He briefly squeezed his eyes closed.
In the darkest days after Alistair’s death, his own culpability and his father’s shouts, rightfully blaming Daniel, there had been one person there with him, through it all—Daphne. She’d been steadfast in her devotion. When he’d wept with guilt and the agony of losing his twin, she’d held him. When he’d engaged in riskier and riskier pursuits to gain his family’s notice, she’d attempted to talk him out of his wickedness. It was just one of the reasons why he’d cut her out.
I was not there for her.
Through the raucous din of laughter and coin striking coin upon the gaming tables, Daniel firmed his jaw. Bloody hell, in his advancing years, he was turning into a maudlin bastard. He swiped his bottle from the table. Damn and blast Daphne for not staying buried. She, with her expressive eyes filled with disappointment one moment and hunger in the next.
The lady was right to take him to task for thirteen years of neglect. But for the rogues and rakes he kept company with in London and the beauties he took to his bed, he’d kept the world insularly out. That had been the easiest course and he had been a man who’d long proven he only ever took that particular route.
From the day his mother died trying to birth a better child than him, he had vowed to never again care or let anyone in. Not the babe his mother had left behind. Not the girl he’d once called friend. No one. That was, no one except the miserable blighters like himself. Those wastrel lords, who didn’t give a frig. And so he’d retreated from the world, descending more and more into a level of sin and debauchery from which there could be no coming back.
…I was in London for more than three months and not once did you visit. Were you too busy…?
Yes, he had been too busy. Whoring. Cavorting with unhappily married women. Bedding both sad and joyfully free widows. Attending orgies. Hosting orgies. All of it, dark acts committed by a coldhearted rake. And through it, she’d been waiting for a visit. He winced as an image trickled in of Daphne as she would have been, a girl of seventeen, at the window. Alone in a world she’d never been part of, one that he had been wholly born to. In the end, she’d been an easy quarry for a rake who preyed on her innocence and earned her virginity.
His stomach churned and with unsteady fingers, he set the glass aside. Too much bloody drink. There was no other accounting for it.
“You look to be in need of company.”
Daniel abruptly glanced up at the Marquess of Tennyson.
Both were former spares to the heirs who’d found themselves ascended to the ranks of nobility. Rivaling Daniel in depravity, they got on famously well since Oxford and, more importantly, Tennyson wasn’t the happily married blighter St. Albans had become. Rather, this marquess was a ruthless bastard in the market for an heiress. Daniel motioned to the vacant seat and the marquess plopped his tall, wiry frame into the chair.
“You have been absent from Town,” the other man remarked, as he claimed a seat.
He gave a wave of his hand. “I have the additional responsibilities of a sister now,” Daniel reminded him.
“Ah, yes, that is right,” Tennyson said, layering his hands on the arms of his chair.
With neither sisters nor brothers underfoot, the marquess didn’t know a thing about those responsibilities. Not that Daniel did, either. Not truly. He just knew of late with his well-ordered life now thrown on its ear by his miserable uncle.
“So you’ve become a devoted brother, then?” By the mocking smile on Tennyson’s lips, he believed that as much as Lord Claremont.
Daniel snorted. “Hardly. My uncle is ransoming eight thousand pounds left me by my mother, if I behave.”
The marquess went still and then tossed his head back, howling with laughter until tears seeped from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, this is rich. And here, members of the ton befuddled by it all. Of course, you’d only ever be driven by a wager.”
“Of course,” he repeated tightly. Had the other man always been this bloody aggravating? Mayhap Daniel would rather do with St. Albans’ concerned probing than this prig’s taunting. He took a long sip.
“There have been wagers placed,” Tennyson said without preamble. How many times had he planted information to aid Daniel in a bet placed at White’s or Brook’s? He’d long been without the moral scruples to feel humility at cheating another lord.
In the past, it had filled Daniel with a thrill of certain wicked victory. Now, it left him oddly bitter. “Wagers?” he drawled because really, something was expected of him.
“About you,” the marquess clarified, motioning over a scantily clad beauty with red hair and crimson lips.
He gritted his teeth. Must the woman have goddamned red hair? “Oh?” he forced that reply out in bored tones.
“About the young woman you’ve hired.” Tennyson accepted the glass from the lush creature and tugged her unceremoniously onto his lap. She let out a little squeal and then promptly layered herself to the young lord, nuzzling his neck while she worked her hands over his body.
Bloody hell. Now Tennyson would drag Daphne through his thoughts. With a scowl, he poured himself another whiskey and took a quick drink.
The marquess shoved the whore off his knee and then swatted her on the backside, sending her off. He sighed. “The wagers are rich on how soon you’ll debauch your sister’s companion and where.”
Daniel inhaled his swallow and dissolved into a fit, strangling on his spirits until tears flooded his eyes. He set his glass down hard and liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass.
The marquess sat sipping away, indifferent to his gasping, heaving attempts for breath. The ton was well within their right to question Daniel’s intentions toward any young woman, but having Daphne’s name thrown about cast a haze of red over his vision.
After he managed to draw in a shuddery breath, Tennyson dragged his chair closer. He stole a glance about. “Eight thousand pounds is a near fortune, but,” he dangled that one word. “We can manipulate the wagering to secure you a sizeable sum that doesn’t require you to behave.” The other man waggled his blond eyebrows. “Anything but.” Of course, with the other man being an equal wastrel also with depleting coffers, he’d stand to earn nothing from Daniel honoring the terms set forth by his uncle. It was no secret to Society that Tennyson had entered the Marriage Market in search of a biddable miss with a fat dowry.
“You’d have me throw away eight thousand pounds to secure you a few hundred?”
The marquess slapped his hand to his chest. “I’m insulted, chap. I’d wager far more than a few hundred pounds on a sure bet.”
Daniel had influenced more wagers than most bookkeepers could properly track. Odd, he had never felt any compunction about a bet; neither the type, nor amount, nor persons involved.
Until now.
Tennyson and the ton would turn him into the very man who’d once ruined Daphne. And, mayhap, he had some good left in his soul after all, because even as he wanted to bury himself between her welcoming thighs, he could never be the man to ruin her on a wager. To keep from burying his fist in the marquess’ blasted face, Daniel balled his hands tight. “I am not debauching my sister’s companion,” he said icily. Even breathing the possibility of it aloud sent nausea roiling through him in waves.
Understanding registered in Tennyson’s cold blue eyes. “Ah, I see.”
Do not ask. Do not ask. Let the matter die…
“What do you see?” he snapped.
“She is long in the tooth.”
“She is not—” Daniel snapped his mouth closed so quickly, his jaw ached. He’d said too much and the hard grin on the marquess’ lips said as much.
“Then, I suspect eight thousand pounds is an exorbitant amount to throw away on a straitlaced spinster. Though, there is something,” he smacked his lips, “delicious in breaking those ladies free of their constraints, isn’t there?”
Actually, he couldn’t say. He’d never bothered with the reproachful ladies and their disapproving eyes.
“I am sorry to disappoint,” he said with a droll edge, setting down his glass. “But I’ve no intention of corrupting my sister’s companion, nor accepting any wager that would compromise,” Daphne’s reputation, “my uncle’s funds,” he settled for. “Now, if you’ll pardon me,” he said, shoving to his feet before the other man could launch a series of comments or questions about Daphne that would earn him a fist in the face.
Tennyson inclined his head, but he’d already shifted his attention to the nearby whore, sauntering by.
Daniel stalked through the crowded hell. The disreputable club was heavy with the thick plume of smoke from too many cheroots. The acrid smell blended with the pungent odor of floral fragrances worn by the women working the floors. Such scents had never bothered him before. Now, they invaded his senses so that he increased his stride, eager to step out the doors and draw in a cleansing breath.
He gathered his hat from a servant and jammed it atop his head. Then, shrugging into his cloak, he fastened it at his throat. The guard at the front held the door open in anticipation of Daniel’s exit and he stepped outside. He paused, blinking to adjust his eyes to the darkened London streets. Filled with a restiveness, he motioned to the street urchin waiting with his mount. The boy rushed over and handed over the reins. Daniel fished around inside his jacket and withdrew a guinea. He held the coin out, when his gaze snagged on the emblazoned George III. Tucking it back inside, he reached for another.
The boy coughed loudly, holding his fingers out.
Daniel dropped the different coin into his palm and climbed astride his mount. Perhaps it was the impending financial doom which hovered, only just now really acknowledged by him. Or mayhap, it was the tiresome company of Lords Tennyson and Webb, discussing the same wicked topics, seeking out the same wanton pleasures, but with each stride that carried him farther and farther away from the unfashionable end of London, which had always been home, some of the tension eased in his chest.
For the first time, ever, as he reined in Satan, there was a greater ease in being at his white stucco townhouse than his clubs. Daniel dismounted and a waiting servant came to gather the reins. Cloak whipping wildly at his ankles, he strode up the steps and through the doors opened by his butler. “Tanner,” he greeted, turning over his cloak and hat to the tired-eyed servant.
“My lord.”
Dismissing the aged servant for the night, Daniel briefly eyed the top of the stairs. Alas, after a lifetime of living on no sleep with only sin and spirits to sustain him, retiring at the eleven o’clock hour was as possible as having the power to manipulate time. He strode down the corridor, seeking out his offices. No doubt, Daphne had long retired by this late hour. After three evenings spent at his clubs and various ton functions, but for glimpses of her and Alice during the day, he’d had little interaction with her.
Given the vicious wagers being bandied about Town, it was for the best. Nor, with the charges she’d leveled at him of disloyal friend, of which he most decidedly was, did she care to see him, nor should he wish to see her. He’d long existed for nothing outside his own comforts and happiness and, as such, was not in the habit of suffering through the company of people who didn’t desire his presence.
Why should she desire my presence? He’d all but forgotten her existence, abandoned her during her Season, and coerced her into assisting Alice, withholding letters of reference she desperately required. The greatest crime, however, had been the inadvertent one—the one that had found her prey to a rake, when he, with his own unscrupulous experience, could have watched for those other ruthless bastards.
His stomach muscles clenched reflexively and he paused at the corridor leading to his office. Then, something pulled him away from that room, where he’d do nothing more than continue his path to inebriation. He wandered down the hall and stopped beside the open doors that spilled out to the ballroom.
Tomorrow evening, would be the beginning of the end to Daphne’s tenure. Alice would make her official entry into Society and from there Almack’s. Then there would be an endless parade of infernal affairs until she found a husband. A fortnight ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to be rid of his sister and free to resume his carousing. Now, hovering outside the room, he wanted to freeze time, keep it still, where there was Daphne, unafraid to tease him, scold him, or talk with any real freeness. Or rather, discourse that didn’t begin and end with the ultimate goal of sexual gratification.
He yanked his silver flask from inside his jacket and uncorking it, raised it to his lips. …When you drink, you aren’t really present. You are a ghost… With a curse he recorked and pocketed his flask. Good God, he must be tired. Or insane. Or mayhap both. He, Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, rightly feared by all proper mamas, waxed on in silent maudlin thought for Daphne’s inevitable departure. Not even a healthy dose of liquor would help this madness. Daniel started to turn, but froze mid-movement.
Moonlight streamed through the floor-length window down the left wall of the ballroom, bathing the cavernous space in a soft glow. The bluish-white rays danced upon the neat row of chairs positioned at the far corner of the room. A lone figure sat perched on the edge of the middle seat, her hands folded on her lap, and her cane resting on the adjacent chair.
He should leave. Pretend he’d not seen her tucked away in the corner. Then, he had never done what he was supposed to—not as a mischievous boy and certainly not as a rakish man.
Mayhap he didn’t see her. Mayhap, he’d turn on his heel, that silver flask in hand, and lose himself in spirits, as rogues and rakes often did.
“Miss Smith.” His quiet baritone echoed in the empty ballroom.
She sighed. Daniel had never done what was expected of him. Then, neither had she.
“My lord,” she greeted, struggling to her feet.
He held a hand up. “There is no need to stand on my account,” he assured, stalking forward. Daphne studied him as he took strong, confident strides, easily closing the space between them. She had been without proper use of her left leg for so many years that she no longer recalled whether such movements came as natural gifts of elegance or rather were something one strove toward.
So many times, envy gripped her when presented with such ease. But staring at Daniel’s assured steps, her mouth went dry with an appreciation that stirred low in her belly.
In one fluid movement, he settled into the seat directly beside hers and stretched his legs out, hooking them at the ankles. He draped his arm along the back of her seat, brushing her nape with his fingers. Dangerous shivers radiated from the point of his absent touch.
Rakes were men who filled voids of silence with empty talk and clever words. Daniel, however, just sat staring out, his gaze fixed on the pillar directly across from them, draped in garland made of ivory and white hydrangea. The fragrant floral scent permeated the ballroom and Daphne inhaled deep.
Three days ago, she’d resurrected the needed barriers between them. For as she’d said, he was no longer a friend, but a rake, dangerous in what he made her feel, longing she’d not even known with Leopold. But this was Daniel and she would never, ever be able to truly shut him out. “It is beautiful,” she said wistfully.
He glanced around, perplexed.
She motioned to the ballroom, adorned in boughs and garlands of white and green hydrangea. Grabbing her cane, she pushed to her feet and limped to the middle of the dance floor. “How very empty and silent it is now. Tomorrow, it will be ablaze with life and music and laughter.” A wistful smile played on her lips. In a way, she rather preferred it with only they two here and the hum of silence their only music.
“Did you enjoy it?”
She looked to him.
“Your Season,” he clarified, his gaze, even in the dimly lit space, radiating a somberness so different than the charmer he was.
“When I was a girl, when I arrived in London, all I wanted was to attend my first ball. I had dreams of how it would be.” She motioned to the empty dais where the orche
stra would be set tomorrow evening. “There would be haunting waltzes and lively reels.” She closed her eyes to the music playing in her mind. “When I came to London,” she said, losing herself in that remembrance. “I was filled with such excitement, I didn’t allow myself to think about how it would be.” As a cripple. She let those words go unsaid. Daniel watched her so closely, her skin pricked with the intensity of the gaze he trained on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly and heat flooded her cheeks.
She’d not have his pity. “For one month, I was lonely. Miserable. Wanting to go back to my father’s cottage.” She pivoted around to where he still lounged. The tightness around his hard lips belied his relaxed repose. “I sat in those chairs.” She smiled. “Well, not those chairs, but wherever the neat row was set up for forgotten ladies were the ones I occupied. I did not dance one set,” she murmured, her gaze unseeing, fixed on the gold candelabra behind him. “Not one.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “But then, I forced myself to explore the world around me, a place I’d never been, and came to appreciate the museums and parks.” Daphne smiled, recalling the moment she’d stepped outside the townhouse, determined to command her happiness.
Daniel shoved slowly to his feet. “I should have been there,” he said, his tone gruff as he came closer.
She offered him a half-smile. “Yes, you should have.”
“If I had been there, where you were…” She’d not have had her innocence so calculatedly stolen.
Sadness assailed her. “Many times you were.”
He started.
She looked away, staring out at the orchestra’s dais once more. That long ago night flitted forward. The first glimpse she’d caught of Daniel upon arriving in London. How gloriously handsome he’d been in his impeccable black garments and wearing a half-grin on his face. “We attended many of the same events.”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 91
