Once She Was Tempted

by Barton, Anne

“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. 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. Although 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.

  Chapter Two

  Daphne ventured to the duke’s library the next morning, determined to pass the time with a book. However, after reading the same paragraph in The Canterbury Tales for the third time, she set the volume aside. Tucking her feet beneath her, she leaned back into the overstuffed armchair and breathed in deeply. Leather, parchment, ink, and lemon oil tickled her nose, and the shelves of books stretching out before her made her heart beat faster. To have such treasure at her fingertips was… a complete and utter waste. She couldn’t concentrate if her next ball invitation depended upon it. More than a little vexed, she tucked the book into its space on the shelf.

  What did Lord Foxburn have to say that was so secretive?

  This morning at breakfast, Daphne had debated mentioning to her sister the conversation she’d had with the earl, but then Belle would tell her husband, and Daphne was sure the duke wouldn’t approve of whatever game the earl was playing. And now Belle was upstairs sleeping—her third nap this week—which could very likely mean she was with child, and that would be too wonderful for words. Daphne sighed happily.

  Perhaps she could persuade Rose—Belle’s sister-in-law—to play chess. Daphne had little hope of winning against Rose—a wise, serene opponent if ever there was one. A dose of Rose’s soothing calm demeanor was just what Daphne required.

  She found Rose in the morning room dutifully plucking the strings of her harp like a redheaded cherub, while Olivia slouched on the settee, her legs sprawled like a hoyden’s.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” said Olivia. “Rose has played every song she knows and we are both bored beyond measure. Play something for us on the pianoforte, would you?”

  “Yes, please,” said Rose, looking exceedingly relieved. She was already setting her harp aside.

  “Of course,” said Daphne, reaching for the sheet music. Any distraction from the earl’s impending visit would do.

  “I should like to hear a ballad—one that is sad and moving.” After stating this preference, Olivia actually laid the back of her hand on her forehead.

  “Has something happened?” Daphne eyed her distraught friend. “Just what transpired between you and Mr. Averill last night?”

  “Nothing.” Olivia sprang off the settee and paced. “Nothing! Don’t you see? That is precisely the problem. I’ve waited over half my life for something to happen—and it never does.” She plopped back onto the settee and hurled a pillow across the room, narrowly missing a vase of pink tulips.

  Daphne exchanged a quick glance with Rose before situating herself on the bench at the pianoforte. Needless to say, a sorrowful ballad was entirely out of the question. Deciding on one of her mother’s favorite Scotch reels, she said, “Perhaps this will cheer you.” She launched into the merry tune, and despite Olivia’s best efforts to remain miserable, she was soon tapping her foot in time to the music.

  With each song, Olivia’s mood improved. Meanwhile, Daphne grew more anxious.

  Lord Foxburn didn’t seem like the sort of man who would go back on his word, but he could easily have been detained by more important duties. Which was why she saw absolutely no point in flustering the entire household over the mere possibility that an earl might call on her today.

  But then, that was probably overstating things. It wasn’t as though the earl were courting her, for heaven’s sake. She hoped her sisters-in-law wouldn’t misconstrue the visit. Olivia, in particular, had a flair for the dramatic. Rose was much calmer by nature but was quite the romantic. Daphne adored both girls and had no wish to disappoint them.

  Just as she was about to suggest a chess match, Dennison appeared at the doorway.

  “Lord Foxburn awaits your company. In the drawing room.” His tone was even, but his bushy white eyebrows had crawled halfway up his forehead, betraying his surprise.

  Olivia gasped. To no one in particular, she said, “Oh my. A handsome war hero, in our drawing room. Why on earth would he be here? The earl does not seem the sort who generally pays social calls.”

  Rose shrugged her slim shoulders. “No man is an island.”

  “Perhaps not.” Olivia cocked her head and twirled a brunette curl around an index finger. “But I should think the earl is a peninsula connected by the thinnest strip of land one could imagine. Even you must admit he is peculiar. Have you ever known an earl to purchase a commission in the British Army? I could understand if he were a second son who inherited unexpectedly, but—”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons,” Rose said. “As to the purpose of Lord Foxburn’s call, he must want to further his acquaintance with someone.” She arched a brow at Daphne, and her stomach flipped. So much for remaining cool and unaffected.

  “Me? I do not think we have much in common. But then, the earl is something of an enigma, isn’t he? He says little, and yet, those blue eyes of his are so intelligent, so intense, that I feel like he’s capable of reading my th
oughts.”

  “Precisely,” Olivia declared. “I hope he read mine last night at dinner. I was thinking it a shame that his title and dashing good looks were squandered on someone with his ill manners.”

  “Olivia!” Rose cast a mildly scolding look at her sister. “He has been through much. Come, we should not keep the earl waiting too long.”

  As they made their way down the hall, Daphne concentrated on keeping her breathing even and her hands steady. Thank goodness Rose and Olivia were with her; although the earl obviously wanted a word with her alone, she was not feeling particularly brave.

  Rose led the way into the drawing room and greeted their guest.

  The earl unfolded himself from the wingback chair, rose to his full height, which was a head taller than any of the women, and bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies.” His gaze went to Daphne and she resisted the urge to stare at the carpet. “I hope the duchess is well?”

  “My sister is fine. Thank you for your kind concern.” Daphne didn’t quite believe his question arose out of concern. He was no doubt relieved to find her sister absent, since it meant there was one less person he needed to shoo away.

  He raised a dark brow and to Olivia said, “Might I be permitted a brief word with Miss Honeycote? I realize it’s a forward request, but I wish to convey a message—a private one—from my young friend, Lord Biltmore.” The smile he flashed revealed his dimple and seemed to say, We all know that the silly little rules intended to preserve ladies’ reputations need to be bent once in a while.

  Daphne had to admire the impressive show of charm. It would never do to underestimate him.

  Olivia crossed her arms in the imitation of a fierce chaperone. The effect was completely spoiled by her face, however, which was alight with excitement. “Your request is highly irregular, Lord Foxburn. One naturally wonders why Lord Biltmore did not come himself.”

  “Naturally,” the earl said dryly. He stroked his chin, which was darkened by the slightest stubble. Daphne curled her fingers into her palms and waited to see what story he would concoct.

  “My protégé is shy and not at all sure how his message will be received. I am only trying to play the part of ambassador. Like Cupid.”

  Of all the—Daphne suppressed a groan.

  Olivia, on the other hand, cracked like an egg. “I see no reason why you should not be allowed a short visit. Rose, do you agree?”

  Rose flicked her eyes to Daphne, clearly trying to ascertain her wishes in the matter. She gave a slight nod.

  “If my dear friend is amenable, I have no objection. For propriety’s sake, the door shall remain open, of course, and we shall be just across the hall.”

  “I would not have it any other way.” The earl’s expression was polite, at odds with the subtle bite of his words.

  Apparently, she was the only one who noticed. Olivia gave a satisfied nod, took Rose by the arm, and departed, leaving Daphne and Lord Foxburn alone.

  She waited for him to say something. Instead, he walked toward her, approaching her from the side. When he was an arm’s length away, he paced in a half circle in front of her. One of his legs appeared stiff, and yet his movements were quick and sure. He studied her, his gaze roaming over her face and body in a manner that might be considered brazen if he didn’t seem so detached—as though he were a botanist and she a mildly interesting species of flora.

  When at last the silence and the staring became too suffocating, she cleared her throat. “There is no message from Lord Biltmore, is there?”

  “No.” He looked at her like she was some sort of simpleton. “I lied.”

  “I see. Is this… lying… something you do often?”

  “When it suits my needs.” His matter-of-fact tone was chilling.

  “I suppose truth can be terribly inconvenient.”

  The corner of his mouth curled slightly and he stepped closer. She lifted her chin in order to look into his eyes.

  “Spoken like a woman with something to hide.”

  “I have nothing to hide, Lord Foxburn. Perhaps you should reveal the reason you’re here.”

  After a glance at the open door, he clasped her elbow and gently but firmly propelled her to the far corner of the drawing room. He leaned close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “I know about the portrait, Miss Honeycote.”

  The hairs on Daphne’s arms stood on end, and her knees wobbled.

  Dear God. No.

  The earl stared at her, measuring her reaction. Her heart thudded in her chest. What was it that she’d planned to do if ever she were discovered? She screwed her face into a perplexed expression. “Portrait?”

  “Shall I describe it in detail?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Needing distance—and a moment to think—she turned and began to walk away. He followed.

  “There’s a painting of you, wearing a white gown. I use wearing in the loosest sense of the word. It would be more accurate to say the gown—which is little more than a night rail—is falling off your pretty little shoulders.”

  Good heavens.

  Daphne sucked in a breath and whirled to face the earl. “You are mistaken, my lord. I have never had my portrait painted. If there’s a resemblance, I assure you it’s only a coincidence.”

  He gave a wry grin. “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you implying?

  “That I’m not the only one who lies to suit my needs.”

  Heat crept up her neck. “You are wrong. My sister and I do not come from a family of means. Before she married the duke, we couldn’t afford sugar cubes for our tea. The idea that we could have hired an artist to paint my portrait is ludicrous.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you hired the artist. I’m suggesting that the artist hired you.”

  Daphne swallowed hard. The future she’d let herself envision—marriage to a kind, respectable man—was vanishing like morning mist on the lake. The paintings weren’t supposed to be displayed in public—Thomas had promised. How foolish she was. And now she, and the people she loved, would pay a great price. Mama and Anabelle, who knew nothing of the portraits, would be shamed. Olivia’s and Rose’s reputations would be tainted by their association with her. She’d ruined everything.

  “I think you should leave, my lord.”

  “Easy,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I have no secrets.”

  “Miss Honeycote,” he said smoothly, “we all have secrets. They’re practically a form a currency.”

  Chapter Three

  Blending: (1) A technique used in painting that ensures the gradual transition from one color to another.

  (2) The act of appearing as though one belongs in a glittering, privileged world—even when one clearly does not.

  Miss Honeycote glared at Ben impressively, but as she swept an errant strand of blond hair off her forehead, her hand trembled. “That sounds like a threat, Lord Foxburn.”

  “Not at all. I merely hoped we could reach an agreement.” He cast a glance toward the open door, listening for the hovering Sherbourne sisters. He didn’t have much time.

  “I have already told you that I know nothing of this portrait. I grow weary of this conversation and of your insults. If you will not leave, then I shall.”

  “Wait.” He had to admire her feistiness and the fire flashing in her blue eyes. A woman with her charms could easily snare a rich, titled husband. And why shouldn’t she? Ben didn’t give a damn who she seduced—as long as it wasn’t Hugh. “Lord Biltmore is smitten with you. You must discourage him.”

  She shook her head as if she doubted her pretty little ears functioned properly. “What does Lord Biltmore have to do with this?”

  “His brother, Robert, was my best friend. I made him a promise.”

  Only, it was more than a promise. It was a vow of the highest order.

  One of Napoleon’s men had charged and knocked Robert out of his saddle. He hadn’t been struck down by a sword or
injured by the fall—that was the hell of the thing. He’d been trampled by horses, some of them riderless, spooked by cannon fire. By the time Ben found him, grabbed him beneath his arms, and dragged him away from the reverberating clash of swords, a thin red line trickled from the corner of his mouth. He choked out his last request: Take care of Hugh.

  Four words, punctuated by the gurgle and sputtering of blood. And then his soul—or whatever it was that had made him Robert—left, and his eyes turned cold and vacant.

  “I’m very sorry about your friend.”

  Ben looked up, saw the sympathy in her expressive eyes, and flinched.

  “This promise,” Miss Honeycote said, “what was it?”

  “To look after his brother. Which means I must ensure that Hugh marries a proper and respectable young lady.”

  It was her turn to flinch. The color rose in her cheeks, and she crossed the room to stand before the window overlooking St. James’s Square. She rested her forehead and palms on the glass and remained frozen for a full minute. When at last she turned to face him, she clasped her hands loosely below her waist.

  “Lord Biltmore is my friend. I refuse to be rude to him just because you happen to think I resemble a woman in a scandalous painting.”

  “Go about it as nicely as you like. As long as his heart is broken in the end, I shall be satisfied.”

  “And you think that’s what your friend would have wanted?”

  Ben bit his lower lip to keep a nasty retort from jumping out of his mouth. His leg, which hadn’t hurt much this morning, began to throb. In a measured tone, he said, “Robert was very unlike me, Miss Honeycote. He was something of a romantic and wanted his brother to enjoy a long and happy marriage to a woman who would be faithful. But he knew that Hugh was—and still is—somewhat naïve. Robert once confided in me his fear that if something were to happen to him, Hugh would be blinded by an opportunistic, fortune-seeking beauty.”

  “I am not—” She stopped midsentence, and her gaze flew to his thigh, which he’d absently begun to rub.

  “What happened?”