by Betina Krahn
“Coffee,” he rasped out, looking like a sheet just come out of the wringer. “If there’s an ounce of mercy in you—”
She poured him the last in the silver pot and added milk and sugar as he staggered to the table holding his head. “Here. Sit.”
He sank stiffly onto a chair. “You are a goddess, Miss Bumgarten.”
“Not exactly, Mr. Boulton.” She smiled as she carried her own cup back to the table and resumed her place, across from him. “But I do have sympathy for a drink-swollen head. I’ve dealt with Uncle Red’s for years.”
“You can tell a lot about a woman’s character by how she treats a morning-after,” he said, gulping the coffee with his eyes closed. “Jesus, I’m wrecked.” He cracked his eyes open enough to glance around. “How did I get back here?” He wrapped both hands around the cup, greedily absorbing its warmth. “The last thing I knew, I was with Ash at the Iron Penny.”
“The Iron Penny?” she asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“A local establishment.” He buried his nose in the cup again. “Coaching inn at the edge of Betancourt. More tavern than way station these days. We went there to—” He halted and looked at her quizzically. “To have a few drinks. Ash seemed determined to drain a barrel or two and break any nose that got in his way. Mad as a wet cat over something.”
“Did he say what?” Daisy asked, trying to sound casually interested.
“Not really. More of a sullen bastard when he’s drinking.” He looked past her to the sideboard. “Could you be an angel and serve me up some eggs if they’re still warm?”
She narrowed her eyes. He widened his, imploring.
With a growl, she rose and soon assembled a plate of eggs and cold ham. She rang for another pot of coffee and some hot scones, then came back to set the plate in front of him.
“My undying gratitude,” he said with a sigh, and tucked into the food like a starving man. “I got the impression he was angry at the family for some reason or other.”
“Not surprising,” she said, wishing she could say how she truly felt. “They’re not the nicest people. Except Arthur. He’s dear and a little too accommodating to the old—his relatives.”
Reynard looked like his head was banging like an anvil, and from the way he gripped his stomach he was in misery there as well. But his nose for gossip was working famously. He studied Daisy as he chewed and slowly came more alert.
“Not a great admirer of the Meridian clan, eh?”
“Not particularly.” She sat back in her chair, cradling her cup. “And I am certain they would pour water on me if I was drowning.”
He laughed, then grabbed his head with a wince. “Don’t make me laugh, Miss B. In my grievous state it feels like a hot poker in my head.” He took two more bites of eggs and brightened as a servant entered with fresh coffee, waving the fellow over emphatically. She could have sworn tears welled in his eyes at the sight of the scones and strawberry preserves.
A scone and several gulps of coffee later, he managed to focus on her again. “Don’t take it hard that the Meridian elders aren’t your greatest admirers. They don’t like anybody. Not even themselves. God knows, most of the county hates their guts.”
“They do? Why?”
“They’ve sold off every marketable commodity—sucked the wealth out of the farms, and when the tenants can’t pay their rent they evict them. They quit buying from the local free-holders, and when the farmers became destitute they snatched up land that’s been in families for generations.”
“They’re frantic to keep the place running,” she said with a quick glance around the room, noting the fading drapes and yellowed paint.
“That”—he chewed thoughtfully—“or they’re tucking away the money elsewhere.” He traced the path of her gaze around the room with his own. “Doesn’t look like they spent it here. God knows they’ve had Ashton on low rations for years. He’s perpetually skinned.”
“He doesn’t have funds of his own?”
“Just what he wins at the tables. And the occasional boon from a friend. He lives in a house in Mayfair with a few other scapegraces at the largesse of the Marquis of Kirkland. . . who now resides with his wealthy wife in France.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“I make it my business to know things.”
“So I’ve heard.” She finished her coffee. “And the duke knows nothing of this?”
“Artie? I doubt it. He’s been otherwise occupied for years. They’ve seen to that.”
“They’ve . . .” She halted, recalling the uncles’ behavior in the study. It was worse than she thought. Heaven help him, Arthur was slowly waking up to the way things were being manipulated around him. But did he have the steel to set things right and take charge of Betancourt?
“I’m sure His Grace will find a way to sort it out,” she said, dodging the Fox’s all-seeing gaze.
“He might,” Reynard said, returning to his food. The man did love to eat. “If he finds the right wife.”
She glanced up to find him watching her with one eyebrow up. She was not about to respond to that.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must check on the countess. She’s late coming down this morning.”
The Fox watched her go and smiled, despite the discomfort it caused. Miss Bumgarten was quite a package—bright, unconventional, levelheaded, and utterly bed worthy. He might consider making a run at her himself if he wasn’t so sure she had already set her cap for the duke. Hard to compete with a duke in the marriage market.
* * *
Minutes later Daisy paced the countess’s bedchamber, waiting for her to emerge from behind the screen where she soaked in a tub of rose-scented water. Elaborate bathing marked a major change in the countess’s ordinarily utilitarian routine and Daisy might have been concerned if she wasn’t already occupied with worries on three major fronts: Ashton, Arthur, and the double-dealing Meridians.
“Well, that explains the rumors of the duke’s failing finances,” the countess called from behind the screen. “Reynard Boulton probably started them himself.”
“Perhaps. But they seem to be true. I mean, the house needs a lot of care and the whole estate seems oddly empty. The people who came out to see us on that first day seemed surprised to find there was still a duke.”
“Hmmm.” The countess sounded distracted. “Well, you still have a few days. Perhaps now you can get on with nudging His Grace to the altar.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Nudging” was hardly the term for what she needed to do, Daisy realized as she watched Arthur arguing bird identification with Cousin Ralph and Baron Kettering. She needed to lasso him and tie him to a danged post to get him to pay attention to her.
Determination being her long suit, she succeeded in capturing his notice by the end of the day. They had ridden out on the estate and she asked innocent questions about the empty cottages they encountered and the families that had been forced to abandon them. The fields that were planted, on closer inspection, were ill-tended and full of weeds. He grew increasingly somber as the true state of Betancourt’s lands became clear, and what was meant to be a pleasant outing became yet another reason for guilt over his inattention to his duties.
She hauled him to a stop by the stream that ran through Betancourt and insisted he dismount with her. There she faced him and told him about the rumors regarding Betancourt and his family.
“I don’t know how much of it is true, but from what we’ve seen today, at least part of it is based in fact. Your uncles have kept things from you and I don’t think it was because they have your best interest at heart. But that is something you’ll have to decide. And when you do, I’ll be there to help.”
She reached for his hands and held them, feeling a surge of protectiveness toward him. She understood now how Ashton felt toward him and added that to the pile of reasons he had decided to bow out and wish her well as his brother’s bride. When Arthur bent to give her a brief kiss on the lips,
she tried hard to enjoy it.
Dinner was late and not especially memorable, except for Arthur’s insistence that Daisy be seated beside him and that they both have seats at the head of the table beside Bertram. The old man seemed distressed to have his nephew so close at hand and outraged to have to suffer Daisy’s presence and conversation throughout the meal. She caught the dark looks he shared with Seward and the disgust in Lady Sylvia’s prune face.
There were readings in the grand parlor that night, mostly philosophers and political broadsides full of grand condemnations, meaningless claims, and proposals to cure all of Britain’s ills with a return to “the old ways.” Daisy groaned silently and could have sworn the countess rolled her eyes, but Arthur seemed to listen attentively to every word. Eventually they got around to some poetry from the library shelves and a couple of the verses brought forth chuckles from the aged guests. Reynard Boulton had the bad manners to snore through most of it, and when the lamps dimmed and guests retired, they left him there, sound asleep, propped on the wing of his chair.
Arthur escorted Daisy up the steps and paused at the top to smile at her and clasp her hands warmly.
“You made this evening bearable, Daisy. I would have you know, I am grateful for your presence and your caring nature.” He bent to kiss her and she offered her mouth for a chaste meeting. She did not expect him to put his arms around her in an awkward embrace, but both it and the kiss were soon over. She smiled as he turned and strode down the hall to his room with an extra bounce in his step.
She was making progress.
When she opened the door to her room Collette was sitting in the stuffed wing chair by the cold hearth, head drooping. Daisy cleared her throat and the maid started awake and looked around.
“Oh, miss.” She jumped up and swiped at her heavy eyes. “I’m sorry. I was waiting up to help ye, and give ye this.” She brought a note to Daisy and then hurried to pour water into the basin for her mistress’s toilette.
“Where did this come from?” Daisy asked as she opened the note and turned up the table lamp to read by.
“It was slipped under the door when I come up from dinner. I didn’t dare open it.”
The writing was not especially familiar, but her heart skipped beats when she saw it was signed “Ashton.”
Daisy, I must see you, it read. Come to the Iron Penny tonight at midnight. Yours forever, in all things, Ashton.
She was stunned. He was staying at that inn at the edge of the estate, and the summons sounded urgent. Her breath came fast and her heart began to pound. Hers forever. In all things. He’d changed his mind!
It was all she could do to go through the motions of preparing for bed while planning how she might slip out of the house and make it to the Iron Penny undetected. There was such excitement thrumming in her blood, such anticipation in her skin, that she was unable to think of anything but him.
In her darkened room, listening for the hall clock’s half-hour chime, she imagined his beautifully carved face, his strong shoulders and wicked grin. That was what she wanted. She wanted to wake up every morning next to that angelically handsome face and to go to bed every night with those devilish, strip-me-naked eyes. She wanted to go back to Nevada and make a home and a family with him . . . make a life for them both in a place where opportunity knew no bounds. For the moment, all thoughts of duty and sacrifice had fled in the face of the possibility of loving and having Ashton as her partner in life.
The clock struck half past eleven at last, and she threw the covers back.
She never really wanted to be a duchess, anyway.
* * *
Hair down, dressed in her split riding skirt, dark jacket, and riding boots, Daisy slipped from the house to the stable and found Dancer awake and more than ready for action. In ten minutes she had him saddled and was walking him out to the drive where she would mount. “Out along the road,” Boulton had said, “at the edge of Betancourt.” It couldn’t be hard to find.
Seward sat in his darkened window facing the front of the house, watching her mount and give her horse a heel. With a smile he turned away and collected his hat and gloves. Moments later he was knocking quietly on his brother Bertram’s door. Bertram answered blinking sleep from his eyes.
“She took the bait,” Seward said, slapping his thigh with his leather gloves. “She left on her horse minutes ago.”
“Excellent,” Bertram said, rubbing his face with his hands. “We’ll give them a few minutes to . . . get into it. Then we’ll take off like the avengers of righteousness we are.” He smirked. “Oh, and go find Boulton. He was last seen in the drawing room, snoring like a bloated hog. He may need time to collect himself, and we want him in top form to witness this outrage.”
Seward nodded and struck off to find the Fox.
* * *
There was a half-moon to light the road and Dancer was eager to stretch his legs. In less than a quarter hour they approached a collection of modest stone and brick buildings that she knew from asking the servants was the village of Betany. Prominent by the road was a two-story building with windows glowing dimly on the bottom front. There were no people abroad in the village, and only the sound of Dancer’s hooves on the ground and an occasional cricket or barking dog broke the deep silence. As she dismounted and tied Dancer to the post ring, she saw one of the windows go dark and rushed to the door.
A tug on the handle and then pounding with the side of her fist yielded a hoarse male voice from inside saying they were closed. She leaned to the gap in the frame.
“Please open up. It’s important! I have to speak to one of your guests.”
It took another minute before the man replied, “Hold yer britches.”
The door swung open partway and the balding, grizzled fellow behind it scowled at her and looked around to see if she was accompanied.
“I’ve come to see Ashton Graham. I believe he is staying here.”
“Nobody here by that name,” the innkeeper said gruffly. “I run a respectable place, young woman. Now be gone.” He started to close the door but she set her weight against it and kept it open.
“But, I need to see him. It’s urgent. He sent me a note asking me to meet him here.” She fished in her skirt pocket for the note and held it up.
“Sorry. Come back tomorrow!” he said aloud, then under his breath, whispered: “The back entrance. Bring yer horse around there.”
She did as she was told, untied Dancer and led him around the rear of the inn, where the innkeeper quickly directed her to tie her horse in a shed beside the building. She hurried behind him into the back door and through a darkened kitchen, and into a tavern with a large fireplace and several tables holding the remains of the evening’s consumption. He pointed to the stairs and said it would be the second room on the right.
She mounted the steps, heart pounding, feeling like she had climbed mountains to make it this far. She paused outside the door, bracing, running a hand through her wind-tousled hair. She was trembling at the prospect of seeing him.
She knocked softly, then again, and was soon rewarded by light coming from underneath the door. She could hear him moving about, possibly dressing. She smiled, thinking she should tell him not to bother.
Then the key turned in the latch and the door swung open.
Her heart stopped at the sight of him standing here with his shirt unbuttoned, his trousers half open, and his hair mussed from sleep. There was a faint odor of whiskey about him, but his eyes were clear and focused the instant his gaze struck her.
* * *
“What are you—” Ashton pulled her into his room and, after looking around the hall to be sure no one had seen her, closed the door and latched it.
When he turned, his knees weakened. Her hair was loose and tousled and inviting, and she was chewing her bottom lip the very way he wanted to. Her eyes glowed like a clear summer sky. Her jacket and blouse were unbuttoned at the neck—riding clothes, cut close to her curvy frame and carrying the stirrin
g scents of horse and leather. He wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t just stepped out of the erotic dream he’d just begun to enjoy.
“I got your note,” she said, tension in her lovely face. “Here I am.”
“Oh, God, Daisy.” He groaned, his resolve melting. “I’ve told you I’m no saint. Please don’t make me prove it.”
“I don’t care about what you’re not, I care about what you are. I’m here because I’m crazy about you. I can barely sleep at night, thinking about you, remembering your kisses and the feel of you against me. I want more, Ashton Graham. I want all of you. And I know you want me.”
Two steps were all it took and he had her in his arms, molding against him, taking away his power of speech and leaving him raw with longing that was as much pain as pleasure. He raised her chin and kissed those lips that had tortured his sleep and haunted his waking moments. She responded as if she were a part of his own body, with perfect intuition for what would satisfy him. When he lifted his head and focused on her face, she was smiling and saying something that took a moment to register in his head.
“Forever, you said. I’m here to make you honor that promise.”
“Forever?” He blinked and gave his wits a quick throttle. “When did I say that?”
She prompted his memory with a seductive squeeze. “In your note. When you asked me to come to you.”
“Wait—” He loosened his hold on her. “I didn’t send you a note.”
“You did.” She pulled back to delve into her pocket and produce it.
He released her and opened the note, reading it with mounting dismay. “I didn’t write this. This isn’t my hand. My writing is smaller—with large capitals.” He faced her. “How did you get this?”
“Collette said it was slipped under my door during dinner.”
Something was happening, something very wrong.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice constricted. “It seems like someone else wanted you to come here . . . to see me.” His eyes flew wide as the implications slammed through him. Someone else. Someone who wanted them to be found together in an inn in the middle of the night. Someone who wanted to be sure Daisy would be there with—
