Page 19 of Barbarous

His treacherous brain hurled compelling reasons to stay, complete with graphic imagery. Most of the images were variations on a common theme: Hugh lifting Daphne’s dreadful gown and mounting her like a depraved animal. He looked from her parted lips to her questioning eyes and released her, dropping a necessarily stiff bow before striding toward the door.

Hugh cursed in several languages as he made his way toward the wing that held the family quarters, his mind still back in the music room. It was no wonder his uncle had decided to wed again after so many years. The simmering sensuality in her was enough to animate a block of wood. But could she have loved the earl? Or had she married him for a title and security? Hugh could not believe that was the answer, but neither could he imagine her going to Thomas Redvers’s bed, no matter how much she might love his library.

Not that any of that mattered. What mattered was this situation had all the makings of a disaster. He’d been near her less than one damned day and was already well down the path to obsession. Hugh had no experience when it came to denying his passion; he had no experience when it came to denying himself anything. Denial had no part in his life. He’d spent every moment since escaping Babba Hassan’s prison living his life to the fullest—a vow he’d made all those years ago. And that vow had been especially true when it came to the fair sex. Hugh loved women, adored them, and he pursued his sensual appreciation as often and as vigorously as possible.

He had subdued his urges tonight, but he would not continue to be so lucky. Even if his obsession led to something more than recriminations and heartache—which was not likely if his past relationships were anything to go by—a union between an aunt and nephew was considered beyond the pale in England, even without any blood relationship.

“Blast and damn.” Here he was again, tangled and tied and twisted by society’s expectations and his own warring desires; the very reason he’d fled England to begin with! The situation was a bloody powder keg, and his pitiable lack of self-control was an open flame to a very short fuse.

Kemal was waiting in Hugh’s chambers, his mouth already open before he’d even shut the door.

“Please, not tonight, Kemal,” Hugh said, stopping his servant before he could get started. “Unless it is an emergency, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

The older man grunted. “There is no emergency.” He undressed Hugh in silence before helping him into his favorite robe.

“You must be tired,” Hugh said, all but pushing Kemal out the door when he began fussing with Hugh’s evening clothing. “You can leave that,” he ordered, gently removing his coat from Kemal’s hands. “Get some rest, good night.” Hugh closed the door behind his servant with a decisive click. The only person he wanted in his room tonight was Daphne. And what he wanted with her didn’t involve clothing.

He poured a stiff brandy and stretched out on the bed, balancing the cut-glass tumbler on his chest, watching it rise and fall as he considered the cool enigma he’d left in the music room. It wasn’t that he was vain—his lips twitched into a smile; well, perhaps he was a little vain—but women generally threw themselves into his bed. Thus far Daphne did not appear to view him as anything other than an inconvenience, which enflamed his interest more than all the lace negligees or come-hither stares in existence.

An image of her face rose up in his mind—the way she had looked at dinner, when she’d so fleetingly exhibited that tiny flash of humor.

Hugh shook his head and drained half his glass in one gulp.

He knew the signs. When tiny looks—or looks of any kind, for that matter—piqued his interest, things were going to become uncomfortable. He had always reveled in his obsessions, pursuing them with ruthless single-mindedness, not stopping until he was satiated. Sometimes that took a night; sometimes it took a year.

Hugh massaged his pounding temples and rose from the bed to refill his glass. He set the drink down, removed his eye patch, and tossed it onto his dressing table. Looking at his scarred face and blind eye in the mirror sobered him and reminded him who he was. He was a killer, not an English gentleman. He was a man who lived for vengeance and justice and had done so for fifteen years—and would continue to do so until justice had been served, even if that took the rest of his life. Hugh groaned as his overactive imagination suggested appealing scenarios. He had come here for one simple purpose: to protect her, not to debauch her or embroil her in a scandalous liaison.

Tomorrow he would speak to William and they would make every effort to get to the bottom of the threats. And after the matter was settled Hugh would remove himself from this country and from his uncle’s distracting young widow and go back to the only thing he knew: revenge.

* * *

Daphne ran her hands over the keys as she considered Hugh’s abrupt departure. No doubt he’d found the evening an agonizing bore and couldn’t wait to get away. Her fingers wandered back to the Presto agitato, the intensity of the piece feeding her already unsettled mood.

He was the kind of man who would be accustomed to sparkling conversation with beautiful, sophisticated women. His appetites would be prodigious in that department and women would flock to him.

According to Rowena, his amorous adventures had always been legion; why should that be any different now? Surely he would soon relocate to London, where opportunities for such activities were so much greater. And just why had he come back to Lessing Hall?

Daphne realized she was pounding the keys with unnecessary violence and stopped. She lowered the protective cover and rose from the bench, going to the large mirror across from the piano.

The face that looked back at her was familiar and bland. Aside from her hair, which she acknowledged to be attractive, she could discern nothing remarkable. Her eyes, although large, were a shallow, pale blue, the color made even more insipid when paired with pale skin and light hair. She could not see without the aid of glasses and she was unfashionably tall, just as her mother had been. In fact, other than her deceased husband—and now his nephew—she couldn’t think of a man who did not have to look up at her.

No, she thought, as she looked at her milk-and-water reflection, there was nothing about her appearance to excite any ardor.

The same could not be said of Hugh Redvers. He’d only just arrived and already she was falling under his spell. She should be appalled at her desire; after all, he was Thomas’s nephew. But her attraction to Hugh Redvers did not disturb her—at least not for moral reasons. But for just about every other reason? She shook her head; just thinking about untangling this mess was painful.

How could she give Hugh back what was his without disclosing the truth not only to him, but the world? And what was the legality of such a situation? Daphne shuddered at the thought of consulting a solicitor. And if—when—she told him the truth, how could she convince him she had not duped the earl into marrying her? Would he ever believe staid and proper Thomas had conceived of such an immoral deception? Why would he? Nobody would believe it.

If only she had some proof.

Daphne snorted. “If wishes were horses, then poor men would ride.”

Chapter Six

It was not yet daybreak when the sound of a loudly whispered argument outside Hugh’s bedroom door woke him. He rubbed the sand from his eyes and pushed himself out of bed, shrugging into his robe before tying the patch over his eye. He found Lucien and Richard seated at the foot of his door, each in possession of some fine metal soldiers.

Lucien grinned up at him. “Cousin Hugh, you’re awake! Mama said we were not to bother you until you’d woken up.”

At which point they were to bother him at will, Hugh supposed. He peered down at the armies assembled at his feet. “Are you lads having a battle?”