Her look of enthrallment mirrored how he felt. She was entranced as much as he was.
“I don’t think I care to be cleaned up.” The deep huskiness of a well-pleasured woman colored her voice. Her half-lidded eyes delighted him. She was drunk with passion, and he wanted nothing more than to yield to that desire that swirled between them.
He’d always thought her beautiful, but with the gorgeous flush in her cheeks from the remnants of her release along with her strength and regard for him, she could bring him to his knees.
“Why is that?” he murmured.
“Because I’ll keep my gown as a valuable trophy.” She leaned up and touched her nose to his. “Just like you with your pantaloons that night at the Reynolds.”
He buried his head in her soft hair to hide his laughter. The effort futile as his body vibrated with mirth. “You are an incorrigible and wicked woman who’s ruining me,” he huffed with the right amount of ducal arrogance. “Let it be known, I prefer you that way.”
He stood and took his last glance at her half-naked body against the brocade of his sofa. It was now his favorite piece of furniture in the house. While he was alive, he’d see that it was never reupholstered. He held out his hand, and she placed her warm hand in his.
A sign of trust.
“Well, it’d be my greatest honor if you saved your gown as a memento, but your hair is a tangled mess that needs tending.” He pulled her to standing. “We need to get you at least presentable for Tait, not to mention Mavis.” He took her hands in his and studied her infinite beauty. “How wicked would it be if I asked you to stay with me tonight?”
“Hush.” The tender word caressed him. Her smile lit the entire room in a warmth that was fueled by the goodness and pure charisma of Daphne Hallworth.
Without another word, he led her out of his study to a retiring room where she could freshen up. He instructed the footman to prepare the smallest carriage and hot bricks for the short ride to her home in Mayfair. He’d not have her catch a chill.
Within minutes, he was dressed and downstairs waiting for her.
His old emptiness, a near-constant companion, seemed to have deserted him. Instead of melancholy, he had a new purpose, a new cause to consider. She was perfect for him. Her passion matched his, and they got along exceedingly well. There was only one honorable thing to do.
He would offer to marry her. His only obstacle was proving to her family that he was worthy of her. Whatever it took, he’d prove to them and himself that he could be the perfect man and husband for Lady Daphne Hallworth.
After he saw her safely home, he’d retire for the night. He had plans for his Moonbeam. Thoughts of her and their future would keep the old ghosts that haunted him every night at bay.
* * *
Daphne woke when the gentle nudge became a shake. She struggled to open her eyes.
“My lady, you must get up,” Mavis urged.
Groggy, Daphne pushed herself up to a sitting position and brushed her hair out of her face. She’d sent Mavis immediately to bed after she’d arrived home. Tired and anxious for sleep, she’d taken off her dress and carefully hidden it in her keepsake chest, then collapsed into bed. She’d forgotten to braid her hair last night, and a mass of tangled strands surrounded her like Medusa’s snakes.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“It’s after ten o’clock, my lady.” After pulling open a drawer, Mavis yanked out a chemise and clean petticoat. She whirled around the room until she stood in front of an armoire. With a pull of the door, she reached inside for stockings and ties. The poor maid resembled a top zigzagging from one side of the room to the other.
The sight made Daphne dizzy. She closed her eyes and, without delay, her thoughts returned to last night. After she and Paul had entered his carriage, he’d placed a hot brick under her feet, then tucked her tightly against him. By then, she couldn’t fight her exhaustion, so she’d relaxed in his embrace. Within minutes, they’d arrived at her house. All was quiet in the carriage house. There were no groomsmen or stableboys milling about. A window close to the servants’ entrance glowed by candlelight.
Before they exited the carriage, he’d pressed a kiss against her forehead. Silently, he’d escorted her to the door. Before either of them could press the latch, the door opened. With a welcoming smile, Tait stood before them. Paul took his leave after he’d ensured no one, specifically Alex, was awake and waiting for her.
She opened her eyes and sighed with pleasure. It’d been a magical night. They’d shared themselves physically, but there was more. Without saying it explicitly, Paul cared for her. His gentle attentions to her well-being and comfort were proof of his regard. In his eyes, she’d seen—dare she think—deep affection?
How her life had changed. Every new strength she possessed could be attributed to Paul.
“My lady, pleassse,” Mavis begged.
“I’m up.” Daphne struggled to stand.
“Thank heavens,” Mavis muttered. “Your mother is downstairs asking for you. When Simms told me, I rushed up here to get you dressed. Lord and Lady Pembrooke are out all day, and I was going to let you sleep, but this is an emergency—”
“Mavis, it’s my mother, not the queen,” Daphne assured her. “She’ll not mind waiting for me.”
Mavis nodded and exhaled a big sigh. The maid ran her hand down her face.
“I’m sorry, Lady Daphne, but your midnight excursions are taking a toll on my nerves.”
Instantly, all thoughts of sleep fell away. For the world, she didn’t want her actions to have a detrimental effect on her sweet maid. “I’m sorry, Mavis. I never wanted you to suffer because I lost my journal. I promise this will soon be over.”
“I’m happy to report that there was nothing in The Midnight Cryer this morning.” Mavis nodded with a tight smile. “Once that journal is found, we’ll all breathe easier.”
The vise around Daphne’s chest loosened. She had another day to find the journal.
“I want you happy, Lady Daphne.” Mavis grew serious. “But I want you to be careful, too.”
“I promise.” Daphne turned and sat at her dressing table. Mavis’s message had been clear, though the words remained unspoken. She was concerned that Daphne would entangle herself in a scandal that would ruin her completely.
Daphne was well aware of the risks, but for the first time in her life, she felt alive. She felt beautiful and admired. The grief over Alice’s death was no longer like a black cloud raining over her every day, coloring every mood. Instead, it had morphed into something different that was hard to define.
Mavis returned to Daphne’s side and patted her shoulder in reassurance. Daphne shut her eyes as Mavis’s gentle ministrations worked their magic on brushing the tangles out of Daphne’s hair.
Daphne would never accept Alice’s reasons for taking her own life, but for the first time since Alice’s death, she might be able to understand. Her grief would always be there. But she had hope that it was changing into something she could live with—something that would allow her to find her own happiness without feeling guilty.
For this special day, she chose a gown of sky blue with silver netting. Trimmed in navy ribbons, it reminded her of Paul’s eyes last night when his desire for her had reached its zenith. When he’d shouted her name, her heart wanted to burst from her chest and reach him.
Her mother wouldn’t mind waiting if she took a little more time with her appearance today. In minutes, Daphne entered the breakfast room where her mother was waiting.
Though they’d seen each other yesterday, she missed her mother. Charlotte St. Mauer, the Duchess of Renton, was gorgeous in her late fifties with a lithe figure. Her silver hair and gray eyes complemented her complexion and drew a person’s attention to her face. But what made her truly beautiful was her personality. The natural ease about her exuded a kindheartedness and devotion that attracted people to her side.
“What a welcome surprise,” Daphne announced as she ran to
her mother’s side. She dropped a kiss to her cheek, and the sweet fragrance of her mother’s familiar scent swept over her. “What do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Do I need an excuse to see my beautiful daughter? Have you eaten, sweetheart?” Without answering the question, her mother returned to her chair and lifted the teapot, offering to pour Daphne a cup.
Daphne nodded and took the seat opposite. The room was empty except for the two of them. She helped herself to two tarts and a cold slice of bacon.
Her mother set the cup in front of Daphne and studied her. When Daphne took a bite of the flaky apple tart, fine lines creased her mother’s forehead indicating her worry. “Sweetheart, didn’t you sleep last night? You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”
Daphne chewed the bite slowly as she squirmed in her chair. Trust her mother to find the weakness in her armor. “No, madam.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “‘No’ to the sleep or ‘no’ to the cold.”
The bite of tart stuck in her throat. She took a gulp of tea. The scalding liquid scorched her tongue. She wanted to curse at her slurping instead of a more ladylike sipping. She cleared her throat, and the troublesome piece of tart disappeared.
“I slept well,” she offered. “And I have no cold.”
“Perhaps later a nice glass of elderberry wine would bring some color back into your cheeks.” Her mother leaned closer. “Are those dark circles under your eyes, dearest?”
Daphne took a deep breath in hope of gathering her composure that was slipping out of the room like a guilty thief. “Mother, I assure you, I’m right as rain. In fact, I’m in a marvelously good mood.”
But she did tell the truth about her delightful disposition today. She’d practically spent the night in Paul’s arms, and it had been pure heaven. She should consider writing her own dictionary. Under the word “heaven”, there should be a sketch of him as she found him last night. A glorious archangel welcoming her with open arms.
A deep sigh escaped her. She had to put her thoughts of him aside and discover the reason for her mother’s visit and summons this morning. “Tell me why I have the great pleasure to eat with my own mother this morning.”
Her mother replaced her teacup on the saucer. She tilted her head and regarded her.
Daphne forced herself to hold her mother’s gaze.
“Renton and I had a long conversation about you last night.”
“About?” Daphne raised a brow. The movement probably mimicked her brother’s trademark expression, which was her intention. She needed a bit of his swagger this morning to stop the conversation from drifting into waters she didn’t want to navigate.
Her mother hesitated. “Well, you see…”
“Yes?”
A tiny smile tugged at her mother’s lips. “After Alex told me Southart had been here with you, and you suggested we invite Southart to dinner, I discussed it with Renton. He and I thought dinner this evening would be perfect as a way of thanking Southart for that whole Christmas business. It was really quite gallant of him to watch over you while you were home alone.”
Daphne’s anxiety melted. “I think that’s a marvelous idea.”
Her mother nodded her approval. “Excellent, as I’ve already sent an invitation to Southart House. Pembrooke, Claire, Somerton, and Emma will attend, also.” Her mother’s gaze swept over the front of Daphne’s gown. “His actions reminded me of how he was when he was a boy and always staying with us at Pemhill. He’s really quite dear.” Her mother threw her serviette to the table and stood. “Come along, my dear. Let’s pick out a gown for you to wear this evening. One that will steal his breath away.”
Wary about how to address such a statement, Daphne slowly joined her mother in standing. “Pardon?”
Her mother’s smile hinted at a smirk. “Please, darling. I may be old, but I’m not dead. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why a duke would spend so much time with a respectable, intelligent, and utterly beautiful young woman.”
Chapter Nineteen
Paul entered the Duke of Renton’s London home later that evening, and the butler, a middle-aged man with a proud carriage, soon escorted Paul into a formal pale gold and ivory decorated salon. Bold with an elegant touch, it was the ideal place to meet before dinner. With Daphne and her entire family there, tonight would be the perfect opportunity to talk to the duchess and Alex about his intentions toward Daphne.
It would also provide an excellent chance to tell Daphne that he’d hired the private investigator James Macalester to find Garland and the diary. Time was running out and Martin Richardson was getting bolder in his publication posts. The quicker they got the diary, the better for them both. Paul had even sent Griffin Witt, one of his groomsmen, who grew up in Seven Dials, to visit his old haunts looking for information.
Soft sounds of feminine laughter flooded the room. It reminded him of the sweet jangle of wind chimes or a bubbling brook—such a joyful, happy noise, one he hadn’t heard frequently in his life until recently. Paul stood in the salon doorway as the butler prepared to announce his arrival. With a smile, he politely waved the man away.
Feminine laughs, giggles, and gentle snorts came from the direction of two large ivory brocade sofas that faced each other directly in front of the roaring fire.
Whoever they were, they hadn’t noticed his presence as the soft laughter continued. Taking matters in hand, he crossed the room and rounded the sofa to a sight that nearly choked him. On the floor, three women rested on their elbows and knees side by side with their bottoms lifted in the air. It was difficult to tell who the other two were, but the one in the middle he’d recognize anywhere.
It was Daphne with her perfect derriere.
He cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting, or do I have the wrong evening for the dinner invitation?”
Three heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Flanking Daphne’s sides were Claire Hallworth, the Marchioness of Pembrooke, and Emma St. Mauer, the Countess of Somerton. Daphne was the first to get to her feet.
She gracefully stood with a bundle clenched to her chest. “Good evening, Paul.”
Claire and Emma stood back several feet. Both looked guilty as if they’d been caught with their hand in the biscuit jar.
Perhaps it was apprehension with his company. He was a guest, but one their husbands were surely not pleased with. He stood frozen, waiting for a response.
Completely oblivious to Claire’s and Emma’s discomfort, Daphne walked closer and presented a blanket bundle. “Come meet Lady Laura Lena St. Mauer, Nick and Emma’s daughter.”
Gingerly, he stepped forward until mere inches separated them. Daphne gently pulled the covering away from the baby’s face and smiled.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Daphne crooned.
Speechless, Paul stood there. What was the proper protocol? Ask to hold the baby? Could he touch her? Befuddled and with no clue how to handle the situation, his gaze flew to Daphne.
She must have seen the panic in his face. “Would you like to hold her?”
She held the baby up to him, and he had no recourse but to accept the tiny squirming bundle from her. He looked down at two emerald-green eyes that, in turn, studied him. He had little doubt she could see every hope, aspiration, and hidden secret he possessed. Then she blinked and sighed.
“Good evening, Lady Laura Lena,” he whispered as he cradled her close to his chest.
The baby rewarded him with a near-toothless grin, then flailed her hand in the most awkward manner as she tried to grab his hair. Immediately smitten, he studied the little being full of life and deduced she was an expert charmer already at her young age. She’d be giving her father and mother fits long before she made her introduction to society.
He looked to Daphne, who glanced at him and smiled in approval. He grinned in answer like a star pupil who had just received praise from his tutor. Without a doubt, this woman and her smiles could mold him into a man who only wanted to please her. Instead
of being baffled at the thought, he relished the challenge. Such was the effect of Daphne Hallworth. Returning his gaze to Laura Lena, he dared to brush the back of his forefinger across her cheek, which was softer than a cloud and more perfect than a rainbow.
“Lady Somerton, there’s only one conclusion I can draw.” He caught Emma’s stare. “You and Somerton have been truly blessed. She’s beautiful.”
The hint of wariness on Emma’s face vanished. “Thank you, Southart.”
Those three words broke the invisible barrier surrounding Claire and Emma. They came forward and gathered around him just like Daphne. Giggles broke out again as they marveled at the baby’s antics with her hands. The women praised the baby as if she had mastered Newton’s law of gravity.
Paul gently returned Laura Lena to Emma. The baby squealed her delight at being back in her mother’s arms.
“For a moment there, I thought I might be ambushed,” Paul said. All three women turned their attention to him, but their smiles lingered this time.
“What do you mean?” Daphne asked.
Sheepishly, he regarded Claire and Emma. “I made a complete debacle of a betrothal to one of you. The other I offered for and received a resounding rejection. I was concerned that I might have worn out my welcome before I even arrived.” He cleared the frog jumping and careening in his throat. “Lady Pembrooke, as time passes, my heartfelt regret grows deeper that I caused you pain when I besmirched your honor and broke our betrothal. You have every right not to believe me, but the only thing I can offer is my sincerest apology. Someday, I hope you’ll forgive me. Until then, know I live with my shame every day.”
Claire just stared at him. The entire room fell silent. Even the baby quit her wiggling to listen to his apology. He forced himself to continue, though it was painful, but having Daphne by his side made doing the right thing easier.
He turned to Emma. “Lady Somerton, when I asked your father for your hand, I did it out of a sincere wish to help you avoid scandal. As the months have passed, your decision to reject my suit can only be described as sound. If I caused you any discomfort with my impromptu offer, I apologize. I hope you both accept my apologies for my previous”—he pushed aside the momentary panic that called for him to laugh to hide his embarrassment—“indiscretions.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 22