A Kiss to Remember

by Rebecca Minto

  Lady Sinclair forced a breezy smile. “Daphne, dearest, do you have a preference over flowers?”

  Daphne sent them all a fulminating look. “Thistles,” she said sweetly.

  “Hyacinths would be charming,” Annalise interjected, praying to calm their tempers. “Don’t you think?”

  “Roses,” Chrysanthe murmured.

  “Quite suitable.” Her mother sent her only daughter an approving nod. “What color?”

  “Pink and gold.” Annalise sighed.

  “White,” Chrysanthe said thoughtfully.

  “Black.”

  The Frenchwoman burst into raucous laughter.

  “B-black?” Annalise stammered weakly.

  “Yes, black. My flowers should illuminate the occasion, don’t you think, Chrys?”

  “Um…ah…”

  “Yes, you are quite right, Chrysanthe, we should decide on the colors for the wedding before deciding about what color the flowers should be,” Lady Sinclair snapped. “Perhaps lavender and—”

  “Black. Black, black, black, black!” Daphne screeched.

  “Oh, my,” Annalise breathed. She had never, ever seen Daphne so overwrought before. It was a terrifying sight.

  Her curly hair, always thick, seemed to crackle with her emotional energy. Her eyes were wide and wild, the pupils dilated until they were nearly black. Her chest heaved, her fingers curled like terrifying talons.

  She was menacing.

  Daphne stomped around in her fit, glowering and snarling. “I want a black dress,” she told the seamstress, livid by the way she was being handled. “Velvet, if you have it. I want an onyx ring. I want dead flowers, black hangings.”

  Lady Sinclair sighed unhappily. Sending the seamstress a complacent look, she managed a wry smile. “The bride is overcome, Madame. Perhaps if you returned this afternoon?”

  The seamstress and her assistants gathered up their materials and scurried out. Later, she would tell her husband that even as they quit the place on Mayfair, the young woman was still screaming for black.

  Most women would have been insulted by Daphne’s temper fits, which grew more and more recurrent as days passed into one another. Most women would have given up, or perhaps struggled to help the poor child gain her ends just to find some peace.

  Lady Sinclair, however, thought to do none of these things. She understood how Daphne Davernay was feeling. She had no control over the situation, none at all. She had been told, not asked, to marry a man who, as far as she was concerned, had no true interest in her. She had been given a specific time frame, a fortnight, in which to arrange a wedding. She was being told what she could and could not do, she was being kept a virtual prisoner in a house that was not even hers. She was being pushed and prodded until she barely even had a choice of what to eat any longer.

  Once, a very long time ago, Lady Sinclair had suffered so. Her choices had been taken from her, and her downfall had come about quite swiftly once that had occurred. She refused to dwell upon such things now, but still the pain of it lingered. She understood Daphne much more than the girl could ever comprehend.

  She did not try to end the tantrums; indeed, she pushed Daphne to go as far as she was wont to do. The more of the anger she released before her wedding, the more possibility there was that the Duke might be able to calm her ire.

  Of course, Lady Sinclair thought unhappily, it was not as though the man was putting much attention into his fiancé’s care, as it were. She could not believe that he had not so much as sent a single note to her. Most men should send a gift of some sort, if naught else, to betray his pleasure of their upcoming nuptials. No gifts arrived, however, no word but to say that he would arrive at Lady Sinclair’s household at the appointed time. She was half-tempted to pen a scathing note for the recalcitrant Duke herself.

  It would not take much to soothe Daphne’s fears, Lady Sinclair thought furiously. Not much at all. A gift, a note, flowers. When Daphne burst into tears when the seamstress presented her wedding gown, it was all she could do to keep from marching to the Duke’s townhouse herself just to give him a few instructions upon how to treat a lady.

  “Leave,” Chrysanthe’s mother ordered everyone menacingly.

  Soothingly, she brushed Daphne’s mismanaged hair away from her face and drew her into her arms. Helena Sinclair stroked her hair and back, crooning gently as though Daphne were naught more than a babe.

  “There, there,” she soothed. “All shall be well, my darling. You shall see.”

  “But he doesn’t even want me,” Daphne sobbed. “He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t,” she wept.

  Abruptly, Daphne pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself. Chrysanthe’s mother could only watch, horrified, as she rocked herself back and forth, again and again, as tears streamed down her pinkened cheeks. It boded ill. She had only seen such movements from those who were dangerously close to breaking their delicate minds.

  “Darling, it cannot be as bad as that—”

  “He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t love me at all!” Daphne sobbed.

  Lady Sinclair felt pain double her belly. What she had most feared… She had prayed that it had not come to it… She squeezed her eyes shut in abject misery. She had prayed that Brentwood would not have had a chance to misuse this poor, sweet child. Daphne had given no indication that he had, but… Everything made sense. Her guardian’s insistence that they wed, no matter of the bride’s objections. Daphne’s weak story of why he sought to wed at all. Her heart clenched in heart-felt sympathy.

  Quietly, she took Daphne’s hands in hers, squeezing. “Listen to me, sweet child. I swear it shall not be so bad. I dare say the Duke will hardly trouble you at all with his baser passions. Already he may be seeking a mistress.”

  Daphne stared at her, horror-struck.

  “It is the way of things, Daphne. He will find a mistress, and she is the one he will go to…to…to spend himself,” she supplied weakly. “Once he begets an heir on you, all shall be well. I promise. He may never come to your bed again.”

  Upon hearing these damning words, Daphne promptly buried her face in her hands and screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the time the wedding day finally had arrived, a blessed numbness had overcome Daphne. The pain had been an endless agony to maintain. The concept of not feeling at all was a blessing.

  She supposed she should be grateful for all those well-meaning explanations, she thought ruefully. The more she heard about how a husband and wife acted, the more remote she had become, and the more remote, the less pain she felt until, one morning, she had risen without the heart-wrenching agony she had felt for so many months.

  Comforting words, indeed, she thought now as she stepped out of a tub scented with lilac oils. A heated drying blanket was wrapped around her as she strode to the hearth where the fire could dry her hair.

  She thought she would die when Chrysanthe’s well-meaning mother had told her how husbands and wives faced marital congress. Husbands took a mistress, of course. Wives devoted their lives to the process of producing a child, and then the remainder of her life nurturing said child. Daphne pressed a hand that trembled to her belly, wondering if already a child were within.

  Of course, James might not decide cold, brief couplings were necessary in the beginning. He was young still, perhaps he was not so eager to produce an heir just yet. Daphne tried to imagine him, coming to her with icy resolve as he touched her as little as possible. No more kisses or caresses, only an unfeeling struggle to spill his seed inside her and leave her lonely and incomplete.

  It was the servant gossip she had heard that had truly worried her, however. Apparently, it was expected of men to simply abandon unsatisfactory wives in the countryside. She had heard them wondering which of the Duke’s extensive estates in which he might abandon Daphne.
It was expected, of course. Daphne had caused too many scandals. Her latest had resulted in one man dead and to his grace being forced to wed her. It wasn’t a question of if he would leave her somewhere, but where.

  She had found it impossible to believe that James might abandon her at all at first, but as she thought about it more and more, she realized that it did make sense. She had been too much trouble, from the moment she had arrived in England. She saw that now.

  At first, she longed to keep hope. He had, after all, desired her at one time. She had hoped that, perhaps, in time, he could come to desire her again. Although she strongly suspected once a man had his pleasure, he quickly tired of that woman, she had hoped that he might come to like her again. They could grow to become friends and confidants in time. Anything was possible. But how could that ever happen, if he was gone months, perhaps even years at a time?

  “My lady?”

  Daphne blinked, confused. She stared up blankly at the young maid Lady Sinclair had ordered to serve Daphne. She was holding up the gold tissue corset Daphne was to wear for part of her wedding attire. She stood up and leaned over the bed while the young girl briskly laced up the ties. Next came the sheer silk stockings and then the lovely garters, lined with tiny gold rosettes. Daphne mechanically went through the motions until the girl ordered her to sit on a padded stool so that she could arrange Daphne’s hair.

  While the maid slid ropes of pearls through Daphne’s glistening curls, Daphne thought about this impossible situation. No way out. No redemption. One day, James would hate her for doing this to him.

  It was all my fault, she admitted to herself. She was the one who had wanted him so badly. She was the one who had kissed him. She was the one who had… Surprised at how much it still hurt, even now, she blinked back tears.

  She imagined the future, long, endless years where she would be a lone shadow in a house that could never be a home, wandering from room to empty room, mourning the loss of her life. Would she lose her need to create? Would she forget the pleasure of company and friends?

  She could see it all too easily, being alone on an estate with her father’s horses and paints, no longer finding joy. She could easily forget the sensation of sunlight on her face. She could easily stop dreaming of fairy tales and legends, of beauty. She could grow fat and complacent…and lonely. Always lonely.

  Always the unwanted duty. The outsider.

  Where would James be? Strolling from ballroom to ballroom, perhaps escorting beautiful creatures, such as Countess le Dubois? Later, taking her into his home and bed—

  “The gown, my lady?”

  Wordlessly, Daphne stood as the maid fetched the gown. Shoving aside her morose imaginings, she looked on in feminine appreciation. No matter her objections, and they had been many and stated in remarkable volume, the gown was extraordinary. Lady Sinclair might have felt that she needed to make Daphne worthy, at least in appearance, of a Duke. Daphne did not know, or even particularly care. She did know, however, that she would normally have felt like a fairy tale princess in such a creation.

  The gown itself was of the sleekest cream satin. Exactly two thousand tiny seed pearls had been sewn into the skirt and bodice. The bodice itself was a wicked affair, only containing half of Daphne’s breasts. Gold, gossamer lace only barely covered her nipples, leaving the generous mounds of her breasts there for everyone to see. The sleeves were fitted to her elbow from where more of the filmy gold lace fell like glittering mist.

  Daphne sat down in front of the mirror and found her mother’s pearls. She wondered briefly if she had worn them on her wedding day. With fumbling fingers, she managed to clasp the necklace around her throat. Next came the tear-drop pearls at her ears. She sat, staring back at a stranger in a glinting mirror.

  This is not me, she thought miserably. Not those enigmatic eyes, dark and quiet. Certainly not the soft hair that came to frame a pale cheek, or the rare extravagance of her trappings. It was a stranger who pursed her lips, a stranger who glared back at her.

  “Your shoes?” the maidservant urged impatiently.

  Daphne cleared her throat. She slid her feet effortlessly into golden slippers lined with pearls to match her bridal assemble. At last, she was ready. She gulped.

  Wordlessly, the maid left. Daphne stood up and began to pace. There had to be another way! She could not allow James to throw away his life this way. She would not be entrapped in an unacceptable marriage.

  “Ah, look here, Anna, she paces. A vestige of our old Daph.”

  Daphne looked beseechingly at her friends, her very best friends. Was this the end of their friendship?

  “Oh, Daphne, you are so beautiful,” Annalise breathed. Her tears were suddenly glistening with unshed tears.

  “We will not help you run away,” Chrysanthe said the moment Daphne opened her mouth. “We will not go tell the Duke that you are ill.”

  Daphne sighed. “What will you do?”

  “We will be there for you,” Annalise promised.

  “Always,” Chrysanthe agreed. “No matter what happens…” She turned away, choking on her own tears.

  “James is waiting,” Annalise said thickly.

  Daphne started forward, then stopped suddenly. Her eyes went wild.

  “T-this isn’t the end, is it?”

  “Daphne!”

  Annalise got there first, wrapping her arms around her friend with such force it threatened to rob her of breath. Chrysanthe joined in the embrace, the three of them hugging and laughing and crying all at once.

  “It would take more than a wedding to destroy our friendship,” Chrysanthe vowed.

  “We made a promise, Daphne, and I shan’t break it.”

  “I’ll visit.”

  “I’ll join you shortly,” Annalise said as she pulled away, wiping the tears away with a white knuckle. “See, it will be the same as usual except…” She grinned sheepishly. “You’ll be my sister.”

  Chrysanthe sneered through her tears. “Poor Daphne. No wonder you are so set against this marriage.”

  Despite herself, Daphne laughed at the quip. Chrysanthe handed her an embroidered handkerchief. She dried her eyes and blew her nose as delicately as she could, considering she had two pairs of eyes peering at her intently.

  Discarding the cloth, she turned a pirouette. “Am I presentable.”

  “Magnificent,” Chrysanthe murmured in awe.

  “Everything a bride should be,” Annalise assured her.

  Daphne nodded brusquely. Despite that Annalise had always thought she’d had her head in the clouds, she was a practical person. If she could not run away, and could not hide, if she could not have her way, then she would just have to be sensible.

  Blast it.

  Daphne started for the door. “Better get it done and over with,” she told her best friends.

  Annalise handed her a magnificent bouquet of crisp, white roses.

  “If it is any consolation, he doesn’t look good,” Chrysanthe called out from behind.

  “James never looks good,” Annalise snorted. Her brother? Handsome? She had never heard such a ridiculous notion.

  “Never as good as Daphne,” Chrys conceded mockingly. She knew it drove Anna crazy to consider her brother equal to any other eligible gentleman.

  They were bickering again. It was absolutely wonderful! Daphne smiled radiantly. Nothing would change, she determined. She might have to be married to a man who did not love her, a man who would pretend she didn’t exist. But she still had friends.

  The very best friends in all the world.

  If she had the love of her friends, surely she could survive anything.

  * * * *

  Thank God that was over with.

  James scowled out the window as he tugged his cravat loose. He detested the damnable things, always
had. It was only one of the many reasons he hated this time of the year in London. Balls, musicales, the bloody opera. He unclasped the top two buttons of his silk shirt and shrugged out of his jacket.

  Lowering his eyelids, James furtively looked at Daphne. He could hardly keep his eyes off her all through the ceremony. Then there had been the luncheon. Inhaling her sweet scent, feeling her next to him, seeing glimpses of creamy flesh and pure gold out of the corner of his eye, it had been damn near impossible to keep his eyes off her. He had struggled throughout the entire foul occasion to keep eyes and hands off her.

  Now, they were alone and he didn’t know how much longer his resolve would hold. She was magnificent. The colors of her gown accentuated the delicacy of her features. His eyes dropped to her impressive décolleté. God, he couldn’t stop staring at her…there, and if he didn’t stop, he knew she would know what he was thinking about, and if she knew, he knew he would lose every last vestige of control and rip the material from her nubile body.

  But her skin looked so smooth and creamy, he thought lustily. He knew that if he reached out and just ran one finger down her breast, it would feel like silk. He knew exactly how she would taste if he ran his tongue down that plump mound of flesh. He knew how her breathing would go shallow, how her throaty moan would drive through him until all he wanted to do was…

  “James?” Daphne shouted.

  He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. Glancing down, he groaned with mortification. His engorged manhood was painfully obvious. He yanked his jacket across his lap and met her irritated stare.

  “Yes, dearest wife?” he inquired innocently.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever were you thinking about?” Daphne demanded. “I was saying your name for two minutes.”

  James cleared his throat nervously. That he had been that engrossed with his fantasy, and that aroused, was remarkable. He had never been so aroused in his life. Somehow, with Daphne, he experienced something he’d never felt before. It was thrilling.