Daisy craned her neck at an awkward angle to look up at him. “He should not be a great, big dunderhead,” she snapped, because that was precisely what His Grace was being.
“Of course not,” he said brusquely. He nodded. “You’ll require an intelligent gentleman.”
“If there is such a thing,” she mumbled, because surely an intelligent duke could see the perfect woman for him sitting right there before his still too-young-for-a-quizzing glass-eyes.
“What was that?”
Daisy shoved to her feet, a mere hairsbreadth from his tall, powerful frame. Her breath caught raggedly at the heat of him pouring into her and she damned her body for reacting as it did when he should not even garner a hint of her heart’s desire. “Do you know what I want?”
Auric leaned his head down and the scent of him, sandalwood and coffee and the faintest hint of brandy, danced about her, intoxicating. “Wh…?” That question trailed off as his gaze dipped and fixed on her lips.
Did she imagine the audible inhalation of breath? She slid her tongue over her bottom lip. “I want—” He claimed her lips under his. He moved his mouth over hers demanding and seeking all at the same time.
Auric wrapped a hand about her waist and drew her close, angling his head to deepen the kiss. Even through the fabric of her gown, her skin burned with the hot heaviness of his touch and she moaned, pressing herself to him. He wrenched his head away, setting her from him with such alacrity she stumbled against the mahogany table. The duke backed away, his face wreathed in a mask of horror. “I…I…”
“I wanted you to,” she said on a breathless rush, because she could not bear the shock and disgust to follow that stammered response.
Usually unflappable, the stoic duke dragged a trembling hand through his hair. “You need a husband.” He would speak as though with a joining of their lips he’d not shaken her world and breathed a hope of them as a couple into her. “What do you desire,” a dull flush climbed up his neck and splashed his cheeks, “in a husband?” he squeezed out, his words sounding pained.
You. I desire you. Daisy smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts. “He must be devoted to me. He must care for my well-being and happiness.” And see me as more than a mere obligation.
“Devoted. Caring.” Auric gave a brusque nod and with that handful of wishes from her, took his leave.
Chapter 9
Dear Lionel,
God forgive me. I kissed your sister…
With a groan, Auric tossed his pen aside and stared at the damning pages of his journal, feeling no better for putting the truth down onto the empty sheet. He’d kissed Daisy Laurel Meadows. Nor had that kiss been a polite, meaningless gesture upon her gloved fingers or even a gentle meeting of mere lips. Rather, theirs had been an explosive, passionate exploration of two people learning one another, hungering for more.
She’d tasted of springtime and life and innocence and he’d wanted to drown himself in the sweetness of her. The nine words inked in black, glared back at him in silent recrimination. “I know it was unpardonable,” he acknowledged.
Since he’d taken his hasty leave of Daisy, he’d been unable to purge the memory of her lips or the curve of her hip from his thoughts. With a groan, Auric dropped his head onto those damning words. He knocked his forehead against the opened journal, hopelessly wrinkling the page.
What manner of madness had possessed him to kiss her? For God’s sake, he had no right desiring her as he did. She was the sister of a man he’d gotten killed and a girl he’d never before seen as anything more than a vexing, spirited child, and then an equally vexing, spirited young lady.
Only now he knew she tasted like warmed chocolate and honey with the hint of lavender water on her person and, God forgive him, he’d wanted to search out the spot she’d dabbed that intoxicating fragrance. “I’m going to hell,” he mumbled into the leather volume. He opened his eyes and stared at the ivory pages. “It was just a kiss,” he bit out and with determination sat back in his seat. Just a kiss. Taking a deep, calming breath, he smoothed his hands over the wrinkled page trying to put some order to his turbulent thoughts. Of course he would react as he had to Daisy. As Wessex had so unhelpfully pointed out, she was no longer a small child who dogged his footsteps and winked once when things were splendid or twice when she required rescuing. No, instead she was the troublesome vixen who wandered through the streets of London unchaperoned and winked once when things were splendid and twice in need of rescuing. With one more slow, deliberate breath, he evaluated the handful of words he’d penned just moments before he’d been consumed by the memory of how right it had felt to hold Daisy in his arms.
He flipped through the pages of his book, pausing on yesterday evening’s entry.
Dear Lionel,
It is my intention to find a devoted, caring gentleman for your sister…
He drummed his fingertips over the now dried ink. He’d long known Daisy possessed a romantic heart. Now he knew she sought a husband who would be devoted, as she certainly deserved nothing less. Auric firmed his lips into a hard, furious line and continued turning pages to the most recently completed entry.
Dear Lionel,
I’ve compiled a list of the following gentlemen who might make Daisy a respectable match…
By the king and all his men, he’d ruin the man who failed to give her his fidelity. Though, with the amount of rogues, cads, and bastards in London who took their pleasures where they would and carried on with whores and mistresses and widows, which gentleman had proven he’d be worthy of her? Auric searched his mind of all the gentlemen he’d known through the years.
There was the Marquess of Fenworth. With two younger sisters already out in London, the young marquess had proven himself a devoted brother, standing at their side for any number of soirees and balls. Auric dipped his pen in ink and added the man’s name to Daisy’s list.
“You’ll become a duchess someday when all those other, unkind girls find themselves with mere future marquesses such as myself…” Lionel’s words to his sister all those years ago at the Marchioness of Roxbury’s summer party echoed so clear in his mind. A chill stole down Auric’s spine.
He drew a dark, hard mark through that name. No marquess. A marquess would forever remind her of the role Lionel had been intended to fill and she did not deserve that sadness. With a small, contemplative frown, Auric drummed the tip of his pen back and forth.
The Earl of Coventry. He marked the man’s name down. The dark-haired, tall gentleman, quite impressive with Gentleman Jackson was diligent in his daily routine. His prowess in the ring and his commitment spoke to his devotion. Except, it also served to conjure an image of the muscular gentleman paired with Daisy, kissing her lips in the way Auric longed to. With a growl he dragged the tip of his pen across Coventry’s name. The man was too handsome, and handsome gentlemen were invariably rogues who inevitably led to broken hearts. He’d not allow Daisy to wed a rogue.
Bloody hell. Who was there? Of course! The Baron Winterhaven. Ah, yes. Winterhaven would make her a perfect match. The bookish gentleman from his days at Oxford had been so very dedicated to his studies he’d been reputed to not miss a single class in any of his days at university. An educated, bookish man would be faithful. Such a man also lacked Daisy’s fire and passion which perfectly suited Auric—He gave his head a clearing shake. Daisy. A passionless, safe match would suit Daisy, because—well, it just would. He eyed the list coming along with a pleased nod.
A knock sounded at the door. He didn’t pick his attention up from the leather volume. “Enter,” he called out, contemplating which other devoted gentleman might make Daisy an acceptable match. It would need to be a man whose happiness would be intertwined with the lady’s, who’d see her— “The Viscount Wessex,” his butler announced.
Abandoning his efforts, he looked up as Wessex entered the room. The other man strode over, appearing entirely too bored and disinterested for one who’d identified their obligation to D
aisy. With a yawn, he sank into one of two leather chairs opposite Auric’s desk. “Well?”
“Well?” he asked impatiently. Did the man believe him a mind reader?
“Knowing you and your fixation on that journal,” he jerked his chin toward the opened book. “you’ve already lined up at least three possible suitors for the lady on those pages. Well, then, who are they?” Without allowing Auric an opportunity to respond, he leaned over and swiped the book off his desk. Wessex skimmed his gaze over the page. “Hmm.”
Cross at the other man’s audacity, Auric glowered. Then, Wessex would have to one, look up to note his displeasure and two, care. Their friendship went back far enough that he’d never intimidated easily. Auric’s curiosity got the better of him. “What is it?”
“I’d considered Fenworth as well.” His friend, however, said nothing else about his ultimate decision on that gentleman’s suitability. “Coventry,” he murmured in a contemplative tone. He picked his head up and gave him a questioning stare. “What is wrong with Coventry?”
“He’s…” Too handsome. “He’s…” He waved a hand and partially wished he could pluck the appropriate words from the air. “A rogue,” he managed.
“Ohh,” That single syllable utterance drawn out, hinted at a differing of opinion. “Is he?”
“He is,” he said tersely.
The viscount returned his attention to the page. “Winterhaven?” By the incredulity underscoring that particular name, Auric gathered they were of opposite views on this prospective suitor as well.
Tamping down his annoyance, he stood. “I gather you’ve prepared a list of possible gentlemen as well?” he asked, highly doubting Wessex had given Daisy and her future bridegroom another thought. Auric leaned across the table and collected his journal from the other man’s fingers. When he had committed himself to looking after Lionel’s family, Wessex had spent the past seven years devoted to his own happiness and pursuits. He’d likely not given a thought as to who might make Daisy a— His friend reached into his jacket front and pulled out a folded sheet. “Well, have a look.” He set it down on Auric’s desk.
Blinking back a moment of shock, he reached for Wessex’s list. His very full list. The viscount had managed to identify, one-two-three, he jabbed his finger at each name, four-five-six, he continued counting. “Ten names?” he charged.
Wessex rolled his shoulders. “Certainly a better showing than your meager collection,” he drawled, mistaking the reason for Auric’s questioning. “You’ve but Winterhaven and Danport.”
This was not the time to mention that he’d intended to ink Danport’s name from the sheet. The Earl of Danport wasn’t a rogue, but he was too charming. That would never do.
“The list,” his friend drawled, effectively jerking him to the moment.
Irritation stuck in his chest as he returned his attention to the potential husbands selected by the viscount. Surely, Wessex didn’t believe there were this many men worthy of Daisy? No, unlike Auric, he had not taken time to inquire as to Daisy’s expectations and requirements for the man she’d take for her husband, which likely accounted for that very full list.
Coventry was there. Fenworth, as well. Winterhaven…? He picked his gaze up.
“Winterhaven is not on there,” Wessex confirmed, anticipating his unspoken question.
He tossed the sheet back and it fluttered in the air. The other man caught it reflexively, rumpling the sheet.
Auric scowled. Friend or not, what did the roguish viscount know about who would suit Daisy? “And what rationale went into your selection of the respective gentlemen?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone.
Singularly unaffected by Auric’s displeasure, Wessex smiled. “I sought a respectful gentleman, free of scandal, for the lady.”
He dug his elbows into the edge of the table. “That is your main criteria for the lady?” When it should be her happiness and making sure there was a man who not only desired her heart, but also, more importantly, cared for it.
Wessex snorted. “Oh, and I expect you, in all your ducal arrogance, have quite determined the correct criteria?”
Auric frowned. He’d not thought much beyond Daisy’s own desires and the immediacy of his own passionate sentiments. No handsome gentlemen. No rogues. No man who’d worship that mouth as he’d done yesterday afternoon. He gave his head a shake.
His friend squinted, peering closely at him through thin slits. “What is that?”
Auric looked about. “What is—?”
“On your brow.” He motioned to Auric’s forehead. “It appears as though you’ve ink just above your eyebrow.”
Likely from slamming his forehead into that page. He fished around the front of his jacket and withdrew an embroidered kerchief. Remembering too late—The small quizzing glass etched in daisies slipped from the folds of the white fabric and clattered to his desk. He instantly scooped it up.
Wessex followed his gaze. He widened his eyes. A sharp bark of laughter escaped him. “By God, what the hell is that, man?” Deep, bellowing guffaws bubbled from his lips and he slapped his knee. “Never tell me in your advancing ducal years you’ve need of a quizzing glass.”
“Shove off,” he ordered, except he knew the other man well enough through the years to trust Wessex would not so readily relinquish the matter.
Tears of mirth seeped from the corner of his eyes, as he snorted with amusement. “Th-the alternative i-is that you’ve further protected your s-starchy, frowning r-role to perfection.”
At the other man’s words, Auric scowled. Is that how the world saw him? As this miserable, unpleasant, disapproving fellow who’d never have his name scratched upon a list of one such as Daisy’s?
“…You used to be so much more fun than this cold, curt, and crusty duke…”
Not that he wanted to be on Daisy’s list. Nor did she have a list. But if she did, he’d not want his name on there. Because… “Go to hell,” he growled to a still chuckling Wessex. He didn’t like the idea of him having fun at his expense.
Wessex stood. He tugged out his own handkerchief and, with the edge of the fabric, brushed the moisture from his cheeks. “I have it on authority that the first three gentlemen upon that list are in the market for a wife.”
Auric took in Coventry, Fenworth, and the Viscount Marsdale’s names. Gentlemen who were in the market for a wife were generally seeking a match for a reason. No man would have her for her dowry. He’d see to that. “Their finances—?”
“There is no debt. I’ve made specific inquiries.”
He looked up with no little surprise.
A flash of annoyance lit the other man’s eyes. “Come, did you believe I’d be dishonorable to Daisy and in so doing, the memory of Lionel?”
“No,” he replied instantly, and a wave of guilt struck him for his friend’s unerring accuracy with that leveled charge.
He yanked on the lapels of his jacket. “Regardless, I’d recommend Astor.”
The obscenely wealthy Earl of Astor didn’t sit down at the gaming tables. He was rumored to keep a single mistress and never did anything so outrageous as visiting those infamous sins. In short, the man was a bloody paragon. He’d always detested Astor.
“Crawford?”
“Er, right. I’ll pay the gentleman a visit.” After all, what was the likelihood that Astor was in the market for a wife with too full lips and generous hips, and—?
“And?” Wessex prodded.
He spoke through gritted teeth. “And I’ll bring him ’round for a visit with Daisy.”
Another sharp bark of laughter burst from the viscount’s lips and Auric grew increasingly annoyed with the other man’s enjoyment at his expense.
“That is your plan?” The viscount shook his head. “Do tell me how Daisy responds to your, er…visit with the earl.” He sketched a bow. With another round of laughter trailing in his wake, Wessex took his leave.
Directing a frown at the now empty doorway, he looked once more
to the two very different lists comprised of two very different sets of names of gentlemen.
Daisy’s carriage rolled up to the front of her townhouse and rocked to a slow, effortless stop. She pursed her lips. Another dratted outing and another failed attempt. Though she appreciated Lady Stanhope’s optimism that Daisy would, in fact, manage to find the Heart of a Duke pendant if she but looked, it was more like finding a needle in the streets of London.
A footman pulled the door open and handed her down. She flashed the young liveried footman—Thomas—a smile. “Thank you,” she murmured and started for the entrance of her home.
Yes, she appreciated the lady’s optimism, but she was also… Daisy paused at the base of the stairs and frowned. Well, hell and bloody hell, she was frustrated because she’d taken herself to Gipsy Hill three times without a hint of the gypsy Bunică. Of all the gypsies she’d asked, not a single one had guided her to the woman’s whereabouts. And that was assuming the old gypsy and her pendant were even there. Instead, Daisy’s inquiries had been met with stony silence and wary eyes. She stomped up the handful of steps and Frederick, as uncanny as he’d been since she’d been a girl tearing through the halls of the then joyous townhouse, drew the door open.
“Lady Daisy,” he greeted.
“Frederick.” A servant rushed over and she shrugged out of her cloak. The winning of Auric’s heart resided in that pendant and, though she’d ceased to believe in magic and fairytales of happily ever after’s many years ago, she allowed herself this last dream. Daisy started up the stairs. Frederick cleared his throat. Though it was foolish to hang her every remaining hope upon a gypsy’s bauble, this was the last dream she carried, and to give up on that dream would represent the last shred of joy left inside her soul.
Frederick gave another subtle cough. She glanced over her shoulder. “I took the liberty of showing His Grace, Duke of Crawford to the drawing room, as well as—”
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