by Shana Galen
She smoothed her face like she might smooth her dress and sat, arranging her skirts about her. “What you interpret as guilt is actually surprise. Your statement was unexpected.”
He leaned against the chair opposite her, studying her face. His eyes, so green under those long, dark lashes assessed her uncomfortably. Fortunately, she had been in the public’s eye since she’d been old enough to step out of the nursery. She was used to scrutiny. She should have relaxed the longer he studied her. FitzRoy was no different than most people she knew. If someone knew her secrets, they would have said so by now. His silence was intended to unnerve her so she revealed what he wanted to know. It was a tactic she knew well from years among the ton. But his gaze on her had never relaxed her. He was far too compelling.
When ladies said they fancied a man who was tall, dark, and handsome, they envisioned Colin FitzRoy. He had the face of an angel with full lips, a Roman nose, and chiseled cheekbones. His eyes were light green fringed by black lashes and dark brows that slashed above his pale gaze. If he’d pulled his dark curly hair back or cut it short, he would have been a strikingly handsome man, but he wore it full and tousled about his face, giving him an air of mystery.
Daphne’s own hair was pinned so tightly that her head ached, and she itched to wrap her hands in his soft curls and brush them from his forehead or tuck them behind his ears. She hadn’t ever seen his ears.
“Go on,” Colin said.
“Unexpected,” she explained, “because I didn’t realize you had so much gall. Really, who do you think you are? You left for the war and never wrote me a single letter. Then when you finally returned, you completely ignored me. I had to hear from the gossips that you were back in England. Do you know how humiliating that was for me?”
He lowered his gaze, obviously chastened.
“And now you come here and demand to know intimate details about my life. You have no right to ask me anything. You don’t know anything about me.”
He looked at his hands, draped over the back of the chair. He had long fingers with lean, square nails. “Does the Duchess of Warcliffe know anything about you? Why would she tell me you needed help if you did not?”
“My mother? She loves nothing more than a scheme. You know that.”
“She has been cornering me throughout London, insisting that I take you in hand.”
Daphne jumped to her feet. “Take me in hand! I am not a child, sir.”
He shrugged. “Those were her words, not mine.”
“I’ve done quite well without you all these years. I don’t need your interference now.”
“Interference? What am I interfering in? The trouble you still haven’t denied?”
“This is ridiculous.” She lifted her skirts and moved around the chair. “I will not stay so you may invent falsehoods about me.” She swept past him in a haughty swath of muslin, silk, and organza, but he caught her arm at the last moment, ruining her exit. Slowly, he pulled her back until they were face-to-face.
“I will admit I was shooting arrows into the dark,” he said, his voice low, “but I rather think from your reaction that I have hit close to the mark.”
“Is that what you think?” She felt warm, too warm. She hadn’t been this close to him for so long and her body reacted without her permission. She wanted to melt into him, surrender to his hand on her bare arm, touch him back.
He raised his brows and for a moment she thought perhaps she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, and he was challenging her to touch him. But then she remembered she’d spoken—said something to buy herself time. She needed to remember she was angry at him, furious. He’d hurt her, and she wanted nothing to do with him. She took a shaky breath. “Let me ask you something, Colin.”
His eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement, but that couldn’t be. The man didn’t have emotions. He’d all but said so himself. “What is it, Daphne?”
“You haven’t cared what I did or did not do for the past seven years. Why do you care now?”
“I was on the Continent for the majority of those years.”
“And I suppose all the letters you wrote inquiring after my health were misdirected?”
The amusement left his eyes. “I should have written,” he said.
She lifted one shoulder, dismissing the years she had written to him faithfully and hoped without hope he might reply. “It doesn’t matter now. You never cared for me, and you needn’t start pretending now.”
“You never cared for me either. It was an arranged marriage that we were both forced to agree to.”
She flinched slightly then quickly tried to cover it, but he’d seen.
His hand on her arm tightened and his eyes seemed to look right through her. “You didn’t want this marriage. Did you?”
She looked away. “Of course not.”
He released her as though her skin burned him. “Oh, my God.”
No. What an idiot she was. How could she let him guess at the truth? She’d never let him know how she’d really felt. How much his dismissal of her had really hurt. “I didn’t want this marriage. Not then and not now.” To underscore her words, she turned away from him, saw the door, and started for it again. “I’d appreciate it if you would go back to leaving me alone.”
She grasped the door handle just as Colin’s arm snagged around her waist. She gasped at the feel of his body pressed against her back and his breath on her neck. She shivered. Why did she still feel this way about him? He’d brought her nothing but misery, and still she felt the undeniable pull of attraction when she was near him.
“I don’t believe you.” His whispered words only further tantalized the tender skin beneath her ear.
“I don’t care what you think.” Her voice was thin and reedy, uncertain. She did not care. It was not as though he was someone she could trust or count on.
“Tell me the truth, Daphne.”
“I...” She couldn’t tell him the truth about Battersea and his threats. How could Colin help her? By lecturing her? By lecturing Battersea? Colin would just disappear again, and she’d be in a worse position than she was now.
No, she had made the mistake of trusting Colin FitzRoy once, and she would not do so again. “Let me go,” she said, her hand still on the door handle. Colin released her, but before she could open it, the door handle turned on its own. Colin pulled her back just in time for the door to swing open. A very large, very frightening-looking man stepped into the doorway, completely blocking her exit.
The man had long, wild brown hair and three days’ growth of beard, and wore a linen shirt with a skirt. Daphne looked up at him, watched his scowl deepen, and stumbled backward. Colin caught her, and she scrambled to pull him away. They had to reach the door on the other side of the room or jump out a window before the lunatic who’d just burst in on them slit both their throats.
But Colin stood still, hands on his hips. “Duncan. What are you doing here?”
“That’s the question I was aboot to ask you. Dinnae know it was you, Pretender.” He looked over his shoulder. “Why did you nae tell me, Banks?” he yelled.
Daphne immediately recognized his accent as Scottish. As Colin seemed to know the Scot, she gave him another look and realized he wore a kilt, not a skirt. That didn’t make him any less fearsome. He was a head taller than her husband, who was not a short man, and the Scot’s shoulders filled the doorway. His gaze fell on her, and Daphne tried to look brave, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin.
“Looks like I’m interrupting.”
Colin glanced at her, seemed to consider, then said, “Lady Daphne, may I present Mr. Duncan Murray. We fought together in Draven’s troop. Mr. Murray, my wife.”
The Scot’s eyebrows went up, but he bowed politely and stepped into the parlor, making it feel far too small. “A pleasure, my lady. I’ve heard a bit aboot you.”
This surprised Daphne. She glanced at Colin, whose face held no discernable expression. He was very good at hiding whatever he might be thin
king or feeling. “Forgive me, I’ve heard nothing of you.”
The big man shrugged his shoulders. “Your man doesna want to talk about the war any more than the rest of us.” His gaze went back to Colin. “What are you doing here?”
“Mayne said I could stay here if my town house felt too crowded. With my sisters there, I haven’t a moment’s peace.”
The Scotsman nodded then walked to a cabinet and opened it. He pulled out a decanter of amber liquid and sniffed. “Brandy. Suppose it was too much to hope for whisky.” He closed the cabinet door, obviously preferring nothing over brandy. For Daphne’s part, she would not have minded a sip or even a gulp.
“And you?” her husband asked.
“My mother sent me to London to find a lass for a bride. She said not to come home withoot one. I saw Mayne in Berkshire, and he offered me a room here. I just arrived a few hours ago. Scared the butler half to death.” He winked at Daphne.
He would scare the ladies of London half to death too. Colin asked his friend about the Duke of Mayne, and though Daphne should have been listening to the conversation as the duke was always a source of much gossip, she could hardly pay attention when she noticed the Scot’s gaze strayed to her and stayed.
Daphne took a step back again and almost fell over a chair. Instead, she sat in it, hoping to be as unobtrusive as possible. But the Scot interrupted Colin and pointed at her. “Your wife is a lady.”
Colin looked at her. “Her father is a duke,” he said, not really answering the question.
“Maybe she can help me.”
Daphne tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “How can I help you, Mr. Murray?”
“You ken ladies. You can get me a wife.”
Daphne shook her head. “No, I cannot.”
But the Scot was not deterred by her head shaking or her outright refusal. “It’s simple enough, lass. Just introduce me to your friends at the next ball.”
“That might be difficult,” Colin said, walking toward her. Finally, he was actually being useful. He stopped before her and looked down. “I don’t think she has any friends.”
“For your information, I have many friends—a fact you would know if you’d bothered to spend any time with me.”
Colin gave her a skeptical look.
“I dinnae mean they had to be close friends, my lady. Just any lass who isnae a chore to look upon and has a backbone. My mother eats timid lasses with her tea.”
Daphne stood. “You are behaving as though a wife is something you order, like a coat or hat. You have to woo a wife, court her, write poetry.”
The Scot looked at Colin. “Is that how he married you?”
She opened her mouth then shut it again, not sure what to say. Colin stepped in. “A pretty woman with some courage is rather impossible to find in the circles Lady Daphne moves in. I ought to know as I was raised in those same circles.”
The Scot pointed to her. “You found one.”
Colin glanced at her. “She is pretty.”
Oh, the nerve of these men. This was what she had always hated about her father. He spoke about her as though she wasn’t standing right there. “There are plenty of marriageable women in London who are not merely pretty but beautiful and have more strength and courage than the two of you combined. But you are both overlooking a very important point.”
“What’s that?” Colin asked, arching a skeptical brow.
“I do not owe Mr. FitzRoy any favors. You will have to find someone else to assist you with your search, Mr. Murray. I’m certain there are women in Scotland. Perhaps you might go back and find one there.”
The Scot shook his head. “Willnae work. They all know of my mother.”
“What is wrong with your mother?” she asked, against her better judgement.
“Nothing is wrong with her, lass. She’s strong-willed.” His shoulders slumped, and he looked like a man thoroughly defeated. Daphne tried to push down the compassion she felt for him. She wanted nothing to do with Colin or his friends. The Scot sighed. “I’ll just be going now. I’ve imposed on you too long.”
Daphne watched him go then rounded on Colin. “I am not helping him find a wife,” she said as much for herself as for him. “And now I think it’s best if I go home.”
“Shouldn’t we discuss”—he gestured between them— “this further?”
“What is there to discuss? I don’t want to be married to you any more than you want to be married to me.” She raised her brows. “Unless something has changed, and you do want to be married to me?”
She heard his intake of breath and watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He just could not seem to stop humiliating her. Of course, he did not want to be married to her. This entire evening had been a waste of time.
Daphne brushed past him. “I am leaving.”
“You can’t go by yourself. It’s not safe.”
She opened the parlor door. He might think he could control her, but he would soon find otherwise. “My carriage is at the ball. That’s just a few streets away.” She stalked into the foyer and a footman scrambled to move out of her way.
“I’ll walk with you.”
“No, thank you.” Still, she was not a fool. She shouldn’t go out in the middle of the night alone. She pointed to the footman. “You. You can walk me back to the ball.”
“My lady?” The footman looked from her to Colin. Colin seemed to consider for a moment then nodded.
“Escort her to Lord Ludlow’s ball and see that she’s put safely in her carriage. Come back and see me when it’s done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Daphne turned to open the door, but the butler had already opened it for her. She swept out, followed by the footman. She didn’t look over her shoulder, but Colin must have come out as well, for she heard him say, “Goodnight, my lady.”
She stared straight ahead. “Good-bye.”
“Not yet. This isn’t finished.”
The words sounded like a threat.
Three
Two evenings later, Colin was reminded of why he and Duncan had never spent much time together, either during the war or after. Colin’s mission had always been to blend in, to hide, to pretend to be someone who belonged even in the most unlikely places. Duncan Murray did not blend in. Even wearing proper evening clothes, the man drew everyone’s attention. At Lady Rosemont’s musicale, heads turned, fans were opened, and all conversation was reduced to a murmur as soon as Colin and Duncan entered.
For a long moment, the guests, who were assembled in the drawing room and milling about while waiting for the evening’s entertainment to begin, simply stared at the two men. And then, as though Moses had raised his hands to part the Red Sea, the guests moved aside, revealing Lady Daphne at the other end of the room. She paused mid-step, and Colin realized she’d been about to escape through a side door. She closed her eyes as though in agony. Then she straightened her shoulders, a gesture that reminded him of a warrior donning his armor, and gave him a too bright smile. He smiled back. To his surprise, he was genuinely pleased to see her.
She was dressed in pink again tonight, but this evening’s concoction was pale pink with nary a bow in sight. The waist was high and the skirts straight. A darker pink sash circled her frame just below her breasts.
Duncan leaned close. “She doesna look happy to see you.”
“Shut up.”
Colin moved away from Duncan, walking through the parted crowds until he reached his wife. He gave her a bow and she offered her gloved hand—her gloves were pink, he noted.
“Do you mind if we have a word in private?” she murmured, her smile still stuck in place.
“I am your servant,” he said.
With a nod, she turned and walked away. Colin had no choice but to follow her. Now he saw the bows. The sash was tied in a bow and the tails of that bow were covered by dark pink bows that trailed down her backside and legs. More bows cascaded between the tails of the bow, making her buttocks and the area betwe
en her legs look like a pink and white rose garden. Colin wondered how she managed to sit in such a gown. He wondered if she realized how provocative such a design was to any man who looked. His gaze couldn’t help but be drawn to her backside and the space where he would fit nicely if he had her on her knees.
Colin shook his head to clear it of the image.
She led him out of the ballroom and into a small side chamber that must have been utilized as the staff’s serving area because several footmen stood about filling wine glasses and placing them on trays. The murmur of conversation ceased as soon as they entered, and the servants all turned to stare.
“Excuse us,” Colin said, moving back toward the ballroom.
Daphne held up a hand. “Yes, please excuse us,” she repeated but in a very different tone. When the footmen exchanged uncertain glances, she cleared her throat. “Get out.”
Within seconds, the chamber was empty but for the two of them. It was not a tactic Colin would have used, but he could admire the confidence she had that her wishes would be obeyed. Daphne walked to the serving table, lifted a champagne glass from a tray, and downed the contents. She coughed a little, lifted another, sipped, then turned to look at him. “Are you trying to cause a scene?”
Colin raised a brow. She was obviously upset. He could feel an emotional outburst gathering in the chamber like a storm. Knowing what was coming only made him calmer, more detached. “No,” he answered simply.
“Then why are you doing this to me?” She gesticulated wildly, her cheeks turning pink.
“I’m not doing anything—”
“Do not deny it! No one has seen us together since our wedding, and yet, here you are, unannounced. Worse, you bring that brute of a Scot to Lady Rosemont’s musicale. She will have an apoplectic fit. No one will listen to the music now. They’ll all be watching you to see if you make a scene.”
“I rather think you are the one making the scene, my lady.”
