by Betina Krahn
“We should have paid him more,” Seward said resentfully to Sylvia. “I said we should pay him more.”
“That’s not it.” Bertram’s face twisted. “She got to him somehow—that Bamgarter chit. She got under his skin. He always was weak that way.”
“Subject to the cravings of the flesh, that boy,” Sylvia snapped. “Always has been ruled by his disgusting carnal . . .” Her glower took on a canny edge. “She got under his skin, did she?”
They looked at one another, each doing a variation of the same devious calculation.
“He’s bedded her,” Bertram said, smacking the table. “It can’t be anything else, not with that brazen trollop.” He smirked, impressed with his deduction. “She seduced him into abandoning the family’s welfare.”
“Dazzled him with her wicked charms,” Seward declared, catching on.
“Diddled him to a stupor, you mean,” Sylvia spat, quivering with fury. “Then cozened him into helping her.”
“That’s why he’s suddenly developed a conscience—he’s passing his leavings off to his brother.” Bertram oozed indignation. “He’s mad if he thinks we’d allow—”
He stopped dead and stared into the distance for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth over a scene developing in his mind. Vicious delight spread over his face.
“That’s it. That’s what will end it forever.”
“What?” Sylvia snapped. “What will end it?”
“Arthur could never think of marrying her if he were to find her in Ashton’s bed—see it with his own two eyes. Sister, you were right about finding a use for Reynard Boulton this week. We can arrange for him to be in on the ‘discovery’ and in two days it will be all over London.” His words came fast and hard. “That insolent chit will be finished in society. By the time we’re done with her, she won’t be able to get an invitation from a pox-riddled sailor!”
* * *
Red was in his element, telling stories and making terrible jokes while his audience drank liberally and collected around the piano to sing parlor songs that had traveled the Atlantic to become popular in England, too: “Beautiful Dreamer” and “Oh Promise Me.” The duke had a rather nice baritone voice and blushed when complimented.
After a while, he sighed and turned to Daisy with a melancholy smile.
“I wish Ash were here. He has a brilliant voice. Used to sing me to sleep at school when I was—” He halted and forced a smile that ended the revelation. “A pity he had to return to London on urgent business.”
Daisy’s heart sank at the mention of Ashton. She wished he were here, too. She had no idea he sang, though now that she knew, she could almost hear it in the deep musical quality of his voice that made her want to listen endlessly.
At that moment she knew with heartbreaking certainty: she was impossibly and irrevocably in love with Ashton Graham.
When the merriment ended and the guests drifted off to their rooms, Daisy walked through the darkening house with Arthur. In the entry hall, servants had doused lamps and trimmed wicks. Shadows settled in every corner and cast their faces in soft relief.
They walked side by side, the tension developing between them uncomfortable for Daisy. This was what it would be like, she thought, still reeling from her earlier discovery. For the rest of her life she would climb the darkened stairs at night with Arthur, dreading what would follow, thinking of Ashton and how different it would be with him.
She halted by the stairs and Arthur paused to see what had stopped her.
“I believe I’ll go choose a book from the library,” she said, spotting the candlesticks left on a side table for guests to use in making their way to their rooms. “After such excitement, I’m not certain I’ll be able to sleep.”
Arthur smiled his sweetest, most genuine smile and took her hands in his. “Shall I come and help you find one?”
“No, really.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll only be a short time.”
“Well, you might try The Butterflies of Southern England, by Stanford Jepson, PhD. It’s put me to sleep a number of times.”
She laughed softly, wondering if he’d meant it as a joke, and braced as he bent to kiss her. He managed to land one on her cheek, near her mouth, and seemed a bit flustered by his poor aim.
“Sweet dreams, Arthur,” she said, retrieving her hands and taking up a candle to light.
He continued on up the stairs while she borrowed a flame from the candle burning on the sideboard and headed down the transverse hall, her mind and heart in turmoil. She entered the darkened library and stopped dead, staring at the shelves, stuffed chairs, and at the table where she and Arthur had gone over maps together. A presence loomed behind her, and she jumped, almost dropping her candlestick.
“Daisy.” It was Ashton’s deep, musical voice. He stepped into the light and steadied her hold on the candle by putting his hand around hers. His tie was missing, his hair looked windblown, and his eyes glowed like molten copper pools. She had never seen him looking more handsome. Or more serious. Her mouth went dry.
“I thought you were called to London,” she said over the hammering of her heart.
“Is that what they’ve put about?” He seemed a bit strained. “In truth, I’ve been banished from the house and from the family.”
“Banished? But why would you be—” She suddenly knew, and the guilt that knowledge brought weakened her knees. “Because of me. They’re punishing you for helping me.”
“Not such a huge loss.” He affected a casualness that wasn’t entirely convincing. “I’ve always felt more at home anywhere but here. I will miss Artie, however.” He paused to gaze into her eyes. “And you.”
She felt the weight of that settle like a boulder on her heart.
“If you’re banished, what are you . . . ?”
“I came to collect my things. And to see you. I couldn’t leave without letting you know. . .” He pulled her to a seat on the leather sofa near the windows and placed her candle on a nearby table. He settled beside her, took her hands in his, and took a deep breath.
“I want you to know that I want what is best for you . . . and for Arthur. He needs someone with courage and independence. Someone who can help him stand up to the family and become his own man. He has a good heart and a sound intellect. I’m sure he’ll come to adore you, if he hasn’t already.”
“So, you’re giving me your blessing?” she said, her throat tightening.
He rubbed her hands gently, tenderly.
“I am a second son.” His voice was thick with unexpressed emotion. “That’s all I have to give you.”
“You cannot truly believe that,” she said, searching the angles of his face and finding despair hiding in the shadows of each feature. “You believe your ‘prospects’ are all that matters to a woman? Has it never occurred to you that some women don’t seek a title or fortune through marriage?”
“The only woman who matters to me . . . does.”
She felt as if she’d been thrown from horseback—every part of her was jarred and shaken by those words. She had trouble getting her breath for a moment. He was right to think that about her; she had sworn it often enough in front of him. And she did care about it. She had to. Outside the soft candlelight and away from his resolve-melting presence, she had a goal to accomplish, a future to make for herself and her sisters. She had worked so hard and come so far, only to find that the price she would pay for success was higher than she could ever have imagined.
She looked into his eyes and reached up to cradle his cheek and then run her fingers over his lips. Her very skin ached for his touch.
He cared about her. He wanted her. And he refused to say so.
But if he said what she so desperately wanted to hear, what then? Would it change her determination? Even while making amends for her previous deeds, she remained stubborn and self-centered at heart. How selfish of her to want him to give his love, the best of his heart to her, when she was unwilling to do the same. Did she think s
he could wear it about her wrist like a bauble or set it on a shelf like a loving cup trophy? Would knowing he loved her satisfy some selfish, hedonistic urge within her?
Never in her life—not even on that awful day of the Bellington Hunt—had she been forced to face the flaws of her nature as she was forced to face them now. She was stripped bare under her own scrutiny and placed on the balance, weighed against the sacrifices of another’s heart.
“You matter to me, too, Ashton.” She picked her way through a storm of words so potent they had the power to change the course of her life. Forging on, she prayed that what she said would be the right thing. “I owe you a debt I will spend the rest of my life trying to repay. You are generous and kind and more gentlemanly than I deserved.”
“I am no saint, Daisy.” He glanced down at their joined hands. “I helped you only because . . . I couldn’t seem not to. I couldn’t betray the things I truly value, the foundations of my soul. At first all I could see was how different you and Arthur are, and I wanted to protect him.” His tone changed, seeming richer, more nuanced. “Then after a while, after getting to know you, I found myself wanting to protect you, too.”
She looked down, unable to bear the tenderness in his expression.
“You weren’t wrong to try to protect him.” She swallowed hard. “I’m not a simple little virgin. I’m stubborn and determined and independent as a hog on ice. I say what I want, I get what I need, and I ride astride . . . both horses and . . .”
She gathered courage for a moment and made herself say it.
“You see, I’m not exactly pure.”
His hands on hers went perfectly still.
“Ah.” His voice betrayed no judgment, no outrage, no emotion at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She looked up to find him watching her with a glint in his eyes.
“Ah?” She stiffened. “I just confessed to you the one thing that would disqualify me as the bride of a shop clerk, much less a duke—and all you can say is ‘ah’?”
“It’s not exactly news to me,” he said, refusing to release her hands when she tried to jerk them away. “Daisy, you don’t act like any tyro I’ve ever seen. You have to know that. You flirt with your eyes, and kiss like a goddess, and lick your lip when you’re thinking pleasurable thoughts. A little hard to miss when you’ve been around experienced women.”
“You knew that I’m not a virgin? And you let me go on and try to prove myself worthy of—why? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wasn’t sure it mattered. You weren’t exactly ‘standard’ in any other way, so why expect something as ordinary as sexual inexperience.”
“It’s not just inexperience; virginity means being pure and innocent.”
“And terrified of a man’s touch. Frantic to avoid ‘the beast’ in men. Told to stare at the ceiling and think of England. Sounds dreadful to me. Tedious and dull. Words, I might add, I would never associate with you.”
She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.
“Then what words would you use for a girl of sixteen who thought she fell in love with a handsome wrangler and met him secretly . . . several times . . . until her mother found out, fired him, and sent him packing?”
“Headstrong,” he said. “Curious. Adventuresome. Reckless.”
“Not immoral? Not tainted and befouled and soiled?”
“Are we discussing women or bed linen?” He gave a short, ironic laugh, and she drew back. Seeing that he had offended her, he softened. “You’re serious. You believe what you did was vile and unforgivable.”
“Well, not exactly vile, but it was sinful and wrong.”
“Because it turned you into a slattern who prowls the streets seeking to satisfy your base appetites in the gutters?”
“No,” she said, emotion rising and pricking the corners of her eyes. “I’m not like that. I could never be.”
“How many men have you slept with since that unforgivable episode?”
“None!” She was horrified that he might think she’d continued to pursue liaisons with men. “I’ve been with one man in my entire life.”
“And he made you feel dirty and befouled and wicked,” he pressed.
“No.” She scowled and made fists around handfuls of skirt. “He wasn’t like that. He was sweet and gentle and did everything he could to make it good. But the aftermath—the fury, the humiliation—was so terrible, I’ve never been tempted to repeat it.”
“Never?” He canted his head to look at her with that sultry, kiss-me-senseless stare, challenging that little white lie.
“I thought I had put away all of those longings and forgotten those feelings. Lots of people—doctors and preachers and even my own ma say women aren’t supposed to have feelings like that. That women who do are wicked and immoral—sinners from the start.” She couldn’t meet his gaze anymore.
“And you believe them?” He sounded saddened by the possibility.
“I don’t know what to believe. I mean the good Lord made us male and female, right? And we’re supposed to marry and live together and have babies. Why make it pleasurable if we’re not supposed to feel it? But then, I have those desires, those urges—maybe my thinking is muddled and sinful, too.” She took a heavy breath and freed her hands from his.
“That is all history now, and it helped to make you the passionate and caring woman you are today.” He turned her chin so she would look at him. “All that matters to me is that you are honorable and steadfast with Arthur. Promise me that . . .” He paused a moment, looking into her eyes, making that soul-penetrating connection that was coming to mean more to her than any physical pleasure. It was a knowing and being known, a belonging and acceptance, a commitment to caring.
Love; it was love.
She felt like she was crumbling inside—being demolished—then slowly, painfully reassembled into a different and not-yet-complete form. She was becoming something new, growing, changing . . . like one of Arthur’s caterpillars transforming into a butterfly. She prayed she would be something better, finer than what she had been. And she understood now that her time with Ashton, their talks, their loving, their honesty with each other, was responsible for those changes. He was the one her heart had chosen. And she could feel in her depths that he felt the same about her.
“Promise me that you will be true to him,” he said. “Promise me that when he seems tiresome and provincial and makes you want to pull your hair out with his rants about bugs and beasts—you’ll remember he is more than that, and understand that he can be more still.”
She rose and stood looking at him, barely able to get her breath. He rose, too, and stood before her, his heart in his eyes.
“Promise me, sweet Daisy, that when a handsome man pays you compliments and sweeps you across a dance floor, you will remember the earnestness of Arthur’s heart and the steadfastness of yours. That you will not give in to the temptation coursing through your veins and burning in your loins. That you will not let your passions rule you and betray Arthur. I could not bear to think of either of you disgraced or in despair.”
She stared at him, her love pouring through her eyes, speaking without words the truth she had just discovered.
“There is only one man who could ever tempt me away from Arthur.”
She held her breath as tension charged the air between them.
Now. It was now or never. He had to confess his love—take her into his arms and heart. He had to ask her to be his instead, to marry him and cast her lot with his on the sea of Fate.
She saw the light dim in his eyes, but continued to hope. Please . . . please . . .
His shoulders sagged and he took a step back. Then another. Every inch he put between them tore a bit more of her heart.
He wouldn’t say it.
He was ceding her to his titled brother. It was his duty.
He gave her a smile so filled with pain it was terrible to witness.
“I wish you the best, Daisy Bumgarten. I wo
uld be the first to say: Lady Marguerite, Your Grace.”
Then he turned on his heel and left, taking the air in the room with him.
She gasped short breaths that didn’t quite reach her lungs. It felt like she’d been dropped down a well and lay at the bottom, winded and broken. She took two steps to the sofa and collapsed, staring at the door in disbelief.
When the room became too blurry to see, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced her tears down her cheeks. Moments later, she doused the candle flame and sat in the cool gray moonlight from the window for a long time.
* * *
The countess was late rising the next morning and it was half past ten before Daisy decided to go down to breakfast alone. A number of the guests were still abed or taking trays in their chambers, and the two older gentlemen lingering over coffee and scones at a small table in the morning room were clearly dressed for walking. Their tweeds, field glasses, and notebooks marked them as birding enthusiasts. After she settled at the long table with a plate of eggs and sausage, Arthur entered dressed in similar tweeds with similar binoculars hanging around his neck.
“Daisy,” he greeted her with a broad smile. “I was hoping to see you before I left.” He blinked as if just struck by a thought. “I say, you wouldn’t want to come with us, would you? I promised Cousin Ralph and Baron Kettering a bit of birding. I’ve seen some lovely songsters about the place.”
“Oh. Thank you, but I think I would only slow your pace,” she said, sensing the others’ relief at her refusal.
“Very well. But I would love another riding lesson later.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, sipping her coffee.
Moments later, the old gents trundled out the door behind Arthur and she found herself alone. It was a mercy, really. She hadn’t slept well and feared the strain and puffiness around her eyes would tell on her. As she poured a second cup at the sideboard, Reynard Boulton lurched through the doorway, banging against the frame and planting himself just inside the room. He winced at the sunlight streaming in the long windows, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. They were as red as sunset.
