“Has Thomas spoken with you about business?” Daphne asked.
The corners of Sarah’s mouth twitched ever so slightly and her eyes darted to the floor. “Not particularly, though one would have to be a fool not to know of the troubles our family faces.”
Our family? When had Sarah begun to claim Farrington dealings as her own? Daphne let out an imperceptible snort. Sarah was most definitely not a Farrington.
“Yes, dear,” Aunt Susan added. “I’m afraid Thomas has not been as discreet in his dealings as he intended.” She gave a weak smile. “We were going to wait for a more opportune moment to share our concern, but now, with the duke’s interest and heroics, I suppose this is as good a moment as any.”
“How exactly does the Duke of Waverly have anything to do with my family?”
“You simply must ask the duke for his assistance,” Henrietta piped, her eyes bright with excitement. “His influence alone will resolve any issues with our family’s name.”
There was that word again. No mind that her cousins were now as ridiculous as her brother in their insistence on involving the duke in personal matters. “What do you mean, our?” Daphne asked. “Is it not the Farrington name in question?”
Henrietta blinked. “Well, yes, I suppose, but you are our relation, Daphne. Anything that happens to you, affects us as well.”
Aunt Susan tilted her chin upward. “We may not be Farringtons by name, but we share blood, Daphne. I may not have been able to stand by my sister in her time of need, but I will most certainly do so for you.”
Daphne glanced around the coach, at the resolute nods and glittering eyes that suddenly seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to her own. How had she not seen the same heart-shaped faces staring back, the same dimple in their chins as they tilted them upward? How had she been so oblivious to the physical similarities she shared with her English relations?
The coach dipped forward, and she inwardly shook her head, clearing it of the wayward thoughts. She had no time for sentimentality; she would be bound for Boston as soon as the ship recovered its inventory.
“While I am most flattered and thankful for your support, I pray that neither Thomas nor I require it. I am most certain he has had a successful afternoon.”
Sarah leaned back into her seat, her dark brow raised. “As much as I hope you are right, one should never be too limited in one’s options.”
Aunt Susan nodded and beamed from her perch next to Henrietta. “Which is why we have an alternate plan should Thomas give us a less than satisfactory report of the day’s events.”
Her pulse racing, Daphne began counting under her breath, the floral bouquet of her cousin’s perfume filling her nostrils and making her head swim. What alternate plan? And how had she been so ignorant of her relations’ involvement in her affairs?
“I don’t suppose it involves you countering Mr. Burnham’s rumors?” Daphne whispered.
Henrietta pulled down the shade and leaned forward. “Heavens no, Daphne. We do not have the clout of a duke.”
Daphne bit down on her bottom lip. Once again she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her, and once again she was feeling the sting of her failure. Had she done a better job of restraining her tongue, perhaps the duke would have assisted her in overcoming the rumors. But with today’s brash behavior and biting remarks, she held little hope of gaining the duke’s favor…and stemming Burnham’s gossip.
Aunt Susan patted Daphne’s leg. “We have been invited to Lady Fairbanks’s musicale tomorrow evening. As her husband is the duke’s second cousin, His Grace is almost always in attendance. You may ask for his assistance then. That is, of course,” her aunt paused, her eyes sparkling with mirth, “only if Thomas’s day did not go as planned.”
…
If there was something Edward hated more than a London ball, it was the strains of an ill-played concerto.
He rather enjoyed the rich tone of the cello and high song of the violin. But to hear them played in a less than harmonious partnership was more than a little disappointing—it was damn near sinful.
And yet, his tone-deaf cousin continued to utilize the services of her three beautiful, if hardly musically inclined, daughters.
Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to stuff a few tufts of cotton into his ears prior to the evening’s “entertainments.” Unfortunately, his mother had seen the damn tufts and had pulled them out of his ears before the first scrape of the cello had been bowed.
It was no small comfort then that, gazing out over the crush of people, he, at the very least, was not the only one about to suffer through the debacle. Westbrook, the foul lout, was sitting in the third row, and staring at…well, damn.
How had he missed her? How had he not seen the radiant burst of light, the pale yellow silk of her gown catching the flickers from the candle and making her look like an extension of the flame itself?
She was beautiful, desirable, and most definitely worthy of his attentions. Hell, just the sight of her had him crossing his legs in a vain attempt to hide his ill-timed arousal. Which made Miss Farrington a delightfully tantalizing temptation. Edward tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes darting to the very edge of his vision. He had only wished to catch a glimpse of those seated beside her, when he noticed her two very blue, and very anxious, eyes staring back.
Holy hell. Edward turned forward, now raptly drawn to the shaking fingers of Lady Edith Fairbanks as they sat poised above the ivory keys of the soon-to-be-beaten pianoforte.
He frowned. Of course she was staring in his direction. He sat just left of the pianoforte, and as Edith had yet to pound out any notes, it was only logical to assume Miss Farrington sat in eager anticipation of the start of the program. She was in absolute certainty not staring at him.
He’d lost his fool mind, for Edith had finally set her fingers to the keys, and the sound that flowed from the pianoforte was not the cacophony he had expected, but something, well…good. He glanced at his mother. She, too, appeared equally surprised. He smiled at the reassurance that if his sense of reason had stopped working, his hearing, at least, had not.
The obvious tutelage of a very patient music instructor almost had Edward forgetting the pair of blue eyes staring at him from the side of the room—until he caught sight of their brilliant gaze after the last note was performed. This time, with all three of his cousins having exited from their positions in front of him, he was absolutely certain her attention was directed toward him. And that had him thinking thoughts that would have made Miss Farrington and every other female in the room blush.
Or at least it would have until Westbrook stood in front of her, effectively blocking his view.
Edward was not fond of crowds. Or short and uncouth men parading about under the guise of a gentleman. He took a step toward Miss Farrington just as a very feminine cough sounded at his side.
His mother stood beside him, flanked by Lady Isabella on her right and the chit’s mother on the left.
With an exceptional amount of effort, he held back the string of both French and Italian curses that sat on the tip of his tongue, and instead gave the polite, if not pleased, smile that was expected of him. “Lady Isabella, a pleasure as always.”
He never had been a very good liar, and his mother knew it. She came forward and rested her hand on his arm before facing Lady Isabella and her mother. “His Grace and I were going to give our praises to Lady Edith and her sisters on their fine accomplishments this evening. Perhaps you would care to join us?”
Ever the master of manipulation, his mother had so effortlessly created what, at least in her mind, was the perfect opportunity for him to engage in trite conversation with a young woman who cared more for his title and connections than whether he actually wished to engage in conversation with her at all. Just for once, he wished someone saw past the accoutrements of his station and blood to see the desires of the man underneath.
With a grand flourish he gave his biggest smile and said, “Ah, but
before I give my cousins their due praise, I intend on asking Miss Farrington her opinion of this evening’s performance. Would you care to join me?”
Edward knew damn well the supercilious Countess of Dewbury would not wish to converse with an American, despite Lady Isabella’s furtive glances in Miss Farrington’s general direction. And by the smart pinch under his arm, his mother knew it, too.
“Perhaps at a later time,” the countess replied, and grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Lady Elizabeth is available and I’d like to extend my congratulations on her performance.”
With a forced smile and a nod to the countess, his mother replied, “I shall accompany you then.”
Which left him available to converse with Miss Farrington, a pursuit that seemed to be a common idea amongst the ton’s young bucks, if the sizeable and very male crowd growing around her was any indication. He discreetly elbowed through the gathering, the younger and less-titled lords stepping aside at his advance. Only Westbrook remained unmoved by his approach.
“Mr. Farrington,” Edward bowed. “Miss Farrington.”
“Your Grace,” Thomas Farrington replied. The man looked utterly relieved at Edward’s arrival.
“How did you find the evening’s performance?” Edward asked, hoping his presence alone would deter the majority of men lurking about to catch Miss Farrington’s notice. “I was just commenting to Lord Colwyn on how extraordinary it was,” Farrington replied. He turned toward his sister. “Were you equally as entranced?”
Westbrook took one of her gloved hands and brought them to his lips. “Not nearly as much as I, upon catching sight of Miss Farrington this evening.”
Edward swallowed the foul tang of bile flavoring his mouth.
“I am quite fond of violins,” Miss Farrington replied. “I was just going to give Lady Eugenia my congratulations.”
Before Westbrook could waylay her with any more of his flowery speech, Edward positioned himself beside Miss Farrington. “I was about to relay my own congratulatory remarks to my cousin. Shall I escort you there?”
He held out his arm, knowing full well she could refuse him. Hadn’t she done so just the day before? Edward was half expecting her to repeat the embarrassment when her white glove rested ever so lightly on his arm, warming his jacket and making his blood stir. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am most appreciative of your offer,” she replied.
A smile broke on his lips. But all joy at having bested Westbrook was lost as he began to usher her toward the gaggle of women surrounding his cousin, and she whispered, “I need your help.”
…
Daphne hated herself. In one sentence she had uttered the four most ridiculous words she had ever spoken in her existence. And all because her brother, the cursed man, had been unable to convince wary investors of his sincerity. That, along with the threat of extending her stay by weeks, if not months, had led her to become the desperate woman now standing in front of an attractive English duke.
“I had gathered.”
“You did?”
His lips came together in a straight line. “Yes. But I’ve only begun to see the depth at which my assistance is required. ”
Daphne flushed, the heat of her embarrassment no doubt evident to all within the viscount’s home. “I see. I didn’t realize it had become so obvious. My brother, of course, had warned me of such an outcome, but he has always been prone to exaggeration. I had no idea the effects would be so far-reaching.”
“Your brother foresaw this complication?” The duke ran his gloved hand over his face and sighed. “The man is far wiser than I.”
Daphne bit her tongue and did her best not to lend too much eagerness to her agreement of his statement. “Thomas had his suspicions, but I’ll admit to not paying them much heed. And while Mr. Burnham did issue his threat, I was not inclined to think a man of his standing would be given much—”
The duke stilled. “Mr. Burnham?”
Honestly, was the man not paying attention? “Yes, of course. You were in the room when Burnham issued his threat. Thomas is certain the churl followed through on his word.”
“Mr. Richard Burnham?” the duke repeated, his full lips enunciating each syllable.
Daphne tapped her slipper-covered toe in impatience. “I presume as much, though you would know the name better than I, given that he is under your employ.”
“We are not talking about Westbrook?”
Daphne’s toe stilled. “Of course not. The earl has not issued a threat to my family—at least not that I am aware.” She glanced back at Lord Westbrook, who now stood next to a cluster of young ladies, his eyes still trained on her. Had the earl said something to mar her name?
“Nor I,” he muttered, following her gaze. “Though the young earl is not all he presumes to be.”
She didn’t suppose he was. But then, neither was the duke. Daphne didn’t doubt the man harbored secrets of his own. Especially when that man engaged in trade, despite the ton’s disapproval.
“I have no arguments with Lord Westbrook, Your Grace. My quarrel lies with Mr. Burnham and him alone. Mr. Burnham has threatened my family’s reputation with lies. All of them, I assure you, are falsehoods, which he has spread amongst his peers, though how he is able to gain anyone’s favor…” Her voice faltered. Daphne cleared her throat and interlaced her fingers. “Barring your good judgment, of course.”
The duke straightened his shoulders. “Of course.”
She glanced away, her eyes darting to the wooden floor. Why did her mouth always get the best of her?
“Miss Farrington, are you implying Mr. Burnham has spread falsehoods against your family?”
Daphne returned her gaze to the duke’s concerned face. “I’m not implying anything. I know for a fact that Mr. Burnham is a cheat, a liar, and a man who has the trust of too many unsuspecting merchants and maritime investors.”
The duke leaned forward and lowered his voice. “A most serious accusation. And just how do you think I can be of help?”
Daphne stared at him, her eyes locked onto his. “Invest in our company. Give your approval and your name to the Farrington Line.”
He righted himself, his gaze sweeping over her. “Ah. You mean the same name you hold in disregard due to my English connections.”
Damn. She clenched her teeth before stating the bald fact. “Precisely.”
“And how exactly would I benefit from this business arrangement?” he asked, intrigue evident in his voice.
“Well, you would, of course, receive a return on your investment. A very high return,” she added.
The duke rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “As tempting as that sounds, Miss Farrington, I am after all, a nobleman. And one, according to your understanding of English aristocracy, who should not invest money in anything other than landed interests.”
“But you were more than willing to consider the opportunities previous to this debacle.” The words poured from her mouth before she had the decency to swallow them. If she wasn’t careful, she would attract further attention from the already curious onlookers casting their eyes in her direction.
He spoke low, his deep voice barely audible. “Yes, but that was before the damage done by Burnham. My name would now have to counteract not only an unusual investment, but also the negative reputation of your family’s company.”
Damn the man.
Daphne stood unperturbed. “I assure you that your investments—”
The duke held up his hand. “I am willing to give you the protection and strength of my name to clear your family of whatever blemishes Burnham may have contrived. With one condition.”
“And what condition would that be?” she asked, curious.
He paused, his gaze once again centered on hers. “I want you to judge me as a man. Not as a duke. Or as an aristocrat with English blood. Look at me as a person. Reserve your judgment of that man for a fortnight, and then tell me what you think of him. No matter your opinion, good or poor, as long as it’s hone
st, I will do all that is in my power to restore the good name and financial standing to your family’s business. Do we have a deal?”
Chapter Six
For some reason beyond the limits of understanding, chaos reigned. An English duke, of all people, valued her opinion. Or at least it appeared that he did. Why else would he ask her to withhold judgment of his character? A character she had readily placed into a neat little box labeled annoying, arrogant, and definitely not worth a second consideration before getting to know him.
Daphne took a deep breath. She needed to focus, to place everything in logical order. But no matter how she struggled, she could find absolutely nothing logical about her current situation. Clearly something was amiss in the universe.
“I don’t understand,” Daphne said. “You will lend your protection and invest in my family’s name if I reserve judgment of you as a man?” The question sounded even more ridiculous spoken aloud.
“Not precisely.” He steered her toward the edge of the room where the crowd was at its thinnest, and where the subtle scent of him, of bergamot and cloves, blended together and made her want to lean closer, if only to fill her nose with the exotic fragrance. “I don’t expect you to readily toss aside your misconceptions. I fully intend to prove them wrong. Respectively, I expect the same from you in exchange for my investment and the weight of my name.”
“You wish for me to prove the worthiness of my name while considering you as a person without the weight of yours?” she asked. Never mind that this entire idea was absurd. She had no intention of casting aside her opinions of him, just because he, arrogant man, proclaimed them to be wrong.
The duke lifted two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and handed her one. “More or less, yes.”
Daphne frowned at his madness before taking the glass, his gloved fingers lingering over hers and making her near drop the dratted vessel. She took a small sip of the bubbling drink, allowing the delicate bouquet to dance over her tongue before replying, “The success of our shipping line should be evidence enough of our credibility, and one I can readily prove with documentation. My brother has brought along records and can vouch for our accomplishments.”
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