Wicked at Heart Read Free Page A

nowhere to call him back.
    But no one
recognized him.  No on paid him any attention.  And the dean did not come to
call him back.
    He clenched his
satchel.  He kept walking, his face devoid of all emotion, his eyes staring
straight ahead, his brain numbing itself to the fate that awaited him at
Morninghall.
    It was some time
before the sounds finally penetrated his misery.  Church bells pealing
gloriously.  Barking dogs.  The distant sound of music, singing, cheering.  And
it was coming closer.
    For one brief
moment Damon had a fantasy that it was all on his behalf, that the noise he
heard was a crowd of people coming to drag him back to university.  But that
wish was quickly dispelled as the cheering grew louder and louder and people
began to run past him, bumping into him, knocking him aside, and yelling at him
to get out of the way.  The crowd thickened.  Someone's elbow caught him a
glancing blow in the ribs; a dog and a pack of small boys shot past, heels
flying.  Windows scraped open above his head, and all around, on both sides of
the street, people leaned out, waving brightly colored handkerchiefs and
cheering wildly.  Others came streaming out of buildings, out of the colleges
themselves, and, in a mass exodus, went running down the street.
    Thankful for an
excuse, any excuse, to delay his return to Morninghall, Damon straightened his
hat and followed them.
    The crowds were
several feet thick by the time he reached their epicenter.  He shouldered his
way through, eliciting outraged looks and curses he pointedly ignored. 
Fortunately he was tall enough to peer over the heads of those nearest the
street, and was thus able to see the object of all the attention.
    It was a
carriage drawn by a nervous team of grey horses which had all they could do to
get the vehicle through the overwhelming, cheering crowds.  Trying to see,
Damon stood on tiptoe, his view distorted by hands waving before his face, his
ears ringing with the wild cheering, his ribs squeezed among a mass of hot,
perspiring bodies that were all pressing, shoving, pushing and struggling as
they fought for viewing room closest to the street.  A gap opened in the sea of
heads in front of him, and it was then that Damon caught a glimpse of the one
for whom all the bell ringing, all the cheering, all the shouting, calling,
singing and celebration, was for.
    It was only a
glimpse, but it was enough to change the Marquess of Morninghall's life
forever.  A glimpse of a handsome man, his blue-and-white naval uniform
sparkling with gold trim and military magnificence, his hair gleaming like a pharaoh's
gold in the bright morning sunlight.  A glimpse — of a hero.
    That hero leaned
out of the carriage, gallantly catching a young woman's hand and raising it to
his lips, laughing as the movement of the carriage dragged him free and she,
crying his name and pressing her handkerchief to her mouth, ran to catch up. 
Courage stamped itself in every plane of his face, humor turned up the corners
of his firm mouth, and a hint of reckless bravado shone in cool, gray eyes which
swept the crowd, seeing all, seeing no one, as he waved to the throngs of
people who had poured into the streets just to pay homage to him.
    "Commodore
Lord!  Commodore Julian Lord!  Oxford welcomes you!  Welcome to Oxford,
Commodore Lord!"
    Unreasonably
angry and unable to explain why, Damon fought for air and turned to a woman who
was squashed in the throng beside him.  Her gaze flew open when she saw his
eyes, and with a gasp, she tried to step back, one hand going to her heart.
    The customary
reaction only fueled his irritation.  "Dare I ask what a national hero is
doing in Oxford?" he drawled, wishing she wouldn't stare at him so.
    "H-he's
come here t' receive an hon'ry doctorate from the university," she said
hurriedly, pressing against the mass of bodies in her desire to be away from him. 
"If ye'll excuse me, please . . ."
    Dismissing her,
he turned to watch the carriage