“The Duke of Waverly. He’s here. Downstairs. Waiting in Mother’s drawing room with the duchess!”
A smile spread across her brother’s face, his blue eyes brightening with every breath their cousin inhaled.
“The Duke of Waverly?” he asked, looking damnably smug.
“Yes,” squealed Henrietta. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but we must hurry. Come.” She grabbed Daphne by the arm and hauled her to the door.
Thomas flashed Daphne a stern look. “You mustn’t keep the duke waiting. Oh, and Daphne, keep in mind what we discussed. I expect to see a genuine effort on your part.”
A genuine effort? As a friend? To the Duke of Waverly?
…
The Duke of Waverly stood in her aunt’s sunny drawing room, not five feet from Daphne, his eyes alight with amusement. Aunt Susan, however, stood approximately eight and a half feet from the duke’s right shoulder, her hands gripping the back of an oak chair as Henrietta made her way beside her.
“Ah, Miss Farrington. What a pleasure it is to see you again,” said the duke. “And Mr. Farrington.”
“Your Grace.” Thomas bowed and stepped beside her. “How kind of you to call on us.”
Daphne started a slow count to ten—in French this time—to steady her nerves. The duke couldn’t possibly be here. Not now. Not before she’d had the chance to think of a way to extricate herself from her brother’s ridiculous scheme.
Thomas elbowed her in the side, the sharp and unexpected pain causing her to gasp. It was a warning, and she knew it. Be nice. Mind your tongue. Or stay in England for an entire year.
“Miss Farrington?” the duke questioned, a look of concern on his face.
“Your Grace,” she exclaimed, her voice coming across a bit higher than she intended. She began her descent into a curtsy when her ankle wobbled, propelling her upper body forward. The duke’s hands righted her, his firm grasp making her not only forget the French words for eight, nine, and ten, but her voice entirely.
Henrietta cleared her throat beside her and said, “This is quite the unexpected surprise, Your Grace. I’m afraid my sisters are not here to receive you. They are in town, shopping for new bonnets.”
Only a few months Daphne’s junior, Henrietta was stunning, her dark, glossy curls always arranged in a pleasing frame about her smooth and pale face. Daphne released a long breath. Of course he had come to see her cousin. Why else would he be here?
“The fault is all mine, Lady Henrietta. My apologies for not giving notice, but the duchess was most anxious to make the acquaintance of Miss Farrington.”
“Me?” Daphne squeaked.
The duke grinned, looking younger and damnably charming, sending her heart aflutter. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid ever since I made mention that I had already made your acquaintance, Mother has been quite jealous and wished to see you for herself.”
“Will you introduce us, or must I have Lady Amhurst make the introductions?” the elder woman beside him asked.
Daphne had been so distracted and anxious by the duke’s presence that she had barely noticed the petite woman standing beside him.
“I would be more than happy,” her aunt began, but was silenced by the duke’s outstretched hand.
“My apologies, Mother. I have quite forgotten my manners. Your Grace, may I present Miss Farrington?”
Dark-haired, and with the most unusual golden brown eyes, the Duchess of Waverly stared at Daphne with an intensity one might fix on a criminal just before the noose was slipped around his neck. She was being measured. Judged. And, no doubt, found wanting. All by someone she had neither met before this very moment nor wished to see any time beyond it.
She dipped into a curtsy, her feet sinking into the carpet. “Your Grace.”
Aunt Susan heaved a heavy sigh, no doubt thankful Daphne had not further embarrassed her in front of such noble company. “Shall I order some tea, Your Grace?” her aunt asked.
“Please. I look forward to getting to know the enchanting Miss Farrington and uncovering just how the two of you are connected,” she said, waving her closed fan between Daphne and her aunt. The duchess sat in the nearest upholstered chair, motioning for everyone else to join her.
Daphne claimed a seat on a cream-colored settee farthest from the duchess. Thomas followed, standing just behind her, no doubt to remind her of the mission he demanded. Henrietta chose the empty seat beside Daphne, nestling into the brocade pillows artfully arranged on the furniture. The duke remained standing, occupying the formerly empty space behind his mother’s chair, his watchful gaze once again making Daphne’s insides flutter and her cheeks warm.
The room was silent, the duchess obviously waiting for some sort of explanation on their familial relationship. In her most polite voice, Daphne said, “Lady Amhurst is my aunt, Your Grace. She and my mother are sisters.”
Thomas gripped her shoulder, stilling her fidgeting hands.
And the duke continued his unnerving stare. Was he judging her, too?
“Sisters?” the duchess inquired, quirking a dark brow. “I had no idea you had a sister, Susan.”
An assortment of powdered cakes and cookies arrived on a silver platter, the mouthwatering and sweet-smelling treats stacked neatly alongside the afternoon tea service.
Her aunt lifted the steaming kettle and poured Her Grace a cup of tea, taking care not to clink the delicate china. “Yes, madam, Elizabeth was ten years older than I. She married when I was eight.”
The duchess eyed Daphne. “And what of your father? Is he a gentleman?”
How typical of a duchess to ask such a personal question that was absolutely none of her business. The pressure of Thomas’s hand on her shoulder was one of restraint, one to caution her against the outburst he knew was forthcoming.
“Daphne is of noble blood, madam,” Aunt Susan began, but Daphne cut her off.
“My father is a distinguished man,” she said, with her chin held high.
“But he is not a peer?” the duchess inquired with exquisite politesse.
Daphne fluffed the pillow at her side, a plush little confection sporting pastel cabbage roses that would look so charming flung at Her Grace’s head. “Among those in Boston, he is a highly respected, honorable, and very successful man.”
Henrietta swallowed a gulp of tea. “Uncle William owns the largest merchant fleet in Boston.”
“Your father works in trade?” The duchess sounded smug, as if her question drove home an earlier point.
“Of course,” Daphne said. Upon closer inspection Her Grace’s eyes were the exact color of old horse droppings. “Most men gain wealth and distinction by hard, honest work. They earn it.”
A trill of high-pitched laughter escaped from Aunt Susan’s lips. “That is to say, how most men in America gain their wealth.”
“I have heard of your father’s success,” the duke replied. “I imagine you are quite proud of his accomplishments.”
Had she heard correctly? Had the duke complimented her father?
What the devil?
She openly stared at the man, who appeared to be entirely sincere, his face reflecting nothing but kindness. But then, this was not the first time the duke had come to her defense.
Thomas lightened his grip on her shoulder. “We are most proud of our family and its success, Your Grace.”
At her son’s comment, the duchess huffed, her fan waving so hard Daphne thought it a wonder the woman’s arm did not fall off. “How did the daughter of a marquess marry a…a—”
“A man of business?” Daphne offered sweetly. “I dare say it was out of love and affection. Mama always said Papa had a devilish grin and a rakish personality that she found incredibly hard to resist.”
The duke’s lips quirked. “And what of your mother, Miss Farrington? What drew your father to her?”
Thomas’s fingers clenched around her shoulder, as if he had whispered in her ear. Give some sort of witty reply. Charm the man.
Daphne shrug
ged her shoulders in a futile attempt to dislodge her brother’s grasp. “I would like to believe it was her personality, but I’m fairly certain it was her attractive profile that initially captured his interest.”
The duke rested his arms on the settee and leaned forward. “Indeed, Miss Farrington. And how did these two destined souls come upon each other?”
“Well, I…I believe my father was in London before the War of Independence, seeking English goods to ship back to Boston. He came across her ribbon shopping in a store on Bond Street.”
“And your grandfather let her be seduced away by an American?” the duchess asked, her fan going still.
“Elizabeth was a very determined young woman,” her aunt replied. “And William was a most charming man. My father could do little to separate them, other than cut off Elizabeth’s fortune, which he did. But William simply replaced it with his own. My sister lived quite comfortably in her new home.”
Had her aunt just defended her parents’ marriage? And to the duchess? Daphne had always assumed her aunt, much like her grandparents, had disproved her parents’ match. Was it possible Aunt Susan held a differing opinion of her sister’s union?
“Lived? Is your sister no longer alive then?” The duchess cut into Daphne’s thoughts, her fan picking up speed again.
Aunt Susan’s shoulders fell. “No, I’m afraid she passed not long after Daphne was born. But now that the war is over and our family has reconnected, Daphne shall be introduced into society as her mother originally intended.”
It was almost as if she had fallen off a horse, so quick was the air to leave Daphne’s lungs. She must have misheard, for she had no recollection of being told by her aunt or brother, or her father, for that matter, that the purpose of this trip was to introduce her into English society. Her mother could not have possibly wished for her daughter to be associated with the very people who had shunned her after she had accepted the hand of an American businessman. Daphne’s fingers gripped the edge of the chair in a feeble attempt to steady her nerves.
What other surprises would she have to endure before she quit the room to write her father a very curt and discontented letter?
“She needs an introduction into society? Excellent.” The duke’s eyes fairly twinkled. He centered his gaze on Daphne, his smile widening. “Allow me to invite Miss Farrington to her first outing of the Season by extending an invitation to Spencer Court tomorrow afternoon. Mother and I look forward to having you grace our spring picnic. Do say you’ll come?”
Chapter Three
God, he was an idiot.
Impending imbecility was the only rational explanation Edward could offer for inviting the lamentably American Miss Farrington to his mother’s exclusive, pompous, and vapid annual picnic, an event where nothing but potential marriages were discussed, the latest fashions judged, and scandalous gossip exchanged.
And where the candid Miss Farrington would stick out like a rose among thorns.
He had wanted an excuse to see her again. To have an opportunity to challenge himself to make her smile. And to expose that adorable dimple in her left cheek whilst catching a glimpse of her refreshingly rebellious personality.
And if, in the process of seeking her out, he saved himself from an afternoon of enduring a throng of dim-witted women, then so be it.
Edward wound his way through a grouping of linen-covered tables exquisitely laid out with delicate Sevres and solid English Jasperware. Arrangements of blue hydrangeas and golden carnations were everywhere, obstructing his view, and making it difficult to see anyone, let alone find Miss Farrington. The very least he could do was act as her guide through the shark-infested waters. He had, after all, invited her to this mess. Why not assist her in navigating through it?
Peering over a particularly fragrant display of lavender, he caught sight of her windswept skirts, just before another set impeded his view. “Mother,” he started, but she silenced him with a glare.
“What were you thinking? Inviting that…that…American…to my luncheon?” His mother flitted about the lawn, her bronze-colored dress catching in the early summer breeze. “You do realize her father works in trade. Trade! Did you not stop to think of the ramifications of such an invitation? Good gracious. You have just given our very public approval of her presence in society.”
And he had. His invitation all but stated that he not only approved, but welcomed Miss Farrington into the folds of British polite society.
“You think her not worthy of such distinction?” he asked, his new boots sinking into the freshly sodden grass. The smell of last evening’s rain mingled with the lavender, the heady aroma giving him a sense of calm he did not feel.
Likely it was his mother’s displeasure that had his nerves wound tighter than a ball of yarn. Surely Miss Farrington’s arrival could not be to blame for his discord.
“Regardless of her fortune or her ancestral ties, I do not think Miss Farrington worthy of any distinction beyond those given to her class. Her father’s hands are tainted by service. She does not belong at this event. She will have nothing in common with the people I have invited.”
That her father had earned his fortune instead of inheriting it, indeed, that he chose his profession instead of having it forced upon him, did not make his daughter any less of a person or a victim worthy of Edward’s mother’s scorn. But centuries of societal hierarchy and tradition stood against that enlightened opinion.
Edward raised a brow. “Perhaps you should focus less on how her father made his fortune, and more on how much of it he has accumulated. She is of noble birth and you cannot discount the fact that more than one viscount or earl is in need of an heiress to save his estate. I have no doubt that many will welcome her, or at least her fortune, with open arms.”
If he found the alluring Miss Farrington enchanting, so would every other male, bachelor or otherwise. They would be on her like a pack of hounds on a fox, salivating at the chance to charm a very beautiful, very eligible, and not to mention, very wealthy woman into their arms. He was an idiot. A hopeless, doomed idiot.
…
Six weeks spent over the edge of a merchant vessel tossing up the insides of her stomach had been nothing compared to the nightmare in which Daphne currently found herself. Five more minutes of stiff conversation and brazen stares, and heaven help her, she would stick a hairpin into her eye to save herself from further misery.
The duke stood at the farthest table, surrounded by a crush of lavishly dressed women. Daphne doubted she would have a chance to exchange a single pleasantry with the man, much less pull him away from the picnic to ask for his assistance. It would be far easier to calculate the odds of her securing his attentions than it would be to actually obtain them.
She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. The sooner she asked the duke for his aid, the sooner the hull of the Mary Frances would fill, and the sooner she would be on her return journey home to the familiar shores of Boston.
But if the women vying for his attention weren’t enough of an obstacle, her aunt and cousin further complicated matters. The two adhered to her side, introducing her to every person in attendance, from those curious to meet her to those who held absolutely no interest, their bored expressions and snide comments making her wish she were anywhere but on the manicured lawn of the Duke of Waverly. Albina and Sarah, her younger cousins, had once again managed to disappear unnoticed—perhaps she could as well, if she just stepped a few paces back—
Aunt Susan yanked on Daphne’s hand. “And dear, dear Lady Rathborne, may I make known to you Miss Farrington?”
Lady Rathborne’s smile could have terrified tigers.
Daphne gave the obligatory curtsy, and engaged in polite conversation that could have lulled even the tiger into a state of drowsiness. Excusing herself, she sought a moment’s reprieve, only to have Henrietta’s fingers wrap around the lace trimmed sleeve of Daphne’s gown. “There is the Earl of Westbrook,” she squealed. “Is he not handsome?”
Daphne followed her cousin’s appreciative gaze to a young man with dark hair who stood smiling in their general direction. Of middle height and average build, he did not appear different than any of the other men scattered over the lawn. And certainly not worthy of the interest Henrietta seemed determined to give him. Had he been a foot taller and in possession of the same shade of azure-colored eyes as the duke, perhaps she would have concurred with her cousin’s assessment. But then, when had the duke’s eyes become azure-colored instead of a plain and simple blue?
Daphne tugged down the lace of her sleeve. “He is no more handsome than any other man of my acquaintance.”
Henrietta giggled. “That is only because you have met the Duke of Waverly. Few men are more handsome than he.”
Joining them, her aunt snapped up a fourth helping of canapés from a passing footman. “I have to agree with Henrietta, dear. The duke is quite distracting.”
Daphne thought longingly of the taffrail on the Mary Frances. Slipping free of Henrietta’s grasp, she turned to face her relations. “No, you don’t understand. I merely meant to say that the Earl of Westbrook is no more handsome than any other man, here, or anywhere, for that matter.”
A deep voice chuckled. “How very disappointing. I thought I’d at least best Lord Strathmere. The man is ancient and a veritable hunchback.”
“Lord Westbrook,” Henrietta gasped.
Aunt Susan’s face paled. “My lord, we didn’t see you there.”
Daphne saw herself executing a graceful dive from the Mary Frances’s decks into a school of hungry sharks, all of them wearing top hats and bonnets.
Doing her best to appear demure, she turned around to face the man. “Forgive me, my lord,” she began, but the earl silenced her with an outstretched hand, a look of amusement on his roguish face.
“No, please forgive me. Had I worn the dark jacket my sister had insisted upon, then perhaps I would have bested Lord Strathmere and captured your admiration.”
Henrietta giggled into her gloves. Aunt Susan stepped forward, edging her daughter behind her. “Lord Westbrook, please allow me to offer my most sincere apologies.”
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