“I know I should not listen at keyholes,” the young girl said quickly, wholly misunderstanding the reason for her hesitation. “But I did and I heard what you said to Daniel about my happiness being important and reminding him that I am certainly not a ship.”
She swallowed a groan. The girl had been listening belowstairs a short while ago. Oh, please don’t let her have heard all the talk about peignoirs and naughty parties.
“I had feared Daniel would rush to wed me off as quickly as possible so he could resume his scandalous pursuits,” Alice said. “As you said to him.”
Oh, God, the girl had heard that. Daphne’s cheeks burned hot. There was no doubt the young lady had listened in on too much. “Your brother will not do such a thing,” she assured her charge.
“Do you believe that?” Alice retorted, eyeing her curiously.
“Yes,” she said truthfully. Prior to their meeting in the library, that assurance would have been an empty one. But she’d witnessed his battle plans and his red neck and cheeks as she’d put her accusations to him. For the indifference he presented to the world, there was still some humanity left in Daniel Winterbourne. Something shifted in her chest. A lightness in knowing he’d not lost all of himself to wickedness.
“But for holidays and a handful of weeks in the summer, I see my brother not at all,” Alice informed her. “I spent more time at Mrs. Belden’s because Daniel didn’t wish me underfoot.” The sadness in those words tugged at Daphne. Alice would have never known Daniel as he’d been before Alistair’s death. Joyful. Teasing. Loyal.
She held the young girl’s gaze. “Given his rakish existence,” short of abandoning his pursuits, which he never would, “sending you away was the honorable recourse.”
“You know him better than I,” Alice added casually.
Once she had. “Me?” No longer. A memory flitted in of her first ball; her seated on the sidelines among the wallflowers as he entered to the whispers and admiration of the crowd.
“The servants used to talk about how you and he were quite close.” The girl’s revelation snuffed out that remembrance.
They had been the best of friends. Again, time changed them all. Her heart pulled with the poignant reminder. “He was my friend,” she said softly. “And it is how I know that despite your worries, your brother will not see you wed to the first suitor to come along.” He was desperate to wed her off, but she could not believe he’d be one of those ruthless sorts. “He’ll listen to your opinion.” His asking her for help, when most gentlemen wouldn’t humble themselves by revealing a weakness, was testament to that. “Now you should go rest.”
As she herself desperately intended to, in the privacy of her thoughts without Daniel traipsing through her mind; of the way they’d once been and the dreams she’d once carried.
“Do you know,” Alice said coming to her feet. “I agree, Daphne, and I also believe it is because of your influence. The servants would tell me about your friendship. Daniel will listen to you.”
She managed a lopsided smile. The young lady gave her far more credit than was due where her rakish brother was concerned. After the girl had skipped from the room, leaving Daphne alone, yet again, she layered herself back onto the bed and closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to close her eyes and forget the precariousness of her situation that had found her in this unlikeliest of places. And more, to forget Daniel with his teasing eyes and naughty words who stirred a dangerous hungering deep inside.
Her eyes popped open and she stared overhead. The fire cast shadows upon that bucolic scene painted above. It was futile. The irony was not lost on her. All she’d wanted was to climb into bed and lose herself in sleep and forgetfulness and now her thoughts ran amok making such a feat impossible.
The truth was, not even two days ago, she would have possessed the same reservations about Daniel’s intentions for and of his sister. Her one Season alone and the reports she’d read in the gossip columns, and the same gossip to follow him into the country, had proven he had gone from loyal, steadfast friend to cold, empty-hearted rake.
It had been easy to despise the life he lived and to disavow him and all he represented. By very nature of that title rake, the one he so prided himself on, he was very much Lord Leopold. Or so she would have said—two days ago.
But he had proven remarkably unlike anyone she’d known since that long ago fall. From servants to villagers to the lords and ladies in London, men and women who looked at her with varying degrees of pity, disgust, or not at all. By nature of her disfigurement, she’d found herself unwed, unemployable, existing on the fringe of the world for so long.
Until Daniel.
He’d offered her first real, meaningful employment, dismissing her disability and seeing her as more capable than any credited. Yes, desperation had driven that offer, but he was an earl—a powerful earl who still had the funds for wardrobes and balls, and surely there was coin enough for an appropriate companion. Nonetheless, he’d hired her and had called her belowstairs without thinking of the injury that plagued her. Because he still saw her. When no one truly saw her beyond the uselessness of her limb. A woman who had been coddled by her father and the handful of servants in his employ. And pitied by everyone else.
Yes, two days ago, she would have said she hated Daniel. Hated him for being a disloyal friend who’d not been there when she most needed him. Hated him for not having been the one beacon in a lonely London world for a girl relegated to the status of wallflower. But he’d cast shadows and doubts upon everything she’d believed about the careless rake.
Mayhap there is still good in him…
As soon as the thought slid in, she slapped her hands over her face. “Do not be silly,” she muttered into the quiet. She was making castles out of sand and, invariably, the rains always came. She would do well to remember that. Daniel might have offered her employment, but she should not lose sight of the necessity that had driven that request and his eagerness to be free of his responsibilities. Nor should she forget the danger in his pretty words.
Four gowns and a peignoir…
As though a gentleman who took wicked widows and glorious creatures to his bed would ever feel anything less than revulsion for her imperfect form. Not that she wished him to. She didn’t.
Filled with a restlessness, Daphne flung her arms wide and stared up at the ceiling, attempting to shove Daniel from her mind.
…If you wish to attend one of those wicked parties, there is always an invitation for you…
A painful laugh escaped her. It was futile. There would be no sleep. And it was not fear of again seeing Lord Leopold, the bastard she’d gifted her virtue to. Or facing the ton, again. Or worry of what would become of her after this.
It was Daniel. It was always Daniel.
Chapter 8
It was a universal truth that every woman, regardless of station, status, or level of wit and beauty, enjoyed a visit to the modiste. Or, it had been a universal truth, until Daphne Smith had gone and shattered it.
The lady stood with her head tipped back, the sharp lines of her cheeks etched in planes of equal parts horror and terror as she gazed upon the establishment. She stole a frantic look down the street and, for a long moment, Daniel expected the lady to bolt in the opposite direction as far and as fast as her legs could carry her. With her determination, she could outpace any man should she so wish.
But now, given that horror, the last place she wished to be was here.
“Oh, how exciting,” Alice piped in, the excitement in her tone contrasting sharply with Daphne’s behavior. “Just so we are clear, I am not wearing white and ivory, Daniel.”
He cuffed her under the chin. “I’ve no idea what is appropriate for a lady. We will have to defer to Miss Smith.”
His words had the intended effect, springing Daphne into movement. “I don’t—”
“Then, we shall defer to Madame Thoureaux,” he offered up, instead.
She looked blankly at him and he f
avored her with a wink.
His sister rushed ahead, yanking the door open, and Daniel gestured for Daphne to enter. The lady wet her lips and cast a single, longing look back at his carriage. He dipped his head close to hers. “Miss Smith, they are gowns and shifts and chemises, not venomous snakes and spiders.”
The fire in her eyes was enough to singe a man. “You cannot speak of a lady’s undergarments in the street,” she hissed, frantically searching her gaze about at the curious passersby staring on.
He motioned with his hand. “Then, come inside,” he paused. It was unconscionable to deliberately bait her. “So we may discuss them in here.” But he’d never been accused of having a conscience.
Daphne emitted a strangled, choking sound and hurried inside.
He closed the door behind them and as it closed in their wake, it set the tinny bell ajingle. Madame Thoureaux, the small, turban-wearing woman rushed forward, speaking in a hideous rendition of a French accent.
“My lord, I zee you have brought me,” she jolted to a stop, flaring her eyes as they settled on Daphne, “another…” She passed a critical stare over the redhead, her gaze lingering on the wooden cane. The proprietress grimaced. “…lovely creature to attire.”
Daphne stiffened and he stole a sideways glance. Her thin shoulders brought back, she elongated that long, graceful neck with a regal grace befitting a queen.
At the thinly veiled attempt at the modiste’s disdain, fury stirred. He opened his mouth, but Daphne cut into the scathing comment on his lips with a pleading look. “Indeed,” he said in clipped tones. “My sister,” he motioned to Alice who stood assessing bolts of fabric. “And her companion, Miss Smith.” The modiste swung her eyes back to Daphne and understanding dawned.
“Of course, she is zee companion.”
Of course. Daniel stitched his eyebrows into a single line.
Madame Thoureaux clapped once. “I will see to zee young lady.”
“Miss Smith will also require garments befitting her station as companion,” he informed the woman. He could all but see her eyes counting the coins before she rushed off to aid his sister.
One of the woman’s assistants came forward to collect Daphne, who made a sound of protest. Her desperate gaze found his, but he winked, studying her as the younger woman urged her over to the fabrics.
Daphne now occupied, he strolled over to the pillar at the center of the shop and continued to watch her. Periodically, the assistant would hold up a fabric and she would nod, her lips moving in a polite declination.
He folded his arms at his chest. The modiste had made the erroneous, though certainly not unfounded, conclusion about Daphne’s status. On any day and any occasion, the last place he’d care to be was at a modiste with his sister. However, this was not solely his sister here—it was Daphne—and as such, he’d mustered the fraternal devotion and foregoing the pleasures of his clubs, had, instead, sought out more proper pursuits.
A slow grin that would have made any proper companion or mama fearful curved his lips. Daphne was not his lover and with her hideous chignon and ill-fitting garments, bore no hint of the stunning creatures he usually accompanied to this very shop. Given her status as his onetime friend, he’d not given much thought to more than her generous lips and long neck. Now he deepened his scrutiny. There was a restrained beauty to her that proved his reputation as rake. For he wanted to tug those pins out and allow her crimson curls to cascade about her in a waterfall. He roved an eye over her, taking her in with male appreciation.
When she’d stormed his home and demanded the return of that child’s treasure she’d found long ago, he’d not assessed her with his usual rakish critiquing. Now, he rectified that failing. At five or so inches shorter than his own six-foot three-inch frame, she stood taller than most men. Even the cane she relied upon could not detract from her willowy grace. Small breasts. Narrow waist and intriguingly generous hips that fair begged for a man to sink his fingers in as he settled himself between her cream white thighs.
The object of his scrutiny glanced up from another bolt of yellow the assistant lifted for her inspection and their gazes collided. Those emerald eyes deepened to a rich jade. Did she sense the hungering running through him even now? To lay her down on the crimson satin fabric on display and make love to her as she so desperately needed?
Shoving away from the pillar, Daniel stalked forward, coming around the table to where she stood conversing with the assistant. The young woman stopped mid-sentence and looked to him. “Emerald satin,” he directed. “The lady requires an emerald satin with a black lace overlay and Austrian crystals adorning the décolletage.”
“Brown and grey will suffice,” Daphne quickly countered, holding up one of those dreary fabrics.
Alas, a lord’s word in these establishments may as well have belonged to God Almighty himself. Daniel inclined his head. “Greens and blues. Rich hues.” He assessed her once more, lingering his gaze on her modest décolletage. “A daring neckline.”
Daphne gasped, slapping her fingers over her mouth. He was the bastard all knew him to be, because a grin played on his lips at her outrage. The assistant rushed off to search for the respective fabrics. “This isn’t appropriate, Dan…my lord,” she said in hushed tones, as soon as they were alone.
It had always been one of his greatest joys as a youth, baiting and teasing Daphne Smith. “What is that?” The lure was just as strong, all these years later. “Me properly attiring my sister’s very proper companion?”
The lady met his gaze. “A daring décolletage is never—” He winked at her and those words ended swiftly. She retreated a step.
“Ah, but a daring décolletage is always appropriate,” he murmured, continuing his slow pursuit as she limped awkwardly away from him. Retreating, making her way down the aisle.
“Companions do not don gowns of emerald and sapphire with black lace overlay and daring décolletage.”
Companions in his employ would. Particularly this one. He’d not have her covered up like an abbess in a nunnery. Not when he wished to see her willowy form displayed before him. “Tell me, Daphne,” he whispered. “Why does a siren with crimson-kissed hair hide that beauty behind tight coiffures and ill-fitting garments?”
She wet her lips and his gaze took in that slight, seductive gesture. Blood surged to his shaft and he fought the hungering to dip his head ever so slightly and make love to her mouth. After all, a beautiful woman was a beautiful woman and what was the point unless he was kissing one. “There is neither the money nor the need for expensive garments, Daniel,” she said with a matter-of-factness that dulled his desire. “I am a woman of nearly thirty years.”
“You are eight and twenty.” She started and he swiftly lowered his arms to his side, his heart thudding. He didn’t know those personal details about a lady. Daniel drew in a breath and forced himself to calm. Of course, this was Daphne. Entirely different knowing things about her.
She paused alongside a table and trailed her fingertips over a shimmery orange material that harkened back to days spent watching sunrises with this woman then child, at his side. Yes, she was nearly thirty and, yet, how little she’d changed in some ways.
“You always hated dresses, Daphne Smith,” he said bemusedly, starting as that remembrance was pulled from somewhere inside.
“Not always,” she said softly, still smoothing her palm over the fabric with a loving caress. God, how he envied that bolt of material. “The girl you last knew didn’t stay that same person. She grew up. I grew up,” she amended. “You were just not around to see it.” Was it his own desiring that accounted for his hearing the wistful regret there?
“No, I was not,” he conceded. After Alistair’s death and his mother’s passing, the only person to remind him of his past, had been this tall, slender figure before him. As such, it had been easy to sever her thread from the fabric of his life. Or he believed it had been easy. He balled his hands. “Who did she become?” he asked softly.
“A silly dreamer.” She stilled the distracted movements of her fingers and studied those long digits as though she could divine the meaning of life from them. An unexpected, inexplicable hungering to know what caused the ache of regret in that soft admission.
“We all begin as dreamers, Daphne,” he said quietly as he, a self-absorbed bastard who’d not given a jot about anyone, sought to reassure. The same hold she’d had over him as a girl, remained, all these years later. There had always been an ease between them and time hadn’t erased it. He motioned to the table and she followed that gesture with her gaze. “Wearing grey skirts and brown dresses cannot undo the regrets we carry.” As soon as those words left his mouth, a frisson of disquiet went through him. He wasn’t one of those gents with meaningful words for anyone.
Daphne raised her eyes to his, eyes that had always seen so much. “Neither will donning black jackets and false smiles. And yet, we each survive in our own way, don’t we?” His body stilled under the piercing insight; words that suggested the life he lived was nothing more than a carefully crafted façade. “I’m no longer a dreamer,” she said, that calm pragmatism at odds with the frisson of panic unfurling in his belly. “I’m a practical woman. Logical. And I wish to live a life of purpose.”
A life of purpose. His very existence made a mockery of her goals; serving as an always present reminder of his father’s words that he had made true with time. He gave her a slow, practiced grin, needing a protective space between them. He neither wanted, nor needed, Daphne rousing any feelings in him. “Do you know what I live for, Miss Smith?” he whispered, with that slight formality erecting that barrier. He continued approaching her.
Daphne gave her head a slight shake and God love that slight movement that dislodged her rotten chignon and freed a crimson strand as it was meant to be free.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 83