Once She Was Tempted

by Barton, Anne

  Mama let out a long, wispy breath and tucked a stray tendril behind Daphne’s ear. “He would say that everything around us is not nearly as important as what’s inside us. Whenever you or Anabelle got into mischief or told a fib, he would invariably say—”

  “Nothing is more valuable than one’s integrity,” Daphne finished for her.

  “I’m glad you remember,” Mama said, her eyes moist. “I’ll see you at dinner.” After planting a kiss on Daphne’s forehead, she glided from the room in a light cloud of rose-scented perfume.

  Daphne sank to the settee. She was a fine one to speak of integrity. In posing for the portraits, she’d flagrantly disregarded the rules of proper behavior. That was shameful enough. But now she’d also been reduced to keeping secrets and lying to the people she loved.

  She wished there were some other way, but she’d chosen her path two years ago—the moment she’d shed her coat in that chilly abandoned factory and posed upon the sapphire settee.

  All she could do now was locate the second portrait—and the trail began with Thomas. The evening after Daphne had waited for him at Gunter’s, the artist’s mother had returned Daphne’s letter, with the seal still intact, thank Heaven. She’d also scrawled a note saying Thomas had embarked on a grand tour some time ago and would not likely return for several weeks. There was no one else she could turn to for answers, except perhaps the person who was in possession of the first painting…

  No. She couldn’t trust Lord Foxburn. He was too cold, too unfeeling. Worse, his icy blue eyes seemed to judge her constantly, like he was measuring her behavior against a checklist of etiquette for proper ladies and finding it rather lacking. No small wonder, considering he owned evidence of her most embarrassing mistake.

  But trusting Lord Foxburn wasn’t the only problem. Daphne wasn’t certain she could trust herself around him. He seemed intent on provoking her and casting aspersions on her character, and yet, she couldn’t help admiring his loyalty to his friend. Nor could she ignore the pain he stoically endured in his leg and his heart and the fact that he was devilishly attractive—if one cared about such things.

  When Daphne entered the Seatons’ crowded drawing room with Mama, Olivia, and Rose that evening, her nerves were wound tighter than a spring. She was all too well aware that at any given moment, someone could recognize her from the paintings and publicly brand her as a woman of loose morals.

  So, after exchanging a few polite greetings, Daphne thought it prudent to take a seat in the back and attempt to blend in with Lady Worsham’s pink and green wallpaper.

  “I see Henrietta seated in the front row.” Mama smiled; she was, perhaps, the only person genuinely pleased to see Lady Bonneville in attendance. “She requires room for her footstool, you know.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Olivia, rolling her eyes.

  The elderly viscountess took her red tufted footstool with her everywhere she went—or, rather, her long-suffering companion did. If the habit was a bit eccentric, no one dared label it as such. It was in the best interests of all to keep Lady Bonneville happy.

  “She’s quite by herself. I shall go keep her company. Would you girls care to join me?”

  Daphne did not wish to be anywhere near the front row or the viscountess’s scrutiny. “If you don’t mind, Mama, I’d rather remain here where the music won’t be as loud.” Olivia and Rose enthusiastically nodded their agreement.

  “That’s fine, darlings. Be sure to mingle.” She gave Daphne one last pointed look through her spectacles before joining Lady Bonneville.

  In the seat beside Daphne, Olivia snapped open her fan and fluttered it dramatically. “That was a narrow escape.”

  “I admire the viscountess,” Rose said, “even if she does frighten me a little.”

  Olivia snorted. “She would frighten Wellington himself.”

  “She has taken Mama under her wing,” Daphne said. “I’m grateful for that.”

  “I suppose I am as well,” Olivia said, a bit reluctantly. “Mostly, however, I’m grateful to be here with you and Rose.” She put an arm around Daphne and gave her a brief, tight squeeze. “I knew the yellow silk would be perfect with your golden hair. Don’t look now, but the gentleman by the fireplace can’t take his eyes off you.”

  Daphne swallowed. She’d never met the man, but what if he recognized her from the portraits? Her palms grew moist inside her elbow-length gloves. “He’s probably admiring you and Rose. You both look lovely tonight.”

  Olivia sighed. “This gown shall be wasted if James does not show.” Her eyes strayed to the door. “Alas, he is not among the latest arrivals… however, I see that Lord Foxburn and Lord Biltmore are.”

  Lord Foxburn. Daphne had been thinking about him ever since he’d left her on her doorstep. More specifically, she’d been thinking about his hair—which was slightly too long—and the manner in which a few dark brown strands curled just behind his ear. She couldn’t imagine why she was fixated on such a random and meaningless detail, but there it was.

  She swiveled on her chair and watched as he approached, Lord Biltmore at his side. The earl walked smoothly; the only sign of his injury was a slight hesitation before he stepped on his right foot. His jacket of blue superfine complemented his tanned skin and made his eyes look as clear as a September sky. His expression was more suited to a funeral service than a musicale, but she’d come to expect no less from him.

  “Good evening, Lady Olivia, Lady Rose, and Miss Honeycote,” exclaimed Lord Biltmore. He tugged nervously on the front of his rich purple jacket and shuffled his feet. “You’re all looking particularly beautiful this evening.” He smiled shyly at Daphne. “I wonder, Miss Honeycote, if you would like to take a turn about the room with me?”

  Egads. Lord Foxburn had decreed that she must not encourage the viscount, but she did not wish to be rude. Surely the earl could not object to a walk in a room full of people. Pasting on a smile, she said, “That would be lov—”

  Behind Lord Biltmore, Lord Foxburn narrowed his icy blue eyes and gave a subtle but crisp shake of his head.

  “—er, lovely… if I didn’t have such a dreadful headache at the moment.” Lord, how she hated to lie. Almost as much as she resented having the course of her evening dictated by an ill-tempered tyrant.

  Lord Biltmore’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’m most sorry to hear you’re not feeling well,” he said. “Shall I inform your mother that you’d like to go home?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just sit here awhile and see if that helps.”

  An awkward silence followed, and Lord Biltmore shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  “A suggestion, if I might be so bold,” Lord Foxburn said dryly. “Miss Seaton seems to be in need of encouragement.”

  Lord Biltmore snapped to attention. “Which Miss Seaton?”

  The earl made a pained face. “Damned if I know her name. The one over there”—he inclined his head toward the makeshift stage—“with the greenish pallor. She’s been adjusting the strings on her violin since we came in, but I suspect no amount of tuning will improve the upcoming performance. At least if you calm her nerves, she will be less likely to swoon midsong.”

  Lord Biltmore gazed at the stage and nodded sympathetically. “That’s Miss Louise Seaton,” he said. “And she does have a rather terrified look in her eyes. Please excuse me while I endeavor to put her at ease.”

  “Of course. That’s very kind of you,” Daphne said.

  Just as Lord Biltmore left, Olivia sucked in her breath.

  “What is it?” Rose asked.

  “It’s not a what but a who,” Olivia whispered. “Miss Starling. And she’s walking toward us.”

  The stunning blonde glided across the room, looking like she’d stepped out of the June issue of the Lady’s Magazine. Her sumptuous rose silk gown set off her creamy complexion perfectly, and rows of pearls glowed around her neck.

  Daphne forced a smile and breathed through her nose. She’d succeeded in avoidin
g Miss Starling since arriving in London. While Daphne was not the sort to hold a grudge, she’d never forgive Miss Starling for trying to ruin Anabelle.

  “Good evening, Miss Honeycote. I have seen neither you nor your infamous sister in an age. Where is the new duchess?” Miss Starling inquired, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I pray she hasn’t taken ill. One would hope marriage agrees with her.”

  Daphne shot the woman a sharp look. “I can assure you that it does.”

  “Lord Foxburn,” Miss Starling said, a little breathlessly. “A pleasure.” She extended a pristine white kid glove and preened as the earl bowed over it. “I confess I am shocked to find you hanging about with Miss Honeycote and her friends.”

  The earl’s eyes flashed dangerously. “And why would you find that shocking, Miss Starling?”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “The Honeycotes are hardly good ton. Do you know what part of town they were living in a few months ago? Proper young misses do not live in that kind of squalor. However, I’ll concede that their ill manners are not entirely their fault. Poverty necessarily breeds immorality.”

  Lord Foxburn narrowed his eyes and said in a low but lethal voice, “The only person displaying ill manners is you, Miss Starling. I suggest you leave. After all, you run the risk of sullying your reputation if you converse with us.”

  “Thank you for your concern. I shall heed your advice, but first I shall impart my own to Lady Olivia and Lady Rose.” She leaned toward the girls. “Do not allow yourself to be duped by the Honeycote sisters’ woeful tales and charming ways. They think that their newly elevated status protects them from scandal and disgrace. You may be sure they have secrets—dark, ugly secrets—and it’s only a matter of time before they’re exposed for all to see.”

  The pink and green walls began to close in around Daphne. Miss Starling couldn’t know about Anabelle’s extortion schemes. Could she? And she couldn’t possibly know about the portraits… unless she’d seen one.

  “Good evening, Miss Starling.” Lord Foxburn stepped in front of Daphne as though he’d physically shield her from further insults.

  Daphne’s lower lip trembled. The night was proving to be as disastrous as she’d feared. She glanced toward Mama, happy to see her chatting animatedly with Lady Bonneville. While a few other guests cast curious looks Daphne’s way, most of the room seemed oblivious to the confrontation.

  Rose reached over and squeezed her hand. “Take deep breaths,” she advised. “Do not dwell on Miss Starling or her insults. She cannot hurt you.”

  Olivia snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Do not give credence to a word of the hatred she spewed. She is nothing but a bitter, jealous shrew. When you arrived on the scene, she was taken down a peg. She used to be the most beautiful miss on the marriage mart, but not anymore. You are more beautiful by far.”

  “Inside and out,” Rose agreed.

  Ridiculousness. She was no beauty, and at the moment she felt like a shell, hollow and empty. A huge fraud.

  Miss Starling’s tirade may have been ugly, but it also happened to be the truth. And the worst part was that if Daphne’s wanton behavior was exposed, all the people she loved—especially Rose and Olivia, whom she thought of as her sisters—would suffer the most. Daphne longed to go home but feared a hasty exit would only call more attention to herself.

  “The musicians are poised to begin,” Lord Foxburn said. Turning to Olivia and Rose, he said, “You should stay and enjoy the performance. I’ll escort Miss Honeycote onto the terrace for a few moments.”

  Rose sat up a little straighter. “Only if that is what Daphne wishes.”

  “Yes.” Fresh air and a few minutes away from inquisitive eyes sounded heavenly.

  The earl grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “The terrace is this way.”

  She and Lord Foxburn moved against the tide of guests drifting toward the rows of chairs. He stepped in front of her and used his broad shoulders to cut through the crowd like the prow of a ship slicing through ocean waves. When he reached the doors, he did not release her hand but pulled her away from the house to the far side of the rectangular flagstone terrace. The twining of their fingers felt terribly intimate, sending wonderful shivers up and down her arm. It was only because he was so… so…

  Masculine. It was the slightest shadow of stubble on his face, the predatory look in his eyes, and the decisive way he handled every interaction. He said exactly what he thought and did exactly as he pleased and didn’t apologize for it.

  Of course, this behavior was also rather infuriating. But at the moment, while their palms were pressed together, all she could think was that Lord Foxburn was very attractive indeed.

  The night air was warm but still refreshing compared to the stuffiness of the music room. Several lanterns strung around the perimeter of the terrace glowed like mischievous fairies, and the fragrances of roses and rich soil tickled her nose.

  He pulled her to a small marble bench, which felt smooth and cool beneath her bottom, even through the layers of satin and crepe.

  Daphne faced the earl, very aware that no more than an arm’s length separated them. Her eyes were level with his neckcloth; she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. His mouth was drawn in a thin line and his eyelids appeared heavy. His expression wasn’t quite angry or bored or interested, and yet it was all three.

  “Thank you,” she said, breaking the silence. “I felt as though I’d scream if I had to endure another minute in that room.”

  “I don’t think that would have helped matters.”

  “No, but I’m afraid Miss Starling knows precisely how to bait me.”

  “She isn’t worth even a second of your worry.”

  No? Daphne couldn’t dismiss her so easily. And if either of the scandalous portraits were made public, Miss Starling’s disdain would seem trivial in comparison to the ton’s condemnation.

  She gazed at her skirt rustling in the breeze and tried not to dwell on the tingling warmth between their palms. In that instant, she knew what she had to do. If she didn’t do it right away, she might never have another opportunity, another private moment in which to speak with him. But the greater danger was that she’d simply lose her nerve.

  Steeling her resolve, she looked into his eyes. “I have a confession.”

  Chapter Six

  Ben liked confessions. Especially from beautiful women. “Go on.”

  “The woman in the painting… is me.” Miss Honeycote didn’t hang her head or even blush, but instead looked straight at him as though she’d make no apologies for her behavior. Good for her.

  “I can’t pretend to be shocked. But if it would help, I could feign mild surprise.”

  Smiling, she said, “That won’t be necessary. When you first confronted me, I was caught off guard. I suppose I shouldn’t have denied it, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid that I might taint the reputation of my family. I still am.”

  “Understandable. However, I do not intend to publicly display the painting. I gave you my word,” he said, mildly offended that she’d doubt him.

  “I know. It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  “I need your help finding the other one.”

  Good God. “There’s another one?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Yes. Just one, but it’s equally scandalous. And I don’t know where it is.”

  Part of his brain reeled from the shock of learning there was a second portrait, but the male part was busy imagining what the second scandalous painting might look like.

  “Would you help me find it?” The slight tremor in her voice told him what it had cost her to ask him. The truth was that she looked so vulnerable—yet beautiful—in the light of the lanterns that he would have done any damn thing she asked.

  “You think I can help you track it down.”

  She nodded. “I’m terrified that it will turn up somewhere—just as the one you have did. I have very little information to go on, and even if I
were able to locate it, I would need someone to help me purchase it—not the money, you understand, just someone to take care of the transaction.”

  “I am vastly relieved to know that no special skills are required of me. Purchasing a painting doesn’t sound terribly taxing. I think I could be up to the task.”

  She arched a blond brow. “Finding the painting could prove difficult. It’s very important that we keep my identity as the portraits’ subject a secret. I know this is all a lark to you, but I haven’t slept well since the day you visited my sister’s drawing room.”

  He wanted to say that he hadn’t either. That he was tortured by dreams of her. But that was sure to scare her off. “I know what it’s like—to be haunted by things you wish you’d done differently.”

  “I don’t regret what I did, Lord Foxburn. I had my reasons. What I regret—deeply—is the trouble and pain that my actions could cause my family. And yes, I have my own selfish reasons for wishing that I could keep the portraits secret.”

  What reasons could she have had for posing? She had alluded to her family’s impoverished state, but weren’t there other ways to earn some coin? Mending, laundry, selling oranges? Not that he was one to judge, but her manners suggested that she was raised as a proper lady, and the painting that hung in his study was not even vaguely in the realm of propriety.

  There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but they couldn’t remain on the terrace much longer. “I will try to help you.”

  “Thank you.” The corners of her eyes were suspiciously moist.

  “There’s one thing I would ask in return.”

  Her expression turned wary. “What would that be?”

  “I want to know the truth—about why you posed for the portraits and…”

  “And what, Lord Foxburn?”

  Damn it all, there was no subtle way to ask. “The nature of your relationship to the artist.”