A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  Daphne released a watery laugh, squeezing his hands. “It must seem very silly to you,” she told him, “finding me flustered and embarrassed by such a thing when I am clearly prone to embarrassing myself.”

  “Not at all silly,” he replied, shaking his head. “It makes perfect sense to me.”

  She looked at him in confusion, her eyes still luminous with tears.

  He smiled, rubbing her hands again. “You’ve spent this entire Season thus far making a spectacle of yourself without the slightest bit of embarrassment because you know exactly what you are doing, whatever it is. It is always on your terms. You can embarrass yourself because it is your plan, but you have no intention of being embarrassed. This man’s coming, whoever he is, was unexpected and embarrassing and painful, and it distressed you, as it probably should have.” He shook his head slowly once more. “Not at all silly.”

  Daphne looked at him for a long moment, then smiled softly. “Oh, Jamie. You are too clever for your own good.”

  That drew a swift smile from him. “I know.”

  She sighed and wiped at a tear on her cheek. “My reaction may not be silly,” she said in a low voice, “but I was.” She sniffed and tossed her elegantly coiffed hair. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else. My family knows, but they were there.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, Daphne,” Jamie insisted.

  She gave him a gentle smile that turned his insides upside down. “I know. But you deserve to know.”

  Over the next several minutes, she told him about something that she and her family had only referred to as the Incident since its occurrence two years ago. The man was Miles Watson, a neighbor of theirs, who had been a sort of sweetheart to Daphne for most of their childhood. As they had grown older, Miles had taken more of a personal interest in her, and she had the same for him. They had an understanding of an engagement, but no formal arrangements had been undertaken.

  During a house party celebrating the birthday of Daphne’s sister, Phoebe, Daphne had gone in search of Miles, only to discover him in a most compromising situation with her sister. It did not help matters that both Phoebe and Miles had laughed about it, even when the families had been told. They did not deny it, and nor, they claimed, had it been the first time.

  Hasty engagements had been arranged between Miles and Phoebe, but the marriage never took place, as both insisted they had no desire to marry. Phoebe had been sent away to live with an aunt in Shropshire, cast off from her family, but Daphne had been the one to feel the effects of the betrayal.

  Miles’s family had done all that they could to hush things up, and the relationship between the two families was now strained, but the way of the world made it possible for Miles to lead a relatively untarnished life once it had been clear there would be no children from what had taken place.

  “I was only recently brave enough to go into Reading,” Daphne confessed, her voice slightly hoarse from her tale. “It was nothing to go into the village nearby; they all have moved on with their lives. But in Reading, I’m a living reminder of what happened, and it all comes crashing back down. My parents insisted on this ridiculous Season so that I might make a good match to redeem our family name, but they seem to forget that I was the one injured in all of this. And I was not ready. How can I trust anyone after that? Any man? We had known him all of our lives, my parents practically worshiped him, and yet we were so mistaken. I was so mistaken. So silly. So naive.”

  Jamie sat back against the bench, reeling from the revelations. It was a terrible story, and he wished to heaven that Daphne had never had to endure it. No one so sweet and trusting should have had such a betrayal, especially not within her own family. It was no wonder she held herself so guarded; he could hardly blame her.

  “So your plan for the Season . . .?” he asked, looking at her with new interest.

  She smiled, though she was close to tears again. “Ruin myself without actually ruining myself. Ensure that I can stay safely in Berkshire and do exactly as I please for the rest of my days. If I am a great embarrassment, no one will make me come back and truly embarrass myself by being inadequate for another man.”

  It was a brilliant scheme, it truly was, if a heartbreaking one. There was simply one flaw in it.

  “You could never be inadequate for anyone worth having,” Jamie told her with raw honesty, reaching up to smooth away another tear. “You deserve everything you once wanted, everything you want now, and so much more. You deserve to stand up for yourself and repair the damage inflicted upon you through your own strength. You deserve to live, not to hide, Daphne.”

  Her face crumpled again, and she shook her head. “Don’t make me cry, Jamie. Don’t.”

  “I can’t help it,” he admitted, smiling at her, though she couldn’t see it. “I make everybody cry. But you can cry on me, if you like. I am more than willing to hold you, in a purely supportive manner.”

  Daphne laughed through her tears and reached up to stroke his jaw, shaking her head.

  “I’m serious, Daph.”

  She smiled at him. “I know you are, Jamie. That’s why I can laugh.”

  He returned her smile and took her hand from his jaw, though he loved having it there, and kissed the back of her glove, then turned her hand over to kiss her palm.

  He caught her brief intake of breath and smiled at it, lowering her hand to their laps, still holding it.

  Daphne stared at him for a long moment, tears still lingering, her lips curved in a delicate smile.

  At the risk of appearing anxious, Jamie cleared his throat. “So am I going to get to hold you, or . . .?”

  Daphne laughed again, this time far more merrily, and wiped at her eyes with her free hand. “Yes, Jamie, you can hold me,” she laughed. “But first . . .”

  Before he could inhale, her lips were on his, soft and inquiring, and he responded instinctively. One of his hands suddenly pulled at her waist while the other cupped her jaw, his thumb absently stroking against the skin. She was sweet, so sweet and so lovely, and her lips pulled at his with a delicacy that drove him wild. He brushed his lips over hers gently, over and over, knowing it would never be enough, but content for this small taste at last.

  He let her break away when she was ready, though his breathing was far too unsettled for his taste. Hers was only slightly more controlled, and she eyed him with curiosity, a smirk on her lips.

  Jamie sat back, then lifted his brows at her. “Now I can hold you?”

  Daphne giggled and leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Only for a moment. No ruination here, remember?”

  “Right, I remember,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her to cradle her, but not too tightly. “I shall hold you in a most gentlemanly fashion, I can assure you.”

  She snorted softly in his hold. “Is there such a thing?”

  “Of course,” he protested with mock offense. “There is a gentlemanly way of doing everything.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “You really do not. It is quite tedious, very boring.”

  “So are gentlemen.”

  He coughed in mock distress. “Oh, that hurts! Boring? Tedious? I have never been so insulted!”

  She laughed shortly, nuzzling against him. “I doubt that very much. Knowing you as I do now, and hearing about your family, I would wager they have given you far worse. I know I have recently.”

  “True,” he sighed, rubbing his hands up and down her back as he felt her shiver. “You have tested my gentlemanly limits, and I do not know how I shall bear it.”

  She looked up at him with interest. “Then you’ll release me from our courtship?”

  He frowned at her immediately. “Not a chance, Daph.”

  Daphne scowled. “It was worth a try.”

  He smiled and seized the opportunity, leaning down to kiss her just once. “Not a chance,” he whispered against her lips.

  She shivered again, but he suspected fo
r a different reason. Then she shifted away from him and rose from the bench. “We had better return,” she said, averting her eyes. “I wouldn’t want us to be missed.”

  Jamie remained on the bench, looking up at her. “Daphne.”

  She turned to face him, trying for her usual demeanor with him. “Yes?”

  He could see right through the facade and gave her a slow smile that made her eyes widen. “Please tell me I can kiss you again. You cannot give me a taste and then forbid me from ever having it again. That would not be kind.”

  “Not sporting, you mean,” she whispered, folding her arms.

  He shook his head. “Not sporting.”

  Daphne stared at him for a long moment, then lifted her chin, and gave him a firm nod. “You may earn your kisses through very good behavior.”

  “According to you or to me?” he asked suspiciously, rising to his feet.

  “Probably both,” she admitted. “But you may not steal them. Understood?”

  Jamie nodded obediently. “Understood.” He held out his hand. “And if you are comforted, Miss Hutchins, I believe I claimed a dance.”

  She smiled and placed her hand in his. “Thank you for your comfort, Mr. Woodbridge. It was very gentlemanly.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly, winking at her. “Thank you for the compliment, Miss Hutchins. Might that be worthy of a kiss?”

  She immediately went on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Just enough.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, then offered his arm to her. “Not quite what I meant, Daph.”

  She took his arm, and he led her back toward the house. “You didn’t think I was going to make this particularly easy, did you, Jamie?”

  “Of course not,” he scoffed as they ascended the terrace stairs. “When have you made anything easy for me?”

  Daphne slapped his chest, laughing, and they caught sight of Jonathan leaning on the terrace railing.

  He nodded at them both. “This is me playing chaperone,” he informed them. “Don’t tell anyone, but I could neither see nor hear you, and while I trust that you were well-behaved, I will properly perjure myself if there is speculation of anything untoward.”

  Daphne looked at Jonathan with a smile, then turned to Jamie, tilting her head. “I don’t suppose your cousin could earn a kiss.”

  “No,” Jamie said flatly, glaring at her. “Absolutely not.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Jonathan mused, considering the idea.

  “No.”

  Daphne laughed and shook her head. “Come on, Jamie. I want that dance you said I promised. But I am pointedly ignoring you the entire time.”

  Jamie looked down at her with a wolfish smile. “You think you are, Daph. But just you wait.”

  Chapter Seven

  Daphne was beside herself. Falling apart at the seams. In a whole heap of trouble. In over her head.

  All because of Jamie.

  Ever since that night with Miles, whose name she could now think or say without pain, he had been more fixed by her side, no matter what she said or did. Two more parties with horrendous dresses, loud laughter, and ruining at least six card games where they were partnered, and he never appeared even the slightest bit irritated with her.

  She had been asked her opinion on country living as opposed to London, and her response had made several others cough in surprise, but Jamie had only smiled at it. He told her later that he quite agreed.

  Agreed? She was intentionally being difficult, saying things for reactions, and he agreed?

  What was it going to take to get this man away from her?

  She chewed on the inside of her lip while she sat in the theater box, the same one from weeks before, the same man beside her, and the same agitation rising within her as his fingers dragged over the same spot they had before.

  She would probably have to actually want him to be away from her for any of her ideas to work, and she had never wanted anything less than to be away from Jamie.

  Except coming to London at all.

  And even that was up for debate.

  Without coming to London, she would never have met Jamie, and he had changed everything for her. She would never forget his sweetness and understanding when Miles had shown up, and she could not get their kiss out of her head. Despite saying that he could earn kisses, they had yet to share another one. She had been keeping him at a distance, which was the hardest thing she had ever done. More and more she just wanted to wrap his arms around her and throw away all of her efforts for the Season.

  She couldn’t.

  She had come too far. She had spent the last two years not talking about the Incident. About what Miles and Phoebe did. About how she felt. How she hurt. About anything at all.

  She had not talked in such a long time, and now she was talking. She was acting.

  She couldn’t give in now.

  And he needed to stop distracting her with the gentle strokes on her arm.

  “Stop,” she hissed.

  The stroking stopped. “What?” he replied in a very low tone. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re stroking my arm,” she informed him, as if he didn’t know. “Stop.”

  Jamie was staring at her, but she kept her eyes on the stage, desperate to focus on the opera and still her pulse.

  Halfway through a stunning trio, the stroking started up again. She did not react, knowing he would be looking for a reaction, and increased her focusing efforts on the stage. When it was once more driving her crazy, she plucked his fingers from her arm and settled them in his lap.

  He chuckled softly, which sent a warm ripple down her spine, rather like the stroking on her arm did.

  Twice more he did the same thing, and she responded the same way.

  The third time, she huffed a sigh. “I will tie your hand to your chair,” she whispered, smiling in spite of herself.

  “I’ll risk it,” he said, his mouth too close to her ear.

  Why did that sound so appealing? Why couldn’t it sound like the worst idea in the world? Why didn’t his touch make her skin crawl instead of sing?

  Why?

  The stroking resumed, slower and more pointed, even through the material of the glove she could feel its fiery trail along her forearm and down to her wrist.

  It was incredible; no one looking into the box and seeing them would have any idea that Jamie was doing anything at all. They would not be able to see that Daphne was slowly being driven wild by this impossibly attractive, charming, good-hearted man with a sharp wit. Every pass of his fingers sent her pulse ricocheting, and if the glove weren’t in place, he would feel it for himself.

  She glanced at him and saw a small smirk on his lips.

  That maddening fool knew exactly what he was doing to her.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  Daphne sat as still as she could, her eyes fixed on the stage. She knew Jamie was as attuned to her as she was to him, and if she reacted at all, he would know. She forced her expression to be perfectly bland and ignored every passing stroke of his fingers.

  Every. Slow. Brush.

  It was worse than before, knowing he was paying attention, hiding how she loved it . . .

  He was watching her now, pointedly and without shame.

  She was not pulling her hand away. She was not moving his hand.

  She was not tying his hand to the chair.

  She took pity on the poor, deluded man who was bent on courting her and gave him the smallest, slightest smirk.

  His faint exhalation was all she needed to hear. She closed her eyes and let down her resistance for just this moment, just for him. She let herself feel and enjoy being so tenderly touched, barely anything at all, and yet she could feel it down to her bones. It was so easy, so natural, so comfortable, yet it made her feel alive.

  Just as Jamie did.

  Slowly, so she wouldn’t alter his pattern, Daphne rotated her hand so that her palm faced upward. On cue, Jamie’s fingers passed up toward her wrist once,
twice, and on the third pass he moved farther down and laced his fingers with hers.

  If she hadn’t been focused on controlling her expression and pretending to be unaffected, she would have smiled enough to make her cheeks ache. As it was, she would strain the muscles in her face containing the smirk she wore, and she curved her fingers around his.

  “Daph,” he whispered, and her heart lifted within her.

  The sudden hum of voices broke the moment as the first act ended and the interval began. They both sat for a moment, fingers entwined, before her parents and aunt moved from their seats in front of them, and they released hands quickly.

  “Shall we take a turn?” her mother asked with a warm smile.

  “Of course,” Jamie said politely, rising. “After you, Mrs. Hutchins. Mr. Hutchins. Mrs. Ansley.”

  They made their way out of the box, and Daphne was grateful for the interval and a more public setting where she might collect her thoughts and find sense once more. Jamie would behave with others around, and Daphne would . . .

  Well, she would be very, very quiet until she could untangle her own thoughts.

  Her parents and Josephine stopped to speak with some acquaintances of theirs, while Daphne and Jamie waited nearby, watching other guests meander by.

  “Too many feathers,” Jamie commented after a group of ladies passed.

  Daphne giggled. “And too much fragrance. I can barely breathe.”

  “I hope you aren’t taking notes. I couldn’t bear that as well.”

  “It did cross my mind.”

  Jamie groaned softly, and then silenced himself as her parents returned to them. They only walked on a moment or two more before her mother expressed a desire to return to the box once more.

  Once inside, before they could return to their seats, her mother turned to face her, looking downright murderous.

  Daphne reared back in surprise. “Mama?”

  “What is this I have been hearing, Daphne?” she demanded in a dangerous hiss, hands on her hips. “What have you been doing with the opportunities I have given you this Season?”

  “I . . .” Daphne tried, feeling anxious and wishing Jamie wasn’t here for this.