and
Duchess—who are obviously pleased by your recent displays of
maturity and moderation.”

Those silver eyes held his. “Selfish of you,
don’t you agree, to once again dash their hopes, and steal the
attention from your sister’s big day.”

“Don’t scold me like some school boy,
Marston.” Deme growled and lowered the towel. “Only a prig like you
would call drinking whiskey debauchery.”

If the insult hit, Marston did not show it.
He merely drawled, “Why were you?”

“What?”

“Drowning in a bottle of whiskey? I may not
like you, Fielding, but even I had to begrudgingly admit you were
changed. Decidedly more responsible and tolerable, I might add.
Since your wit tends to turn nasty when you are in your cups. I saw
you as a different man with Miss Mulhern.”

At the mention of her name, Deme looked away
from him. Spared from answering a moment, while a male entered with
coffee, serving a cup to them both.

He was sipping, aware of those silver eyes
still studying him, when Marston said, “Trouble in paradise?”

“Keep your bloody quips to yourself.” Deme
took another drink, and then attempted to get to his feet—only to
discover that despite purging, his legs were unsteady.

“Sit down. It will take a while for the
remedy to work” Marston removed his foot from the stool, and set
his cup on a low table. Sitting forward to ask, “Tell me what
happened.”

Deme sneered at him. “Why would I do
that?”

“Because, we might be kin someday.” The man
winked.

“Ha. Keep dreaming. Lisette will not have
you. And good for her.”

Deme rubbed his temple a moment.

Grunting, Marston said mildly, “We shall see.
In the meantime, pretend we might at some point find each mildly
tolerable, and inform me. For all I was among the most skeptical
that you’d be faithful to the beautiful Mrs. Mulhern, I believed
what my eyes witnessed to be, two people in love.”

“She doesn’t trust me.’

The Viscount’s brow arched. “And that
surprises you.” He grunted. “You have one of the worst reps in
England.”

“Yes. By God. It does. Because I—”Deme looked
away from him.

“—Promised her. Gave your word?”

“Yes. But I also thought I proved—” Deme
leaned his head back. It pounded with pain. “What’s the bloody use?
It bloody well don’t matter.’

“Of course it matters. Why don’t you begin at
the beginning? I am afraid I have only heard the gossips version.
Rather a romantic and filled with drama tale that I knew
immediately was rubbish.”

“Not all of it.’ Deme lifted his head and
regarded him—insulted since he had been the author of it—even
though it was overly dramatic. “Some of it is based in truth.”

The Viscount got his cup again and settled
back, boots propped on the stool. “Go ahead.” He nodded and sipped
from the cup. “Pretend I’m just a good listener.”

Deme sighed and sat up, finishing the coffee,
then turning his body so he could get comfortable on the seating.
His one leg rested along the cushion, his back to the side, and one
booted foot on the floor.

Rubbing that ache between his eyes with a
finger and thumb, he began talking—preferring not to view it as
sharing some heart to heart with Marston. Rather he needed to hear
it out loud, for himself, because tonight, half way through that
bottle, he felt like he was losing his mind, having the same
thoughts chasing around and around in it.

He talked, seeing the moments, hours, days,
in his mind, somewhat without consciousness of the man sitting in
the chair across from him. Deme found his emotions going all over
the place too, particularly when he thought of her humor, when he
talked about her effect on him, and her sweet passionate
giving.

At some point, he fell silent and became
aware of the crackle of the fire and the ache in his head easing.
He opened his eyes glancing at the Viscount.

The man said softly, “You loved her enough to
give up your vices, and moderate your drinking. Enough to know you
wanted to experience her without the numbness. You loved her
enough—so that her birth did not bother you. And enough, to start a
rumor that painted you as some love sick suitor dashing across
England to win her hand.”

That black brow elevated again. “You loved
her enough to show it in front of all society and your family. But
not enough—to tell her?”

“I was bloody telling her,” Deme husked.
“She’s not a fool. Don’t you think she knew what I had been, how I
was—and saw the changes?”

“Ah, so she was supposed to just know, that
was for her?”

“Yes. She should have. I was going to tell
her. I took her the ring and I—”

“—Didn’t love her enough to realize that such
a question might still be justified, considering you brief
reformation. That perhaps, it was not so much her mistrust in you,
as her insecurity at not knowing you loved her. What possibly could
she think—other than, she was just your lover? Just another woman
in your path?”

“Because. I was not playing some game with
her! I know that she knew that.” Deme growled, “I gave her my word
and kept it.”

Marston sighed and sat up again, placing the
empty cup on the table. Boots on the floor, he lightly locked his
fingers and studying Deme. “And you no longer love her?”

“Of course I do. What sort of bloody question
is that?”

The Viscount smiled and got up; he went over
and nudged one of the logs on the fire to kindle it.

Deme made it to his feet, feeling steadier.
He looked around the room, caught sight of a portrait over the
mantle and uttered, “Who in God’s name is that?”

The Viscount stepped back. Hands behind his
back, he considered the painting while flames flickered over the
man's face. In almost casual tones, he supplied, “One of the most
cruel and evil bastards that ever lived.”

Coming to stand beside him, Deme was
immediately struck by his resemblance to the Viscount. “Some
kinsman?”

“My father.”

Deme turned his gaze and looked at that hard
profile; the craggy visage was as stone—save for a nerve that
ticked in his jaw.

He turned back to the painting and murmured,
“You don’t look much like him on closer inspection. His eyes are
dead.”

“So’s his rotting corpse.” The Viscount
looked down and muttered something, then went back to stand by the
fire screen.

He glanced at Deme. “Your pride was bruised.
You have had your way most of your life, and taken it for granted.
Everyone forgave and forgives you any flaw, Demetrius. Haven is the
sort of woman you changed and fell in love with—because she makes
you want to do and be more. She knows you are capable of more, and
will not let you slide by. Her love is the same. You two are much
alike. But desire needs fuel—just as the heart needs it...”

Deme walked over, hand on the mantle shelf as
he looked into the flames. “It’s madness. This love. This kind of
passion.”

“She’s not just any woman, Fielding. She is
the only woman for you. She’s the only woman you dream, eat,
breathe, and think of.”

“Did I say that?” Deme laughed at
himself.

“Yes. You did. And more.”

He looked at the Viscount. “She has pride
too. I all but threw that ring.”

“You can’t go getting sotted every time you
two argue.”

“No.” Deme shuddered. “My body can’t handle
it.” He laughed. “There’s no doubt in me of that anymore.”

“So what are you going to do.?”

“I don’t know. When she gets over being
hurt—”He winced. “Mulhern has a temper of her own.”

“She knows you’re an ass,” Marston intoned
dryly. “This is about something more serious. You were going to
purpose, I presume?”

“Yes.” Deme knew he had overreacted. He knew
with clarity, that he had earned that rep for a long time, and been
a careless rake. “I hope this gets easier,” he offered
sardonically.

“I doubt it does.”

“My father, my mother too, said that we learn
from our mistakes.”

“There’s hope in that.”

Hearing the humor in the Viscounts tone, Deme
looked at him. “I’m still not thanking you for dragging me here and
poisoning me.”

The man almost smiled. His eyes were
certainly doing so. “I didn’t expect you would.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Deme said, “May
I trouble you for a lift to my townhouse?”

“Yes.” The Viscount went to the door and
spoke.

It was open behind him when Deme walked
over.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet.” Deme admitted and went to
pass him. He stopped and met his gaze again. “I know all about
living with ghosts. Either you destroy them, or they destroy you.
Do not give them the power. Take my advice--Burn that bloody
painting, Marston.” Deme gestured toward it.

He waited for the man to nod before he went
onward.

Deme was soon on his way to his
house—wondering how the bloody hell he was going to purpose now. He
had worked on that other scene for hours, finding just the right
words, everything. Now he had acted like a pride-filled horse’s
arse. He had to think of something—quickly.

* * * *

It took everyone’s assistance to help Haven
avoid Deme the day of Lisette’s ball. Haven had talked to the
Duchess, and her father, and the Duke, so the staff and everyone
else, intercepted his messages, and Deme himself, a dozen
times.

She felt a bit guilty overhearing his
frustration, but found her smiling while standing by the
window—seeing the Duke out on the street with him, hearing him say,
“You will see her at the ball, my boy. You know how these ladies
are before such a to-do. It takes nigh all day just to curl their
hair or what not.”

“I don’t give a bloody damn about her hair. I
need to see her.”

“And so you shall.” His Grace was patting
Deme’s shoulder, nudging him closer and closer to his coach. “Best
get out of this wind and snow, eh. You will have your valet in a
snit if you do not get home in time to do yourself up. You need a
shave, Demetrius.”

Biting her lip, she heard Deme growl
something foul, but the Duke was good in his role. After Deme
departed, he entered, looked at her and vowed, “I should have been
on the stage!”

She laughed. “You did very well.” She kissed
his cheek. “I know it is difficult for you. It is hard for me to
see him suffer. His note was so eloquent I nearly scratched the
whole plan and took the fastest horse to get to him.”

In truth, that note melted her heart because
there were a dozen promising scratched out romantic lines, before
the one he had not marked through. It said (I am an ass. Deme.)

“You’ll do noting of the sort.” His grace
took her by the shoulders and winked. “My wife is more excited—come
to that, Lisette is more excited— to see this play out, than they
are about the birthday ball.”

“It will be a shocking scandal.” She
grimaced.

He dropped his hands. His brows raised on a
beaming smile. “Good. We have been behaving entirely too civilized
since Ellen got this Marston thing in her head for Lisette. Even
she admits it. What better way to end it than setting the ton on
its ear?”

He chuckled and walked toward his study. “I
can hardly wait.”

Haven paced and rubbed her tense stomach. She
fluctuated between thinking herself, and her father—who came up
with the idea, brilliant—or completely mad. In the end, she knew it
did not matter. What mattered was what Demetrious Wimberly, Marquis
of Fielding, thought of it.

* * * *

Deme had chaffed the whole bloody time the
valet was dressing him in formal evening ware. In the coach, on the
way, he cursed the snow, cursed the traffic, and then seeing the
congestion of conveyances at his parent’s mansion—he had cursed
them, until finally jumping out of his coach and walking towards
the door. Since that was also crowded with guests, he turned
sharply right, and went around the crowds.

He took the shoveled side path, leading to
the study, knowing those doors would be unlocked—and seeing before
reaching it—that Monty and the Viscount were outside the French
doors, smoking cheroots.

Joining them, he asked, “Have the ladies
entered the ball room as yet? It’s a damned crush already.”

“Yes,” Monty answered. Then grabbed his arm
as Deme made to go past. “But not Haven.”

“Bloody hell” Deme wheeled around.

“Where are you going?’

“To the coaching house.”

“She’s not there,” Marston, told him,
catching up and turning him around again. “I’m sure she got your
notes—”