by Ava Stone
“It’s hardly short,” he countered, ignoring her arguments. “And besides, my driver has been waiting all this time. Let us not make his wait in vain, Miss Alcott.”
Blast, but he was a high-handed prig, wasn’t he? But how could she argue with that, when he brought his driver into the conversation?
“All right,” she said, clutching the handles of the black bag more tightly. “Fine.”
Wolverly moved fluidly toward the door and swung it open, revealing Graham on the other side, his normally kind eyes wild with fury, his fist poised to knock. Or to hit someone. It was hard to tell.
“Graham,” Daphne exclaimed, her cheeks flaming red. Not that she’d done anything wrong, but it only just occurred to her how this might look.
“Ah!” Mr. Thorn exclaimed. “The doctor, I presume?”
“Not yet,” Graham replied, never taking his eyes from Daphne. “Right now, I’m just the brother.”
“Graham, please,” Daphne pleaded with him. “There’s a man upstairs suffering with malaria. You may scold me later for my rash decision to follow a stranger to a haunted castle filled with men, but please…go and see the patient first.”
Her brother’s nostrils flared a few times as he looked from Daphne, to Wolverly to Thorn and then back to Daphne, but finally, he deflated as the anger eased from his body. She knew her brother well enough to know that his patients would always come first.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Who will lead the way?”
Mr. Thorn stepped forward. “This way.”
“Dr. Alcott,” Wolverly said, forcing Graham to turn on the stair. “What shall I do with your sister?”
Graham’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Do with her?”
“Yes, do with her? Shall I keep her occupied here? Or shall I see her home? My carriage awaits, and I swear I shall be a complete gentleman.”
Graham looked as if he wanted to pummel the viscount into the ground.
“Ignore him, Graham,” she said, stepping between them. “I will walk home alone.”
“No, you won’t,” Wolverly said from behind her.
“How dare y—” She started to whirl on him, but her brother cut her off.
“He’s right.”
Daphne whirled the other way to stare incredulously at her brother. “What do you mean, he’s right?”
“It’s not safe.”
“I walk these roads with my deliveries every day,” she pressed, her hands nearly shaking from the high-handed tactics of her brother and this complete stranger who thought to upset her way of life.
“You will wait for me, Daphne,” Graham said, a sense of finality to his tone, then he turned to Wolverly. “Keep her occupied until I am done.” He lifted a finger in warning. “And should you touch a hair upon her head—”
A loud guffaw came from the viscount. “You needn’t worry about that, doctor. Your sister is completely safe with me.”
Alastair expected for her to turn on him in a rage, but he never could have anticipated how lovely she’d look when provoked. Goodness, she was like a mythological fury with that angelic face harboring azure eyes that nearly flamed with frustration.
She pointed a slender finger at his face. “I don’t know who you think you are to dictate my life, but I’ll not have it. I don’t even let my brother tell me what to do, I’m not about to allow a stranger to do so.”
A rather delightful idea popped into his head at that moment, bringing a smirk to his face that might get him slapped, but he couldn’t stop it.
“You’re right, Miss Alcott.”
She opened her mouth, presumably to censure him again, but then shut it promptly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said you’re right.” He stepped toward the open door and held onto the handle with one hand while gesturing to the outside with the other. “Who am I to keep you here against your wishes? I’m sure you have much to do, what with your business and all. And I’m certain Ravenglass is a perfectly safe town, anyway.”
Miss Alcott narrowed her eyes at him, causing her plump cheeks to shift upward in the most adorable manner. “What made you change your mind?” she asked, with not just a hint of skepticism in her tone.
He gestured into the air. “Your little speech just then, of course. Now go on. Don’t let me keep you.”
She still didn’t quite believe him, that much was obvious in the way she studied his face, waiting for him to announce the catch. But at long last, she stepped through the door.
“Well, thank you,” she said from the stoop before descending the steps.
Alastair bowed. “Good day, Miss Alcott.”
Daphne felt like running, now she was finally free of that frustrating situation. The high-handed men in combination with trying to treat a patient she was not skilled enough to treat, had set her nerves on edge something fierce. What was she thinking, going there in the first place? Graham wasn’t so far behind her—she could have waited. Although, she’d had no way of knowing when he’d come along.
She came to the end of the drive and set her feet along the main road back to the village. A quick glance upward told her she might want to make quick work of getting back home. The skies loomed gray and ominous above her, they would surely open up any moment now.
Just as she picked up her pace, the loud crack of a snapping twig came from behind her. She whirled around, only to find Lord Wolverly a mere twenty paces behind her. She stared incredulously at him as he stared back at her with an amused smirk upon his face.
“What are you doing?” she asked, unable to hide her disbelief at the situation.
He shrugged with all the nonchalance of a London cur. “Oh, nothing. Just going for a stroll.”
Daphne clamped her lips together in a straight line. The boor. He meant to play games with her, all the while maintaining the upper hand. “I told you,” she bit out, “that I do not need an escort.”
“Oh, I’m not escorting you,” he called back, his tone irritatingly lighthearted. “I’m simply taking in the fresh air.” He made a great show of taking a deep breath, and then letting it go on a long sigh. “So fresh. So different from London, what with all our stoves and hordes of people and—”
“Will you please leave me be?” she interrupted, unwilling to hear him ramble on about city life.
His shoulders slumped and he seemed to drop the pretense with them. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Alcott.”
Of course he can’t. She folded her arms petulantly across her chest. “And why not?”
He drew closer, and as he did, Daphne did her best to keep her eyes on his face, even though she was drawn inexplicably to his rather tight buckskin trousers. She could practically see the muscles moving beneath them; she imagined them all strong and covered in dark hair. She thought he must seat a horse rather nicely with those legs, gripping the sides of the beast with—
“Miss Alcott,” he said, coming up short right in front of her and putting an abrupt end to her little fantasy. “It is not my intention to come across as autocratic. I hardly know you, after all, and to be truthful, I think you’re quite a lovely girl.”
That was not at all what she expected him to say. She stared back at him dumbfounded; not a single word would form on her tongue.
“You must allow me to see you home, Miss Alcott, no matter how safe this town might be. Should anything ever happen to you…well, I would blame myself.”
There he went again, trying to appeal to her soft side. Turning the tables to make her feel bad for him, just as he’d done regarding the driver before. Blasted man.
“Besides,” he said, before she had time to reply. “I was hoping to buy a jar of that famous rum butter from you.”
Blast him! She wasn’t about to turn down money, even from a frustrating prig like Lord Wolverly.
She sucked in a deep breath and studied him a moment before finally agreeing. “Fine.”
“Fine?” His thick eyebrows disappeared under his beaver hat.
“Yes, fine. You may see me home. But we must hurry. I still have deliveries to make this afternoon.” She started to walk and then turned abruptly, her finger pointed straight at him. “And, no, you may not accompany me on my deliveries.”
He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare have asked, Miss Alcott.”
Daphne rolled her eyes, whirled around again, and set the brisk pace. They walked in silence for a few moments before he spoke again.
“How long?”
Daphne glanced sideways at him, trying not to let herself get carried away with another fantasy about his lips and how nice they might feel upon her cheek. “Not too much longer,” she said. “It’s not even a mile from Marisdùn to home.”
“I don’t mean how long until we’re home,” he clarified, his tone holding the slightest bit of amusement. “I mean, how long have you been making your prized rum butter?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected him to take an interest in her business. It rather warmed her heart a bit. “A long time, actually. Mother used to make it when I was a little girl. She taught me. But she never sold it. It was just for us, or an occasional Christmas gift for a neighbor or friend.”
“And what possessed you to start selling it?”
Daphne bristled a bit at his choice of words. “I know it’s not typical for a woman to earn her own wages,” she said defensively. “But I like it.”
“If you think that I am passing judgment, Miss Alcott, I shall assure you that I am not. But it isn’t typical, is it? I’m merely curious how you came to be the foremost purveyor of Cumberland rum butter in Cumberland.”
It was unlikely he wasn’t mentally passing judgment on her. Many did who came from his set. Thankfully, there weren’t too many of his set wandering about Ravenglass.
She shrugged. “After Mother died, I had to do something. Graham earns decent wages as a doctor, but not enough to sustain us. So I told my friends first, and they helped spread the word.”
“Nice friends you have,” he said.
Daphne thought of Callie, Brighid and Lila, who were indeed wonderful friends to have. They’d been there through the accident and its aftermath. And they’d been instrumental in helping her business grow. Without them, Daphne wouldn’t have most of her customers.
“And what of your friends?” she asked, curious about the Londoners who had descended upon her town.
“What of them?” He shrugged. “They are my friends, and that is all.”
“That can’t be all,” Daphne shot back. “How do you know one another? What are their names? Will you be staying long?”
Daphne clamped her mouth shut abruptly after that last one. That wasn’t a question directly related to the other five men, but more to the one who walked beside her, even in spite of his irksome manner.
He glanced sideways and studied her for a moment, before facing forward again. “We’re all members of the Four-in-hand club. Their names are Bradenham, Quent, Garrick, Thorn and Chetwey. And I don’t know how long we’ll stay, Miss Alcott. But I do know we’re having a little gathering soon—a costume party, actually. Perhaps you should come, since you seem to be so interested in my friends.”
A large lump formed in Daphne’s throat; she swallowed over it. Did he say the Four-in-hand club? Oh, blast. And she’d never been invited to a party before. At least, not a party thrown by distinguished peers.
“A costume party?” she repeated. “I’m not certain I have anything to wear to such a party.” Or any party, for that matter. She had little need—or money—for frivolous party gowns. She’d never attended anything that required more than her Sunday church dress.
“Oh, I’m sure you can find something, Miss Alcott,” he said, his confidence in her causing something to stir in her belly. “You seem quite resourceful.”
Blast the heat that rose to her cheeks. She didn’t want him to think she was subject to flattery. “Well, thank you for the invitation, my lord, but I’m afraid I will have to decline. I’m certain you understand.” The inn across from which she lived came into view, sending a silent sigh of relief through Daphne’s body. “Here we are,” she said, desperate to change the subject.
“Yes, I recognize the place,” the viscount said with a lopsided smirk. “Are you certain you don’t need help with your deliveries?”
“I’m more than certain, my lord.”
Lord Wolverly looked about, seemingly taking in the little town. “Miss Alcott?”
They stopped before her door and she turned to face him. Something in his eyes, his expression, nearly took her breath away. Or perhaps it was that he was standing so very close to her. Closer than propriety would allow. Thank God her brother wasn’t nearby.
“Y-yes?” she stuttered, unable to calm her suddenly racing heart.
“This seems like a lovely and fascinating place,” he said, his voice full of what one might call reverence.
Daphne nodded.
“And you seem to know an awful lot about it.”
“I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“Then might I inconvenience you to give me a tour? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“A t-tour?”
He nodded.
Daphne couldn’t quite gather her thoughts enough to form a coherent excuse as to why that wouldn’t be a good idea, so she simply said, “Yes.”
A satisfied smile lifted Lord Wolverly’s lips at the edges as he drew her bare hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, sending a jolt of she-didn’t-know-what straight to that sinful place that Vicar Southward always warned against. Well, not that place specifically—that would make for an awkward sermon—but about temptations of the flesh.
She yanked her hand from his grasp and latched onto her black bag with both hands. Wolverly stepped back and removed his hat to offer her a low bow. Daphne found herself mesmerized by his thick head of dark hair. Hair that she desperately wished to lace her fingers through.
And then he was upright again, staring at her with a knowing smile. As if he knew that she’d been thinking about having her hands in his hair.
“Until tomorrow, Miss Alcott,” he said, placing his hat back upon his head, before turning back in the direction they’d just come from. Back to Marisdùn Castle.
Alastair spent a rather restless night tossing and turning in his large four-poster bed in Marisdùn Castle. He’d started to doze off somewhere around midnight, only to be interrupted by a loud thumping on the walls. Or something of that nature. He would have to remind his friends that some people preferred to sleep the night away, rather than drink it away. Furthermore, he couldn’t figure out the strange drafts that kept wafting over him. They’d send chills skittering over his skin, so he’d pull the counterpane up, only to turn hot a moment later and throw it off again. It was a deuced frustrating night.
But he did have one thing to look forward to the next day: his tour of Ravenglass. Every time he thought of his interactions with Miss Alcott the day before, he couldn’t help but chuckle. She was so perfectly innocent and naïve. Here he’d thought the debutantes of London were green! Those cunning little vixens and their pestering mamas could only be considered worldly next to Miss Alcott. He never thought he’d be so taken with someone so very unworldly, but he found her rather refreshing.
When dawn finally started to break on the horizon, Alastair decided he ought to give up on sleep. There was no sense torturing himself, waiting for something that would probably never find him. An early morning ride would be the perfect way to start his day, anyway.
Within a half hour, he was in the stable, whispering sweet nothings into Jupiter’s twitching ears.
“Good morning, you handsome devil,” he said, stroking the beast’s shiny red coat with a firm hand. “How about some exercise?”
The horse whinnied his approval, bringing a smile to Alastair’s lips. He loved this bloody animal far more than a man should. But ever since the day he’d acquired him from Newmarket, he’d felt like family. The only family Alastair ha
d had in a very long time.
They didn’t go far—after all, Alastair didn’t want to spoil himself for his tour with Miss Alcott, not to mention it was bloody cold this morning—but he did make his way around the castle grounds. They were vast and quite lovely. A touch of frost sparkled on the pale green grass. The trees, in their varying shades of red and orange, cast ever-moving shadows as the sun made its ascent into the sky. In his half hour ride, he didn’t see a single other soul, unless one counted a maid in a blue dress wandering the gardens. She must have been on an errand for Cook, but she didn’t seem to pay Alastair any mind.
Breakfast had been laid out by the time he got back, so he ate quickly in solitude before removing to his chambers for a bath. He didn’t want to meet Miss Alcott smelling of horse. Although, she didn’t seem to care much about appearances. She’d come to Marisdùn in complete shambles, after all.
At eleven o’clock, Alastair bounded down the stairs toward the front door, only to nearly collide with Braden.
“Going somewhere?” he asked his friend as he accepted his hat and cane from Bendle.
“Into town,” Braden replied.
“Care to walk together?”
Braden gestured toward the door. “After you.”
Alastair walked beside his friend in companionable silence. They’d been friends a long time now, he and Braden. The marquess was an upstanding man—a good and loyal friend, which was more than he could say for the man’s younger brother. Not that Quent wasn’t a loyal friend, but one would be mistaken to describe him as good.
“Why are you headed into town?” Braden asked, cutting into Alastair’s trivial thoughts.
“Just something to do, I suppose,” he replied, not quite ready to admit he was heading in to see a woman. Let alone a common and enterprising woman.
“Sleep well?”
Alastair chuckled. He didn’t fancy telling his friend that he’d had female-like episodes of heat and chills through the night. “Better than Garrick. He says he heard children running up and down the corridor all night.”
“Children?”
