by Alyssa Drake
“Ask me what, Thomas?” Lady Westwood appeared in the foyer, exiting the ballroom with Aunt Abigail.
“Did you invite the Shirely family to the engagement ball?”
“Of course, I did, they are our neighbors.” She smiled and gestured to Aidan, who hovered behind Benjamin. “I invited all our neighbors.”
“If they choose not to attend,”—Aunt Abigail thumped her cane on the floor—“it would be considered a social snub.”
“Which is a mistake Mrs. Shirely is too adept to make,” added his mother. “They should be along in the next hour or so. Why do you ask?”
Wordlessly, Benjamin held out the letter to his mother. As she read it, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Her eyes flicked up to Benjamin. “I suggest you share this with Mr. Hastings. When the Shirely family is announced, I will have the butler direct them into the sitting room for a private discussion.”
“In the meantime, I suggest everyone stay vigilant,” said Benjamin, his arm tightening around Miss Hastings. “Do not wander off by yourself.”
Aidan placed his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “I think I will take my leave early. Da and I will rotate duty. No one will pass through the west side without our knowledge.”
“Thank you, Aidan.” Benjamin embraced him.
“Cousin Samantha.” Aidan bowed, lifting her hand to his mouth.
“Aidan.” Thomas’ eyes narrowed as Aidan glanced up at him. “I have a future grievance to settle with you.”
“Such is your belief, Thomas.” Turning, Aidan exited the foyer, vanishing into the darkness.
“We will speak with Edward.” Folding the note and tucking it into his jacket pocket, Benjamin—his arm still wound around Miss Hastings—walked toward the ballroom.
“Thomas. Miss Randall.” His mother nodded to them both, looped her arm through Aunt Abigail’s, and dragged her back to the ball, murmuring, “We must speak with Daphne, as she is apt to wandering off by herself on the estate.”
“Are you alright, Miss Randall?” asked Thomas. Her skin, ghostly white, looked almost transparent. Her eyes rolled, then she collapsed in a heap at the foot of the staircase.
Sliding his arms under her limp body, Thomas lifted her from the floor. He stood indecisively, his eyes jumping between the stairs and sitting room. Deciding upon the closest destination, he carried her across the foyer toward the sitting room. Her eyelids fluttered open.
“Thank you for rescuing me again, Mr. Reid.” A smile flickered across her face. Sliding her arms around his neck, her violet eyes glowed. She licked her lips, parting them slightly, and leaned up toward him, pulling his head down. Thomas’ mouth brushed against hers, desire zipping through his body. He tightened his grip, pulling her closer. She sighed, murmuring his name.
Kicking open the sitting-room door, Thomas didn’t hear the gasp that echoed across the foyer, nor did he hear the audible shattering of Miss Clemens’ heart as she watched him enter the sitting room, his mouth still pressed to Miss Randall’s lips.
Chapter Eight
She could not breathe. Daphne’s hands flew to her chest as a sharp pain slashed through her heart. Bending at the waist, she stumbled from the ballroom entryway to the staircase, collapsing on the bottom step. He kissed Miss Randall, kissed her in the way that made women swoon, and Daphne was… Another sharp crack sliced through her heart. She was unremarkable.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, gathering along her chin, dripping onto her dress. Voices drifted from the ballroom. Her head whipped toward the entryway, Aunt Abigail’s unmistakable timbre floated over the music. Sniffing, Daphne rose, gathering her skirt and hobbling up the staircase.
If anyone asked, she would claim her ankle had caused her too much trouble, by tomorrow everyone would be aware of the injury. That was the perfect excuse. No one needed to know she was suffering from a broken heart.
Stumbling blindly down the hallway, Daphne burst into her bedchamber, flinging herself on the bed, sobbing into her pillow. She cried until tears no longer flowed. Peeling her face from her pillow, she pushed up, her eyes glancing around the room.
A fire crackled in the grate, casting its warm glow across the walls. Daphne watched the shadows dance, taunting images of a happy couple. Her heart gave another shuddering twinge. If she were as lovely as Miss Randall…
Daphne smacked the bed, driving every ounce of pain and frustration into the mattress. She wasn’t, she was plain, and she never would be able to compete with ladies as lovely as Miss Randall, with her striking eyes or Miss Shirely, with her beautiful, golden hair.
Her experiment to act as Miss Hastings had resulted in injury and embarrassment. She sat up on the bed, dragging her leg toward her. Inspecting her ankle, Daphne winced. Would Mr. Lockhearst forgive her for missing their dance this evening? She was certain once she explained the new amount of her dowry, his mind would be swayed.
“Do you want to marry a man who is only interested in your wealth?” Her question echoed in the room. Rising, Daphne walked over to the looking glass, staring at herself. “What other options do you have?”
Her eyes fell on her sketchbook. Untying the binding, she leafed through the pages, stopping at the most recent entry, her finger tracing over the dots. Star charts. A strange hobby, but one of the few she could do secretly without her mother discovering—she would have, no doubt, enjoyed stealing Daphne’s one bit of happiness.
Glancing out the window, Daphne searched the sky. Even with the light from the house, she knew the gazebo was dark enough not to interfere with her stargazing. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d snuck out to the gazebo… Her finger tapped the unfinished chart.
Had anyone noticed her disappearance? Surely, Aunt Abigail would be aware Daphne was missing from the ball. Her eyes dropped to the open sketchbook. How would she get out to the garden? If she went down the staircase, someone would see her. Even the servant’s staircase was well-traveled.
Miss Hastings’ words echoed in her mind. “I would climb down the trellis. There are plenty of footholds, and it is easy to reach from your window.”
Setting the book down, Daphne glided over to the window, lifting the windowpane. She stuck her head through the small space, seeking the wooden, ivy-covered lattice that split the wall between two windows, which Miss Hastings’ had indicated during their promenade.
“That looks… dangerous,” said Daphne, leaning over the ledge, her eyes following the trellis to the ground. With a sprained ankle, the climb would be even more difficult. Pulling her head back in, Daphne’s gaze bounced over the room. Miss Randall’s—she assumed—sweet laugh floated up from the foyer. She could not stay in here.
Snatching the book from the table, Daphne yanked her skirt to her hips and slid one leg out the window. She sat on the window ledge, placing her foot on the roof, ducking under the window. Halfway outside, Daphne’s eyes dropped to the ground. She wobbled, shrieking, one hand grabbing onto the window, the other clamped over her mouth. The sketchbook slipped, crashing to the gravel pathway beneath her.
Had she been Miss Hastings, a curse word—or two—would have leapt from her lips, but Daphne was not given to blasphemies, and this additional problem was just one more example of her clumsiness. Although the need to recover her sketchbook amplified with each passing moment.
A knock sounded on the door. Daphne’s stomach flipped over. She froze, balanced precariously on the window ledge. The knock came again.
“Daphne?” Aunt Abigail’s worried voice slid under the door. “Daphne, are you in there?”
Gulping, Daphne ducked her head back into the room. “Yes, Aunt Abigail. I twisted my ankle and it was paining me. I decided to retire early. Miss Hastings is aware of the accident. Please give my apologies to her and Lord Westwood.”
The doorknob twisted. Daphne gulped. What would Aunt Abigail say when she caught Daphne straddling a windowsill?
“Would you like me to spend some time with you this evening?” The door creaked open, a sliver
of light poured into the room, running across the floor toward the bed.
“That is not necessary, Aunt Abigail. I am extremely tired.”
“As you wish.” The door closed again, and Aunt Abigail released the doorknob. “Goodnight, Daphne.”
Taking a deep breath, Daphne exhaled slowly, steadying her nerves. She listened to Aunt Abigail footsteps fade down the hallway, then ducked her head under the window and pulled her other leg through the small space. Sitting on the ledge, she reached out her hand, stretching for the trellis. Her fingers brushed against the wood, slipping off the side. Grimacing, she stretched her arm as far as possible, her hand closing around a section of lattice. She exhaled once more and swung herself toward the trellis, her free hand grabbing the other side of the trellis, her feet sliding into two open holes. “Do not look down.”
Concentrating on the side of the house, Daphne slid one foot down, pushing it between two slats in the trellis. The trouble came when she tried to repeat the process with her other foot. Her ankle protested the weight, and her foot slipped from the hole, her body slamming against the wood. Digging her fingers into the trellis, Daphne scrambled to shove her good foot back into the trellis.
“What the devil are you doing!” a gruff voice yelled from beneath her.
Dear Lord. It couldn’t be. Reluctantly, her eyes slid down. Mr. Asher Reid, his mouth hanging open in shock, stared at her from the footpath below.
“Good evening, Mr. Reid,” she replied with as much dignity as possible, a blush crawling through her cheeks. Of all the people to discover her, Mr. Reid was the man lucky enough to find her in a precarious position… for the second time that day. “I hope you have been having a delightful evening.”
“Miss Clemens, while I appreciate your attempt at pleasantries, I am curious to know why, every time I discover you, you are climbing on something.”
“I wanted to retrieve my sketches.” Daphne indicated the book at the base of the trellis.
Leaning over, Mr. Reid lifted the book from the ground. “There are easier ways to reach the gardens.”
“I agree.” Daphne’s arms burned. “However, very few of them allow me to avoid detection.”
“And why would you wish that? I thought all ladies enjoyed balls.”
“I am not a typical lady.”
“That, I believe,” Mr. Reid snorted.
Daphne’s fingers cramping, her grip released, and she fell backward with a scream. Jumping forward, Mr. Reid stretched out his arms, catching her, her momentum carrying them backward. Mr. Reid crashed to the ground with a grunt, Daphne sprawling on top of him.
“I would like to amend my previous question.” Mr. Reid’s muffled voice crawled over her shoulder. “Why, every time I discover you, do you find it necessary to knock me over?”
Groaning, Daphne rolled off him and sat up, inspecting her ankle, which throbbed mercilessly. “Perhaps you are clumsy as you continually seem to fall down.”
“Miss Clemens,” replied Mr. Reid, sitting up, “may I suggest you limit your adventures to one per day. At this rate, you will kill yourself before the week’s end.”
“I would not have fallen had you not distracted me.” Daphne collected her sketchbook from the gravel, brushing bits of dirt and leaves from the binding.
“I believe you used that argument earlier today.” Mr. Reid rose. Holding out his hand, he helped Daphne to her feet. “Now that you have retrieved your book, how do you intend to reenter the house without notice?”
Daphne glanced at the house and the trellis. “I suppose I could climb back up.”
“Would you like me to wait here, in case I need to catch you again?” he smirked, folding his arms.
“That kindness is not necessary.”
“I have no other plans tonight.”
“Do you not want to return to the ball?”
“No.” Mr. Reid’s gaze skipped down the gravel path toward the front of the house. “I am not a man who enjoys social obligation.”
“Neither do I,” muttered Daphne, turning away. “But sometimes, it’s a necessity.”
“That it is,” Mr. Reid sighed. Placing his hand on Daphne’s arm, she glanced at his fingers. “Miss Clemens, society would deem this the moment I would request a dance from you. However, as you are injured, and I cannot dance—”
“You cannot dance?”
“No. My wife…” Mr. Reid paused, his face clouding with memories. “My wife never had the patience to teach me.”
Daphne offered him a small smile. “Since you have no other obligations this evening…”
Mr. Reid arched an eyebrow. “You propose to teach me how to dance”—his eyes flicked down, pointedly staring at her ankle—“while limping.”
“The waltz is quite simple… unless you have lost your sense of adventure.”
“It’s at the bottom of the river.”
Blushing, Daphne lowered her gaze. “I am truly sorry for that.”
He reached out, his hand hesitating halfway between them before he tipped her chin, lifting her eyes to his. “Miss Clemens, I apologize. Ever since Isabella’s death, I find it difficult to converse with people.”
“I am not people, I am one person, half of one, depending on whom you question,” she murmured the last part of the sentence to herself.
Mr. Reid bowed. “It would be my honor to learn how to dance from you.”
“May I suggest the gazebo?” Daphne gestured to the small building in the center of the garden. “The gravel pathway does not make an even floor.”
Offering his arm, Mr. Reid led Daphne toward the gazebo. They shuffled slowly, Daphne leaning heavily against him as they walked. “Miss Clemens, I must protest. How can you instruct me when you can hardly walk?”
“Are you trying to back out of our agreement?”
“We have an agreement?”
She stopped walking, turning toward him. “Yes, I teach you to dance, and you do not breathe one word about my unusual exit from the house this evening.”
“I am still curious how you plan to sneak back into the house.”
“I am considering my options.” Truthfully her only idea was to sneak into the stables and use the passageway that led to the library. However, with her injury and the darkness of the tunnel, she debated whether her plan might err on the side of foolish—although it sounded exactly like something Miss Hastings would attempt.
They trudged up the steps into the dimness of the gazebo. Releasing her, Mr. Reid walked to the center of the structure, spinning around, then bent at the waist, glancing up at Daphne. “The only part I remember is I have to bow.”
“That is correct.” She curtsied in response. “Hold out your arms.”
He complied, lifting his arms halfway in front of his body. Daphne stepped forward, slipping between his arms, then positioned his hands. He inhaled slowly, his eyes closing.
“It is difficult to dance with your eyes shut.”
Opening them, they glowed a brilliant deep blue. “I have not felt a woman’s touch in two years, Miss Clemens. Today, I find you in my arms twice. I’m finding it a bit overwhelming.”
Daphne lowered her arms. “If the exercise is too painful, we can postpone our lesson.”
Shaking his head, Mr. Reid slid his hands along her arms, lifting them back into position. “My grief can hardly compare with your physical agony.”
“I believe you are wrong. The heart can cause physical pain.”
“Miss Clemens, you are by far the most unusual creature I’ve met in a long time.”
“I hope that is a compliment.”
“It is.” He smiled, revealing tiny lines around his eyes. “I am at your disposal, instruct me as you see fit.”
“First, close your eyes.”
“Didn’t you just tell me to open them?”
“And now, I am telling you to close them.”
“You are quite domineering.”
Daphne snorted. “You are the first person to accuse me of tha
t quality.”
Opening his eyes, he tilted his head. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“You have managed to meet me on a day when I am not myself.”
“Who are you?”
“I hardly know anymore.” She placed her finger on his mouth, stifling his response. “No more talking, Mr. Reid. Close your eyes and listen to the music. Do you hear the count? One… two… three… one… two… three.”
He nodded his head in time with the music.
“Left foot first. Left… right… left…” She moved along with him, pulling him forward. His eyes flew open in shock as they whirled around the gazebo, a smile breaking out across his face.
“I’m dancing!”
“You are.” She mirrored his smile, completing another circle around the gazebo. As he turned, Daphne twisted the wrong direction, a sharp pain shooting through her leg. She crumpled to the floor with a cry.
“Miss Clemens!” Dropping to her side, his eyes filled with worry. “Don’t move. I’ll get someone.”
“No!” Her hand flew out, grabbing his sleeve. “Please, I cannot bear the attention.”
He paused, halfway between standing and crouching, his head turned back toward her. “If you do not wish to be noticed, then why do you keep performing inane activities?”
Daphne’s face burned. “I was attempting to act as Miss Hastings.”
“Benjamin’s fiancée… why?”
Swallowing, Daphne glanced down. “She is remarkable.”
Mr. Reid knelt beside Daphne, her hand in his. He lifted her chin again, forcing her to stare into his eyes. “I think you are remarkable.”
“You do?” Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Even after I shoved you into the river?”
“Ah, so you do admit you pushed me in.”
A smile cracked Daphne’s face. “The subject is open for discussion.”
Very slowly, Mr. Reid leaned closer, his mouth stopping millimeters from hers. Daphne’s breath hitched. Was he going to kiss her? What would she do? Did she want him to? Questions raced through her mind. Her stomach fluttered.
“Miss Clemens,” he whispered, the heat from his lips caressing hers. “Would it be acceptable for me to ask if I could see you again?”
