A Daring Deception

by Trentham, Laura

  “You ass. Look what you’ve done.” Goforth’s voice was low and threatening, his anger not born of the shock of the accident, but of a deep-rooted hatred.

  Fair enough. Simon had long detested Goforth as well. It was, however, a surprise to hear the semipolite veneer stripped away with so little effort. “If you had but taken a glance out of the door before dashing away, you might have avoided a soaking.”

  Goforth drew himself up, his shoulders more bull-like than ever. “I demand an apology, Your Grace.”

  Disrespect dripped from the title. Goforth seemed hell-bent on goading Simon into a confrontation. As much as he wanted to oblige him by planting a facer between his eyes, Simon merely bowed with as much irony as he could muster. “I didn’t sense your imminent exit from the drawing room, sir, and happened to be making my way across the entry hall. I hope you accept my apologies in the spirit of their intent.”

  Goforth turned even redder, but the sound of encroaching female chatter stemmed a response. He turned on his heel and made his way toward the staircase and his room, presumably to change.

  Simon didn’t feel like making uninspired conversation about the weather and ducked into the nearest room to hide, which happened to be the drawing room. He stopped short. Miss Tremaine started. She held a book to her chest with wide eyes and a face even paler than normal.

  His first impression was of a fox run to ground. Considering Goforth had recently vacated the drawing room in a state of high dudgeon, Simon could guess why. “Are you well, Miss Tremaine?”

  “Why would ask? Do I look unwell?”

  “Not unwell, but a bit shaken.” Simon stepped closer and noticed her hands tightened on the book. He halted still several feet away. “If I may be so bold, I ran into your stepfather in the entry, and he was overwrought. May I assume the two of you had a disagreement?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You could say that.”

  Simon found the tartness in her answer strangely attractive. Miss Tremaine might look the part of a downtrodden spinster, but there was a hint of the fire he remembered from so long ago at the inn. “I realize our connection is… tenuous, but you can count me as a friend. I hope you know that. If there is any help I could offer—”

  “No, sir. I mean, Your Grace. There’s nothing you can offer to help me.”

  “But—”

  “No.” Her voice was firm. In a softer tone, she said, “Thank you, but no. I believe I’ll retreat and find solace in my book.”

  She swept around him. He didn’t stop her. He’d offered aid, and she’d refused. There was nothing more to be done. Except keep an eye out for trouble during the rest of the party.

  He made it halfway to the door to make an escape himself when two ladies entered arm in arm and lit up when they spotted him. Miss Danforth and Lady Ester. Now he was the one who cowered like a fox run to ground. There was nothing for it but to allow himself to be caught.

  The rest of the morning passed in a tedium of conversation about superficial topics that didn’t interest him. After two hours in the company of the two ladies, he still had no idea what gave them joy or sorrow.

  Rafe saved him in the afternoon for a spot of fishing. Marcus and Damien joined them. It didn’t matter the sun was too warm to tempt fish to the surface of the river. The time was spent companionably with many laughs.

  Simon and Damien found themselves fishing the same bend in the river.

  “How do things proceed with your fair maid?” Damien asked.

  “What if I told you I didn’t seek her out?”

  “I would say you are lying.”

  Simon grit his teeth. Damien was too good a card player to be bluffed so easily. Simon laid his cards on the table. “Miss Blackwell is fascinating. We’re to meet this evening, after my obligations and her duties, but I’m not sure if she’ll appear.”

  “Have you bedded her?”

  “Of course not!” Simon wasn’t entitled to any outrage at his friend questioning his intentions. He did want to bed her. And more. Much more. “We shared a kiss. It was…” How could Simon describe it without sounding like a melodramatic milksop?

  Damien turned to watch his verbal fumbling with a raised brow. “Only a kiss?”

  “Yes.” Simon let out a gusty sigh. “Yet it felt momentous. Like a wildfire. Or an earthquake.”

  “You’re saying it was akin to a natural disaster?” Damien asked dryly.

  “It was earth-shattering.” Simon caught a self-deprecating laugh in his hand. “Although Miss Blackwell did mention destruction could follow our association.”

  Damien didn’t smile in response. “She is a maid. You are a duke. I can well understand her trepidation. Men in power tend to use and discard the weak without a thought to what might happen.”

  It was rare Damien spoke of his mother, even as obliquely as this. Simon sobered. “I’m not anything like your father. I would never—”

  “You are a good man, Simon, and I know you don’t intend to hurt this maid of yours, but dallying with her could cause unintended consequences. You can’t wed her, so what are your intentions?” Damien flicked his rod with the grace and precision of a panther fishing.

  “I know I can’t wed her.” He refused to admit he’d dreamed he’d done exactly that. “My other option would be to set her up as my mistress. I would offer a house and servants and a generous stipend.”

  “Do you think this little maid is the sort to toss away her respectability for such an arrangement? And what happens when you do wed and get children on your wife? What would happen to Miss Blackwell and her heart?” Bitterness flowed from a wound from Damien’s past.

  Nevertheless, his friend had a point. What was Miss Blackwell willing to trade for her respectability? And was it fair to even ask her to entertain the trade?

  “All I can do is make the offer and let her decide for herself.” Simon shrugged.

  “You say it as if she has a choice. In the back of her mind, there might be the fear you would retaliate if she refuses you.”

  “I would ensure she understands there would be no repercussions if she refuses.”

  “For all your noble talk of bettering the lives of the poor and working class, you are still ignorant of their true plight and their lack of power in this cursed country.” Damien set his pole aside and looked Simon in the eye while he delivered the rebuke.

  One reason Simon appreciated Damien was because, unlike most gentlemen of Simon’s acquaintance, he offered truths, no matter how unflattering.

  “You’re right, of course. Advise me.”

  “My advice would be to leave the chit alone. You live in different strata of society and will never cross paths again after this blasted party.”

  Simon swallowed hard against a rising denial. Seconds, minutes, years without seeing Miss Blackwell stretched out like a desert.

  Damien barked a laugh and shook his head. “Based on your hangdog expression, I can see you do not acknowledge my wisdom. I don’t understand. Miss Blackwell is a woman like any other. Why can’t you walk away?”

  It was a valid question. Damien had never had difficulty walking away and not looking back. Simon wasn’t built that way. His attachments were few and far between. A woman had to be enjoyable in and out of bed for him to be interested, and even then, questions of her motives surfaced. His title hung like a black cloud over many of his relationships.

  “I can’t explain why I’m drawn to her. It’s elemental and undeniable. We have more in common than you might suspect, and she speaks to me like…” Simon ran a hand through his hair and looked up at Damien with a chuff. “Like you do. No false flattery. Honest and straightforward.”

  “Bloody hell, it sounds like you’re falling in… love.” The distaste Damien imbued in the word set Simon back on his heels.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I am. Would that be so terrible?”

  “Love leads to disaster.” Silence swelled between them, broken only by birdsong. Finally, Damien rolled his eyes. “Obviou
sly, you plan to ignore my best advice, so allow me to offer my second-best advice. Put the power of choice in her hands and abide by whatever she decides.”

  Simon put his hand over his heart. “Yes, of course.”

  “And when everything goes to shit—which it will—I’ll join you to drink away your sorrows.”

  Optimism and hope took flight in Simon’s chest, and a grin came to his face. Damien snorted and shook his head. “Speaking of a drink, I’m ready for one now. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  After cleaning up and dressing for dinner, Simon and Damien shared a brandy at the cottage before entering the whirlwind in the drawing room. The conversation was light and the atmosphere gay. Dinner followed. Minerva had seated Simon next to Miss Danforth. The young lady had been taught to flatter and cajole and steer the conversation to him whenever possible. Her company was pleasant enough for an evening, but he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his days speaking of such mundane matters.

  He couldn’t help but flit glances at Miss Tremaine, who was sitting toward the end of the table between the vicar and Miss Danforth’s father. Both men were in conversation with the ladies seated on the other side of them. As far as he could ascertain, she hadn’t lifted her face, much less spoken.

  An apple tartlet with fresh cream was being served. Miss Danforth cleared her throat, and Simon returned his attention to her. “What about you, Miss Danforth?”

  “I would love to hear more about your stables. Do you have a favorite horse?” She gazed up at him through her long lashes and licked a dollop of cream off her spoon in a way that struck him as pure artifice.

  “I would rather hear about your interests.”

  “Oh well. I play the pianoforte, of course, and dabble in watercolors. I embroider and am fluent in French. Mother has taught me to manage a household as well.” Miss Danforth smiled at the recitation of her accomplishments.

  “What brings you joy and makes you smile?”

  Miss Danforth’s gaze darted to her mother, who was several seats away and unable to do more than give her daughter an encouraging nod. “I enjoy all those things.”

  “There must be something that makes you laugh or sigh with pleasure. Do you read novels?”

  She fiddled with a lovely cameo tied with a blue ribbon to match her dress. “No. I suppose I enjoy dancing. Especially the waltz. Perhaps you would partner me at the next opportunity.” Her expression was one of relief she had managed to turn the conversation so easily.

  “Yes, of course.” His foot tapped, his impatience growing exponentially as dinner concluded. If luck was on his side, he’d be able to slip out while the gentlemen enjoyed their after-dinner drinks and prepare for his meeting with Miss Blackwell in the meadow. A pang of anxiety rose. What if she didn’t come?

  While her absence might solve his moral crisis, he couldn’t accept all they would ever share was one kiss. Fate wouldn’t be so cruel.

  Minerva rose from her seat and clapped to gain everyone’s attention. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there will be no after-dinner drinks served here. Everyone’s presence is required in the drawing room. We are playing charades.” Her gaze narrowed and landed on Simon. “No excuses will be accepted.”

  He cursed his sister roundly in his head as the group filed toward the drawing room. Lady Wyndam had looped her arm through Miss Tremaine’s. Miss Blackwell would not be free to meet him until Miss Tremaine retired. As long as she was forced to endure charades, he would not be risking standing Miss Blackwell up.

  Simon joined Marcus and Rafe in the corner close to a sideboard with a variety of spirits. He poured himself a brandy and listened to Marcus and Rafe discuss horses.

  Minerva directed the game. She designated teams and coaxed people up to perform clues they drew from a snifter. Even he couldn’t help but be entertained watching the ladies and gentlemen play the fool with such aplomb.

  Minerva cast about for her next victim, her gaze alighting on him with devilish glee. “Your turn, brother mine.”

  Rafe guffawed behind him.

  Simon quaffed the remainder of his brandy and shot a dirty look over his shoulder at Rafe. “Laugh now, because your wife is going to drag you up there to perform like a dancing monkey next.”

  “Never.” The grim promise and thundercloud expression on Rafe’s face did much to soothe Simon’s disgruntlement.

  Not wanting to appear churlish, Simon smiled and weaved through the guests to pull a clue. He read it and tossed it on the table with the others. At least he’d gotten an easy one. Even though his sister had banned the after-dinner gathering of gentlemen, it seemed most of them had formed a cluster with their drinks and weren’t paying attention to the game. The ladies, on the other hand, were raptly staring at him. Even though he was used to giving speeches in Parliament, the intensity made him feel like his collar had shrunk.

  The sooner he started, the sooner the torture would end. First, he got his bearings and gestured north. Everyone turned to look in the direction he pointed.

  “Flowers?”

  “A novel?”

  “Draperies!”

  Simon merely shook his head and mimed exactly what he’d spent his afternoon doing. Angling in a stream. Damien stood in the back of the room with a diabolical grin. The bastard could put Simon out of his misery at any point.

  “Northcutt? Would you like to hazard a guess?” Simon gritted out.

  “I can’t imagine what you could possibly be acting out, Your Grace.” Damien played the innocent poorly.

  “Shush, Simon. You can’t speak. Anyone have a guess?” Minerva asked.

  “Angling in Scotland?” Miss Tremaine asked almost too softly to hear.

  Minerva clapped her hands together. “By Jove, that’s exactly it, Miss Tremaine. How did you know it was Scotland in particular?”

  Everyone shifted to look at Miss Tremaine. She shrunk at the attention. “The duke was pointing north, not to something in the room.”

  “I’m in your debt, Miss Tremaine. You saved me from further torment.” He sent a warm smile and nod in her direction. “Who is next, Minerva?”

  “It should be Miss Tremaine, shouldn’t it?” When Miss Tremaine didn’t move a muscle to rise, Minerva went to her, cuffed her wrist, and herded her to the front. Simon was halfway back to Rafe and Marcus when Minerva said, “Not so fast, Simon. Miss Tremaine has pulled a clue that requires two people. As you are in her debt, come and help her.”

  He turned slowly to issue his regrets, but the words caught in his throat at the sight of Miss Tremaine’s abject terror at being on display. “Of course.”

  He rejoined her at the front of the room and turned his back to their audience to read the clue. Samson and Delilah. “Minerva was probably hoping to give this to the Wyndams.”

  “I’m no great beauty, and you don’t have long hair. How are we supposed to act this out?” Miss Tremaine whispered.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Simon said. “If you allow the presumption, I’ll pick you up in a show of strength. You will then pretend to cut my hair, and I will promptly collapse to the ground like a milquetoast.”

  “I suppose that would work.” She did not sound at all convinced.

  “The only way through is to brazen it out. The sooner we begin, the sooner we finish, and the game moves on to someone else.”

  Her wide-eyed gaze met his. It struck him suddenly how pretty her eyes were. The brown richly swirled with caramel and was framed by long lashes. “Fine, but I’d rather you not—”

  He swept her into a cradle hold before she could voice her protests. She was lighter than he’d supposed she would be. In fact, it felt like he was holding a pile of blankets.

  “Put me down,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He did as she commanded but included a show of flexing his muscles. Then he sat in a chair and whispered from the side of his mouth. “Cut my hair.”

  Miss Tremaine smoothed her dress down, moved behind him, and delved her fingers
into his actual hair. A shock passed through him at the pleasure her touch evoked. He jerked his head forward. Miss Tremaine took up the game and pretended to cut his hair. He then collapsed to the floor and held a hand up as if needed help.

  “Samson and Delilah.” Lady Wyndam’s guess came accompanied by a roll of her eyes heavenward as if praying for patience.

  “How astute, Lady Wyndam. Very nice job, Simon. Miss Tremaine. Take a bow,” Minerva said.

  Simon took Miss Tremaine’s hand and performed the requisite bow as if they were on Drury Lane. Miss Tremaine performed an off-balance curtsy. She gripped his hand tightly. Simon steadied her and glanced toward their joined hands. The sleeve of her dress had risen a few inches during their game. Dark ovals marred her skin. His first though was ink stains. His sister had often had ink-stained fingers from her tally books.

  But no… not ink. Bruises. His mind cast back to the morning and Goforth’s fury. He controlled his expression as best he could. Miss Tremaine retreated not to her chair but the wall. He kept her within sight.

  The charades continued with Lady Wyndam taking a turn. During the clue, Miss Tremaine inched closer to the door. Goforth was in conversation with Mr. Danforth. His face was florid from drink, his voice growing louder by the minute. Gesturing wildly while holding forth with Mr. Danforth, he shifted and put his back to Miss Tremaine.

  She didn’t dally and slipped out the door. Simon glanced around, but no one had even noticed. He shook his head and made his way out of the drawing room as well. He was not so lucky. Minerva’s incinerating glare caught him halfway out the door. He ignored her.

  He caught up with Miss Tremaine at the top of the landing, cupping her elbow and steering her into a slight alcove alongside a pedestal with a vase of flowers beginning to wilt, a scent of rich decay enveloping them.

  “Is there anything you wish to tell me, Miss Tremaine?”

  If possible, she was paler than usual, her eyes enormous. “N-no?”