“I’m certain he can,” the duke said, leaning forward, his voice taking on a deeper and more sensual tone. “But I did not ask for Mr. Farrington’s opinion. I asked for yours.”
Daphne’s heart raced beneath the thin layer of silk and lace her aunt had insisted she don for the evening’s entertainments. The man was positively vexing. As long as the ledgers provided proof of her family’s success, what difference did it make as to who displayed them? Attempting to infuse her voice with a patience she did not feel, she replied, “I can arrange a meeting where Thomas and I provide you with the relevant documents.”
He glanced at the sparkling liquid and took a deep swallow. “Excellent. And as time is of the essence, you can do so in three days, when you arrive at Thornhaven.” He placed the empty glass on a tray and led her a step closer toward the violinist and her growing crowd of admirers.
“Thornhaven?” she asked, glancing nervously around her as she glided past more curious faces. Perhaps it was in another area of Mayfair, overlooking Grosvenor Square or the boundaries of Hyde Park.
The duke swept her past a rotund man with large jowls and beady eyes. “Thornhaven is one of my estates, the closest one to London, just under a day’s ride away and where I wish to challenge your misconceptions and sway your mind. The countess and her daughters will accompany you and your brother, of course.”
It was a demand, not a request, and she had no intent of acceding to it. A trip to an estate outside of London implied an extended period of time. Time, that would likely be spent in the close company of a man whose very scent made her mind spin and her body yearn for his touch. A meeting within the city’s boundaries would be more than sufficient to address any of his concerns—and keep him at a distance.
“But would not a visit to my aunt’s home suffice?” Daphne persisted. “Thomas keeps the majority of his papers in my uncle’s library. Surely we can accommodate your needs without hindering you or your staff.”
“Yes, I suppose you could,” he said. “Though that would not allow enough time to change your perception of me.” He peered down at her, his crystalline blue eyes heating her more thoroughly than the crushed and ill-ventilated ballroom.
Daphne drank down a gulp of champagne before letting out an exasperated sigh. “And who am I that you value my opinion so highly, Your Grace?” She had made her disdain for his country quite clear. Why did he persist in tormenting her with his presence?
The duke flicked a piece of lint off his superfine jacket. “Just as you have asked me to clear your name of all misconceptions, I wish to disprove the false claims against my own.”
“But you are English and a duke. Your title, alone, evokes accepted assumptions.” The man made absolutely no sense at all.
“I do not deny my title, Miss Farrington. I do, however, wish to make you see that just because I am an English peer does not mean I am evil. I am an independent person who does not like to be prematurely judged—much, I believe, like yourself.”
The man was nothing like her and to be compared to him was an insult. Just as she could not sever her ties to her brother, neither could he cut the ones connecting him to his title and ancestry. It was why she was requesting his aid, was it not? So that she could use his influence to assist her in clearing the lies circulating about hers.
“A few days, Miss Farrington, is all I require for you to see me outside of society. If I am not able to gain your approbation after that time, then so be it. But I will not invest in the Farrington Line until I’ve at least had a chance to change your mind.”
…
Edward did not value the opinions of others. Unless, of course, those opinions were of him. He strove to portray perfection, a man unaffected by society, a moral and commanding authority, and he had done so successfully—at least he had until Miss Farrington had literally shoved her way into his life.
That she judged him based not on his actions but on his bloodlines, irked him beyond reason. That she thought him completely without merit was frustrating as hell. Yes, he was a duke, but he was a man first and foremost, and Edward was hell-bent on making certain that Miss Farrington saw him not as the aristocrat she and everyone else expected, but as a warm-blooded male who could more than prove her wrong.
Because of all things, he was intrigued. Curious. And if he dared to admit, enchanted by the idea that a woman of intelligence was not the least bit seduced by the very mask he wished to toss aside.
Did the same passion in which she wielded her disdain for everything English translate into every aspect of her life? Would she be as bold and fiery in bed as she was in her speech?
He sure as hell wanted to find out.
It was why, for the second time in less than a week, he had issued an impulsive invitation without giving much thought to its consequences. And he hadn’t offered the invitation so much as demanded it, acting with the very ducal arrogance Miss Farrington had accused him of in the first place.
He was a complete ass.
His only redemption at the moment was that in his idiocy, he had chosen Thornhaven as the retreat where he could further embarrass himself with his complete disregard for reason.
His father’s bachelor lodgings prior to marriage, Thornhaven was an estate his meddling mother did not frequent. Which suited Edward’s purpose just fine. There, he could entertain Miss Farrington in ways that were accepted, and hopefully in those that were not, while discussing unusual business particulars.
“I don’t understand,” his mother huffed. The emeralds dangling from her ears bobbed in perfect unison, the glittering gems swaying with her indignation as they rode over Park Lane.
“I don’t expect that you do.” He pulled the leather gloves from his fingers and rubbed a handkerchief over his face. “Perhaps we can discuss this after we’ve both had some rest.”
“You’ve made your interest in Miss Farrington abundantly clear.”
He supposed he had. Good. Perhaps men like Westbrook would avoid pursuing her, then. Miss Farrington, had, after all, requested the protection of his name. And had he not just given it?
“Confound it, Edward.” His mother ripped off her gloves and flung them against the door. “Why Miss Farrington? Why not any of the other ladies I have brought before you? What makes her so different, that you must go against my wishes?”
Her intelligence? Her wit? The passion with which she defended her ideals? “She intrigues me.”
“Then have her settle your curiosity discreetly. I did not fulfill my obligations to this family only to have you toss them away on some tart from the colonies.”
“If I wished to ruin the duchy with a tart, I’d have chosen Lady Chadwick, Mrs. Spalding, or any other of the recently widowed women interested in jumping into my bed. Despite her nationality, Miss Farrington is a lady and should be treated as such.”
She glared back, her stance unwavering, despite the carriage’s movement over the rocky cobblestone. “I am well aware of her interest in your title. Lady Amhurst has made it abundantly clear how excited she is in your attentions toward her niece.”
“And has not Lady Dewbury proclaimed to all who would listen her excitement at your interest in Lady Isabella?”
The thin membranes of her nostrils flared. “Lady Isabella is a titled lady. She cannot be compared to Miss Farrington.”
Edward closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “For Christ’s sake, she is the granddaughter of a marquess. She is a lady, whether she bears a title or not, and I expect you to treat her as one.”
She stared at him then, her scrutinizing glare one of complete mystification. “What is this about, Edward?”
He wondered the very same thing.
“If you must tarry with the American chit, do so behind closed doors. You do not have a choice. A duke never has a choice. He does what is best for his line, and marrying the daughter of a peer is what is expected for the future of this duchy. Lady Isabella will be your wife. I’ve already discussed the settlement terms with h
er father.”
Something inside of him roared to life.
“No.” He was five and thirty, not the little boy in leading strings she still thought him. “It is cause for concern, madam, that you should think yourself in a position to tell me with whom I may share my bed.”
“I am your mother,” she stated, as if her relationship explained everything.
“And I am the bloody damn Duke of Waverly,” he thundered. “I will choose a wife who fulfills my expectations and is acceptable to me. You will get your duchess, but it will be on my terms, not yours.”
She sat in silence, her mouth gaping open and closed like a hungry trout hunting for food in a freshwater stream. It was minutes before she lifted her gaze to his and whispered, “I don’t understand, Edward.”
And neither did he.
When had the opinion of an American woman he had known for less than a week become more valued than that of the woman who had guided him since birth?
Chapter Seven
Daphne knew full well why her family wished to secure British investors. England owned more colonies than any other nation, and despite American naval successes against the crown, Britain’s navy was unmatched in both size and skill. No larger fleet patrolled the world’s oceans. And as her family had to cross those same oceans to maintain their quality of life, it was essential they secured British allies—especially wealthy and bored dukes with unlimited funds.
That fact was why, four days after the duke’s presumptuous request, she grudgingly sat at the duke’s table, in his banquet hall, eating dinner in the midst of not one, but three fireplaces tall enough for a grown man to stand inside. It was why her brother had not stopped smiling since he received news of their invitation, despite Daphne’s reminder that they were toadying to a man related to the king, whose directives had resulted in the death of their brother, Samuel. And it was also why her aunt had fussed, preened, and primped Daphne to new levels of feminine ornamentation in preparation for this visit.
But none of the splendor supported an English duke in his quest to convince her that he was something other than what he appeared. In fact, it did the opposite, drawing attention to the fact that he possessed an extravagant ancestral home, he could afford the most exquisite tailor, and in all likelihood, employed a servant specifically for the purpose of polishing his Hessians so fine that one might see their own reflection in them.
Even his guests were the exact English aristocrats she had envisioned him having, save for Lord Westbrook. Although Westbrook, too, embodied that arrogant English superiority she found so distasteful, his presence was unexpected, given the visible tension between him and the duke. But if the earl was the exception, Lady Isabella and her mother proved the rule. It was becoming increasingly clear, through the constant flattery and anything but subtle praises, that the duchess had selected Lady Isabella as a potential wife for her son.
A son, who, at present, looked decidedly perturbed. She wasn’t certain if it was the way his full lips were pressed together into an uncharacteristically straight line, or if it was the upward thrust of his aristocratic chin, but whatever the cause of his aggravation, his dour expression was in sharp contrast to the smiling faces of the ladies beside him.
Daphne’s gaze must have lingered a bit too long, for he lifted his eyes to hers. Heat swirled in her chest. She could almost see the question forming in their blue depths before his deep voice carried down the length of the table to her spot between Thomas and Lord Westbrook.
“Do you read, Miss Farrington?”
She nodded, fighting the stirrings low in her belly his attention provoked. “On occasion.”
Thomas sat upright beside her. “Daphne is being modest, Your Grace. Our family boasts one of the larger libraries in Boston, and Daphne has read all of the books at least once. She is quite the proficient reader.”
She would have gleefully pulled her brother’s meddling tongue from his mouth, if every eye were not now focused on her. Of course she was a proficient reader. It was what one did to occupy the mind and to learn new things.
Daphne placed her spoon on the table. “I think we would all be far more interested in hearing what you like to read, Your Grace. Do you prefer the Greek classics? Homer, perhaps? Or Plato?”
“I should think His Grace more suited to the newspapers, Miss Farrington,” Lord Westbrook interjected, admiring his glass of wine. “To keep him better informed of commercial ventures and profits.”
Daphne stared at the earl. She hadn’t thought the duke’s interest in trade public information. And judging from the duke’s clenched jaw and irritated expression, she gathered he hadn’t either. The duke’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I’ve never been one for reading. I prefer instead, to spend my time out of doors. I rather enjoy fishing.”
“Fishing?” her brother asked. His face lit up in a way she had not seen since their arrival in London. “I quite enjoy the sport myself.”
The duke glanced at her brother and smiled. “Excellent. We shall go tomorrow. Lord Satterfield made mention that the lakes are overly stocked and in desperate need of attention. Perhaps he could advise us which ones deserve our immediate assistance. He is quite the celebrated sportsman.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Lord Satterfield replied from his seat beside her aunt. “Lord Colwyn is the real fisherman. He holds the record of catching twenty trout with one worm.”
Lord Colwyn’s cheeks flushed red. “That was some time ago, my lord.”
Thomas raised his glass. “I would be honored to see your skills with bait, Lord Colwyn.”
Daphne’s fingers clenched around her napkin. Fishing? Were some slippery river species all it took for her brother to so readily forget the ties the aristocracy held to Samuel’s death? Why, Thomas acted as though these men were old classmates, bonding over something as simple as a trout, rather than supporters of the very government that had killed their brother. And while it might be in the best interest of Farrington Shipping to have Thomas ingratiate himself with these men, his reaction was beyond polite. It was excessive.
“What do you like to read, Miss Farrington?” Lord Westbrook asked, ignoring her brother’s display of camaraderie. “Walter Scott? Or perhaps something more exotic, like Coleridge’s opiate-induced Kubla Khan?”
Daphne lifted her eyes. “I am currently enjoying a most riveting treatise on political revolution, titled The Rights of Man, by Thomas Paine.”
Her brother coughed into his napkin, the loud, deliberate hacking of a man either terribly embarrassed by his sister’s literary selections, or suffering from a convulsion of the lungs. She assumed it was the prior, given Thomas was as healthy as an ox and that she, in her candor, had made mention of a completely inappropriate literary selection for the present company.
What had she been thinking?
Lord Westbrook, undeterred by her brother’s display, leaned forward, a wolfish sort of smile on his face. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of reading Mr. Paine, though I’d be very interested in hearing you expound on his works.”
“Yes, Miss Farrington,” the duchess crowed from her seat, a cold grin appearing on her face. “Please enlighten us on the details of American civility.”
Daphne fiddled with her napkin. “Not so much American civilities, Your Grace, but rather an argument against hereditary government.”
The duchess’s face fell.
The duke cocked his head. “I believe I have a copy of his book in my library, Miss Farrington. I have not had the pleasure of hearing his work. Would you care to read from it after dinner?”
Daphne near choked on a spoonful of cream bisque. “You wish me to read from Mr. Paine and The Rights of Man?”
He rolled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “I don’t see why not. Westbrook is eager to be enlightened and so am I.”
Daphne glanced around the table. Anger, amusement, and curiosity peered back. She had never dreamt the duke would collect titles outside of hi
s hemisphere, and certainly not those of American origin that questioned the very hierarchy his entire life was based upon.
One thing was certain: reading from the blasted book was most definitely not the way to win investors.
“I fear it might not be suitable, Your Grace,” she said, squirming under her brother’s furious glare. “At least not for the present company.”
“Now you have us most intrigued, Miss Farrington,” the duke replied. “Can we not persuade you to reconsider?”
Daphne twisted her napkin around her finger. “Well, I…”
A sharp toe, likely from her aunt or one of her neighboring cousins, dug into her shin.
Swallowing back her yelp, Daphne replied, “As you wish, Your Grace.”
The duke nodded his approval and the duchess frowned her distaste, but neither commented again for the duration of the meal. However, when the time came for everyone to gather and listen to Paine’s argument against hereditary governments, Daphne held back, her slow steps rushed only by those of her stalwart brother, who had made it his mission to near push her into the room, or rather section, of Thornhaven that housed the shelves of books waiting for her retrieval.
“Do not embarrass me again.”
His whispered reprimand tickled her neck, and made the hair there stand on end. She swatted away his words, like she would an irritating gnat. “It was not my intention to embarrass you, Thomas. It was a mistake, a slip of the tongue, a…a—”
Her brother nudged her to the left, past a large wooden desk, and into a darkened row of leather-bound tomes. “You will select a more suitable book, and thank the duke for his generosity before retiring this evening.”
Daphne brushed off her sleeves and straightened her skirt. “I attempted to dissuade him, Thomas. You needn’t be rude.”
“Rude?” Thomas argued. “And how will it appear when you begin to read from Paine’s pages to a room full of aristocrats? The damn book is an argument against them, for God’s sake!”
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