by Regina Scott
Daphne hopped to her feet. “I can tell you. She’s alive and well and living outside London.”
Chapter Ten
Brooks Sheridan stared at Daphne. “The dowager Lady Brentfield is in London? Why hasn’t she been seen this Season? How can I pay my respects?”
Oh, would she never learn? She’d sat too long, and her brain had gone numb so that she forgot herself. Daphne could see Sir James, Emily, and Wynn all gazing at her with varying degrees of disappointment. Mr. Harrop was scowling once more. Another word on the subject, and she’d spill Priscilla’s Dreaded Family Secret.
“I believe Mother will be looking for me,” she murmured. Then she turned away from their censure and hurried from the room.
But she refused to join Ariadne and the others in the orangery. She needed movement, air. She strode down the corridor, muslin snapping at her ankles. Oh, these horrid fashionable skirts! Her riding habits had so much more room to move. For how could she think without moving?
Where was that door to the outside? She felt as if the paneled walls were drawing closer, the ceiling lowering. Why couldn’t she just escape?
“They continued the interview,” Wynn said, falling into step beside her as if he was meant to be there. His boots flashed with his steps, limp pronounced. She forced herself to slow.
“I’m glad my mistake didn’t cost Emily the information she was seeking,” Daphne said, gaze going to the carpeted floor.
“Indeed no. In fact, I think her questioning will go easier now that we can dispel any rumors that the dowager Lady Brentfield has passed on and might be haunting the place.”
Daphne blew out a breath. “I shouldn’t have spoken. I hope you know I’m not an idiot, Wynn. It’s just this sitting about fills my head with fog. I feel as if I’m slipping away. Do you think I might be mad?”
She chanced a glance his way to find a soft smile on his face. Somehow, that made the last few minutes more bearable.
“You’re not insane,” he told her, pausing at a painting of horses thundering across a field. “You were born for adventure. The rest of the world must seem terribly tedious compared to that.”
“Not always tedious,” she assured him, making herself stop beside him. “I enjoy talking with my friends, listening to a music recital. But sooner or later it’s as if someone dims the lights, and I simply cannot find my focus. Mother says I just need discipline. I have discipline—I learned to ride and dance and follow the rules of good Society. But I cannot seem to pay attention at all the times expected. It is a great source of frustration for me.”
“I understand a bit about frustration,” he said. “Before the accident, I loved jumping—hedgerows, streams, fences. I felt as if I were flying.”
Daphne knew the feeling. “I’m so sorry you fell, Wynn. That must have been awful.”
He had not spoken much about the accident. She thought it must be painful to recall it. Yet how could he forget when every day his leg reminded him?
“At the time, I didn’t even feel it,” he murmured. “I was more concerned about my horse.” His gaze was on his boots. “She had to be put down.”
“Oh, Wynn.” Daphne put a hand on his arm, chest hurting.
“And then the physicians told Mother I would never walk again.” His voice was as tight as the muscles under her fingers. “You should have heard her sobbing, Daphne, that her son would be a cripple, confined to bed or chair for the rest of his life. I refused to be that person.”
Daphne squeezed his arm. “And you aren’t. I often forget about the matter entirely.”
He glanced up, eyes as blue-green and deep as the ocean. “So do I, when I’m with you. Daphne—”
“Daphne!”
She turned at the call to find Emily hurrying up to them. Wynn’s hand fell away.
“Forgive me, Emily,” Daphne said, trying not to cringe at the look on her friend’s face. “I didn’t meant to blurt it out that way.”
“Forgiven,” Emily said, face flushed. “But you must be more careful. Particularly around people who do not know us well.”
“Like Mr. Harrop,” Daphne agreed with a nod.
“Actually, I was thinking of Mr. Sheridan,” Emily replied. “He appears to wish to help me and Jamie investigate, for he’s asking entirely too many questions, of us and the staff. I called a recess, but he shows no inclination of finding other pursuits. Can you entice him away?”
Daphne thought Wynn stiffened, but she couldn’t help her grin. “Watch me.” She started back the way she had come, then paused when she realized Wynn wasn’t beside her.
Looking back, she saw him standing where she’d left him, gazing after her. For someone who was always so open and free with his opinions, his face seemed still, shuttered, as if his own light had dimmed.
“Coming?” she asked.
For a moment, he hesitated, and she couldn’t imagine why. Had she diminished his opinion of her by her confession? No help for that now. The horse was out of the stable, and there was no putting it back. But somehow, she would have thought Wynn would be the last person to judge her for her whimsy.
To her relief, he nodded. “Of course, Daphne. What would you have of me?”
“Ask the groom to bring round your phaeton,” she said. “We’re going to take Mr. Sheridan for a ride.”
*
Squiring Sheridan about the countryside would not have been Wynn’s first choice of ways to spend the morning, and just when he’d found the nerve to tell Daphne how he felt about her. He’d sooner put the fellow on the next mail coach to London, preferably on a chilly outside seat. Besides, Sheridan looked entirely too satisfied as he led Daphne to the phaeton, where Wynn sat at the reins.
Daphne had taken the time to put on a bonnet with ivy clustered on the crown and a green velvet spencer that hugged her curves. She grinned at Wynn as she approached. Maybe if he thought of Sheridan as nothing more than a footman he could stop gritting his teeth.
Apparently Sheridan had the same thought. “Nice of you to play coachman, Fairfax,” he said with a smile that looked more like a smirk to Wynn. The fellow released Daphne’s arm to hop up into the passenger seat, then held out his hand as if to help Daphne in beside him.
Daphne, sweet Daphne, ignored the fellow. “Give me a hand, Wynn,” she said, reaching up while gathering her skirts as she stepped up onto the fender.
Wynn reached down and pulled her up onto the driver’s bench beside him. It was a bit of a squeeze, but he wouldn’t have traded places with the prince. He could almost feel Sheridan’s chagrin as the Corinthian settled himself in the back alone.
“You will let me drive part of the way to Wenwood, won’t you?” Daphne asked as Wynn maneuvered the carriage out of the stable yard.
He grinned at her. “And what will you give me for my trouble?”
She apparently thought a moment, brows knit inside her silk-lined bonnet. Then she brightened. “I have a new bow. You may use it when Lord Brentfield brings out the archery targets tomorrow.”
He knew his face must match Sheridan’s for chagrin.
Their passenger barked a laugh. “I’d hold out for higher stakes if I were you, Fairfax.” He leaned forward, putting his face between them. “I’d ask for no less than another kiss from those perfect lips.”
Daphne blushed. For someone so bold, her cheeks turned the most delicate color of pink, like the inside of a seashell.
“And what would you do to earn a kiss?” she demanded with a toss of her head.
“Walk to the ends of the earth,” Sheridan promised.
“I’ll pull over,” Wynn said. “You can start now.”
Daphne laughed.
Wynn slapped the reins, springing the horses forward, and Sheridan fell back into his seat.
Unfortunately, he refused to stay there. “Have you visited this part of the country before, Miss Courdebas?” he asked, edging forward once more as if to hear her answer over the rush of wind.
Daphne obligingly swung in
her seat to look at him, and the curve of her body brushed Wynn’s arm. He struggled to keep his focus on the road.
“My friends and I attended the Barnsley School for Young Ladies not far from here,” she explained. “That’s how we met Lady Brentfield. She was our art teacher.”
Sheridan nodded. “Ah, I thought I’d heard rumors to that effect. And did Lord Brentfield come upon the pair of you painting the countryside and fall madly in love with her? I know the country air can influence a fellow that way.”
Wynn was highly tempted to shove him back in his seat again, but by the way Sheridan’s hand was gripping the back of the bench, he expected as much.
Daphne remained oblivious. “No. We met him at a house party here when he first became earl, and he and Miss Alexander hit it off straight away. It was terribly romantic.”
“I imagine life with you would be just as romantic,” he said in that ridiculously deep voice. Didn’t Daphne notice that he sounded like a puffed up bullfrog, croaking on the pond as if he were king of the world?
“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan,” she said. “That is very sweet of you.”
“Sweets for the sweet,” he insisted.
Wynn wanted to gag. Instead, he reined in, and Sheridan jarred forward to smack his nose on the seat back.
Refusing to acknowledge the growl behind him, Wynn handed the reins to Daphne. “I believe you wished to drive, Daphne.”
In polite company, he should not have used her first name. That was the prerogative of the betrothed, the happily married. By rights, Daphne should have taken him to task. But she was all too focused on his gift, for she grinned at him as she accepted the reins.
“Yes, please, Wynn.”
He could only hope that Sheridan had taken note that she’d used Wynn’s first name as well as she threaded the leather through her gloved fingers and clucked to his team, which set off once more. They rolled down the country road at speeds his family and hers would likely have found shocking. Even with his well-sprung carriage, he was bouncing on the seat. He put his arm around Daphne’s waist to keep from falling.
But he was falling. One look in those blue eyes, and he was lost. One smile, and he too would have walked to the ends of the earth and counted any pain from his leg well worth it. The moist air rushed past his face, and he thought he caught the breath of the sea. Daphne’s smile was brighter than the day. He felt free, alive.
“I say, you’re magnificent, Miss Courdebas,” Sheridan said, pushing himself up from the seat. “I can see why Fairfax prefers to have you drive.”
One more word from the fellow, and Wynn might have to challenge him to a duel.
“What brought you to the area?” he asked Sheridan, remembering Lady Emily’s concerns earlier. “If you were staying with family, I’m certain they must be missing you. Perhaps we can drop you somewhere.” Preferably off a tall cliff.
“You’re not the only one with friends in the area,” Sheridan replied, edge to his voice. “But there’s no need to be concerned. I’ll be seeing them soon enough.”
“Yes, the party is only until Monday,” Daphne offered as if she had no idea of the tension between the two men. “Then it will be back to London.” She glanced over at Sheridan. “Will you be returning to London as well, Mr. Sheridan?”
Wynn hated that her voice hinted of interest.
“If I can settle some business matters here in Somerset,” Sheridan assured her. “I have come into some property and should realize its potential soon. When I do, I will be in a position to seek a bride.” His gaze locked with Daphne’s. “I hope I may call on you then, my dear Miss Courdebas.”
Chapter Eleven
My goodness! Daphne’s face felt warm, and the rest of her was quickly following suit. Was Brooks Sheridan—an honest-to-goodness top-of-the-trees Corinthian—saying he wanted to marry her? How was she to answer?
“There’s a curve coming up,” Wynn advised as if he had no idea of the monumental nature of the occasion. “You’ll need to slow, or we’ll tip.”
He was quite right. She could see the bend ahead, trees clustering on either side to form a delicate green canopy. She made herself focus and pulled back on the reins to slow the horses just enough to navigate the curve. Then the horse’s hooves were clattering over the bridge across the River Wen, the rocky depths sparkling in the sunlight, and the carriage rolled into the village.
She had to go more carefully then. Sheep grazed on the green, and children darted among the surrounding cottages. She would never forgive herself if she struck another being. She was merely glad the conversation returned to more commonplace subjects so she could keep her mind occupied with driving.
As Wynn asked Mr. Sheridan about acquaintances at Eton, she turned the phaeton around the green. Two plump ladies coming out of the only shop in the tiny village stopped to watch them pass, and she caught sight of Mr. Wellfordhouse, the rector, walking in the churchyard. They’d visited him last spring and attended services in the stone church on Easter Sunday, so she knew he was a friendly gentleman, and not very old for his position. Seeing her, he waved, sunlight making his chestnut hair dance with red. Daphne waved back with her free hand.
She turned the team for the west, running along hedgerows thick with trees. Sunlight striped the way. Why had she never noticed the daisies blooming along the verge, the sway of the branches overhead? The very air smelled clean and fresh and new. She’d finally found a fellow who saw her as a lady, as a potential wife, and she wanted to crow with delight.
That would hardly help matters. Mr. Sheridan might find her odd. Wynn had ever been the only fellow who understood her.
Still, Mr. Sheridan had possibilities. He tended to talk more than Wynn did, and with less substance, but surely that was only because they hadn’t known each other long. And he was certainly the master of every situation, where Wynn tended to follow her lead or defer to her wishes.
Did Mr. Sheridan own a phaeton? Would he let her drive it? Where would they live as husband and wife? It was too much to suppose he had an estate somewhere, but perhaps a townhouse? With its own mews. She simply could not be parted from Hortensia for any length of time. Already she was wishing she had brought her horse with her to Brentfield.
“Have you decided to drive Mr. Sheridan to the ends of the earth instead of making him walk?” Wynn asked.
Daphne blinked. She’d been so deep in thought she’d merely kept driving. Now she gazed about. A hedgerow crowded against one side, trees poking up out of the brambles here and there, while on the other side, a field stretched away to a cottage where a farmwife was hanging clothes on the line.
“Where are we?” she asked, reining in.
“A mile or so beyond the village,” Wynn replied. “At least, that’s my estimate based on speed and time. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we weren’t near the sea.”
It did seem to her that she could smell brine on the breeze, hear the faint sound of waves against the shore. A tingle shot through her. “Let’s go see!”
Wynn grinned, but Mr. Sheridan spoke up. “Excellent idea, my dear, but perhaps another day would be more advisable. We wouldn’t want to worry your host or your mother.”
There was that. But her mother would likely be upset no matter what she did. She glanced at Wynn. “Do you think going further would tire the horses?”
Wynn shook his head. The whipping of the air had put a ruddy glow into his cheeks, and his eyes were bright with interest. “Not these goers. And if we let them rest a bit while we poke about, so much the better.”
Daphne shared his grin, gathering up the reins once more. Mr. Sheridan put his head between them. “Forgive me, but I sadly must insist we return. I promised your sister I would partner her at whist. I would hate to distress anyone in the charming family with which I hope to become much better acquainted.”
“Well,” Daphne said, spirits lowering, “I do think Ariadne would forgive you.”
He lay a hand on his heart. “But would I ever fo
rgive myself for hurting your dear sister?”
Daphne sighed. “Very well. I’ll find a place to turn, and we can head back.” She clucked to the horses, setting them forward at a trot until she spotted a crossroads.
“Perhaps if you mentioned your interest in the sea to Lord Brentfield,” Wynn murmured as she started the team back toward the estate, “he could arrange for us all to go.”
Mr. Sheridan must have heard him, for he laughed. “I don’t know about you, Fairfax, but I cannot see my dear Miss Courdebas’s mother enjoying a stroll along the shore. Can’t you just hear her complaining of the sand in her shoes?”
Daphne could. “He’s right,” she told Wynn. “We should probably stay close to Brentfield.”
Even if that meant sitting still for the next few days.
*
By the time they had returned to Brentfield, Wynn had had enough of Brooks Sheridan. First the fellow fawned all over Daphne, going so far as to imply that marriage might be in their future. Then he had the gall to douse her enthusiasm by refusing to look at the sea. If she married the dastard, she’d end up as prim and proper and utterly lifeless as many of the young ladies on the ton.
He tried to keep that thought in mind as they rejoined the others for the afternoon. Lady Emily and Sir James seemed to have finished their interviews with the staff, for they spent part of the time in the library with Lord Brentfield, no doubt making their report. When they came out, Daphne’s friend immediately took the ladies apart.
“What’s that all about?” Sheridan asked Wynn as they stood beside the hearth in the Blue Salon.
He was not about to share anything more about Daphne with the Corinthian. “Miss Courdebas frequently spends long periods with her dearest friends. I would get used to it if I were you.”
By the way Sheridan’s visage darkened, he did not like Daphne’s attention focused on anyone but him, another reason he would never be worthy of her.
Daphne sought Wynn out as soon as their conference was over.
