by Lily Dalton
“You were going to say I’m still trying to make up for that day in the country, when my father died.”
Kate peered at her, and softly said, “Aren’t you?”
“I suppose.” She closed her eyes against a sudden rush of tears. “Shouldn’t I? It was my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Kate assured her, as she had done countless times before.
“Go on and tell me the reasons why, just like everyone else does.” Memories crowded her mind, painful and sweet. “‘Animals are unpredictable. No one could have known your horse would startle and rear up like that.’ But, Kate, if I hadn’t acted like a spoiled child and refused to ride in, if I hadn’t been showing off, my father wouldn’t have had to come to get me.”
She had taken her father away from all those who loved him, and she would spend the rest of her life trying to atone for having done so.
Kate sighed. “Another day, another moment, and things would have turned out differently. You can’t blame yourself.”
But she did. And now she had failed them again. It was too much, given all that had occurred over the past several days, and this afternoon’s confrontation with Cormack. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
Kate studied her. “Very well. But you know if you ever would like to talk, I am here.”
“You know how much my family means to me,” she said. “Lord Raikes has the power to destroy it all. Haven’t I caused them enough pain for one lifetime? I feel so guilty for exposing them to possible scandal. Not just a scandal. It would be the scandal of the decade.”
“I am just as responsible. You were there at the Blue Swan to help me.”
“No, Kate, it was all my own doing—”
Kate shook her head. “But even if he’s angry, I can’t believe that he would ever hurt you.”
“You act as if you know him.”
A little smile curved her lips. “Well, he did send me some very nice roses.”
Daphne scowled at her. “You’re trying to make me laugh again, but it’s not going to work.”
“I thought you said you loved my facetiousness.” She reached to squeeze her hand. “Poor Daphne.”
“You should have seen him. He was so angry with me. The nerve of him, when I have every right to be just as angry with him.”
“Unfortunately, no one cares if an earl goes to the Blue Swan.”
“I thought you were trying to make me feel better.”
“I’m sorry, Daphne.” Kate stood from her chair, and slid the volume into its place on the bookcase. “It’s very late. Why don’t we get you into bed? You’ll feel better in the morning, I vow.”
“You go on. I’m going to stay here and read for a little while.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Very well,” Kate said reluctantly, moving toward the door. “Good night, then.”
After she was gone, Daphne dimmed the lantern and went to the window, finding it difficult to believe what had taken place below it just three nights before. She’d thought the moment was so magical. That she’d carry those memories with her forever. Now she wanted nothing more than to forget them.
So why did she stare into the night, wishing he would appear?
And then, quite suddenly, he did.
*
Like a vision, she stood at the window, just as he’d hoped she would—as if he’d conjured her from a fantasy, her hair in loose waves to her shoulders, her throat and arms bare, in a simple, cap-sleeved gown of white muslin. Only he had to keep reminding himself he couldn’t think of her like that anymore.
He waited, as she pushed open the frame.
“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“I took a chance, and look, there you are.”
“Here I am.”
The night sounds of the city rose up about them. Wheels and horses on the nearby street, and from somewhere, the lively strains of a violin.
“Just so you know, I didn’t tell them anything,” he said.
He heard her exhale…in relief?
“I suppose I should thank you, but forgive me if I don’t,” she said harshly.
Clearly, she wasn’t the least bit grateful, a response he hadn’t expected and that caused him to bristle.
He’d come here intending to speak in a more conciliatory fashion, but instead found himself responding in like manner. “Forgive you? I hadn’t intended to, but why?”
God, she provoked him, so much he almost forgot how sweet her kisses had been. Almost.
“You told me you were a saltpeter merchant,” she accused.
“I used to be one,” he countered. “I’m quite certain you’ve never been a lady’s maid.”
“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “You lied about your identity and led me to believe you were someone you weren’t, so how dare you threaten me for doing the same?”
“I never threatened, I only made an observation—”
“An observation that you had the power to destroy me?”
“I never said I would actually wreak the destruction of which I was capable.”
“The intent was there,” she said into the silence.
“Don’t suppose to know what I intend. Then, or now.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, and huffed, “Why did you come here? What do you want?”
He wanted things to be different between them, for them to stand eye to eye, rather than her being perched up there like a goddamn unattainable golden-haired Rapunzel and him on the ground, a worshipful pauper. The comparison only confirmed what he knew: that she was one of them and that he, despite his new title and fine address, would always be beneath them, figuratively ankle deep in dirt.
“Being that we are such dear friends,” he said in a dry tone. “I need a favor.”
“A favor?” She snorted unkindly. “And you think to have one from me?”
“Consider it more of a demand, if you wish.”
“I knew it,” she hissed, recoiling like an angry cat. “Blackmailer!”
He chuckled darkly, knowing he shouldn’t feel so amused. “Would you mind so terribly including me on the invitation list for your debut ball?”
“My ball. Why?” She gripped either side of the window frame. Bathed by shadows, she looked so beautiful, he felt it in his heart, an ache that hadn’t left him since seeing her on the stage that night. It made him angry to feel any emotion at all, but all he could think in the next moment was how the moonlight painted her hair an almost magical hue.
“Because I’m asking so nicely.”
“You said it was a demand. What are you, Cormack? Gentleman or villain? I’d really like to know.”
“May I get back to you regarding that? I haven’t quite decided myself.”
To his surprise, she softened at that bit of humor, her shoulders releasing their rigidity. “I’m supposing this has something to do with the man for whom you were searching at the Blue Swan. Do you believe he will be at my debut ball?”
“Perhaps.” It was easy to tell from the newspaper society page who ran with whom, and the Bevington name was never far from Rackmorton’s and his circle. “You know how it is with the ton. A title is only the first qualification. Admission requires formal introductions, and I have no connections of which to speak. There are thousands here in London for the season. I am concerned with only a few. To speak plainly, I need an ‘in,’ and I don’t have forever to wait for the right people to invite me to the right party.”
“The right party. Again, you believe he will be there at mine.”
“It is only a hunch.”
“Cormack, what did he do to you? The other night you told me he hurt someone you loved.”
“We aren’t on confiding terms, Daphne. Not anymore.”
“That much is true.” She straightened again. “Still, I won’t have you murdering someone at my ball. Mother would be scandalized.”
�
�As well she should be. Very well, then. In exchange for the invitation, and out of respect for your dear mother, against whom I hold no particular grudge, I promise that if I murder someone, I will do it somewhere else.”
“You’re generosity astounds, Lord Raikes,” she answered, heavy on the sarcasm. “But I fail to see why you need me at all. You took right up with the gentlemen this afternoon, without any difficulty at all.”
“Men rarely give a thought as to who is on an invitation list. They leave those details to their discerning wives, mothers, and daughters. I don’t have time or the inclination to charm all the ladies in town.”
Now that he was here in London, all he wanted to do was return to Bellefrost. He missed the quiet of the country, and little Michael. The season ran all the way to August. God help him if he had to stay here that long. For a time, the prospect of taking part had intrigued, and even dazzled. But everything had changed the moment he saw Daphne in Hyde Park. Her duplicity had only proven everything he despised about the upper classes, and the artificiality that tainted them all.
She half-sat on the sill. “Speaking of mothers, mine doesn’t know you, and when she sees your name on my list, she’ll have questions.”
“Make something up.”
“I’m not promising anything,” she answered cooly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Her dismissive tone riled him, and he responded in kind. “Don’t play coy, Miss Bevington. I’ll expect an invitation, delivered the same day as the others.”
He provided his address.
“Now you’re just playing games,” she said, leaning out from the window, no doubt oblivious to the alluring crush of her breasts against her bodice. “That address is just on the other side of those mews, and I know for a fact it belongs to his Grace, the Duke of Durden—”
“Who is spending the summer at his estate in Northumbria, and so I have taken the lease.”
For a moment he thought she might actually topple off the sill.
“Oh, you!” she accused, in obvious exasperation. “Have you made it your sole purpose in life to torment me?”
After seeing her in that carriage in Hyde Park this afternoon, the picture of cool and utterly controlled female perfection, he could only chuckle at having discomposed her so greatly. “I know it’s difficult for you to believe, but none of this has anything to do with you.”
It was a lie, of course, one exacted to preserve his pride. Even now, despite everything, he wanted to pull her down from her high perch, and into his arms and kiss her the way he had before.
“I’m going to close the window now,” she said in a surly tone.
“Good night, then.”
“I don’t wish the same for you.” She pulled at the window.
“Daphne.” He grinned, knowing a smile would ruffle her. If he couldn’t kiss her, then he would settle for the satisfaction of getting under her feathers.
She stopped. “What is it?”
“I might need you to introduce me to some people as well.”
At that, the window slammed shut.
Chapter Seven
In the end, his entrée into society hadn’t required Daphne Bevington’s assistance at all.
His original plan had worked magnificently. He’d invested in a horse that cost more than all of Bellefrost Manor on its finest day, taken that fine animal for a trot round the park, dressed like the earl he now was, with all care to keep his nose high in the air. Just like that, His Lordship had come a-calling.
Apparently the Marquess of Rackmorton had been so impressed by him, or perhaps only his horse, that he’d received a couriered invitation to the dowager Marchioness of Rackmorton’s Monday night musicale.
The marquess presently stood on the opposite side of a cavernous, candlelit study, pouring him a brandy. Pressing Daphne for an invitation to her ball had been wholly unnecessary. Now he wished he wouldn’t have. Indeed, he hoped he never saw her again. She would only muddy his thoughts and distract him from his course.
The guests were still arriving and the performance would not begin for another half hour. As soon as Cormack had crossed the threshold, he’d been swept away into his host’s private domain, a breathtaking, cavernous room with walls covered floor to ceiling with dramatic oils of landscapes, portraits of men long dead, and dogs.
“So truly, you’re completely fresh to London?” said the marquess, as he approached a cabinet cluttered with bottles of port and brandy. “You don’t know anyone, and haven’t ever passed a season in town?”
“I was not raised into this life.”
“Ah, a rarity among my circle, a man untried and inexperienced at these endless social requirements the rest of us find so dreadfully rote. You’re rather like a virgin, I’d say.” Rackmorton grinned, selecting a bottle. “Mind you, I adore virgins, but the female sort—but not the sort who frequent my mother’s parties. I warn you now, my friend, dally carefully with these or not at all, else you’ll find yourself wed.”
Cormack flinched inwardly at Rackmorton’s crass talk, but maintained a relaxed outward façade. While the handkerchief the cat-eyed girl had given him outside Bynum’s office had proved Rackmorton to be a member of the Invisibilis, he had no evidence the marquess, in particular, was the member of the Invisibilis who had dishonored his sister. Neither had he proven the man innocent. He had to start discounting suspects somewhere. Why not start here? Besides, befriending one of the members would eventually lead him to the others.
He turned to the window, through which guests could be seen mingling in an already crowded drawing room. “I have heard that Catalani will sing tonight. I’ve never before had the pleasure of hearing Madame.”
He’d made no mention of his time spent in Bengal, preferring to reveal as few details about himself as possible. People who were friends shared about their lives—about their family, their experiences, and travails. He already knew from their brief time together that he would never choose this man to be his friend.
Rackmorton, looking every bit the self-assured aristocrat, with his aquiline features and elegant carriage, crossed the carpet and handed him a glass. “Perhaps, then, this evening will hold some charm for you, as it’s intended to do. As for me, I’m afraid these events get rather stale. And God help you if everyone finds you intriguing—you’ll be invited to everything, and you’ll never have a moment’s rest.”
“I, myself, prefer the quiet of the country. Fresh air. Green fields.” His gaze narrowed on his host. “Or perhaps a good hunt, with friends.”
He waited, muscles tensed. Would Rackmorton bite?
Rackmorton half-sat on the edge of the desk and nodded. “But something brought you to London.”
Curses. He did not.
“Mhm,” he murmured in response.
“We are of a similar age. Am I wrong to presume that your family is, of late, pressuring you to marry, so as to provide the necessary heir?”
From the other side of the closed oaken door came the sounds of laughter. More guests having arrived for the musicale.
“Actually, no,” Cormack responded. “That’s all been arranged already, as part of a land agreement between families.”
“We English do prize our property. My cousin fell prey to a similar agreement.” Rackmorton winced, and gave a lopsided smile.
“He is married to the homeliest bumpkin but”—he shrugged—“they do have three fine, strong-boned sons.”
“There is that, at least,” Cormack answered.
“I don’t know what you’re in for, Raikes, but I have more refined tastes than that.” His host’s gaze narrowed upon him, as if scrutinizing his worthiness in some way. With a jerk of his head, he indicated a narrow corridor that enjoined the inner corner of the study. “I’ve got just enough time to show you something. Come have a look.”
Cormack followed him, curious to observe his host pull a key from his pocket. The corridor appeared to join the study with His Lordship’s sleeping chambers. Midway between, Rack
morton stopped outside a narrow door. With the turn of a key, they entered. His lordship quickly lit a lamp, and—oddly—secured the door behind them.
The duke lifted the lamp so that the light illuminated the walls. “What do you think?” He let out a low chuckle. “Aren’t they splendid?”
Paintings, lithographs, and sketches covered the walls, each portraying beautiful nude women in wanton poses, mostly alone, but some in the arms of male partners.
Cormack blinked, startled. “What an…extensive collection.”
Rackmorton reached to straighten a frame. “I’ve collected them since university. Some are very expensive and considered art because of the artist who painted them, while others are complete trash.”
Cormack loved the nude female form as much as the next man, but there was something about this place that made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than for Lord Rackmorton to again produce his little key and unlock the door, so they could return to the company of others. Hoping to hurry that moment along, he continued along the line of pictures, pausing to view each one, under the pretense of being interested, so that once he’d seen them all, they could call it an evening and leave.
Yet in the farthest recesses of the room, a curtain had been drawn across the wall.
“What’s behind there?” Cormack asked, not because he wanted to see, but because instinct told him he must.
Rackmorton shrugged. “Naughtier stuff. It’s not for everyone.”
“May I?” Cormack forced himself to say.
“Certainly.” Rackmorton winked. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He pushed past the curtain to find more paintings, but as he’d been warned, these canvases featured women bound or shackled at the wrists and ankles, with sashes or ropes across their mouths. Their faces expressed excitement and ecstasy, but in several, he thought he also glimpsed fear.
Heat and blackness gathered behind his eyes and his hand tightened on the glass.
“Sometimes I almost prefer them to real women,” Rackmorton murmured. “They don’t ever complain.” He caressed a fingertip over the hip of a reclining blonde.
A blonde, yes. It was then Cormack realized—and a glance backward confirmed it—that all the women portrayed in Rackmorton’s illicit private collection were blonde.
