by Betina Krahn
“So it’s true, then. They really did demand she prove noble heritage.”
“Oh, it’s true. They were furious when I confirmed her findings. I guess she told you about it. That’s why they sent the note and tried to trap us together—kill two birds with one stone.” Ashton sighed. “I’m not proud of helping them. But at first I thought you and she weren’t suited at all.”
“You were trying to protect me. Again.”
“Afraid so.”
“And now? What do you think of me marrying her now?”
There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in Ashton’s response.
“I think you’ll do well together. She’ll be a good wife.”
Ashton patted his arm and walked out, leaving Arthur to ruminate. He had seen feeling-laden looks pass between Daisy and Ashton several times in recent days. He couldn’t recall her ever looking at him like that. Even as a romantic novice, he knew it meant something important.
“A good wife, indeed,” Arthur muttered. “But will she be mine?”
* * *
That afternoon, Elizabeth came across some papers in the bottom of her traveling case and carried them to Daisy.
“I almost forgot, I got your letter asking about our connection to the Howards and had a friend in Boston look up some records. This came the day before we left. It appears that a young woman came from England with a young daughter. It’s on the ship’s manifest.” She pointed out the names. “Hannah Howard was the mother and Gemma Rose was the child. The girl grew up to have a child of her own, though I believe it must have been out of wedlock, because she gave the child her surname: Henry Fitzroy Howard.” She sat back and handed Daisy the paper. “It turns out he was my great-great-grandfather, on the Strait side.”
“She really was our ancestor? Gemma Rose?” Daisy looked stunned, then shot to her feet and headed for the door, where she paused. “You just confirmed . . . we are not only of noble lineage . . . we have royal blood!”
She rushed downstairs to the study where Ashton sat pouring over ledgers and waved the papers as she stopped before the desk.
“It’s true! My mother had a friend in Boston go through shipping records, and they found Hannah and Gemma Rose. Gemma grew up and had a son—out of wedlock—and gave him her last name. He was Henry Fitzroy Howard, my mother’s great-great-grandfather!” She smacked the papers down on the ledger in front of him. “We were right! I am—we are descended from royal blood.”
He shoved to his feet, gripping the letter and documents, and lurched around the desk. They bore the seals and insignia of the North Atlantic Shipping Company and the Massachusetts State Bureau of Records. The connection had been made; her ancestral trail had crossed the Atlantic. He grabbed Daisy’s hands and began whirling her around and around.
“This is wonderful!” he declared, his face hot with excitement. “To have our suspicions confirmed, to solve a historical mystery that Broadman Huxley missed . . .”
He staggered to a stop, but didn’t let her go. She knew she should break that contact, but the heat and raw pleasure of his touch was too compelling. Through recent restless nights, she had almost convinced herself that her responses to him had been embroidered by the lure of the forbidden. But now, as she stared up into his face, feeling his presence stirring her whole being to life, she knew it had been all too real. All too rare.
Then he lowered his head and—
A faint sound, a gasp or a hoarse word from the hall, made her turn her head sharply and his lips grazed her cheek.
Standing in the hall, Arthur stared at them in confusion at first, as if he didn’t understand why they would be on the verge of . . . His eyes widened with hurt and disbelief mingled in them. He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, his footsteps echoing back to them.
She backed a step, then another, and then rushed into the hall.
“Arthur?” She hurried down the hall until she stood in the entry and looked up the stairs. He was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, she raced up the stairs and summoned the courage to invade the west wing and knock on his bedroom door. With her heart pounding, she opened the door . . . to an empty room.
She stood for a moment looking at the displays of butterflies under glass on the walls, the poster bed, and the order and simplicity of his private space. Feeling like the intruder she was, she backed out and closed the door.
She rushed down the hall, to her room, where a basin and pitcher of cold water allowed her to splash her face and try to regain her self-possession. She looked at herself in the washstand mirror and heard again her mother’s harsh words—“selfish, thoughtless”—blended with the old uncles’ vicious condemnations—“harlot, hussy, whore.”
This couldn’t happen again. She would not let this happen again. She had to find Arthur and make this right, no matter what it cost.
* * *
Arthur had done an about-face and run back down the hall. He paused by the library, but Red was there puffing a cigar while Lady Evelyn read the newspaper aloud from the window seat and waved his smoke out the open window. He tried the grand parlor, but her sisters were there, practicing dance steps and laughing while CeCe played for them.
Frustrated beyond bearing, he stormed out the main doors and stalked to the garden, where he kicked the dribbling fountain, ripped up dry stalks of flowers beyond their season, and let out a few curses he had never said aloud in his entire life. Chest heaving, he turned to the house and glimpsed the gusseted downspout he had used to climb to the roof when life inside Betancourt became unbearable.
Heedless of his suit and polished shoes, he climbed it and was soon creeping across roof peaks and valleys, avoiding places where the slate was loose or missing. The sight of so much roof needing repair was depressing, but by the time he reached the parapet overlooking the entry, the exertion had burned away much of his anger. He sat and dangled his feet over the edge of the wall, comforted by the breeze he usually encountered here and by the panorama of Betancourt laid out beneath him.
He hadn’t been there long when he spotted Ashton exiting the house and heading for the stable, carrying a valise. Minutes after that, his brother reappeared on horseback and took off down the drive to the main road. He was leaving? He ought to leave, the bounder—trying to kiss Daisy—although, it hadn’t looked like she was objecting, and, truthfully, that was the most hurtful part.
There was something between them . . . the way their eyes sometimes met and lingered. He had sensed it, but just hadn’t wanted to face it. Now he couldn’t scrub from his memory the sight of them embracing. He should be outraged, feel betrayed, furious. But mostly, he just felt empty.
It seemed like an hour later, it might have been longer, before he heard footsteps on the roof nearby and looked up to find her standing there, seeming a bit unsettled by their precarious location.
* * *
“I thought maybe I would find you here,” Daisy said, taking in his dejected look and feeling utterly responsible.
“How did you get up here?”
“I remembered you said you walked the walls when you were upset. We couldn’t find you anywhere else, and Edgar recalled you used to climb up the ladder from the attic onto the roof.” She still had a cobweb in her hair and dust on her dress from the climb she’d made to find him. She sank onto the parapet beside him and looked around, pushing her hair back as the breeze teased it around her face. “This is quite a view. No one had used the ladder in a while.” She brushed at her dusty skirt. “How did you get up here?”
“The drainpipe.” He gestured over his shoulder to the rear of the house.
They sat for a few minutes in looming silence.
“He was kissing you,” he finally said, frowning.
“He was. Sort of.”
“No ‘sort of’ about it. He landed one.” He pulled his legs up and rested an arm on an upraised knee. There was hurt in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Arthur. I thought you would both be there, as y
ou often are. I was just sharing the documents my mother brought from New York—they show that the girl child born in Bristol was my many-greats-ago grandmother. It was the proof your family demanded and an answer to a mystery we had uncovered. I was thrilled to have it solved and he was, too. He whirled me around and we laughed and . . . he . . .”
It sounded worse the more she went on, so she stopped and bit her lip, waiting for his response. It wasn’t what she expected.
“He knew all about your sisters.”
“I told you I saw him several times as I was searching for proof of my lineage. I told him the truth about why I wanted a husband . . . that I needed a marriage that would help my sisters . . . that I was headstrong and selfish and felt responsible for the snubs and sneers aimed our way.”
“You shared a lot with him, then,” he said, looking pained by that.
“I suppose I did,” she admitted, her mouth going dry. She had an awful feeling where this was heading. She said to herself as much as to him: “It seems I haven’t gotten over being headstrong and selfish.”
The difficult silence was ended by an even more difficult question.
“Did you and he . . . did you . . . are you lovers?”
“No.” She looked up in distress, unsure how or even if she could convince him of that. “I would never have done that. I didn’t know you well, but I respected you enough to refuse anything that would disgrace you or myself. And Ashton is your brother. He would never do that to you.”
He turned away for a moment, clearly deciding if he believed her.
“It’s just . . . I’ve seen the way you look at each other when you think no one notices.” He turned back, his gaze harder than she had ever seen it. “He wants you.”
“I’m sure he’s wanted a lot of women.” She wasn’t proud of using that to justify what happened between them.
“And you want him.”
There it was. Tears welled in her eyes. It was no use pretending; he already knew the truth. What good would denying it do?
“Do you truly care for him?” he said, studying her as if she were under his microscope. “Or was he just a stepping stone for your ambition?”
The words cut her. If he saw her as ambitious and conniving, there was nothing she could do. But by damn, he would at least have the truth.
“I didn’t want to like him. He was smug and clever and far too sure of himself. And he assumed way too much about me. But I began to see there was more to him than the disreputable rake everyone made him out to be. We worked together over library documents and church registers and I came to respect his mind and to understand why he wanted to keep us apart. He was honest with me about it. Just as I was honest with him about why I wanted a titled husband. I never meant to care for him.”
“But you do,” he said, frowning, studying her.
“I do.” Tears burned down her cheeks. “I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt or disappoint you. I wanted to marry you and be a good and faithful wife to you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive—”
He pushed to his feet, his face set, his mind and heart now closed. He did, however, extend a hand to help her up.
“Please, Arthur, let’s talk this through—”
“I think I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
Everything felt so unreal as they negotiated the ladder and attic steps and made their way down to the upstairs hallway. He spoke not a word as he left her there, descended the main staircase, and strode out the front doors.
She made it down the east wing to her room without her family hearing or seeing her return. She sat down on the chaise, feeling drained and boneless. Her hands in her lap were white from clasping them so hard.
It was over. Now, how did she tell her mother and sisters that her fabulous marriage and their best chance at social acceptance were gone?
Chapter Thirty-One
Over dinner, which Daisy reluctantly had served despite Arthur’s absence, she announced that they would all be traveling to London to shop and make preparations for the wedding. Lady Evelyn and Elizabeth both glanced at the empty chair at the head of the table, but her sisters were thrilled by the prospect. To them London was a trove of mysterious allure, riches, and adventure. Red, however, looked pained.
“Mind if I stay here with Arthur?” he asked. “A man can only take so much fittin’ and sittin’. I’ve had enough to last three lifetimes.”
Daisy smiled in spite of the twinge of panic his plea caused her. What if Arthur never came back? What if he came back with a constable to bounce them all out on their ears?
“We’ll need you in London, Uncle Red. Besides”—she gave the countess a teasing grin—“who would keep Lady Evelyn in check. You know how carried away she gets in a haberdashery.”
The countess seemed a bit miffed, but the girls’ giggles undermined her indignation. She sighed and nodded, and it was settled. Coffee and evening music were cut short so they could retire early and begin to pack.
Dread settled over Daisy at the glint in her mother’s eye as they mounted the stairs. When she gave Daisy’s back a nudge and deftly stepped into her room behind her, Daisy knew she was in for it. Her mother had a nose for trouble unequaled in England’s former colonies.
As soon as the door closed, Elizabeth turned on her.
“What’s happened with Arthur?” she demanded.
“He had business in the—”
“I’m no fool, Daisy Bumgarten.” Her voice was softer than Daisy expected. “Dukes do not conduct business in one-horse villages in the dead of night.”
“First off, it’s not the dead of night, and second, I don’t oversee his whereabouts. He didn’t say more than he was going out.”
“On business,” her mother prompted.
“So I assumed.” She crossed her arms, feeling an anxiety that was familiar from her younger days creeping up her spine.
Her mother read her tension. “Did you quarrel?”
“What makes you think that?”
“What else could it be? Earlier today he was practically your shadow and now he is absent and doesn’t bother to send word for dinner. That doesn’t seem like him. Something’s happened.” Her mother pressed a handkerchief to her moist temples and lips and Daisy wondered fleetingly if it had smelling salts in it. “You may as well tell me. Sooner or later it will come out.”
She felt herself shrinking inside, becoming sixteen again, disappointing her mother again. The same pursed mouth and “martyred” stance she saw before her had haunted her conscience for years.
“What happens between me and the duke is none of your—”
“You’re my daughter, Daisy, and I’ve trekked halfway around the world to be with you when you marry. I have a right to know if something”—she halted, eyes widening—“or someone has caused . . .” She stumbled to a nearby chair and dropped into it like a wet hide. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s him.”
Daisy took a step back, knowing too well what her mother meant; if she had trouble, her mother believed, there had to be a man involved. For a moment, she almost buckled, almost allowed that sixteen-year-old girl inside her to collapse under the combined weight of resurrected guilt and her mother’s disapproval. But only for a moment, because in the next, her twenty-two-year-old self recalled how far she had traveled and how much she had overcome, including her own reckless and headstrong behavior.
More still, she recalled Ashton’s reaction to her remorse over having given in to temptation and enjoyed it. Ashton had opened her thinking with his rational acceptance and caring response to the pain she’d carried for too long in her heart. He made her feel whole and worthwhile, and he refused to take advantage of her even when he knew her weakness for him.
Yes, someone had come between her and Arthur.
The man she loved.
“Yes, it’s him,” Daisy said, surprising herself, buoyed by a fresh conviction that being confused and trying to do the right thing in difficult situations shouldn’t be gr
ounds for eternal damnation. She had a problem, and she was going to handle it. Somehow.
“I care for Arthur very much. He’s dear and good-hearted and upstanding. But I love Ashton. He’s clever and mischievous and funny and gentlemanly. He stirs me—body, mind, and soul—and there isn’t a single part of him I would change.” Emotion welled up in her, filling her eyes.
“Oh, Daisy, don’t you see—”
“I see a great deal. I’m a woman, not a child. And before you lay into me about how wicked and venal men are . . . about how they all want just one thing from a woman”—she stalked closer, eyes taut with challenge—“let me tell you: he could have had me six ways from Sunday if he’d only asked. But he didn’t ask. And that, Mama dear, is all you need to know about him.”
* * *
It was a hard, hard night.
Arthur, a pure novice at the sport of drinking, was mother-henned by an anxious Bascom at the Iron Penny, until he gave up the effort entirely and climbed back on his mount to mosey home. He didn’t want to think anymore about her or his brother or the damned title that he wore around his neck like a noose. He hated being a duke. Despised it. He’d like nothing better than to sell up and take off and never come back to this miserable . . . Just let Ashton have the girl—the only girl he’d ever kissed, he groaned—just leave and let them forget he was ever born.
Halfway to Betancourt, he got a fierce urge and dismounted to pee in the brush at the side of the road. His horse took exception to the delay and took off—“Hey!”—leaving Arthur to walk the rest of the way home.
“Damned animal. Who needs you?” He shook a fist at his disappearing mount. “Horses only make me think of her. I learned to ride for her. I’m gettin’ damned good at it.” He straightened. “I was her hero. Stood up to Bertram and his cronies, I did. I’m stronger than they think I am.”
He staggered on, not half as drunk as he wished.
“I was gonna marry her. But she’s in loooove.” He halted in the middle of the road and felt his chest and belly, wondering if he was in love. He had no idea what looove felt like, so how would he know if he was in it or not? He decided somewhere in his ramblings that he must not love her, that he would probably feel something in his chest if he did. Something like . . . dyspepsia . . . only nicer. The lack of such a guidepost meant it was probably wounded pride making him feel this banging in his head and lead in his feet.
