Young, with pale blond hair, and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, the gentleman took one look at Alice and blanched. “Egads, f-forgive me,” he stammered, doffing his hat. “I did not—” The young man’s words trailed off as he stared wide-eyed at the equally wide-eyed girl.
At the silent, but charged exchanged, Daphne cocked her head.
“Montfort, this graceless clod is my brother, Mr. Henry Pratt,” his friend spoke in bored tones.
Mr. Pratt’s neck went red and he jammed his hat back on. All the while, he lingered his gaze on Alice. A small blush marred her cheeks as she glanced down at her slippers. The young man shifted a wrapped package under his arm and sketched an awkward bow. “How do you do?” he murmured to Daniel, his stare wandering once more to Alice.
While the necessary introductions were made, Daphne stood a silent observer. The young pair eyed one another with equal interest. A potentially dangerous interest when shown to the wrong suitor, as she knew too well. And yet, where there was a feral glimmer in the man named Webb’s eyes, this gentleman’s sparkled with kindness. She looked to Daniel. He took in the silent exchange between Alice and Mr. Pratt with a frown.
“You are withholding introductions, chap,” Webb chided and Daniel snapped his focus over to the other man who gawked at Daphne’s cane.
She reflexively curled her hand hard over the head of her walking stick. Society had a bothersome and unwanted fascination with a disfigured person. Interesting enough to gape at but, by their standards, not worthy enough to hire. She tightened her hold on the wood. …you should be honored, Miss Smith. I’ve never rutted with a cripple before… Bile burned in her throat and she briefly closed her eyes as the harsh laughter echoed around the chambers of her mind.
Daniel’s voice reached across that horror, pulling her back. “May I present my sister’s companion, Miss Smith. Miss Smith, Baron Webb, and his brother, Mr. Henry Pratt,” he said, his smooth baritone forcing her eyes open. Curiosity wreathed the brothers’ expressions.
She shoved aside those old, but still fresh memories. Daniel’s brow dipped and he looked at her, a question in his brown eyes. A concern that was oddly harder to take from this man than the wicked glimmer of before. “My lord,” she greeted. “Mr. Pratt,” she added, dropping a hasty curtsy. She gasped as her leg buckled under the suddenness of her movement. Her cane slid along the ground. Her stomach lurched as she stumbled sideways.
“Miss Smith,” Alice cried out.
Daniel instantly shot a hand around her, effortlessly catching her to him and her heart thumped hard as he spared her the indignity of crashing to the cobbles. The weight of his hand at her waist was strong, reassuring, and burning her with the heat of his palm.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her face awash with humiliation as she sought to avoid his gaze.
The baron peeled his lip back in a derisive sneer that sent further shame burning through her. Mr. Pratt frowned at his brother and bent to retrieve her cane. “Miss Smith, it was a pleasure,” he said gently. Alice’s little sigh cut across the busy London street sounds.
Daphne accepted the walking stick and cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said quickly. Webb stole another mocking look at her. She was never more grateful than when the unlikely pair of brothers took themselves off and left her alone with the Winterbournes. As she limped, ahead her movements were met with further scrutiny. The stares from the shopkeepers, lords, and ladies were no less probing now than they’d been all those years ago. Other than an object of sick fascination, Society had little use for a woman such as her.
Daniel was so very wrong. There was nothing thrilling in London. And the sooner she was gone to begin the life she wanted for herself, the happier she would be.
Chapter 9
That afternoon, Daniel had earned so many reproachful sideways stares from Daphne that he began to think he’d be better just giving her those damned references she wished for and sending her on her way. The only reason he kept her on in her post was his own need of a companion for Alice.
He told himself that. Mayhap, if he repeated that mantra, he’d come to believe it.
Having tolerated enough of the lady’s obvious letdown, Daniel had taken his leave quite gladly of his townhouse. Given the Baroness Shelley’s offer that afternoon, there was only one place he should be. And on any other day, would be.
…I am not one of your lightskirts, Daniel…
Except, this night.
Not for the first time since his uncle’s ultimatum, he cursed the old bastard whose orders for no scandals or wicked behaviors had seen him at White’s, instead of his other wicked clubs. For if he hadn’t cut off the remaining funds and, more importantly, Alice’s tuition at finishing school, Daniel would even now be at Forbidden Pleasures with a whore, mayhap two, on his lap.
Or, in the baroness’ bed.
And there would have been no Daphne Smith, the straitlaced, purse-mouthed lady in desperate need of several uninterrupted evenings of lovemaking and who retained a grip on his musings. For reasons that, for the first time with any woman, moved beyond a sexual hungering.
Such madness accounted for his presence at White’s, the sole intention to forget his unwitting fascination with her.
By God, she was Daphne, the freckled girl who’d been at his side whenever he spent his days in the country. Only now, she was Daphne, the fiery-tempered siren, independent and strong. A fearless woman, who’d stormed his estate and demanded references. A woman who’d make her way in the world not by cheating others or selling parts of her soul the way he had—but through unwavering strength and, in that, wholly unlike any other lady he’d known before her.
There was something tantalizing about a woman who didn’t preen or fawn or wished to be fawned over, but rather commanded control of her life.
He rolled his snifter of brandy back and forth between his hands. Why could Miss Daphne Smith not stay relegated to the corner of his mind where forgotten souls dwelled?
“Montfort.”
He looked to the two gentlemen now interrupting his musings, grateful for the distraction. “Webb,” he greeted jovially, gesturing to the open seat across from him. It was in bad form to drink and carouse alone. Surely there had to be some Parliamentary rule against it. If not, it certainly deserved a look in the House of Lords.
The baron commandeered one chair while Mr. Pratt hovered, shifting back and forth. That telling discomfort was at odds with the carefree gentlemen Daniel kept company with. Nor was Webb the devoted familial sort to drag his brother around. Curiosity piqued, Daniel gestured to the other vacant chair. With a hurried thanks, the young man plopped himself down.
A servant came over and quickly deposited tumblers before the other gentlemen and then, with a bow, took his leave.
Webb tipped back on the legs of his chair. “I could not fathom what God-awful business was keeping a gentleman who so despises the country away from London.”
Daniel reached a hand out to shove the bottle across the mahogany table to the baron.
“But then I saw the delightful creature you’re squiring about London and it became clear,” the man finished.
Daniel tightened his mouth. “The delightful creature you refer to is, in fact, my sister.” As such, even rakes had to adhere to some form of rules where at least their sisters were concerned.
Mr. Pratt frowned, a dull flush staining his cheeks. “Forgive my brother for his—”
His friend chuckled, cutting into the younger man’s apology. “I referred to your Miss Smith. Quite an interest—” He grunted. “Did you kick me?” The younger man glared in return. The two shared an unspoken, lengthy look, and then Webb sighed. “My brother is interested in the other lady.”
The other lady? Daniel cocked his head. Who in blazes was the other lady they referred—?
“Lady Alice,” Mr. Pratt put forward in solemn tones.
Lady Alice? My sister? He rubbed his hands briefly over his ears. Surely he’d misheard t
he other man?
“My brother wants to court your sister,” Webb interjected, confirming there was nothing, in fact, wrong with Daniel’s hearing.
Both men stared at him. By their probing expressions, they sought a response. This was no bloody diversion from thoughts of Daphne. This was…well, the infernal rubbish he could do without. Society well-knew the Pratt family was in as dire financial straits as the Winterbournes. As second-son, Henry Pratt would have even less prospects and wealth than Webb. He wished to have Alice off his hands but into wealthy ones. Hands that could possibly benefit Daniel. Henry Pratt offered nothing to Daniel or Alice.
Mr. Pratt coughed into his fist. “I am a barrister.” A barrister. In short, no wealth there. As though he’d followed Daniel’s drawn conclusion, he continued on a rush. “I have recently built my own business and, though Lady Alice certainly could and should marry a titled man,” a wealthy man., “I still seek permission to court her.”
Daniel studied the eager-eyed, would-be suitor. Court her. An impoverished barrister without a farthing to his name? Nay, Alice would have a fat in the purse duke or marquess.
Webb looked back and forth between them. “You can be free of the girl and free to carry on with the companion,” Webb reminded him with a cynical smile.
Daniel’s fingers jerked and he knocked the crystal decanter over. Webb hopped to his feet, cursing softly, as the fine liquor spilled on the table and over the floor.
“Bloody hell, Montfort,” Webb groused, while servants rushed over to tidy the mess. “A crime to waste good spirits.”
At any other time, Daniel would have been in full agreement. He sighed and motioned for another bottle. Alas, such hopes of forgetting the minx now residing in his ramshackle townhouse were not to be.
“Granted she is not your usual tastes,” Webb murmured as a servant came forward and set another bottle between them.
Mr. Pratt again coughed into his hand. “We were discussing Lady Alice.”
“She is my sister’s companion,” Daniel continued over the other man. A woman who wasn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with him and challenge him at every turn. Annoyance went through him at how easily she’d slipped back into his thoughts.
“Yes, Lady Alice,” the tenacious barrister neatly slipped in. “The young woman whom I wish to—”
The baron snorted and proceeded to pour himself a drink.
What in blazes did that bloody snort mean? “What?” Daniel snapped.
Webb kicked back on the hind legs of his chair and sipped his drink. “I would rather talk about the companion you’re tupping than the proper miss my brother wishes to court.”
Daniel gnashed his teeth. “I am not tupping her,” he gritted out. I want to.
Webb chuckled. “You never met a creature you wouldn’t bed.”
Yes, that was true. So why did he want to bury his fist in the baron’s nose for that matter-of-fact statement? “This woman is different.” Even if he did want to make love to her until the words proper never left her lips again. Swiping his glass off the table, Daniel grimaced. By God, had he, in fact, uttered those words? And he, previously grateful for the other gentleman’s interruption, wanted to send him to the Devil with all his talk of—
“Ah, of course. You do have more discriminating taste than to bed a cripple.”
A seething haze of red rage descended over his vision. The tumbler cracked under the force of his grip.
“Good God,” Webb groused as another stream of liquid poured onto the table. “You are already in your cups.”
Actually, he had been nursing the same goddamn brandy for an hour, which if revealed or discovered would result in the demise of his reputation as whispered about reprobate. As such, he quite contentedly left the other man to his erroneously drawn opinion. “Get out,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “Both of you,” he said, directing that to the young barrister whose cheeks had gone ashen. At least the man had the sense his brother was missing.
The baron scratched at his creased brow. “What?”
A shadow fell over the table and they looked up. Cedric Falcot, the Marquess of St. Albans, Daniel’s closest friend, stood above them; the only figure between Webb and a bloody beating that would have seen him rid of his teeth.
“Get out. I’m meeting with St. Albans,” he ordered.
“Webb,” St. Albans greeted, as the baron rose to his feet with as much dignity as a man who’d just gotten ousted from the respective table. “Pratt.”
Mr. Pratt reluctantly followed suit. Good, he was just as eager to be rid of the lovesick swain with designs upon Alice. The girl, at least, deserved a man with a fortune.
“St. Albans,” the baron returned stiffly.
The gentlemen traded places, with Lord Webb and his brother stalking off.
“What was that about?” St. Albans drawled. Outside of Daphne, St. Albans had been the closest thing Daniel had known to a true friend. A friendship of which, after taking coin from the other man’s sire to ferret information back and forth between son and father, Daniel was wholly undeserving of. Still, he was a selfish enough bastard that he’d gladly be rid of Webb for the familiarity of St. Albans.
“His presence grew tiresome,” he muttered. Infuriating. Tiresome. All the same thing. First the younger, untitled chap wanting to wed Alice and then Webb… He growled. A servant came forward with a glass.
St. Albans held his hand up in declination and the liveried footman made to retreat.
“I will take that,” Daniel mumbled, slipping the tumbler from the younger man’s hands. Pouring himself another glass, he looked at his friend. “Difficulty with the wedded state?”
The other man offered a smile, one devoid of the sardonicism that had long been inherent in his grin. …That is not a smile, Daniel. That is an empty, dark expression that could never be disguised as anything good… “Anything but,” the marquess said softly. So that was the real smile Daphne spoke of. Who knew rakes, rogues, or scoundrels were capable of it? “Genevieve is expecting.”
Kicking back on the legs of his chair, Daniel took a long swallow and then cradled his tumbler between his hands. “Expecting what?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“A babe.” Amusement curled St. Albans’ lips up at the corners. “We are expecting a babe.”
His chair teetered forward and landed on its fours. The abrupt movement sent liquid splashing over the rim of his glass. “A child?”
St. Albans chuckled. “You know, the manner of offspring born to the human sort.”
As long as he’d known St. Albans, the other man had vowed to never become a father. With his own bastard of a sire, he’d commiserated, but Daniel had also well-accepted who he himself was. A useless rake, who killed all who loved him and, as such, he’d little need to ever propagate the world with heirs, bastards, or any other kind of babes. St. Albans’ father must be triumphant. “So the Duke of Ravenscourt has won after all,” he said slowly, giving his head a regretful shake.
His friend folded his arms. “I rather believe Genevieve and I have won.”
Those protestations didn’t fit with who St. Albans had been the whole of his life. “But, you never even wanted a bloody babe.”
Another laugh rumbled from the marquess’ lips and he leaned forward to pat Daniel on his arm. “As I told you last summer, I love my wife. I want a family with her. I expect someday you will—”
“What has torn you away from such marital bliss?” he smoothly interjected. Rakes didn’t talk about matters of the heart. Hell, rakes didn’t even posses the bloody organs. “At this late hour.”
St. Albans studied Daniel’s still nearly full decanter. Did he gauge how much he had consumed this evening? Yes, wedded bliss did odd things to a fellow. Swearing off brandy, smiling about babes… Daniel would sooner duel the Devil than walk that path. St. Albans fished around the inside of his jacket and tossed a thick ivory velum note onto the table. A familiar ivory velum. “I paid a visit to your residence, to see wh
at the urgent matter requiring my assistance was, but found you, uh,” St. Albans winged an eyebrow up, “otherwise absent to discuss said urgent matter.”
Daniel cursed. Of course. Yes, there’d been the note sent ’round because he did really require help. The second bloody person he’d been forced to turn to. Daphne’s flashing green eyes flitted through his vision and he swiped his glass up and took a drink.
“I did wait, before your butler directed me here.” St. Albans paused. “Not Forbidden Pleasures.”
“Not Forbidden Pleasures,” Daniel grumbled, recalling the urgent matter that had led to the missive. Or rather, the other urgent matter that was not his unwitting fascination with the fiery-tempered Daphne. At the other man’s questioning glance, he proceeded to inform him of Lord Claremont’s demands that had resulted in Daniel’s presence in the very proper club.
“I see,” St. Albans murmured. “You can trust Genevieve and I will lend our support to Lady Alice.” How free the other man was with that generosity, when Daniel had betrayed his confidence all for some coin handed him by St. Albans’ father.
An unexpected guilt knotted his belly. “Thank you.” He managed to force those two words out, when he used them sparingly to not at all.
“We are friends,” the marquess said with a casual shrug.
Of which, St. Albans was the far better one.
The marquess drummed his fingertips on the table. “During my wait, I had the pleasure of meeting with Lady Alice.” Had the two ever met before that? Odd, Daniel had known St. Albans nearly the whole of his life and couldn’t recall such a meeting. “As well as her companion.”
He stiffened, eyeing him warily. As a friend and rake, he’d no doubt view Daniel’s lust for the spirited woman on his person. Instead, St. Albans continued to drum a staccato beat on the smooth, mahogany surface. When it became apparent the other man intended to say nothing more on it, Daniel let some of the tension from his shoulders. “Miss Daphne Smith.” A long litany of black curses paraded through his mind. Of course, the other man wouldn’t let the matter rest. “Yes. Miss Smith.”
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