The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  Edward touched a finger under her chin. “What the devil is he talking about? What story?”

  Hot tears slid down her cheeks, the salty droplets further dampening Edward’s soggy and gray-tinged shirt. Her fists curled into little balls, clenching the dingy fabric as she sought for words to counter the earl’s claims.

  “Go on, Miss Farrington,” the earl prodded. “Tell him the story about the Seraphina. The one where you discover that your beloved funded illicit trade and supported the captain who so unjustly took your brother’s life.”

  Edward’s grip faltered, his arms slackening about her waist before his embrace tightened with a new fervor and he near crushed her against his chest.

  “Your discord is with me, Westbrook,” Edward said. “I suggest you leave Miss Farrington alone before you further sully your honor.”

  “Honor,” Westbrook chided. “As if someone associated with murder and smuggling knows anything of honor. I should have known you were little more than a thief when you stole everything from me at the tables. Why, you hardly merit the title of gentleman.”

  A low growl rumbled in Edward’s chest. Daphne was certain that were his hands not engaged in the task of holding her, they would have been pummeling the side of the earl’s jaw. Though the thought of such vindication was appealing, so, too, was the acquisition of answers.

  “Edward, please,” she pleaded, her hands gripping the smooth lapels of his jacket.

  With a resigned sigh, he lifted her through the door, gently lowering her into the servants’ hall, before addressing the earl. “You are no longer welcome on these grounds, Westbrook. I suggest you leave now, before my temper gets the better of me and you leave in more than one piece.”

  The earl gave a lazy nod. “So be it, Your Grace. Oh, and Miss Farrington,” he said, leaning around the duke’s towering form. “Should you find yourself in need of some consoling, my door is always open.”

  Edward’s jaw tensed. He took a step forward, but Daphne grabbed his hand and pulled him back, the young earl’s smirking face disappearing as the door closed into the latch.

  With his grip tightening around her hand, he turned around. “Daphne, I need to—”

  But she shook her head, her chin lifted with resolve. “And I need to know the truth. Take me to the first ledger.”

  …

  “I don’t think that is advisable.”

  Edward kept Daphne’s hand firmly within his grasp, matching her uplifted chin with an equally impressive tilt of his own.

  “And why, sir, is that?” she asked, her slender fingers flexing around his knuckles, searching, no doubt, for a break in his hold.

  But she would not find one. His grip was tight and with just cause. Westbrook, the cur, could still be standing behind the door. One did not need to be in possession of any imagination to know the course of direction the young lord wished to pursue. Lust had virtually rolled off him, his tongue panting with desire at Daphne’s unbound hair and half-exposed breasts. He was all too aware of what might have occurred had he not lifted the latch precisely when he did.

  It was the threat of Westbrook’s audacity that kept his fingers clasped around hers. Well, that, and unadulterated fear. For despite his botched attempts to tell her, Daphne knew his secret.

  God, he was a coward. How many missed opportunities had passed where he could have told her about that damn ship, about how his name was, indeed, linked to the ill-fated Seraphina and that her vilification of English aristocrats could very well be justified?

  Daphne’s breathy whisper pierced through the silence, bringing his focus back to her haltingly blue and tormented eyes. “Why, Edward?”

  Pain, thick and bitter, infused her voice and demanded his response. But he didn’t want to give it. Not now. Not ever. But most certainly not in the back servants’ hall where all manner of gossip prevailed. “I think it would be best if we first saw to your ankle.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my ankle.”

  “But I do. And unless you wish to have it even more swollen, I suggest we address it.”

  She lifted her chin an inch higher, the sides of her pert little nose flaring in annoyance. “You knew about the Seraphina and you didn’t tell me. I want to know why.”

  Why? Because of his inability to trust her with his secret, for fear that at its revelation she would leave him. Believe him to be the aristocratic, smug, and snobbish duke everyone else believed him to be.

  Edward tugged on her hand, but her feet remained planted on the thin strip of carpet tacked to the floor.

  “I promise to answer your questions, but not until we have moved to a more appropriate venue,” he assured, though the thought of going anywhere with her accusing eyes boring into him was not one he relished.

  “You deceived me, and now you ask me to blindly follow behind, trusting that you will keep your word?” She shook her head and wrenched her hand free from his grasp. “I can’t do that. And I won’t.”

  His blood turned cold at her refusal. Would she not offer him an opportunity for explanation? “Then I fear you’ll be gravely disappointed. I have no intentions of explaining anything until we retire elsewhere.”

  Her head cocked toward the side, the muscles in her jaw straining as she clamped her lips together. Even colored with disdain, her features were exquisite, her beauty unrivaled. His fingers itched to run through the loose curls spilling over her shoulder and down the front of her chest. He was bewitched, entranced by her beauty.

  And rendered immobile by her icy glare.

  “I wish to see the ledger.”

  “I’m certain that you do.”

  With a quick scoop, he lifted her and stalked back down the corridor, her body stiff and heavy in his arms.

  He deserved every bit of her anger, every note of her disdain. He had infringed on her trust and withheld a truth that she had every right to hear. But damn if it didn’t sting to see how easily swayed she was to believe the very worst about him. To see her ready acceptance of Westbrook’s accusations.

  Edward dipped to trigger the latch, opening the door that led them into the women’s area of the house. With three gliding steps he had her at the threshold of her chamber door, a guest room he had personally allocated for her, its golden interior reminiscent of the color of her curls cascading over his arm and teasing him with their floral fragrance.

  Hot tendrils of steam emitted from a tub, the rose-infused water still fragrant, denoting that someone had been diligently tending the water, ensuring it remained warm for Daphne’s imminent arrival.

  “Unless you have hidden the ledger underneath my nose, this is not where I wished to be brought,” Daphne huffed.

  He carried her over to her bed and released her onto the golden coverings. “It is where you need to be. Someone has obviously been anticipating your arrival.”

  “And someone has obviously been avoiding the truth. You were responsible for Samuel’s death. You knew the details, and yet you hid them from me, pretending ignorance!” A fresh set of tears rolled down her cheeks, her features contorting with a mixture of both anger and sadness.

  “Would you have thought better of me had I told you? Would you have even considered that I had an explanation, a reason connecting me to that bloody damn ship?” Edward asked, raking a hand through his hair.

  Daphne’s neck stiffened, her chin tilting into its familiar defensive stance. “An explanation, or an excuse?”

  Anger replaced any lingering guilt. “Neither, for it no longer matters. Whatever truths I tell or evidence I reveal will make no difference. You have already condemned me.”

  “Because you’ve given me no reason to do otherwise,” she persisted. “You have not denied your connections or Westbrook’s accusations. Nor have you brought me the ledger to disprove Westbrook’s claims. What else am I to believe?”

  “Westbrook likely came across a trail of gossip connecting Burnham to my unique hobbies. Both profited from harboring my secret.”

 
“That’s ridiculous.”

  “And yet, you are so willing to believe him,” Edward said. “Have you never made a mistake? Never erred or been swayed into a bad decision that you wish to the heavens you could undo?”

  “The only mistake I ever made was allowing myself to believe that you are something other than what I first knew you to be.”

  Edward closed his eyes, her words pricking like pins beneath his lids, scraping his skin, his heart, and his soul. “I see. I really do. Because I made the same mistake. I thought forgiveness prevailed, but I was wrong. I shall trouble you no further. Good evening, Miss Farrington.”

  He stalked across the room and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Daphne!”

  Her aunt’s hand flew to her mouth as she rushed into the room, her eyes wide with concern. “Sarah relayed what happened, but I never expected…” Her eyes dropped to the crumpled excuse of a gown slipping off Daphne’s shoulders. “Well, I certainly didn’t imagine this,” she said, her palms outstretched toward her appearance. “A hot bath awaits, dear.”

  Daphne sat atop her bed, her legs stretched out in front of her, the bedraggled hem of her dress scrunched over her swollen and bruised ankle. The pain of her physical injury had crescendoed past tolerability, but it was still muted in comparison to the gut-wrenching shame she felt at Edward’s betrayal, at the knowledge that she had given her heart to a man directly responsible for her beloved brother’s demise.

  Aunt Susan settled down next to her, her silk dinner gown spilling over the golden coverlet. “My goodness! I never expected you and Sarah to be so diligent in your task. I never imagined you would stray so far in search of flowers. I will not forgive myself if you should fall ill.” Her aunt lifted the corner of the blanket and pulled it across Daphne’s middle. She gave her niece an assessing look. “I’ve had the physician sent for, dear. No doubt he’ll suggest lots of rest. Goodness, when Albina twisted her ankle, she was in bed for weeks! I’ve already written ahead to the staff in London, letting them know we’ll be delayed.”

  “Delayed?” Daphne asked, blinking herself out of her painful reverie.

  “Yes, of course. We want you to be good and rested.” Her aunt gave a sly smile. “And why not capitalize on this opportunity to spend more time with His Grace?”

  “No.” Daphne’s hand clenched her aunt’s wrist. “We must return to London at the earliest opportunity. Tomorrow, if possible.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I already blame myself for this ordeal. I will not rush a return and risk you further injury.”

  “But we can’t possibly impose on His Grace’s hospitality,” Daphne insisted. She couldn’t stay here, not in his house. Not where his scent lingered in the halls or where every room bore traces of his presence. She needed to be removed from the premises as fast as humanly possible.

  “Nonsense. His Grace would be insulted if we didn’t accept his generosity.”

  “But what of the Season?” Daphne asked. “What of all the balls and soirees that will be missed on account of me? I would never forgive myself if Henrietta did not marry because she missed the opportunity to waltz with her future husband at Almack’s.”

  “Goodness. If that were the case, Henrietta would already have a ring on her finger. Almack’s, indeed. She would have better luck here, with Lord Westbrook, and Sarah with Lord Colwyn.”

  “But Lord Westbrook is to leave this evening.” The more miles between him and any one of her cousins, the better.

  “He is?” Her dark brows furrowed together. “I don’t recall such an announcement being made.”

  “Because it was only just decided upon my return.”

  “Lord Westbrook saw you, dear? Like this?” She waved her hands over the length of Daphne’s gown.

  “Yes, or rather no…” Daphne fumbled over the words before drawing a deep breath. “While assisting me into the house, His Grace informed me of Lord Westbrook’s decision.”

  Her aunt’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “It is unfortunate that he should leave so soon, but there is still Lord Colwyn, and His Grace, of course.” She leaned over and placed a hand atop Daphne’s. “Did the duke mention anything of his discussion with Thomas?”

  Daphne slid her hand out from beneath her aunt’s and tucked it under the coverlet. “No.” The very idea of the duke considering her as a possible candidate for his duchess was beyond ridiculous; it was nigh on hysterical. That she could ever marry someone so untrustworthy, so, so, so incorrigible…

  “Perhaps he is just waiting for the right moment.” Aunt Susan patted Daphne’s leg. “Yesterday bore a lot of excitement. He probably wished not to overtax your nerves. A proposal will do that, my dear.”

  “I suppose it would, if one were to be given. But there is no chance of such a thing ever occurring between His Grace and me.” She glanced toward the door where Edward had exited only moments before. She could still see the hurt and anger that had covered his face at her accusations. Accusations he had refused to claim.

  “Don’t be so morose. A twisted ankle is hardly means for a change of heart. If anything, I’m certain it has shown him how much he has come to care for you. That you were injured has likely scared him witless. Men do not deal well with their emotions, dear. Just give him time.”

  “No amount of time will change my answer. In the unlikely event that His Grace offers marriage, I shall decline.”

  “But I don’t understand,” her relation sputtered. “He is a duke! You could do far worse.”

  “He could be the King of England for all I care. I will not marry the Duke of Waverly. And I am positively certain he will not marry me.” She crossed her arms, the dampness of her gown causing little prickles to rise on her skin.

  Aunt Susan shifted, her arms wrapping around Daphne’s shoulders. “Goodness, child. What has happened? Did His Grace give you cause to change your mind?”

  Daphne stiffened. He had given her a plethora of reasons justifying her refusal. “Yes.”

  “What could he possibly say to elicit such a strong reaction? “

  Tears sprung in Daphne’s eyes. “He smuggled rum, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Rum?”

  “And on the very ship tied to Samuel’s impressment.” Her eyes watered over, the unshed tears threatening to spill with the smallest provocation.

  “Impossible.”

  “Is it?” Daphne asked. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “He bears physical evidence supporting otherwise.” How could she have failed to see the connections? She swiped her face with the edge of the blanket and swallowed. Was one pair of imploring blue eyes all it took for her to set aside her pain? To forget the injustices committed against her brother?

  “Where did you hear such things?” Aunt Susan asked, her face a contorted mixture of disbelief and shock.

  “It doesn’t matter. The evidence speaks for itself.”

  “What evidence? Have you any physical proof that these claims are truth and not mere fabrications spun by a disgruntled lord or scorned miss?”

  “I know of its existence. Whether I have seen it with my own eyes is irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant? Unfounded gossip is the very reason you sought the duke’s assistance in the first place, is it not? Because some fool’s sharp tongue threatened your family’s good name? Why, His Grace could be just as much a victim as he may be a participant.”

  “I highly doubt that.” Daphne sniffed.

  “Did you ask His Grace? Did you inquire after these accusations?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And?”

  “And he did not deny them. In fact, he acknowledged having made mistakes.”

  “Which we are all prone to do,” Aunt Susan said. “I fail to see why you would turn him away, when he has confessed his missteps. It takes a true gentleman to admit that he was wrong.”

  She stared at her aunt aghast. “A true gentleman, perhaps, but the duke is most certainly not. He failed to te
ll me the truth. Does Samuel’s life hold such little value that I should overlook his death for a possible future spent with a man responsible for his demise?”

  Her aunt’s hands settled on Daphne’s shoulders. “Samuel’s death was most unfortunate but it was an end to a life with little want and one I have no doubt he wished for you to duplicate. Do you think he would approve of you harboring such grudges against a man who could potentially offer you such a life and more?”

  Daphne shrugged off her aunt’s constraints. “The duke has made no declarations or overtures of marriage. I doubt he ever had the inclination to offer for an American. Samuel’s ghost, however, likely cries for vengeance. He would be disgraced, and rightfully so. I am a traitor to my own blood.”

  “Blood,” her aunt said calmly, “that is half-English.”

  Her aunt glanced down at the fine linens covering the bed, but not before Daphne caught the pain filling her aunt’s eyes.

  She sighed. “I in no way intended my disdain to reflect on you or your daughters.”

  Her aunt shook her head, her finger tracing one of the filigrees embroidered into the coverlet. “I was just eight when your mother left for America. I was nothing more than a child, and one who had their world turned upside down by the precipitous departure of a dear sister. A sister who left on account of an American man my parents despised.”

  “I—” Daphne paused upon seeing the anguish coloring her aunt’s face.

  “I had only met your father once before he took Elizabeth to America. He was kind and everything a gentleman should be. The only thing that set him apart from the other men who came to call on my sister was his slight accent. And yet, that accent was enough to send my father into a rage and my mother reaching for her salts.”

  Aunt Susan lifted her head, her eyes settling on Daphne. “I could have allowed my parents’ bitterness to pollute my image of your father. I could have allowed their harsh words to sway my opinion. And I could have allowed the estrangement of my only sister to taint my views toward Americans as a whole. But I didn’t. Instead I chose to be happy in the truth that my sister had found love and had not settled for anything less.”