Samantha James (7 page)

As a child, she had grown to accept herself as she was. She could not
do
as other children did. She could not
walk
as other children walked. Ah, yes, she had accepted it…and hated it.

Deep in her secret heart, she had often longed
to be the beauty everyone envied, the darling of the celebration, the most graceful dancer on the ballroom floor, the fastest rider on the hunt. But she couldn’t ride, because her knee pained her. She couldn’t dance, because her clumsiness forbade it, and she refused to look even more the fool.

She’d never received an offer for her hand—nor would she! In five-and-twenty years, she’d never even been kissed. Always…always she had known she would never marry, though Mama and Papa had assured her that in time, some dashing young man would fall madly in love with her. But Heather knew differently. What did it matter that she was kind and generous and sweet-natured? She was lame, and that was something others never forgot…

Nor did she.

But she had learned to appreciate what she had—her resourcefulness and her wit. She had learned to appreciate her pleasures, simple though they were—the loveliness of the meadow where the dog roses bloomed, the sound of the sweetly pure concerto of a thrush, chuckling as a dog cut sheep from the flock. She was content with her life…

But no more.

No more, for now her days were often plagued with a restless dissatisfaction. It was as if some blight had been cast upon her soul.

All because of him…Damien Lewis.

He performed his duties exceedingly well, of that there was no question. She did not regret
hiring him, for he was without a doubt the best man for the job. On matters of the estate, the two of them dealt extremely well together. Indeed, she saw him nearly every day. Outwardly she was calm and composed, but inside was a world of turmoil. If only she were not so—so damnably aware of everything about him….

Only yesterday they’d sat together in her study, reconciling ledgers. But her mind—and her eyes—displayed a most shocking tendency to stray from the figures in the ledger…to the figure of the man sitting beside her! He smelled of some woodsy, spicy scent that was infinitely pleasant. His fingers curled lean and brown and strong against the delicate china of his teacup. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, baring muscular forearms liberally coated with fine, dark, masculine hair. And when he bent his head down low, her gaze returned in fascination again and again to the way his hair curled just so against the bronzed column of his nape.

He had only to walk into view and she felt scattered in every direction. Her stomach felt peculiarly weightless. Her heart would flutter.

She resented him, resented him fiercely! All her secret yearnings had returned, stronger than ever…stronger than she remembered. At night she tossed and turned, as she had in those long-ago days of budding desires and senses, when she was of an age with Bea. She fell asleep wondering what it was like to be kissed by a man, to feel his lips against hers. Would they be warm and dry? Moist and cool? What was it like to be held tight against a man’s chest? Visions flashed in her
brain, only now there was a face attached to those visions….

Yet she longed to discover those mysteries for herself. Just once.
Just once…

She arose one morning feeling tired and irritable. With a weary sigh, she stripped off her nightgown. She turned, only to confront her naked body in the cheval glass that stood in the corner. In truth, she’d never been one to pamper her body with lotions and perfumes; indeed, she’d paid scant attention to it, always dressing and bathing with an economy of effort.

Now, she examined her naked limbs with an almost critical detachment. Her hair tumbled over one bare breast in sensuous abandon. Her breasts were high and full, yet not too heavy for her small frame. Small coral nipples tipped those ripe, firm mounds. Her belly was flat, concave between the span of her hipbones. She frowned. Had she dropped a bit of weight recently? Still, the curve of her hips flared out from her waist, narrow but feminine and not at all boyish. Unbidden, her fingertips stroked the curved underside of one breast. No, she thought wonderingly, her body was not so unpleasant to look upon….

Her gaze fell to her right knee, to that knotted, misshapen joint that turned inward. Her satisfaction withered, until all that was left was a hollow emptiness that echoed all through her.

Later that day, she absently rubbed her knee. It ached abominably; even the long, hot soak in the tub this morning hadn’t helped, as it usually did.

Just then Bea burst into her study. “Heather! Oh, Heather, come quickly. You’ll play the piano for me, won’t you? Mr. Lewis is quite the dancer, and he’s promised to teach me the waltz! And later he’s promised to teach me something called the Virginia reel!”

Heather laid aside her quill. “Bea, I’m really quite busy—”

“Oh, but you can spare a moment, can’t you?” Her sister pleaded prettily, the picture of blond enchantment in a gay white flowered dress and matching slippers. “Heather, love, please! It won’t take long. I know Mama is disappointed in me, but Pierre is so rigid and impatient—I get so flustered I can never get it right with him!”

She sighed. “All right, Bea.” She arose and picked up her cane from the side of the desk.

Bea was ecstatic. “Here she is!” She bounced inside the music room with a flourish. Damien stood in the center of the polished wooden floor, his hands behind his back. At their entrance, he inclined his head. His gaze briefly touched Heather’s. She gave a cursory nod and limped toward the piano in the far corner.

“I vow Heather plays quite divinely, but you’ll see for yourself. Oh, and she’s quite talented with watercolors, too, Mr. Lewis.” She chatted on gaily. “Why, she’s done nearly all of the paintings here in the house.”

Dark brows shot up. His gaze encompassed several on the nearest wall, one of a harp and pianoforte, the other a pastoral scene of livestock grazing in the fields.

“Very impressive,” he said. “And do you sketch as well, Miss Duval?”

Heather had just sat at the piano bench. Her jaw closed with a snap. She shot him a blistering glance, but his eyes were twinkling. With a sweetness she was far from feeling, she asked, “’Tis a waltz you want, is it not?”

“Yes. Yes, please.” Breathlessly, Bea stepped up before Damien. Shyly she placed one small hand on his shoulder. With a faint smile, Damien clasped her fingers lightly within his and settled his hand on her waist.

Tearing her gaze away, Heather launched into a light, merry tune. But while her fingers skimmed the familiar notes, her eyes skipped back to the couple again and again.

Bea was right. Her waltzing was inexpert and stiff.

Damien said nothing until they were midway through the second song. “Relax,” Heather heard him say as they passed by. “Forget who you are—where you are. You are a billowing young willow, and your limbs are flowing with the softness of a gentle spring breeze. And remember—your feet are not platforms, Beatrice. They are light as air, never touching the earth.”

They whirled across the floor. Again…and yet again.

“Yes. Yes, Beatrice…that’s much better….”

Around and around they dipped and swirled. Before long, Bea was waltzing as if she’d been born to it.

Some unfamiliar emotion inside Heather wouldn’t allow her to look away. Her fingers moved across the keys, but the lilting melody was an endless blur in her ears. There was a fist curled tight in her chest, heavy and hard. She felt as if her heart were encased in chains. The pair on the floor were no longer two, but one. Their steps matched perfectly, spinning and graceful and fluid, their movements supple and elegant.

Arching her neck, Bea laughed up at her partner, one arm raised swan-like about his shoulder as their steps skimmed across the floor…. The pain in Heather’s heart was tortuous. To them it was such a simple thing, to move their feet just so to the music, something they both took for granted. On and on they danced, caught up in the melody, the lighthearted mood of the music…and each other.

The song ended. Laughing, Bea gave a deep curtsey while her partner bowed in return. Rising upright, she clasped her hands together. Her eyes were shining like the moon in a starlit sky.

“Oh, that was marvelous!” she beamed. “I didn’t know waltzing could be so—so wonderful!”

Damien took her hand and bowed low. “My pleasure, mademoiselle.”

Heather slipped from the music room. They never even noticed.

It was some thirty minutes later when she emerged from her study again. She had just entered the drawing room when the sound of voices caught her ears. The beveled French doors
to the terrace were open, and it was toward them that she directed herself.

The voices were louder. Heather paused, just inside the threshold.

“Do you truly think me pretty, Mr. Lewis?”

Heather’s spine went rigid. Soft lips thinned to a straight line. It was Bea—and Damien.

The two came into view, strolling up the flagstone path. “Of course you are, Beatrice. When you come out next year I have no doubt you’ll have dozens of handsome young bucks vying for your favors.”

Bea gave a trilling little laugh, fluttering her lashes. “Oh, but one is quite enough,” she proclaimed airily. “Indeed, one is more than enough when he is the
right
one.”

Heather gripped the head of her cane with both hands; it rapped sharply on the floor.

Bea glanced up. “Heather, there you are! Mr. Lewis has promised another lesson soon. You’ll play for us, won’t you? But of course you will, you’re such a dear.”

Heather made no reply. “Walk with me, Bea,” was all she said. Ignoring Damien, who had stepped aside, she took her sister’s arm. She could feel his eyes burning into her back as she and Bea turned away from him, but she paid no heed. She was simmering inside, and she didn’t particularly care if he knew it or not!

They hadn’t gone far before Bea frowned over at her. “Whatever is wrong, Heather?”

Heather stopped short. Taking a deep breath, she rounded on her sister.

“You are not a ninny, Bea.” She did not mince words. “You know full well what you are doing.”

Beatrice blinked. “What! Surely you’re not angry because Mr. Lewis and I were walking in the garden! We—were looking for you.” It was an excuse, a feeble one at that.

“I was in my study,” Heather snapped. “Had you looked for me there, you would have found me. Furthermore, I think you
wanted
to be alone with Mr. Lewis. Frankly, Bea, I am appalled at your lack of decorum.”

Bea pouted. “Oh, come. This isn’t London. I hardly need a chaperone.”

“I beg to differ with you. It appears you do.”

Bea’s eyes flashed. “And I beg to differ with
you
, Heather. I do not need a chaperone—not you or any other!”

“You’re smitten with him, Bea, a man nearly twice your age. Heavens, what were you thinking—cavorting in the garden with him?”

“Cavorting in the garden! Why, I did no such thing!”

“Then what would you call it?”

Bea’s face went fiery red. Heather knew then that she was right—Bea just wouldn’t admit it.

“You were the one who left us alone,” Bea accused.

“I did, and I see now it was a mistake, but I never realized you’d hang onto him like a leech. I’m ashamed of you, Bea! What do you think Mama and Papa would say?”

“Oh!” Beatrice gave an indignant cry. “And I suppose you’ll hurry and tell them as soon as you are able, won’t you?”

“You were making a fool of yourself, Bea, and you don’t have the sense to realize it! Asking him to teach you to waltz…walking in the garden alone…and I heard you ask if he thought you were pretty. You were flirting quite shamelessly! Well, I warn you, Bea.” Her tone was severe. “I’ll have no more of these little trysts with Mr. Lewis. I won’t have my sister acting like a hoyden.”

Bea’s jaw had dropped open. “You—you’re jealous, Heather. You’re jealous because he thinks I’m pretty, because he—he likes me. You’re jealous because I can dance and you can’t!” Her beautiful blue eyes were swimming with tears, but the tip of her chin was mutinous. “And you have no right to tell me what to do, Heather. You’re just an old cripple. You—you’re not even my sister!”

Heather flinched as if she’d been slapped across the face. As Bea whirled around and ran down the path, she could only stand there frozen and motionless, as if she’d been cast in stone. The sound of muffled sobs hung in the air.

You’re jealous, Heather. You’re jealous because he thinks I’m pretty, because he—he likes me. You’re jealous because I can dance and you can’t!

A riot of confusion gripped her soul. No! she thought wildly. No, that wasn’t right! She was glad that Bea was young and lovely, that she would someday have the world at her feet. She neither envied her youthful beauty nor resented her lithe, supple grace. She wasn’t jealous of Bea, she wasn’t!

You have no right to tell me what to do,
Heather. You’re just an old cripple. You—you’re not even my sister!

Her heart constricted. Her head bowed low.
Bea
, she thought wrenchingly.
Oh, Bea, how could you say that to me?
If she’d wanted to wound her, she’d succeeded quite admirably.

She should go after her. She really should…

Heather’s head came up. Damien had presented himself before her. With the sun at his back, the span of his shoulders broad as the wheat fields, he was a figure both powerful and formidable.

She wasn’t up to this, she thought vaguely. Not now. Her control was tenuous; it was as if she were coming apart inside.

“Well, that went well.”

So he’d heard. Even as a burning shame scalded her veins, she managed to summon an icy strength.

A slender, black brow arched high. “Eavesdropping, Mr. Lewis? I’m disappointed. Somehow I’d thought better of you.”

“It was difficult not to hear, Miss Duval.” Disapproval resided in the coolness of his tone.

Heather’s eyes narrowed. “If you think to censure me, Mr. Lewis, please think again.”

Damien stood his ground. “Oh, I know it’s none of my affair. But I wonder…weren’t you a bit hard on your sister? She is, after all, barely out of the schoolroom.”