Duke with Benefits

by Manda Collins

  “But he must have had some care for your education,” Ivy said with a frown. “After all, he hired your tutor, Mr. Sommersby, did he not?”

  Daphne wished that were true. That her father had been supportive of her activities of the mind, as Ivy’s had been. And no doubt Sophia’s and Gemma’s had done. “I blackmailed him into hiring on Mr. Sommersby,” she said wearily. “I told him that if he did not hire me a competent tutor from whom I might learn the level of mathematics suited to my superior intellect, that I would expose his schemes to the ton. The only thing Father values more than a night at the tables is his social standing. Despite the fact that he owed money to almost every peer in the realm, he was still received in all the best houses, and did not relish being exposed as the sort of man who would use his own daughter for profit.”

  “And he did as you demanded?” Sophia asked, clearly impressed with Daphne’s maneuver.

  “He did,” Daphne said with a nod. “And he did not insist that I accompany him to card parties so frequently after that. It is one thing for a father to trade upon his daughter’s virtue in exchange for marriage settlements, but it’s quite another to openly be known to take her winnings at cards. So long as there was the pretense that he was using his own funds, his friends overlooked the irregularity of it. But a public accusation? Well, that would have offended his cronies’ delicate sensibilities.”

  “And I suppose when you left for Beauchamp House your father was left without a ready means of earning money?” Ivy asked.

  None of the ladies seemed to question the fact that despite his earldom Lord Forsyth was frequently pockets to let. It was not uncommon among peers of the realm for all of their funds to be tied up in their country estates. Thus, they lived on credit and were frequently cash poor. Lord Forsyth, Daphne knew, was more in need of blunt than most since he spent whatever he received from the estate at the gaming tables.

  “Yes,” Daphne said. “Though I left him with tens of thousands of pounds, thinking it would last him the year, he’s run through it only three months in.”

  “So when he announced he wanted you back in London, Maitland told him you were already betrothed?” Sophia asked, “I must say, that’s quite the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s your knight in shining armor.”

  “But I didn’t need a knight,” Daphne protested. “I’ve dealt with my father’s ridiculous demands for years now. And I might have done so again, if only Maitland hadn’t stepped in. Now that Papa thinks he’s got his hooks into a wealthy duke, he’ll never give up. I daresay when Maitland and I attempt to dissolve this farce of a betrothal, Papa will sue him for breach of contract. He is just that sort of man!”

  Daphne fought the urge to push away from where her friends were crowded around her and move to the other side of the room, where she might rearrange the shelves devoted to novels. (They were at present arranged alphabetically by author, but she thought perhaps they might work better organized first by publisher, then by author, then by title. Just pondering the possibilities made her feel calmer.)

  “Maitland won’t give a damn about that,” said Lord Kerr who had slipped in a few moments earlier. “He obviously thought you needed his protection and so offered it. He has armies of solicitors. Enough to stall your father’s breach of contract suit in the courts for decades. Though hopefully it will not come to that.”

  “I don’t see how it cannot,” Daphne argued, all the calm she’d gained from her organizational thoughts evaporating with Lord Kerr’s observation. She did not wish Maitland to be forced to fight her father in court. If he’d simply stayed out of it, none of this would be an issue. “We cannot remain betrothed. I do not wish to marry. Especially since as soon as I reach my majority I will be able to escape my father’s influence forever.”

  “But Maitland is hardly cut from the same cloth as your father,” Ivy soothed. And when Daphne started to argue, she held up a hand. “I know, I know. Marriage can be just as much of a prison as any gaol. But perhaps we needn’t solve all of these problems today? After all, it’s been a busy few days. What with finding Mr. Nigel Sommersby in the secret room, then your being questioned none-too-gently by Squire Northman, and now your father’s arrival. Any of these things alone would be enough to send the most sensible lady into a decline.”

  “Are you saying I am not strong enough to deal with all of this?” Daphne asked, not knowing whether to be insulted or relieved to be let off the hook.

  “I most certainly am not,” Ivy said, patting her on the arm. “But I am saying that we can perhaps deal with these issues one at a time. And I mean ‘we’—you are not alone anymore, Daphne. You have friends who are willing to help you now.”

  “But I am quite able to take care of myself,” Daphne protested.

  “Of course you are, dear,” Sophia said with a gentle smile. “But perhaps you misunderstood Ivy. What she means to say is, you have no choice in the matter. Our help is not negotiable. That’s what friendship is all about.”

  Daphne was silent for a moment, processing what Sophia had just said.

  She’d never had a true friend before, it was true. Many acquaintances, but aside from Nigel—and look what a bounder he’d turned out to be—she’d not had anyone to rely upon besides herself. Perhaps it was time she accepted a bit of help here and there. Just to see how it felt.

  “Very well,” Daphne said. “It would appear I have no choice.” Though she could hear the hint of pride in her voice. Curious.

  “If you are all finished giving Daphne the rules of friendship,” she heard Maitland say from behind her, “then I would greatly appreciate it if you would give us the room.”

  Turning, she saw that he appeared none the worse for wear despite what must have been a most trying conversation with her father. She might have known Maitland would emerge unscathed from such a meeting.

  * * *

  Without protest, her newly sworn friends all slipped away from her and out the door, closing it behind them while Maitland moved to sit on the edge of the library table just across from her chair. So close he was able to cross his booted feet only inches from where her skirts rested just above the thick Aubusson carpet.

  “Your father is quite an interesting man,” he said without preamble. “I had thought perhaps the tales I’d heard about him in town were exaggerated. But only a few minutes in his company was enough to tell me they were likely toned down for credibility’s sake. Any description of him as he is would be dismissed as utterly outlandish.”

  “Interesting is one way of describing him,” Daphne said, not knowing whether she should apologize for her father’s behavior or scold Maitland for telling the lie to Lord Forsyth that would surely cost him both money and a bit of his reputation. “Greedy is another, though not one I would use in polite company. At least he’s asked me not to on more than one occasion.”

  Maitland laughed softly. “I’ll wager he did not like having his own daughter tell the truth about him amongst the tea things after dinner.”

  “It was actually at Lady Beresford’s dining table,” Daphne said with a frown. “Though you are correct that he did not like it. Rather the opposite, in fact. I thought perhaps he would strike me when he scolded me later. One is never quite sure, you know, if verbal violence will turn to physical. But he never did.”

  The duke’s amusement evaporated at that, and when Daphne dared to look at his face, his mouth was tight. “I only did it that once, you understand.”

  “I am not angry with you, Daphne,” he said moving to kneel before her, which should have made her uncomfortable, but instead made her heart beat faster. “I am angry with him. For making you feel threatened. For using you to make money because he was too damned lousy with a hand of cards to make it for himself. But I am most enraged at him because he forced you to blackmail him in order to protect yourself from being sold like a brood mare to the highest bidder.”

  She was silent. Her father had done all of those things. And she was angry about th
em. But the notion that someone would feel angry on her behalf was so foreign she couldn’t quite comprehend it.

  “Is that why you told him we were betrothed?” she asked, wondering if those reasons he’d just named added up to his declaration before Lord Forsyth. “Because you were angry with him and wanted to thwart him?”

  He dipped his head so that she had no choice but to look at him. As she’d noticed before, eye contact with Maitland did not fill her with the kind of anxiety as it did with other people. Still, her heart pounded harder.

  “I told him we were betrothed,” Maitland said in a low voice that vibrated along her spine like a struck tuning fork, “because I wanted to.”

  She blinked at that. Because he wanted to? But why?

  As if he’d spoken the questions aloud, he continued. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of some rich social climber with piles of money but no appreciation for how special you are to have you.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  And didn’t need to, because he said finally, “I did it because I wanted you for myself, Daphne. I wanted you to be mine.”

  As he spoke, he moved his face closer to hers. So close that by the last word, she felt his breath on her lips. And a whisper of anticipation ran through her.

  Just before he kissed her.

  * * *

  It wasn’t as if Maitland had awoken that morning with the notion of proposing to Daphne before the day was through.

  He’d actually been awakened by his nephew Jeremy—who had escaped his nanny’s leash—jumping on the bed beside him asking if he’d come play soldiers with him. But almost as soon as he’d opened his eyes, the duke had recalled the moment when he’d seen Nigel Sommersby’s dead body on the floor of the secret room.

  Reluctantly, he’d told Jem he would come visit him in the nursery later, and dressed to go downstairs. If he was going to ensure that Northman’s pursuit of Daphne as a suspect in Sommersby’s murder went nowhere, he would need to get to work at once finding an alternative theory of the crime.

  As it was, he’d been thrust almost immediately into that awful scene where Lord Forsyth had tried to bully his own daughter into giving up her inheritance at Beauchamp House and return to London with him.

  Not mind you, so that she could return to the loving bosom of her family, but instead so that she might marry some strange fellow with little more to recommend him than the fact that he was possessed of enough funds to give Forsyth enough to pay off his debts and live in the style to which he’d become accustomed. Ironically, Daphne’s father had confided all this to Maitland as they’d discussed terms for his own—that is, Maitland’s—marriage to Daphne.

  All of this was running through his head as he knelt before her in the library, trying to explain his reasons for making that impetuous pronouncement to Lord Forsyth.

  But then he’d looked up into her big green eyes and lost all capacity for talk.

  Knowing her history now, and wanting to give her comfort, his kiss was gentle.

  With just the slightest pressure, he leaned into her. Closing his eyes, he breathed her in, inhaling the lemony scent of her and the warmth of her skin. Giving himself up to the feel of her.

  And when he deepened the kiss, licking at her with the tip of his tongue, she welcomed him in. Opened to him in a way that told him everything he needed to know. And then he was lost to the sensation of the moment. Of knowing just who it was he held against him, just whose lips he kissed.

  Daphne, he thought with a flicker of satisfaction, sliding a hand up to cup her face in wonder. Daphne, whom he’d wanted from the moment he saw her. The beautiful, maddening, creature who shocked and amused him at every turn.

  Her mouth was hot and soft and sweet, and as their kisses grew more intense—as she slipped her arms around his shoulders to pull him against her—Maitland had to fight his growing need to feel her hands on other parts of him. He’d meant to keep this kiss sweet, chaste even, but with each stroke of her tongue, he was growing more mindless.

  He’d only just reversed their positions, settling Daphne in his lap so that he might kiss his way down her neck, when a knock sounded at the library door.

  With a jolt, he realized just how close he’d come to taking her here in the library, and reluctantly, pulled back a little. Breathless, he buried his face in her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her for the barest moment before lifting his head and resting it against the back of the chair. Daphne, who was also out of breath, rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  “A moment if you please,” he called out loudly, hoping that whoever it was would give it to them.

  “Sorry old fellow,” came Kerr’s voice, sounding amused, “but Mr. Sommersby’s friend, Foster has come. And he wishes to speak with Daphne. You won’t be disturbed further. I just wished to let you know he was here.” A sound that was suspiciously like laughter disguised as a cough followed. Then silence.

  Daphne flattened her palm against where his heart was still pounding. “I knew I had chosen wisely,” she said with the tone of one who had been proved right. “We are very compatible. Amorously speaking, I mean.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “My apologies for denying you, madam. I see now I was harming us both by refusing your offer the first time.”

  It felt as if decades had passed since that first awkward suggestion she’d made that they become lovers. He hadn’t wanted her any less then. He saw now that his rejection had sprung from shock more than anything else. And bruised pride. Clearly it took him some time to get used to the force of nature that was Lady Daphne Forsyth.

  “I accept your apology,” she said regally. Then, sobering, she said, “I suppose we cannot stay here forever.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  Reluctantly, she climbed off his lap, and righted her skirts. Her hair, he noted, was mussed from his hands. But he said nothing. In some primitive part of him, he liked that she looked as if she’d just been thoroughly kissed.

  Straightening his own cuffs, he ran a hand through his own no doubt disordered hair.

  When they were as tidy as they could get given the lack of professional assistance, he offered her his arm, and they left the sanctuary of the library and made their way to the drawing room.

  * * *

  Still a bit breathless from her interlude with Maitland, Daphne walked into the drawing room on his arm not knowing what to expect from Sommersby’s traveling companion. Having only met him for those few minutes three days ago, she’d had little time to assess his emotional state. Though he’d seemed civil enough. If he was like other men, he was likely having a glass of brandy while he waited.

  Mr. Ian Foster, however, was doing no such thing.

  Instead he was pacing before the low fire, and muttering under his breath. Lord Kerr and Ivy stood together by the window and looked relieved when Daphne and Maitland walked in.

  Foster, on the other hand looked aggrieved. “I was beginning to think you had fled the country, Lady Daphne.” While his words might have been considered a jest from some men, in this one, they were deadly serious.

  “Of course, I did not, Mr. Foster,” she said, puzzled at his suggestion. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  She felt Maitland’s comforting hand on her lower back and was grateful for it. Something about Foster’s demeanor made her nervous.

  “Perhaps you’d best tell us why you’re here,” the duke said once Daphne had taken a seat on the settee. He took up a perch on the arm, a protective hand on her shoulder as if reminding her he was here if she needed him.

  “Yes, do, Mr. Foster,” said Sophia, who was seated with Gemma near the windows overlooking the garden. “He wouldn’t tell us a thing until you got here,” she said to the newcomers with a speaking look.

  “I should think that was obvious,” Foster said with a scowl. “My friend was found dead in this house three nights ago. And no one saw fit to inform me of that fact. I had to learn of it
from the innkeeper when I returned from Pevensey. Surely it would not have been too much trouble to send a messenger for me?”

  “Oh, I do apologize, Mr. Foster,” Daphne said, knowing that in his situation she would be overset, too. “I had supposed that Squire Northman would do so, since he is the magistrate and was here to question us. And then … well, as you can imagine things have been rather at sixes and sevens, so we must have overlooked you.”

  “Well, Squire Northman did not, in fact, send for me,” Foster continued, his face still red with pique.

  “Lady Daphne has apologized, Foster,” said Maitland firmly. “And we are all sorry for your loss. But I believe some of the blame for this must rest on you. It’s not as if you left details of your direction with anyone. We will, of course, do what we can to assist the magistrate in his investigation of the murder. But I believe that is all we can do. Now, if you will excuse us, Lady Daphne has had a trying time as you can well imagine, and.…”

  “I wish to see the room where he was found,” Foster interrupted, his fists clenched at his sides. “I know he was here searching for the Cameron Cipher that night, and I wish to see the room where he was murdered. I daresay one of you might have done the deed because he found it when you yourselves could not.”

  “Of course, we didn’t kill him,” Daphne said in an aggrieved tone before anyone else could speak. “And though I know he was your friend, so it might pain you to hear it, but Mr. Sommersby was not nearly as clever as he thought he was. Or really, as any of us gathered in this room. It’s true he was no simpleton, but he was hardly the sort of mind capable of finding the Cameron Cipher. And even if by some miracle he did find the cipher, it would have been useless to him. He was terrible at unraveling ciphers. Always was.”

  Then, thinking to soften her words, she added, “Though he was quite good at geography, if that’s any consolation.”

  Foster gaped.

  Thinking that his silence denoted agreement, Daphne continued, “Perhaps you didn’t know, but someone shot at the Duke of Maitland and myself the night Sommersby was killed. Perhaps the same person who killed him. I hardly think we would be capable of shooting at ourselves.”