“And is she still happy with her match?” A hint of sadness marred her delicate features. “As feelings change, over time, and some men seek satisfaction elsewhere.”
“What a curious thing to say.” He frowned. “Let me alleviate any concerns, in that respect, as I am happy to report the Admiral and his lady remain very much in love.”
“So some vows do last forever.” It was a statement, not a question. For a while, Daphne bowed her head and sat in silence. When she lifted her chin and met his gaze, he caught his breath. “You will have your brooch, Sir Dalton. I would stake my life on it.”
#
Gasping for air, Daphne shot upright in bed. It took her a few seconds to realize she resided in her bedchamber, safe and sound, after a glorious dinner, which resembled something more akin to the realm of fantasy, with Sir Dalton, the previous evening. Then she peered at the brooch that she had pinned to her cotton nightgown.
No, she had no right to make use of the curious artifact, as it was not hers to covet. Yet the lore, so carefully detailed by her dashing companion, had struck a chord and fostered hope, as she had scarcely known in recent weeks, so she had employed it in a last ditch effort to identify a solution to her current problem.
True to the cryptic proclamation, she had experienced a very intense, rather odd dream of which she could make no sense. Ensconced in a warm, comforting glow, the heat of which had suffused her from top to toe, a single image played in her brain, again and again, of a unique gold coin tossing about, as though suspended. There had been no hint or suggestion of the owner of what appeared to be an ancient Roman monetary piece, given the writing and the female profile etched on one side. But what she could neither comprehend nor explain was the opposite end.
Although her mother had died when Daphne was ten and nine, never had they engaged in any discussion of marital relations, so what little knowledge she possessed had been gleaned from observing farm animals. The particular act, a crude and bawdy depiction, involved a man and a woman and reminded her of two cats that were quite fond of each other. Just revisiting the reverie brought the burn of a blush to her cheeks.
After wrenching aside the blankets, she dropped her legs over the edge of the mattress and stood. Stretching long, she yawned and then smiled, as she gazed at the crystal vase filled with two-dozen red roses, which Dalton had insisted she accept, as a personal gift. While polite decorum frowned upon such exchanges of familiarity, given their brief acquaintance, she could not resist the temptation he presented. And that was why she also had permitted her host to request the waiter pack the remaining dinner and dessert portions, so her brothers might enjoy the fare.
At the windows overlooking the rose garden, she drew back the threadbare drapes and basked in the shimmering sunlight. As she assessed her private quarters, which remained bedecked in girlish pink hues, because her family lacked the funds to redecorate, and had seen far better days, Daphne fixed her attention on the cedar chest that had belonged to her grandmother. Like Dalton’s brooch, the old trunk was a treasured heirloom. But times were desperate, and despite the enthralling sea captain’s generous overture, she may still be forced to sell her beloved keepsake to save her family.
For the moment, she could relax, so she strolled to the armoire and fanned through a selection of modest, worn day dresses that had been altered on two separate occasions to accommodate her changing body. As was the case with everything else, she had no money to replace her outdated wardrobe. Never before had she spared much thought for her attire, but Dalton sported only the best fashions, so she wished to make a good impression on her escort. In short, she wanted to look pretty for him—as she had for no one else. A knock at the door intruded on her deliberation.
“Come.” She drew forth a pale blue sprig muslin gown with a lace collar and frowned, when she noted the tattered cuffs.
“Good morning, Miss Daphne.” Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, strolled into the room. “The boys inhaled the steak and eggs, as did Hicks, but I saved you a portion. Shall I help you prepare for your appointment?”
“Yes, please, as I wish to dazzle Sir Dalton.” Daphne sat at her vanity. “And did you eat your share of the feast?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Jones smiled. “The filet was delicious, and it was kind of you to think of us, though I am not surprised, as you have possessed a generous nature since you were born. But Hicks thought you might go to your grave before accepting charity from a stranger.”
“As much as I regret it, our circumstances are desperate, so I will not allow pride to condemn this household and our most vulnerable neighbors to hunger.” Coiffed and garbed as close to perfection as she could muster, she stood and smoothed her skirts. “Now, I should breakfast prior to our newfound benefactor’s arrival.”
En route to the dining room, she scrutinized her childhood home and rued its clean but shabby décor, ragged carpets, peeling paint, chipped plaster, and faded wall coverings. In well-established tradition, the Harcourt men had governed Portsea Island for more than a hundred years, and the residence, built in the seventeenth century in the Baroque style and handed down through several generations, had marked their success, for visitors far and wide. Because her father had long nursed a penchant for expensive brandy, imported cigars, gambling, and bad luck, the once splendorous Courtenay Hall had foundered, in a slow and painful demise. Yet she vowed to restore the house and its property to its former glory.
At the table, she savored the weak tea, which she had stolen from Dalton’s ship. While she preferred a stronger brew, she could enjoy the simple drink, which had become an indulgence, for several weeks, if she used less leaves in the pot. And although she was quite famished, nerves had rendered her belly unstable, and Daphne could not clean her plate, to her dismay.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Daphne.” Hicks loomed in the doorway. “Sir Dalton Randolph is just arrived and awaits your presence, in the foyer.”
“Oh, dear.” She jumped from her chair, gulped the last of her tea, wiped her mouth on a napkin, and ran into the hall. Just as she rounded the corner, she slowed her pace and rolled her shoulders. But when she caught sight of the handsome sea captain, her heart raced. Searching for something witty to say, her mind blanked, and she opted for the obvious. “Hello.”
“And how are you this fine morning, Miss Daphne?” Sporting a navy coat, a chocolate brown waistcoat, a fine lawn shirt, a snowy cravat, with a diamond twinkling at center, and buckskin breeches, which disappeared into polished top boots, again her dashing escort rendered her a pauper by comparison. Yet his dimpled smile and precise bow disarmed her. “I trust you slept well, after I brought you home?”
“I did, indeed.” She lied, as she half curtseyed. Even as she donned her pelisse, she thought of the intriguing gold coin, with its salacious image, tossing in the air. After collecting her reticule, she met her companion’s gaze. “I have composed a list of necessary items, which should sustain our most vulnerable citizens, until I can identify a long-term solution.”
“You mean—until your father returns.” He held open the heavy portal, and she crossed the threshold. “And when will that be?”
“I know not, as the governor does not see fit to apprise me of all his business.” Oh, she had walked right into that one. “But I expect him, any day now.”
“Why do I not believe you?” He snickered, as he handed her into his equipage. “As I am beginning to think Governor Harcourt persists only as a myth.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sinking into the squabs, she cautioned herself not to take offense to his jab, as righteous indignation was a luxury she could ill afford, and she could not risk alienating her newfound benefactor. “I am sure my father—”
“Please, do not insult me with further excuses, recriminations, and denials, as one so lovely should never spin falsehoods.” The devilish charmer had the audacity to wink. “The truth is your father has not been in residence for an estimated two to three weeks, given his last recorded appearance, accordin
g to the locals. Is there a family difficulty, which you would not divulge to the general public, but you could entrust to my confidence? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Did we not travel this road, last night?” The passing landscape provided fortuitous distraction, and the coach bobbled along the lane. Beyond the verge, frothy waves crashed into the craggy shoreline, and she followed the winding, arbitrary path of a gull, which seemed to symbolize her life’s uncertainty. “And I answered your query.”
“Not to my satisfaction.” Despite the suspect content of their discussion, his playful tone belied the seriousness of the exchange. And then he grasped the edge of his bench, leaned forward, and arched a brow. “Do you know that when you are stressed, you have a slight tic over your left eye?”
“Posh.” She sniffed and stared out the window, as they entered the village. “You hardly know me.”
“People can share space and time, for years, and remain nothing more than casual acquaintances, while others can read each other, as a favorite book, in a matter of minutes.” The scamp chuckled. “And from the moment we met, sweet lady, I figured us for the latter.”
“Did you?” Daphne snapped to attention, just as the coach halted. “You assume too much, Sir—”
“It is Dalton. Just Dalton.” He exited the rig and then turned to hand her to the sidewalk. “So we are to begin with the butcher?”
“Yes, as I would have select cuts delivered, posthaste.” She entered the meat market.
“I shall be with you shortly.” Old Mr. Wilkes glanced at her and smiled. “Miss Daphne, what a pleasure it is to see you. Have you come to settle your father’s account?”
Standing stock-still, she could have swallowed her tongue, even as Dalton stumbled into her. It had never occurred to her that the meager payments she had made would not suffice or forestall embarrassing queries. What could she do to avoid further shame at future stops, as her father owed money to just about every merchant in Portsea?
“What is the amount of the debt?” Dalton inquired.
“Fifteen pounds, sir.” The butcher narrowed his stare. “And who might you be?”
“Sir Dalton Randolph, of London.” Her antagonist dipped his chin. “And you may add the sum to our order, as we are here to purchase items for Miss Daphne’s community pantry.”
“Oh?” Mr. Wilkes all but leaped for joy. “Well that is—”
“—Completely out of the question.” Leashing her temper, she counted to five and sighed. “While I appreciate your most munificent gesture, it breaches untold social dictates, as we are not family, and you are not my…that is to say, we are not…what I mean is we have no understanding and neither do we intend to enter such arrangement.”
“How do you know my aspirations?” With a flirty grin, the tempting sea captain rocked on his heels. “Do you presume to know my mind and possible aims?”
For a scarce second, Daphne blinked and stuttered, as she pondered his proposal, if she could call it that. He could not have known it, but Dalton manifested the answer to her prayers, in more ways than one. In a low voice, she posited, “Are you asking me to marry you?”
In a flash, his expression sobered. “Uh—no.”
“Well, of course not.” And so her fledgling hopes deflated as quickly as they had bloomed. “I was joking, Sir Dalton.”
“Ah, we are back to titles, so I think not.” He frowned. “Forgive me, dear lady, if I misled you. But, to be candid, if I may, I am not husband material.”
“Now you sell yourself short, Sir Dalton.” She folded her arms and inclined her head, as she was not the only one suppressing secrets, which rendered him infinitely more interesting. “And I wonder at your reasons for concealing your true nature. What have you to hide?”
“Do you speculate in regard to my character to deflect attention from yourself?” he stated, with a snort.
“You answer a question with a question, which piques my suspicion.” At last, she found her footing. “I believe you are a better man than you admit.”
“On the contrary, I hold much in common with the carefree wind, or a playful breeze, never landing too long in any one spot.” Dalton clucked his tongue and waggled his brows. “In fact, some might call me a rake, as my tastes are as variable as the weather.”
“An imposter is more like it.” Oh, despite his best attempts, he could not fool her. “Or do you prefer charlatan, as that may better describe your pretend predilections?”
“Easy, love.” He shuffled near, and she refused to retreat, but gooseflesh covered her arms. “You claim intimate knowledge of my character, given our brief association.”
“And were you not the one who boasted the same of me?” She looked him in the eyes, daring him to profess otherwise. “Is it so surprising that I possess the ability to—how did you put it? Ah, yes, ‘to read you as a favorite book.’”
“Touché, my dear.” With a huff, he ushered her to the counter. “Give the butcher your list, and do not argue with me, else I shall end this outing, this instant.”
And so commenced the duel.
#
Inhaling the sea air, and tossing his ever-present lucky coin, which often calmed his agitated state, Dalton shifted in the saddle of his black stallion and gazed at the surrounding Portsea landscape. Uncharacteristic restlessness permeated every pore, as he had promised himself he would not seek the incomparable but unnerving Miss Harcourt’s company for a sennight. To his chagrin, his heretofore-vaunted self-discipline had endured a mere two days, as he steered for Courtenay Hall. And although he would deny it should anyone ask, he had survived that long only because he had been distracted by preparations for the Siren’s move to Portsmouth, for additional repairs.
To his complete and utter befuddlement, the backwater governor’s daughter had seen through his well-composed rogue façade and seized upon and struck the chink in his armor, when he had fooled untold cosmopolitans for years. Then again, polite society had been all too ready to believe the worst of him, had even expanded upon his rumored rakish romps, so he had expended little effort to maintain the ruse.
Of course, he had not bothered to correct the mistaken assumptions, given his ribald reputation afforded a few benefits, and the ladies often competed for his favors, when they ignored his titled but tedious elder brother. How would the ton have reacted, had they discovered Dalton was, in fact, a mirror copy of the stodgy Dirk?
Just as he had pocketed his talisman, he spied the source of his uneasy reflection, with her head bowed, wearing her tattered pelisse, a démodé bonnet, and carrying a basket, as she walked in the lane. Without warning, a ripple of awareness coursed his spine and pooled in his gut, as she worked on him in ways he could neither explain nor evade. “Good afternoon, Miss Daphne.”
“Sir Dalton.” Peering at him, she favored him with a brilliant smile, and he sucked in a breath. “This is a treat, as I had thought, perhaps, you had departed our humble isle. And what is your destination, if I might inquire?”
“Why, to see you, my dear.” Salacious skills honed in the embraces of some of London’s most notorious courtesans and widows charged the fore, but he reminded himself that he required her cooperation, if he had any hope of recovering the brooch. “And what, may I ask, is your port of call?”
“Oh, I must check on Mrs. Oldman, as the twins are teething, and she gets little sleep. And Mr. Tolly had a cold last week, so I should make sure he is on the mend and deliver the chicken soup Mrs. Jones prepared.” She counted on her fingers. “Then I need to convey a parcel of ham, cheese, and bread to the widow Cartwright.”
“And you intend to do so, on foot?” Dalton stretched upright. “Where is your coach? Or why do you not take a horse?”
“It is a lovely day, and I am rather fond of long walks.” She set her chin firm, as if to convince him of her claim, yet he suspected otherwise. “And I might have missed you, had I done as you suggest.”
“And now you flatter me, in an effort to spike my guns.” In tha
t instant, he dismounted. When he charged Miss Daphne, she retreated, but he caught her about the waist. “Hold tight to your basket, sweet lady.”
“What are you doing?” Shock invested her charming features, as she stammered and sputtered, when he lifted her to the saddle. “Sir Dalton, I protest.”
“My mother raised a gentleman, and I could not leave you to roam the countryside, alone, as it is not done. Now, scoot forward.” After she had done as he bade, he lunged and perched behind her. “Hand me the reins, love.”
“This is not a good idea.” When she shifted, her soft bottom teased his crotch, and his loins erupted in flames. “And please do not call me that, as it makes you sound disingenuous.”
“On the contrary, it is an excellent idea.” Even as he uttered the words, he doubted his sanity, as the old one-eyed marauder came to life. “And you object to a term of endearment?”
“Not all terms—just that one.” She wiggled, and he gritted his teeth. “As I know you love me not.”
“Would you care to explain yourself, as you could not think me serious?” Perhaps it would have been better to walk alongside his horse, as his current position challenged the limits of his self-control and his breeches. “Sit still, before you send us both toppling to the ground.”
“Do not rip at me, as I never asked for a ride.” She fixed her stare on the road. “And my father called my mother by such pet names, yet his expressions were insincere.”
“So my actions evoke unpleasant memories.” Without thinking, he pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “My apologies, as I never meant to upset you.”
“Turn left, please.” Gooseflesh covered her arms. “Continue straight until we reach the pond. Then veer right.”
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