“They are most graciously received, Lady Amhurst.” The earl bowed to her aunt, but his gaze remained on Daphne.
Daphne looked away, hoping to discourage the earl from requesting an introduction, but it seemed that once again, misfortune was on her side. Her aunt grabbed Daphne’s hand and placed her directly in front of the earl.
“Please allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Farrington of Boston.”
The earl’s face brightened. “Boston? Are you visiting from Lincolnshire?”
“Oh no,” Henrietta corrected. “Daphne is from Boston, Massachusetts. She is American, my lord.”
The earl’s dark brows rose. “American? How very intriguing, Miss Farrington.”
The earl seemed poised to take a step in her direction, but suddenly the air grew thin as the space between them became occupied by a tall, well-dressed form. “Yes, Westbrook. Miss Farrington is in London reconnecting with family. But I daresay you already knew that. Were you not inquiring after her, badgering Lady Isabella with your questions of Miss Farrington’s identity?”
The earl flushed. “You cannot fault me for being curious, Waverly. Not when your mother has invited such an enchanting creature to her luncheon. I merely wished to make her acquaintance.”
“Ah, but it was I, and not my mother, who invited Miss Farrington,” the duke corrected. “She is my guest.”
His guest? Daphne stared at the duke, the warm breeze tousling his sand-colored hair, curling it over the brim of his top hat. Was there a difference between those guests who had been invited by the duchess and those by the duke? Just what differentiated the two? And why was she suddenly interested to know?
The earl snapped off a nearby sprig of honeysuckle and smashed it between his fingers. “And how is it that you know Miss Farrington, Waverly? Is this not her first event this Season? I can only believe the truth, as I would most certainly have remembered those eyes had I come across them before this afternoon.”
The duke straightened his shoulders and snatched a flute of champagne from a passing tray. He gave the mangled honeysuckle bits on the ground a sympathetic look, and aimed his so-charming smile at Aunt Susan. “I have an acquaintance with her brother, Mr. Thomas Farrington. He was kind enough to introduce us.” While the duke’s face did not give any indication of his feelings toward the earl, his voice was filled with pity.
The duke turned, cutting off her view of the earl. “Where is your brother, Miss Farrington?”
If Thomas knew what was good for him, he was booking Daphne’s passage home. “He had some business that required his attention, Your Grace. He asked me to give his apologies.”
Thomas had indeed gone to attend business earlier this morning. With merchants withdrawing daily, he had hastened to the pier to save what investments remained—and had left her with a stern reminder of his command—a command Daphne would see to completion, if only to stop her brother’s harping.
“Your Grace,” Daphne rushed, hoping to hold his attention before her courage failed. “I…I want to thank you for your invitation. I am…” I am lying though my teeth and doing it badly. “I am…most flattered, Your Grace.”
He placed his empty champagne glass on a table, his direct gaze making her cheeks warm. “I wonder if you might be interested in a tour of the gardens, Miss Farrington? With your aunt’s permission, of course.” He gave a hopeful glance to Aunt Susan.
Before her aunt could open her mouth to reply, the earl edged in front of the duke.
“What an excellent notion, Waverly. I was just about to ask Miss Farrington that myself. No doubt you have guests that require your attention.” He held out his arm to her.
“Not so much as your great-aunt requires yours,” the duke countered. He stepped to the side and motioned toward an elderly woman pounding her cane on the stone walk.
“Westbrook, is that you?” she called. “Stop dawdling, and give me your hand.”
The earl gave a tight smile. “My apologies, ladies, but I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.” He bowed and gazed up at Daphne. “Perhaps another time, Miss Farrington.”
When pigs wear corsets. “Yes, perhaps.”
The earl nodded and turned toward the duke. “Waverly.”
“Westbrook.” The duke watched the earl stalk toward his relation before returning his attention to where Daphne stood with her aunt and cousin. “Miss Farrington? Our walk?”
Here was the opportunity for which she had most anxiously hoped. Yet now that it was hers to grasp, she hesitated. While she had no wish to go anywhere with the presumptuous earl, neither did she want to take a turn with the handsome, smiling, and charming duke. He was unsettling at best, his very presence evoking an internal discord of unfamiliar sensations, likely spurned on by the awkwardness of her plight.
Before Daphne could frame a polite demurral, her aunt nudged her forward. “She would be delighted, Your Grace.”
Daphne would be anything but delighted at the opportunity to walk about the lawn with the man; his ease in manipulating the earl warned her she’d have to be very careful in how she sought the duke’s financial support. But then, she could hear Thomas’s voice in her ears. Gain the man’s favor. Tell him about the financial advantages of Farrington Shipping. Then you can leave this damnable country and pack your bags…or spend the entire year in London.
It was, after all, just a walk, and likely a short one. While the advantages of her family’s business were many, it wouldn’t take long to list them. She placed her hand on his extended arm. “Yes, yes of course. I would be most delighted, Your Grace.”
The duke led her toward a small maze of waist-high hedgerows, the voices of the guests quieting into a faint murmur as he whisked her farther from the crowd. They walked in silence, with Daphne doing her best to appear calm.
Perhaps if she commented on the roses or the fine state of the greenery, she could unwind her nerves and broach the topic of asking for his assistance with greater ease. Or at least fill the awkward and uneasy quiet that settled around them.
She drew in a deep breath. One. Two. Three. Three beings in the Holy Trinity. Surely that was a good sign, convincing as any—
“These roses are quite lovely. The best I’ve seen since my arrival in England.”
Which was the absolute truth. That these were the only roses she had viewed since stepping upon English soil was of little importance.
The duke gave her a small smile as his eyes traveled over the fragrant blossoms. “They were a gift, given to the very first Duchess of Waverly for her stalwart loyalty to the crown by Queen Anne herself. This particular line of roses heralds from those created by the House of Stuart, dating back at least two hundred years.”
Which was precisely how long this walk would take if she allowed him to continue boasting.
“Your Grace, I was wondering—”
“Why I invited you here?”
She had wondered precisely that. Glancing at his face, she found him staring at her with such intensity, with such complete concentration, she also wondered if she didn’t have a seed from a strawberry stuck to her teeth or a flake of skin peeling from the tip of her nose.
“Well yes, I mean no.” Babbling was doubtless an attractive quality in any young lady. Perhaps she should not have spoken until seven, certainly not six, or perhaps even eight…
“I was wondering if I might ask you for your assistance.”
His expression hardened. “Was Lord Westbrook less than amiable, Miss Farrington?”
What had the earl to do with her requiring the duke’s assistance? “He was a complete gentleman. What I mean to say, is that I was—”
“Then he did not say something to which you might take offense?” the duke pressed, the lines on his forehead deepening as he stood watching her.
“No, not that I am aware—”
“And my mother’s guests?” the duke continued. “Are they agreeable, Miss Farrington? I’m afraid they can be a bit slow to welcome those outside their circle.”
Would he never allow her to finish a statement before interrupting her with an officious inquiry? “I have found them to be…most welcoming.” For sharks.
The duke laughed, a deep rich velvety laugh that made her want to join in with him. “Now I know you to be untruthful.”
Untruthful. So that was how a duke described blatant mendacity. “I did not mean to give offense, Your Grace.”
The duke placed a hand on top of hers. Despite her exasperation, his comforting palm warmed her. “No need to apologize, Miss Farrington. Tell me,” he said, no doubt attempting to spare her from further embarrassment, “how does London compare to Boston?”
Daphne nearly rolled her eyes in exasperation. How in heaven’s name had the conversation veered from her original request to a debate about two unequal and incomparable cities?
“It would not be fair to compare pearls with oysters, Your Grace.”
“I’m pleased to hear London has captured your admiration, Miss Farrington. She has much to offer, does she not?”
Daphne pictured the Mary Frances slipping into the Pool of London without her, and yet the image did no good to stave her retort. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. I far prefer Boston, with its tidy shipping yards, to the crude docks onto which I disembarked when I arrived at London’s shore.”
The duke paused in mid-stride and stared at her. “London may be…rather…dilapidated, in places, but surely you cannot discredit her history. Why, Westminster has been the coronation site of every British monarch since 1066,” he stated, puffing out his chest.
Daphne retracted her hand and took a step away, her arms brushing against the green leaves of the proper English privet hedge. Of all the things to take pride in, the duke would choose the monarchy. Did he not realize with whom he was speaking? Or where she was from?
She’d swim home. “Boston has the merit of being free of the tyranny of a controlling and spoiled king.”
The duke chuckled, his rich laughter eliciting an unexpected, and certainly unwanted, swirl of heat in her chest. “You may be right, Miss Farrington, that Prinny and his father are nothing to brag of. But the culture of Boston surely cannot compare to that of London. Have you visited the British Museum? The marble collection Lord Elgin presented is quite enthralling.”
Marble? The man was proud of cold and hard stone? Of boring sculptures created by a civilization not even his own?
“The open forests and vast wilderness surrounding my city are far more alluring to me than some ancient artifacts, Your Grace.” And they were. She could almost smell the fresh pine of the forest mingling with the salty mists swirling in from the harbor…
“Really? I’m told those very same forests are teeming with violent and bloodthirsty savages.”
Daphne glared up at the duke. “The same could be said to describe London’s hovels.”
The duke’s smile turned lupine. “Violent the hovels may be, Miss Farrington, but many of His Majesty’s finest sailors are plucked from its streets.”
She knew full well it was not in her best interest to provoke the duke, which was why, when she replied, she did so in her nicest, friendliest voice, “Ah, yes. You must be referring to the fine specimens of naval supremacy that were somehow defeated on two separate occasions by the smaller American navy.”
The duke’s chin rose ever so slightly, the smile on his lips waning. “The English defeated Napoleon, Miss Farrington. I hardly think the Americans, who rely more on luck than trusted and disciplined military tactics, could have done something similar. Why, the only reason His Majesty’s navy was defeated was because we were occupied with more weighty opponents.”
With a silent remonstrance to lighten her tone and not antagonize the man, Daphne began to count. Fittingly enough, in French. Un…deux…
She took a deep breath and returned the duke’s smile. “Weighty opponents Napoleon and the French may be, Your Grace, but they were still defeated by the British. The Americans, however, were not.”
The duke plucked a rose blossoming beside her waist. The sleeve of his coat brushed against her, the small movement causing her face to flush. Why her traitorous body responded so readily to his presence when he aggravated her with his comments, was beyond her comprehension. Did it not know to whom it reacted?
“Miss Farrington,” the duke began, twirling the rose between his fingers. Daphne’s eyes were drawn to the small movement, his careless, yet graceful action filling her with a yearning to be touched, if only for a moment, by the leather-encased fingers.
Trois. Daphne held up her hand, eager to quit the conversation. Clearly her mind was befuddled because her thoughts were straying to the absurd. “I really must return to my aunt. Thank you for your time, Your Grace.” She curtsied and turned to make her way toward the end of the waist-high maze.
His hand reached for her, the smooth, supple leather of his glove clamping over her wrist. “Miss Farrington, please. If I cannot persuade you to remain here, then allow me to escort you back to Lady Amhurst.”
No doubt he could feel the racing of her pulse as it hummed beneath his grasp. With a slight twist of her wrist she was free of his hand, but not from the thoughts his touch elicited, of a deepening attraction, an unlikely affection, and the sudden desire to feel the warmth of his fingers against the back of her neck, pulling her into his embrace…
Daphne shook her head, her eyes landing on the light brown jacket and black curls of Lord Westbrook. Hardly an ideal replacement: after all, he was just as English as the duke. But her aunt and cousins were nowhere to be found. And the duke was too infuriating, too English, too…well, ducal with the nerve to be proud of his heritage, for her to remain beside him an instant longer.
“I don’t wish to encroach on your time any longer, Your Grace. You have other guests demanding your attention and Lord Westbrook can ably provide escort.”
Chapter Four
Edward tried not to stare as Miss Farrington dashed toward Westbrook, the pink ribbon at her waist whipping behind her in the breeze.
What the devil just happened?
He glanced down at the red blossom he still held between his fingers and frowned. He’d been rather attentive, nay, accommodating even, especially considering that his nation’s military had been belittled and his homeland insulted. Why, when he really stopped to think about it, he’d been rather kind.
And to what purpose? Had she not left, eager to sprint away from what she perceived as his vile presence, only to run to another man?
Edward’s fingers rubbed together, the thin stem of the bedraggled rose growing soft and limp in his grasp.
Well, damn.
Just as the first man had lusted after the forbidden fruit, he, too, now found himself coveting that which he had been denied: the companionship of the intriguing Miss Farrington.
Good Lord, she was an enigma. Like ice and fire, cool and distant in her demeanor, yet with an obvious disdain for his countrymen simmering beneath the thin veneer of her polite, but pointed, barbs.
And yet, even with her contempt for his compatriots, he couldn’t help but notice the attractive flush of her face or the slight widening of her eyes whenever he got a little too close.
Irony, it seemed, was having a laugh at his expense. And just when he was about to brush off the girl and assume her to be like all the rest…
Edward lifted his head and caught a glimpse of the white and pink trimmed muslin of Miss Farrington’s gown. Her gloved hand rested in the crook of Westbrook’s arm, which, he noted, was a bit closer to her person than was polite. In fact, Westbrook’s entire body was far closer than propriety demanded. If the pair had been sitting, he wasn’t entirely certain that the young lord wouldn’t have been so bold as to place Miss Farrington directly on his lap.
Had Edward not set about to protect her from such churls? And there she was, parading around with Westbrook, one of the worst he’d had the misfortune of inviting to this afternoon’s event. The boy could hardly be over two and tw
enty. And having just come into the title, he had none of the sense of a man honed by aristocratic duties. The young earl’s family seat, a large and floundering estate in Sussex, was threatened by a lack of funds—some of which Edward had only recently relieved from the lad during a rousing hand at Whites. Had he known the financial straits the young lord was in, he never would have bet against him, but Westbrook had been so brash and loose with his coin, Edward couldn’t help but teach the boy a lesson.
And with the look of revulsion settled on Miss Farrington’s face, it looked as if Westbrook needed another tutorial.
“Edward.”
He lifted his head and turned, his shoulders stiffening at the disapproving tone in the all too familiar voice. “Mother.”
She cast him a speculative glance, her eyes narrowing as they fell upon the bedraggled rose still clutched within his grasp. “Lady Isabella is with her mother.”
“Indeed, and so am I. How very coincidental.”
She drew in a long breath, the fine lines around her mouth deepening as she pursed her lips. “I wish for you to accompany me to her side.”
Of course she did. And because he was ever the considerate son, he would accommodate her. But damn if he didn’t first set his conscience to right before he was forced into ducal duties and dull conversation by her persistent and unwanted hand.
“And so I shall, Mother. But before I do, I was wondering if you have seen Lady Amhurst. I’m afraid the one guest who decided to converse with Miss Farrington has infringed upon my hospitality and overstepped the bounds of decorum.”
His mother’s eyes immediately darted to the opprobrious scene behind him. Her nostrils flaring ever so slightly and she cleared her throat. “The countess and her daughters are enjoying tea with Lady Charlotte on the west side of the lawn. Five minutes. And remind the earl of his manners. I do not wish to have a scandal at my luncheon.”
His lips curled into a smile. “As you wish.”
…
Given the number of people in attendance, divided by the ratio of aristocrats to servants, and taking into consideration the size of the lawn and the area to which the guests were confined, the odds of finding at least one of her four dark-haired relations were still in her favor. Yet, even with such mathematically supported calculations, Daphne was unable to catch sight of even one of them. And that, coupled with the sudden and unnerving stare of the young earl, made this moment, and indeed the entire day, the most irrational of her existence.
The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous) Page 4
