An Impossible Choice (All Things Possible Book 1) Page 12

  That warmth quickly vanished as she realized he was actually getting up to leave, moving to return to the sofa. The fear she felt in her nightmare came crashing back at once, clamoring about her throat as if to choke her all over again. “Damon! Wait!” She reached out and clasped his arm, “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

  “Argel.” The single word was the only one spoken for what felt like an eternity, but she never relented her grip during his pregnant pause. “I…I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he murmured at last, sounding uncertain, hesitant.

  “Please Damon,” she begged. She was willing to do just about anything to keep him by her side. “Just hold me—at least until I fall asleep. That’s all I ask.” Argel waited, listening for Damon’s answer over the rapid thunder of her own wildly beating heart. Despite the glowing moonlight, it was too dark to read his face. When no answer came, she pleaded one more time. “Please,” she whispered.

  A sigh loud enough to wake King Hamlet himself was Damon’s only reply before she felt the bed once again shift under his weight as he climbed back in beside her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered from the bottom of her heart. She slid back down into the bed and pulled the covers to her chin. Damon remained sitting upright beside her, still as stone. She didn’t mind—she just needed him close by to ward off any more terrifying dreams. His warmth still reached her, a silent reassurance of his presence. Turning on her side, she adjusted her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.

  Sleep had almost claimed her when a movement brought her back to consciousness. For an instant she panicked—he was leaving again! But, no, she soon realized he was scooting down to lie beside her.

  Suddenly, all was still. She held her breath, afraid to break whatever spell this was—one of comfort and peace, of her husband beside her. Then she felt movement again. Slowly, he draped an arm over her, barely touching her as if afraid she might burn him. Smiling, Argel niggled closer, just slightly, wanting to feel the safety of his arms again.

  “Argel,” he growled, “Don’t. Move.”

  She immediately stilled, relaxing in the comfort of his presence, even if he seemed rather stiff. As she lay there in the dark, she listened to his breathing, trying to calm her own. One thought took hold of her mind then and refused to let go: Damon had saved her—not only in her dream, but also from her dream.

  Argel closed her eyes and she realized then that he’d also saved her from her life that had been a lie. Though she knew she had every right to be angry with him in the beginning, time had only proven him to be a man of his word. Marriage, travel, friendship, safety, her inheritance… he was providing her with everything she had ever desired after all, albeit using unorthodox methods.

  He actually was her refuge, despite her initial misgivings. He was no demon, but rather her dark prince. And…dare she admit that she was falling in love?

  “Thank you,” she whispered into the dark. The simple phrase held a world of emotion for her, emotions she was not yet ready to put into words. His grunted reply was the last thing she remembered before sleep—this time peaceful—claimed her once again.

  Chapter Nine

  “So much for small,” Damon murmured in Argel’s ear as they waited in line to greet their host and hostess. They’d been among the last to arrive and the line had hardly moved in minutes.

  Glancing about at her surroundings, Argel heartily agreed. Small was a most inadequate word for both house and party alike. Truly, she hadn’t known what to expect of the townhouse belonging to the Duke and Duchess of Alston. They were the first people of such rank that she had ever met.

  As they stood in the entryway at the end of the long line into the ballroom, their opulent surroundings attested to the nobility of the Alston bloodline. Marble floors, crystal vases filled with various floral arrangements, a suit of armor on display bearing a shield with the ducal coat of arms— it was all breathtaking. But what drew Argel’s eye the most was the great winding staircase behind them. Every time she peeked at it, the smooth curved railing glistened in greeting to her. The child in her longed to test it with a banister ride from the floor above. Or maybe it was the Welsh in her. Either way, it was far too grand to even think about attempting such a feat.

  Indeed, the only thing small about this house party was the way Argel felt in comparison. Despite the fact that she had felt exceedingly elegant in her new gown at first, the house succeeded in putting her back in her proper place. A simple country miss dressed in shimmering cream organdy over a silk slip, a low rounded neckline with short puffed sleeves, silk gloves, and a feather plume in her lovely arrangement of curls was still a simple country miss—no matter how long her husband had stared at her speechless when she’d first greeted him in their parlor.

  She truly had no business being here. She was a nobody, despite who her parents may have been.

  Well, not a nobody, exactly, she corrected herself. She was Mrs. Damon Westmoreland, a fact that she was increasingly proud of by the day. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her head an inch taller as the line moved forward by just as much. Her eyes cut over to Damon as she held his arm and she couldn’t quell the resulting tingling from head to toe.

  There was no denying he cut a fine figure in his dark blue tailcoat with gilt buttons, white wool breeches, and crisply tied cravat. He stood nearly a head—or two—taller than the other men waiting in line. His raven locks were brushed forward in a dry, disorderly manner and his black sideburns accentuated his darker skin tone.

  She may very well be falling in love with him for other, more important reasons, but his physical appearance did nothing to hurt matters either. If she were honest with herself, his exotic looks and hulking frame had drawn her from the moment he first lowered his hood in Davies’s pig’s chamber.

  The line moved again and he glanced down at her. “Are you well, Argel?” He covered her hand with his own.

  Flustered at being caught staring, she gave the briefest of smiles before turning her head. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “I’m fine. Just nervous is all. I pray there is as little of dancing as the duchess claimed. I’ll be no good at these London dances.”

  “Just follow your partner’s lead and you’ll be fine. Better yet, dance only with me and no one else,” he grinned with a sly gleam to his eye.

  Argel laughed softly, “I may be from Wales, but even I know what a scandal that would cause, husband or no.”

  “Well, dear wife, if there is a waltz tonight, it belongs to me.” His teasing smirk belied his serious tone.

  “As you wish, sir,” she grinned before moving with the line into the ballroom. At last they were almost there. The duke and duchess were now greeting the couple just in front of them. Craning her neck, she could just make out Lady Margaret and her husband standing on the other side of Her Grace. At least she would have one new friend here—

  “Besides,” Damon’s deep voice sounded in her ear just then, causing her to nearly jump. Apparently, he wasn’t done with the conversation. “You look entirely too tempting tonight.” His warm breath ticked her skin and she knew he bent near, his words intended for her alone.

  As he reached over with one finger, he began stroking the exposed flesh of her arm between silk glove and puffed sleeve, coming dangerously near her bosom, and her senses prickled with awareness. Her breathing shallowed as she darted a nervous glance around to see if anyone saw, but it was his next words that turned her skin to gooseflesh.

  “I am certain no man could waltz with you and not have the same thoughts as I do now. And I should hate to have to murder anyone tonight.”

  His roughly whispered words stole all breath. Argel couldn’t even manage to look at him as she sensed his head move away from hers. She knew her eyes were wide as teacups, but had no time to even contemplate a response as they were now approaching the Duke and Duchess of Alston. As Argel dropped into a curtsy, she was grateful for the obligation. It bought
her time to gather her senses as best she could. She had a feeling she would need them tonight more than ever.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Damon stood in the corner cradling a glass of punch, looking on as the duchess gave an exquisite pianoforte performance. The instrument had apparently been brought into the ballroom especially for tonight, turning half of it into a music room. A semi-circle of chairs surrounded it where she played. The other half of the room had been kept clear for dancing, which, thankfully, there had been very little of.

  There had also been no waltz.

  Damon could have kicked himself for his impudence earlier. In fact, he had done so mentally many times over. He had allowed his desire, his emotions to override any sensibility or remembrance of promises made. He should have never spoken to Argel so, especially in a room full of half the ton.

  He shouldn’t have touched her.

  Wretch, he chided himself again. She clearly still wasn’t ready. Instead of leaning in to him, or sighing, or anything, she had frozen, eyes wide with horror. Horror from his words, his touch…from him.

  It was only that he had begun to believe they had grown closer these past weeks. Their banter was easy and she had appeared to be at ease around him—even glad to see him whenever he walked in the room. She had shared so much more about herself that he had begun to believe she trusted him. And after last night, when she had all but begged him to stay with her, he had believed she at least liked him at last.

  Hope. False hope. That’s all it had been. Perhaps it was time to put away this foolishness and see the reality staring him in the face—she would never be his. Not completely. He’d ensured that by all of the damage he’d caused in the beginning. He’d never fully had any living person’s heart before in his life and it apparently wasn’t going to happen now either.

  He glanced to where his lovely wife sat across the room next to Lady Margaret. With a huff, he blew a stray lock of hair away from his face. He would have to accept the facts. There was no way around it.

  He should be grateful, he reminded himself. At least he was married to her. In that sense she belonged to him. He’d even say they were friends, which was more than most marriages could ever hope for.

  They could spend the rest of their lives in each other’s amiable, platonic presence.

  His darkened brow furrowed. He’d wanted more, sought after it his whole life. But now, he realized, his uncle had been wrong. There were some things that would never be his no matter how hard he tried.

  He politely clapped as Her Grace’s song came to an end. He had to admit—from what he half-heard—that she played most beautifully. Almost as beautiful as Argel sang.

  He straightened where he stood as an idea occurred to him then. It may be time to put away his dreams of a real wife in Argel, but he would listen to her sweet voice tonight if it was the last thing he did. One more indulgence before he locked his heart away for good.

  Straightening his jacket, he made his way over to the duchess to have a word.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Well! That was quite the crush, was it not?” Argel sighed as she slumped down into the carriage seat. It was well past midnight and she was exhausted. She had ended up enjoying herself immensely and there had been very few dances, none of them too difficult to learn.

  Damon chuckled as he settled in beside her, the carriage jostling with his movements, “So much for the duchess’s little house party.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured as she leaned her head back against the seat to rest. “I still can’t believe what talent she has! I’ve never heard the pianoforte played so beautifully. And I also still can’t believe what you did!” She poked her fan’s ivory sticks into Damon’s side.

  “Me? Whatever do you mean?” He turned to her in mock innocence.

  Argel smiled and sat up straight, narrowing her eyes at him. “You know full-well what you did Damon Westmoreland. Honestly, making me sing up there in front of a room too full of strangers—you know how I hate being the center of attention!”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps the duchess could tell just by looking at you that you have a beautiful voice—and she would be right,” he reached up to gently touch her cheek. Her pulse immediately began to race, causing her to miss the sad look in his eyes.

  But she wasn’t to be put off so easily. “I saw you whispering to Lady Margaret who likely went and told her mother. And now all of London will know me as the woman who sings with her eyes closed! It was the only way I could make it through the song with that many people watching, you know.” She smirked. “I hope you’re happy.”

  Her husband barked a laugh and put an arm around her before immediately stiffening. Strange, it was almost as if he had done so without thinking before realizing his mistake. She began to ask what was the matter when he relaxed, instead drawing her close as the carriage set off for their small lodging—indeed it would seem so after the extravagance of the Alston town house.

  After all that had transpired last night—which was a husband and wife sleeping in the same bed, nothing more—the invisible barrier between the two of them seemed to have evaporated. She must have imagined his hesitancy just now, for all day Argel had felt an unspoken intimacy with Damon—small touches here, a look there. Now when he drew her close, she went unflinching.

  What truly affected her, though, was when he bent his head close, the scent of sandalwood tickling her nose. Though there seemed to be less intimacy in the gesture than earlier that evening, his baritone still rumbled in her ear. “What I am happy about is hearing that song you first sang when we met—that night at the hotel. It’s so lovely, even though I don’t understand a lick of Welsh.”

  “Mmm,” Argel sighed as she leaned her head against him, “’tis one of my favorites, a lullaby.” She felt quite relaxed now with the sway of the carriage, Damon’s warmth beside her, and his draped hand lightly tracing lines up and down her arm above her long silk glove. Given the cozy coupling and the late hour, Argel’s eyelids began to feel heavy.

  “What does it mean?” Damon’s deep voice stirred her.

  She yawned, “What?”

  “The song. The lullaby. What does it mean?”

  She shifted to sit up more to keep from falling fast asleep. “Well, let me see,” she blinked. The dimly lit lantern in the corner did little to aid her attempts. “It’s a mother speaking to her babe as he sleeps. Here, my favorite line—Ni chaff dim amharu’th gyntun, Ni wan undyn a^ the gam. ‘Nothing shall disturb your slumber, Nobody will do you harm.’”

  “That is rather…comforting…” his voice drifted off as he turned his head to look out the window.

  Neither spoke as Argel picked at some lint on Damon’s jacket, feeling more alert now and working up the courage to speak her mind. She’d had ample time to think while appearing to listen to countless performances tonight. She knew she wanted to tell her husband how she felt, but how? “Damon, about last night… I’m most relieved you were there. What you did…you were a great comfort to me and I’m quite indebted to you.”

  She felt his arm tighten about her, though he continued looking out into the darkness. “You owe me nothing, Argel. You’re my wife and I protect what is mine, no matter how…difficult it may be.”

  Argel nodded against him, remembering how gently he had held her last night, understanding exactly what he meant by the words. She knew he did not take his promise to her lightly. And that was why she knew now that she trusted him, fully. He had done nothing to compromise her, to rush her along. In fact, he had been an absolute saint—and she was beginning to feel quite disappointed about it.

  They rode along in silence for a moment. While she was still feeling somewhat brave, Argel had another matter she also wanted to discuss, but still she hesitated. The question had been on her mind for several weeks now, and as much as she decided it shouldn’t matter…it did. “You…you mentioned—that night we were first married—that you had p
reviously decided never to marry. Why?”

  Silence.

  Argel waited, refusing to look up at him. Even in the dim light, she was sure he would be able to make out her crimson face. At last, she heard him swallow, but it was a few moments more before he made any other sound.

  “I thought I had found love once,” he began, “many years ago, but it served only to make a fool out of me. So, I vowed never again. Therefore, no need for a wife.”

  “What happened?” Argel shifted to look up at him, her curiosity dispelling any embarrassment. What could have possibly made her steady, determined, unshakable Damon feel a fool?

  Yes, she now thought of him as hers, as much as she could anyway.

  “That’s all there was to it, Argel. Nothing of importance to speak of now.” Though he still looked away, she could make out the tightening of his jaw.

  “Please, Damon. I’d truly like to know. Will you trust me? Your wife?”

  His head whipped back to her sharply and dark narrow eyes scanned her face. She knew he was asking himself the same question: could he trust her? Though she was unable to read his thoughts, she did her best to bare her heart to him through her own eyes.

  She knew the exact moment Damon conceded. With a silent nod, he leaned back, looking straight up at the claret-colored ceiling. Though his arm was still around her, it had slackened. “It was after my uncle’s passing. I was making my own way in the world, determined to follow every last word of his advice. He’d been barely gone two years. I suppose I wanted to make him proud, hoping he would know somehow that I would be successful.”

  “In business, you mean?”

  “Yes—business, life, everything. I was young and alone, but always driven. I knew I could rely on no one but myself, never allowing myself to become distracted—until the day I had a business meeting go bad. I was meeting with a committee about potentially backing a new cotton mill. There was a lot of uncertainty regarding the situation and tempers flared, words were exchanged. I was young and easily agitated. I left in a horrid temper—walking aimlessly, fuming on the streets of London—when I came to a stop in front of a small theatre.