by Barton, Anne
Ben was absurdly jealous. And curious. But he couldn’t just come out and ask how she was posed in the second portrait. Or, maybe he could.
“What’s the title of the portrait you still have?”
“Ah,” Charlton said fondly, “it’s English Beauty beside the Looking Glass.”
“And is it your favorite of the two?” Ben had to know.
The old man focused on a spot in the distance as though he were conjuring up the portrait from the recesses of his mind. “Indeed. There’s something deeper about this one. More vulnerable, yet sophisticated.”
Ben swallowed past the knot in his throat. It was worse than he’d feared. Charlton was not going to let the portrait go easily. But if he truly had it hidden away, perhaps it was for the best. Daphne could proceed with her season and find a decent, respectable husband without fear that the painting would surface at an inopportune time.
And if it was someday found, in the back of a wardrobe or in a dusty attic, she’d be a couple of decades older and no one would recognize her. If she, or anyone close to her, did, maybe they’d laugh at the memory of the scandal the portraits had nearly caused. She probably wouldn’t even recall the name of the cynical, arrogant bastard who’d volunteered to help her locate it.
Turned out she didn’t need him after all.
At least he’d get to tell her the good news. And he’d have a few more days with her at the house party before she returned to the glittering world to which she belonged.
He, on the other hand, would slink into a nice dark cave. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to witness some other man living the life he might have had with Daphne.
If he were whole.
Chapter Fourteen
There it is,” cried Rose, thrusting her arm outside the coach’s window. “Biltmore Manor.”
“Why, it looks like a palace,” Mama said. She gave Daphne a hopeful look, as if to say, One day, this could all be yours.
Obviously, Mama had not given up entirely on the idea of Daphne making a match with Lord Biltmore. She took advantage of even the smallest opportunity to praise him. “His penmanship is flawless,” she said, examining the invitation for the third time that morning. As if letter formation were a telling indicator of a man’s character.
“It is beautiful,” Daphne agreed. “But judging by the curls at the end of each word, my guess that his housekeeper penned the invitation.”
“Do you think so?” Mama looked stricken.
“I must concur with Daphne,” Rose said. “However, he did take the time to initial the bottom there. His H is exceedingly well formed.”
Mama seemed appeased by the observation.
Daphne couldn’t deny that Lord Biltmore was a gentleman. His manners were impeccable, his good nature was genuine, and she couldn’t imagine him attempting something as improper as kissing her on the stairs of an orphanage.
And therein lay the problem.
Since kissing Benjamin—Ben—she’d been able to think of little else. The firm pressure of his lips, the taste of his tongue, the heat of his body against hers.
In spite of the hasty good-bye he’d said that afternoon—or maybe because of it—she’d hoped that he’d call on her or send a brief note. Something to show he was thinking of her. She’d sent the treatment plan to him and in response she’d heard… nothing.
She shouldn’t have been surprised or hurt, but it stung that an event that had been so noteworthy in her life—her first real kiss—should seem so insignificant to him.
As the coach pulled up the long, winding drive to Lord Biltmore’s estate, Daphne itched to be free of the confines of the cab. Spacious though it was, it seemed considerably less so with five women and all their accompanying hats, reticules, fans, and parasols. Mama, Olivia, and Rose rode on the bench across from Daphne and Hildy—the lady’s maid whom Anabelle had insisted they take. Hildy did not tolerate the rocking of the coach very well and was queasy for most of the ride. Only sleeping seemed to ease her misery, so the rest of the women tried to be as quiet as possible, reading books and staring at the countryside outside their windows.
Which had left Daphne with plenty of time to think.
She was desperate to know whether Ben had been able to talk to Lord Charlton and discover the whereabouts of the second portrait. Each time she glanced across the cab at Rose and Olivia, she knew she could not let her indiscretion ruin them. Just as she could not let it devastate Mama and Anabelle. Daphne’s stomach clenched at the thought, leaving her as clammy and queasy as poor Hildy.
Knowing she’d soon see Ben only added to Daphne’s anxiety. Would he acknowledge what had transpired between them or act as though they were mere acquaintances, at the same house party because of mutual friends? She never knew what to expect with him.
When at last the coach halted and the footman opened the door, Olivia crawled over her sister’s lap and bounded out. “What a glorious setting!” She twirled as though she were in a ballroom but almost lost her footing on the gravel drive and bumped into the backside of the footman who was helping Mama step down from the coach.
“Do be careful, Olivia,” Mama cried. “We can’t have you turning your ankle on the first day of the house party. Such an injury would drastically curtail your participation in the festivities.”
Olivia touched her gloved fingertips to her cheeks as though she’d had a sudden epiphany. “James would have to carry me everywhere. Oh, why couldn’t I have turned my ankle? I have the most horrific luck.” She spun again but executed a perfect turn. “Drat!”
Rose and Daphne helped Hildy exit the coach, and the maid seemed vastly relieved to be standing on terra firma. Daphne stretched her legs and squinted into the afternoon sun.
“Welcome!” Lord Biltmore emerged from the shade of a stately portico and descended the front steps with his hands extended. “I am so honored that you’ve come. While I’m sure you’re exhausted from your travels, you don’t look wilted in the slightest.”
“We’re so pleased to be here, Lord Biltmore,” Mama said.
“Lord Biltmore sounds too formal to my ears now that we are here in the country. You may call me Hugh if you like.”
“We couldn’t possibly.” Mama was just a hair shy of horrified.
“No?” He looked crestfallen. “Perhaps just Biltmore, then.”
“I don’t know,” said Mama. She looked at Rose and Olivia for guidance. These sorts of social nuances did not come naturally to someone who hadn’t spent much time with the elite members of polite society. And they made Mama terribly nervous. She preferred to avoid any possibility of impropriety by adhering strictly to every rule.
Rules Daphne had flagrantly disregarded in posing for the portraits. Her queasiness returned.
Rose stepped forward and, in her usual serene manner, graciously agreed to Biltmore’s suggestion.
“Excellent,” he replied. “Please, come in, and my housekeeper, Mrs. Norris, will show you to your rooms.”
Daphne found the house—which was, as Mama had said, more akin to a palace—both impressive and charming. The black and white tile in the foyer shone like the surface of a lake. A colorful coat of arms hung on the wall beside a richly detailed tapestry depicting some sort of battle scene. But the most striking feature of the foyer was a wide, curved staircase.
Mrs. Norris descended the stairs so gracefully she might have been a spirit floating down to greet them. “Welcome, ladies. It is a pleasure to have you. Forgive me for not being here when you arrived—I was inspecting your rooms one last time to be certain everything was in order. You are the first guests we’ve had in some time. We’re just delighted you’re here.”
“Lord Foxburn is here,” Biltmore pointed out. “He’s a guest.”
“Yes,” the housekeeper said with a dismissive wave, “but he’s more like family. I’ve known him since he was a lad.”
Interesting. Ben must have been closer to Robert than Daphne realized. It seemed they had been more like brothers th
an friends.
“Foxburn is in the library, where he’s been counseling me on some business matters. Don’t know what I’d do without his guidance. There’s no one more dedicated than he. When he puts his mind to something, it gets done—and heaven help anyone in the way.” Biltmore smiled.
The young viscount’s confidence in Ben soothed Daphne’s frayed nerves.
“Would you like some tea and refreshments before I take you upstairs?” Mrs. Norris offered.
“No, thank you,” Mama said. “I’d like to wash up and rest a bit.”
“Of course,” the housekeeper said. “Please, follow me, ladies. I’ll have the footmen bring your things as soon as I get you settled.”
She led the way up the grand staircase, pausing once to point out the gilded moldings on the Rococo ceiling and again to name a humorless-looking former Lord Biltmore depicted in a portrait that hung above the handrail. The house was beautiful and furnished almost as exquisitely as Owen’s town house in London. For once, even Olivia was speechless.
On the first floor, a large square hall had eight doorways that seemed to lead to various reception rooms and suites. “We’ve readied rooms for you in the east wing,” Mrs. Norris said, gliding through one of the doorways. “You shall each have your own bedchamber. Mrs. Honeycote,” she said, opening the door to one room, “you are in the Gold Room.” A four-poster bed draped in lush shades of amber velvet dominated the room, and the wooden furniture—which included a wardrobe, a dresser, and a feminine dressing table—shone with a thin layer of polish. A muted gold and blue rug warmed up the gleaming wood floor. The air smelled faintly of lemon wax and the freshly cut flowers that crowned a small round table beneath the window.
“It’s lovely. I shall be very comfortable here, thank you,” Mama said, her hand fluttering at her throat. Daphne placed an arm around her shoulders to steady her. The room was a far, far cry from their old, dingy apartment.
“The maids will bring up jugs of hot water shortly.” The housekeeper walked a little farther into the east wing and opened another door into a similarly appointed room, only slightly smaller and decorated in shades of pink. “I thought the Rose Room would be fitting for you, Lady Rose.” Mrs. Norris winked at her.
Rose beamed. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“And for you, Lady Olivia”—the housekeeper opened the door to another chamber—“the Blue Room.”
Olivia sighed. “James’s favorite color is blue.”
Mrs. Norris wrinkled her forehead. “Pardon, my lady?”
“Do not mind my sister,” Rose said. “Blue suits her quite nicely.”
“Very good, then. Lastly, Miss Honeycote, your room is here. The Violet Room.”
The door swung open, revealing light purple drapes, a counterpane of deep plum, and a cream-colored rug. “It’s gorgeous,” Daphne whispered. “Like something out of a fairy tale.”
Mrs. Norris clasped her hands together, delighted. “Please, make yourselves at home. I shall have hot water and refreshments sent up momentarily. Oh, and look, here are your trunks now.”
Hildy immediately began unpacking Mama’s things, while Rose, Olivia, and Daphne saw to their own. They returned to Mama’s room a short time later for a spot of tea and scones, and before long Mama was yawning, declaring the need for a predinner nap. Olivia and Rose seemed similarly inclined, so everyone retreated to their own chambers.
After spending most of the day cramped in a coach, however, Daphne wanted to roam. She gazed out the window of her bedchamber at the well-tended rows of the kitchen garden and beyond to the green, rolling lawn and a line of trees on the horizon. The day was warm, but high clouds kept the sun partially in check. An occasional breeze rustled the leaves on the shrubs and sent rippling waves through the taller grass in the distance.
She had changed out of her traveling clothes earlier and donned an afternoon dress of pale green crepe with short sleeves. It would do nicely for a stroll through the garden. If she brought some writing supplies, she could pen a note to Belle, letting her know that they’d arrived safely.
Daphne ventured out into the square hall and asked a passing maid to direct her to the garden. The young woman escorted her downstairs and through an opulent drawing room. French doors at the rear led to a terrace overlooking a traditional English garden with gravel pathways, symmetrical, box-shaped hedges, conveniently placed benches, sparkling fountains, and a variety of other treasures to explore. Daphne set out in search of a secluded, pretty spot in which to write a letter to her sister.
As she wound her way through shoulder-high hedges, she admired the colorful beds of flowers at her feet. A pond stocked with fish lay beside a trellis covered with flowering vines. In the shade of the trellis sat a small stone bench—a private spot where she could enjoy the sound of water lapping against rocks and the smell of freshly cut grass.
After withdrawing her writing supplies from a small satchel, she kicked off her slippers and tucked her feet beneath her. She touched the feathery end of her quill to her lips and thought for a moment, then began writing. A few lines into the letter, however, her eyes began to droop. The grassy patch in front of the bench seemed to call out to her, and she spread her cloak there and curled up for a short rest. She would shut her eyes for only a moment, to rejuvenate herself after the day of travel. But the splashing of the fish and the chirping of birds in the trees might as well have been a lullaby, and within a few minutes, she dozed off.
Warm lips brushed Daphne’s cheek like a whisper. Gentle fingers stroked her hair, traced her ear, and skimmed her neck until she wanted to purr from the pleasure of it. Her entire body tingled and she moaned softly, intent on savoring every second of bliss the dream afforded her. In fact, she would not mind if the stroking continued down her neck a bit, and perhaps across her shoulders…
“Daphne.” That voice, so low and raspy, could only belong to Ben.
Ben. She sat straight up and conked her head on the bench. “Ouch.”
“Sorry I startled you. Are you all right?” She blinked, and his face—which was level with hers—slowly came into focus. She knew he was waiting for a response, but she was momentarily transfixed by his mouth and, in particular, the fullness of his lower lip. “Daphne?”
“I’m fine. I think.” She gingerly felt the back of her head.
“Let me.” He was already kneeling on the grass beside her. Gently, he turned her shoulders away from him so that he could search for any bumps or cuts. Tenderly, he speared his fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp.
It was heaven.
“Does that hurt?”
“Mmm, no.”
He chuckled. “You like this.”
“I suppose it’s not proper to admit it, but yes. I do—oooh, that’s divine.”
He swept aside the tendrils at her nape and gently rubbed small circles at the base of her neck with his thumbs. “How’s this?”
“If you must know, it’s also quite wonderful.”
“Really?”
“Mmm.” She desperately wished he’d stop talking and focus on the task at hand.
“Let’s see what you think about this, then.” He dipped his head close to her ear and brushed his lips along the column of her neck. She was certain she’d melt from the heat between them, and there’d be nothing left of her but the green crepe dress.
His tender touch and playful manner had Daphne’s heart tripping in her chest. Perhaps the country air had soothed the beast within him. Or maybe their kiss had. Whatever the reason for the change, she was glad for it—and inordinately pleased that his flirtatious side seemed reserved just for her. If the misses on the marriage mart in London were witness to Ben’s charm, he wouldn’t stay a bachelor for long.
Wantonly, she turned and leaned into him, welcoming the sweep of his hand down her side and over her hips. In her state of languor, everything seemed pleasantly dreamlike and hazy. And miles away from the strictures of society.
That’s all this was�
�an impetuous rebellion to celebrate her escape from civilization. It didn’t hurt that Ben was incredibly handsome. His dark hair, which had grown a little longer, gave him a dangerous air. But his intense stare affected her most. One sultry gaze could make her toss common sense out the window—as she quite clearly had now.
He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close—so close that she could see the dark blue flecks in his eyes. His left leg was bent beside her, while his injured leg was stretched flat on the ground. She clutched at the lapels of his jacket, and just as he leaned in to kiss her, she placed a palm on his right thigh.
He flinched and jerked his leg away, his body seizing as though he were preparing to fight.
What had she done? She gazed up at him and winced at the grim look on his face. “Did I hurt you?”
He pushed himself off the ground and stood, towering over her. “No.” He held out a hand and helped her up. The moment their palms pressed together, delicious shivers traveled all the way up her arm. She didn’t want to let go of him, but he was clearly agitated, so she sat on the bench and let him pace.
“Did you have a chance to try the treatment I recommended?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s very simple, actually. All you need to—”
“Stop,” he snapped.
“Stop what?”
He said nothing, but crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
“Are you sure your leg is all right?”
He stopped in his tracks and faced her, his eyes glinting and cutting like a sword. “Why did you do it?”
“Touch you?” Confusion and inexperience mixed, filled her with shame. “You were touching me. I thought—obviously mistakenly—that you might—”
“Damn it, Daphne.”
She hid her face in her hands, utterly humiliated.
“Just… don’t touch my leg. Ever. In fact, I’d prefer it if you’d refrain from ever speaking of my bloody leg again. It’s like you have some sick fascination with it. Or maybe you enjoy the challenge of trying to fix something that’s irreparably broken. Either way, I’d rather not be your little medical experiment. You can’t cure me and you sure as hell can’t change me, so let me be.”
