by Barton, Anne
His heavy-lidded gaze caused Daphne’s heart to beat wildly.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Olivia. “This happens to be a new dress, but some people”—she rolled her eyes in Mr. Averill’s direction—“have yet to take notice.”
“Good God, they must be blind.”
“One does begin to wonder,” Olivia mused. “And rather than sit here, unappreciated, my sister and I have decided to go for a stroll around the lake. Would you care to join—Er, forgive me. I forgot about… your injury.”
“I appreciate the invitation, half-issued though it was. As you predicted, I must decline.” He focused stormy eyes on Daphne. “Will you join your friends, Miss Honeycote?”
“I thought I’d take advantage of the cooler weather and read my book in the garden.”
“Daphne is missing her sister,” Olivia said, as though that explained everything.
Ben raised his dark brows. “Then we must make it our mission to cheer her.”
“You may do your best. After dinner,” Daphne said. “My book is calling to me now.” She dared not look at Ben as she left the drawing room and headed up the stairs to her bedchamber to retrieve a book. She was fairly certain that he would make an appearance in the garden. She hoped he would. They had much to discuss.
And, somehow, she must summon the courage to speak what was in her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Perspective: (1) The technique painters employ to create the illusion of depth and space on a flat canvas. (2) A particular point of view, as in, From the earl’s perspective, attempts to reform him were at once pointless and hopeless.
It may have been overly sentimental, but Daphne thought of the stone bench beneath the trellis as their spot. He would find her here, she hoped, in order to tell her what had transpired during his visit to Lord Charlton’s.
More importantly, she would confess to Ben how she felt about him.
It mattered little that low, grayish clouds had drifted in front of the sun or that a warm breeze portended the distinct possibility of a late afternoon shower. A few raindrops might spot her dress, but nothing could dampen her mood.
During breakfast that morning, she’d had an epiphany. She’d watched as Lord Worsham pushed his wife’s chair in and leaned down to whisper in her ear. Lady Worsham blushed and affectionately scolded him, but her eyes had glowed with love.
Daphne wanted that.
More specifically, she wanted that with Ben. And it occurred to her that if there was to be any chance of that sort of future actually coming to pass, she would have to convince Ben that he wanted it, too.
It was a daunting prospect, seeing as she was not accustomed to persuading gentlemen to declare their affection for her. She’d never been particularly comfortable pressing others into service if it involved more than passing the jam.
But when doubt slithered into her ear, whispering that Ben would never change his mind, she simply remembered the way he’d held her—like he never wanted to let her go. That had to count for something.
The distinct step-step-thud, step-step-thud of Ben’s feet and cane trodding the path made her shiver in anticipation. She ignored the fat raindrop that plopped on her chest.
“There you are.” As he lowered himself onto the bench beside her, his wide smile contorted into a grimace.
Without asking him—without even thinking—she placed her palms on his thigh and began to gently knead the flesh. He stiffened at first but slowly relaxed, and after a minute or two, the muscles seemed more pliant. “Better?”
“Thank you.” He lifted one of her hands and pressed his warm lips to the back of it. Her heart tripped in her chest. “I didn’t get to see Charlton today. He’s not well.”
“Oh no. What’s wrong?”
“His housekeeper informed me he’s been unconscious for a few days.”
“It must be serious. Does he have a fever? How is his pallor?”
“I didn’t see him, much less have the chance to examine him. The problem, obviously, is that as long as he’s in his current state, I can’t ask him to sell the painting.”
“That is vexing, but not nearly as important as the baron’s health.” She wondered if Lord Biltmore’s library contained any medical journals. Of course, she would need to know more about Lord Charlton’s condition if she were to have any hope of diagnosing his illness. “I need to visit him.”
Ben stared at her like she was touched in the upper works. “Impossible.”
“Why?”
“The housekeeper refused to let me see him. Why would she let you?”
Why indeed? “His symptoms sound similar to my mother’s—when I cared for her. I might be able to help him.”
“He’s an old man, Daphne. The list of things that ail him is probably as long as my arm. He has a doctor.”
“So do you, I presume. And yet, I was able to help you.”
His eyelids lowered a fraction and a corner of his mouth curled. “That is true. I don’t doubt your ability to heal people. Just sitting here, next to you, makes me feel better.”
She softened. “I may not be able to help Lord Charlton, but it’s worth a try.”
“We can’t risk it.”
“Risk what?”
“You being recognized. Mrs. Parfitt, the housekeeper, has seen the painting. She’ll identify you as the English Beauty.”
Her eyebrows rose. “The English—”
“That’s what Charlton dubbed you. I like it,” he admitted. “But it’s not just Mrs. Parfitt. The staff has seen your portrait, too. Some of the footmen moved it to its current hiding place.”
That was problematic. The more people who could connect her name to the painting, the more trouble she was in. Still, there had to be a way to avoid detection. “I could hide my hair under a large bonnet and pull the brim low over my face.”
“No.” It was firm. Final.
Or so he thought. “If there’s a chance I can help Lord Charlton, I must. Even if it means I’m discovered. What about your friend Robert? What would he have had you do in this situation?”
She’d struck a nerve. He bit his lower lip and trained his blue eyes upon her. “Lord Charlton could wake. Bonnet or no bonnet, he would recognize you in an instant. Are you willing to risk your reputation and that of your family and friends for the mere possibility that you could aid him?”
Normally, adding her family to the scale tipped it in that direction. But she knew Mama and Anabelle wouldn’t want anyone to suffer the way Mama once had. Not if it could be helped. “Yes. I’m willing to risk it.”
She braced herself for a string of curses, a scathing glare. But instead he nodded slowly and looked at her as if he were… proud. “Hallows will try to prevent you from seeing his father. He thinks he’s going to sell the portrait, pay off all his vowels, and have a grand sum left over. He’ll be suspicious the moment either one of us sets foot in his home. Actually, he’ll be mad as hell. It could get ugly.”
“I know.”
“We can go tomorrow.” The way he said we—so casually—made her feel warm inside. Now that the one matter was settled, she summoned the courage to broach the more difficult subject.
“I’d like to talk to you about last night.”
Concern wrinkled his forehead. “Of course.”
“I…” She swallowed hard. What if the words she’d rehearsed in her head sounded desperate or, worse, trite? Taking a deep breath, she began again. “Last night was special to me. You are special to me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and what I think is that… we should be together.” Her traitorous hands trembled, and he clasped them between his steady palms.
“We are together. I promised you I would help you get the portrait back. My word is good.”
She narrowed her eyes, all but certain he was being purposefully obtuse. “I’m not talking about the painting right now. I’m talking about us. We are rather well suited—that is, if last night was any indication.”
A wicked s
mile lit his face. “Indeed.”
“I’m relieved to know that we agree on that point.” Good Lord, this was ten times more mortifying than she’d imagined. He was going to make her spell it out. “Since we seem to be so compatible—not only in the physical sense, mind you, but in other ways as well—I propose that we take our relationship, as it were, to the next logical step.”
He inhaled deeply and rubbed his chin. “You’re proposing that I propose?”
Well. That was putting it bluntly. “Yes.”
Some of the blue washed out of his eyes, and he refused to look directly at her, focusing on a spot somewhere over her shoulder.
Every second that he didn’t answer was an answer in itself. Her chest ached.
“Daphne. I meant what I said to you last night. I care about you more than I thought possible, but I cannot marry you.”
She’d known there was a chance he’d say that, but she wasn’t prepared for the way the words cut her—each one was a shard of glass. Her throat constricted. “Why?”
“Look at me.” The anger in his voice jarred her. He stood, hoisted his cane, and slammed it against the side of the stone bench with a crack, splintering it into ugly, stringy pieces. She flinched. “Why on earth,” he choked out, “would you want to be shackled to someone like me?”
She stood and faced him, toe to toe. “That is a very good question, and the answer escapes me at the moment. Perhaps you could tell me why we shouldn’t be together.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you.” His voice was low, just above a whisper, and then he was silent for the space of a dozen beats of her pounding heart. “You are an amazing young woman with your whole life ahead of you, and I’m not good e—”
“Stop.”
He paused midsentence, mouth open.
“Don’t presume to tell me what’s good for me. I know what I want. I know who I want.”
“You think you do. But you can’t know how you’ll feel about me in six months or six years. Dealing with this”—he jabbed a finger at his leg as though she hadn’t a clue what he was referring to—“gets very old, very quickly. It’s a burden I need to carry myself.”
Hot tears welled in her eyes, a sharp contrast to the cool raindrops that splattered on her cheeks. “Why? Why do you think you must endure it on your own? Don’t you trust me?”
“That’s not it, Daphne.”
“Then why?”
He stood, unmoving for several seconds—long enough for her to wonder if he was even going to answer her. “Because,” he said softly, “if we married, you would eventually grow weary of me and my… limitations.”
She parted her lips, wanting to ask what on earth he was talking about, but he held up a hand.
“After a couple of years, you’d resent me. After a few more, you’d despise me. And if there’s one thing that I absolutely couldn’t bear, it’s that. I don’t want you… ever… to despise me.”
His confession was heartbreaking and maddening at the same time. “I don’t think you give me enough credit. I’m not an ingénue or a sniveling debutante who has a fit of the vapors when she runs her stocking. I know what it’s like to wake up hungry and face an empty cupboard.” She sighed. “You may not know it to look at me, but I’ve faced adversity, and I’m not the sort of person who would abandon, in any sense of the word, someone I l—” She caught herself. “Someone I care about.”
He shook his head, as if he’d like to rid his ears of the words she’d spoken.
“Just think about it,” she pleaded. “What do you want your future to look like? Because it is your choice, you know. You can choose to be miserable and alone, or you can choose… me.”
“You should envision your possible futures,” he retorted. “A happy, full life with a man who twirls you around dance floors, indulges your every whim, and gives you a brood of children… or me.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” she said, “the choice is rather obvious.”
Confusion clouded his handsome features. “Exactly.”
She picked up her book as though the matter was settled. In her mind, it was. Somehow, she’d have to prove to him that love trumped everything. But how? “What time shall we leave tomorrow?”
He planted his hands on his hips. “What?”
“For Lord Charlton’s house,” she said with exaggerated patience. “You’ll recall we planned to visit him. Shall we say the foyer at two o’clock?”
“Fine.” Ben looked slightly dazed.
And she left him just so, walking away without looking back.
Little was said during the brief coach ride to Lord Charlton’s house the next day. Daphne tried not to dwell on her conversation with Ben in the garden, because each time she thought about it she felt a little ill. No amount of discussion was going to make him change his mind. But action might.
He did not look at her, seeming to prefer the scenery outside the window, which consisted of gray skies and muddy roads. A bit lowering, even if she wasn’t looking very stylish this afternoon. Hoping to avoid recognition by Lord Charlton’s staff, she’d tucked every last strand of hair beneath her bonnet and donned her plain russet-colored dress. She wasn’t as nervous about the staff, however, as she was about Mr. Hallows.
At the picnic, he’d spoken to her as though she were less than a person. As though in posing for the portrait she had surrendered a part of herself, giving him the right to demean her. She knew Ben wouldn’t let him harm her, but Daphne would know what Mr. Hallows was thinking. That alone made her skin crawl.
“Mrs. Parfitt might turn us away,” Ben said. He still did not look at her.
“Yes.”
“You know, it takes more than a dowdy cap and plain dress to disguise your sort of beauty.”
It might have been a compliment—if he hadn’t spoken as though she were quite simple.
“Thank you, I think.”
He glared at her for a long moment before turning back to the window.
As the coach pulled up the circular drive, Daphne took a fortifying breath and reached for the basket she’d prepared. Lord Biltmore’s cook had given her a jar of beef broth and his housekeeper provided a variety of tea leaves. Daphne had picked some wildflowers and tied them with a cheerful yellow ribbon. The baron might be too ill to enjoy the gifts, but they certainly couldn’t hurt. And when he awoke, it might please him to know that his neighbors were concerned.
Trepidation filled her as she alighted from the coach. Squeezing her hand, Ben said, “You’ll be safe with me.”
“I know. It’s just odd to think that everything’s come full circle. I’m going to meet the man who commissioned the portraits.”
“You hope you will,” he corrected. “First, we must make it past the front door.”
“You make it sound as though the house is guarded by Cerberus.”
“You haven’t met Mrs. Parfitt.” Ben knocked on the door.
The butler answered, and upon hearing their request to visit with the baron, he immediately sought out the housekeeper.
She scurried toward them a minute later, wiping her hands on her apron. “Lord Foxburn, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” She looked questioningly at Daphne.
“This is Miss Honeycote. She’s a guest at Biltmore Manor, and when I mentioned that Lord Charlton was quite ill, she insisted on visiting him to see if she could help.”
“Here are a few things for him.” Daphne handed her the basket. “Forgive me for being so forward, but I spent several months nursing my mother back to health and, through trial and error, learned quite a bit. May we visit the baron for a few minutes? I wouldn’t disturb him in the slightest, but seeing him would give me an indication as to what troubles him.”
The housekeeper’s eyes turned to slits in her round face. “The baron is receiving excellent care.”
“We do not doubt it, Mrs. Parfitt,” Ben assured her. “But Miss Honeycote has something of a gift for healing. I, myself, have been the recipient of her care—for
a war injury. Hopeless cases are her specialty.”
Daphne could have kissed him—would have, if she could have.
The woman sighed and ushered them farther into the house. “Mr. Hallows is not at home,” she said evenly. “I’m certain that he would chastise me for admitting anyone into his father’s room, so you must be quick.”
“Of course,” Daphne assured her.
“My sister is with him.” To Ben she said, “You remember the way to his room?”
“Yes. This way, Miss Honeycote.” He placed a warm hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the stairs.
They were halfway up the flight when Mrs. Parfitt’s voice halted them. “This visit wouldn’t have anything to do with the painting, would it?”
A chill slithered down Daphne’s spine.
“No,” Ben said. “You have my word on that.”
The round woman nodded and hurried down the hall carrying the basket.
Daphne preceded Ben up a second set of stairs, impressed by the agility with which he took them. As though he’d read her thoughts, he muttered, “I’ll pay for this later.”
Daphne was relieved to see the pretty, feminine wallpaper above the chair rail in the hallway and the tasteful, if unimaginative, oil paintings of flowers and fruit that graced the walls. Inconsequential though it seemed, she’d feared that the baron’s home might have been a garish monstrosity decorated in an abundance of red and gold and that her portrait—at least, at one time—had been the centerpiece of it all. But it was simply a stately country home that had probably seen generations of children slide down its banisters and grow up within its walls. There was nothing sinister about it; however, it did feel a little sad.
Such a large house should be bustling, but instead, it was hushed. Most of the rooms they passed were unused and sparsely furnished; the curtains were drawn shut.
“Here we are.” Ben consulted his pocket watch. “Two-thirty. Let’s keep our visit to no more than a quarter of an hour.”
A broad-shouldered woman filled the doorway. “May I help you?” she asked—rather insincerely in Daphne’s opinion. To her credit, the woman was clearly protective of Lord Charlton.
