Helen Dickson - Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace

Conscious of those searing eyes on her, with trembling fingers she clutched the neck of her gown, remembering that dark gaze and its seeming power to strip the clothes from her, leaving her body bare. Yes, she remembered him. She knew him by her own response to him—needle-sharp chills—but there was no sign of her lover of three nights ago.

In an atmosphere bristling with tension, with an effort she said, in the coldest and most condescending manner, ‘Yes, we are. Good day, Lord Fitzwaring.’

‘Miss Cameron.’ He bowed, and there was a touch of irony in his mocking tone as he lowered his shining dark head.

Stephen’s blood was pumping through his veins. He had not expected Lord Cameron to deliver such a robust lecture on the rules he felt Stephen had broken. As a result Stephen was alert; his consciousness was fine-honed as a sharp blade. The black pinpoints of his dark-blue eyes shot fire.

Delphine had never seen such a look in a man’s eyes before. It reminded her of sparks shooting from the glow of a fire. His presence filled the room. He didn’t speak. Waiting, Delphine shivered. Silence was a weapon, she realised, and there were men who knew how to use it to deadly effect. Stephen Fitzwaring was one such man. It seemed no one was prepared to speak in his presence unless spoken to. He had the dynamism of a military commander and he was using silence aggressively, to assert his power.

‘You are here because my father asked you to come. Is that not so, Lord Fitzwaring?’

‘It is. You are well, I trust?’

Delphine actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in his eyes as they raked over her. She did not want to disappoint her father now, having decided the moment she’d set eyes on Colonel Fitzwaring to keep her composure, but the effort of holding herself in check in the presence of this arrogant man was too much.

‘As you see,’ she replied icily, suspecting he would rather face the full might of Napoleon’s army than be present at her home today, ‘I have survived our last encounter without scars.’ This was hardly the truth, but she would not grant him the satisfaction of telling him so.

The impact of his gaze was no less potent for the distance between them. He took a step closer, his powerful, animal-like masculinity assaulting her senses. Melting inwardly, she felt her traitorous body offer itself to this man; in that moment they both acknowledged the forbidden flame that sparked between them, both angered by their inability to control it. He raised one well-defined eyebrow, watching her, a half-smile now playing on his lips. He seemed to know exactly what was going on in her mind.

But Stephen would have none of it. The army was of the utmost importance to him—he had no time for marriage and affairs of the heart. A man who loved too well was vulnerable. Certainly he yielded to the desires of the flesh as much as the next man. Many women had passed through his life—some had faded from memory and a few he had felt affection for, but never doted on, excepting one, a beautiful, callous and treacherous woman, whom he had left with the bitter belief that love was only for the young and idealistic. He liked mature women, women who understood the rules of the game, women who accepted the fact that affairs ran their course and expected nothing more.

His main aim in life, while the military campaign was ongoing in Spain, was to concentrate on developing his mind and spirit for action on the field of battle—until he’d had the misfortune to encounter this infuriating, if beautiful, young woman. How could he have known that she was the daughter of one of London’s elite? His lust had led him into a trap of his own making—now he must pay the price of his passion.

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