A slow liquid heat coiled inside her, warming her insides and stirring a tumult of emotions. She could smell him, the slight hint of cloves and sunshine, and something purely masculine that tantalized her senses and, Lord help her, made her weak against her own defenses.
“I…I am flattered, Your Grace.”
He brushed a hand over her cheek and gently tucked the curl behind her ear, his finger lingering at the nape of her neck as he slowly leaned forward. “That was my intent, Miss Farrington.”
Daphne couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a breath. It seemed an appropriate action to take, given how lightheaded and warm she suddenly felt. She thought her parted lips would only pull in air, but somehow it seemed as if she had drawn in the duke as well. How else could she account for the presence of his lips whispering over hers with the lightest of touches?
Her eyes fluttered shut, her mind racing as she counted first in English, then in Latin, the numbers blurring together as the sweet taste of his mouth overwhelmed her senses. No man had ever taken the liberty of kissing her before. Surely she should protest, especially given his English blood. But with his lips caressing hers as though she were something to be cherished, she was unable to think of anything other than yielding to his touch. And while she knew his actions were bold, unprovoked, and entirely wrong…for the moment, his light embrace felt undeniably right.
Daphne’s arms moved of their own accord, sweeping over the smooth brocade of his waistcoat and atop the width of his broad shoulders. She stepped toward him, a sudden hunger for his touch sweeping through her, lighting a deep need within her that she never knew she possessed.
And that scared her to Hades.
Daphne pulled away, her lips tingling from his touch. “Your Grace, I…” She turned and staggered, her feet unable to march forward at a pace fast enough to remove her from the duke and to the safety the house afforded.
“Miss Farrington, please.” The duke strode toward her, clutching her waist before she stumbled into a particularly thorny rose bush.
He righted her, his strong hands steadying her when her feet could not. He lifted a hand and grazed his warm fingers across her cheek.
“I should ask for your forgiveness for my boldness. I should not have impugned your honor by taking what is not mine. But for the first time today, I am not inflicted with compunction, Miss Farrington. In fact, I regret I did not kiss you sooner.”
…
Edward was a man of honor.
He was also a man aroused, with a very desirable and attractive woman in his arms. One whom he very much wanted to continue to kiss.
But, once again, his ducal arrogance had overwhelmed his good sense. He had asserted his will over hers. Was not the sole purpose in bringing her to Thornhaven to show her that he was a man, not just a figure of authority whose will overrode all others? That he was more than a person to whom everyone must bow?
Initiating another kiss, while exceptionally appealing, would hardly aid in his endeavor. If, or rather when, they exchanged intimacies again, it should be on her terms, not his. She would have to come to him.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t give her a gentle push in the direction he wished her to take. For if he had thought her lips distracting before, he was now a man obsessed, and would do damn near anything to win her approval. Especially if in doing so, he might persuade her to treat him to more than just a kiss.
Perhaps he should start by convincing her he wasn’t a complete ass.
Edward motioned to the young boy trailing behind them. “I will have William return you to your aunt, Miss Farrington. I am sure they are worried by your absence. That is, unless…”
“Unless what, Your Grace?” she asked, after a long pause. Edward glanced up, startled by her hesitation. Could the minx actually be pondering whether or not to stay? She had seemed so eager to escape his embrace…
“Unless you trust my mother has your relations in hand. Then we might simply continue our walk, and you might explain the ramifications of Burnham’s thievery.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip, her teeth grazing the soft flesh. Edward adjusted his stance lest she see the effects of his arousal.
“You wish my counsel, Your Grace?”
He glanced around the deserted path, the outline of his fishing assistant and “chaperone” a distant figure on the lawn. “Is there anyone else with whom I should confer? You were the one who spotted Mr. Burnham’s indiscretions, Miss Farrington. Indiscretions that, for the past seven years, I was unable to detect myself.” And he felt the damn fool for it.
“It’s just that—” She stopped and pressed her lips together.
Edward glanced back at his servant boy, tarrying with the rods. “Would you prefer me to call William?”
“No,” she said firmly, her chin tilting ever so slightly skyward. “I’m simply surprised, Your Grace. I thought you would prefer to discuss such things with Thomas after…after what just transpired.”
Edward began to walk down the path, a long leisurely stroll perfect for indulging in naughty thoughts of his tempting, and all-too-alluring, present company.
“Mr. Farrington was not the one who stayed up all night reading through my personal ledgers, Miss Farrington. You are the leading authority on Burnham’s larcenies. That remains unchanged, regardless of my indiscretion.”
She allowed the barest hint of a smile to grace her mouth. “I suppose you are right.”
He extended his arm, and her hand readily accepted it. She kept pace beside him, her dark slippers ticking off the stones on the path.
“What would you like most to discuss, Your Grace?”
How he might get her to repeat his earlier “indiscretion” if he were to be perfectly honest, but somehow, he didn’t think that was what she had in mind. “Perhaps you could answer a few of my questions.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed, her clasp firm on his arm. “And what would those be?”
He tucked a finger under his cravat and let in a wisp of warm air on his hot neck. “Were Mr. Burnham’s deductions the same for every year? Or were they directly proportionate to the amount of income generated?”
A look of surprise flitted across her delicate features. “They were proportionate, Your Grace. When you prospered, so did he.”
Damn.
The acrid taste of betrayal flavored his tongue, making him in sore want of a sweet liquor to wash away the bitterness. He had been a fool and was paying, quite literally, for his temerity. How could he have been so blind to Burnham’s misdeeds? How could he have allowed such a thing to ever happen on his watch?
The path curved and wound its way toward his ancestor’s once great accomplishment, a pile of crumbling stone and broken artifacts protruding from an otherwise manicured lawn.
“What in heaven is such a large collection of rocks doing in the middle of a field?” she asked, her hand clutching his forearm when her foot caught on the uneven stones of the path.
“Protecting it,” he replied, his melancholy fading at the sight of her interest in the once regal remains. He ran the toe of his boot over a worn and moss-covered stone. “Because all great fields need protecting from cows and sheep, do they not, Miss Farrington?”
Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink.
“Or they do now, at least,” he prattled on. “These rocks were once a great Norman fortress, if legend and family history are to be believed.”
“Norman?” she whispered. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything so old.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t have eleventh century ruins in Boston, Miss Farrington?” he said in a teasing manner.
To his surprise and much to her credit, she laughed, a delightfully wonderful and beautiful sound that filled the air and banished all thoughts of the scoundrel Burnham and his underhanded scheming.
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace. But then, there are a lot of fields near my home I have yet to explore. Who knows what I might find? I
just may stumble across an arrangement of stones such as this.”
He led her around what remained of the outer wall of the ancient ruin. “You may, but I doubt they housed a prolific line of Norman descendants, one mad Spanish princess, or a captive Scottish bride.
She glanced up at him and back down at the stone and crumbling mortar, the beginnings of a smile playing over her lips. “No, I don’t suppose they would.”
“Nor would it likely contain the specter of that same Scottish lass, who, it is said, can be seen walking through these remains, forever waiting for her true love to free her from the Norman lord and take her back to her homeland.”
Miss Farrington’s brows rose. “The Norman lord was not her true love?”
Edward turned back toward the crumbling ruins. “Not according to local lore.”
“How terribly sad.”
He glanced down at her, admiring the way the breeze lifted and lowered the hem of her gown, teasing him with glimpses of her boot-covered ankle. “What is sad, Miss Farrington? That she eternally mourns for her Scottish love? Or that her happiness was sacrificed to settle land disputes and to proliferate a new breed of aristocrats?”
He had meant to ask his questions in a spirit of lighthearted merriment. They were, after all, discussing folk tales and specters. But the tone of his voice lent his inquiry a mournful quality and a passion for the topic he had not known he possessed.
Her eyes swept to his, their dark blue, almost purple depths swirling with curiosity and concern.
“You do not approve.” She spoke it as a statement, not a question.
Edward tore his eyes away from her discerning ones and stared at the ground. “I do not.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but is not the modern aristocracy based on those principles? Is that not why your mother is attempting to match you with Lady Isabella? To ally the duchy with a woman whose dowry would extend your landholdings and create peace between your families?”
His head snapped to the side. “You know of my mother’s matchmaking?”
Her lips lifted into a grin. “It was only a guess.”
“And a very good one, I might add.”
“But you don’t approve. You don’t approve of marriage as a means of business.”
“Do you?”
She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “My parents were very fortunate to have a love match. But I know the cost of their union came at a high price. My mother was forced to choose between my father and a foreign land, or her family and her home. And while it is regrettable that some sort of compromise could not be made with my mother’s family, your Scottish lass had it worse in the end. She lost both her land and her love. That is terribly sad.”
“Indeed, but a woman held captive by her hatred is equally morose.”
Miss Farrington gazed at him, her eyes narrowing. “Even if the woman has a valid reason for her malevolence? I should think being forced to marry one’s captor justifies your Scottish lass’s enmity.”
“I do not disagree with your sentiment, Miss Farrington. But to hate is easy. It consumes, robbing an individual of potential happiness. The lass could not control the circumstances thrust upon her by others, but her reaction to them was a decision all her own. I wonder what might have been had she chosen to forgive her captor and allowed herself the opportunity to appreciate the beauty of her new home.”
“Have you ever loved?” There was a slight hitch in her voice, and had the shadow of her bonnet not darkened the upper swell of her cheek, he would have sworn a tear glistened, unperturbed.
Had she lost a love? Perhaps a soldier? A man who had promised to return, but was killed on the battlefield?
It would certainly explain her hatred for him and his countrymen.
“Your Grace?” she repeated, her question interrupting his musings.
“Outside of the love a son has for his mother? No.” He grasped her hand, her gloved palm warm between his own. “But I suspect that you have, and that my country is somehow responsible for causing you pain.”
She pulled away from his grasp and brought them to her sides. “Then I suppose you believe I should purge myself of my bitterness by forgiving the English of past wrongs?”
Edward suppressed a chuckle. “I do not presume to tell you how to act. I’ve learned that you will likely not heed my advice.”
Her lips wavered, the slight tremor of a smile appearing as quickly as it vanished.
“But,” he continued. “I would like to know what I can do to help you find some resolution. I do not wish to have two ladies haunting my grounds, moaning their aggrievements against the English and rallying the dead to vengeance.”
She leaned down and plucked one of the wildflowers that had sprung up alongside the path. “Unless you can somehow bring the captain and the crew of the HMS Seraphina to justice for their iniquitous impressment of American sailors prior to the last war, I find it doubtful there is anything you can do to sway my loyalties and change my opinion.”
Edward staggered on the path, momentarily losing his balance and causing Miss Farrington to give him a wary eye.
The bloody Seraphina? The one blasted ship in the entire Royal Navy to which he held ties? That was the boat she blamed for her heartache and loss?
God dammit all to hell.
Edward lifted off his fishing hat and ran a hand through his matted hair. He should have known Captain Geoffries’s cruelty would have far reaching consequences. But that Miss Farrington should be a victim of Geoffries’s greed…well, damn.
“Was he your intended?” Edward asked, certain he already knew the answer but needing to hear it confirmed.
She blinked, no doubt to stall the drop of an unwelcome tear.
“Who, Your Grace?”
“The man you lost, Miss Farrington.” The man, who despite being deceased, Edward envied. The two must have had a deep and intimate bond for her to be so affected. That she would react the same if something were to happen to him…
“Thomas and I lost our brother, Samuel, to the Seraphina.”
A brother. Not a man potentially bound to her by marriage. But family.
Edward gripped the rim of his hat, his arms aching to wrap around her, to comfort her in her time of need.
He settled instead on returning his hat to his head, and handing her his monogrammed handkerchief. “You have my condolences.”
She stared at the proffered square of white linen before lifting it from his hand. “Thank you, Your Grace. Now you see why I am incapable of forgiveness. At least toward the English.”
Edward returned his hat atop his head and stared in the direction of the house. “The only thing I think you incapable of, Miss Farrington, is allowing yourself to accept that change is inevitable.”
…
Daphne blinked. Hard.
Surely she had misheard the duke, for he could not possibly think her capable of change after what she had just shared. She had lost her brother. To the English.
“I am fully capable of not allowing myself to be swayed, Your Grace. Change may be inevitable in the physical world, but not in the realm of a woman’s heart.”
“No?” he asked as he led her away from the ruins and toward what she presumed was the general direction of the house. “I should think you more open to change now more than ever.”
“But you heard my reasons,” Daphne persisted. “Samuel was taken from our family by a cruel captain under the orders of his incapable and mad king. Surely you can understand—”
“What I understand, Miss Farrington, is that you are a woman wronged. And now I must work harder to convince you that despite my ancestry, I am not like the men aboard the Seraphina nor those in London, Brighton, or wherever else the monarchy wishes to reside.”
“While I appreciate your efforts, you cannot possibly think—”
“Your Grace!” A round and robust woman with a faded and slightly skewed mobcap bounded down the path. Wrapping her arms around the duke’s tall frame s
he said, “Your Grace, it has been ages since we’ve seen you last!”
“And yet, you look as lovely as when we last parted, Mrs. Hersham,” he replied.
She swatted a large hand across his upper arm. “Still a naughty one, I see. Have you come to see how that sow of yours is holding up? Her last litter yielded a dozen. And all healthy and comely ones at that. Why, I’ve just come from Mrs. Green’s to see how big the piglets have grown.”
The duke eased himself out of the woman’s embrace and extended his arm toward Daphne. “Miss Farrington, this is Mrs. Hersham, the finest purveyor of pork this side of the Atlantic, who also happens to be my former nursemaid. Mrs. Hersham, this is Miss Farrington.”
The elderly woman gave a warm smile and dipped into a curtsy. “Miss Farrington, it is a pleasure to meet you, even if it is over a discussion of swine.”
Daphne smiled in return. “I adore ham, Mrs. Hersham. And I must admit that a squeal from a piglet forever amuses me.”
Mrs. Hersham’s swollen bosom bounced with laughter. “Oh, child. That reminds me of the time when His Grace toddled right into the pen, mud and all. He squealed just as loud as the piglets.”
His Grace? Piglets? A gale of laughter spilled from Daphne’s lips. “Did he now?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Hersham continued. “He was a very curious lad. But always a helpful one, too. I’ve never seen a man who could wash dishes as quickly as His Grace.”
“Wash dishes?” Daphne asked, dumbfounded. Surely the elderly woman hadn’t meant that the duke had actually dirtied his hands—
“Sure as I’m standing here. Even after I married my Mr. Hersham, His Grace has always found the time to visit and help me about the house. He’s not above wringing out the linens either, are you?” she asked, patting the duke on the back.
His Grace let out a hardy chuckle. “Mrs. Hersham is a very convincing woman. I think she could talk me into bathing in the Thames had she the inclination.”
Washing dishes? Wringing out the linens?
Such kindness of character made little sense if her beliefs about the moral turpitude of the English were true. The actions of the vile captain of the Seraphina, of Mr. Burnham, and indeed, those of almost every other Englishman in her acquaintance, confirmed her belief in the depravity of the nation’s men. And yet, with the revelations of the morning, and the sweet tenderness His Grace had displayed, she could not deny he held some virtues. The Duke of Waverly was unlike any other Englishman she had met before, as generous with his time as he was with his thoughtfulness.
The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous) Page 9
