by Barton, Anne
“What was that?”
Heat flooded her face. “I’m not sure. I’m sorry—”
He hauled her closer and cupped her cheeks in his hands. “Don’t be sorry about that. Ever.”
She swallowed hard. “I was just getting ready to return to my room.”
“That would be prudent.” And yet he made no move to release her. “Thank you, Daphne.”
“You should try to rest and let the poultice do its work.”
“There’s something I need to know.”
“What?”
“Are you… disgusted by it? By me?”
Now she grasped his wrists. And barely resisted the urge to shake him. “No. But I do hate that you’re suffering like this.”
“I’m not the same person I was before. I used to work in the fields alongside my tenants during the harvest and help repair cottages damaged by weather or fire. Now I… I can’t ride a horse without taking to my bed for an entire day afterward. I am, in a word, damaged.”
She gasped. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You should go.”
“Listen to me.” She leaned over him so that he was forced to look into her eyes. “You lived. You cheated death. That doesn’t make you damaged. It makes you a survivor.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly unbelieving.
“Ben.”
His gaze locked with hers once more, and the intensity of that icy gaze made her shiver.
“If I thought you were damaged, would I do this?” Slowly, she lowered her mouth and touched her lips to his, which were slightly parted. It was the lightest of kisses and lasted only a second. Their breath mingled sweetly in the air between them.
Never before had she done anything so bold, so forbidden.
And she liked it.
Her body had come alive the moment she kissed him. Her skin tingled, her loins pulsed, her nipples hardened.
Ben swallowed. “You feel sorry for me.”
She gave a little cry. “Do you really believe that? Because I can show you how mistaken you are.” She took his palm and placed it on her breast, over her pounding heart. “One kiss from you did this.”
He kept his hand over her heart as though carefully weighing the evidence she’d offered. “You desire me?”
“Heaven help me, I do.” She felt like she’d stripped bare before him.
His hand slid slowly up her chest and along the column of her neck. “I don’t deserve you, Daphne.” His robe gaped open across his chest as he moved, revealing a muscled torso like the ones on statues of Greek gods. Except his was warm and lightly tanned and sprinkled with springy hair.
“It’s not a question of deserving,” she said. “Would you deny me another kiss?”
“God, no. Come here.”
Chapter Seventeen
Etching: (1) An impression taken from an etched metal plate. (2) The process of fixing a memory permanently in one’s mind, as in The sweet, soft pressure of her lips on his would be forever etched in his memory.
Ben pulled Daphne toward him and raked his fingers through the loosened waves of her hair, as warm and golden as sunlight. He tasted her, her lips ripe as berries, her tongue like a tart straight out of the oven.
Daphne kissed him as if imaginary bindings had fallen away, leaving her free and hungry for passion.
He no longer believed she was humoring him. She really did desire him.
God knew he desired her. He could barely breathe for wanting her.
Somehow, with a few herbs, a bucket of hot water, and her soothing touch, she’d banished not only the pain, but the darkness as well. At least for a while.
And that was enough.
Deep inside him the suffocating blackness still lurked, but as long as she was here, it couldn’t touch him. Her goodness acted as armor against it.
So he tried to put all he felt for her into the kiss. Gratitude, certainly. Caring, too. And perhaps… No. He was not capable of that. Even if he were, she deserved better.
But he could give her a proper kiss. Or, more precisely, a wicked kiss.
He ran a hand up her rib cage, lingered just beneath the curve of her breast, then made circles around the rigid peak until she was breathless.
“Ben.” Her voice, raspy and thick, heated his blood. The little sounds she made in her throat drove him mad.
When he stroked a thumb over her nipple and deepened their kiss, she arched her back and melted into him. Ben could have lain with her like that—cheek to cheek and chest to chest—forever and a day.
Though he’d had no sleep or food in the last twenty-four hours, he suddenly felt like he could take on anything. Anything for her.
He wanted her fiercely, for his own.
Forever.
But today wasn’t the right time. And his bedchamber—which felt more like a sickroom at the moment—wasn’t the right place. If he were honest with himself, he wasn’t the right man. But he didn’t want to be quite that honest.
“Daphne.”
“Hmm?” She pulled back slightly and blinked as though waking from a pleasant dream.
“If we continue with this, you will end up hating me, and I couldn’t bear that, so—”
She shook her head. “I could never hate you.”
“You say that now. Trust me, you would.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why must you always contradict me?” But she couldn’t have been too angry because she slipped her hand inside his robe and across his chest as she kissed the side of his neck. She had no idea what her touch did to him. Or maybe she did. But if he didn’t halt her immediately, she was going to be naked in a matter of seconds.
“Stop.”
She froze, her warm, smooth palm still splayed over his stomach. Good God.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to stay,” he said. “I doubt I’ve ever wanted anything more. But we can’t risk it.”
She sat up. “You don’t want to get caught with me.”
“Of course I don’t. It would ruin you.”
“Are you truly concerned about me or about the consequences for you if we were discovered together?”
“That’s not fair. I—”
The clomping of boots down the corridor interrupted his defense. Gruff, loud voices echoed down the hall. Averill had been given the room across from Ben’s, and Hugh’s two friends from Eton—Neville Edland and Warren Fogg—were also staying in this wing. It sounded like all three men had returned from the fox hunt slightly, er… foxed.
“I don’t think I remembered to lock the door,” Daphne said, her pale face proof that he wasn’t the only one terrified of being caught in a compromising position. She sprang off the bed and spun around, her eyes frantic as she searched for a place to hide. “The wardrobe.” She scurried to it and flung open the doors but quickly realized it was too narrow.
“The other side of the desk,” he said, pointing. She was small enough to fit between the desk and the wall in the far corner of the room. As long as no one had the wild urge to scribe a letter, she should be safe there.
A knock sounded at the door. “Foxburn?”
He didn’t answer right away, wanting to give Daphne more time to tuck herself into her hiding place.
“Foxburn.” It was Averill. More softly, as though he were talking to someone at his side, he said, “Did you hear that? It sounded like he was speaking to someone.”
Ben sat up, wincing from the effort. Daphne was mostly hidden, but the white flounce at the bottom of her dress stuck out like a halfhearted surrender flag. He would just have to keep Averill’s attention away from that side of the room. “What do you want?” he barked.
Averill swung the door open. Edland and Fogg stood behind him in the doorway, gawking over his shoulders as though they’d slapped down coins to peek in the sideshow tent. “You look marginally better,” Averill said. “How are you feeling?”
“Marginally better. Tired.”
“I thought I heard voices in here.” His gaze swept around the ro
om, and Ben held his breath.
“You caught me. I was reciting poetry.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a poet, Foxburn,” Edland piped. Idiot.
Averill chuckled. “He’s jesting. Which means he can’t be that bad off.” He sniffed the air. “What is that? It smells like a meadow.”
“Mrs. Norris opened the window for me. Any other burning questions, or can I get some rest?”
“Glad to see you’re improved.” Averill grinned. “Think you’ll make it down to dinner this evening?”
“That depends on whether I can take a nap beforehand,” Ben said dryly.
“Ah, well. Given the number of pints we drank this afternoon, a nap might be in order for all of us,” Averill admitted. “We’ll leave you be.”
And then, because he didn’t want Daphne to think he was a complete boor, Ben asked, “How was the hunting this morning?”
“Excellent,” Fogg said. “Biltmore’s got some fine dogs, he does, and—Say, what’s that?”
Ben’s stomach dropped as the man sauntered toward the foot of the bed, closer to Daphne. He stooped and picked up a very lacy, very feminine, drawstring pouch.
Fogg held it in front of his face as though it were a rare and mysterious artifact.
“One of the maids must have dropped it,” Ben improvised, uncomfortably aware how unlikely it was that a maid would possess anything so elegant. “I’ll ask Mrs. Norris to check with the staff. Why don’t you leave it there.” He jerked his thumb toward the table beside his bed.
“I’ll just set it here on your desk.”
Ben wanted to leap out of bed and tackle him, but of course that was a bad idea for many reasons, the least of which was his half-useless leg. With every step, Fogg drew closer to Daphne. Ben’s heart pounded in his chest. He needed to create a distraction, but neither his tongue nor his mind seemed up to the task.
“Bring it here,” Averill said. Fogg spun around and plopped the pouch into Averill’s outstretched palm.
His gaze flicked to Ben, then to the desk in the corner of the room, and back to Ben. Averill loosened the drawstring and peered inside. “Empty.” He looked as though he’d toss it to Ben, but then, apparently changing his mind at the last moment, he raised the pouch to his nose and sniffed.
His eyes narrowed, and he shot Ben a sharp, suspicious look before hurling the bag at him. “There’s more mystery surrounding you, Foxburn, than the bloody pyramids. The only difference is, in your case, I’m not sure I want to solve it.”
He turned to go, herding the other two men out as well. Ben didn’t release the breath he’d been holding until the door latch clicked. Thank God. Even then, he waited until the voices in the hall had quieted before speaking. “You can come out.” He threw back his blankets and swung both legs over the edge of the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Daphne hissed, her eyes glowing with ire. “Lie back down.”
Under different circumstances, he would have obeyed. And he would have hauled her down with him. As it was, he ignored the command. “I don’t think they saw you.”
She paced before the bed. “I hope not. How shall I ever get out of here?” She might have been Persephone, attempting to escape from the underworld.
“It shouldn’t be difficult to sneak down the hall. The men will be in their rooms, changing out of their hunting clothes. I’ll check that the hallway is clear.” He gingerly lowered his feet to the floor.
“Don’t you dare get out of that bed. I’ll check myself.”
“Too late.” He tightened the sash holding his robe in place and hobbled to the door, surprised to find that his leg actually supported his weight. Maybe he shouldn’t have scoffed at the comfrey. He cracked the door open and glanced up and down the corridor. Turning back to her, he said, “All clear. Go, before your mother and friends return.”
She flitted to the bed and picked up her pouch, then joined him where he stood, leaning against the doorjamb. A slight smile played about her lips as she whispered, “My treatment is working.”
He arched a brow. “That’s awfully presumptuous. How can you tell?”
“Earlier this morning you were writhing in pain, unable to move. Now you are standing. What further proof do you require?” She leaned closer to him and breathed in his ear, “The poultice works.”
“Who says it’s the poultice?”
“What else could it be?” Her pretty blue eyes were round with exasperation.
“The kissing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Is it time for my next dose?”
She blushed deeply. “I’d better go.”
“Yes.” He checked the hall once more and waved her out of the room. But before she went, she stood on her toes, leaned into him, and pressed her lips to his in a brief but smoldering kiss.
“For medicinal purposes,” she said before darting out the door and down the corridor.
The next day, Ben was much improved. He wasn’t quite ready to join the jockey club, but he did venture out of his room for breakfast. Hugh and Averill were the only ones in the breakfast room. Hugh shoveled eggs and ham into his mouth; Averill was absorbed in his paper. Each gave a grunt in Ben’s general direction as he entered the room.
After Hugh had cleaned off his plate, he swiped a napkin across his mouth. “Good to see you up and about, Foxburn. Can’t have you overdoing it today, though.”
Ben objected to his tone, which was the same one might use with a nearsighted, tottering codger who was too stubborn to give up driving his curricle through the crowded streets of town. “I intend to lie low.” He gulped strong, hot coffee. “How do you plan to entertain your guests today?”
“I thought we’d have a game of cricket on the lawn. Some of the ladies even expressed an interest. Lady Olivia is keen to ‘smack the ball’—her words.”
Perfect. He’d be relegated to a shady spot watching cricket and drinking lemonade with the less adventurous ladies. Maybe he and Lady Worsham could play a rousing game of bridge, God help him.
Averill lowered his paper so that only his eyes appeared above it. “Olivia’s going to play cricket?”
Hugh smiled. “I offered to teach her the finer points of the game, but she said she’d consult with you.”
Averill muttered something under his breath, rustled his paper, and resumed his reading.
“We saw Charlton’s son, Rowland Hallows, in the village yesterday,” said Hugh. “I invited him to join us for the festivities.”
“Let’s hope he’s sobered up by now,” Averill remarked.
A chill crept between Ben’s shoulder blades. Charlton’s son might have seen the portrait of Daphne. And if he came to the house, he could very well see Daphne. It hadn’t taken Ben long to identify her; if Rowland Hallows had half a brain, he would, too. Ben’s appetite suddenly fled, but he choked down a poached egg and some toast. He had to warn Daphne to stay away from Charlton’s son. Damn it. It had been a mistake for her to come to the house party.
Yesterday, he’d allowed her to nurse him and then thanked her by almost seducing her.
Today he was putting her in the path of one of the few men who could have actually seen the portrait.
He had to protect her, and that meant he had to get the painting—and get the hell out of her life.
Chapter Eighteen
Daphne owed Anabelle a letter, so the next morning she dutifully applied pen to paper. She described—in impressive detail—how lovely Biltmore Manor was, how well Mama was doing, and how marvelous the weather had been.
She may have neglected to mention that she’d kissed an earl.
In his bed.
While he wore nothing but a robe.
Ben had just seemed so miserable and hopeless. She’d wanted to prove a point—that he wasn’t an object of her pity but of her desire. She’d heard that he’d been out of his room today—a good sign that his leg had improved.
A tiny part of her wondered if yesterday’s episode had been a ruse to gain her sympat
hy, but she’d quickly dismissed the idea. No one, not even Ben, was that superb an actor.
Today she’d awoken with a clear head and an unusual sense of calm. Miraculously, no one had discovered yesterday’s indiscretion. Furthermore, the portrait they’d been looking for was in Lord Charlton’s possession, and, at least for the time being, he seemed intent on keeping it hidden.
Her biggest concern this morning had been picking out a dress to wear for the day’s festivities. She’d settled on a white gown with blue trim that Anabelle had insisted she purchase last month, saying that the square neckline and delicate sleeves were the perfect frame for Daphne’s face. Since she didn’t know a festoon from a frog, she always heeded her sister’s fashion advice. Hildy had piled her hair high atop her head and freed several strands so that they curled softly about her face.
Today she’d primped more for a cricket match on the lawn than she would for a major ball. She couldn’t imagine the reason why.
Well, actually she could. But she preferred not to.
A knock on the door snapped her attention away from the mirror. Before she could say “Come in,” Olivia burst into the room. Her cheeks were flushed and she wore a pretty yellow gown.
“How lovely you look!” Daphne exclaimed.
“Thank you.” Olivia twirled. “Anabelle made this—she said jonquil is my color.” She tossed a long dangling curl over her shoulder. “Now, then. It’s quite warm this afternoon. Have you a parasol?” She walked to Daphne’s armoire, opened the doors, and began rummaging through the items. Over her shoulder she said, “I understand that Lord Biltmore had a tent erected on the lawn so that there will be some shade, but we can’t be too careful.” She held up a parasol of blue silk. “Come. Let’s fetch your mother and Rose so we may join everyone outside.”
Daphne could guess the reason Olivia was so eager and could empathize with her more than ever today. “Looking forward to spending the afternoon with Mr. Averill?”
Olivia beamed. “Of course. I’ve already seen him once today—he and Lord Foxburn were in the drawing room earlier.”
