The man laughed. “Nay. Not I. I likes the biscuits and bread, but it’s the charge man who likes the sweets. Well, and the biscuits, too.”
The charge man? Ah, the man in charge. That was a rather quaint way to refer to an employer. But then everything about Mr. Lowe was quaint. Or sinister. Or perhaps she only thought that because he was from Blackpool.
“What is his favorite?”
“He likes the lemon and ginger best, Mrs. Hobbs. Says he cannot get enough of ’em.”
“Ah, then I am pleased I have some left. Anything else?”
“Cap’n likes the meringues, but they don’t last too good and I ain’t leavin’ until tomorrow night. Might come back for ’em tomorrow, though. That’d make ’im happy.”
“And it is always nice to keep the charge men happy, is it not?”
He gave her an odd look and then laughed. “Aye. Nice.”
Scarcely five minutes after his arrival at the Grahams’ picnic musicale, Hunt watched the color rise in Daphne’s cheeks as he bent over her right hand and drew it to his lips. Clearly, she was wondering if he would mention what had passed between them last night. He wouldn’t, of course. He was still that much of a gentleman. But he hadn’t promised it wouldn’t happen again.
“I did not think I would see you again so soon, Lord Lockwood,” she said, almost stumbling over her words. Her hands were trembling and he feared she’d spill the wine in the glass she held in her left hand.
“Then I shall count myself most fortunate, indeed, Mrs. Hobbs,” he said, playing the game of polite formality to appease the island gossips. He released her hand and turned to his hostess, plump, graying Mrs. Graham. “Thank you for including me in such a lively event.”
“Our pleasure, Lord Lockwood. After all, you are one of us now.”
“One of you? Ah, an islander.” He grinned. “Yes, I can see why so many people have made St. Claire their home. It has so much to recommend it.”
Daphne met his gaze over the top of Mrs. Graham’s head. She blinked and then covered her mouth with a fan. To hide a smile?
“Yes? Well, we think so, of course,” Mrs. Graham said with a gracious nod. “I hope you will consider extending your stay with us. We rarely have such a charming visitor.”
Oh, he was charming enough. Men like him learned to use charm and social skills to hide what lay beneath. “You flatter me, Mrs. Graham. I am not in the least charming. My sister reminds me of that fact often.”
She and Daphne laughed and he found himself wondering about Daphne’s background. Did she have brothers? Sisters? Were her parents still living? Would he and Daphne have anything in common at all? How odd that they’d spent such intimate time alone, and yet he knew so little about her. He must remedy that.
“Be that as it may, Lord Lockwood, we are delighted to have you here,” Mrs. Graham insisted. “The musicians are setting up on the terrace, and you will find seating on the lawn. Hurry if you wish to claim a chair, otherwise you will find yourself sitting on a blanket. Oh, dear! That is Mr. Graham calling me.” She turned to Daphne and said, “I am really loath to leave you when you have only just met and are so unfamiliar with our modest little house. And I fear dinner will not be served until after the musical presentation.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Graham,” Hunt said, trying to hide his satisfaction. “I am certain Mrs. Hobbs and I shall get along just fine. I shall look forward to conversing with you later.” He waited until the hostess was out of earshot and then turned to Daphne. The awkward moment had come. They were alone.
He offered her his arm, and she took it with seeming reluctance before speaking in a rush. “Mrs. Graham has placed hors d’oeuvre tables beneath the striped awnings, and footmen are—”
“I see,” he said, lifting a wineglass from a passing footman’s tray. “This will do quite well for the time being. I find that food is the furthest thing from my desires at the moment.”
She lowered her lashes as he led her toward the small hill overlooking the ocean. He regretted teasing her. Daphne Hobbs was too vulnerable, too sweet, to play these social games. Nothing in her common background had equipped her for the wordplay to which the haute ton was accustomed.
He relented with a little smile as they arrived at a small bench overlooking the ocean. “I meant to come by Pâtisserie today, but business kept me occupied. When I heard that you’d be here tonight, I hoped I would run into you.”
She gazed out at the ocean and a bank of clouds forming on the horizon. “Lord Lockwood, I…had a dream last night. It was a lovely dream, a moment of madness, but I would change it if I could. And now…”
Yes, he’d suspected she’d feel this way. All he could do was reassure her, since he had no intention of promising it would not happen again. “If you fear that I will tell, or that I will demand more of you than you are prepared to offer willingly, then set your mind at ease. I will never betray your trust, Daphne.”
She released his arm and turned to face him. “I would expect no less of you, Lockwood, but that was not my meaning.”
“Pray enlighten me.”
She sat on one edge of the carved stone bench and patted the space beside her in invitation. “I cannot explain my behavior, least of all to myself. Last night was…undeniable. I’ve never done anything remotely like it before—it was out of character for me. What I meant to say is, well, we are virtual strangers.”
“Not after last night.”
“Nevertheless, whatever madness possessed us then has passed now. You must know that there can be nothing more between us, do you not?” No games, no demurring, just a straightforward, candid assessment.
“Nothing more,” he acknowledged, “but, I pray, nothing less.”
She did not answer immediately. He watched as she smoothed her skirts and considered the veiled question. “You have the manner of a man accustomed to getting what he wants. Is that due to your title, Lockwood, or self-confidence?”
Now he, too, gazed out over the ocean. “I became the sixth earl of Lockwood four years ago. My father married late in life and was quite elderly by the time I was grown. Before he passed, I was sent to tour our family holdings. The trip took me, literally, around the world. In short, Daphne, I am difficult to surprise or shock. I think I have experienced as much as any man, and that my understanding of the world and its workings is as good. I know that few things are as simple as black and white or right and wrong. And I know what is possible and what is not.”
“You mean to reassure me, do you not? That I cannot shock or surprise you?”
“I do,” he admitted, taking a drink of his wine.
“Thank you.”
Her soft reply evoked a surprisingly visceral response in him. He realized that he wanted to protect her from further pain, stand between her and whatever had hurt her. Ah, but that was going farther than either of them wanted. In two weeks, perhaps less, they’d be strangers again. But first— “Tell me about Daphne Hobbs.”
Her pause was so long that Hunt wondered if she’d heard him. “I have one brother,” she said at length. “He is older, and my mother died giving birth to me. I think my father did not care for me, because he seemed to forget that I existed. When he died, he bequeathed me my mother’s sewing basket and a quilt she made for me whilst she was carrying me.”
Hunt tried to hide his outrage. “No trinket? Nothing of value?”
“Mother’s jewelry went to my brother as a part of his inheritance, and for his bride to wear.” She shrugged and lifted the wineglass to her lips. “But I am well-pleased. To have something she made for me, and to have the selfsame tools she used, was a gift more precious than gold.”
“But nothing from him? What memento do you have of his?”
She turned to look at him, her eyes wide with wonder. “Heavens. I had not thought of it, but he left me nothing of his. Though I was not married yet, he had already done his duty by me in providing my dowry.”
“And now your father and your husband are both
dead. I am sorry for your loss, Daphne. That is much to bear. At least you have your brother and your son.”
She took another drink and did not volunteer more. “I believe you told me you had three brothers and a sister. I could feel sorry for her if your brothers are as waggish as you.”
He laughed. “Sarah has set us all back on our heels more than once. She holds her own.”
She gave him her first completely unguarded grin. “And you adore her. I can hear it in your voice. And you said she is married?”
“Quite happily. She has three children now. Two boys and an infant girl. And your brother? Does he have children? Is he helping you raise your son?”
“I have lost touch with him. We were never close. He and Papa were ever together—hunting, gambling, riding and drinking. I think they were the best of friends. No room for a frail girl in their world.”
“Alone? You were raised alone?”
She closed her eyes as if looking back to some distant day. “I was allowed to share my brother’s tutor but, when I was not romping through the Devon countryside, I recall sitting on a stool in the kitchen most of my childhood. I loved the chatter, the smells, the warmth. Cook fed me sweets and mussed my hair. ’Twas she who taught me to make bread and pastries. I loved her dearly. My brother discharged her when he married. I wasn’t allowed to see her again.”
Hunt clenched his jaw in anger. He had seen other families like this—where the sons were valued and the daughters a nuisance.
Oddly, it did not surprise him that Daphne had been raised in a family prosperous enough to hire servants. Her manners and speech were impeccable. And no wonder she had learned to cook.
“Why did your brother not take you and your son in when your husband died?”
There was a long pause before she answered, as if she were deciding how much to tell him. “Do not criticize him, Lockwood. That was my choice, and I chose not to throw myself on his mercy. I have not regretted my decision.”
What brother worthy of the name would turn his back on his widowed sister and his nephew? Hunt set his glass on the bench beside him and took her hand. A delicate shiver shot through her, and it occurred to him that Daphne was unused to sympathy or support.
“If you ever need help, Daphne, please know that there is nothing I wouldn’t do, no resource I wouldn’t tap for you.”
She looked up at him, those green eyes glistening in the dying light. “Your generosity astounds me in view of the fact that we have known one another so short a time. You are an uncommon man, Lockwood.”
God, if she knew the kind of man he really was, she’d run as fast as she could. “I think I know the sort of woman you are.”
She emitted a sardonic laugh. “I wish I knew the sort of woman I am. I am astonished by my own actions of late.”
He cursed inwardly when Mr. Graham called him to come settle a dispute over a game of tennis. He released her hand and stood with an apology. “Daphne, please do not leave until we talk again. And that woman? I like her, no matter who she is.”
Chapter Seven
And she likes you. Far too much.
Daphne stood to watch the cloud bank turn from gray to deep violet in the fading light. How, she wondered, did she keep getting herself deeper in trouble?
In all her years of running and hiding, watching over her shoulder, she’d never once doubted herself. Never once regretted all she’d left behind. But now, because of Lord Lockwood, she felt so…adrift. She had, quite literally, nothing to offer him. How appropriate, then, that they’d agreed there could be nothing more between them. But, I pray, nothing less.
A frisson of pleasure raced up her spine at the thought and she gave herself a mental shake. The strains of a violin reached her and she turned back toward the house.
Guests has taken the available seats facing the terrace, where a quartet was tuning their instruments. Late arrivals settled themselves on the blankets scattered on the grass. Little girls held hands and skipped in circles while little boys played Wild Indians, whooping and chasing one another with makeshift slings and bows and arrows. Darkness was closing in rapidly and gaily colored lanterns strung from the trees lit the fairy-tale scene.
Daphne strolled toward the group, still holding her wineglass. She knew so many of these people, and yet she had never mingled in their society. All she knew was that this one liked soda bread, that one favored tarts, yet another had a penchant for meringues. They smiled and nodded at her politely, and she nodded back.
Alone, she found shelter in the shadows beneath a massive oak. She would stay for only a few pieces and then take her leave. If she remained for the picnic supper, she would have to make polite conversation. Heaven knew, she was sorely out of practice in that regard.
She became aware of a movement to her right and turned. The chargé d’affaires was approaching. She had always avoided anyone connected with government and law with great diligence, so she and Mr. Doyle had never exchanged more than a few words, and those at her shop in town.
She gave him a faint smile and turned back to the music, hoping he would pass her. That was not to be.
“Ah, Mrs. Hobbs,” he greeted her in a theatrical whisper. “How diverting to find you at yet another island function. I thought they held no attraction for you.”
“Never think it, sir,” she said in a like tone. “But I live far from town and coming in again for a social event is really too time-consuming.”
“Yet you attended the governor’s reception, and here you are tonight. Dare I hope this signals a change in your previous policy of avoidance?”
She glanced down at the toes of her slippers. “The invitation reached me at an opportune moment, Mr. Doyle. Even so, I am afraid I must leave early.”
He sighed. “And just when I was about to invite you to sit at my table.”
She was not naive enough to miss the suggestion in his voice. She looked toward the terrace, praying to find Lockwood and failing. “I fear I must decline, sir. But thank you for the invitation.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Hobbs. There will be more opportunities, to be sure. Especially since you have decided to seek political favors.”
That brought her around with a start. Had there been something sharp-edged in his voice? “Political favors? I do not take your meaning, sir.”
“I hear you have acquired a patent for your friend, Captain Gilbert, to carry government communications.”
“Oh, yes. But that was not political, Mr. Doyle. It was personal.”
“Personal? I see.”
She groaned. “I have given you a wrong impression, sir. I merely meant that I, as a tradeswoman, depend upon Captain Gilbert to deliver the items I need to run my business. If he should quit the St. Claire run, well, my business could suffer, and that of a number of other tradespeople.”
Mr. Doyle nodded and hesitated before he spoke again, a hint of condescension in his manner. “I understand, Mrs. Hobbs, but perhaps you did not understand the correct protocol.”
Ah! He was offended because she had not gone to him first. There must be little for him to do when the governor was in residence, and she had deprived him of an opportunity to be useful. “I apologize for overreaching you, Mr. Doyle. Forgive my lapse of etiquette?”
“I’ve been too harsh, have I not? You have my apologies. I merely meant to keep you company, as you appear to have come alone.”
“Please do not concern yourself, sir. As a widow, I am quite used to being alone.”
“Ah, yes. And how long have you been in that lamentable state?”
Daphne hesitated. She did not want to answer, but neither did she want to give him any reason to look deeper into her past. “Five years, Mr. Doyle.”
“Was it sudden?”
She blinked. What an odd question. “No. He…it had been coming on for quite some time.”
“And where did you say you were from?”
And here it was, come home to roost—the very reason she had not mixed in society and yet fur
ther proof that she shouldn’t have come tonight. She took a deep breath, forced a smile and launched forth with a lie and a diversion. “I am from Ashford in Kent. And you, sir? Where are you from?”
He chortled softly. “I apologize yet again. I did not mean to pry, but I did not want to waste this occasion to get to know you, since such opportunities are so rare.”
She spied Lockwood not ten paces away. Relief mingled with anxiety. What a choice! The frying pan or the fire? She barely hesitated. “Oh! There you are, Lockwood.” She ignored Mr. Doyle’s sigh of disappointment and prayed Lockwood would go along with her subterfuge. She turned back to the chargé. “Thank you, sir, for the…diverting conversation.” She went forward and took Lockwood’s arm. She could feel the tension in his muscles through his sleeve.
“Is anything amiss, Mrs. Hobbs?” he asked, glancing between her and Mr. Doyle.
Yes! Her life was unraveling and the last thing she wanted was for either of these men to discuss her or her past. “Mr. Doyle has been keeping me company until you could return. Shall we go?”
With a short glance at Mr. Doyle, he nodded.
The little vignette he’d overheard confirmed Hunt’s suspicion that Daphne Hobbs was hiding on St. Claire. She’d told him she was from Devon, yet he’d just heard her tell Doyle she was from Kent. Which, if either, was the truth?
Her hand, resting on his arm, trembled. He glanced back at Doyle again. “Daphne, did Doyle—”
“No! No, of course not. Mr. Doyle has come to Pâtisserie many times, and we have exchanged pleasantries, but I found myself at a loss in conversation. I am certain that is my fault. I am not adept at social intercourse.”
He placed his other hand over hers in a gesture of comfort. “I have never found that to be so.”
“Nevertheless, I do not like to talk about myself,” she confided in a whisper. “I have always been a wallflower.”
He studied her as they strolled the perimeter of the gathering. Even in the darkness, her smooth hair gleamed with glints of gold in the lantern light. Her peach-colored gown, modest for the gathering, was nonetheless elegant in its simplicity and her figure was sweet perfection. How could anyone as stunning as Daphne ever be a wallflower?
Indiscretions Page 7