“Yes, well, please tell that to the young ladies,” Berkeley said with a laugh. “Otherwise, I fear I’m a confirmed bachelor.”
Daphne laughed, too. “I shall put in a good word for you, my lord.”
Daphne took her leave from Lord Berkeley and scanned the room. Nearly every available seat was taken. Luckily there was one available next to Lord Fitzwell and Daphne hurried over to claim it.
“Good afternoon, my lord.” She batted her eyelashes at Lord Fitzwell. Delilah had informed her that gentlemen liked that sort of thing. Lovely. She was taking courtship advice from a twelve-year-old.
Daphne glanced up to see Delilah standing on tiptoes searching the room. Delilah had asked for Mother’s approval to attend the game and, much to Delilah’s long-suffering governess’s dismay, Mama had agreed. Delilah appeared to be looking for Captain Cavendish because the moment her eyes alighted on him, she drifted over to hover near him. Hmm. Daphne tapped her finger against her cheek. Perhaps Delilah was just what was needed in the battle against Captain Cavendish. Daphne would have to put her plan into action after charades.
“I trust you slept well,” Lord Fitzwell asked Daphne.
Daphne nearly jumped. “Oh, I did, my lord. And you?”
Lord Fitzwell rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I have a bit of a cramp in my shoulder and the pillow was a bit lumpy and—”
Daphne wasn’t listening. She was craning her neck to watch Rafe speak to Delilah. His infamous, arrogant grin was replaced by a softer, kinder smile. One that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. He glanced up and caught her staring at him. His grin widened and he inclined his head toward her. She quickly averted her gaze. Blast him. Not only did he intend to remain at the party, he also clearly intended to make her miserable while he was at it.
“That’s nice,” she said to Lord Fitzwell.
“It wasn’t nice at all. It was a bit uncomfortable, actually,” Lord Fitzwell replied, still rubbing his shoulder.
“Pardon? Oh, I’m sorry, my lord. Of course. It must have been terribly difficult for you.” She turned fully to face him. What had he said? Oh, fiddle. Now she was allowing her preoccupation with that rogue Cavendish to keep her from being properly attentive to Lord Fitzwell. This wouldn’t do at all.
“It was, it truly was,” Lord Fitzwell replied.
“What a pity,” Sir Roderick said from the seat on the other side of Daphne.
Daphne elbowed him.
Mother stood and made her way to the front of the room. She clapped her hands. “I believe we’re all here. Who would like to go first?”
“I shall!” Lord Fitzwell piped up.
“Apparently, his uncomfortable sleeping arrangements didn’t dampen his enthusiasm for charades,” Sir Roderick drawled.
“Roddy, stop it.” Daphne gave the knight her most stern look, but she couldn’t help but laugh when he waggled his eyebrows at her.
Meanwhile, Lord Fitzwell stood, tugged on his jacket, and made a grand show of walking in a wide circle before moving into the center of the room.
“Reminds me of a peacock,” Sir Roderick breathed.
Daphne narrowed her eyes on the knight.
Lord Fitzwell began by pushing out his neck in what Daphne could only describe as a very odd manner. His arms were tucked up to his sides and his head ducked forward and back as if he were experiencing convulsions. From time to time he would cock his head to the side and open his mouth.
“A dandy,” Cass guessed.
“The Prince Regent,” Lucy shouted.
“Lucy!” Claringdon’s voice rang out.
“Oh, sorry, darling,” Lucy replied, tossing a black curl off her forehead.
“A madman,” Sir Roderick offered, turning the room’s attention back to the performance. Daphne elbowed him again.
Lord Fitzwell shook his head to indicate they were incorrect before continuing his same strange antics.
“Beau Brummel,” Mother said.
“Pengree,” Julian called, and quickly earned himself a frown from that very man who’d been standing at attention at the back of the room. “Sorry, Peng,” Julian added with a shrug.
More head shaking from Lord Fitzwell.
Daphne glanced at Rafe. He sat with his arms folded, his eyes narrowed on Lord Fitzwell as if he were watching an escapee from Bedlam. He didn’t bother to offer any guess.
“A bird!” shouted Delilah finally.
Vigorous nodding ensued from Lord Fitzwell.
“What type of bird?” Mother asked.
More nodding from Lord Fitzwell.
“An owl,” Cass offered.
“A canary,” Daphne said, wanting to contribute something in an effort to make the poor man stop.
“A rooster?” Upton offered.
“A Phasianus colchicus,” Jane called out.
“No one’s ever heard of that, Jane,” Lucy said, shaking her head.
“Honestly, Lucy, it’s just a pheasant,” Jane shot back, also shaking her head.
“Then say ‘pheasant,’” Lucy replied. “Latin is uncalled for during charades.”
“Don’t make me stick my tongue out at you, Lucy,” Jane replied.
“Please make it end,” Sir Roderick murmured under his breath. “I already said it but”—he raised his voice so the room could hear—“a peacock!”
All of these guesses earned more head shaking from Lord Fitzwell. He continued to strut about in front of the fireplace with his arms tucked to his sides and his mouth intermittently falling open. Daphne cocked her head to the side and stared at him. Was that what a bird looked like?
“A popinjay!” Delilah shouted next.
Lord Fitzwell straightened up, smiled, and pointed at Delilah. “Exactly right, Miss Montbank.”
“Ah, a popinjay, I was close.” Sir Roderick shrugged.
Delilah looked exceedingly pleased with herself, her smile reached from ear to ear. Daphne had no earthly idea how the girl had been able to guess based on Lord Fitzwell’s odd posturing. In fact, she shook her head to remove the memory of it.
Mother clapped her hands again. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll go!” Daphne announced, smiling brightly at Lord Fitzwell as he resumed his seat next to her.
She’d already decided what she would do. She would pretend to be a flower. A sunflower perhaps but any flower would do. It would be simple and dainty, certain to impress Lord Fitzwell. Not to mention easy to guess.
She hoped.
But just in case, she decided a bit of insurance was best. “If it goes on too long, I’m a sunflower,” she whispered to Sir Roderick just before she stood.
She made her way to the front of the room, doing her best to keep her gaze from Rafe. She lifted her chin and concentrated on the rose-patterned wallpaper on the far wall.
She began by spreading her hands to the sides to mimic leaves and tilting up her head to the imaginary sun. She basked in the glow of the pretend sunshine.
“A statue,” Lucy called out.
“An actress,” Delilah called. Mother shushed her.
Daphne shook her head. Hmm. Perhaps a bit more was required of this particular charade.
She bent her knees and crouched low, then slowly raised herself up, this time trying to mimic the act of growing. If only she could use water and sun to grow in real life. Being the opposite of tall was not a pleasure. She nearly laughed at her own thought. Then she reminded herself that flowers didn’t smile.
“An angel,” Lord Berkeley called.
“A mole,” Sir Roderick offered.
“A slow fish?” Cass asked, a frown on her face.
Daphne shook her head again. Hmm. They weren’t getting it. What else were flowers about?
Standing upright again, she raised her face to the sky and opened her mouth. Then she used her hands to mimic a sprinkle as if rain was falling and she was drinking it. She leaned her head back, lifted her hand, opened her mouth, and pretended that she was pouring a drink into her t
hroat.
“An Egyptian,” Jane said.
“That makes no sense at all,” Lucy pointed out.
“I’m trying,” Jane replied with a shrug.
“No. Wait. She’s drinking,” Upton announced.
“The vicar!” Delilah offered. Mother shushed her more vehemently this time.
Daphne shook her head and scowled at her cousin.
“Oh, drinking spirits?” Lucy shouted. “I see.”
Before Daphne had a chance to shake her head, Rafe’s voice rang out across the room. “Surely not. The pristine goddess would never allow alcohol to touch her lips, not even imaginary alcohol.”
Daphne lowered her gaze and faced him. How dare he? A sharp retort came to her lips. She opened her mouth and snapped it closed. She couldn’t reply. And he knew it. No speaking during charades and all of that. He was purposely taunting her.
“But is it spirits?” Lucy pressed.
Daphne shook her head.
“Never think it,” Rafe replied. “Lemonade perhaps, but the faultless Lady Daphne would never drink alcohol. Is it lemonade, Lady Daphne? For surely it is not a spirit.”
That was it. She couldn’t take it. He’d pushed her too far. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot on the carpet. “Better to never drink imaginary alcohol than to drink far too much of the real stuff.”
The assembly fell quiet. Everyone’s gazes darted back and forth between Daphne and Rafe.
Sir Roderick’s bark of laughter was the only sound.
“How would you know how bad it is to drink too much when you’ve never had so much as a taste of the stuff?” Rafe countered.
Mother stood and wrung her hands. “Why don’t we all—”
“No, no, Mother. That’s quite all right. Let’s continue. I shan’t allow Captain Cavendish’s poor manners to ruin the fun,” Daphne said.
Cass gasped.
Daphne finally looked at Lord Fitzwell. He was frowning, the sides of his mouth decidedly turned down. She had to do something quickly to divert the attention away from her war of words with Rafe.
She tried to resume her flowerlike stance but couldn’t manage much. She wanted to run from the room. She glanced desperately at Sir Roderick and gave him a pleading look.
“A sunflower!” he shouted.
Daphne expelled her breath. Thank heavens for Roddy.
She nodded quickly.
“Well done,” Lord Berkeley said to Sir Roderick, clapping him on the back.
“I’ll go next,” Lucy gamely offered.
“Yes, please do,” Daphne replied, moving away from the center of the room. She cleared her throat and stopped next to her cousin’s chair. “Delilah, may I please speak to you in the next room?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Let me ensure that I understand you correctly,” Delilah said, pacing slowly across the rug in the drawing room next door to where the charades game was still taking place. Delilah’s hands were folded behind her back and her gamine little face was pulled up in a knowing smile. “You want me to distract Captain Cavendish?”
“Precisely.” Daphne nodded.
“And how exactly do you suggest I go about doing such a thing?”
“You know? Talk to him, follow him about, keep him from showing up every time I’m speaking with Lord Fitzwell. He seems to take great pleasure in causing me trouble and I’d like to see him stopped.”
“And in return for this service, you’ll give me what in exchange?” Delilah unfolded her arms from behind her back and tapped one finger against her plump little cheek.
Daphne sighed. Before this weekend was over, she might as well give her cousin all of her worldly possessions. “Name your price.”
Delilah’s eyes rounded. “Ooh, that is tempting.”
“Go ahead, you little urchin. What is it that you want?”
The finger continued to tap against Delilah’s cheek. “I want that new bonnet you purchased on Bond Street last week. J’adore it.”
“Done.”
“And…”
“And?” Daphne rubbed her temples. The girl knew how to bargain, she’d give her that.
“And I want you to—”
An unexpected rapping on the door interrupted their conversation. Rafe’s head appeared. “I do hate to interrupt, but it seems your poor Lord Fitzwell has become afflicted with a nosebleed. Your mother has called for some linens and he’s lying on the settee in the next room but the game of charades has decidedly come to an end.”
Daphne whirled to face Rafe. “Oh, heavens. Is he all right?”
“I expect him to be. It is only a nosebleed after all.” The scoffing in his voice was quite apparent.
“Yes, well, I’ll just allow you two to chat. Seems you may want to apologize to each other after that nastiness over charades. I’d begin with that.” Delilah trotted past Daphne.
“Where are you going?” Daphne called to her cousin. How could the girl even think of leaving now? “I thought we had an agreement,” Daphne added in a singsong voice.
“Nothing has been settled,” Delilah replied in the same singsong voice. “Besides, I’ve never seen a nosebleed before. I must go look.” She swept out the door and shut it behind her.
Daphne crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Rafe, who had entered the room and was even now looking down at her.
“I’m willing to accept your apology,” he said.
“My what! Oh, how magnanimous of you. The only problem is, I haven’t offered an apology.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
“You’ll be waiting till Hades has turned to ice. I have no intention of offering an apology.”
Rafe folded his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “That’s exceedingly rude of you.”
Daphne’s mouth fell open. “You just called me rude?”
“If the bonnet fits. You’re the one who essentially announced to the entire drawing room that I drink too much.”
She tossed a hand in the air. “That’s hardly news.”
Rafe cupped a hand beneath his chin and studied her. “You know what your problem is?”
Arms still crossed, she tapped her fingertips along her elbows. “I’m on tenterhooks to hear this.”
“Your problem is that in addition to being far too judgmental, you’re also far too coddled. Never a blow that hasn’t been softened for you by your family. Never a blow that won’t be softened.”
Daphne clenched her elbows so tightly they ached. “You don’t know anything about my life.”
“I think I do. Your every moment is planned to the smallest detail. Your clothing, your hair, what you’ll wear tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. What you’ll be doing next week and the next. You wrote a list of men to marry, for God’s sake, and scored them.”
“Who told you that?”
“Do you deny it?”
She simmered but kept her mouth firmly shut.
“You pretend to be outraged but if you’re angry it’s because you know there’s truth to what I’m saying. You’re more interested in titles and lineage than happiness.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Is it?” He sauntered over to her and leaned down. He was a scant inch from her face and Daphne’s damned traitorous knees weakened at the scent of him. “Tell me, Lady Daphne. Is my name on that list?”
The door opened again and Delilah stuck in her head. “Daphne, Aunt says to come quickly. Lord Fitzwell’s nosebleed is worsening and they’re discussing having the footmen carry him up to his room.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rafe jumped. Something, or more precisely someone, had pinched him. He was standing in the Swifts’ ballroom, wearing his uniform, formally dressed for the ball that was being held tonight in Daphne’s honor. Daphne and Lord Fitzwell’s honor, more precisely, but apparently the man hadn’t quite offered for her yet. Delilah had informed Rafe earlier that the nosebleed had been stopped by some additional pressure w
ith linens after the footmen had carried the bore up the staircase to his room. Too bad.
Who had pinched him? Rafe looked behind him, half expecting to see Delilah grinning up at him. Instead, he found Daphne’s Aunt Wilhelmina waggling her gray eyebrows in a manner he could only describe as unsettling.
“Captain Cavendish?” The older woman’s voice was sharp and accusatory.
“Yes,” Rafe replied, rubbing the offended spot on his rump.
“With you in the room, I have absolutely no heavenly idea why my niece is looking twice at that Fitzwarton fellow.”
Rafe hid his smile behind his fist, which he coughed into. “Surely you’re not implying that I am a suitable suitor for Lady Daphne’s hand?”
“Suitability has nothing to do with it, Captain. I’m strictly speaking about looks. Lord Fitzwell is handsome but you are both handsome and dashing.”
What was this family’s preoccupation with being dashing? “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Rafe inclined his head toward the wicked old widow. Pinching him had been egregious, but he’d heard that about her before.
“I’d settle for your upending their engagement. I can’t say I highly approve of Fitztottle. The man seems to be more interested in Daphne’s connections than Daphne.”
“With all due respect, my lady. Isn’t that the way of your, er, class?”
“My nephew Julian was able to find both love and rank. I expect Daphne can do the same.”
“A baron isn’t good enough for you, my lady?”
“Pish-posh. I don’t give a fig about his title. Fitzwhobert isn’t good enough for me. Or more specifically, my niece.” Another eyebrow waggle. “Now might I suggest you ask Daphne to dance.”
* * *
Daphne peeked into the ballroom. The space was magnificent. It looked as if an arboretum had been brought inside. Mother and Cass had surely outdone themselves. Daphne stood on the threshold to the ballroom, clutching Julian’s arm, pressing her hand to her middle, and taking large gulps of air. Tonight was the night. Lord Fitzwell would ask her to marry him tonight. He had to. And she would accept. Yes, there was the small matter of her annulment that would need to be settled before the actual marriage could take place, but that was a detail she intended to see to immediately after completing Rafe’s mission.
The Irresistible Rogue Page 9
