Book Read Free

A Kiss to Remember

Page 7

by Rebecca Minto


  “Earl of Brentwood,” Chrys muttered darkly. “Look at him. All meaty hands, and he’s considered quite the catch,” she added, sickened.

  Daphne shuddered. That was something she had noticed, and it worried her a great deal. Most of the acceptable suitors appeared to be quite old. She tried to imagine herself married to someone with a bald head. She suddenly felt as though she would be sick. Again.

  “Ah, this set is over,” Chrysanthe muttered.

  “I am certain Anna is rejoicing,” Daphne said darkly.

  Indeed, Annalise appeared to be walking briskly towards them. Although her face was carefully schooled, Daphne noticed the nearly desperate look in her eyes.

  The moment she reached them, she took the cup out of Chrysanthe’s hand and gulped the remaining drink down. Chrysanthe smiled knowingly.

  “The man is insufferable!” Annalise hissed. “He stinks of stale sweat and, although I am hesitant to admit it, pig meat! And he just praises himself. Ugh.”

  The orchestra started up with a minuet. It was rarely played anymore, but the slow dance was still popular amongst some of the older matrons, who immediately began seeking their husbands.

  “Bloody hell; he’s coming over here,” Chrysanthe hissed.

  “Who?” Daphne wanted to know.

  “Chrysanthe!” Annalise admonished at the same time.

  “Brentwood,” Chrys told Daphne. “And Annalise, I’ll speak how I wish amongst my friends!”

  “Well, surely he knows I won’t dance with him again. If I dance with him more than once people will begin to think we are an item.”

  “Thank God I’ve already danced with the pig,” Chrys agreed.

  “Why is he coming over?” Daphne hissed. “Surely…” She broke off when both of her friends sent her a telling look. “No! I refuse—”

  “You can’t refuse the man a dance,” Annalise teased.

  Before Daphne could retort, a younger man was bowing to Chrysanthe and asking for a dance. Daphne paled. Brentwood was getting closer.

  Before she could ask Annalise to help her hide, her friend also left to accept another dance. Daphne suddenly found herself alone and the earl was approaching with a look of victory in his eyes, or so she told herself.

  Panicking, she looked around for a possible escape. It did not seem that anyone else was going to ask her for a dance. The retiring room was too far away. She was alone in a ballroom with an unwanted dance partner coming her way.

  Just as suddenly, she found a comforting presence at her side.

  The Duke of Cheney smiled menacingly at the Earl of Brentwood. “Good evening, my lord. Quite a crush this year, isn’t it?”

  Brentwood blinked at the unexpected presence. “Your Grace, I did not see you.”

  “I seem to have that effect,” James agreed, an undertone of steel darkening his rich baritone.

  “I was going to ask this beauty for a dance,” Brentwood challenged.

  Daphne opened her mouth, thinking to decline graciously, but once more her guardian came to her rescue.

  “I am afraid Miss Davernay promised this set to me. Perhaps Miss Stockholm will accept, however.” He motioned to an overweight, bucktoothed girl pouting in the corner. “She does not seem to have a partner.”

  Brentwood looked as though he might object, but seemed to think better of it. He bowed away, although Daphne could not miss the furious look in his eye or the way his face suddenly took on a shade of puce.

  Daphne glanced up at him. James sent her a pained smile. “Shall we, Miss Davernay?”

  She curtsied and allowed him to lead her into the dance floor. She slowly made the first steps of the dance, warily glancing to where the earl apparently had taken Miss Stockholm onto the dance floor.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace. I did not know how I was going to get away with refusing him.”

  James chuckled lightly. “It would be churlish of me to allow you to be manhandled by that old brute,” he said affably.

  She frowned up at him. “But you allowed your own sister to dance with him.”

  “Annalise knows him, Miss Davernay. You, I fear, do not, nor do I see any reason for you to extend your hand to him.”

  They turned. “You said he was a brute, Your Grace?”

  James seamlessly guided her around the floor. She danced well. He tried not to think how perfect she felt in his arms, or how her light scent seemed so cleansing.

  “I have known him a long time. Understand, Miss Davernay, I would not allow a man such as he to court you.”

  She nodded and focused on the dance for several tense moments. “What kind of man is he, Your Grace?” she finally asked.

  “A brute of the worst kind. He is now seeking a bride, you may know. A wealthy one, at that. Miss Stockholm would never do.”

  Daphne nodded. The girl had been quite rude when she had tried to speak to her earlier. Chrysanthe had told her that it was jealousy.

  “Is he quite poor then, Your Grace? I would think an earl would not be.”

  James led her through the steps. “Poor, you mean? Ah, my dear innocent Daphne, you will find that some of the loftiest titles have the lowest bank drafts. The prestige of a title can often purchase a lovely heiress. Stockholm, you may as well know, went through his inheritance at the gaming tables and the boudoir. His properties are mortgaged down to the very last dunghill. Even his creditors are denying him now.”

  She worried about this for several moments. “Men seem foolish.”

  James glanced down at her frowning face. He had a sudden urge to kiss it away. Pushing that thought far away, he focused on her words.

  “You consider us men foolish, my dear Miss Davernay. Whatever do you mean?”

  His mocking tone had her bristling. “Truly, Your Grace, what kind of man continues to purchase that which he cannot afford knowing he shan’t be able to pay for it?”

  “You have never gambled, then? Most men fool themselves that they will be able to win a fortune at the gaming tables. They never do, of course. It is rare, very rare.”

  James should know, he thought furiously. His own father had an affinity for gambling and drink and, loathe was he was to admit it even now, women. When James had returned from the Continent, they had nearly been ruined. His own strict discipline had saved the family holdings.

  It seemed Daphne had read his mind. She was staring up at him warily now. “Do you also have such failings, Your Grace?”

  “Fortunately, no,” he said shortly.

  She relaxed fractionally. “I fear I do not like these balls as much as I used to think I would,” she admitted ruefully.

  James smiled. One last turn, and the dance would be over. “Oh?”

  She smiled up at him, a gentle, somewhat self-deprecating smile. “My nanny used to tell me about my mother, and how she was such a lady, and sometimes she would even read to me out of old papers. They would tell me about the pretty ball gowns and the balls and the handsome gentlemen… I had this image in my mind, I suppose.”

  “And this is a let down?” James laughed heartily.

  She nodded. “It would not be quite so bad if they would open a window,” she muttered.

  “Ah, but it would kill the atmosphere, and we couldn’t have that. Perhaps you would like to step out onto the balcony?”

  She nodded eagerly and was comforted when her guardian escorted her out. It was empty, to her surprise, but as she stepped up to the balustrade she could see the dark shadows of the gardens below. It was actually quite pretty, she thought.

  She breathed in deeply of the cool air, relishing the feel of the wind beating away her sweat. It was unbearable inside.

  “I could happily stay out here all night,” she told him.

  “I fear that would be unacceptable
,” James told her softly. “None but I could escort you out here, Miss Davernay.”

  She nodded, a lesson drummed into her head for years. “Yes, I remember it would cause a scandal if a woman was alone outside or…or if she accepted an escort. Am I right?”

  “Of course. I am only acceptable because I am your guardian.”

  “One would think that a woman could step into the cool air when she felt ill,” Daphne whispered.

  “Ah, but that lone woman could be compromised by a larger man. Against her will or not,” he added sharply.

  She nodded. She knew the rules. That did not mean, however, that she agreed with them.

  That thought led to another and another until she was thinking about the detestable Brentwood once more.

  “Your Grace? May I ask you something?”

  James stepped up beside her, peering out into darkness and shadow. “You may ask me anything you like, Miss Davernay. That does not assure an answer,” he added gently.

  She nodded. “I…well, it seems…” She frowned, uncomfortable with the question, but curious nonetheless. “Most of the acceptable lords, acceptable for marriage, that is… well, they seem to be quite…quite old,” she finished lamely.

  “Old? As in Brentwood?”

  She nodded. “Yes, old, or at least older,” she added hesitantly.

  “Older than you, certainly. Yes, Miss Davernay, what of it?”

  “Well…why?”

  James frowned. “Because youth rarely desires marriage so young, Miss Davernay. Men like to live recklessly for a while. When they grow older, they realize they need to marry. Some might even wish for it. There are exceptions, of course. Some gentlemen do marry young if they have a need for a large dowry, for instance.”

  “Mostly they wait until they feel a need for…for a brood mare?”

  He coughed to cover his humor. “Just so.”

  She scowled. It seemed terribly unfair. “A woman is expected to marry well and marry young?”

  “Yes, youth is preferable in a lady,” he admitted through a grin.

  “That is most unfair, Your Grace,” Daphne hissed.

  “That is the way our world works,” he laughed.

  She turned on him, all righteous indignation. “A man can do whatever he likes, for as long as he likes, without honor or integrity, and he is considered good and decent, and a woman must follow all these rules and make herself pretty and display her wealth and if she breaks a single one of those rules she is considered bad? Your Grace, surely you cannot agree with such things?”

  He smiled and briefly touched her shoulder. “My dear Miss Davernay, it is how our world works. I will not say it is fair.”

  “I do not like it.”

  “I can see you do not. I should remind you, however, that many women willingly choose such a marriage. She has her husband’s protection, and she also has a certain amount of freedom in marriage. In time she might seek her own amusements without ridicule.”

  “Are you telling me I should look for one of those old husbands who just want a handsome dowry and a brood mare?”

  “I am not telling you that. Your life and your decisions are yours to make. I will ask, however, that you try not to break too many rules,” he teased her.

  “I know how to take care of myself,” Daphne insisted. “Papa taught me well.”

  “He could not teach you how to get out of every situation,” James insisted, suddenly wary. “Miss Davernay, men are some of the most selfish, loathsome creatures you will ever encounter. They would think nothing of abusing your notions or your virtue.”

  She sent him a purely disgruntled glare. “Are you such a man, Your Grace?”

  “I am no libertine, Miss Davernay. You will always be safe with me.”

  She nodded, accepting his words for truth. It never would never occur to her that she should not trust him to take care of her, or that he might wish to harm her. She knew James was a man of honor and integrity.

  Just like her father had been.

  * * * *

  It was very late that same night when, after hours of tossing and turning, she threw on a dressing gown and slippers and padded down to her guardian’s study. She knew he was still in there, working over his papers because she could see the light from beneath the door.

  She did not bother to knock, but barged inside, worried about Chrysanthe.

  Things were not going quite as well as she had planned. She was worried about the failing investigation. It was taking forever go to through Papa’s books, and they were making no headway at all. As she had once boasted to her friends, Papa had always been more than discreet and just in his transactions. Chrysanthe still had not had a chance to talk to her uncle.

  Therein lay another worry. Chrysanthe. Although she had not made a misstep yet, she still worried that something would happen, that she might lose her temper with someone like Brentwood, and her mother would do something awful to her.

  Although she did not know what more she could do about the confusion of her investigation, she did think there was surely something she could do to help Chrysanthe.

  James stood up as she entered, alarmed. One look at her dark, shadowed eyes, of the spiraling curls around her head and, damn it, the glimpse of something sheer and lacy beneath the thick lavender dressing gown, and he feared something was wrong.

  “Daphne, what is it? Has something happened?”

  She collapsed on the chair in front of his desk and scowled at him. She had noticed, until just this moment, how he always called her Miss Davernay. This was one of the rare times he actually called her by her given name.

  “Nothing is the matter, Your Grace. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  He nodded and sat back down. His heart was still thudding erratically from worry.

  “Please, go ahead. I won’t offer wine,” he added as a reminder of how their last discussion had ended.

  She paled, but said nothing. She looked, he thought, upset and worried. Still, she was facing him as honestly as she ever had since her arrival in London. In the soft woman in front of him he glimpsed a shadow of the child she had once been.

  “I wish to do something to help Chrysanthe,” she blurted.

  James blinked. “Miss Davernay?”

  “Chrysanthe has… difficulty with her social graces,” she muttered darkly. “I think… No, I know her mother is most disappointed with her in this matter.”

  “Lady Sinclair’s business is not your business, Miss Davernay,” he told her sharply. Too sharply.

  “She is my friend,” Daphne snapped, incensed at his callous attitude. “I care about her.”

  “And, you want to impress her mother?”

  Daphne sighed. “I do not care a whit about impressing anyone, least of all Lady Sinclair. Nor do I believe that Chrysanthe should be blamed for any missteps she makes. She is her own person, and that should be celebrated, not punished.”

  “That is an admirable sentiment, Miss Davernay, but I fear this is one situation that I cannot mend for you. Perhaps you would like to throw a dinner party and invite them.”

  Daphne blanched. “I beg your pardon?”

  James sighed and looked away. Staring at her, wanting to reach out and touch the silk of her skin and knowing he could not, was driving him to distraction. “I am certain you have acquaintances that would enjoy dining in the home of a Duke,” he mumbled. “Plan a party if you wish. I don’t give a damn.”

  “But…but I have never thrown a party,” Daphne sputtered. “I would not have the first clue what to do.”

  “Then consider it preparation for what you will be asked to do as a wife of some lord. Or not, if you wish not. That is as far as I could permit you to help your friend.”

  “Your Grace!”

  �
��Now, Miss Davernay, if you are quite finished with your little fit, and if there is nothing else I can give you—”

  Daphne jumped up, almost sizzling with ire. “Actually, there is something more I would like,” she told him hotly.

  James shut his eyes. The sheer perfection of her was causing him pain. “What is it?”

  Daphne calmed at once. He sounded so tired and resigned. The implacable Duke sounded weary. It spoke to long-buried memories, wishes and desires she had once had. It reminded her of a young man snarling with pain and loss.

  Instead of making impossible demands, she walked around until she faced his broad shoulders. With fingers that trembled, with fear at first and then with resolve, she reached out to touch him. The tension in his neck and shoulders astounded her. She began to knead.

  “Daphne, what the blazes do you think you are doing?” he roared.

  Daphne ignored him and continued to massage. “You need sleep,” she murmured soothingly.

  James hesitated for a moment, then forced himself to relax. The last thing he should ever allow was for her to touch him. Her kneading hands felt like heaven, and only then did he realize how stiff he was. He had long become accustomed to the constant throbbing of his shoulders. Beneath her skilled fingers the pain began to ease.

  A spell of silence descended the room, but neither one of them noticed. Daphne was absorbed in easing the stiffness out of his body. James was slowly relaxing against her. It was dangerous, he thought, but he was beyond discipline now. She was giving him what his body desperately craved.

  She closed the spell as quickly as she had begun it, reaching past him to push his papers away.

  “You need your bed,” she told him quietly.

  “Miss Davernay—”

  Her lips curved as she reached for his hand and tugged insistently. “Ah, so I am Miss Davernay again, am I? How intriguing.”

  “A bloody nuisance is what you are,” he mumbled as he allowed her to pull him to his feet.

  “I don’t believe you really think that,” she whispered.

  James ignored her. He glared at the work still on his desk. Damnation, he had to finish it. He was just so tired, though. He felt as though he had not slept in weeks.

 

‹ Prev