Damn her for calling him by his father’s name, a moniker he never used because anything that hinted at his association with that wretched man sickened him. And damn her for calling him out on his transgressions because, between the two of them, he had indeed been the most deceptive. While he could argue for the need for it, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Because his father had been a deceitful bastard. Flirting, cajoling, and wooing his mother until she fell in love with him, causing her to believe life with him would be idyllic—not the hell it had become. Always promising the beatings wouldn’t happen again. Through him, Bishop had learned that words couldn’t be trusted, that truth resided only in actions.
And his actions tonight had been unconscionable.
He shouldn’t have kissed her at the brothel. He’d known at the time that it was a bad idea, but standing there within inches of her, listening as she breathed, inhaling the violet fragrance along her skin, gazing into those wide blue eyes, and staring at those lush plump lips, he’d been unable to resist the temptation of her and had surrendered like an untried schoolboy. But he certainly hadn’t kissed her like he had no experience. Nor had she responded as though she’d never snuck off into the gardens with a man.
For those few minutes there had been no secrets between them. She’d known he was a counterfeit lover, and he’d known she was a phony servant.
What they’d shared was probably the first honest moment between them. And it should have been enough. He should have ensured it was enough. But then, when they’d first gotten into the carriage with the taste of her still fresh on his lips, he’d wanted a little bit more. The little bit had turned into a great deal because she’d been so responsive, and he’d wanted to give her the gift of pleasure.
But now the mistake loomed because she wasn’t someone who would be content with a dalliance. It was the reason she hadn’t gone up those stairs at the Fair and Spare. She wanted more, deserved more.
Deserved what he couldn’t give her. A man in whom she could take pride. A man with whom she could be seen in public. Any further association with him would bring her naught but mortification, would serve only to blemish her reputation. He needed to spare her that, protect her in his own fashion.
Her anger was causing her to breathe harshly and heavily. That was a good start to sending her on her way. Although what he truly wanted was to take her mouth once more and turn the anger back into passion. Her response to him had been a gift, one he shouldn’t have received, couldn’t accept.
Daisy waited for him to respond, to provide any sort of denial to her accusations.
“You’re absolutely correct,” he finally said quietly, his voice low and rough, as though he’d had to force out the words. “I play games, doing whatever necessary to win. Sometimes that involves creating fairy tales. I apologize for my earlier behavior. It shouldn’t have happened.”
A game.Anger and hurt rushed in to replace the pleasure she’d experienced only moments before. He’d taken something wonderful and turned it into something she regretted and resented with every fiber of her being.
“Because you lost?” she asked caustically.
In spite of the darkness, she was aware of him whipping his head around to look—no, she imagined he was glaring—at her. She feared that with her, he’d crafted another fairy tale, that nothing that had ever transpired between them had been honest and true.
“Because you weren’t made for dalliances, and that’s all I was offering.”
She wanted to object, but the truth was, after what they’d just shared, she didn’t know how anyone who fell apart in another’s arms returned to a casual relationship, because even now she felt the pull of him and wanted to be nestled against him. Instead, the abyss between them was widening with each clop of the horses’ hooves. She had the odd sensation of the carriage stretching until they’d no longer be in close proximity of each other.
The vehicle began to slow, and he returned to his place opposite her. “By the way, we’re arriving at your aunt’s residence. I thought it best to take you there.”
Because he didn’t have the strength to resist her if she was in his residence? Or because he didn’t want her? She wasn’t going to beg or weep or confess that his apology hurt because it confirmed what he’d known and stated before he’d kissed her: there would be regrets.
He regretted all that had happened. She regretted all that hadn’t.
“How extremely thoughtful.”
“I’ll have Perkins pack up your belongings and send them round in the morning.”
“No need. With the exception of the frock I’m wearing, everything I brought with me was temporary. It’s how I handle things when I go into a situation where I might have to leave in haste. Staff is welcome to whatever remains. Or Perkins can toss it all out. None of it means anything to me.” She wanted to add that he didn’t mean anything either, but it was the dishonesty between them that had led to this awkward moment. Their relationship had been built on a foundation of lies. She’d be a fool to wish for more between them.
When the carriage came to a stop, to her surprise, he opened the door, leapt out, and reached back in to hand her down. “I’ll see you to the door.”
“No need. I think we’re quite done with each other, Mr. Blackwood.”
Straightening her shoulders, she began her trek up the drive to the residence.
She would not weep. She wouldn’t mourn the loss of him. She would not repeat her mother’s mistake. She wouldn’t hold on to memories of him, would give him no sway over her. The gossip rags had been correct about him. He was Blackguard Blackwood, scoundrel extraordinaire, and for the briefest of moments she might have fancied him. But she was no fool. She wouldn’t pine for him. She would never again think of him at all.
Chapter 14
Friday was a dreary, rainy day that suited Daisy’s melancholy. While she let an office with rooms above it where she resided, she had decided to spend a few days with her aunt. Especially as she was having a difficult time keeping her vow not to think of Bishop. She’d lost herself to him, and damn it, she wanted to do so again. Stupid girl. She was too much like her mother, yearning for a man who was no good for her, who would lead her to ruin.
She was curled in the corner of the sofa in her aunt’s drawing room. In her palm rested her locket, open, so she could study the two miniature photographs, the last taken of her parents. Her father’s portraits within the earl’s residences had been moved to the attic, except for those from his youth, when he’d been included with the remainder of the family in paintings.
As for her mother, only this small picture existed, and Daisy knew a time would come when her eyes would betray her and she’d need a magnifying glass to make out the details. Neither of her parents were smiling, and yet she detected a note of happiness in the serenity of their faces and the glow in their eyes. She wished the images had been painted so she’dknow the exact shade of their hair and eyes. In the portraits from his youth, her father’s hair had been a sandy blond but she assumed it had shifted into a light brown. His eyes were dark. Were they the color of coffee, like Bishop’s? Or were they more like tea?
Her mother’s hair was fair, as were her eyes. No doubt blue like her daughter’s. Daisy wished she could remember them more clearly, could draw upon the memories that the lullaby played at the Fair and Spare had invoked. She was still amazed that Bishop had remembered the phrase she’d mentioned and more that he’d thought to ask the pianist if he’d been familiar with it.
