Honor's Fury Read online

  “So you are to be married in the chapel,” Damon Fowler said, dropping his cigar and grinding it out with his heel.

  “Yes.”

  “Your bridegroom seems like a decent sort,” Damon Fowler commented. “It’s a pity. . . .” He stopped short.

  “A pity what?”

  “Mr. Warner doesn’t seem to have the same fire as you.”

  “But Thaddeus does!” she defended stoutly. “You just don’t know him. Simply because he argues without my impatience doesn’t mean he feels less strongly.”

  She could see Damon Fowler’s features more clearly now as he turned to her in the moonlight: the strong nose, the hard line of his jaw, the thick, dark hair brushed back from a broad forehead. And though she smelled liquor on his breath he gave no appearance of being drunk, or even tipsy.

  “Impatience, did you say?” he queried skeptically, pausing, studying her for a few long moments. Her cloak had fallen open and he could see the rise and fall of her full, creamy breasts. Delectable, but untouchable. She belonged to another man, kin to his host. To pursue her would be a gross breach of hospitality. “I would call it passion rather than impatience,” he continued. “Beneath all that frippery”—again his eyes went over her body—“I would say lives a woman of exciting temperament.”

  It was not the sort of thing a gentleman, even one of long acquaintance, would say to a woman, and Amélie reacted with proper indignation.

  “You are insolent, Mr. Fowler.”

  “But if it’s the truth—”

  “The truth! How would you know? You come here for an evening and in a few hours have us all pigeonholed—Babette, Thaddeus, me—”

  “I could be wrong about the others,” he interrupted, moving closer. “And if I am, forgive me. But I know I’m not wrong about you.”

  “You most certainly are!” She turned from him, prepared to leave without further conversation, but he put a restraining hand on her shoulder. She tried to brush it away, but he held on, his steely fingers bruising her flesh.

  “Release me!”

  He wanted to but couldn’t. The feel of her shoulder through the cloth sent a surge of hot blood to his temples. He swung her around. “I think I can prove it, Miss Townsend.”

  He pulled her into his arms, bringing his mouth down on her surprised one. The pressure of those strong, assertive lips caught her before she could summon resistance and by then it was too late. New sensations, pleasurable, exciting, erotic, rushed through her veins, infusing her blood, taking over her senses. Aware of her surrender Damon Fowler gripped her slender waist more tightly, his lips ravaging hers with a stunning heat.

  Crushed against his hard, lean body, she could feel the thunder of his heart counterpointing the thud of her own. Never had she been kissed like this! Even when he had kissed her on the mouth Thaddeus had shown a gentlemanly control, but this man’s wildness, his savagery, touched a hidden response in her that leapt into molten flame. Her body burned with a desire she hardly thought possible, a sensuous excitement that made her passionately eager. The feverish mouth devouring hers, the muscled arms yoking her waist, the length of his hard thighs, the burgeoning of what she guessed was aroused manhood, shook her free from time and place.

  He lifted his head briefly, resting his hot cheek against her white throat, his breath harsh in her ear. If he had said, “I told you so,” she would have fought him like a wildcat, releasing herself from his embrace. But he said nothing. The only sound was his breath coming in short, labored gasps. Then, still without speaking, he began kissing her cheeks, her closed eyes, her throat. Pushing the narrow sleeves from her shoulders, he brought his mouth to the cleavage exposed by the low neckline of her gown.

  Dimly aware of the cloak slithering to the floor, Amélie protested in a strangled voice so weak it was hardly a protest at all. “You mustn’t.”

  He drew away, still holding her, but looking down into her face. He wondered what there was about this girl that attracted him so. She was beautiful, yes, and the thought of those full white breasts with their delectable nipples made his groin ache. She had spirit too; he liked that in women. But there were others he could have with much less damage to his sense of decency. The sister, for instance, Babette. And there was a little widow who had been making eyes at him all through supper.

  “You mustn't,” Amélie repeated in a whisper.

  “I know,” Damon acknowledged. But her sweet scent, the white, oval face lifted to his, the vulnerable pink mouth trembling at the edges, made him slow to withdraw. He bent, brushing his lips on her forehead.

  For a breathless moment, she seemed to stand on tiptoe, waiting. It was too much for Damon. A sudden, urgent desire ripped through him like a sword blade. His mouth found hers again, its honey sweetness goading him on. His hand moved down her back, stroking, bringing her closer and closer until her supple body seemed to melt into his. One hand slipped beneath the neck of her gown to Find a pointed nipple, caressing it until it grew and burned in his hard fingers.

  “Amélie.”

  Did he speak her name? She wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. She had forgotten Thaddeus, forgotten her wedding, forgotten that she was the carefully nurtured Amélie Townsend brought up to be a lady. A madness gripped her and in her insanity she would have surrendered completely.

  But suddenly, as abruptly as he had first launched his amorous assault, he withdrew. One moment he was sensually stroking her breast, his mouth upon hers, the next he had thrust her away.

  She leaned against the porch railing for support, afraid that her unsteady legs would give way. Speechless, a storm of emotion raging in her heaving breast, she stared wild eyed at him.

  “God Almighty!” He ran his fingers through his hair, then thrust his hands into his coat pockets. “I must be out of my mind! And you . . .” He shook his head, at a loss for words, then began again. “I may not be a gentleman, but I’m certainly not a cad.”

  She said nothing. How could she? What was there to say? She knew that shame and base guilt would come shortly but for now all she could feel was a numb incredulity.

  “I'm not going to ask you to forgive me. Miss Townsend,” Damon went on in a voice now collected and cool. “For of course you cannot. I am sorry, however. I wish you well in your coming marriage, a long and happy life.”

  He bowed. “Good night.”

  Amélie stood on the gazebo porch for a long time after his footsteps had died away, listening to the silly chatter of the brook below.

  Chapter

  ❖ 2 ❖

  Amélie awoke the next morning to a heavy feeling of guilt. She had dreamt fitfully of Damon Fowler and now, lying awake in her white curtained bed, she recalled with painful lucidity the scene at the gazebo. It was mortifying. Disgraceful. Her shame was compounded by the knowledge that she had not only given passionate kisses freely to a man whose principles she abhorred, but would have given much more had he wished it. A Yankee. How could she?

  But no amount of breast-beating would erase that unfortunate incident. She had succumbed to a weakness, hitherto unknown, but one she would never allow to control her again. Best to forget it. Wipe that encounter from her mind as if it had never happened. She must. It was only a kiss, after all, and she had a wedding to think of, Thaddeus—who, thank God, would never know—to marry, and a long life ahead with the man she loved, She only hoped that Damon Fowler would take himself out of Anne Arundel County quickly, and that she would never see him again.

  This hope, however, died on the eve of her wedding when Babette said, “He’s coming tomorrow.”

  “Who?” Amélie, seated at her dressing table, paused, brush in hand.

  “Mr. Fowler. I persuaded Alex to bring him."

  Amélie, annoyed, went back to briskly brushing her hair, electricity snapping at each stroke.

  “By the way, he’s a bachelor,” Babette said, breaking the silence.

  “He’s a Yankee.”

  “I know. But, Amélie, some of the thi
ngs he says make sense.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “Well—that every man regardless of color has the right to liberty, his own destiny—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Babette! Stop mouthing words you know nothing about. You’ve never had a serious notion in your head. Don't pretend you have one now simply because you’re taken with a handsome face.”

  “What of it?” Babette said, tossing her head. “I like Mr. Fowler. He’s charming and very gallant.”

  “Babette . . .” It was on the tip of Amélie's tongue to tell her what had happened between Damon Fowler and herself, to warn her sister that his charm was akin to a snake’s. But somehow all she could say was, “I wouldn’t be too dazzled by the man, Babs. We know so little about him.”

  Amélie saw Damon Fowler the next morning as she stepped out on the arm of her father to the strains of the wedding march. He was sitting near the back of the chapel, his face turned to her. She faltered, a momentary hesitation, but her father’s hand under her elbow steadied her.

  “Don’t be nervous, darlin’,” he whispered.

  It was a low mass, consisting of one priest and no chorus, Garvin's gesture to troubled times and the few of his good friends who were Protestants. But if the service was reduced, the chapel was not. Dusted, swept, and scrubbed for the occasion, it shone in all its consecrated splendor. The plush carpet, kneeling rail, and cushioned benches of burgundy looked as if they had been installed a week, instead of a hundred plus years, earlier. The blue-clothed statues of Our Lady had been freshly repainted, the plump white cherubim flying across a cerulean dome newly restored, and the ornate gilded candelabra polished to a pristine glow. A perfect place, the guests agreed, for the union of such a handsome pair.

  By the time Amélie had reached the altar Damon Fowler had faded from her mind. Radiantly beautiful in white satin and Valencia lace she knelt at Thaddeus’s side, reciting her nuptial vows with an overflowing heart. The doubts that had unaccountably possessed her these last two days were gone. She had never been more certain of a future linked with Thaddeus than she was now. When he placed the ring on her finger her hand trembled with excitement. Later as they rose as man and wife and Thaddeus lifted the veil to kiss her she felt that this was the happiest moment of her life.

  The couple put in a brief appearance at their reception, a sumptuous affair celebrated with the usual Townsend gastronomic extravagance. Garvin, determined that no guest should remain sober or unfed, had put in an endless supply of champagne complimented by assorted French wines, Scotch whiskey, English porter, and, for those wishing lighter collations, enormous cut glass bowls of Madeira punch. The groaning buffet tables offered up the bounty of the Chesapeake Bay: oysters, prawns, crab, and shad. There were peaches and grapes from the family hothouses, homegrown beef, chickens, ducks, and squab, lamb and pork, and a host of gallantines, qakes and sweets.

  Amélie, flushed with champagne, hardly tasted her food. Friends and relatives crowded about, hugging and kissing her, even the men, for this was the one time in a girl’s life when this was permitted. Amélie saw Damon Fowler on the fringe of the gathering and for an uneasy few moments thought he, too, would press forward to claim a kiss. But he seemed content to watch, a condescending, amused look on his handsome features. Later she saw him again as she threw her bouquet to the clamorous unmarrieds waiting at the foot of the staircase. He was standing next to Babette who was clinging possessively to his arm. She let go, however, long enough to leap up in a very unladylike fashion, virtually snatching the bouquet from Irene Warner’s outstretched hands. Then laughing she captured Fowler’s arm again.

  Thaddeus was waiting for Amélie in the buggy when she emerged from the house wearing her going away gown. The noisy guests pressed forward, tossing rice, one or two of the more inebriated tying clanking objects to the backboard. Thaddeus jumped down and helped her up amid the shouts and laughter of well-wishers. She leaned over to give her mother, calm and collected as always, and her father—trying but not succeeding in hiding his emotion—one last kiss. Then Babette, shouting, “Wait!” pushed through the crowd. “You can’t leave until I’ve kissed you, too.” Amélie held her sister for a moment.

  “You lucky, lucky thing!” Babette whispered in her ear. “I wish I was going away with a husband."

  “You will, darlin’. And, Babette, about Damon—”

  But Garvin interrupted by drawing Babette aside. “Let them go. They want to reach the island before dark.”

  The house on Waxwing, compared to Arbormalle, was tiny, a two-story clapboard dwelling with a pitched roof sprouting a single brick chimney. It had a magnificent view of the bay from the upstairs windows, which made up in large part for its cramped space. The furnishings were simple but solid, cumbersome claw-legged chairs and spool-turned beds piled high with goosedown mattresses. Amélie and Thaddeus arrived just as a white moon was rising in the evening sky.

  A cold supper had been left for them by a servant who lived in the village. They had champagne again with their meal. Amélie, who hadn’t eaten much all day, dug into her ham and crab salad in a manner that she belatedly realized was hardly suitable for a supposedly shy bride on the brink of consummation. But Thaddeus didn’t seem to notice. He was busy fiddling with an unlit pipe, talking endlessly about some scheme Alex had for organizing a county-wide boat race during the summer. To her chagrin Amélie soon found herself yawaing. After an especially loud yawn Thaddeus said, “Forgive me for prattling. You’re tired.”

  “Yes—a little.” She smiled at him. He was so considerate. It was one of the many things she loved about Thaddeus.

  “If you wish, I can sleep down here tonight,” he offered.

  “Oh, no! No!” she exclaimed, then colored at the surprise in his eyes. “I want you to be with me,” she added in a more subdued tone.

  “All right, sweetheart. Why don’t you go up now while I stay and have my pipe? I’ll join you in a short while.”

  Amélie’s nightgown was of sheer white silk embroidered in dainty blue daisies on the cap sleeves and laced tightly under the bosom with blue satin drawstrings. In it she felt oddly vulnerable, chilled with a delicious apprehension. Would Thaddeus think the neckline too daring, the exposure of rounded breasts too blatant? But why should he? She was his wife. And she wasn’t going to go to bed on her wedding night with one of those frumpy, buttoned-up-to-the-chin flannel gowns her mother habitually wore.

  Amélie turned the lamp wick down low and got into bed, punching the pillow up behind her shoulders. The dim light flickered on familiar red flocked wallpaper. The china clock on the mantel ticked cozily away. She was glad they were in a room she had known since childhood instead of sharing the cold, indifferent accommodations of an inn. Settling herself more comfortably she listened for Thaddeus’s step on the stair, watching the black hand of the clock creep slowly forward past the hour and then the half hour.

  She must have fallen asleep, her head sagging on her chest, for a sound brought it up with a start. Thaddeus was standing in the center of the room wearing a short robe, revealing knobby knees. He peered at her through the gloom.

  “I’m not asleep, darlin’,” Amélie said softly.

  Thaddeus extinguished the lamp and in the pitch darkness she could hear the rustle of his robe as he slipped out of it and let it drop to the floor. Was he wearing nothing beneath? Oh, how she wished she could see him. But perhaps he was just as shy as she was, though men were not supposed to be. She wondered fleetingly if he could possibly be a virgin. She doubted it, however. Thaddeus had attended St. John’s College in Annapolis, making friends there with a group of young bloods who had the reputation of being fast.

  The mattress sagged as he slipped into bed beside her. She trembled, holding her breath. He turned toward her in the dark and gathered her in his arms, pressing her lips tenderly, almost apologetically. She resisted the urge to fling her arms about him and cover his face with heated kisses.

  “Amélie—please f
orgive me.”

  Forgive him for what? “Thaddeus . . .”

  Suddenly he rolled on top of her, clamping his mouth on hers. His body—he was nude!—was damp with perspiration and she felt something moist butting at her thighs. “Spread your legs,” he said between gritted teeth.

  Amélie obliged. The next moment she felt a thrust into her private parts and a fire in her belly, a violation, rather than the physical expression of love. Thaddeus, clutching her shoulder with one hand, pulling her golden hair with the other, began to move his hips, panting hoarsely, the huge thing inside her sliding painfully back and forth. Tears gathered in her eyes and she had to fight the urge to scream, “Stop!” Finally, when she thought she could bear it no longer, his body convulsed and he lay still.

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Thank you, my dear,” he whispered, and moved away.

  The entire episode must have lasted under a minute.

  Thaddeus fell asleep at once, but Amélie lay for a long time staring up into the dark, asking herself, Is this all? Was this brief, hardly enjoyable moment all there was to the lovemaking she and her contemporaries had whispered wonderingly about? Was this the sum total of passion and desire? Perhaps, she tried to reassure herself, it would get better as time went on. Perhaps Thaddeus had no wish to prolong an act that he believed would be distasteful to her.

  The clock ticked on. From the garden a frog began to croak. The wind tapped at the shutters, whispered under the sills, then blew down the chimney in a sudden March gust. Presently she heard the patter of rain on the windows. The fine weather had broken. Moving closer to Thaddeus’s turned back Amélie went over the long day, reliving her wedding, her mind dwelling on her family, wondering what they were doing now. And Babette . . .

  She thought of Damon Fowler, and suddenly the memory of his hot kisses seared her into blushing shame. But her shame did not prevent her from wondering how a wedding night would have been with him. In his arms, with his lips devastating hers, the hard body, its swollen desire pressed against her, his strong fingers exploring her breasts, would she have felt differently than she did now?