He was waiting for her to speak.
She licked her lips as horror dawned at her own lack of manners. “I am so sorry, Your Grace.” Whose voice was that? Surely not hers. Not once in her life had her voice ever come out so high-pitched and breathy.
She sounded like a twit.
His brows lowered and he turned to leave.
“I really am sorry,” she said quickly.
“Yes, I heard you the first time.”
She blinked in surprise. His voice sounded like a growl again—not at all the dulcet baritone she’d imagined. He was taller up close, too, towering over her with those broad shoulders.
In fact, hovering between the shadows of the garden and the glow from inside, she had the ridiculous notion that he was a beast lurking in the dark.
She gave her head a little shake. Ridiculous imagination.
A smile curved her lips as she sought to recover from this terrible first impression. Her mother would never forgive her if she let this moment go without reacquainting herself with their former neighbor. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace.”
He scowled, his gaze darting between her and the dance floor inside. She wondered if he was remembering her graceless scene.
She suspected he was plotting his escape from this conversation.
Daisy smiled brighter in response to the hurt that lanced through her at the thought. Her favorite response for dealing with a man’s scorn.
He crossed his arms with a small sigh of impatience. “And you are?”
She dipped her head with a curtsy that would make her mother proud. “The Honourable Daisy Merriweather, Your Grace.”
When she straightened she caught sight of that scowl again. Worse, she saw a blank look in his eyes as the name failed to register.
Her smile fell a bit. “I am the second daughter of Lord Robert Turley,” she prompted. “The Viscount of Turley?”
For the life of her she could not explain why she’d posed her father’s title in the form of a question. It was possible her nerves were making her utterly senseless. A dimwitted nitwit who could barely form a sentence. All she could do was smile, and she had a feeling her smile looked just as frozen as she felt.
“Ah, Lord Turley, of course.” His tone was one of boredom at best. He dropped his arms with a huff.
He was irritated, that much was clear.
She was nothing but a nuisance, detaining him from the rest of the party.
And he didn’t even try to hide it.
Disappointment made her stomach sink but she kept smiling. “It has been many years since we last met, but I am certain my mother will be pleased to see you again.”
He gave a noise she could only describe as a grunt.
She tried to swallow past a thick lump and failed. “And I do hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting the Duchess—”
“You won’t.”
“Oh, is she not—”
“My wife is dead.” His voice was gruff, his tone curt. The word dead seemed to echo off the stones beneath her feet.
“Dead?” Shock and dismay over his callous attitude had her speaking without thinking. “You cannot just...just say something like that.”
His brows shot up. “I beg your pardon.”
His tone said he begged for nothing. His eyes said he never had and he never would. The kind, handsome gentleman she’d dreamt about was nowhere to be seen, and the loss of the imaginary hero she’d spent years falling for was a cruel blow.
Her insolence was unthinkable but it was too late to call back the words and she scrambled to make them right. “I apologize, Your Grace—”
“You seem to do that a lot.”
“Yes, well, I merely meant…” What kind of brute just announced his wife was dead like that? Like it did not mean a thing? Like he felt nothing? “I merely meant that I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”
He eyed her oddly. “Did you know my wife?”
She swallowed. “I am afraid I never had the pleasure.”
There was that noise again. A grunt or a huff...whatever it was, it seemed to say he could not even be bothered to form a word. The condescension in his eyes was clear as day as he turned away from her.
“I hope we meet again this week.” It was sheer ornery stubbornness that had her blurting out those words.
He meant to walk away without so much as a goodbye!
If he’d heard her, he did not let on. He didn’t pause or turn back. He entered the ballroom without a glance back in her direction.
Her friends were at her side a moment later, dragging her into the shadows as they attacked her with questions.
“Was that the Duke of Doltan?” Lily asked. The redhead’s tone was as bold and brash as ever.
Daisy nodded.
“And you spoke to him?” Marigold’s voice was filled with disbelief. Painfully shy, the pretty brunette could never quite fathom how her friends spoke to gentlemen without shriveling up with embarrassment.
Daisy nodded again. “I did.”
“And?” They asked this in unison, their eyes wide with excitement and expectation.
It was not every day one of the wallflowers interacted with a duke, after all, and her friends knew very well that she’d long held a special affection for this particular duke.
When she did not immediately answer, her friend exchanged a look, and Lily murmured, “I do not think it went well, judging by her pallor.”
Daisy lifted her palms to her cheeks. They’d been burning mere moments ago but now she felt chilled to the touch.
Fitting considering she’d just talked to the coldest man she’d ever met.
Quite possibly the rudest, as well.
“Oh dear.” Marigold bit her lip as she studied Daisy. “I think she might cry.”
That brought Daisy out of her reverie and she sighed loudly. “I am not going to cry. I’m just...disappointed, that is all.”
“He was not what you expected?” Lily guessed.
“That is an understatement.” Daisy looked through the French doors and saw a swarm of people, but no sight of the tall hulking beast.
She refused to think of him as her duke any longer.
It had been a ridiculous notion to begin with, but now her childish fantasy seemed more farfetched than ever.
“What did you expect, dear?” Marigold asked softly.
“I thought he would be kind and thoughtful and—” She cut her friends a look of warning. “You are going to laugh at me.”
“Of course we won’t!” Marigold exclaimed.
Lily didn’t immediately respond but when Marigold elbowed her sharply, she relented with a roll of her eyes. “Very well. I promise not to laugh.”
Daisy looked at the darkened corner where the duke had crushed her fantasies in one fell swoop. “I’d thought he would be romantic.”
A brief silence followed that confession.
“Why ever did you think that?” Lily asked.
At least Lily hadn’t laughed.
Daisy pursed her lips. In hindsight it was clear she had very little reason to believe he was romantic or chivalrous or possessed any of the noble traits she adored. She’d only seen what she’d wanted to see.
He’d been the vessel into which all of her romantic fantasies were dumped.
“I’d thought he was everything I wanted in a husband,” she said quietly. With a helpless shrug, she added, “He was the man of my dreams.”
“And now?” Marigold asked.
Daisy wrinkled her nose and cast her friends a wry look. “Now I know I was wrong. Very, very wrong.”
Chapter Two
Griff retreated to the ballroom, a fist clenched at his side, his back stiff and straight. If one was going to run away like a coward, he might as well appear strong.
He’d stepped outside to escape those liquid brown eyes and yet, somehow, he’d run smack into them just outside the terrace doors.
Or rather, a door had smacked him, wielded by the ver
y woman whose gaze had captivated him moments before.
He made an audible rumble of dissent, a woman skittering away from him as she snapped her fan over her face, her eyes going wide with surprise and then narrowing in accusation. He muttered an apology as he continued on, slowing his pace so that he might not frighten other random passersby.
It was just that the Honourable Daisy Merriweather was exactly the type of woman he’d been trying to avoid at this garden party.
She was far too pretty. That was the first, most obvious problem. Her mass of thick golden hair looked as though her pins barely restrained the locks. She had large, expressive eyes, a pert little nose, and the most lovely smile.
Then there was the fact that she’d clearly been attempting to flirt. I hope we see each other again, said in that breathy voice with that bewitching smile. And pretending to run into him? Please. As if he hadn’t seen her rushing to follow him out to the garden, no doubt hoping to stage a run-in alone in the shadows.
I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing your wife. He snorted, a man to his right giving him a strange stare. He cleared his throat to cover the gaffe.
But really, everyone had heard of his wife’s untimely demise. The girl was just attempting to pry, trying to suss out her chances at being the next Duchess of Dolan, no doubt. She didn’t fool him. He huffed as he sidled past a group of young ladies who were tittering behind their fans.
From the moment she’d caused that scene on the dance floor, ensuring all eyes were on her, he’d seen through her act.
Just like Annabelle, the girl would clearly go to any lengths to get his attention.
Yes, Daisy and Annabelle likely had a great deal in common.
Annabelle had also been a rare beauty, a practiced flirt, and an accomplished husband-hunter. And he’d unwittingly fallen into each and every one of her traps.
Just like with Daisy, he’d been struck by his wife’s beauty. Even from across the room, he’d experienced a tug of longing that had drawn him toward her. They’d danced, of course, and she’d asked all the right questions.
He resisted the urge to rumble again. The next day, they’d gone for a ride on their horses through Hyde Park, Annabelle pretending to need his assistance. A ploy. A reason to allow him to touch her. He’d found out shortly after their marriage, she was an accomplished horsewoman. Superior even. He’d felt like a fool.
But that was only the beginning of the lies. She’d insisted she liked a more quiet life in the country. That she’d be content to have him with just a small circle of friends. He’d taken her at her word, relieved that she didn’t need all the glitter of the London social scene.
He was a quiet man by nature, not suited to small talk and wasted hours. Far more content to spend his time poring over account ledgers or attending parliament sessions, Griff wanted a wife who’d be content with those pursuits.
Annabelle hadn’t even lasted a month before she had resorted to angry pouting. Bored, she’d raged at him. What was the point of being a duchess if no one ever saw her finery or worshipped her position?
He raked a hand through his hair, finding a quiet corner of the room. Their marriage, which he’d begun with such hope, had fallen apart within the first six months. Which was to be expected since it had been built on a bed of lies, and nothing good came from such an arrangement. Fruitless, devoid of happiness, he’d resented the beautiful woman who’d sat at his side.
And last fall, when he’d had to bury her, he’d experienced regret. His gut clenched. He wished he’d chosen differently the first time but he wouldn’t make those same mistakes again.
Of course, without an heir, he’d have to marry again. That much was obvious. But this time, he wouldn’t fall for a charming beauty again. No. This time, he’d find himself a nice, quiet wallflower, with a good pedigree and a kind nature. He’d marry her, finally have the heir he desperately needed, and go about living a simple life with a woman who would be glad just to call him husband.
“What are you stewing about?” A deep voice rumbled next to him. Lord Merrick Kensworth stepped to his side, taking his position next to Griff along the wall.
Griff gave his friend a sidelong glance. Classically handsome and nearly as tall as himself, Merrick exuded the sort of male energy that women seemed unable to resist. That was precisely why Griff had brought him. “What I am always stewing about these days. Which woman I am going to make the next Duchess of Dolan.”
Merrick let out a long breath. “Your singular focus can be frightening.”
He frowned, crossing his arms. “I don’t need a lecture from you. What I need is a list of names. Which ladies suit my purpose?”
Merrick pivoted so that his shoulder leaned against the wall as he faced Griff. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Marry? Of course. My dukedom requires an heir and…”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I know you have to marry. We all do—eventually, anyhow. But what I mean is, are you certain you want to pick a woman you have no affection for? Wouldn’t it be better if—”
“I didn’t bring you here for advice. I simply want you to weed through this garden of ladies so that I might have a few good roses to choose from.”
Merrick shook his head with a rueful smirk. “I am a marquess, you know, not a gardener. Other people don’t give a man of my stature errands to complete.”
Griff raised a brow. “I wasn’t taking advantage of your lesser title, but your superior skill in discerning a woman’s nature.”
Merrick cocked his head to the side. “Well, that does make a difference. And I have chosen a few ladies for you to consider.”
“Proceed.”
“Lady Margaret Ashby. An accomplished pianoforte player, she excels in several languages including French and Portuguese.”
Griff turned to his friend. “Drawbacks?”
Merrick cleared his throat. “She may speak all those languages with a lisp.”
“Next,” Griff murmured, watching the crowd.
“Lady Elswit Gaberdine.” Merrick shifted, his mouth twitching.
“What is it?” Griff knew that look. Something was definitely wrong.
Merrick lifted one shoulder, suppressing a grin. “She may or may not be the size of three ladies.”
Griff refrained from comment as he drew in a long breath. “Is that it?” Perhaps this house party had been a mistake. He’d come to search for his next wife, but it didn’t seem as though there were any candidates he’d consider.
“One more.” Merrick nodded his head toward the terrace doors from which they’d come. “Miss Mary Gladwell.”
“I beg your pardon?” He pushed off the wall. Because coming through the door was Daisy, her blonde hair shimmering in the candlelight. His chest tightened at the sight, the notch of her chin drawing attention to the long column of her neck.
“The pretty brunette to the right,” Merrick said. “She’s exceedingly quiet and well connected as the granddaughter of an earl.”
Griff tried to look at Miss Mary Gladwell, he really did. But Daisy raised a hand to her chest, her tapered fingers resting on her exposed collarbone. “I’ll consider her. Thank you.”
Merrick gave him a light tap on the shoulder. “You should. She’s exactly as you sketched for an ideal candidate.”
“Candidate?” Another voice called from his left. “Are you considering marriage again?”
He turned to see the Viscount of Turley approaching. He remembered the man from his younger years. He and his father had been great friends. “Lord Turley,” he acknowledged the man with a dip of his chin. “A pleasure.”
Turley gave a short bow. “I quite agree. It’s been too long.”
Turley had aided in the management of their Lancaster property over the last several years. A favor Griff was most grateful for as he’d taken over the duties of duke. “How do you fare?”
“Well,” he answered giving the younger man a kind smile. “My children are grown and all but one is
married. My own son has had a son.”
He suppressed a grimace as a bit of jealousy niggled in his gut. Five years of marriage and not one babe. “How wonderful for you.”
“Thank you,” Turley’s eyes crinkled in genuine amusement. “But I must confess, I’ve come over to ask a favor.”
One of Griff’s brows rose. “A favor?”
The man nodded. “My wife. She’d very much like a bit of your time this week. Would you humor her and attend the hunt with us tomorrow?”
A hunt? Truly, it would be a nice change to be out in the woods rather than trapped in the house and he nodded his assent. “Of course.”
“Excellent,” the other man turned and waved to someone in the crowd. “They'll be thrilled.”
“They?” he repeated but is fist had clenched against his thigh once again. Because he already knew that it wasn’t just Lord and Lady Turley who’d be on this hunt. Surely, Lady Turley had a match in mind for her daughter. If the lady was half as ambitious as Daisy, he’d have to squelch her hopes quickly. Griff intended to stay as far from Daisy as possible.
Turley gave a quick nod of assent even as he extended his arm out to escort his wife into their circle. And next to her…Daisy. Her gaze was cast to the floor, her hands clasped before her—the very picture of a demure and timid young lady.
More like coy and cunning. “Your Grace,” Lady Turley gushed, stepping toward him and holding out her hand. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
He inclined his chin before taking her hand. “And you as well.” But his eyes had already drifted back to Daisy, her head still dipped low in deference. What would her hair feel like if he allowed one of the locks to slip through his fingers?
“You remember my daughter, Daisy, of course?” Lady Turley said as Daisy finally lifted her gaze.
“He doesn’t, Mother,” Daisy murmured softly. Was that a blush that pinkened her cheeks? Surely not. Not even Annabelle could blush on command. Under her breath she added, “Or at least he didn’t until five minutes ago.” There was an accusation in her words, a hurt he didn’t quite understand.
“Daisy,” her mother said sharply before turning back to him with a large smile. “Forgive her. We try our best.”
A Wallflower's Wish Boxed Set: Three Regency Romances Page 2
