When he had called at the Fitzhugh house, there had been no doubt in his mind Daphne would answer him. A game of flower language—a language in which she had once expressed such delighted interest—would surely intrigue her, and he had not yet seen her back away from a challenge. She enjoyed a game as much as he.
The first day after his call in Russell Square, he had gone about his usual business, certain his reply would be waiting for him by the end of the day, but there was no word from her.
By the end of the second day, he had still not received an answer, and he became a bit worried that this time, she would not accept his challenge.
By nine o’clock on the evening of the third day, both his confidence and his worry had been replaced by a deeper, darker feeling of uncertainty. It was still a new emotion to him, and one of which he was not particularly fond.
Now, he paced back and forth in front of the fire, hoping that her answer was not to provide him with no answer at all, and he began to think out his next move. Somehow, he had to convince her that marrying him was the only acceptable course. He had hoped the idea of a game and his claim of victory would challenge her to respond, but if not, he would have to think up something else. He was certainly not going to give up.
The door to his study opened, and Anthony stopped pacing the floor as Quimby, his London butler, paused in the doorway.
“Dylan Moore is here, your grace,” Quimby informed him. The butler then stepped aside so that the composer might enter the room. Dylan was one of the few people who did not have to wait for ducal permission to pay a call. He was welcome anytime.
“Tremore, I must beg you to come out with me,” he said without preliminaries. “I have had enough of petulant divas for one day.”
“Problems with the new opera?” Anthony guessed, but his mind was elsewhere. He bitterly regretted his careless words to Viola all those months ago. He needed to convince Daphne that those remarks did not reflect the way he saw her now. Now, he saw that woman in the rain. He saw those gorgeous lavender eyes behind those gold-rimmed spectacles. He saw a round, adorably solemn face, a face that strove so hard to conceal from everyone what she truly felt, until it suddenly lit up with laughter or anger—though that anger was usually directed at him. He saw her in that godawful apron, looking at an erotic fresco and then at him in the most maddening, innocently seductive way.
“Not problems with the opera, dear fellow, but with the diva,” Dylan was correcting him. “Elena Triandos is an excellent soprano, but she is Greek, and Greek divas are particularly maddening. When I remember it was I who insisted upon having her in the leading role, I…”
Dylan’s voice faded into the distance as Anthony turned on his heel and paced back across the hearthrug, chewing on one thumbnail, thinking. Daphne needed courting, and more than flowers seemed to be required. She had never been given an opportunity to enjoy the luxuries of life, and God knew she needed a few. The way her father had dragged her all around the East in the sands and dust, isolating her from any sort of good society, was appalling. Daphne deserved more pleasures than the few scented soaps, the box of chocolates, and one pink silk dress she had bought for herself. She deserved all the luxuries life had to offer, and he could provide them. By God, he would shower her with them. If only she would give him some sort of reply.
What if she sends me some polite, indifferent little note that refuses my suit? That might be worse than no reply at all.
He could feel doubt etching itself into his soul with every minute that passed without an answer from her. What if nothing he said or did was enough? He shook his head. No, he would not accept that. He would not believe it. He just had to hit upon the right thing to offer, the right words to say. He would not give up.
“What has you pacing back and forth with such feverish rapidity?” Dylan asked, watching him. “Political difficulties in the House of Lords? Problems with your museum? If so, they must be great indeed, for I have never seen you looking so worried as this.”
Anthony cast his friend an abstracted glance as he paced, but he did not reply. If only he could get her alone. That might do the trick. He had already made his own feelings clear during his visit with Durand, and though he suspected Daphne would be quite put out about it, he had been impelled to do it. He knew that if society did not see her as one of their own and accept her, she would be the victim of even more vicious slanders. He could not keep his courtship of her a secret, no matter how discreet the Fitzhugh family chose to be. Anthony could just imagine the society papers tearing her to shreds for being some opportunistic gold digger attempting to ensnare a duke. Since everyone would soon believe they were engaged, it might be possible to get her alone. If he could just kiss her, touch her, tell her how beautiful she really was, inside as well as out—
“Damn and blast, Tremore, if you take one more turn across that rug without telling me what the trouble is, I shall throttle you!”
Anthony did not have a chance to reply, for at that moment, Stephens, one of his footmen, appeared in the doorway carrying a wooden crate in his hands. “From DeCharteres, your grace,” the footman informed him. “Mr. Quimby knew you had been asking about any deliveries from there, so he told me to bring it up to you straightaway.”
A wave of relief washed over Anthony, a relief so strong and so profound, that he had to close his eyes and take a deep, steadying breath at his own regained hope. About damned time.
He opened his eyes and gestured the servant into the room. The footman placed the wooden crate upon his desk and departed as Anthony walked around the desk to have a look. It did not matter what she had sent him. The fact that she had sent him anything from the florist gave him hope.
“DeCharteres?” Dylan moved to stand opposite him at the desk, interested, but eyeing the crate with doubt. “Is London’s finest florist now delivering eggs to the nobility? Or is there perhaps some delicacy such as papaya plants for your famous conservatory hidden amid all this straw?”
Anthony was too preoccupied with pulling handfuls of that straw out of the crate to reply. He desperately wanted to see what she had sent. He lifted a potted plant from its tissue-paper wrappings, a pathetic-looking thing to be sure, its succulent leaves wrinkled and blackened. The plain clay pot in which it was contained was ice cold in his hands. Anthony burst out laughing.
His friend glanced at the plant and raised an eyebrow. “What the devil is it?”
“A gift from a young lady,” he answered, still chuckling. An ice plant. No note was included, but none was needed. Trust Daphne to come up with something succinct, clever, and straight to the point.
“It is dead.” Dylan pointed out the obvious as he touched one of its blackened leaves. “It is also frozen solid.” He gave Anthony a curious look. “This is a gift from a young lady, and you find it amusing?”
“I do indeed,” Anthony replied, grinning as he carried the plant across the room to the fireplace. He set the ugly, dead thing in a prominent place on the mantel. “More important than that, I find it encouraging.”
He glanced over his shoulder at his friend, and added, “Since you are already dressed for an evening about town and begging me to distract you from maddening divas, you may come along with me.”
“Certainly, but where are we going?”
“The Haydon Assembly Rooms.”
It was Dylan’s turn to laugh. “You are joking. The Haydon Rooms are a bit mundane for you, do you not think? The room will be filled with respectable country girls come to town to snare the sons of squires. What sensible man wants to meet respectable marriage-minded girls?”
Anthony turned around to face his friend. “We are going to see my duchess.”
“Lady Sarah would never set one silk-slippered foot inside the Haydon Assembly Rooms. She would rather drink henbane. Nor can I believe she would send you a dead plant—” He broke off, and his eyes narrowed as he studied his friend. “You have changed your mind. You have chosen someone else. Pray, tell me it is so.”
>
“It is indeed so.”
“I am hearing angels sing, Tremore. Or have you been having a great joke at my expense all along? Either way, I am too relieved to care. So who is this new choice? What future duchess attends assemblies at Haydon Rooms and sends you dead, frozen plants? Not a country girl, surely?”
“You could say yes, although it would be more accurate to say a multitude of countries.”
“You have intrigued me.”
“Yes,” Anthony said as he walked toward the door with his friend following him. “I thought I might.”
During her first public assembly in London, Daphne expected to spend much of her time in observation of the dancing rather than participating in it, but much to her surprise, she was asked to dance quite often. None of her partners tonight could equal the man who had taught her to dance in the first place, and she could not help making comparisons.
“How do you like London, Miss Wade?” Sir William Laverton asked her as they moved through the long, slow quadrille in which they were engaged. “Have you visited any of the museums?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, trying to keep her attention on her partner, but her gaze kept straying to the doorway of the Haydon Rooms. An ice plant meant a rejection of addresses, but she did not know if Anthony would accept that answer or not. She half expected him to come through the doorway any moment.
“Given your eminent father, Miss Wade, you will find the museums of London fascinating,” Sir William went on, and she forced her attention back to him, trying not to yawn. Her partner was an agreeable enough man, but he did not spar or flirt with her or challenge her wits. He was not the sort of man who could tear her heart in half with a smile or burn her to the core with the touch of his hand. She ought to be glad of it.
The music stopped abruptly, bringing every person engaged in the dance to a halt. Her partner was staring at some point beyond her shoulder, and Daphne turned around. Though she was not wearing her spectacles, she did not need them to know the identity of the man standing in the doorway.
Voice after voice died away and the room became silent as the grave. Even those who did not know his identity would have been able to discern at once that someone of nobility had just entered the room. People began to bow, bending before him like young willows in a strong wind, but he seemed oblivious to them.
Though he was a blur to her eyes, Daphne felt his gaze light on her. She had enough vision to see him take a step toward her and stop again.
Another man followed Anthony through the door and paused beside him, a man dressed all in black, but for his snowy white linen shirt. The room was so quiet that the man’s sigh was audible to all. “Really, Tremore,” he drawled, “you spoil everyone’s fun just by arriving.” With a sweeping gesture, he went on, “They are struck all a heap. Do the customary ducal thing and tell them to get on with it. If you do not, I fear we shan’t have a single dance with the ladies.”
“That would be a great pity,” Anthony replied, and she could still feel his gaze on her as he went on, “I have come to have a true fondness for dancing.”
He looked away from her and acknowledged the entire room. “Carry on, everyone.”
The music resumed, and Daphne’s partner continued leading her around the floor. “The Duke of Tremore,” Sir William commented as they joined hands and stepped close to each other. “Our little assembly here cannot possibly interest him. I wonder what he is doing here.”
“I cannot imagine,” she lied as they both stepped back.
As Daphne moved with Sir William through the intricate steps of the quadrille, she kept her attention firmly focused on the dance, and it was not until the music ended that she caught sight of Anthony again. As she was escorted back to Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh, she saw that he and his friend had joined their party. She could not avoid him.
“Miss Wade,” he said, bowing to her. “How delightful to see you again. May I introduce you to this gentleman?” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is Mr. Dylan Moore, an old and valued friend of mine. Moore, this is Miss Daphne Wade. You may, perhaps, have heard of Dylan, Miss Wade, for he is England’s greatest composer.”
“You exaggerate my talents, Tremore.” The man in black bowed to her. “I understand you are quite the traveler, and have been in many exotic places, Miss Wade. Sir Edward here has been telling me of your adventures in the deserts of the East with your famous father. Have you truly ridden a camel?”
“Many times,” she answered, trying not to look at Anthony. “But there is nothing exotic about it, I assure you. A single day’s ride on a camel is enough to make one painfully aware of every muscle one possesses. It is as romantic an adventure as tooth drawing.”
Everyone laughed, including Anthony, but as the musicians began to tune their instruments to the next dance, his amusement faded to a serious countenance. “I should like to hear more of the camels, Miss Wade. If you are not otherwise engaged, perhaps you would do me the honor of dancing the next with me.”
“I do not think—” She broke off, but she was acutely aware of every person in the room watching them, and she knew she could not say no. Her refusal would be a slight to him and to his rank, and she could not do such a thing to him in front of all these people. “Of course, your grace,” she murmured, forcing a disinterested politeness into her voice as he held out his hand to her. “I would be honored.”
She took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the floor. She could feel the fascinated stares of everyone in the room as Anthony put his hand on her waist and lifted her other hand in his. She was sure she would stumble over his feet, and she looked down.
“Look at me, Daphne. Not at the floor.”
She compromised, focusing her own gaze on the knot of his cravat, trying not to think of all the people staring at them. But her fear of making a public mistake proved unfounded, for when the waltz began, her body remembered all their hours of practice together, and she followed his lead with ease.
“I am delighted to finally have the opportunity of seeing the pink evening gown,” he commented as they waltzed. “I remember how delighted you were to have acquired it.”
Startled, Daphne looked up into his face. “You remember that?”
“Of course.” There was something in his eyes, something so intense and passionate. “I remember everything.”
She could feel herself shaking inside, so afraid. She was afraid of being his passion today, but not tomorrow, afraid of how much it would hurt in the future if she let herself believe him now.
“You look lovely in it,” he went on. “Pink suits you.”
“Don’t!” she ordered in a fierce undertone. “Please do not give me these compliments.”
“Very well. I shall change the subject and thank you for your unique gift. I received it only a few hours ago, and may I say I was never so gratified to receive anything in my life.”
He did not even blink at her skeptical look or her humph of disbelief. “I speak truly, for you have been so cruel as to keep me on tenterhooks for three days, and I was beginning to lose hope of ever receiving a reply.”
“It was never my intent to cause you such suspense,” she countered. “The thing had to sit in an ice house for three days to ensure it was quite dead.”
He gave a shout of laughter, and she glanced at the blurred faces of the people around them. “Shush,” she admonished. “People are staring at us.”
“Yes, I know.” Still smiling, he said, “Words cannot express how happy I was to receive a dead, frozen ice plant. It shows me how much you care.”
“Happy?” she countered. “I am disappointed, for I was hoping your feelings would take a different direction, toward futility rather than gladness.”
“Not at all. Perhaps my reply tomorrow will be able to convince you that I live for any scrap of your favor and attention.”
“Oh, stop this, Anthony! I do not like you this way.”
“What way is that?”
“All these
compliments and lavish expressions of sentiment. It smacks of insincerity, for it is so unlike you.”
“I told you I always give my opinions honestly. I would not say it if it were not the truth. Not that I blame you for thinking compliments unlike me,” he added before she could speak. “After all, I have not been the most articulate of suitors, to talk of duty and obligation, when I should have been talking of romance and passion and your beautiful eyes.”
“Stop this! You are making me quite cross.”
“You, Daphne? The woman who throws trowels at my head is cross? I do not believe it.”
“I did not throw it at you on purpose,” she reminded him. “And if I had, I would have exercised sufficient aim to actually hit you.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
She once again fixed her gaze on his cravat, pressed her lips together, and did not reply.
“Why are you angry with me, Daphne?”
She was not angry. She was trying to harden herself against him, but the tenderness of his voice was making her raw. She looked up at him, looked away, and looked back at him again. “You went to the baron and told him we were to marry. How could you presume such a thing when I have explicitly refused you?”
“Yes, I went to Durand. I did not tell him we were to be married. As he is your closest male relation, I told him of my desire to marry you, and I secured his permission to court you in honorable fashion. That is all.”
“Knowing all the while he would entertain no doubt of my acceptance of your suit!”
“Well, yes,” he admitted, trying very hard not to smile. “But I confessed to you long ago my abhorrence for the word no. I am hoping that at some point I will have persuaded you to overlook that defect in my character and that you will marry me in spite of it.”
“I do not wish to marry you, and I have told you so. Why will you not accept that?”
“Because I cannot stop thinking of you. Of our dances and our conversations and the first time I ever heard you laugh. I cannot stop thinking of us, of that night in the antika,” he said, his voice low and fierce and wrenching to hear. “I remember how your skin was so cold at first, but I could feel it warming as I touched you. I remember how you looked in the moonlight with your head tilted back and your breasts in my hands.”
Guilty Series Page 24
