by Lauren Smith
Daphne’s throat constricted. She still couldn’t believe she was really doing this, meeting with men in hopes that they would want to marry her. How was this different from prostituting herself? At least, she shared her body with only one man, and she didn’t live with the shame of a brothel address.
“Gentlemen, please form a line so I may make your introductions to Miss Westfall.”
The men formed a queue, and one by one she was presented to each. They were all charming, friendly, and genuine. With each introduction, she grew more relieved. She had a minute or two to speak with them and found she liked each one. Anthony had kept his promise.
The last man who approached her was different. She had to tilt her head back to see his face. He was incredibly tall, with broad shoulders. She felt tiny in his presence. He was a little more muscular than the others and a bit intimidating. She almost retreated a step, if only to see his face better.
“Miss Westfall, this is Lachlan Grant, the Earl of Huntley.”
“It is a pleasure,” Lachlan’s deep voice was heavy with a Scottish brogue.
“My Lord,” she replied, staring into his dark blue eyes. They were a lovely deep sapphire, yet a strange gleam flashed in their depths and then vanished behind a polite smile. Had she merely imagined that? Perhaps so. She had heard more than once that Scotsmen tended to be brooding and intense, and it seemed Huntley was no different.
“You’re from Scotland? Whereabouts, if I may ask?”
“The town of Huntley is a half day’s ride north of Edinburgh.” His eyes remained locked on her with an almost predatory gaze. She shivered, trying to think of how to continue their conversation and draw out more of his personality.
“I’ve never been north of Edinburgh. I imagine it must be lovely.”
There it was, a momentary softening of his eyes and mouth. “Aye, ’tis stunning, especially in the spring when the heather blooms.”
“Would we live there most of the year, if your bid is successful?” It was something she asked of each gentleman. She needed a home, a place she could feel safe, a place to escape the judgment of the ton for her father’s crimes.
“We would. I only visit London once or twice a year. Would that suit you?” he asked.
“Yes, whatever you do will be fine for me, I’m quite sure.” A home in the Highlands…she loved the idea, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to marry someone as serious and brooding as the man who stood before her.
“Now,” Anthony smiled at the men. “Place your bids, and then please wait outside.” Several of the men offered Daphne warm, hopeful smiles before writing down their bids and sealing their envelopes.
Daphne’s gaze was drawn to Lachlan as he scratched his numbers on the bit of paper he held. His eyes met hers and a bolt of shock ran through her as if she were owned by him in that instant. The sensation frightened her and yet she couldn’t look away from him even as he placed his envelope on Anthony’s palm and strode from the room.
The final men handed their envelopes to Anthony before leaving the room. After the last man left, Anthony and his manservant, Finchley, opened the bids. Daphne watched them rearrange the pieces of paper in order as the higher bids moved to the top. Her heart pounded so hard against her ribs that she had trouble breathing. Which of the strangers was to be her husband?
“Ahh, here we are.” Anthony glanced her way. “We have our winner. I shall thank the others and send them home.” Anthony exited the room. The click of the door sounded far too loud in the awkward silence. Daphne clutched the edge of a chair for support, her nails digging into the floral pattern of the fabric as she struggled to calm herself.
The door opened and Daphne sucked in a breath. Sir Anthony entered, followed by the Earl of Huntley. Once again, she became the focus of that brooding gaze. Wasn’t he pleased to have been the highest bidder? The tight purse of his lips suggested otherwise. A pit formed in her stomach and she struggled to breathe. She was to marry him…the man who spoke of Highland heather in the spring, but who looked like a wolf about to devour her. Which was his true nature? Perhaps he was a man torn between his duality of nature. Perhaps she might never know the real Lachlan Grant.
Anthony approached her while Huntley waited inside the door, hands folded behind his back like a military general.
Oh dear…
“Miss Westfall, Lord Huntley was by far the highest bidder at fifteen thousand pounds, which he has agreed to place into an account where the trustee of your choice will oversee the funds for you.”
Daphne barely listened. Instead, she stared at Huntley and he at her. A slow smile curved his lips. It was not a cruel smile, no, but it warned her that she was pledging herself to a wolf. She was tempted to look away, to yield to that dominating stare, but she held her ground and lifted her chin.
Yet her instincts warned her to run far and fast from Lord Huntley.
“Sir… Anthony, may I have a minute to speak with you?” she asked, her voice wavering. Huntley shared a look with Anthony before he nodded and left the room.
Anthony approached, concern in his eyes. “You’re trembling. Are you all right?”
“Lord Huntley, is he a good man? You promise that I’m safe with him?”
“I promise,” Anthony vowed. “Huntley is a long-time friend. I would trust him with my life. He’s rich and has excellent lands—”
“I don’t care about that. I care about him. Is he the sort of man to care for his wife? Not…harm her?” She bravely forced the question out, even knowing it was not polite to speak of such matters.
“He’s never harmed a woman. If he seems a bit cold, it’s because his older brother, William, died only two months ago. He was close to William. His brother’s death changed him, hardened him in some ways. But I promise you, he is a good man.”
She saw only honesty in Anthony’s eyes and she trusted that more than anything else. “Very well then, I agree to marry him.”
“Good.” Anthony then called for Huntley, who reentered the room. They assembled about the card table, where Finchley laid out several documents.
“Here’s the trust agreement, Huntley. I filled out the forms with the amount you bid. All you need do is sign, as will Miss Westfall. Finchley and I will witness the contracts to assure they are binding.”
Daphne watched Huntley bend over the table and scrawl his name before he straightened and held the quill out to her. She accepted it, her gloved fingers brushing his. A spark of heat flared between them, and just as quickly vanished. Huntley’s eyes darted away as he stepped back. She leaned over the table and penned her own name.
“Excellent. Huntley, you can collect Miss Westfall tomorrow after you have procured a special license.”
“Actually, I would like to marry in Scotland, unless the lady objects.” Huntley looked to Daphne.
“Marry in Scotland?” Daphne had to force strength into her voice. She hadn’t expected to leave so soon.
There’s nothing to tie you here, not anymore.
“Aye, there’s a little church not far from Huntley Castle. It’s tradition for the men of the Grant family to marry there.”
“Oh… I suppose that would be all right.” She had no friends left in London, none that would be seen with her. She had no real reason to stay here. In fact, it was quite possible that if word got out about her wedding, the victims of her father would come to the church and make trouble on her wedding day.
“We are agreed then?” Huntley asked. His blue eyes seemed to swallow her whole.
“Yes.” With that single word, she felt she sealed a bargain with the devil. A most handsome, intimidating devil...
“The paperwork is all in order,” Anthony said. “Anyone care for a glass of sherry to celebrate?”
Huntley shook his head. “Not tonight, old friend. I have a wedding to prepare for.”
Anthony turned to Daphne. “What about you? Sherry, my dear?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered. She needed a drink.
&nbs
p; Huntley approached, grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met and held once again.
“Tomorrow,” he promised softly.
“Tomorrow,” she echoed. Then with a kiss to her knuckles that left her body burning with a strange sensation, he left the room.
Daphne watched him go, wondering if what she had agreed to would save her or damn her.
Chapter 3
Lachlan climbed out of his coach the following morning, stretched his legs, and climbed the steps of Anthony’s townhouse. He paused at the door, holding his breath for a moment. The moment he went inside, his life would change forever. He knew that he could turn and run from this, change his mind about his plans, yet he didn’t. Every emotion that had raged the night before was now locked away in a dark corner of his mind. Instead of focusing on his brother’s death and the man responsible, he focused instead on the woman, Daphne, the bastard’s daughter.
When he stood there in the drawing room the night before, as nervous as the other men, he had hated himself for showing such weakness. And then she had entered, a tiny creature with soft curves, dark hair and warm brown eyes. She had been as timid as a dormouse, her eyes as round as saucers as she’d gone through the introductions. Missing was the spoiled hellion he had expected from a man like Sir Richard Westfall.
He wanted to despise her on sight and rally his vengeance, but it hadn’t been easy to hate her. He had managed it, but only just.
Lachlan growled in frustration as he rapped the knocker of the door. A moment later, a butler answered.
“I’m here for Miss Westfall,” he announced. The butler nodded and opened the door wider, allowing him to step into the vestibule.
“Ahh. There you are, Huntley!” Anthony descended the stairs, Miss Westfall at his side. She wore a soft green carriage gown with a blue satin sash around her waist. The colors emphasized her dark hair and alabaster skin. Lachlan clenched his teeth as his body responded to her subtle beauty. He did not want to desire this woman, but perhaps he could allow himself that one weakness. She would be his wife, after all, and he did plan to beget heirs upon her. It was his duty now, and hers as his wife.
“Anthony,” Lachlan greeted his friend with more warmth than he felt for Miss Westfall.
Her eyes were downcast, her lips parted, and for a brief instant he caught a glimpse of a woman beaten down, her spirit already broken. That was what he had wished for, wasn’t it? A broken woman? Yet he’d wanted to break her himself, not collect the pieces with pity.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked her. “I suppose you have quite a few clothes and other possessions to take with you.”
At this, she raised her eyes and he saw sorrow in their honey brown depths.
“I have none. Even this gown is borrowed.” She plucked at the skirts, revealing two dainty black boots.
“Borrowed?” he echoed with shock. How was it she had no clothes, no possessions? Surely that damned criminal of a father had left her plenty to live on.
“Yes. I… I thought you understood the circumstances I was in, my lord. I would not have agreed to the auction otherwise.”
Lachlan was left speechless, until his friend gave a short cough.
“Er… Huntley, might I have a word with you?” Anthony jerked his head toward the door and released Miss Westfall’s arm so he and Lachlan could talk in private.
“What is the meaning of this? Where are her clothes?” Lachlan growled. He had no desire to buy anything for the woman. His entire plan of revenge called for doing the exact opposite, allowing her barely enough to survive.
“Huntley, I didn’t want to mention this, since it seems to be a delicate matter, but the reason I held the auction was to get the poor woman off the streets.”
“The streets?” Miss Westfall had been selling her body to survive? “You promised me a bride, not a trollop.”
Anthony’s eyes flashed dangerously. “She isn’t one. She was, I suspect, considering the possibility when I came across her. She was standing in an alley, scrambling for coins tossed her way. Do you have any idea what she must have gone through? A gentle born lady left begging for scraps?”
The pain in Anthony’s eyes was genuine, and Lachlan wondered how bad off Miss Westfall really was. He glanced over his shoulder at his future bride, who stood at the foot of the stairs, eyes once more downcast, one hand tucked in the pocket of her gown.
“You must take care of her. I know that William’s death has been hard on you, but perhaps this marriage will heal you--heal you both.”
Heal him? Nothing could mend the bleeding bits of his tattered heart. William’s loss had left a gaping hole inside him, and nothing and no one could ever fill that.
Lachlan turned and walked past Miss Westfall toward the door. “We should be going. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
She looked up at his approach, and for a second he saw hope in her eyes, calling to him, but he smashed down the urge to respond in kind.
“Ready?” he asked coldly.
She nodded and looked at his arm expectantly. He did not offer it.
Anthony called to him as they stepped outside, “Huntley, I meant what I said.”
Lachlan did not reply as he opened the coach door for his acquisition. She climbed inside and he followed, settling back on the seat opposite her.
The coach rattled into motion and for a long while Lachlan wouldn’t look at her. He kept picturing her in a tattered gown, ankle-deep in icy water as carriages and people passed, no one looking her way, no one caring about her. He mentally gave himself a shake.
I will not pity her, I will not let this creature crawl beneath my skin.
She was the daughter of a man who had destroyed many lives, a man in prison for crimes that had led William to take his own life.
Lachlan felt her gaze on him and, at last, looked her way.
“What?” he demanded in irritation.
“Why did you do it?” she asked, her head tilting as if in puzzlement.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do what?”
“Bid on me. It’s abundantly clear that you do not like me. Why did you attend the auction? Have you had second thoughts? You had plenty of time after seeing me to walk away. You did not have to write anything down on that paper. I would’ve been happy to go with any of the other gentlemen.”
The thought of her going home with another man, of having his vengeance denied, filled him with quiet rage.
“I wanted you. That’s why I placed my bid.” His growling response would have made any sensible woman know that the discussion was over. But not Daphne. The timidity he’d seen in her the previous night wasn’t there anymore.
“You certainly aren’t acting like a man who wants me.” She seemed to regret what she said. “I don’t mean—”
“Oh, I want you, lass. I have no doubt that I’ll enjoy bedding you.” He managed a sardonic smile that caused her to lean away from him. He chuckled darkly at her reaction.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t touch you until we are properly wed, and only when I’m certain you want me too.”
Her face flushed red and she sucked in a breath. “You mustn’t talk so openly of—”
“Of bedding? Lass, you’d best get used to it. We Scots aren’t so squeamish as you English.”
“I really must insist you do not do that with me.”
“Do what?” he challenged with a wicked grin. The more he teased her, the more that other version of himself seemed to return, the rogue who would take her in his arms and kiss her senseless right here in this coach.
“Please don’t tease me about…”
“Sex? Miss Westfall, I’m a man with appetites, and I plan to teach you to have your own as well.” He couldn’t help it. He moved to the seat beside her and reached up to cup her face. She tensed and tried to withdraw. He may have planned for misery in her married life, but he wasn’t as cold hearted as to make her unhappy in his bed. Even he had limits.
“Stop res
isting, lass,” he said, and he loved the way her eyes flashed in open defiance.
“I’m not resisting, nor am I willing.” She growled softly, the sound reminiscent of an angry cat he’d once startled in a barn as a boy. He’d learned then that cats had dangerous claws.
“I said I wouldna do anything to you and I meant it. But damned if you don’t need a kiss to cool that temper of yours.”
She arched a brow and knocked his hand away from her face. Then she moved to the other side of the coach, scowling at him. “I would not have a temper if you would behave like a proper gentleman.”
He let her go, keeping to the promise that he wouldn’t touch her until she was willing. He was a bastard for marrying her for revenge, but he was not a devil and would never force a woman to do anything she didn’t wish to when it came to sex. Still, he saw the flush of color in her cheeks and the way her breath had quickened. She’d been aroused, even if she was angry at him for teasing her. Now he was looking forward to what it would be like to give her pleasure. His body was already humming with the prospect.
I could teach her to want me when I so choose, and leave her without my touch when it suits me.
He would derive some satisfaction knowing he could leave her aching for him whenever he wanted to. She blushed again and glanced out the coach window, clearly determined to avoid him and the subject of sex. There was a fair amount of amusement to provoking her humility and embarrassment and he would take his humor when he could.
She continued to ignore him and he let her. She would panic when she realized that they would not be sleeping in separate rooms tonight. The little chit would squirm because she hadn’t yet realized that she had no maid and he would have to be the one to undress her.
Time passed as the coach continued north. Daphne fidgeted in her seat and tried to sleep against the side of the coach. He had left his more comfortable conveyance back at Huntley Castle. Not that he should be concerned with her comfort, that wasn’t part of his revenge.