haven't had a
challenge since William died."
Gwyneth sipped
the whiskey, and stared hopelessly into the fireplace.
"He kissed
me, Rhiannon."
Rhiannon sat
straight up in her chair. " Oh ?"
"He
employed all of the predictable male methods of getting rid of a woman: first
rudeness, then intimidation, and failing their success, unwelcome
advances."
"Surely,
you didn't let him get away with it!"
"Of course
not!"
Rhiannon leaned
forward, elbows on her knees, her young face bright with excitement. It was
all too obvious she hoped Gwyneth had let him get away with it. Even
Mattie raised his noble head, his brown eyes inquisitive. "So, what did
you do?"
"I kneed
him in the groin," Gwyneth replied, airily. Then she looked at her sister
and both burst into laughter.
"You
didn't!"
"I most
certainly did!" Gwyneth put down her glass before she could spill its
contents. "Oh, Rhiannon . . . perhaps you are right. I mean, my life has become so very pointless and dull since William died, and maybe this is just
what I need to give me an interest in things once again. I can't think of a
better cause than reforming the conditions on those horrid hulks and driving
Lord Morninghall mad in the bargain."
"If anyone
can drive a man mad, Gwyneth, you can."
"You don't
do so badly yourself, sis."
The two giggled
once more.
"So what
are you planning to do to His Lordship?" Rhiannon ventured, watching her
sister over the top of her glass.
"I plan on
making his life hell. And this, dear Rhiannon, is how I am going to do it. . .
."
Chapter
4
The following
morning found the Marquess of Morninghall standing before a mirror, just
finishing shaving, when his new cabin boy, Billy, walked in carrying a tray.
On it were Damon's breakfast and a vase containing three daffodils over which
the boy's too-eager-to-please eyes were peering. He stopped at sight of Damon,
smiling hopefully.
"Your
breakfast, my lord."
Damon angled his
neck and, keeping his gaze intent on his reflection, pulled the razor over the
side of his Adam's apple. "I know, you damned fool. You don't have to
announce it as though you're a butler in the finest house in all of England. Just
set the bloody tray on the table and take your grand aspirations
elsewhere."
Tilting his head
to reach a hollow better, he made three more quick, precise flicks with the
razor, trying not to look at the brat in the mirror. But the boy didn't move.
Damon's cold gaze slid sideways in the mirror to fasten on the small figure's
reflected eyes. Billy's smile had crashed, his throat was working, and his
eyes, so wide that they seemed to dominate his narrow, freckled little face,
were filling with tears.
A quick stab of
guilt, then anger, roared though Damon, and he whirled, gesturing with the
razor.
"Damn you,
get out of here!"
The tray crashed
to the table and Billy fled, the daffodils quivering in their vase, their heads
bobbing madly with the jolt of impact. Damon stared at them, the razor
clenched in his fist. Damned brat! Snivelling, pitiful little wretch! Always
trying to do something nice, always trying to bring something beautiful into
his world when there could be nothing beautiful about it, nothing at all, and
it was no use trying —
Still fuming,
Damon swung his attention back to his reflection and finished shaving. Then he
yanked the thick towel off from around his neck, wiped his face and throat, and
flung the thing into a basin while he carefully fingered the several small,
inevitable nicks. Lack of sleep was no excuse for his bad temper — he spent
every morning in a bad temper because the days that followed them were never
anything to look forward to — but it was a better excuse than none at all, and
he needed an excuse, any excuse, so the brat's wounded eyes wouldn't haunt what
was left of his conscience for the rest of the whole bloody day.
Yet even as he
tried to drive that hurt little face from his mind, he knew
challenge since William died."
Gwyneth sipped
the whiskey, and stared hopelessly into the fireplace.
"He kissed
me, Rhiannon."
Rhiannon sat
straight up in her chair. " Oh ?"
"He
employed all of the predictable male methods of getting rid of a woman: first
rudeness, then intimidation, and failing their success, unwelcome
advances."
"Surely,
you didn't let him get away with it!"
"Of course
not!"
Rhiannon leaned
forward, elbows on her knees, her young face bright with excitement. It was
all too obvious she hoped Gwyneth had let him get away with it. Even
Mattie raised his noble head, his brown eyes inquisitive. "So, what did
you do?"
"I kneed
him in the groin," Gwyneth replied, airily. Then she looked at her sister
and both burst into laughter.
"You
didn't!"
"I most
certainly did!" Gwyneth put down her glass before she could spill its
contents. "Oh, Rhiannon . . . perhaps you are right. I mean, my life has become so very pointless and dull since William died, and maybe this is just
what I need to give me an interest in things once again. I can't think of a
better cause than reforming the conditions on those horrid hulks and driving
Lord Morninghall mad in the bargain."
"If anyone
can drive a man mad, Gwyneth, you can."
"You don't
do so badly yourself, sis."
The two giggled
once more.
"So what
are you planning to do to His Lordship?" Rhiannon ventured, watching her
sister over the top of her glass.
"I plan on
making his life hell. And this, dear Rhiannon, is how I am going to do it. . .
."
Chapter
4
The following
morning found the Marquess of Morninghall standing before a mirror, just
finishing shaving, when his new cabin boy, Billy, walked in carrying a tray.
On it were Damon's breakfast and a vase containing three daffodils over which
the boy's too-eager-to-please eyes were peering. He stopped at sight of Damon,
smiling hopefully.
"Your
breakfast, my lord."
Damon angled his
neck and, keeping his gaze intent on his reflection, pulled the razor over the
side of his Adam's apple. "I know, you damned fool. You don't have to
announce it as though you're a butler in the finest house in all of England. Just
set the bloody tray on the table and take your grand aspirations
elsewhere."
Tilting his head
to reach a hollow better, he made three more quick, precise flicks with the
razor, trying not to look at the brat in the mirror. But the boy didn't move.
Damon's cold gaze slid sideways in the mirror to fasten on the small figure's
reflected eyes. Billy's smile had crashed, his throat was working, and his
eyes, so wide that they seemed to dominate his narrow, freckled little face,
were filling with tears.
A quick stab of
guilt, then anger, roared though Damon, and he whirled, gesturing with the
razor.
"Damn you,
get out of here!"
The tray crashed
to the table and Billy fled, the daffodils quivering in their vase, their heads
bobbing madly with the jolt of impact. Damon stared at them, the razor
clenched in his fist. Damned brat! Snivelling, pitiful little wretch! Always
trying to do something nice, always trying to bring something beautiful into
his world when there could be nothing beautiful about it, nothing at all, and
it was no use trying —
Still fuming,
Damon swung his attention back to his reflection and finished shaving. Then he
yanked the thick towel off from around his neck, wiped his face and throat, and
flung the thing into a basin while he carefully fingered the several small,
inevitable nicks. Lack of sleep was no excuse for his bad temper — he spent
every morning in a bad temper because the days that followed them were never
anything to look forward to — but it was a better excuse than none at all, and
he needed an excuse, any excuse, so the brat's wounded eyes wouldn't haunt what
was left of his conscience for the rest of the whole bloody day.
Yet even as he
tried to drive that hurt little face from his mind, he knew
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