Rafe took a deep breath. He didn’t know why he’d stayed here these last two days when Daphne obviously wanted him to go. Something about her desire to get him to leave caused his competitive nature to take effect and then he’d be damned if he’d go. But it was true that he didn’t have a good feeling about this Fitzwell chap. Why Swifdon was allowing his sister to consider the man’s suit, Rafe would never know. No. He knew why. It was because Daphne wanted him. And Lady Daphne got what Lady Daphne wanted. She always had. Which was exactly why Rafe and she could never be together. He couldn’t offer a young lady like Daphne a life of luxury. He certainly wasn’t rich, and blue blood did not flow through his veins. No. Daphne was meant for a member of the ton. But not Fitzwell, for God’s sake. Couldn’t she see that she’d be running rings around him before the honeymoon was over? Rafe shook his head. No doubt, that’s exactly what she wanted to be able to do.
Why Rafe had asked her to kiss him, he’d truly never know. It was something about the way she’d seemed so ready to dismiss him, seemed so unaffected by him. She’d been affected by him once. And God knew, he’d been affected by her, too. Swifdon would pummel him if he’d known the thoughts that had raced through his mind last spring, let alone the liberties Rafe had taken in the library last night, but by God those few seconds before the Duchess of Claringdon had come in, they’d been worth it. Rafe popped the cheroot from his lips and grinned. He tossed the nub to the grass and ground it under his boot. He turned to head to the house just as a peculiar sound reached his ears.
Singing.
It was Daphne. Singing. Her voice was high, and happy, and sweet. He found himself smiling at the noise. Until he realized what she was singing. Good God. It was a bawdy song. One he’d heard in taverns more than once.
Alas, my fair maiden. Alas, alas.
Why do you roam so free?
Your hair, your hips, your nose, your lips.
Are irresistible to me.
She turned the corner around the hedge and stopped singing abruptly upon seeing him. A hiccup escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth.
A grin spread across his face. “Why, Grey. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before.”
Her hand fell away from her mouth. She gave him a catlike grin, then she twirled in a circle, her silvery satin skirts swinging around her dainty ankles. “Alas, alas, alas,” she sang.
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Grey, how many glasses of champagne did you drink?”
“Only two.”
“Only the two I saw you drink earlier?”
“Only two more in addition to those two and one more.”
“Good God.”
“What?” Her eyes blinked and then rounded.
“You mean to tell me you’ve had five glasses of champagne this evening and you’ve never had spirits before?”
“Ha! I’ve had spirits before. Just goes to show what you know.” She picked up her skirts and curtsied to the hedge. “Good evening, sir.”
Rafe shook his head. “When have you had spirits before?”
“When I left finishing school. Mrs. Pennyhammer served us each a thimble of wine.”
Rafe shook his head. “A thimble of wine couldn’t get a mouse drunk. I think you should sit down.” He moved to take her arm and escort her to the stone bench, but she sidestepped him and leaped up onto the top of the bench. Standing like that, she was a head taller than he.
“Aha!” she said. “I can see things much more clearly from up here. Do you know how dreadfully inconvenient it is to be the opposite of tall?”
“You mean short?” He moved to stand in front of the bench to help her down.
“No, sir, I do not. I don’t care for that word.”
He needed to distract her, not argue with her. “What can you see so clearly from up there?” He raised his hand to assist her.
She lifted her head to the sky and spread her arms out to her sides. “Why, I can see the moon. I can see the stars. I can nearly see over the top of the hedges.” She giggled at herself.
“Come down from there before you trip and hurt yourself.” He moved even closer to the bench and stood directly in front of her. Instead of taking his hand, she looked down at him and braced both her palms on either of his shoulders.
“I can see you,” she breathed, staring into his eyes.
“What can you see about me?” he asked, suddenly serious.
“That you’re far too handsome. Far, far too handsome. The kind of handsome that could get a young lady into a great deal of trouble.”
Rafe eyed her carefully. She found him handsome, did she? She was quite inebriated but still … That was nice to hear. He lifted his arm to her. “Allow me to escort you back inside.”
“I shall allow you to escort me back inside upon one condition,” she announced. She curtsied to the rosebush beside the bench.
He groaned. “You and your family and your blasted conditions.”
“That’s it, take it or leave it.” She sang the words instead of saying them.
Rafe cleared his throat. He couldn’t very well leave her out here alone in her condition. She might trip and fall into a bush. She might break her leg trying to descend from the bench. She might be accosted by some untoward chap. Any number of things could happen. “Fine. What is the condition?”
She put her hand on his cheek and fire leaped between them. “You must tell me a secret.”
Rafe pulled her hand away and offered his arm. “I think we’ve had enough conditions for each other for one weekend.” He tugged her hand lightly, hoping to help her from the bench safely.
Daphne didn’t budge. Her slippered feet remained firmly planted on the stone bench. “Fine, then. I’ll tell you a secret.”
Rafe’s head snapped up. She’d certainly got his attention. “What’s your secret?”
She leaned down and the softness of her breath was a strawberry-scented whisper against his ear. “I liked kissing you the other night. I thought it was exceedingly memorable.”
“Is that so?” he drawled. He briefly considered kissing her again. A sober Daphne Swift was tempting to be certain. An inebriated one, also tempting, but he wasn’t about to take advantage of a young lady who was obviously going to have the devil of a head come morning. He didn’t envy her.
“Yes, that’s so,” she announced, straightening back up again and eyeing him down the length of her nose. “What do you think?”
He shook his head. This couldn’t end well. “I think you’re a bit worse for drink and I’d better get you back to the house.”
“So much for being adventurous, Captain.” She laughed. Before Rafe had a chance to ask her what exactly she meant by that, Daphne leaned down again. For a moment, he was certain she was going to kiss him. But there were footsteps on the gravel path coming toward them. The odds of it being Lucy Hunt again were far too low. They could not be seen kissing. It would ruin Daphne. Rafe took a step back to avoid her kiss and she tumbled off the bench onto him. They both fell onto the soft grass, Daphne completely splayed atop him.
Just as Lord Fitzwell came around the hedge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Lady Daphne? What is the meaning of this?” Lord Fitzwell demanded, hands on his hips.
Daphne turned her head and looked up at him and began to giggle uncontrollably. “I … I fell off the bench.”
“Directly onto Mr. Cavendish?” Fitzwell’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious.
“That’s Captain Cavendish,” Rafe said, struggling to pull Daphne off him and stand up without hurting her. “And yes, it was entirely an accident.”
“It looked like a bit more than an accident,” Lord Fitzwell said, pulling at his lapels, a deep frown on his face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Rafe maneuvered himself to his feet and helped Daphne up as well. She continued to laugh, which was not helping things. Not in the least.
Daphne turned and bent over, apparently searching for something in the he
dge. “I’ve lost my reticule,” she said. She clearly wasn’t comprehending the import of her would-be groom’s presence, nor his insinuations.
“Daphne, stop,” Rafe said.
Daphne swung around, her giggling ended, a surprised look on her face.
Lord Fitzwell raised his brows in total effrontery. “You’re calling her by her Christian name?”
Rafe straightened to his full height and assumed his rigid army-captain stance. “I assure you, Lord Fitzwell, absolutely nothing untoward happened here tonight between Lady Daphne and myself.”
Fitzwell turned to Daphne. “Lady Daphne, is this true?”
Daphne raised her nose in the air. “Lady Daphne, is this true?” she echoed, and then burst out laughing again.
“Lady Daphne, please,” Lord Fitzwell said. “Why, I, if I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if you were … intoxicated.”
“There’s no need to wonder. I am intoxicated,” Daphne said, still giggling. “I’m ever so intoxicated and at present I’m wondering why I haven’t been intoxicated more often.”
“No. No,” Rafe said. “She’s not intoxicated. She’s just—”
“I am intoxicated!” Daphne insisted, stamping her foot.
Rafe groaned.
She brushed a bit of grass off her sleeve. “I am quite pleasantly intoxicated. And I have one question for you, Lord Fitzwell.”
“Daphne, don’t,” Rafe warned.
“I’ll thank you to stop using Lady Daphne’s Christian name,” Fitzwell added.
Rafe gave the baron a condemning glare.
“I have one question for you,” Daphne repeated, pointing a finger high in the air.
“What’s that?” Lord Fitzwell said, still tugging on his lapels.
“What does your backside look like?”
Lord Fitzwell’s face contorted into a look of such utter confusion and horror that Rafe wondered if his nose would begin spontaneously bleeding again.
“Pardon me?” Lord Fitzwell asked. His valet would never get that coat right again after all the tugging the baron was subjecting it to tonight.
“I asked what your backside looks like. Please turn around. I’d like to see it, to compare.”
“Lady Daphne, you’re not well. Allow me to escort you back to the house.” Rafe grabbed her elbow. If she said another word there would not only not be an engagement, but Daphne’s reputation might be shredded past all repair.
“I am perfectly fine,” Daphne said, struggling to pull herself from Rafe’s grasp. “I would like another glass of champagne, actually.”
“You cannot possibly mean that,” Fitzwell said.
“Why not?” Daphne asked, blinking at Lord Fitzwell. “Would you like to hear a song?”
Rafe smothered his smile.
Lord Fitzwell tugged at his cravat this time. No doubt the man was sweating. So was Rafe. “I came out here to— Well, I’ll just say it. I came from your brother’s study, where we had a talk, came to an understanding. He provided his blessing in my asking for your hand. Your cousin told me I might find you here.”
Daphne lifted her hand in front of her face and stared at it. “My hand? I thought Delilah was asleep and I can’t imagine why you would want my hand. It’s a funny expression, isn’t it?” She waved her hand in front of her face, still staring at it.
“Lady Daphne, have you or have you not been drinking?” Fitzwell demanded, stamping his booted foot.
Daphne lifted her skirts and performed a simple three-step. “I have indeed. Quite a lot. Champagne, you know. It’s ever so delicious.”
Fitzwell frowned at her. “I must have your word that you’ll never drink to excess again if we are to marry.”
“Never? Never again?” Daphne asked, one hand clutching her necklace and her nose scrunched adorably.
“That’s right. And I’d also like your word that nothing untoward happened between you and Captain Cavendish here tonight.”
Daphne’s face instantly sobered. She plunked her hands on her hips. “What did you think had happened?”
“I certainly don’t know but it looked quite bad,” Fitzwell replied.
Daphne’s hands remained firmly planted on her hips. “So you just assumed that we had what? Been rolling around on the grass together on purpose?”
Fitzwell puffed up his chest. “I didn’t know what to think.”
Daphne raised her nose in the air and drew herself up to her entire five-foot height. “Lord Fitzwell, you are judgmental.”
The baron’s eyes nearly bugged from his skull. “Why, I—”
“And not only are you judgmental, you’re also quite wrong.”
Fitzwell’s face turned an alarming shade of red. Rafe slid his hands into his pockets and whistled. There was nothing left to do here but to let this little drama play out.
A scattering of pebbles announced someone else’s arrival as Claringdon came around the hedge. “Is something the matter? I was out for a walk and I heard a commotion.”
Lord Fitzwell’s eyes lit up. “No. Nothing. I was just about to ask Lady Daphne here for her hand in marriage. I do hope you’ll be able to attend the ceremony, your grace.” Another obsequious bow from the baron. Rafe rolled his eyes.
Claringdon’s shrewd gaze covered the three of them. “If Lady Daphne wishes it.”
“I do not wish it,” Daphne announced.
Rafe scratched the back of his neck.
“Lady Daphne, you cannot mean to exclude the Duke of Claringdon from our wedding,” Lord Fitzwell said, sounding entirely shocked. He turned to Claringdon and bowed again. “I’m sorry, your grace. She’s not well this evening and—”
“I don’t mean that at all,” Daphne interjected. “I mean that I do not wish to marry you, Lord Fitzwell.”
Fitzwell’s head swiveled to face her. “What? Why?”
“I do not think we suit. Nor fit … well.” She couldn’t help breaking into a new round of giggles over that one. Rafe bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing too.
Fitzwell’s face was quickly turning a mottled shade of red. “I cannot imagine what you mean. I was under the impression that you would welcome my suit. I thought that we—”
“That was before I realized how judgmental you are,” Daphne announced.
“I don’t know what to say.” Lord Fitzwell’s hands returned to savagely grip his lapels. “I am in shock and am entirely without words.”
Ah, finally, his opening.
“That may be for the best.” Rafe flashed the baron a grin. “The lady has spoken, my lord. Might I suggest you leave?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The soft knock at her bedchamber door the next morning didn’t wake Daphne. She was already wide awake and had been all morning. Most of the night, too, if she was honest. Last night, Julian had sent a maid with some concoction a friend of his had invented for people who’d had too much to drink. She’d downed the noxious stuff and then, a sputtering mess, had fallen fitfully to sleep. But she’d been up with the sun, biting at the tip of her thumbnail and replaying the whole awful sordid night in her head.
“Who is it?” she called toward the door.
“It’s Cass, dear. May I come in?”
Daphne sighed. No doubt her sister-in-law had heard all about her foibles last night. “Of course,” she called back.
Cass came sweeping into the room wearing a pretty peach day dress and a wide smile on her lovely face. She made her way over to the bed, pulled the chair from the writing desk next to it, and took a seat. “How are you feeling, Daphne?”
Daphne groaned and rubbed a hand to her forehead. “Like I was run over by the mail coach.”
Cass winced. “I’m so sorry.” She reached out and patted Daphne’s hand.
Daphne pressed a knuckle to her forehead. “Ooh, I knew alcohol was evil. I knew it. I cannot imagine why I thought it was a good idea to have any.”
Cass’s cornflower-blue eyes were filled with sympathy. “In moderation, it isn
’t so bad. But I hear that moderation was not with you last night.”
Daphne heaved a sigh. “It wasn’t. Not a bit. Oh, Cass, I completely ruined my life last night.”
Cass gave her a slight smile. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of an exaggeration to say you ruined your entire life?”
Daphne put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Very well. Perhaps not my entire life, but a good portion of it. Certainly my plans for the future.”
Cass smoothed the bedsheets with one hand. “You mean your engagement to Lord Fitzwell?”
“Yes. Not to mention my reputation. If Lord Fitzwell tells anyone what he saw, I’ll be a disgraced spinster the rest of my life.” Daphne bit her thumbnail again.
Cass patted her knee above the blanket. “Don’t worry about that, dear. Julian had a nice long chat with Lord Fitzwell before he left.”
Daphne blinked. “Lord Fitzwell left?”
“Yes.”
“And Julian had a chat with him?” Daphne gulped.
“Julian made it quite clear that he’d better not hear a word against your character or he’d take it up with Fitzwell privately.”
Daphne breathed a sigh of relief. Julian was a crack shot. No one in his sound mind would want to face him in a duel. “I’m glad to hear that, but if I hadn’t acted so recklessly Julian wouldn’t have had to threaten poor Lord Fitzwell.”
“Don’t worry about Fitzwell. I think he was extremely—how did you say it?—judgmental last night.”
Daphne whimpered. “Were you there, too?”
Cass shook her head. “No. I heard about it afterward from Julian.”
“Was Julian there?” Daphne groaned.
“No. He heard about it from Captain Cavendish.”
“Well, Captain Cavendish certainly was there. That much I remember. I blame him for this.”
Cass shook her head. “Why?”
“Because he’s … he’s just so…”
The Irresistible Rogue Page 11
