Once She Was Tempted

by Barton, Anne

  “How did he look?”

  Olivia raised her eyebrows wickedly. “Handsome as ever.”

  “Er, not Mr. Averill—I meant Lord Foxburn. He was not feeling at all well yesterday. Did he seem recovered?”

  “He was his typical ornery self,” Olivia said. “That must be a good sign, don’t you think?” She raised a finger in the air. “I almost forgot. He was asking about you and wondering if you were planning on participating in the outdoor activities today.”

  Daphne’s face warmed. “Was he?”

  “He seemed agitated, but then, he always does.” Olivia shrugged and held the silk parasol over her shoulder like she was winding up to hit a ball. “Are you ready to play cricket?”

  “I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” But a sense of foreboding circled above her like an impatient vulture. She was fairly certain that whatever was agitating Ben had something to do with her. And whether it was the scandalous portrait or their dalliance in his room, it couldn’t be good.

  Olivia and Daphne found Rose in her room reading a book and still wearing her morning gown. She was therefore subjected to a sound scolding from Olivia.

  Daphne attempted to smooth things over between the sisters. “Go on, if you like, Olivia. I’ll help Rose dress and we can meet you on the terrace.”

  “I shall wait,” Olivia said, with martyr-like drama. “But she really must not dally or I—Rose! Put down the book this instant.”

  Daphne cajoled Rose into her gown, an apple blossom silk, while Olivia rifled through her sister’s things in search of another parasol. When at last they were ready, they stopped at Mama’s room. Thankfully, Hildy had just finished smoothing her hair into a simple but fetching twist at the nape of her neck.

  “I won’t be surprised if the teams have already been formed,” Olivia muttered, marching down the stairs at an unladylike clip.

  The rest of their small party followed after her and were soon spilling out onto the terrace where they joined the group of guests. Mr. Edland and Mr. Fogg stood against the far rail, having a spirited debate related to horses. Lady Worsham and her two daughters, Louise and Jane, sat at a small round table sipping lemonade while Mr. Averill stood beside them, looking predictably dapper and making polite conversation. Olivia made a beeline in his direction. Lord Worsham and Mama listened with rapt attention as Lord Biltmore gestured and pointed at various features of the garden.

  And Ben was nowhere to be seen.

  “Shall we help ourselves to a glass of lemonade?” Rose asked. A nearly full pitcher and several glasses sat on a table on the side of the terrace.

  Daphne nodded and, as she followed Rose, scanned the garden and the nearby paths for any sign of Ben. She had a sudden image of him, holed up in his room and clenching his teeth in pain. If his leg was hurting again, she’d just have to find a way to excuse herself and go to him.

  Last evening, she’d given Mrs. Norris a few coins and asked her to purchase some comfrey leaves from the apothecary next time she went to the village. Daphne hoped she received the fresh supply soon. In the meantime, she’d have to look for other methods of easing Ben’s misery. The massage had seemed to help a bit—maybe a hot bath would be even more effective than the warm towels. She pictured him lowering himself into a steaming hip bath: the muscles of his arms flexing, his narrow hips sinking into the water, and his—

  “Here you are.” Rose held out a glass, a concerned look on her face. “Is everything all right? You seemed lost in thought.”

  “Forgive me, I was woolgathering.” Daphne gave her friend an apologetic smile. They filled their glasses and sipped the tepid, lightly sweetened, lip-puckering lemonade. When they joined Olivia, she was in the midst of impressing Mr. Averill with her knowledge of the game of cricket, which she had acquired by reading into the wee hours of the morning.

  Mr. Averill would know where Ben was and how he fared. Daphne was debating how best to ask about Ben’s condition without sounding too interested when she saw him.

  He was walking across the lawn, cane in hand, but otherwise looking agile, fit, and—Lord help her—handsome as sin. Sunlight glinted off his brown hair, which had been freshly cut. She could even detect a slight quirk of his lips that suggested he found the whole affair—from the cricket to the tents to the parasols—rather amusing.

  He ambled toward the tent that had been erected on the lawn. Beside him was another gentleman, almost as tall as Ben and considerably stockier, with a shock of blond hair. He wasn’t a guest at Lord Biltmore’s house party. In fact, Daphne did not think she’d ever met him. She imagined that would soon be rectified.

  “Ah, look—there’s Foxburn and Hallows.” Lord Biltmore pointed in the direction of the tent. To the entire group, he said, “Shall we head for the lawn? If we dally, those two may devour the food without us.” Chuckling, he led the way down a garden path, the men following close behind. The women took a bit longer, adjusting their bonnets and opening their parasols to ward off the sun’s sinister freckling rays.

  Daphne hoped that there would be an opportunity for her to speak privately with Ben at some point during the day, and not just because she wanted to ask about his leg. She had other questions, too. Like, what had happened between them yesterday, and what did it mean, precisely? She would not delude herself into thinking that a few stolen kisses with him would lead to a proposal of marriage. Still. It should mean something.

  She knew what it meant to her. Ben was someone she’d come to care about—and whom she found devilishly attractive. As she walked past the spot by the garden bench where they’d kissed, her pulse quickened. Perhaps in the beginning she’d been drawn to him because she needed his help, but now there was something more. He seemed to respect her, not just in spite of her past, but because of it. And she saw the good in him, too.

  The problem was, the good was buried beneath thick layers of cynicism and off-putting behavior. Even if he were inclined to propose—which he most certainly was not—she could never accept.

  For one, he had an appalling tendency to be rude to people. She could overlook it, for the most part, because he wasn’t vindictive—just brutally honest. So much so that one well-delivered barb from him could make a girl want to throw herself in the Thames. She couldn’t subject Mama, Anabelle, and her friends to his cutting remarks. Not to mention her future children, should she be so blessed. No. She needed someone kind and well mannered.

  Louise fell into step beside Daphne as they left the pebbled garden path and ventured out onto the broad expanse of soft, green grass. The lawn sloped gradually down to a wooded area. Three round tables dressed with snowy white linens had been placed beneath the shade of the tent. Nearby, a long buffet table bowed under the weight of dishes it held: roasted duck, French beans, asparagus, braised ham, and a selection of pastries, jams, fruit, and sweets. A slight breeze rustled the tablecloths and fluttered the ladies’ skirts.

  The men had crowded around Ben and the newcomer, so there was little Daphne could do but wait. She turned to Louise, who was wearing a pretty dress of pale pink. “Your performance after dinner last night was wonderful.”

  Louise sighed. “I would have preferred to leave my violin at home, but Mother wouldn’t hear of it. She imagines that by drawing my bow across the strings I will become a pied piper, causing scores of eligible bachelors to trail after me. But the only power my music lords over gentlemen is the uncanny ability to put them to sleep. Did you hear Mr. Edland’s snores?”

  Daphne winced—everyone had. “Too much after-dinner brandy, perhaps.”

  “No matter. The violin is not my ally in the campaign to find a husband. If you require further proof, consider the angle at which I must position my chin. It does not make for a very flattering pose. Trust me.”

  Daphne blinked. “Well, I enjoyed the waltz immensely. I don’t know how you manage to move your fingers so nimbly. I am sure the gentlemen were impressed.”

  “Lord Biltmore was effusive in his praise, but I thin
k he was simply trying to make me feel better about Mr. Edland’s snoring. Very kind of him, don’t you think?” Louise sighed softly.

  “I do. He seems rather taken with you.”

  “Do you really think so?” Louise’s eyes sparkled with hope. “Ever since he came to our musicale, Mama’s talked of nothing but his solicitous behavior. She’s half convinced that this house party was merely a ruse to get me under the same roof as him—a ridiculous notion.”

  Daphne wondered about that. “Are you fond of him?”

  “He’s very handsome.” Louise smirked slightly, revealing a dimple at the corner of her mouth. “I must admit, though, that I feared he was courting you.”

  Daphne shook her head. “No, we are simply friends.”

  Louise released a breath and gave Daphne’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Well, then, you may be sure that the rest of the men here are besotted with you.”

  Daphne chuckled. “Despite being two and twenty, this is my first season and foray into polite society. That makes me something of a novelty. If I seem to draw attention it’s because everyone is gawking, waiting for me to commit an atrocious faux pas.”

  “Do you think you might? It would make it ever so much easier for the rest of us who are trying to secure husbands.” Louise arched a brow and grinned.

  “Never fear. It’s only a matter of time. And it may be much worse than anyone ever imagined.”

  “Very well. Would you do me another favor, then?” Louise gazed in the direction of her mother and Daphne’s as the older women filled their plates from the buffet.

  “Of course, if I can.”

  “Mama was adamant that I make an effort to mingle with all the guests, as she’s sure this will impress Lord Biltmore. I confess I find the prospect rather daunting—especially when it comes to Lord Foxburn. He’s not much for small talk, and when he does say something, I can’t help but think that he’s mocking me. Look, he’s even frowning at that gentleman—I believe Lord Biltmore referred to him as Mr. Hallows.”

  “Lord Foxburn’s bark is worse than his bite. Do you know anything about the other gentleman?”

  “No, but I propose we rectify the matter at once.” With an elbow, she nudged Daphne toward Ben and the mysterious man with Norse-like features.

  Ben glanced up as Daphne approached and turned his back toward her. Rude in the extreme. But she should have expected that. A few stolen kisses didn’t change anything—well, not for him.

  More determined than ever, she walked directly to him and waited for him to address her and Louise. Mr. Hallows seemed oblivious to their presence, but Ben was deliberately ignoring them. She cleared her throat. Loudly.

  Mr. Hallows looked up and raked a bold gaze down Daphne’s body. “Forgive us, ladies. I was engrossed in my conversation with—” He halted and narrowed his bloodshot eyes. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “I know you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pastels: (1) Drawing sticks made of pigment mixed with oil and wax. (2) The muted rainbow of colored silks and satins used to create gowns for young, marriageable misses.

  Daphne had never seen Mr. Hallows before, but he’d seen her, and she knew where. No wonder Ben had avoided her gaze. He’d obviously wanted her to stay away from Mr. Hallows—and with good reason.

  Pulling her bonnet forward, she shook her head. “I’m certain we’ve never met. I’m told, however, that my features are quite common.”

  “Common is not the word I’d use.” Mr. Hallows took a step closer, bringing the stench of port and sweat with him. “Exquisite.” He reached out as though he meant to take her chin in his beefy hand.

  Ben rushed between them and Mr. Hallows’s arm dropped like a rock. “Miss Honeycote and Miss Seaton,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “allow me to introduce Lord Biltmore’s neighbor, Mr. Hallows. His father, Lord Charlton, owns a nearby estate.”

  Lord Charlton. A low buzzing began in Daphne’s ears and the air around her grew thin. No matter what Mr. Hallows said, she knew what she had to do—deny all knowledge of the portrait. Refraining from fainting would be a fine first step, however.

  “The pleasure is mine, ladies,” Hallows drawled. Chin-length blond hair was slicked back to reveal a pronounced widow’s peak.

  “Miss Seaton is here with her parents, Lord and Lady Worsham, and her sister,” Ben explained.

  “And what about you, Miss Honeycote?” A snide smile slashed across Mr. Hallows’s broad jaw.

  Before Daphne could respond, Ben did. “She is here with her mother, Mrs. Honeycote, and her good friends, Lady Olivia and Lady Rose Sherbourne. Her sister is the Duchess of Huntford. Have you met the duke? He’s a formidable sort.” Ben dug his cane into the ground, making small pockmarks in the dirt. “Very protective of his family.”

  Daphne cringed. She was sure Ben meant well, but intimidating Mr. Hallows didn’t seem the best tack. He’d know she had something to hide. She would prefer to convince him that her resemblance to the woman in the portrait was nothing more than a peculiar coincidence.

  Mr. Hallows rubbed his square chin. “I’m certain I’ve seen you before, Miss Honeycote. Maybe in our village?”

  She attempted her most charming smile. “This is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. I’ve been in London for the last few years, so the country is a welcome change. I understand that after our picnic, there’s to be a game of cricket. Have you ever played, Mr. Hallows?”

  “What part of town do you live in?” So much for her attempt to change the subject. It was an impertinent question, and she was debating how to respond when Ben saved her the trouble.

  “You do not move in the same circles as Miss Honeycote, Hallows.” His blue eyes flashed like a warning flare off a ship’s bow. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the guests.” He steered Mr. Hallows firmly away from the ladies.

  The large man glanced over his shoulder as he walked away, a suspicious smile on his slimy lips. Daphne’s stomach lurched.

  “Well,” Louise said dryly, “that certainly went well.”

  Daphne suppressed a shudder. “Mr. Hallows makes Lord Foxburn appear positively charming by comparison. I do not believe I care for the gentleman’s company.”

  “No? Well, I would not count on him to take the hint. You look a little pale. Why don’t we fill our plates at the buffet and sit for a bit?”

  “Excellent idea,” Daphne agreed, but she only picked at the food on her plate. The exchange she’d had with Mr. Hallows weighed on her like a sack of stones.

  There she sat, using the correct fork, wearing an expensive-but-tastefully-unostentatious gown, mingling with the upper crust of society. To all outward appearances, she was a proper lady with impeccable manners.

  On the inside, she was still the woman in her portraits.

  Desperate. Indecent. Ashamed.

  Which only proved that wearing the right clothes and associating with the right people couldn’t help her outrun her past. Today it had caught up with her—in the form of Mr. Hallows.

  At least he hadn’t mentioned anything about the portrait. He couldn’t seem to place precisely where he’d seen her before. If it was true that Mr. Hallows’s father, Lord Charlton, had hidden the painting, perhaps she’d be able to keep up the ruse a while longer. Long enough to figure out where to go after she left London, preferably a remote village where no one would think her odd for preferring isolation and spinsterhood to socializing and a family. Long enough for Olivia and Rose to make brilliant matches and for Mama to be firmly embraced by the other matrons of the ton. Long enough so that Daphne might at least nuzzle her little niece when she came into the world. She smiled at her own folly—Anabelle’s insistence that she was carrying a girl must be contagious.

  Ben cast her a pointed look, but if he was trying to send her a message, she couldn’t decipher it. The grim lines around his mouth, however, didn’t bode well. She needed to speak with him.

  For now, though, she had a cricket match
to play.

  It was the very last thing on earth she felt like doing, but she couldn’t possibly let Olivia down. Her friend had carefully chosen the optimal teams the previous evening. After thorough and deliberate consideration, and changing her mind thrice, Olivia had determined that she and Mr. Averill should be on separate teams—an arrangement that would give her a better view of him throughout the match and show off her new gown to its best advantage.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  Olivia made a few last-minute adjustments to account for Mr. Hallows’s unexpected arrival. In order to keep the teams even, she’d pressed Ben into service as a batsman. Daphne frowned as he ambled toward the gathering of players. If he did something utterly foolish, such as attempt to run, she would be forced to do something equally as foolish, such as attempt to tackle him. One hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  No one besides Olivia had given any thought to the formation of teams—much less devised a plan—so it seemed as though her machinations would not be in vain.

  She walked to the center of what was to be the playing area and clapped her hands.

  “I have worked out the teams so that they shall be as evenly matched as possible.” She withdrew a folded piece of paper from her pocket and snapped it open. “There shall be a Team A and a Team B.”

  “Not very original, is it?” Lord Worsham teased.

  Undaunted, Olivia continued. “Rose and I shall be the respective captains.” Rose, clearly uncomfortable with being the captain of anything, gave a weak wave. “Rose’s team shall consist of Miss Jane Seaton, Mr. Averill, Mr. Fogg, Lord Foxburn, and Mr. Hallows.” Olivia waved the named players toward her sister. “On my team, we shall have Miss Honeycote, Miss Louise Seaton, Lord Biltmore, Mr. Edland, and Lord Worsham. Obviously, our teams are rather small, but I see no reason we cannot follow the proper rules of the game in every other respect.”

  “But we have no wickets,” Mr. Edland pointed out.