by Anne Barton
“Lord Biltmore tells us you’re something of a hero.” Olivia Sherbourne, the more animated of the duke’s sisters, leaned forward, gazing expectantly at Ben.
He shot Hugh a scathing glance before responding to Miss Sherbourne. “Hardly. I had the misfortune of finding myself in the path of a bullet. Let me assure you—there was nothing vaguely heroic or romantic about it.”
“Nonsense.” Hugh sat up straighter. “The colonel himself came to visit Lord Foxburn, and he said—”
“Enough.” It was a bark—harsher than he’d intended. The duchess fumbled her fork and it clattered onto her plate. Accusatory silence followed. The women stared at him with owlish eyes and, at the head of the table, Huntford glowered.
Ben set his napkin next to his plate and leaned back in his chair. If they were waiting for an apology, they were going to wait a long time. In fact, his flavored ice, which had been cleverly molded into the shape of a pineapple, was already starting to melt. Instead, he said, “I’m certain there are more appropriate topics of conversation for a dinner party.”
The duke arched a dark brow.
Ben responded with a grin but didn’t let it reach his eyes. “Better to stick with less distressing subjects when conversing with the gentler sex.” He sounded like an insincere ass, and no wonder.
“Must we limit our conversation to weather and roads, then?” Miss Sherbourne looked like a chit who’d discovered her diamond earrings were paste jewelry.
“Of course not.” Ben scooped the spike of the ice pineapple into his spoon. “There are plenty of interesting, appropriate topics for young ladies.”
“Such as?”
He froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I don’t know… the color of Lady Bonneville’s newest turban?”
Every head at the table swiveled toward him, and no one looked particularly pleased.
Miss Honeycote cleared her throat, drawing the attention away from him like a matador unfurling a scarlet cape. She smiled, instantly raising the temperature in the room several degrees. “Lord Foxburn, I cannot speak for my entire sex, but let me assure you that my sister, Olivia, Rose, and I are not nearly as fragile as you might think. If you knew us better, you wouldn’t worry about offending our sensibilities. You’d be worried that we’d offend yours.”
The ladies giggled, murmuring their agreement, and even Huntford chuckled reluctantly. Miss Honeycote pursed her pink lips and tilted her head as she met Ben’s gaze. Her knowing smile and heavy-lidded eyes were an exact match to those of the woman in the portrait.
And, coincidentally, to the woman who invaded his dreams.
Daphne took a sip of wine and, over the rim of her glass, marveled at the luxury surrounding her. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace of the duke’s dining room, gilt-framed pictures graced the sea-green walls, and a chandelier sparkled over the mahogany table.
Her sister, Anabelle, blushed prettily under her husband’s appreciative gaze. If the new fullness in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes were any indications, being a duchess suited her quite nicely.
Her sister, the Duchess of Huntford. The thought still made Daphne giddy.
A year ago she and Belle had been living in a tiny rented apartment wondering how on earth they were going to be able to feed themselves, much less purchase the medicine Mama needed. Daphne had spent night after night in Mama’s room, watching over her, as if that would keep Death from skulking in and snatching her away. Some mornings, when the room was thick with the pungent smells of strong tea and bitter medicine, she was afraid to approach Mama’s bed. Afraid that she’d take her hand and find it cold and stiff.
Daphne shivered in spite of herself. She wasn’t the sort to dwell on dark times, but remembering was useful on occasion—if only to make one appreciate one’s blessings.
And she had many.
Mama was now the picture of health. She and Daphne lived in a townhouse twenty times the size of their old apartment and a hundred times more beautiful. They had a butler and a cook and ladies’ maids, for heaven’s sake. If a gypsy had foretold it, Daphne would have fallen off her chair from laughing. And yet here she sat, in a ducal dining room of all places.
Enjoying her first Season.
Even she, the eternal optimist, never dared to dream of such a thing. Because of her sister’s marriage—a love match to rival any fairy tale—Daphne would gain admittance to lavish balls and perhaps receive her vouchers to Almack’s. She might even be presented at Court. The very thought of which made her pulse race.
Yes, it was that thought that made her pulse race. Not Lord Foxburn, or his bottomless blue eyes, or his irreverent grin. He seemed a jaded, bitter sort, but Lord Biltmore held the earl in such high esteem that he must have some redeeming qualities. Something beyond the broad shoulders and the dimple in his left cheek. She endeavored not to stare, but he was sitting directly across from her, and a girl could hardly gaze at the ceiling all evening.
If she was nervous tonight, it was only because their recent good fortune seemed almost too perfect, too fragile. Like a tower of precariously balanced crystal glasses that would come crashing down from the slightest vibration. She pushed the image away, inhaled deeply, and savored her last bite of lemon ice, which was surely a spoonful of heaven.
Shortly after the dessert course, Daphne and the other ladies filed into the drawing room for tea. The moment the doors closed behind them, Belle drew her aside and, as only a sister could, began interrogating her without preamble. “What did you think of him?”
“He was a bit boorish, but I think that, under the circumstances, we must make allowances.”
Belle squinted through the spectacles perched on her nose, perplexed. “Lord Biltmore?”
Oh, drat. Of course her sister was asking about Lord Biltmore—the kind, young viscount who’d sent flowers once and called twice. “I thought you were asking about Lord Foxburn.” Daphne’s cheeks heated. “Lord Biltmore is a true gentleman. Amiable, gracious, and—”
“Did you notice his shoulders? They’re quite broad.”
Daphne frowned, wishing her sister would use pronouns with a bit more moderation. “Whose shoulders?”
“Lord Biltmore’s!” Belle made the pinched face again then let out a long breath. “No matter. If he doesn’t strike your fancy, there are plenty more eligible men I can introduce to you. I just thought he’d be—”
Daphne reached out and clasped the hand Belle waved about. “Lord Biltmore is the finest of gentlemen. Thank you for hosting this dinner. You arranged it all for me, didn’t you?”
A mysterious smile curled at the corner of Belle’s mouth and a gleam lit her eyes. “It’s only the beginning.”
Oh no. Belle didn’t undertake any task halfway. Daphne had once asked her to replace the ribbon sash on a plain morning gown. Within a few hours, Belle transformed it into a shimmering confection of silk and delicate lace. If matchmaking became her sister’s mission, Daphne would not have a moment’s peace. “You are newly married and a duchess to boot. Surely you have more pressing matters to attend to than filling my social calendar.”
“Not a one. This is your chance, Daph. No one deserves happiness more than you.”
“I am happy.” But she wasn’t happy like Belle was with Owen. That was a rare thing.
“You know what I mean.”
Daphne bit her lip. “Yes.” If her sister was determined, why not let her do her best? There was no one in the world Daphne trusted more. She gave Belle a fierce hug and extricated herself before she turned completely maudlin.
Needing a moment, Daphne poured herself some tea, wandered to the rear of the drawing room, and sank into a plush armchair near an open window. A warm breeze tickled the wisps on her neck, and the simple pleasure of it made her eyes drift shut.
This Season was her chance, presented to her on a silver salver. She, a poor girl from St. Giles, would mingle with nobility. With just a smidgen more luck, she might marry a respectable gentleman. Someone kind and
good. Greedy as she was, she even dared to hope she’d fall in love. With a man who would view life the same way she did—as a chance to bring happiness to others.
Lord Biltmore seemed the perfect candidate. His manners were impeccable, and he treated her like a rare treasure, or a fragile egg that might break if jostled. His boyish smile held not a trace of cynicism, and the way his russet-colored hair spiked up at the crown—much like a tuft of grass—was utterly endearing. Though he’d lost his brother barely six months ago, he managed to see goodness in the world around him and reflect it back tenfold.
The viscount could have his pick of the Season’s debutantes, yet he appeared to be taken with her—a newcomer with few connections and no fortune to speak of. The advantage of being an unknown was that she had no reputation to speak of—so far, it was unblemished.
She could hardly believe how nicely the pieces of her life were falling into place.
A shadow slanted across the teacup in her lap, and she looked up. A torso clad in a finely tailored, dark blue waistcoat appeared, precisely at eye level.
“Miss Honeycote, might I have a word?”
Daphne blinked, tilted her head back, and directed her gaze to the face above the snowy white neckcloth. What Lord Foxburn lacked in manners he certainly made up for in good looks. His tanned skin set off his startlingly blue eyes. The fine lines at their corners seemed to have resulted not from a tendency to smile, but rather, to glare, if his current expression was any indication. Although his mouth curved down at the corners, his lips were full. Daphne was quite sure that his smile—should she ever see it—would be dangerously charming. His light brown hair curled, softening the angles of his cheekbones and nose, but it was his eyes that left her slightly breathless and off-balance. Turbulent as a churning sea, they harbored a storm of accusation, curiosity, determination, and perhaps a glimmer of hope. And that was only on the surface. Daphne could not imagine what else lurked below, and the mere thought of exploring their depths made her skin tingle like—
Lord Foxburn cleared his throat.
She started, and her tea sloshed, forming a moat in the saucer. Hoping to remedy the small lapse in etiquette—what was it the earl had just asked her?—she smiled apologetically. “How clumsy of me.” Heat crawled up her neck, probably producing more than could be considered a fetching blush. She waited for him to offer a gracious word, or at least smile back.
He did neither. Instead, he sighed as though he were already bored with their conversation. If, at this juncture, it could even properly be considered one.
Ah, well, the earl had returned from the battlefield not so long ago. One could understand how his manners might be out of practice. “Would you care to sit?”
“If you have no objection,” he said wryly.
“I’d be delighted.”
As he lowered himself to the settee, his lips drew into a thin line. He moved with the natural confidence of an athlete, but she’d detected a limp earlier. “Does your leg pain you?”
He narrowed his eyes. Yes, the lines reaching toward his temples were almost certainly due to this sort of squinting face. An unflattering look for most men, but it rather suited him.
“A great many things pain me, Miss Honeycote.” His arched brow told her he wasn’t referring to physical ailments alone.
Well. Though sorely tempted, she would not retaliate in kind. “I am sorry to hear it.”
He studied her, no trace of remorse on his face. “I require a word with you, in private.”
Daphne glanced around the drawing room. The closest person was several yards away, and her curiosity was piqued. “I’m listening.”
The earl pinched the bridge of his nose. He was perhaps the most impatient person Daphne had ever met. “The matter I wish to discuss is of a delicate nature. I think it would be best to arrange a meeting for tomorrow.”
“I confess I’ve never had such an odd or intriguing request.” She’d received her fair share of improper advances from men, but Lord Foxburn didn’t seem the type of man to force his attentions on a woman. With his striking good looks, Daphne was quite sure he wouldn’t have to.
Perhaps he wanted to share some information about Lord Biltmore. The young viscount had mentioned that Lord Foxburn had been his brother’s closest friend and that, after his death, the earl had helped him adjust to his new role. But what did that have to do with her?
“I realize this must seem forward. However, I think you’ll appreciate the need for discretion once the topic of our discussion becomes clear. May I call on you tomorrow?”
Daphne pretended to regard him thoughtfully for several moments, in order to give the impression that a fierce debate raged inside her. In truth, she was much too curious to say no.
“I’m staying here, with my sister, while our mother is in Bath.”
Concern flicked across his face. So, he wasn’t as unfeeling as he’d like people to think. “Taking the waters?”
“No, Mama’s surprisingly healthy. But she’s not accustomed to the parade of parties and social engagements. I think she just wished to escape it all.”
“Your mother’s a wise woman.” The earl rose and inclined his head in a manner that could be perceived as either polite or mocking. “Until tomorrow, Miss Honeycote.”
Before she could ask one of the twenty questions swirling through her mind, Lord Foxburn walked away. For someone with an injured leg, he made an amazingly hasty departure. How vexing. And unpardonably rude to leave without giving some hint of what he wanted to discuss, some clue as to why he insisted on secrecy.
If he was toying with her, she did not care for the game. His brooding, cynical air might intimidate some, but a girl from St. Giles didn’t survive long if she was the cowering type.
She’d never been one to shy away from a challenge.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop
From the desk of Kendra Leigh Castle
Dear Reader,
“Everybody’s changing and I don’t feel the same.” That’s a lyric from Keane, one of my favorite bands, and it could easily be applied to Bay Harper. She’s the heroine of the fourth book in my Dark Dynasties series, IMMORTAL CRAVING, and she’s grappling with the kind of changes that would send even the most well-adjusted people into a tailspin.
Bay is a character near and dear to my heart. In a series where just about everyone grows fangs, fur, or wings, she’s incredibly human. And though I myself haven’t had to deal with my best friend becoming a vampire, I found it very easy to relate to her struggle with the upheaval around her. I’m a Navy wife—it’s a job that involves regularly scheduled chaos. Every few years, I pack up kids, pets, and boxes of stuff that seem to reproduce when I’m not looking. Then I move to a different part of the country and start again. It can be exciting, or infuriating, or just completely overwhelming… sometimes all three at the same time. In IMMORTAL CRAVING, Bay’s going through all of those feelings. The difference is that in her case, she’s not the one moving. It’s everything around her that refuses to stay still. With her best friend now a vampire queen and her town being overrun with vampires and werewolves, Bay is clinging to what shreds of normalcy she can.
We all need things to hang on to when times get tough. For me, I rely on my family, my constant companions on this crazy journey. Bay takes solace in her cozy nest of a house, her big slobbery dog (I also have a pair of those, and I can attest that sometimes a dog hug makes everything better), and her job. Still, no matter how hard you fight it, nothing ever stays the same. And when lion-shifter Tasmin Singh shows up on Bay’s doorstep—well, floor—she’s finally forced to decide which things in her life she really needs to be happy, and which she can let go of.
Change happens to everyone eventually, whether you’re a Navy wife or have lived in the same town all your life. I hope you’ll enjoy watching Bay and Tasmin discover, as I have, that even when your entire world seems to have been upended, the people by your side can make all th
e difference in the end.
Happy Reading!
From the desk of Anne Barton
Dear Reader,
Don’t you just adore makeovers?
I do. Give me a dreary, pathetic “before” with the promise of a shiny, polished “after,” and I’m hooked. The obsession began with Cinderella, when a wave of her fairy godmother’s wand changed her rags into a sparkling ball gown. (With elbow-length gloves!) If only it were that easy.
Reality TV (which I also happen to love) serves up a huge variety of makeover shows. When I’m flipping through the channels, I can’t resist them—room makeovers, wardrobe makeovers, relationship makeovers, and more. Even as I’m clucking my tongue and shaking my head at the “before” pictures, I’m envisioning the potential that’s underneath, seeing what could be. Of course, every makeover show ends the same way—in a big (often tear-filled) reveal. The drama builds to the moment when we finally get to witness the person or thing transformed. And it feels sort of magical.
In WHEN SHE WAS WICKED, Anabelle gets a little makeover of her own. When we first meet her, she’s a penniless seamstress with ill-fitting spectacles and a dowdy cap. She resists change (like a lot of us do) but eventually finds the courage to ditch the cap and trade in her plain dresses for shimmering gowns. But her hot new look is only half the story. Her real transformation is on the inside—and that’s the one that ultimately wins Owen over.
Makeovers inspire us, and I think that’s why we’re drawn to them. We may not have fairy godmothers, but we have hope… and reality TV. We all want to believe we can change—and not just on the outside.
Happy Reading!
From the desk of Sue–Ellen Welfonder
Dear Reader,
Do you ever wonder where characters go after their story is told? If the book is a Scottish medieval romance, can you see them slipping away into the mist? Perhaps walking across the hills and disappearing into the gloaming?