The Gold Coin

  Abruptly, he stopped, lush branches enveloping them as he tugged her around to face him.

  Anastasia blinked in the filtered daylight. "Is something wrong?"

  "Wrong? No."

  She looked puzzled, studying his nondescript expression, cast in the shadows of the encompassing trees. "Then why are we stopping?"

  "To talk." He brushed a leaf off the top of her smoothly coiffed hair. "You did say you were lonely, didn't you?"

  Anastasia didn't have to feign the astonishment that flashed across her face. "Well, yes. But…"

  "I'd like to eliminate that loneliness."

  "By talking?" she asked cautiously.

  "Among other things." He traced the delicate curve of her jaw with his fingertips. "You're incredibly beautiful."

  "That's what you want to talk about?" Anastasia's surprise rapidly transformed to anger. "My beauty?"

  "Um-hum." He caressed her cheek, her chin. "That, and everything else about you."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as—you said Anastasia's forte was business. What are your interests?"

  Retreating from his touch, Anastasia rubbed the folds of her gown between her fingers, frantically trying to sort out what was happening here.

  The problem was, she knew exactly what was happening. There was no mistaking this flagrant a seduction.

  But Damen Lockewood—the principled Damen Lockewood—was not only trying to seduce an innocent woman, but trying to seduce Breanna. Breanna. After promising Anastasia he felt nothing for her cousin but friendship; after, just moments ago, proclaiming how captivated with Anastasia he was.

  She didn't know whether to strike him or scream.

  "Tell me," he coaxed, clasping his hands behind his back—as if he were exercising great restraint—"what is it you like to do?"

  Slap you, she thought furiously. "My interests?" she repeated instead. "Reading. Drawing. Ah, and collecting porcelain figures. Nothing you'd find exciting."

  "Never make assumptions." His tone was as intimate as a caress. "What type of porcelain figures?"

  "All types—people, animals, flowers, objects. I began my collection when I was a child. It's grown to be quite extensive at this point."

  "Really? You'll have to show it to me sometime."

  When? she wanted to blurt out. When you carry me—rather, Breanna—off to your bed? "Don't tell me you're actually interested in examining little statues."

  A quizzical lift of his brows. "You sound surprised."

  "I am. I never imagined a man like you would enjoy such a thing. Then again, I never imagined a man like you would stoop to…" She snapped her mouth shut before she said something that would give her away.

  "Would stoop to what?" Damen inquired. Undeterred by her obvious distress, he stepped closer—much closer—reaching out to capture her hands in his. "And a man like me—tell me, what type of man is that?"

  "An honorable one. One who's absorbed in investments rather than…" Her breath caught as he brought her hands to his lips, and simultaneously eased her deeper into the shelter of the trees.

  "Rather than…?" he prompted, tugging off one of her gloves and pressing his open mouth into her palm.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" Damen tugged off the other glove, tossed them both aside. Then, he drew her closer, and planted his hands firmly on her waist.

  "Lord Sheldrake, really." Anastasia twisted free, her fury as genuine as if she were truly being violated. How dare he? Given what was supposedly happening between him and Anastasia, how dare he make blatant advances toward Breanna? "I think you'd better take me back to the manor," she instructed sharply.

  "I'd rather not."

  "Fine. Then I'll take myself." She attempted to walk around him.

  "No—you won't." His arm snaked out, caught her around the waist, and dragged her back to him. "Not when I've sat through an entire breakfast in order to get you alone."

  That did it.

  "Release me this instant." She slapped at his arms, stiffening as he lowered his head, brushed the curve of her shoulder with his lips. "Stop," she commanded, an inadvertent quiver rippling through her. "Let me go. Before I…"

  "If I'm to be honest, I prefer your hair down," he murmured, kissing the pulse at her neck, working his way down the column of her throat. "But it does look more convincing this way. And I wouldn't want to upset your brilliant plan. So I'll restrain myself from pulling out all the pins." His thumb tilted up her chin, and he lowered his mouth to hers. "Instead, I'll concentrate on doing this." His lips brushed hers. "Kiss me."

  Something in his husky mutterings struck her as significant, but she was too besieged by conflicting feelings to determine what that something was.

  Her hands balled into fists, shoved against his chest, even as the warmth of his kiss surged through her. "I don't want…"

  "Kiss me, Anastasia."

  Realization struck her like a tidal wave.

  Her eyes snapped open, peered directly into his, and she saw the utter awareness in his gaze. "You … knew?" she managed.

  "From the instant I saw you." He silenced her protest with a heated nudge of his mouth against hers. "Berate me later. For now, just kiss me."

  Whatever indignation Anastasia felt was dwarfed by the hypnotic effect of being in Damen's arms. Without another word, she relented, stepping closer and angling her mouth to his.

  Damen made a rough sound of approval, capturing her arms and bringing them high around his neck, then pulling her against him, covering her lips with his.

  Fire ignited Anastasia's mouth, spread through her like a rampaging blaze. She flung herself into the kiss, parting her lips to Damen's seeking tongue, meeting his sensual strokes with her own.

  Growling her name, Damen lifted her from the ground, carrying her backward three steps until she felt the cool bark of a tree behind her. Using that as an anchor, he crushed her body to his, devouring her mouth and letting his hands roam over her soft curves, awakening her through the confines of her gown.

  He cupped her breast, molded it to his palm, and Anastasia moaned aloud, shifted restlessly to afford him greater access.

  He took it.

  Slipping his hand inside her bodice, he worked his way beneath her chemise to the warm, responsive flesh that craved his touch. His thumb found her nipple, already hardened with desire, and circled it, teasing the aching peak with unrelenting strokes.

  The fire inside Anastasia grew.

  Shuddering from the intensity of sensation, she heard herself whimper, arch instinctively closer. Damen's breath rasped at her lips, and he tore his mouth away only long enough to drag in air. Then, he buried his lips in hers again, consuming her mouth with an intensity that jolted through her like bolts of lightning.

  "Damen…" Her arms twined more tightly around his neck, and she clung to him, succumbing more deeply to the flames scorching her from the inside out.

  With a muffled oath, Damen dragged down her bodice, and tugged open her chemise.

  There was a brief rush of cool air as her breasts sprang free, and then it was gone, as Damen lowered his head, captured her nipple between his lips.

  This time she sobbed aloud, unable to stifle the unbearable pleasure screaming through her veins. She clutched at his head, cradled it closer, silently urging him to take more and more of her.

  Damen indulged her—and himself.

  He shifted, his lips closing around her other nipple, his tongue lashing across it as his thumb stroked its already dampened mate in slow, arousing circles.

  A twig snapped just beyond where they stood. Damen's head shot up, and he surveyed the area, instinctively shielding Anastasia's body with his.

  The culprit scooted into view: a red squirrel who, startled by Damen's sudden motion, dropped his acorn and darted off.

  Slowly, Damen lowered his head, staring down at Anastasia, his normally silvery gaze almost black with passion. Sanity warred with desire as his hot stare mo
ved restlessly from her face down to her naked breasts, then back up again.

  "You're so bloody beautiful," he muttered, his breath coming in hard, uneven rasps. "And all I want to do is…" He bit off his remaining words, his jaw working as he brought himself under control. In a few taut motions, he lowered her feet to the ground and tugged up her bodice. "Anastasia…" He cupped her hot face between his palms, uttered her name in a husky whisper. "I never meant to let it go this far. I'm sorry."

  "No, you're not," she managed in a shattered voice that bore no resemblance to her own. "And neither am I." She leaned her head weakly against his chest, willing her trembling limbs and wildly pounding heart to calm.

  Damen seemed to understand, because he gathered her closer, enfolding her against him and resting his chin atop her head. He was as affected as she, his arms shaking with reaction, his heart thundering against her ear. "You're right," he said hoarsely. "I'm not sorry. What's more, if that damned squirrel hadn't interrupted…"

  Anastasia nodded, still trying to regain her wits and her thoughts.

  "Are you all right?" Damen's breath ruffled her hair. That question jogged the memory of what had preceded these erotic moments.

  "You knew." Anastasia's pronouncement was weak, more a statement than an accusation, her words muffled by Damen's waistcoat. "All the time—you knew."

  She felt him smile against her hair. "From the instant you walked into that dining room—yes, I knew."

  Her hand balled into a fist, struck ineffectually at his shoulder. "Damn you, Damen Lockewood. Can't you ever be outdone?"

  His smile vanished. "I just was," he confessed raggedly. "Not just outdone, but brought to my knees."

  Anastasia leaned back, watching him solemnly as she shook her head. "That's not what I meant."

  "I know. But it's true nonetheless."

  "For me, as well." She swallowed. "How long were you going to play your little game of cat and mouse with me?"

  Again, his lips twitched. "I could ask you the same question. How long did you want me to think you were Breanna?"

  An impish grin. "Until I told you otherwise."

  Damen chuckled. "Honest to a fault." His thumbs caressed her cheeks. "Let's get this straight here and now. I'm never going to confuse you and Breanna. So you might as well give it up. Although I am curious as to why you're carrying out this little masquerade. I suspect it has more to do with your uncle than with your desire to outwit me."

  Anastasia sighed. "You're right. Uncle George has all but forbidden me to see you. He's planning on announcing your betrothal to Breanna in a matter of weeks. And he's warned me not to do anything to jeopardize that announcement, or Breanna's future."

  Glints of anger flared in Damen's eyes. "This delusion of his is going too far."

  "I agree. But the situation is more complicated than that." Anastasia disengaged herself from Damen's arms, stooping to pick up her gloves. She tugged them on, then tucked her stray tendrils of hair back in the smooth knot atop her head. "We'd best keep walking," she advised, indicating the path. "I don't want to have to lie to Uncle George about where you and I went for our stroll. As you yourself pointed out, I'm not a terribly convincing liar."

  "True." Damen caught her arm, tucked it through his. "But let's take advantage of the fact that you're supposed to be Breanna. After all, nothing would please George more than if he peered out the window and saw his daughter and I walking arm in arm."

  "Nothing except if he saw his daughter and you walking arm and arm down the aisle as man and wife," Anastasia amended dryly.

  Damen's lips thinned into a grim line. "Tell me what happened," he commanded as they resumed their walk. "What took place after you returned from the bank yesterday?"

  Omitting nothing, Anastasia relayed the details of her conversation with her uncle, and those of the lecture Breanna had endured from him earlier. Having done that, she told Damen her theories on the reasons for her uncle's extreme behavior.

  "I understand your concern," Damen said thoughtfully when she'd finished. "And I agree that George must be deeper in debt than we know. But how will this pretense of yours make things better? Sooner or later, he'll have to be told there's no future for Breanna and me."

  "We'll deal with that if it becomes necessary."

  "If?" Damen stopped, caught her shoulders in his hands. "It's already necessary," he stated flatly, his gaze boring into hers. "As I told you, what's happening between you and me is not going to go away. It's only going to grow stronger, more consuming. So if you're waiting for it to end…"

  "I'm not," Anastasia interrupted. She pressed her lips together, trying to decide how much to say. "Damen, I'm afraid he'll hurt her."

  His eyes narrowed. "Does he strike her?"

  "Sometimes. I don't know how hard or how often. But I suspect it's a lot more frequent and more severe than Breanna will admit—even to me. She's very close-mouthed about that part of her life. But she did say her father has been unusually short-tempered these days, even for him. He's been tense, brooding, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. When I came home yesterday, she had a bruise on her chin—a bruise bad enough to need a half hour of powdering in order to conceal, especially given she was supposed to be me. And that was only as a result of his wanting to stress a point. What would he do if she failed to give him the prize he wants—you?"

  Damen's breath expelled in a hiss. "And how do we protect her from that?"

  "By continuing this charade. By my pretending to be Breanna whenever you visit—unless that visit pertains to our partnership. Then, I'll be me."

  "Until when?"

  "Until I figure out just how heavily in debt Uncle George is, and how violent he'd become if he were crossed. And until I think of a way to protect Breanna from that violence. Damen, I'm all Breanna has, at least until she meets the right man. I can't turn my back on her."

  "I wouldn't expect you to." Damen guided her into the clearing, then toward the glistening stream across the way. "That's one of the traits you and Breanna do have in common," he remarked. "You're both soft-hearted." He paused as they reached the stream, tipped up her chin. "Although you're the true romantic. I didn't miss your pointed 'until she meets the right man.'" A smile. "Forward-thinking or not, you believe in the age-old sentiment of one man for one woman."

  "So do you," Anastasia reminded him. "I distinctly recall your assuring me that Breanna would flourish once she met the right man."

  "So I did." A corner of Damen's mouth lifted. "I never thought of myself as a romantic. But damned if I'm not finding out that I am one."

  "Romantic about love, but pragmatic about business."

  A reminiscent light dawned in Anastasia's eyes. "That's the way my father was. Practical in his work, emotional about Mama and me." She sighed. "If I'm a romantic, it's not a surprise, nor an accident. My parents were deeply in love. I grew up seeing that, knowing that love was a rare, priceless treasure—one to be fervently sought and captured as a prerequisite to marriage. Breanna never had the chance to learn that firsthand. Her mother died when she was born."

  "I remember how much Henry adored your mother," Damen reflected. "He couldn't take his eyes off her when they were together, and he spoke of her often when they were apart. As for Breanna's parents, I was a boy when her mother died. Tell me, did your uncle feel the same way about his wife as your father did about his?"

  Anastasia lowered her lashes. "I was only a few months old when Aunt Dorothy died in childbirth. I never knew her."

  "Surely your mother spoke of her. She was her sister, after all."

  "Her younger sister, yes." Anastasia had no desire to pursue this subject—not again. Telling Breanna was one thing; she had a right to the truth. But opening up to Damen was another matter entirely. His role in her life was too new, too fragile, to share the sordid details behind her uncle's hatred for her father. Perhaps someday … but not yet.

  "Mama and Aunt Dorothy looked very much alike," she offered instead. "Between th
at and the fact that our fathers are twins, it's no wonder Breanna and I are identical."

  "You're not identical. And you're changing the subject, just as you did in my office when we touched on your uncle's resentment toward you and your parents. It's obvious these two subjects are related. It's also obvious you're not ready to discuss either one with me."

  "For now—no, I'm not. Please understand, this is all very personal."

  "All right." Damen nodded slowly, his eyes hooded. "I won't push you."

  "I appreciate that." Anastasia cleared her throat. "You said that soft-heartedness was one of the traits Breanna and I have in common. What other ones do you perceive?"