by Betina Krahn
Only after Collette carried the letter to Banks with instructions to exercise Dancer by riding into the city to deliver it, did Daisy surrender to the need for a rejuvenating nap. After all, as the countess had pointedly advised, that night she could be seeing the Duke of Meridian and had to be at her best.
* * *
The earl’s carriage collected the duke from the train station late that afternoon; Daisy was afforded a view of his arrival from her window on the second floor. His hair was a tad too long, his suit not at all stylish, and his broad gestures conveyed boyish excitement as the earl greeted him and ushered him inside. She turned from the window, squared her shoulders, and set about dressing to become a duke’s fondest desire.
Later, as she joined the countess to descend the stairs to dinner, she was pleased to see her sponsor’s smile of approval. She had chosen a sky-blue dinner dress that was intended to bring out her eyes, and Collette had put her hair up into a lovely cascade of curls that included a pair of silk butterflies already proven to draw the duke’s delight.
The salon was filled with people, every one of whom wanted to meet Daisy and her uncle. Introduction after introduction proceeded along familiar lines: the earl, viscount, countess, lady, honorable sir, missus, dowager, or simple reverend mister . . . and she was Miss Bumgarten from Nevada, America. Hands were shaken or kissed, pleasantries exchanged, travel, weather, and gardens were all referenced. Suddenly there was a rustle of interest among the guests and they looked to the salon entrance.
Daisy turned to see what caused it.
“Miss Bumgarten!” The duke rushed forward a few steps before remembering himself and slowing to a more dignified pace. “How wonderful to see you.”
“Your Grace.” She managed a small curtsy and a warm, winning smile as he reached for her hand. “This is such a pleasant surprise.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He ignored the other guests, who watched their meeting with keen interest. Not even the earl’s throat clearing could divert his attention. “I had no idea you were visiting Marlton’s gardens, too. What a marvelous coincidence. Who would have thought? But then, who can fathom the clever doings of Fortune herself?”
Before she could respond, a stout, white-bearded, old fellow in immaculate dinner attire appeared at the duke’s side to clasp his arm with not-so-subtle force. The duke seemed unfazed. “Dear Miss Bumgarten, I would have you meet my uncle . . . Bertram Graham, Baron Beesock.”
“Baron.” She gave him her hand, but the icy look on the old man’s face made her wonder if it would be frostbit when she got it back.
“Miss Bamgarters.” He bit off the words and gave a Prussian-stiff dip over her hand. It was only then that she remembered where she had seen him before; he was one of the family elders in the Earl of Mountjoy’s upper room.
A second later, he was whisking the duke away to greet other guests, and the countess appeared at Daisy’s side with a raised eyebrow that said she had seen the baron’s mispronunciation of her name and the crass way he spirited the duke away from her. Daisy nodded to her, took a steadying breath, and then turned brightly to engage their host and fellow guests.
When dinner was announced, Lady Regina led them into the dining room on Uncle Red’s arm. Albemarle escorted his mother, the dowager, and Daisy was surprised to have the duke appear at her side and offer her his arm. She cast a subtle glance around and discovered the countess had performed the ultimate sacrifice—throwing herself in the baron’s path and dousing him with enough charm that he couldn’t refuse to escort her.
Whether it was the countess’s influence or simple curiosity about the pairing on her hostess’s part, Daisy was seated beside the duke at dinner. She warmed as he took the chair beside hers and turned to her with a smile that could almost have been called shy.
“I am so glad to see you here, Miss Bumgarten. I know you said you enjoy gardens and butterflies, but people say such things to me—knowing I study them. I had a feeling that your interest was more genuine, and I am gratified to be proven correct. Have you seen the gardens?”
“I have only been here a short time, Your Grace, but the earl and Lady Regina personally squired us around the gardens. The plantings took my breath. Such colors and shapes. A surprise around every turn. And the butterflies . . . just thick around the flowers.”
“It seems you’ve already captured some in your hair.” He reached out to touch one of her butterflies and inadvertently brushed a curl on the nape of her neck. Surprised, she gave a small “oh.” He withdrew with a look of chagrin, but a moment later she met his glance with a smile and he relaxed. His face seemed a bit leaner than she remembered, somehow more mature.
“I’ve heard of Albemarle’s gardens for years.” He paused as the serving began, then continued when the footmen had moved on. “Don’t know why I’ve never come before. Just too absorbed in my studies, I suppose. And there is always so much to do.” He shrugged. “I’ve determined to see more of nature for myself. And I’ve you to thank, Miss Bumgarten. You are my inspiration.”
“I am?” She felt an unexpected wave of warmth at his earnest compliment. “How wonderful of you to say so, Your Grace.”
“When I saw how eager you are to travel and learn and see other places and other people—well, I realize how isolated I have been, and I am determined to remedy that. Starting with good Albemarle’s gardens.”
“Just wait until you see the topiaries they have installed,” Daisy said. “They’re such fun. Though I believe you’ll like the butterfly garden best.”
“They have a butterfly garden?” He pressed a hand to his heart. “I won’t sleep a wink tonight.”
At that moment a voice was raised down the table: his uncle Bertram was recounting a tale of the duke’s younger days.... “He fell into a muddy stream bank area while searching for a specimen and returned to the house covered head to toe with mud and oblivious to rugs and upholstery . . . thinking of nothing but his precious salamander.” There were polite chuckles as the other guests looked to the duke for a reaction. His ill-concealed discomfort silenced that end of the table.
“Well, salamanders can be quite a prize for twelve-year-old boys,” the countess said, trying to relieve the awkwardness.
“Twelve? That was just last year!” Uncle Bertram roared with laughter, oblivious to the fact that he was the only one laughing.
The duke stiffened and Daisy could have sworn he shrank inside his coat. Unable to help herself, she reached for his hand beneath the table, and when he looked over in surprise, she squeezed it and gave him a smile.
The rest of dinner was more enjoyable. Uncle Red recounted a few prospecting stories and the earl related a tale or two he’d read about cowboys on a cattle drive. Red and Daisy were called on to confirm that thousands of cattle were moved to railheads across vast open spaces, and that the drives sometimes took weeks. But they did have to say that this was less common since the railroads had spread over so much more of the country. Long, brutal cattle drives were no longer as necessary.
By the end of dinner the duke seemed to have recovered his spirits and spoke about the recent theories of naturalists about the habits of birds and even butterflies. Once again his uncle made pointed comments about his eccentric interests, but this time his remarks were ignored, even by the countess, who chose to converse with the guests seated opposite her instead of listening to him.
Later, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the salon, the baron did his best to prevent Arthur from seeking out Daisy and was partly successful. She watched as Arthur was forced to sit hands of cards he had no interest in and suffered through displays of piano skill that ranged from pleasant to cringe worthy. Eventually the aging baron’s stamina and vigilance waned and the duke sought out Daisy for a chat.
“I must apologize for my uncle,” he said with a tepid smile. “He grows older and less discreet by the year. Whatever goes through his head comes out his mouth, without a care for how it may be received. And yet, I cannot be too hard on him. He an
d my aunts have always worried and fussed over me, and tried to direct and protect me.”
“No doubt,” she said. And what they were trying to protect him from, right now, was her. Daisy slipped her hand between them and risked another touch of his hand. “My mother has been much the same. She didn’t want me to tour the continent and come to England. But in the end, I recruited Uncle Red and wrote letters and contacted the countess—and—here I am.”
“Such pluck. You are without a doubt the pluckiest female I have ever known, Miss—May I call you Daisy? I feel like we have been friends forever.” When she nodded, it was as if the sun dawned in his face. “And do please call me Arthur—at least out of company. So few people do.”
By the time she trooped up the stairs at the end of the evening, Daisy was glowing with the success of her time with “Arthur.” When the countess arrived in her room later, she, too, was flushed with excitement.
“Now is not the time to rest on our laurels,” the countess forced herself to caution. “We still have to find evidence to satisfy the family elders.” Then she smiled. “But having the duke’s interest might sway things in our direction no matter what the outcome of your ancestry search.”
Chapter Fifteen
Daisy rose early the next morning, dressed in an India-cotton dress printed with bluebells and carried a broad-brimmed sun hat in preparation for an outing. She appeared in the breakfast room to find that the other guests who were staying had the same idea: to be out and about in the splendid weather. One of the earl’s friends arranged pairings for a game of lawn tennis, another mounted a ride to the ruins of a nearby abbey, and several ladies insisted on a personally guided tour of the gardens. When the duke appeared, it was with his uncle, who steered him away from her. The old coot. She smiled sweetly and sipped her coffee.
As expected, the duke chose to enjoy the gardens, with the earl and Lady Regina as guides. The ladies who had insisted on the tour chatted eagerly about the wonders to come. There were “ah’s” aplenty and questions about the designs and names for the various plants and parts of the gardens. “The Moroccan,” a great rectangular planting designed to look like a Persian rug, was Lady Regina’s declared favorite. As they walked, each person picked out a part that spoke to them. For the duke, it clearly was the butterfly garden.
With the earl’s encouragement, he followed the stepping stones into the midst of the flowers and brushed the plants gently to stir a flutter of wings. Butterflies rose in a cloud around him and he raised his hands and laughed at the sensation of wings brushing his skin. Daisy watched his joyful response with pleasure that was dimmed seconds later by the sight of his uncle Bertram’s narrowed eyes. He must have felt her watching him, for he quickly turned that glare directly on her.
Nothing could have put steel in her spine quicker than that arrogant look, a warning if she’d ever seen one. From that moment, she looked for a chance to part the duke from his uncle. It wasn’t long before she found one.
The maze loomed in the distance and the group neared it. She worked her way toward Arthur, caught his eye, and nodded in a way that suggested he step aside and wait for her. He slowed his pace and soon they were at the rear of the group fast disappearing into the maze.
“Come with me,” she whispered, taking his hand and heading along the edge of the maze.
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” she whispered loudly. “There is so much to see here.” She pulled him into a run, laughing, and he followed self-consciously, looking over his shoulder. He kept pace as she hiked her skirts and led him through the arboretum, past plantings of holly and berry bushes and through groves of dogwoods, cherry trees, and exotic flowering almonds. They emerged from a planting of pines to more floral plantings centered on fountains and then to a long, rose-covered arbor that arched like a perfumed tunnel above the path. It was strangely pleasant, walking with him, saying little, sharing the beauty of the place.
After a time, they arrived back at the butterfly garden and she stopped just inside the opening in the brick wall that surrounded it, motioning him in ahead of her.
“After you, Your Grace.”
“This . . . this is remarkable,” he said, once again using the carefully positioned stepping stones among the flowers, hands out at his sides to gently stroke the blossoms and send the butterflies hovering. “Adonis Blues, Pearl-bordered Fritillaries, Painted Ladies, Swallowtails, Red Admirals—it’s a compendium of the best species seen in England.”
“I thought this part would be your favorite,” she said, clasping her hands behind her and skirting the edge of the flowers as she circled the garden. “I believe those lovely tall, blue flowers are delphiniums”—she pointed them out—“and I heard the earl name these allium and those daylilies. Those he called snapdragons, and those”—she waved toward a stand of stalks bearing bracts of stunning flowers—“lupines.”
“It’s a banquet for butterflies,” he declared, grinning at her. “I tried to plant some of these same varieties and create a butterfly garden, but my flowers don’t thrive like this, and only a local species or two of butterflies visit them. This is magnificent.”
“We’ll have to ask the earl his secret, then,” she said, enjoying the wonder in his expression. Standing there in the middle of the garden, drenched in sunshine and buoyed by excitement, he seemed taller than she recalled. His smile was broader and his eyes shone in a way she had never seen before. It struck her that he was a man as well as a duke, and if she were to make good on her determination to marry him, she would have to see him that way. What was it Ashton had said about his brother? He had a good heart and a sound intellect. She could see now that was true. He just had not been required to use that brain and those talents in productive ways.
“If you had the chance to do anything you want,” she asked, lifting her skirts to step on the stones that led to him in the center of the garden, “what would you do?”
He paused for a moment, looking around him as if searching the flowers for an answer. He turned to her as she neared.
“I would want to be a good duke, of course. It’s my duty. I owe it to my family and my tenants and the uncles and aunts who raised me.”
She studied him. “And if you didn’t have to worry about your ‘duty,’ what then? What would you do simply because you love to do it?”
“I believe, Daisy Bumgarten, that I would do exactly what you have done: travel.” He offered her his arm and she took it. He led her to the brick wall at the edge of the garden and picked her up bodily to set her on the wall.
“Ohhh!” She was almost as surprised by where he had put her as she was by the fact that he had easily manhandled her. Then he pulled himself up on the wall, twisted neatly, and settled to a seat beside her. “Well, that was a surprise,” she said, laughing.
“I like sitting on walls,” he said with a mischievous grin. “It gives one a change of perspective—a different view of things. We have quite a few walls at Betancourt.”
“Betancourt?”
“Our family home. I was always climbing the roofs and walking the walls as a boy. Gave Uncle Bertram and Uncle Seward palpitations. I still do it when no one is watching. It’s a way to be alone and collect my thoughts.”
She studied him for a moment, struck by his need to escape to the tops of walls to have some peace in his own home. His uncle’s vile, controlling behavior seemed even more despicable.
“So, if you were to travel, where would you go?” she asked. “Paris? Rome? Florence?”
“Egypt,” he said with a firm nod. “I would love to see pyramids and camels and rug and spice markets. Then, there’s the rest of Africa, too. There is an intriguing theory, you know, about what happens to many of our birds and butterflies in winter. It has been proposed that they go from England all the way to Africa and back, with the seasons. Migration, it’s called. I’d love to go with them someday and be the one to confirm it.” He clasped his knees, seeming not to know what to do with his hands.
“You’ve read about these places?”
“I have. Wonderful places with such thrilling sights.”
“Then why don’t you go? At least to one or two of them. Egypt or America.”
“I have . . . obligations.” He frowned, seeming uncertain whether or not to reveal: “Travel takes money. Everything takes money. Repairing walls and replacing roofs, repointing brickwork and restacking chimneys. Not to mention keeping the staff—whom you actually have to pay these days—and buying comestibles and coal for the fires and hay and oats for the blessed horses. Don’t ask me why we have to keep so many horses. Don’t see why they can’t just walk most places. I do.” He sighed and his shoulders rounded. “Money. They talk of nothing else, these days. Apparently it is not exactly in great supply.”
His odd opinions and quixotic jumps of topic would have been amusing if she hadn’t realized they came from his ignorance of society and even of his own situation. He showed not even a glimmer of recognition that she thought of him as a matrimonial prospect, which meant he had no idea that she and his family elders were locked in a battle of sorts for the right to his hand in matrimony.
“Arthur, surely there is a way to remedy such a situation for—”
“There you are!” Uncle Bertram’s voice crashed through the hedges outside the wall and Bertram himself quickly followed. The duke was startled, swayed, and looked over his shoulder at his panting, ruddy-faced chaperone. “What the devil are you doing up there?”
“Oh, Uncle, I—I was ... I just wanted to . . .” Arthur was suddenly fifteen years old again, clammy-handed and stammering.