CHAPTER 1
The Declaration
Somerset Coast, 1837
DARIUS chose his seat strategically every Sunday. Close enough to catch her scent just from sitting behind her in church. He waited for it, knowing what would come, for he was familiar with her choice of perfume. The soft essence of violets floated to him, its delicate sweetness stirring and calming both at once. Savoring the instant when he could draw even the tiniest part of her into himself, Darius indulged in the simple pleasure of breathing her.
Her neck was his favorite. He loved to look at the place where her coffee-colored hair swept up with just a few strands escaping. Indulging in wild dreams about her, he imagined how she’d look with all those glorious waves spilling down over her pale, naked flesh. Of how he would brush it aside and put his lips to that spot he so desired to know. He thought of the triumph of possessing her totally. Of her soft, pliant body beneath his hard, commanding one, accepting him inside when he took her.
Wanting her so badly was nothing new. He’d known the feeling for a long time. Marianne was perfection in Darius’s opinion.
Marianne might be perfect, but her father was an idiot. Mr. George was a weak man. He had turned to drink after the death of his wife, bringing them to the brink of ruin with his drinking and gambling. At the pace he was going, Darius figured her father’s descent would sit well with his own plans regardless. Being a patient man, Darius didn’t think he would have to wait much longer. Her father would see to that for him.
THE hair on the back of her neck tingled and she knew. His eyes were on her. Again. Marianne looked around as soon as the service ended. Yes, indeed. He stood there staring—his dark eyes calling her to meet his gaze.
Her father nodded politely at him. “Mr. Rourke, good day.”
“Mr. George. Miss Marianne, you look well today.” Mr. Rourke greeted
both of them warmly, but his eyes rested only on her.
“Yes, sir, my Marianne is very fine. She takes after her mother, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “I daresay there’s not any more beautiful to be found in all of Somerset,” he boasted.
Marianne wanted to crawl under a pew in mortification. Why did Papa say such things? His thinly disguised attempt to throw her into the path of a wealthy gentleman such as Darius Rourke was grossly inappropriate. She felt her neck flush with heat.
“Papa, please!” She pulled at her father’s arm to lead him away. Offering a sympathetic look to Mr. Rourke, she mouthed a silent, “I am sorry,” for her father’s boorishness before turning to leave.
“What? Can a father not want the best for his child? He admires you! It would serve you well to encourage him, lass!” He practically shouted his opinions at Marianne as she led him out to the churchyard. Mr. Rourke would have to be deaf not to have heard.
“Shhh, Papa!” She vowed silently to skip church next Sunday for she didn’t know how she could face Mr. Rourke after this horrifying display.
Something compelled her to turn around. And Marianne knew exactly what would be waiting when she did.
Still standing in the same spot, tracking her, Mr. Rourke smiled, his perception all-knowing, as if he’d been assured she’d turn back to him.
Oh, dear God! I must be in hell.
At least a decade older than her, Mr. Rourke was a quiet man, possessing an air of mystery that hinted at the level of intensity to his character, but remained properly veiled under the gentlemanly comportment of his station. He conveyed a subtle influence in most of his dealings with others, not entirely discernible in anything he said or did, but recognizable nonetheless. Marianne thought him handsome. With his noble features, he attracted the notice of many women. Tall and broad shouldered, he filled out his fine European suits brilliantly. His skin held a darker cast than was typical for an Englishman, a golden hue that complemented the dark hair and eyes perfectly. He was simply beautiful.