by Barton, Anne
“A matter that is easily rectified.” Lord Biltmore flourished a few branches whose ends had been whittled into points and stuck a couple into the earth at one end of the playing field, paced to the other side, and repeated the procedure. “I’ve brought the rest of the equipment as well.” He reached into a canvas bag that lay beside the tent and withdrew a paddle and ball.
Under Olivia’s direction, the match began, with Lord Biltmore and Mr. Averill designated as the bowlers. The men shed their jackets and played in their shirtsleeves and waistcoats. Olivia took off her bonnet, but Daphne didn’t dare give Mr. Hallows a better look at her face. Players and spectators alike cheered, getting into the competitive spirit—although no one took the game quite seriously enough for Olivia’s liking.
She was particularly vexed with Daphne, who proved hopeless when it came to hitting the ball. In her defense, she was not accustomed to standing in one spot while an object came hurtling toward her like some irate bird. Besides, she was preoccupied with more weighty matters than her striker duties. After her fourth attempt at swinging failed to produce any sort of contact with the ball, she decided it was in the best interest of the team to pass the bat to Louise.
But Ben strode off the field, limping slightly without his cane, and stopped her. “You’re standing too far away from the wicket. Here.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her into position, making her flush. Thank goodness she still wore her bonnet.
“The ball is coming terribly fast. I can scarcely see it.”
“That’s because you keep closing your eyes.”
“How gallant of you to mention it.”
His breath warm on her cheek, he said, “I’ll help you.” He reached around so that his body encased hers like armor and gripped the bat handle just above her hands. “Wait for the pitch. When I say swing, bring the bat around like this. You can do this, Daphne.” He demonstrated the motion, which, she had to admit, was infinitely smoother than her own hacking method.
She squared her shoulders. “I’ll try.”
Ben stayed close but released the bat, leaving the swinging to her.
Mr. Averill wound up and lobbed the ball toward her. She gripped the handle harder, determined not to close her eyes.
The ball bounced once and sailed closer.
She closed her eyes, blast it all. But only for a second.
“Now,” Ben called from behind her, and she swung.
She hit the ball. Or, perhaps, it was more accurate to say the ball hit her bat. Olivia squealed and waved her arms, which was clearly a signal for Daphne to run, but she could only stare at the ball, which had rolled approximately two yards in front of her. Not a great distance, true, but she’d done it.
And Ben had known she could. He returned to his spot on the field, a smug, satisfied look on his handsome face.
“Is it time for a break yet?” Louise called. She stood on the side of the playing field, waving her fan with enough force to launch a small sailboat. “I’m parched.”
“So am I,” Jane chimed in. “Let’s have something to drink and sit in the shade.” Half the players immediately wandered toward the tent; the rest chatted among themselves.
“But we haven’t even finished two innings,” Olivia said, hands fisted on her hips.
“Perhaps our level of play will improve after some refreshment,” Daphne said, although she had her doubts.
“I suppose. This isn’t turning out how I’d hoped.”
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Not unless you have a suggestion for capturing James’s attention.” Olivia scooped up the ball, tossed it in the air, and caught it with one hand. “I’d hoped to impress him with my knowledge of the game.”
Daphne smiled. “It’s clear that you’re the only female here who knows what she’s doing. And you seem more familiar with the rules than most of the men, too.”
It was true. Unfortunately, the harder Olivia tried to win Mr. Averill’s affection, the more oblivious he seemed. Olivia was slightly mollified by Daphne’s response, however, and conceded to a short break.
Daphne and Olivia found a couple of chairs in the shade, where they sipped lemonade. In spite of the drink and the slight breeze, Daphne felt quite wilted. Her once-puffy sleeves clung limply to her shoulders and the jaunty bow she’d tied beneath her chin drooped. She took some consolation from the fact that everyone was similarly afflicted and therefore equally miserable.
“I’m going to see if Mama needs anything,” Daphne told Olivia. “I’ll be back momentarily.” Mama seemed to be tolerating the heat fairly well, but Daphne didn’t want her overdoing it. She and Lady Worsham carried on an animated conversation about modistes. Of course, Lady Worsham had no idea that they had an expert dressmaker in the family and that she also happened to be a duchess. Daphne stood a few yards away, patiently awaiting a break in the conversation when someone grasped her upper arm. Hard.
“You’re very coy, Miss Honeycote.” She turned and found herself face-to-face with Mr. Hallows, her eyes level with his brown-stained teeth.
She jerked her arm away and looked for Ben. Where was he?
“Looking for the cripple? He’s probably gone to take a nap.”
“I don’t care for your tone, Mr. Hallows.”
“Aren’t we high and mighty? There’s no need to pretend with me. I know where I’ve seen you. And let’s just say it wasn’t church.”
“You may think you’ve seen me before, but we have never met.”
“I didn’t say we had. But I’ve seen you. I’ve seen your portrait.”
Daphne’s hand trembled and her drink sloshed in the glass. “I’ve never had my portrait painted. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Don’t run away,” he said, latching on to one of her sleeves. “There’s still much for us to discuss.”
“I disagree, sir.” She shifted her eyes to his hand on her shoulder, and he chuckled before letting her go.
“It would behoove you to treat me with more respect. That painting belongs to my father. The batty old codger might be hiding it somewhere, but I’ll find it. It would bring a decent price were I to auction it off at White’s or Boodle’s. In the meantime, I could host a dinner party and display it for the viewing pleasure of my guests. I do hope you’ll be able to attend, Miss Honeycote.”
Even as her stomach knotted, she eyed him coldly. “I believe I’ll be otherwise engaged.”
He laughed, a sharp, barking sound that made Mama and Lady Worsham turn their heads. Daphne smiled as though she found Mr. Hallows a most charming conversationalist. The last thing she wanted was for Mama—or anyone else—to become involved. And the one person she wished would materialize was nowhere to be found.
Mr. Hallows licked his lips, a lecherous gleam in his eyes. Daphne’s skin itched under his scrutiny, and she wanted nothing so much as a bath and a cloth to scrub herself clean.
“I can imagine all sorts of mutually beneficial arrangements,” he said. “When you come to your senses, send word—but don’t tarry too long. I’m not a patient man.”
Chapter Twenty
Ben absently swirled the brandy in his glass as he gazed out one of the tall windows overlooking the front of Biltmore Manor. The late afternoon sun cast distorted shadows across the drive, where Rowland Hallows shouted an order at a coachman before climbing inside his carriage. It rumbled along the road until it disappeared over a hill.
Hallows was an uncivilized brute, and dangerous—not unlike gunpowder near a lit match.
The only way to neutralize him was to get the painting of Daphne, and Ben would.
But from London.
He’d correspond with the baron through letters and make an offer on the portrait. It might take longer that he’d like, but it was the only plan that made sense.
In the meantime, he couldn’t bear to be around Daphne. He just couldn’t. Her irresistible pull made him do foolish things like putting his arms around her while a small crowd l
ooked on. As long as he stayed in the same house with her, he’d have a hard time keeping his hands off of her, so the best thing for him to do was to leave. She’d taken too great a risk in coming to his bedchamber, and he couldn’t let her do that again. Not when her reputation hung in the balance.
He was supposed to be saving her from ruin, for God’s sake, not putting her in jeopardy.
So, for a change, he’d do the right thing: return to his town house and continue to mentor Hugh—just until he finished growing into his newly acquired title and found a nice young lady to be his viscountess. Ben would pursue the portrait on Daphne’s behalf and send her an update once every month or so. And when both obligations were fulfilled, he would wipe his hands clean of both Hugh and Daphne. Forever. Not because he disliked their company—quite the opposite. But because they’d both be better off without him.
His leg was tenfold better today, but yesterday’s agony was too fresh a memory to risk an extended match of cricket. So he’d grabbed the first opportunity to hobble to the drawing room and pour himself a drink.
And now he was about to pour himself another.
The clearing of a throat made him glance at the doorway. Mrs. Norris held up a small folded paper as she approached him. “I was asked to give you this, Lord Foxburn.”
Ben set down his glass, lowered himself onto an ottoman, and waited until the housekeeper left before breaking the wax seal on the note.
I must speak with you, in private. If you are able, please meet me in the library after everyone is sleeping.
—D
Ben held the note to his lips and inhaled deeply. Her citrusy scent was barely detectable, but there. Then again, maybe he was so besotted he only imagined it.
Meeting Daphne alone in the library was inadvisable at best.
But he knew, without a doubt, that he’d meet her anyway. It would be the perfect opportunity to say good-bye.
Hugh and his Eton chums stayed up late drinking and playing billiards. God knew Ben didn’t begrudge Hugh and his friends a night of carousing and bonding, but did they have to choose that particular night to wager on game after game into the wee hours of the morning? Just after two o’clock, Edlund and Fogg stumbled down the corridor looking for their beds, erupting into laughter each time one of them bumped into the wall.
Ben waited another quarter of an hour to make sure that they’d either fallen asleep or passed out, then slipped out of his room and headed for the library. He cruised through the familiar corridors leading to the library, careful not to thump his cane or shatter the silence that blanketed the house.
The door to the library was closed most of the way; only a faint light glowed in the thin crack beside the doorjamb. Ben entered and quickly shut and locked the door behind him.
At first glance the room appeared deserted, but then Daphne peered around the side of a tall wingback chair. “Ben.” She stood awkwardly and wrung her hands. “I wondered if you’d come.”
Her confidence in him wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring. Neither was the welcome. He hadn’t expected her to fly into his arms, but she might have looked marginally happy to see him. “Well, here I am.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this.” She moved a little closer. Her plain russet-colored cotton dress was old—probably the kind she’d worn before her sister married a duke and she moved to the fashionable part of town, leaving most remnants of her former life behind. He drank it in—this unexpected glimpse of the girl she’d been before.
“Something happened at the picnic after you left.” Her hands trembled. “You’re the only person I can talk to.”
“Let’s sit.” He took her hand and pulled her to a window seat tucked into a small alcove along the far wall, then retrieved the lantern and her shawl before joining her on the velvet cushion. He leaned his cane against the bench, set the lantern on the floor beside them, and draped the shawl around her shoulders. Everything beyond the small circle of light that the lantern emitted seemed distant and unimportant. At that moment, it was just Daphne and him in the alcove. And, of course, the problem that had brought them together.
“This is better,” he said. “Now tell me what happened. Does it involve Rowland Hallows?”
“Yes. He knows, Ben.” Her face crumpled.
“Even if he suspects that you’re the woman in the painting, he can’t prove it at the moment. Charlton has it hidden.”
“We think it’s hidden. We hope it is. But what if Mr. Hallows goes searching for it? He lives in the same house, after all.”
Indeed. By talking with members of Hugh’s staff and some of the tenants over the past few days, Ben had pieced together a more complete picture of Hallows, and it wasn’t flattering. On a recent visit to London, he’d gambled for high stakes—very high stakes. He’d lost everything he had, and then some. As usual, he’d come home to ask his father for money. This time, however, Charlton had refused, and Hallows had gone into a tirade.
From there, things had deteriorated. Hallows maligned his father’s name, speaking ill of him to anyone who would listen. Charlton’s health declined. Ben didn’t think for a moment Hallows was above rummaging through his father’s possessions. He was probably to blame for the items Charlton claimed were missing.
“I know the situation seems dire, but I’ll figure something out. We just need to think this through.”
“He said he was going to host a dinner party and display the portrait.”
“He’s bluffing,” Ben said. With a lot more confidence than he felt.
“That’s not all. He said he was going to auction it off at a gentleman’s club.”
Good God. It was actually a brilliant plan. If the painting proved half as lovely as the one Ben had, it would fetch a pretty sum. And if the gentlemen got wind of the identity of the subject, they’d be willing to spend even more. A member of the Duke of Huntsford’s family clad in little more than a chemise? A bidding war would surely erupt. Her mind seemed to be running along the same path. “I don’t see any way out of it.”
The despair in her voice terrified him. “There’s always a way out. Things are never as bad as they seem in the middle of the night.”
“All I meant was that I must give up hope of living in London among polite society. I’ve resigned myself to leading a simple, secluded life in the country.”
His stomach clenched. “You’re going to let a bully like Hallows run you out of town? Where’s your fighting spirit?”
“There are some things a person can’t fight. I willingly posed for those portraits—nobody forced me. And now I must live with the consequences of my actions. But my family and dear friends shouldn’t have to. The sooner I can distance myself from everyone, the better off they’ll be.” She blinked rapidly and turned toward the window, taking a moment to compose herself.
He held his tongue for several seconds, but then all the questions bouncing around in his head spilled out of him. “What about you? Would you deny yourself everything you’ve dreamed of? I thought you wanted a husband and children. I assumed you wanted to live within shouting distance of your sister so you could see her whenever your heart desired.”
“I do. That is, I did. Before.”
“Then why would you run away?”
She crossed her arms and raised her chin. Even in the relative darkness, her blue eyes flashed. “I’m not running away. I’m doing what’s best for my family and friends. There’s a difference.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” He grasped her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “You’re not even making sense. Do you honestly think your family would be happy without you? That your sister would be content to attend lavish balls while you were shriveling up in a godforsaken cottage in the middle of a cow pasture? Do you think your mother would sleep at night knowing that her beautiful, vivacious daughter was hidden away in a one-pub village where the sheep outnumber people seven to one?”
“It wouldn’t be as bad as all that.”
“No?
What about Olivia and Rose? They both need you to help them navigate the social scene. You tone down Olivia’s brash nature and nurture Rose’s thoughtful one. How will they feel when they learn they’ve been deserted—again?” He’d heard the stories about the former duchess, their mother, running off to the Continent.
She pulled a hand free and rubbed her forehead. “They’d all adjust to the idea. I’ll make them believe it’s what I really want.”
“They’re not stupid, Daphne.”
“Of course they’re not! But they’ll respect my wishes. They don’t need to know the reason I’m leaving.”
“Maybe not, but you do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re not being honest with yourself. You don’t want to face Hallows or the possibility that your portrait will be seen by London’s elite.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “The idea terrifies me.”
“Why? Are you ashamed of what you did?”
“Not really. I thought I was helping Mama.”
“Then why are you so concerned with what everyone thinks?”
She stared at him incredulously. “And I thought I was naïve. Ben, I am a young woman with a questionable past. If the portrait is made public, my reputation will be destroyed beyond repair. I can stay in London and be ostracized or I can leave town of my own accord. I prefer the latter option.”
He couldn’t believe she was serious. As quickly as she’d come into his life, she was going to leave it. Leave him. Of course, he’d been about to head back to London anyway. Hadn’t he? He stood and rifled a hand through his hair. “I’m sure you’d prefer to sneak away quietly. It’s more dignified—less messy,” he said sharply.
She sighed. “I suppo—”
“But you can’t avoid messiness in life. It’s complicated and ugly and painful. It has warts. Nobody likes to deal with those parts, but if you try to hide from all that… well, you’re not really living.”
She sprang off the window seat and stood toe to toe with him. “You have a lot of nerve, suggesting that my life is less full just because I’m not constantly miserable, the way you are.”
