by Betina Krahn
“Oh!” Daisy fell over onto her rear in the grass. Her eyes were as big as Wedgwood saucers. “What are you—”
“Never mind me. What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m all seized up,” Arthur said, the same moment she explained.
“He’s got cramps.”
“I got off the danged animal and my legs won’t work.”
“I was just helping him get the blood circulating again.”
Ashton stared at the pair for a minute, taking in the excuses. Daisy was sprawled on the ground wringing her clever little hands, and Arthur was red faced and wincing in discomfort and deep humiliation.
“I’ll bet you were getting his blood going,” he muttered, glaring at her before transferring his displeasure to his brother. “And you. Whatever possessed you to ride off to God-knows-where on a horse?” He jammed his gloved fists on his waist. “You never ride. You hate horses.”
“I do not,” Arthur declared, drawing himself up as straight as he could. “I simply have not had much experience with them, and it’s about time I learned to handle them. I have duties. And some may require that I ride out to oversee Betancourt’s business.” He sagged, but raised his chin, striking a determined pose. “I’ve just . . . overdone it a bit on my first day out.”
“Dear God.” Ashton glanced at Daisy. “I suppose you’re responsible for this newfound interest—irrepressible horsewoman that you are.”
She scrambled to her feet and brushed grass and debris from her split skirt. Copying Arthur, she lifted her chin and then resettled her hat.
“He wanted to learn and I was happy to accompany him. Now if you’re through chastising us, please lend a hand and help me get your brother back to the house.”
With a growl of frustration and more muttering, he helped Daisy tie the horses in series and then stationed himself under one of Arthur’s arms while she tucked herself under the other. They walked slowly, arms around the suffering duke, who soon announced that he thought his circulation was improving; he was beginning to feel things again. Unable to stop himself, Ashton glanced at the bulge in the front of Arthur’s trousers.
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, hating the fact that he sounded jealous in his own ears.
* * *
There was quite a commotion when they returned to Marlton with the duke barely mobile and clearly in pain. He was carried upstairs and put straight to bed to await the earl’s doctor.
A nasty sprain, the doctor announced gravely to a relieved Earl and Countess of Albemarle, an outraged Uncle Bertram, and a host of curious guests. Liniment, the doctor prescribed, and a strong willow bark tea. Within a week the young duke should be good as new.
Privately, he told Ashton that it was the worst case of saddle-soreness he’d ever seen. “Get him up and walking as soon as you can,” he advised. “Don’t let him cripple up because he’s afraid it will hurt when he moves.”
At the countess’s urging, Daisy offered to read to the duke, to help him pass the time. Uncle Bertram inserted himself before the sickroom door to reject her offer, saying that she’d done quite enough already. The old man insisted on sitting by his nephew’s bedside himself. Ashton chuckled at the news of his uncle’s unprecedented urge to tend a sickbed and snuck Arthur a bottle of strong brandy, relabeled “tonic,” to help him through his recovery.
Whether it was the quality of his uncle’s nursing, the brandy, or the boredom, Arthur emerged from his room the very next day, walking stiffly on a cane and insisting he was well on the way to recovery.
“Splendid, then you’re fit to travel. We’re needed at home,” Uncle Bertram declared, and immediately requested use of the earl’s carriage to take them to the railroad station.
Arthur didn’t argue with his uncle. He collected his new specimens for transport, then bathed and dressed carefully, while the earl’s man packed for him. There was no hurry, he insisted, when Uncle Bertram paced and warned that they might miss the train.
“If so, there will be another later, Uncle,” Arthur said, firmly but politely. Bertram glowered at Ashton as if it were his fault, and dragged him into the salon for a quick, private word.
“What a disaster! Get it done, boy. Finish the chit,” he snapped, leaning in. His face contorted in a way that made him resemble an irritable badger. “See that she loses interest in your brother . . . or else.” Threat delivered, he stalked outside to wait for his nephew.
Arthur thanked the earl and Lady Regina for extending him such gracious hospitality, then sought out Ashton, who had retreated to the billiards room.
“I want you to know, Ash, that I’ve missed you. And I’m heartened to think that you’ll be coming home at last—even for just a visit.”
They shook hands and gave each other a manly half hug.
“I look forward to seeing you again, Artie.” Ashton looked down, then quickly picked up a billiards cue and began to chalk the point. “Take care of yourself. Especially if you intend to further your acquaintance with horses.”
Arthur grinned and lifted the cane the earl had loaned him. “I am counting that any future lessons will be less painful.”
“It wasn’t a total loss. The stick makes you look almost debonair.” He waggled his brows and Arthur exited laughing.
Daisy stationed herself near the great stairs in the center hall, waiting for Arthur, hoping to say good-bye and perhaps give him a peck on the cheek to think about on his way home. Thus, she was surprised when he pulled her into a nook beside the stairs.
“I am so sorry about your injury, Your Grace,” she began.
“Arthur,” he chided.
“Arthur,” she echoed gratefully, knowing that his insistence that she use his given name meant she was forgiven. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He surprised her by laying his cane aside and taking her hands in his.
“My dear Daisy, I am better by the moment. I want you to know that I will be so very pleased to see you next week at Betancourt. You’re a breath of fresh air for me . . . a window onto a world I have ignored for too long.”
Before she knew what was happening, he drew her close and lowered his head to press her lips with his. It all happened so fast. Her impressions were of warmth, simple pressure, and a faint scent of sandalwood. Then it was over and he was withdrawing with a tenuous smile.
“I—I look forward to seeing you again, dear Arthur,” she said.
Smiling broadly, he picked up his cane, turned on his heel, and she could have sworn that he no longer limped as he strode out the center hall to the waiting carriage.
She touched her lips and fought the sinking feeling in her middle. It wasn’t a proper kiss, really. It was too sudden. She was unprepared.
She bit her lip.
And sagged.
There wasn’t the slightest tingle in it.
Chapter Eighteen
“What is he still doing here?” The countess stood by the window in Daisy’s room that overlooked the entry court. “Whatever possessed the earl to ask him to stay? After the way he absconded with you the other day—thank Heaven, Redmond had the good sense to insist on going along.”
Daisy stood openmouthed, listening to the first complimentary words the countess had ever aimed her uncle’s way.
The countess drew her to the window to watch Ashton climbing aboard a big roan and setting off for God-knew-where.
“Scandal follows that man like night follows day, and for the same reason. It’s his very nature,” the countess declared. “He’s a scoundrel, born and bred, and he always will be. Not an honest or sincere bone in his body.”
Daisy pursed her lips at that.
“I’m not so certain, Countess.” To forestall her sponsor’s concern, she explained: “He has been nothing but helpful in searching out my possible ancestors, and has behaved in a gentlemanly fashion.” Mostly.
The countess clasped her forehead and gave a small groan.
“He’s used his charm on yo
u, dear. It’s his most potent and treacherous weapon. He’ll have you thinking he’s helpful . . . then secretly noble . . . then selflessly heroic. And it will all be to his purpose, trust me. There are plenty of noblemen of that ilk. Charming wretches whose sole purpose in life is the satisfaction of their base and selfish desires.”
Daisy had thought those very things of him . . . until . . .
“I know he doesn’t want me to marry his brother, Countess. He’s said as much. But, I can’t think selfishness figures into it. Nor my ‘common’ roots, or being from America, or having new money. He simply says the duke and I are mismatched.”
“What?” The countess whirled to face her. “That’s absurd.”
“He believes that sooner or later I would be miserable being a duchess—having to deal with all that propriety and restraint, and the burden and responsibilities of the title. He says Arthur and I have such different natures that we would end up making each other miserable.”
“It’s his misery he’s truly concerned with . . . his lot as his brother’s second.” The countess took her hands and pulled her to a seat on the chaise. “Don’t you see his game? If his brother doesn’t marry and produce an heir, he might still inherit the title himself someday.” She squeezed Daisy’s hands. “Scheming wretch. That’s his motive, mark my word.
“Daisy, dear, you and the duke will get on fine together. He needs your verve and spirit and you need his . . . thoughtful and methodical manner. You’ll provide balance for each other and produce a dignified and harmonious household. You’ll see, dear. Don’t you worry.” She patted Daisy’s hands and rose with a determined nod. “I’ll see that Regina keeps the scoundrel away from you at dinner tonight.”
Daisy sat for a few minutes, ruminating on that, bringing memories of her time with Ashton to mind and scouring them for evidence that what the countess believed might be true. Was he purely self-serving and ambitious? Was he determined to see his brother die a bachelor without an heir? She thought of his descriptions of noble life and the burden of bearing a title . . . some of which she now saw had a basis in reality.
But then, she saw how the Earl and Countess of Albemarle got along. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company and to work together to make their estate beautiful and their life together fulfilling. Was that not a possibility for her and Arthur?
Feeling embattled and a little suffocated in her elegant room, she traded her embroidered slippers for walking shoes and grabbed a hat and shawl to go for a walk in the gardens.
Outside it was sunny and the afternoon air was sweet with the scent of banks of flowers in bloom. She removed her hat and turned her face to the sun, ignoring the countess’s adamant advice to avoid the sun on her skin at all costs. She had spent years with the sun on her face and needed it now as a tonic for her spirits.
She faced so many obstacles and unknowns and there was no one to talk to about it, no one who would understand her true situation. The walking helped, as it often did. The crunch of gravel underfoot and the swish of her skirts combined in a rhythm that calmed her thoughts and led her heart to relax beneath its burdens. She thought of the cliffs overlooking the river bordering their ranch, where she would go when her mother’s expectations became too much. She smiled softly. She understood Arthur’s escape to the walls of his home all too well.
* * *
Ashton saw her walking up one of the garden paths and reined up in the shelter of the trees at the end of the bridle path. She wore a simple, pale blue, cotton dress and carried the sun hat from the other day—the one that made her look like a girl in a painting. Her hair was down and being teased by a breeze. He sat for a few minutes, watching her wend her way through colorful flower beds, beneath rose-covered arbors, and around topiaries. The sight of her, so lovely and at ease, produced a hollow feeling inside him.
She was something he’d never imagined existed; a wild combination of innocence and experience, determination and self-doubt, with independence of thought and a great hunger to belong. She was earthy and elegant, simple and complicated, tantalizing and terrifying. She was at his fingertips and, yet, so far beyond his reach.
He was supposed to seduce and compromise her—destroy her dreams and her sisters’ hopes—this remarkable young woman whose provocative spirit and nubile body invaded his dreams at night.
She approached the tall hedges and feathery ornamental plantings that marked the start of Lord Robert’s maze. Ashton sat back in the saddle and watched until she disappeared between the green walls, then he kicked his horse into motion and soon dismounted at the maze entrance. He tied his mount where it could graze, brushed his sleeves, and strode into the maze.
He had no idea what he was going to say to her, but he wanted to talk with her, touch her, be with her. By week’s end she would be at Betancourt and plunged into a sea of scrutiny and intrigue she would not fully recognize or understand. She would slip beyond his reach forever.
The grass muffled his steps as he came up behind her. Her skirts swayed as she walked to a rhythm known only to her, her honey-blond hair trailing down her back, and her royal blue shawl and straw hat dangling from her hands. He paused, watching, deeply pleased by the sight of her.
“Daisy.” His call startled her so that she jumped.
“Arghh!” She whirled, clasping a hand to her chest as if to contain a racing heart. “What are you doing here?” She frowned. “If you’re seeking solitude, you’ll have to find another spot. This one is taken.”
“I’m not seeking solitude.” He set his hands to his waist and shifted his weight back onto one leg. “I’m seeking you.”
“Me?” She raised her broad-brimmed hat like a shield before her. “What do you want with me?”
“Besides your welcoming presence?” He laughed softly, then strolled toward her and looked at the hedge walls. “I’m not sure. I just feel there is something more I need to settle in my mind about you.”
“What more needs to be explained? You know the extent of my search and truth of my ancestry as well as I do.”
When he reached her, he kept walking. As he hoped, she turned and began to walk with him.
“I want to know why you’re here—the truth of why you’re oceans away from the place you love and the people you love, trying to do something you obviously want, but makes no sense.”
“I’ve told you. I’m here to marry and make a way for my sisters into society. It’s no great mystery.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the grassy path beneath them. On the periphery of his vision, her shoes peeked out of her skirts with each step, then retreated like wary mice. She allowed him to see just so much of her. There was more—he was sure of it.
They came to an obstacle and she pointed left. “That way, I’m pretty sure.”
He turned and continued strolling. She set a brisk pace.
“Why didn’t your mother come—why didn’t she bring you to England? Why are you here with your uncle and the countess?”
There was a hitch in her step, subtle but very much there.
“My mother is needed at home. It was my idea to come and I recruited Uncle Red and found the countess, who agreed to sponsor me.”
“For a price,” he said, wishing he could take it back the instant it was out. She stopped and turned to face him, eyes flashing.
“Yes, for a price. There. Have you got what you came for? I have a companion who needed funds, but who has become a good and trusted friend. And who has advised me to have nothing to do with you.”
“Smart woman,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
She scowled and strode quickly for the next obstacle, disappearing around a turn before he got there. When he arrived, she was waiting for him halfway down the alley between the hedges.
“And just what are you doing here, Ashton Graham? Why are you dogging my steps? Is this part of your family’s plan to find a way to disqualify me as a bride? Because despite what you and your family think of me,
Arthur doesn’t seem to think I’m unacceptable.”
That was too close to the bone. He looked around the maze walls and then walked past her again, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The only way he would get the truth from her was to be utterly frank. And that strategy was not without risk.
“Of course the family creaks and groans set me on you . . . with instructions to see that your lineage does not qualify you for life as a Meridian duchess. Is that such a surprise?”
She took a deep breath and caught up with him again.
“Not really. It’s fairly obvious, in fact. The only confusing thing is that you have seemed to have helped more than hindered.” She halted and looked sharply at him. “That’s the puzzle. Why have you helped me?”
It took a moment for him to unpack a long-guarded truth.
“Perhaps because—in the course of my ancillary life—I have actually developed a few scruples. Perhaps because I despise what they’ve insisted I do. It goes against every scholarly principle I’ve ever known. And just perhaps, I’m sick and tired of being a family liability—a drain on the finances—a pawn to be moved and manipulated at will.” His body tensed as old anger threatened to rise. He released his arms to his sides and rolled his shoulders. “They don’t know me half as well as they think.”
He walked a few more paces in silence, then turned to her.
“And perhaps because . . . I’ve come to like you more than I should.”
* * *
Daisy watched him round the next corner and identified those words as the reason her heart began to flutter. He had said complimentary things to her before.... She was strong, sharp of wit, and passionate about life. But this was something new. He was admitting to having feelings for her, even if it was a lukewarm kind of confession.
Did it make things better or worse that he might return some of the feelings she had for him? Whatever it meant, the words were like rain on parched soil to her heart.
“Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”