that it wasn't
Billy who deserved his bad temper.
It was that
contemptible bitch, Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms.
Already, she was
trying to make his life hell.
His finger
paused on a tiny gouge just above his Adams' apple, and in the mirror he saw
ice chips beginning to glitter in the flat glaciers of his eyes. The hellcat
had not been content to torment him with her very unwelcome visit yesterday.
She had not been content to anger him with a promise to make his life
difficult. She had not been content to insult and enrage him with her
reminders of his failings, nor was she content to be the catalyst behind one of
his attacks. Oh, no, she had to rub salt in the wounds, coming to him in the
most erotic dreams he had ever experienced, tempting and taunting him with that
rosy mouth, those flashing eyes, that body he wanted to possess with every
raging demon that ruled his black and tortured soul, until he had thrown her
down on the deck, right there in the dream, right there on the rug behind where
he stood, driving himself into her until she was broken and begging, subdued,
mastered, repressed. His blood began to pound at even the thought of it — the
prim and elegant Lady Simms laid out on his rug like some common tart,
screaming her defiance even while she begged him to take her . . .
And she would,
too.
Beg.
He slowly let
his fingers fall away from his throat. In the mirror his eyes remained
unfeeling and soulless, only a slight heightening of their natural iridescence
betraying the rising fury of his emotions. His dark brows remained unmoving.
His forehead showed not the slightest trace of a crease; his mouth was carved
from ice. The man who looked back at him was impenetrable, polished, cold.
Emotionless and lacking both soul and conscience. He raised his chin and
fingered a small shaving nick, still holding his own gaze. Ah, what the mind
harbored, what the face could conceal. And what he wouldn't give for a
chance to put that virago in her place.
His eyes glowed
with unholy light.
Right here,
right now.
He felt the rage
starting, red-hot and hungry, devouring everything in its path and making him
burn as if with fever. His hands curled into fists and he caught a glimpse of
his eyes, fanatical, fiery, and now blazing with the devil's own fury. Unable
to gaze upon that malevolent face in the mirror any longer, he spun on his heel
and yanked out a chair, trembling. The red haze followed him, burning in his
chest, his throat, his head, inescapable and growing hotter by the second.
Scenes flashed before his eyes: Commodore Julian Lord engulfed in the glory
and admiration that he, Damon, had found briefly but lost; his tyrannical first
captain, whipping him over the breech of a gun until he overcame his fear of
heights and climbed the mainmast; and there, puncturing these memories like
bolts of lightning, his rival, Adam Bolton, getting promoted over him because
he was the son of an admiral, the bastard rubbing his nose in it until he'd
incited the fight with Damon that had been building for as long as the two had
known each other; the court-martial, the public insults, the duel, and Bolton's
father, avenging his son's death by putting Damon in charge of this reeking
sewer, pulling the rug out from under him and destroying his naval career. His
mother hurling a wine bottle at him, Oxford and humiliation, Morninghall and
terror, and over it all the mocking taunts of Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms —
Damon pressed
the heels of his hands into his temples and stared down at his breakfast — be
calm, be calm — seeing the toast stacked with military precision in a
little metal rack, the pats of butter on a tiny plate, the knife, fork, and
spoon rolled up in a crisp square of white linen, the strong black coffee in
its porcelain cup, the delicately enameled pots of marmalade and jam, dainty,
exquisite, God help me, I want to smash them , like the frail shell of a
songbird's egg, God help me,
Billy who deserved his bad temper.
It was that
contemptible bitch, Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms.
Already, she was
trying to make his life hell.
His finger
paused on a tiny gouge just above his Adams' apple, and in the mirror he saw
ice chips beginning to glitter in the flat glaciers of his eyes. The hellcat
had not been content to torment him with her very unwelcome visit yesterday.
She had not been content to anger him with a promise to make his life
difficult. She had not been content to insult and enrage him with her
reminders of his failings, nor was she content to be the catalyst behind one of
his attacks. Oh, no, she had to rub salt in the wounds, coming to him in the
most erotic dreams he had ever experienced, tempting and taunting him with that
rosy mouth, those flashing eyes, that body he wanted to possess with every
raging demon that ruled his black and tortured soul, until he had thrown her
down on the deck, right there in the dream, right there on the rug behind where
he stood, driving himself into her until she was broken and begging, subdued,
mastered, repressed. His blood began to pound at even the thought of it — the
prim and elegant Lady Simms laid out on his rug like some common tart,
screaming her defiance even while she begged him to take her . . .
And she would,
too.
Beg.
He slowly let
his fingers fall away from his throat. In the mirror his eyes remained
unfeeling and soulless, only a slight heightening of their natural iridescence
betraying the rising fury of his emotions. His dark brows remained unmoving.
His forehead showed not the slightest trace of a crease; his mouth was carved
from ice. The man who looked back at him was impenetrable, polished, cold.
Emotionless and lacking both soul and conscience. He raised his chin and
fingered a small shaving nick, still holding his own gaze. Ah, what the mind
harbored, what the face could conceal. And what he wouldn't give for a
chance to put that virago in her place.
His eyes glowed
with unholy light.
Right here,
right now.
He felt the rage
starting, red-hot and hungry, devouring everything in its path and making him
burn as if with fever. His hands curled into fists and he caught a glimpse of
his eyes, fanatical, fiery, and now blazing with the devil's own fury. Unable
to gaze upon that malevolent face in the mirror any longer, he spun on his heel
and yanked out a chair, trembling. The red haze followed him, burning in his
chest, his throat, his head, inescapable and growing hotter by the second.
Scenes flashed before his eyes: Commodore Julian Lord engulfed in the glory
and admiration that he, Damon, had found briefly but lost; his tyrannical first
captain, whipping him over the breech of a gun until he overcame his fear of
heights and climbed the mainmast; and there, puncturing these memories like
bolts of lightning, his rival, Adam Bolton, getting promoted over him because
he was the son of an admiral, the bastard rubbing his nose in it until he'd
incited the fight with Damon that had been building for as long as the two had
known each other; the court-martial, the public insults, the duel, and Bolton's
father, avenging his son's death by putting Damon in charge of this reeking
sewer, pulling the rug out from under him and destroying his naval career. His
mother hurling a wine bottle at him, Oxford and humiliation, Morninghall and
terror, and over it all the mocking taunts of Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms —
Damon pressed
the heels of his hands into his temples and stared down at his breakfast — be
calm, be calm — seeing the toast stacked with military precision in a
little metal rack, the pats of butter on a tiny plate, the knife, fork, and
spoon rolled up in a crisp square of white linen, the strong black coffee in
its porcelain cup, the delicately enameled pots of marmalade and jam, dainty,
exquisite, God help me, I want to smash them , like the frail shell of a
songbird's egg, God help me,
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