Her blue eyes blinked back at him, full of concern, and clearly on the verge of tears. Her eyelashes fluttered a fraction and her shoulders stiffened with tension. He couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if there would ever be a rope tightening around her neck.
And then, as she blinked away a sudden sparkling crystal, her pale cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose petal, and his hand was given the gentlest of squeezes back.
If he hadn’t been so aware of her, he might have missed it, but as if to make sure he had noticed, she suddenly did it again. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but the sensation demanded an answer. Keeping the movement as small as her own, he brushed the pad of his thumb over her palm. Without any noticeable change in her posture, everything about her softened. The tension in her shoulders evaporated and the slightest of sighs left her lips, differences too miniscule and too quiet to be noticed or heard by Clara or Bertie, who talked on without him hearing to a word.
Warmth flooded him, almost overpowered him. She sat there, seemingly no different than before, but everything had changed. It was as if they were back in the wardrobe at Portland Hall. Their own private universe surrounding them. Her eyes shone, not only with unspilt tears, but with something more. Warmth, hope. Love?
The thought hit him harder than he had ever been hit before. Could it be true? Did she love him? He had thought so once upon a time, not so long ago. Thought she had loved him with all her heart. But then she had done the unthinkable and married another.
Not her fault, he reminded himself. He had been the dolt, never giving her any encouragement to think that she had a chance. And she was the one to have suffered. Not him. He had gone about his bachelor life, miserable, yes, but unfettered. He could do anything he wanted whereas she had been stifled, her wonderful spirit crushed.
Until now. Would she have the courage to reveal her heart to him? He studied her surreptitiously from beneath apparently exhausted eyelids, desperate to make sure. From what she had told him on their journey to town, he suspected that she had never loved her husband. Their courtship might have been heady, just enough to encourage a young and impressionable girl, but Pierce felt sure that she had barely any true feelings for Benedict at all. No, she loved Pierce Trenchard, the young boy who had given her his toy bear when she had been frightened in a storm. Him, the young man who had rescued from the lake, from the ancient oak tree, from all the scrapes of her childhood, until he had done the unforgiveable and as good as pushed her away into the arms of another man. A man who hadn’t cherished her, hadn’t had any real feelings for anyone but himself at all.
Pierce stared at Daisy, watched her chest rise and fall. He could hear her breath catch in her throat as her hand trembled inside his. And suddenly he felt sure. Surer than anything in his life before. She loved him. It was undeniable. Though he didn’t deserve it, she loved him still. It was there, written in every nuance, in every gentle sigh. His heart filled and he raged at himself for ever doubting her.
But her eyes narrowed a fraction, a frown creasing her flawless brow. What was she thinking? In his selfishness, had he misread the signs? Was he mistaken? Did his own emotions show as obviously as hers? Did she know that he loved her back? Or did she think that he only loved her as a friend, a protector? Another brother? Lord help him if that were the case, for being brotherly was the very last thing on his mind.
Her breasts rose and fell more rapidly inside the mourning dress she still wore. While he knew that it was expected, he couldn’t wait for her to be out of the draining black, but if they were to keep their own marriage secret, convention had to be borne.
Damnation to convention! His mind raged. He wanted his wife out of that horrible dress and naked in his bed. He had told himself that he would wait for as long as she needed, but the last few days had been torture. And the nights had been worse, hours of darkness spent tossing and turning as his body burned for her. Every morning Daisy met him in the dining room and joined him for breakfast, her freshly bathed scent torturing him anew while she chatted about what Clara had planned for the day. And every evening, after the long hours without her, she served him a much needed brandy while telling him what they had accomplished. Their conversation was lively, interesting, invigorating, but still he wanted more.
Much more. Having her so close, so near and yet untouchable was killing him. Surely she knew how he felt about her, but then he had thought she had known before. And it wasn’t as if her subsequent experience had been a good one either. The only two men in her life had both hidden their emotions behind a facade. Perhaps now it was time for her to see his true feelings, for that was what they were. He had to let her see behind his mask of indifference, but without appearing false. Her husband had deceived her with his apparent ardour. She would be wary of any open display.
What was Pierce doing? Daisy lost track of the conversation going on around her as Pierce’s thumb massaged her palm. Heat swept through her and she found it increasingly difficult to take a breath. Blast the man! Why was he trying to comfort her? Couldn’t he leave her in peace? Clearly not. He had to distract her, had to make her suffer like the fool she had always been. Why hadn’t she learned her lesson? The man was oblivious to any show of emotion. He had no clue as to what he did to her, how much his very presence unsettled her.
The room became hot around her and she willed her cheeks not to flush. If she had put a fan in her pocket she might have used it now, but she hadn’t and couldn’t. Her body burned as she looked at him from beneath her lashes. Why did he have to be so handsome, so alluring. So wretchedly unattainable.
Their marriage vows meant nothing. Love, honour, and obey. What ridiculous words for their situation. She was surprised that God himself hadn’t struck her down for swearing such falsehood before the altar. Yes, she might love him to distraction and beyond, might even honour him, but she would be hard pressed to obey him. Depending on what he demanded, of course.
Something set flight in her stomach. Would he claim his marital rights? The flighty feeling stopped as a weight filled her heart. No, Pierce would never ask that of her. He was too honourable to take a woman against her will, and she knew that he assumed she still grieved over Robert.
Which she did, in a way. The man might have had his unusual traits and been stifling in the extreme, but he didn’t limit her expenditure, he wasn’t brutal, and he didn’t parade any paramours before her eyes. But she was the first to admit that he hadn’t been the man for her.
Sadness filled her. Two marriages to men who couldn’t give her their hearts. What had she done to deserve such a fate? She questioned herself, her behaviour, her looks, even her manners. Was she so unlovable?
When she had first come out, she had overheard herself spoken of as an ‘incomparable’, one of the elite. She had beauty, a brain, and a title. Her dowry, while not a fortune, was not to be sniffed at, but still she had failed to catch a husband. For three years she had been paraded before the ton, almost giving up before Robert stepped into the breach. Had the three years with her husband faded her looks so much? Perhaps she deceived herself when she looked in the mirror each morning. No, she refused to believe it. She could admit to a few more wrinkles about her eyes, but her hair was still glorious, if untameable. Perhaps that was what put men off her. Maybe they wanted a biddable wife who sat in the corner and stitched samplers all day, only speaking when invited to offer an opinion on the weather, or the lightness of the lemon soufflé at dinner.
Distracted from her thoughts by yet another gentle brush of his thumb, Daisy glanced over at the man who filled all her dreams. And her heart stuttered in her chest. Pierce’s eyes were barely visible beneath his dark lashes, but their intensity smouldered straight to her soul.
She instantly pulled her gaze away and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. How could she be so affected by him when she meant nothing more to him than, than... Nothing. She was merely the sister of his friend. A nuisance who had idolised him since his childhood, follow
ing him and her brother around like a fool. Had she not learned a thing in all the passing years? Pierce would have asked her to marry him long ago if there was anything more than friendship in his heart, and despite his recent protestations, she knew that his hand had been forced now. And for what? Nothing except her inability to hold her drink. Perhaps she should practice more.
She glanced at his glass of brandy as her stomach tied itself in knots, her vision swirled, and she had to take some shallow breaths to steady her nerves. No, she could never let that happen, not ever again! Her head pounded as if to remind her of the stupid drinking session, and its subsequent consequences.
Whatever had she been thinking, imbibing like her brother and his friends when she knew how badly it affected her? Pierce must have thought her a complete fool. And her behaviour so embarrassing. She wanted the ground to swallow her.
But of course it didn’t. Was that why Pierce watched her so closely, his dark eyes accusing, wondering if she had meant to trap him into proposing? Did he hate her for it? Did he think her manipulative or devious? She wasn’t. She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. But it had, and now they had to get on with it.
Or would he seek an annulment? He could. The marriage hadn’t yet been consummated. And she was quite sure it never would. Not once in the three nights at his townhouse had he attempted to come to her room. She wasn’t even sure that he knew in which one she slept, so little was his interest.
And if there was an annulment, what would she do. Remain in the dower house at Portland? Never. She couldn’t bear the thought. Robert’s London home would be hers, but who wanted to rattle about in a place so full of dark wood and bad memories. Her mother’s words came back to her. At least she would have a roof over her head where she might be welcome even as an aging spinster. Perhaps Lucas and Angelique would have children. She took a breath and stopped the thought in its tracks before jealousy set in. She had been so close to fulfilling a dream.
A dream that could unravel if the letters were found. Worry gripped her stomach. There had to be something she could do. She had to go back to Portland Hall and retrieve the letters. Then Pierce wouldn’t need to know...
But of course he would have to know. How could she not tell him? It wasn’t as if she could disappear for days without him noticing. But she also couldn’t go back on the commitment she had made, even if Robert wasn’t here to see it through. She had to find a way back to Portland. She only needed five minutes in the study. Five minutes...
“Daisy, are you listening to a word we have said?”
Daisy jumped and wrenched her hand from beneath Pierce’s as Clara touched her shoulder.
“I am so sorry, my mind wandered. What were you saying?” She put her hands in her lap as she looked up at her friend.
Clara frowned before smiling sympathetically.
“I thought as much. It’s the stress, you know. You are awfully pale now when you were flushed only a minute ago. Perhaps you should go and lie down. We can ask Pierce to bring you up your dinner. It will be good practice for him.” She gave a giggle as Pierce raised an eyebrow and groaned as he wriggled his toes inside his slippers.
“Give a man a break, will you. I am not a trained monkey at your beck and call. I have been on my feet all day and you still want me dancing attendance upon everyone.” Pierce finished his brandy and set the glass on the table.
Bertie came to his friend’s defence.
“Besides, he has to be fresh for the Templeton ball tomorrow night.” He held up his hands and grinned at everyone’s startled expressions. “Yes, I know it’s a gamble as Pierce isn’t fully trained, but time is passing. People might forget relevant details. We can’t let the grass grow beneath our feet. I have arranged for Pierce to be one of the footmen for the night. He will have to be there from mid afternoon to help with all the arrangements. Clara and I will be going later in the evening after spending the afternoon and early evening with Lord Blakemore and his new wife, so we can keep him out of too much trouble while we all conduct some investigations of our own. There will be several people there who knew Robert Benedict. It’s an opportunity Pierce cannot afford to miss.”
Clara kept her eyes on the floor.
“I should have mentioned the ball before, but didn’t want to appear insensitive. I am really sorry that Daisy cannot come too. People might open up with her there, but mourning is mourning. It just isn’t done.”
Daisy swallowed and lifted her chin.
“While I do not want to disrespect Robert or his family, this is one occasion that the needs of the one outweigh those of the few. Sometimes I really want to stuff convention somewhere that the sunshine never reaches!”
Clara thought about Daisy’s words before slapping her hand over her mouth and gasping while Pierce bellowed with laughter. A few seconds passed before he could speak.
“Though I am with you on that one, it is probably best that you do not turn said convention on its head quite so soon, but do not despair, perhaps I will find out some news from Lord Templeton’s other guests. I believe he knew your husband quite well.”
Daisy recalled Lord Templeton’s name being mentioned recently but couldn’t remember from where.
“I am not sure, but then Robert wasn’t very forthcoming about his associates. I believe I have met him before, but don’t recall the exact event. It might be useful to reintroduce myself to the man. If he knows anything, he is bound to reveal it to Robert’s wife.”
Pierce’s brows formed a dark line.
“You cannot possibly go to the ball so soon after the Duke’s death. Besides people will probably be far too polite to bring up any details relevant to your husband’s demise while you are sitting amongst them. I am afraid that you are going to have to stay here.”
Daisy felt her shoulders droop. Three days cooped up in Pierce’s townhouse with the ever optimistic Clara, had become stifling. The rose garden had been Daisy’s only refuge. She was about to sigh deeply when another thought jumped into her head. Hadn’t Bertie just mentioned that they were going out to Lord Blakemore’s in the afternoon too? That meant she would be alone for much of the day. Perhaps most of the night too. Could she take one of the horses and ride back to Portland Hall without having to tell Pierce? Yes, hadn’t he done it himself when he had been for their marriage license? And if he could do it, so would she. It would mean riding hard with little time to rest the horse, but it could be done. Disguising the sudden flow of excitement that came over her she shrugged her shoulders and twiddled her thumbs.
“I suppose I could stitch a cushion cover if needs be. The one you are sitting on appears to be rather worn. Perhaps you should throw it out.”
Pierce reached round behind him and pulled out the cushion Daisy had stitched herself. He stared at it for long seconds before returning it to its place behind his back.
“You may stitch me another if you like, but I am afraid that this one has a special place in my heart. I refuse to let it be thrown out.”
Daisy narrowed her eyes.
“How can that awful old thing have a special place in your heart? Whatever can you mean? It’s ghastly and has been offending my eye since I saw it there earlier in the week.”
Pierce snorted, surprised she couldn’t remember making it.
“Well, if it offends your eye, it is your own fault as you made it for me.”
Daisy blinked quickly. Was it really the cushion she had made for him? The one that she had thrown out before sending it because it was so badly done. She recalled weeping over her efforts as her friend Felicity cleared away the sewing boxes. Had Felicity rescued the cushion from the bin and sent it to Pierce on Daisy’s behalf anyway, regardless of its uneven stitches and dreadful colour clashes? And had he only kept it because she had made it? She didn’t have time to ask. Bertie reached around his friend and whipped the cushion away.”
He stared at it critically before glancing at her.
“You made it, Daisy?” He snorted disbelievin
gly. “Well, that explains things. I always wondered why Pierce kept it. Is it meant to be a peacock in flight? What are the two pale beige bits down here? Did the bird forget its legs when it took off?” He prodded the cushion in the relevant spot.
Daisy snatched it away from him and stared down at the fabric. So many hours of hard work, so many pricked fingers, and tired eyes. She might not have known Felicity sent it without her knowledge, but Pierce had clearly thought it worth keeping. She lifted her gaze to Bertie’s.
“No!” She said, suddenly deeply affronted at Bertie’s description of her efforts though she knew they were poor herself. “Can’t you see? It is two boys standing beside a lake.” Her eyes widened as she realized what she had said. Would Pierce remember her secret? Regardless, she couldn’t have Bertie knowing it. “Er, they are fishing. Those multicoloured bits were meant to be the ripples reflecting the light on the water.” Her face flushed as she recalled the exact scene she had been trying to represent.
It had begun as a joke, one that only she would ever recognize. But something had changed as she sewed. It had become a personal challenge to reveal a hidden scene in a way that no one else would recognize. She wanted it to be something that only she knew. Her stitching had become frantic. Why couldn’t she sew with Felicity’s neatness? How come the colours she chose clashed instead of enhanced? She didn’t know, and had ended up throwing the cushion cover in the sewing basket, forgetting it entirely until now.
Clara tilted her head to the side as she studied the stitches over her friend’s shoulder.
“Fishing? No, surely you must be mistaken. See here, it looks a bit like a fountain from this direction. Look Bertie, can’t you see it? The sparkling water is clearly going up. And then down again.” She traced her fingertip in the shape of an arc before continuing. “Very realistic when held in the right light. Not that I have ever seen a fountain in a fishing lake, but we can surely allow some poetic licence for youthful enthusiasm with a needle.”
A Fragile Chain of Daisies: Flowers of the Aristocracy (Untamed Regency Book 4) Page 19