Daniel's True Desire

by Grace Burrowes

  “May we call upon you, Lady Susannah? You and Lady Della?”

  The question hurt. A childish lament—I saw him first—crowded hard against loyalty to Della. Willow Dorning had been honorable toward Susannah before she’d comprehended how precious such regard was.

  He’d make a wonderful brother-in-law, damn him.

  She smiled brilliantly. “Of course you must call upon us, you and however many brothers or dogs you please. We’re always happy to welcome our friends.” A slight untruth, for Susannah resented any who interrupted her reading.

  “Willow!” the earl called. “Didn’t you bring those posies for the lady?”

  Della Haddonfield, who could wield truth like a rapier and silence like a shield, simpered, and Susannah’s heart broke a little.

  A nuisance, to have a heart that could break. Susannah had thought herself beyond such folly.

  “The violets go with his eyes,” Cam Dorning said. “Willow is partial to violets, you see.”

  “As am I,” Della said. “Such a delicate fragrance, and so pretty.”

  Violets did not last, though. Susannah had reason to know this. The horse in the traces took a restive step and shook its head.

  Time to go.

  “I am partial to ladies who forgive us our minor lapses,” Will said, presenting the violets in a gloved hand.

  Della reached for the bouquet, and the moment might have turned awkward, but Susannah realized at the last possible instant that the flowers were not for Della, they were for her.

  She passed the reins into Della’s hands as if the movement were choreographed, and accepted the violets.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dorning. I’m partial to violets as well. I don’t want these to wilt, though, so I’d best get them directly home.”

  Della recovered with good-humored grace as the men made their farewells and cantered away.

  “Shall I drive us home, Suze? Your hands are notably occupied.”

  Susannah’s heart was occupied too, bemused with feelings of pleasure and uncertainty. She was once again sixteen years old, growing too quickly, and terrified of tripping on the dance floor.

  “Hold these,” Susannah said, shoving the flowers at Della and taking the reins. “You can drive next time.”

  They left the park for the busy streets of Mayfair, Della holding the flowers, and occasionally—say, when a carriage full of young ladies passed—raising them to her nose as she waved or smiled.

  “You are awful,” Susannah said, proud of her sister’s guile and pleased with the day. “The entire battalion of Dorning brothers has asked permission to call on you, you know. There’s a handsome, eligible earl in the bunch, and he seemed taken with you.”

  A reassuring thought, for reasons Susannah would examine once she’d put those violets in water.

  Della waved to another group, this time holding the violets aloft. “The earl is probably ten years my senior, Suze, but they’re a fine group of fellows. Effington is titled, and he and I get on well enough.”

  For all Della was smiling furiously, and beaming gaiety in every direction, her words were tired and hard.

  “You’ll have other choices.” A woman always had choices, though often, she hadn’t any good ones. “Give it time.”

  “He fancies you,” Della said, touching a fragile violet petal. “Mr. Will Dorning fancies you, Suze. You might have choices too.”

  * * *

  “What was that all about in the park, earlier today?” Casriel asked. He was the most inquisitive older brother ever to inconvenience a busy younger sibling. “All that gallantry beneath the maples and flirting among the infantry?”

  “You will accuse me of trying to marry you off,” Will replied, and the accusation would have had some merit.

  The waiter bustled over to their table. Casriel ordered his usual beefsteak, Willow a plate of fruit and cheeses, because Georgette harbored a special fondness for the club’s cheddar.

  “Please recall,” Will went on, “that you intruded uninvited on my conversation with the Haddonfield ladies. I was making amends for Georgette’s misbehavior.”

  Mostly, and being a little sentimental too.

  “You bought the woman a replacement parasol and hand-delivered a written apology. What amends remained to be made?”

  Casriel thought in terms of crops and ledgers, sums owed, and acres fallowed, so Will explained. He would explain as many times in as many situations as it took for Casriel to learn to think like an earl, rather than a country squire.

  “Lady Della is in her first Season, Casriel. Her escort this morning—a handsome, eligible viscount—was nearly pissed upon by my dog. The worse damage was not to the parasol.”

  The earl wrinkled a nose euphemistically described as aristocratic. On Will, the same nose was a sizable beak. Ash and Cam had been spared the worst excesses of the Dorning nose, as had their sisters, Daisy and Jacaranda. The remaining three brothers had yet to grow into the family proboscis one way or the other, though they had the Dorning eyes.

  “Suppose the lady’s consequence might have suffered,” Casriel said, considering his glass of wine. “From what I heard, Effington delivered a sound beating to Georgette on the spot. I’m surprised she didn’t dine on rare haunch of viscount for his presumption.”

  So was Will. Georgette was a peaceful soul, but she took a dim view of repeated blows to the head.

  “The whole incident makes no sense to me, Grey. Georgette has better manners than our younger brothers. Something must have provoked her to misbehavior.”

  “Cam would provoke a saint to blaspheming. Will you join me for tonight’s rounds?”

  The Miltons’ ball, a soiree at Lord and Lady Hamilton’s, perhaps a round of cards back here at the club. Casriel had to be let off the leash at some point, and those were safe gardens for him to nose around in.

  “I think not,” Will said. “If you make yourself agreeable to the hostesses, they’ll ensure you’re introduced to all the ladies interested in becoming your countess. Don’t dance with any of the marriageable women more than once, don’t leer down their bodices no matter how they trip against you or lean too closely on the turns. If you must, smoke a cheroot on the balcony or eat some leeks, and breathe directly on the more presuming ones.”

  Casriel was handsome, and he’d make a loyal, if somewhat distracted husband. Like Will, he indulged the manly vices rarely and discreetly. He was not wealthy, however, not compared to what many of the ladies on offer were accustomed to, and Dorset was not the most fashionable address.

  Grey Birch Dorning was a good man, though, and Will was proud to call him brother.

  “Willow, one fears for you,” Casriel said, keeping his voice down. “The point of tonight’s outing, the point of this entire sortie among the Beau Monde, is to secure the charms of a well-dowered lady. Without your excellent counsel, I won’t know one of those from the impoverished sort when they get to leaning or pressing or any of that other business.”

  Weariness dragged at Will. Weariness of the body, weariness of the fraternal spirit. So many brothers, and Jacaranda was too enthralled with her knight to be of any use getting those brothers married off. Will’s other sister, Daisy, was knee-deep in babies, and had her hands full with her squire back in Dorset.

  “You will be married to your countess quite possibly for the rest of your life, Casriel, or for hers. If birds can mate for life without recourse to intelligence officers, belted earls ought to be able to manage it too.”

  The food arrived and conversation lapsed. When Will had eaten half of his selection of cheeses, and wrapped the other half to tuck away in his pocket, he excused himself and repaired with a newspaper to the card room. Cam and Ash were probably once again losing money at some gaming hell or cockfight, and that was so disappointing as to be nearly sickening.

  Perhaps the earl could sort
them out. Will was growing tired of trying.

  * * *

  “Playing a bit deep, aren’t you, Effington?”

  The question was friendly and infuriating. Frankincense Godwin Emeritus Effington, Eighth Viscount Effington, rearranged his cards, then put them back in their original order.

  “The Season is upon us, Fenwick,” Effington drawled. “I must have my diversions, and your pin money too. What say, the loser of this hand goes directly to the Milton ball and submits himself to the mercy of Lady Milton and the wallflowers of her choosing.”

  “High stakes, indeed,” Fenwick said, amid a chorus of “Done!” and “Hear, hear!” though the other four men around the table were smiling. Two were married, the other two were wealthy. They could afford to be amused at the ordeals of the impoverished, titled bachelors.

  Two minutes later, Fenwick threw in his hand. “A plague on your luck, Effington. Perhaps I should start carrying around a little dog, and my cards would improve.”

  “Having a well-behaved canine prepares a man for the companionship of a well-behaved wife,” Effington said, stroking a hand over the homely little pug in his lap. “Both must be pampered, fed, taken about, cossetted, and occasionally disciplined for naughty behavior, isn’t that right, Yorrick?”

  The dog looked up at mention of his name, but knew better than to bark. They all learned not to bark, eventually. A lap dog made winning at cards ever so much easier, drawing attention from a man’s hands at opportune moments.

  “I heard your well-behaved lady was laughing in the park with no less than four Dorning brothers in attendance,” Fenwick remarked as he downed the last of a drink. “The Dornings are prodigiously handsome, and Lady Della Haddonfield is too pretty for you by half, Effington. If she didn’t have so many strapping, devoted brothers, I might pay my addresses to her.”

  Effington had got word of the scene in the park from one of the many who’d seen Lady Della tooling home, all smiles, and brandishing violets under the very nose of Polite Society. Fenwick was moderately handsome, in a rough, dark way, and said to be connected to one of the northern earls.

  Some ladies were attracted to that rough, dark lack of refinement. Della Haddonfield apparently had better sense.

  “Lady Della resides with only the one brother,” Effington said, gathering up the cards. “The newly minted Earl of Bellefonte, who needs to take his womenfolk in hand, if you ask me.”

  “Is that what you were doing with Dorning’s dog this morning?” one of the other fellows quipped. “Taking the beast in hand by beating at it with a parasol?”

  If the women hadn’t been present in the park, Effington would have done much more than swat at the damned mastiff. The dog had wanted a firm hand, but alas, the women had been present.

  “I should have had Yorrick with me,” Effington said, grabbing his dog’s nose and giving it a waggle. “He would have defended the pride of the house of Effington.”

  Or Yorrick would have been reprimanded for his cowardice.

  “The ladies do like a friendly dog,” one of the married men observed. “Don’t understand it m’self. If a beast can’t chase down vermin, what good is it?”

  Effington ought to have burst forth into an aria about the wonders of canine companionship, for he’d cultivated his public devotion to dogs assiduously. Alas, the hour grew late, and more pressing matters required his attention.

  “I will share something with you gentlemen in confidence, for our conversation has unwittingly touched on a sensitive matter,” Effington said, tidying the deck into a neat stack. He shuffled the cards, when he’d rather have flung them into the fire.

  For the last hour, he’d been winning. For the hour before that, despite Yorrick’s slavish cooperation, he had lost.

  “I’m for my penance,” Fenwick said, rising. Had an inconvenient decent streak, did Fenwick. No uninvited confidences would keep him awake later tonight. “Gentlemen, good night. Yorrick, pleasant dreams.”

  Fenwick patted the dog, and earned Yorrick’s signature hopeful look, which was doomed to failure, of course. Yorrick would do the job he’d been trained for until Effington no longer had a use for him.

  “We spoke earlier of Lady Della,” Effington said, dropping his tones to the regretful register as Fenwick departed. “I favor the lady with my attentions because she’s burdened by unfortunate antecedents, and most of Polite Society treats her accordingly. As an earl’s daughter, they can’t ignore her, but she’s in truth her mother’s by-blow, and the ladies will never let her forget it. One feels compelled by gentlemanly honor to champion such a creature.”

  Sympathetic murmurs followed, for women in search of a well-placed husband were not permitted unfortunate antecedents.

  “Good of you to take notice of her,” one older man said. “She should be appreciative.”

  “Her family probably is,” another noted. “Not so easy to find a match for the bastards.”

  “You will keep this in strictest confidence, of course,” Effington murmured, thus guaranteeing that every man present told at least one other fellow and two women by morning.

  “Of course,” came the general reply. No one questioned where Effington had come by this “confidence,” which was fortunate. Lady Della’s dark coloring, her petite stature, and her siblings’ protectiveness had fueled some unkind talk, and the rest was nothing more than nasty speculation.

  “Then I leave you,” Effington said, rising with the dog in his arms. “And bid you all good night. Yorrick, my darling, it’s past your bedtime.”

  Effington made his exit, stroking and patting his dear little doggy, and kissing endearments to the top of Yorrick’s head, while nobody seemed to recall that the evening’s winnings and losings had yet to be totaled.

  The other men were probably too preoccupied deciding where to share the juiciest gossip of the evening. Well done, if Effington did say so himself.

  Order Grace Burrowes's next book

  in the True Gentlemen series

  Will’s True Wish

  On sale February 2016

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes’s bestsellers include The Duke’s Disaster, The Captive, The Laird, The Heir, The Soldier, Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish, and Lady Eve’s Indiscretion. Her Regency romances and Scotland-set Victorian romances have received extensive praise, including starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Darius was an iBooks Store Best Book of the Year for 2013. The Heir was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, The Soldier was a PW Best Spring Romance of 2011, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish and Once Upon a Tartan have both won RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards, Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight was a Library Journal Best Book of 2012, and The Bridegroom Wore Plaid was a PW Best Book of 2012. Two of her MacGregor heroes have won KISS awards.

  Grace is a practicing family law attorney and lives in rural Maryland. She loves to hear from readers, and can be contacted through her website at graceburrowes.com.

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