The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  “Yes of course,” the elderly man assured. “She said Miss Farrington and her cousin, Lady Sarah, went looking for flowers.”

  “And?” Edward pressed.

  “We were not able to locate her in any of the gardens, Your Grace.”

  “It isn’t like my sister to wander when business is being discussed,” Farrington interjected. “Especially when she considers the business to be of a personal nature.” He paced the length of the sideboard, his shoulders raised, his stiff posture and agitated stance conveying his worry.

  “Do you believe her to be in harm’s way?” Edward inquired, pulling on his cuffs.

  “I had to near force her to sit with Aunt Susan while I met with you.” Farrington stared past Edward’s butler to the closed set of doors. “I half expected her to be standing in the hall in complete defiance of my wishes. Now”—the American let out a ragged breath—“I wonder if Burnham wasn’t making good on some threat or score.”

  Fear sunk its icy tendrils down Edward’s limbs, paralyzing him with images of Miss Farrington at the hands of Burnham’s unidentified cohort. “Are all of the guests accounted for?”

  His butler nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Lord Satterfield, Lord Westbrook, and Lord Colwyn are just now coming in from an afternoon of riding.”

  “Tell William to saddle two horses and bring them to the front. Mr. Farrington and I will be waiting.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Daphne enjoyed the simplicity of mathematical principles. No matter the year, the date, or the time of day, one added to one would forever and always be two. There was no change in the numbers, no shift in the balance, or surprise in the outcome. Reason dictated logic.

  So it was that in her chaos, she sought the comfort of order. But despite her repeated methods, calm eluded her.

  It surely had nothing to do with the low, constant pain humming through her leg. Or the fine mist of rain that settled on her garments, dampening them just enough so that when the evening breeze trickled through the grass, it brought with it a deep and body-shuddering chill. The chill, however, could also be attributed to the very fact that she was alone. Just out of view of the road, in an unfamiliar field, in a foreign country waiting for her brother to rescue her before all manner of feral creatures came out at night to hunt. As it was, she could hear the evening insects coming alive, chirping in a melodious cacophony of noise.

  She wasn’t certain which was more frightening—that her brother was possibly in the midst of negotiating her betrothal to an English duke, or that over the din of nature, the very distinct and steady clop of horseshoes was discernible. And suddenly very loud.

  Should she attempt to hide? To crawl behind a tall cropping of grass for fear of a passing stranger? Or was it Thomas?

  “Miss Farrington? Are you out here?”

  While she had expected to hear the angered and irritated voice of her brother, it was the desperate chords of a deep baritone that called out her name.

  “Your Grace?” she cried, lifting her hand and waving it in the air. “I’m over here.”

  The clopping quickened and then stopped. Daphne could hear the ragged breath of the horse and see the outline of a man as he brushed aside the grass and made his way toward her in the dimming light of dusk.

  “Thank God,” he whispered, coming upon her, his face etched with fear. “What has happened? Why are you on the ground?” He knelt down beside her, his dark breeches pulling taut over his knees as they sunk into the soft grass. “Ah. Your ankle. Is it painful?”

  “I have been better,” she admitted, wincing as his fingers brushed across her swollen skin. “But I am more concerned with Lady Sarah. Did she arrive safely at Thornhaven? And in good health?”

  The duke lifted his head. “I cannot say for certain.”

  Daphne frowned. “What do you mean? Is she not the reason you came to be here?”

  “No,” he said, slipping off her slipper. “I came to be here because of my intuition and fear for your safety.” He sat back on his haunches. “What were you thinking walking out this far without telling anyone of your destination? Did you not spare a moment to consider the harm that might have befallen you should some gypsy or stranger come traipsing along?”

  “Of course I did,” Daphne huffed, shifting away from his disapproving glare. “I am injured, sir, and cannot move. My limbs may be incapacitated, but my mind is not.”

  The duke ran a hand through his thick hair. “That does not explain why you were out here in the first place. Were my gardens not to your liking? Or were you led out here through another’s direction? Did someone mislead you or bring you to harm?”

  His voice was near frantic, almost pleading. His gaze had shifted from disapproval to one of genuine concern.

  “The only person who brought any harm to me, was myself.” Daphne leaned toward him. “Did someone say otherwise? Do you have cause for some concern for my safety?”

  The duke held her gaze. “I am always concerned for your safety.”

  Daphne’s heart fluttered as her eyes fell to one of the white chamomile flowers Sarah had dropped in her haste. “As I am certain you are with all of your guests.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing out this far?”

  Daphne pinched one of the white flowers and set it atop his thigh. “Picking flowers, sir.”

  The duke dragged a hand down his face. “Flowers? You went in search of plants whilst I discussed my interest in the Farrington Line? Your brother was wrong.”

  Daphne’s head snapped upright. “My brother was wrong?”

  “He expected you to be outside my study door with your ear pressed against the wood. He was surprised to find you missing. Quite frankly, so was I.”

  “Thomas forbade me! He gave me explicit instructions not to go anywhere near the door for fear that I would break in and assert my opinion. Which, incidentally, I absolutely would have, had I not been walking through this field collecting flowers.”

  The duke’s mouth twitched. “I would have expected no less.”

  A fat drop of rain splotched onto her arm, the cold shock of the water prickling her skin. “Yes, well, look where my obedience got me. Injured, wet, and rather miserable.”

  Pushing himself upright, the duke leaned over and slid his hands beneath her bottom. With one breath he brought her tight against his chest and off the ground.

  “Your Grace,” she cried, startled. Goodness, he was close. His muscles rolled beneath her, his forearms flexing as he carried her through the grass and toward the dark horse that grazed along the road.

  A spot of rain splattered on her gown, with two more icy droplets stinging her cheek. “It seems you arrived at a most opportune time.”

  He set her on top of the horse, then slung his leg over the saddle and pressed his body against her back. The smell of wet horseflesh lingered in the air, intermixing with damp earth and the scent of fresh rain. The last lights of dusk were dimming and Daphne could barely make out the landscape, much less the road they were to take back to the estate.

  She lifted her arm against the increasing barrage of wet droplets. “My cousin estimated that we were within an hour’s walk of Thornhaven.”

  His thighs brushed against her as they clamped down on the horse. “I’d say Lady Sarah was optimistic.”

  “We couldn’t possibly have walked much farther,” she said, her cheeks burning as she fell back against him, her bottom bouncing between his legs.

  Daphne did her best to lean forward in an attempt to create some sort of space between them, but he pulled her back, his protective arm holding her tight against his chest. And despite how she didn’t want to feel that way, he made her feel safe, protected, and even…cherished.

  “We are an hour from the estate, but at a good canter with a fresh horse and dry, unblemished roads.” A clap of thunder cut through the sounds of the field, bringing with it a fresh onslaught of rain.

  “We need to take shelter until this deluge abates,” the duke shouted,
turning the horse off the road and toward the adjacent field.

  …

  Edward was thankful for small favors. Like owning a horse that needed little guidance as he cantered in the downpour. And being in possession of a dry hunting cottage where one could seek refuge from turbulent storms. But he was most grateful for the rain and the excuse it lent to hold Miss Farrington, her curves jostling against him and making him hard with want.

  He was not, however, the least bit grateful for the origins of his circumstance. The bumps and jostles that brought him pleasure brought Miss Farrington pain, her winces and sharp intakes of breath propelling him forward through the torrent of rain now beating down on their backs.

  The dark outline of the hunting cottage greeted them, the familiar building emerging from the grass and trees as a beacon of comfort, its small enclosure stalwart enough to withstand the wind that now pushed against them, cutting through Edward’s sodden clothes and chilling his flesh.

  Leading the mare into an enclosure, he slid off the beast’s back and onto the ground, the lean-to shelter providing just enough coverage to keep Miss Farrington dry while he lifted her down and carried her to the door.

  “What is this place?” she asked, her dripping, honeysuckle-scented hair brushing against his chin as she took in the dark and modest interior once they entered.

  He set her atop the bed, the dustcloth billowing as she adjusted herself on the rope-strung mattress.

  “This happens to be a prime location for both shooting grouse and waiting out the untimely tantrums courtesy of the fickle and ever dramatic English weather.”

  Her gaze fell to his. “How fortunate we came across it.”

  “Yes, quite,” Edward agreed. He spun around, his eyes adjusting to the dark, the occasional flash of lightning his only source of illumination in the tiny quarters.

  She was silent as he puttered around the grate searching for a piece of timber, a flint, anything with which he might use to spark a flame.

  “I don’t suppose there are any logs in the bin?” she asked, the slight chatter of her teeth inciting an instinctive desire to wrap his arms around her.

  Edward resisted the urge and chose instead to swipe his hand across his face, his fingers flinging rainwater onto the dusty wooden floor. “Not from what I can tell. There is, however, a small retainer bin next to the building where tinder and kindling is kept. I’m hoping better luck will be found there.”

  She nodded, her arms crossing in front of her.

  Edward yanked a sheet off the nearby table and strode out the door to the rear wooden tinder box. His hands stiff with cold, he lifted the box lid and thanked all that was holy for the dry tinder and few splints of wood within.

  After scooping out the scanty contents, he wrapped them in the sheet and made his way back inside.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked, her pale skin looking translucent in the light brought by a bright flash of lightning.

  Edward carried the wood to the grate, rivulets of rain falling from his hair and blurring his vision. “There wasn’t much,” he answered, rummaging through the dampened sheet to the meager bits of wood. “But hopefully we’ll have enough to hold out the storm.”

  He set about arranging the tinder and splints. With the spark of a flint found on the mantle, a small fire flared to life and cast a warm glow about the room.

  Which was all he needed to see the pallor of Miss Farrington’s face.

  “We need to get you out of those clothes.” It was a phrase that he had hoped to utter under entirely different, and in fact, more sensual circumstances. One where he did not appear as a villain rushing to strip off the clothes of a fearful virgin, but where she invited him to unhook and untie, to explore and feast on the pleasures hidden beneath her shield of clothing.

  One where he was a gentleman, and she a willing lady.

  “You are completely soaked, my lady.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a change of women’s clothing lying about.”

  “No.” Edward pulled the protective sheet off the small trunk at the base of the bed and dug inside its contents. “I may, however, have an extra shirt and pair of breeches folded away.”

  “But you are equally drenched,” she protested, wrapping one of the dusty sheets around her. “You are in just as much danger of illness as I am.”

  He was thoroughly soaked, his shirt and breeches clinging to his skin and seeping into crevices he hadn’t known he possessed. But he had suffered through worse discomfort on many a dreary and wet hunt. She, he wagered, had not.

  “Perhaps. But I am not afraid of sitting beside the fire without my shirt. I daresay you may object to doing the same.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink as she snatched the dry clothing from his hands and glanced about the room. “And where I am supposed to dress?”

  A bed, chest, and a simple table and chair were present and plenty sufficient for a bachelor about to embark on an early morning hunt in the woods. It was not, however, ideal for privacy.

  Edward turned toward the fire. “Given the absence of a dressing screen, I suspect you will just have to undress where you are.”

  “In front of you?” she gasped.

  “Rather to the back of me, I should think,” he countered, a smile pulling on his lips. “I promise to close my eyes and keep them shut. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  He heard a snort of protest and then hesitant resignation as something resembling an oath against English gentlemen was uttered.

  It took every ounce of self-restraint not to open his eyes to view the beauty he knew to be only a few feet behind him. But he was a man of his word. His eyes would remain closed if he had to push them down with his own unwilling fingers. “Are you almost finished?”

  “No!” she squeaked.

  “How long does it take to slip off a dress?” He had heard the sound of sodden fabric hitting the floor. Surely she had shed her gown. And from what he could recall from his youthful dalliances, women’s underpinnings entailed little more than a stay and a shift. Surely those were gone by now. Perhaps her injury impaired her, making the simple task ten times more difficult.

  “The dress is shed. Everything else, however, is proving a bit more difficult. Are you aware that cotton laces swell when exposed to water?”

  The question was surely rhetorical, as sarcasm dripped from her words like honey from the comb, but Edward couldn’t resist answering. “I may have been aware of the phenomenon, yes.”

  “Yes, well, when you couple that with a sore ankle, numb fingers, and a maid who must be the world’s most proficient in knot-tying, then you might be a little more understanding as to why it is taking a bit longer to relieve myself of my clothing.”

  Though he prided himself with having more patience than the average person, he was only a man, and one who was beginning to feel the effects of the cold rain. The longer Miss Farrington took shedding her clothes, the longer he waited in chilled half-aroused discomfort. “Should you require my assistance, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

  Edward waited for a gasp, a snort, a heated retort, something to indicate her displeasure at his brazen offer. But the room was silent, save for the crackling of wood and the steady downpour of the storm beating against the walls. Had she been rendered unconscious from lack of heat? Stunned speechless by his bravado?

  “Miss Farrington?” he whispered.

  “I—I need your help.”

  Edward was certain his ears had stopped functioning. Surely she had not just requested his aid, despite the resignation that colored her words and lent a lilting weariness to her voice.

  “Preferably now,” she added.

  “You wish me to assist you?”

  A large sigh met his inquiry before he heard her respond, “I believe that is what I asked.”

  “But, you realize that I would have to turn around in order to provide assistance. And that in turn, I would have to open my eyes to avert any potential accidents with the grate.
” And his hands.

  “Of course. I am not a simpleton,” she replied indignantly. “Are you or are you not willing to help me?”

  God Almighty, he was more than willing and did not need to be asked again. If the lady required his assistance in the removal of her clothing, he would be all too happy to oblige her request. “It is as you wish.”

  With a deep breath, he turned to face what he was certain to be the vision of his undoing, his fantasy incarnate, and the one woman who had become more than just his obsession or object of his affections.

  She was the embodiment of his future duchess.

  Edward swallowed. Miss Farrington didn’t need fine silks or expensive jewelry to look beautiful. With her damp curls loose about her shoulders and her creamy chest exposed for all and sundry, she left him breathless. She was a damnably beautiful siren that he wanted for his own.

  As his wife.

  As jolting as the realization was, he wasn’t entirely surprised. Daphne exhibited everything he desired in a spouse: intelligence, loyalty, and a refreshing modesty that filled his heart and made it hers. He was in love. With the cold, wet, and embarrassed-looking woman standing before him.

  Her eyes cast downward, she pointed to the knotted, dripping laces dangling from the front of her stay. “The knot refuses to come undone.”

  Edward closed his eyes and took a deep steadying breath. Positioned in the center of two perfectly pert breasts, a small and visibly tight knot required his attention. No matter that his fingers would likely brush against her breasts and his self-discipline would be sorely tested. The lady needed rescuing. And his dreams needed fulfilling.

  Opening his eyes, he centered his gaze on the knot and not on her lovely flushed cheeks or half-exposed chest. “I’ll do my best to relieve you of your trouble.”

  His voice cracked as it had in the height of his adolescence. He sounded like a bloody damn idiot.

  “I trust that you will,” Miss Farrington whispered, diverting her eyes, her face tilted toward the side. The awkwardness of the moment couldn’t be any more apparent, and yet, his body still responded to the state of her undress and to the task that his fingers were now doing their best to accomplish. In the center of her breasts.