“It’s lovely. I shall be very comfortable here, thank you,” Mama said, her hand fluttering at her throat. Daphne placed an arm around her shoulders to steady her. The room was a far, far cry from their old, dingy apartment.
“The maids will bring up jugs of hot water shortly.” The housekeeper walked a little farther into the east wing and opened another door into a similarly appointed room, only slightly smaller and decorated in shades of pink. “I thought the Rose Room would be fitting for you, Lady Rose.” Mrs. Norris winked at her.
Rose beamed. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“And for you, Lady Olivia”—the housekeeper opened the door to another chamber—“the Blue Room.”
Olivia sighed. “James’s favorite color is blue.”
Mrs. Norris wrinkled her forehead. “Pardon, my lady?”
“Do not mind my sister,” Rose said. “Blue suits her quite nicely.”
“Very good, then. Lastly, Miss Honeycote, your room is here. The Violet Room.”
The door swung open, revealing light purple drapes, a counterpane of deep plum, and a cream-colored rug. “It’s gorgeous,” Daphne whispered. “Like something out of a fairy tale.”
Mrs. Norris clasped her hands together, delighted. “Please, make yourselves at home. I shall have hot water and refreshments sent up momentarily. Oh, and look, here are your trunks now.”
Hildy immediately began unpacking Mama’s things, while Rose, Olivia, and Daphne saw to their own. They returned to Mama’s room a short time later for a spot of tea and scones, and before long Mama was yawning, declaring the need for a predinner nap. Olivia and Rose seemed similarly inclined, so everyone retreated to their own chambers.
After spending most of the day cramped in a coach, however, Daphne wanted to roam. She gazed out the window of her bedchamber at the well-tended rows of the kitchen garden and beyond to the green, rolling lawn and a line of trees on the horizon. The day was warm, but high clouds kept the sun partially in check. An occasional breeze rustled the leaves on the shrubs and sent rippling waves through the taller grass in the distance.
She had changed out of her traveling clothes earlier and donned an afternoon dress of pale green crepe with short sleeves. It would do nicely for a stroll through the garden. If she brought some writing supplies, she could pen a note to Belle, letting her know that they’d arrived safely.
Daphne ventured out into the square hall and asked a passing maid to direct her to the garden. The young woman escorted her downstairs and through an opulent drawing room. French doors at the rear led to a terrace overlooking a traditional English garden with gravel pathways, symmetrical, box-shaped hedges, conveniently placed benches, sparkling fountains, and a variety of other treasures to explore. Daphne set out in search of a secluded, pretty spot in which to write a letter to her sister.
As she wound her way through shoulder-high hedges, she admired the colorful beds of flowers at her feet. A pond stocked with fish lay beside a trellis covered with flowering vines. In the shade of the trellis sat a small stone bench—a private spot where she could enjoy the sound of water lapping against rocks and the smell of freshly cut grass.
After withdrawing her writing supplies from a small satchel, she kicked off her slippers and tucked her feet beneath her. She touched the feathery end of her quill to her lips and thought for a moment, then began writing. A few lines into the letter, however, her eyes began to droop. The grassy patch in front of the bench seemed to call out to her, and she spread her cloak there and curled up for a short rest. She would shut her eyes for only a moment, to rejuvenate herself after the day of travel. But the splashing of the fish and the chirping of birds in the trees might as well have been a lullaby, and within a few minutes, she dozed off.
Warm lips brushed Daphne’s cheek like a whisper. Gentle fingers stroked her hair, traced her ear, and skimmed her neck until she wanted to purr from the
pleasure of it. Her entire body tingled and she moaned softly, intent on savoring every second of bliss the dream afforded her. In fact, she would not mind if the stroking continued down her neck a bit, and perhaps across her shoulders…
“Daphne.” That voice, so low and raspy, could only belong to Ben.
Ben
. She sat straight up and conked her head on the bench. “Ouch.”
“Sorry I startled you. Are you all right?” She blinked, and his face—which was level with hers—slowly came into focus. She knew he was waiting for a response, but she was momentarily transfixed by his mouth and, in particular, the fullness of his lower lip. “Daphne?”
“I’m fine. I think.” She gingerly felt the back of her head.
“Let me.” He was already kneeling on the grass beside her. Gently, he turned her shoulders away from him so that he could search for any bumps or cuts. Tenderly, he speared his fingers through her hair and massaged her scalp.
It was heaven.
“Does that hurt?”
“Mmm, no.”
He chuckled. “You like this.”
“I suppose it’s not proper to admit it, but yes. I do—oooh, that’s divine.”
He swept aside the tendrils at her nape and gently rubbed small circles at the base of her neck with his thumbs. “How’s this?”
“If you must know, it’s also quite wonderful.”
“Really?”
“Mmm.” She desperately wished he’d stop talking and focus on the task at hand.
“Let’s see what you think about this, then.” He dipped his head close to her ear and brushed his lips along the column of her neck. She was certain she’d melt from the heat between them, and there’d be nothing left of her but the green crepe dress.
His tender touch and playful manner had Daphne’s heart tripping in her chest. Perhaps the country air had soothed the beast within him. Or maybe their kiss had. Whatever the reason for the change, she was glad for it—and inordinately pleased that his flirtatious side seemed reserved just for her. If the misses on the marriage mart in London were witness to Ben’s charm, he wouldn’t stay a bachelor for long.
Wantonly, she turned and leaned into him, welcoming the sweep of his hand down her side and over her hips. In her state of languor, everything seemed pleasantly dreamlike and hazy. And miles away from the strictures of society.
That’s all this was—an impetuous rebellion to celebrate her escape from civilization. It didn’t hurt that Ben was incredibly handsome. His dark hair, which had grown a little longer, gave him a dangerous air. But his intense stare affected her most. One sultry gaze could make her toss common sense out the window—as she quite clearly had now.
He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close—so close that she could see the dark blue flecks in his eyes. His left leg was bent beside her, while his injured leg was stretched flat on the ground. She clutched at the lapels of his jacket, and just as he leaned in to kiss her, she placed a palm on his right thigh.
He flinched and jerked his leg away, his body seizing as though he were preparing to fight.
What had she done? She gazed up at him and winced at the grim look on his face. “Did I hurt you?”
He pushed himself off the ground and stood, towering over her. “No.” He held out a hand and helped her up. The moment their palms pressed together, delicious shivers traveled all the way up her arm. She didn’t want to let go of him, but he was clearly agitated, so she sat on the bench and let him pace.
“Did you have a chance to try the treatment I recommended?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s very simple, actually. All you need to—”
“Stop,” he snapped.
“Stop what?”
He said nothing, but crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
“Are you sure your leg is all right?”
He stopped in his tracks and faced her, his eyes glinting and cutting like a sword. “Why did you do it?”
“Touch you?” Confusion and inexperience mixed, filled her with shame. “You were touching me. I thought—obviously mistakenly—that you might—”
“Damn it, Daphne.”
She hid her face in her hands, utterly humiliated.
“Just… don’t touch my leg. Ever. In fact, I’d prefer it if you’d refrain from ever speaking of my bloody leg again. It’s like you have some sick fascination with it. Or maybe you enjoy the challenge of trying to fix something that’s irreparably broken. Either way, I’d rather
not
be your little medical experiment. You can’t cure me and you sure as hell can’t change me, so let me be.”
Daphne dropped her hands to her lap and stared at
him, dumbfounded. He’d crossed an awful, ugly line, and the way he now avoided her gaze suggested he knew it. The anger that had etched his face during his outburst drained slowly, and he stood there stiffly, gazing at the ground between them.
“I should go.” He reached for his cane, which was propped against the bench, and turned as though he’d stroll back to the house and leave her there to ponder what on earth was wrong with him.
And just then, something inside her snapped. “Don’t you dare walk away.”
He paused but did not face her. After an uncomfortable silence, he said, “I’m not very good company right now.”
An understatement if she’d ever heard one. “I don’t know what just happened, and I certainly don’t understand the source of your ire, but running away will not help matters—it only postpones the inevitable.”
He heaved a sigh and slowly turned toward her. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Then, please”—she patted the seat of the bench beside her—“come sit.”
“Can we agree to change the subject?”
“Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But you might try trusting me sometime. I’m a very good listener. Or so I’ve been told.”
That elicited a wry smile, and he sat.
“I saw you through the window of the library, crossing the terrace and walking in the direction of the garden. I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to talk. When I finally found you and saw you sprawled on the ground, I feared the worst.”
“The worst?”
He shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “That you were hurt or sick. When I realized you were only sleeping, I actually said a prayer of thanks.”
Warmth filled her chest. “That is very sweet.”
“Irrational is more like it.” He looked as if he’d swallowed a bad kipper. “Praying to a God who’s obviously abandoned me—it makes no sense.”
She did not think it wise to engage him into a theological debate, so she said, “You’re not irrational.”
His dark eyebrows slid up his forehead. “Not usually. But for some reason, when I’m around you, I behave unpredictably. It’s… disconcerting.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t act quite like myself when I’m around you either.”
“That does help, actually.”
They sat without speaking for several moments, listening to the breeze rustling the leaves.
Finally, he spoke. “I have some news about the second portrait.”
And he just now thought to mention it? Her stomach sank, and she gripped the edge of the bench, hard. She wanted to know, but then again she didn’t. “What is it?”
“I visited with Charlton last night. He has it.”
“Did you see it? Do you think anyone else has seen it?”
“No, and probably. But at least he’s hidden it for now. He fears someone will try to steal it from him.”
Perhaps she hadn’t heard him properly. She turned her ear toward him. “He thinks someone will
steal
it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s odd.”
“But it works in our favor.”
She warmed again at the way he’d said
our
. “How so?”
She had to get the painting, but it sounded as though Lord Charlton was rather attached to it.
“It buys us some time. He’s not going anywhere and neither is the painting. I just need to convince him to sell it to me. And I will.”
He sounded utterly confident, as if it were all but done. A huge weight was lifted off her shoulders. And she was suddenly—and quite unexpectedly—perilously close to tears.
“That’s wonderful.” She wanted to hug him, but the memory of his anger was fresh in her mind, and any sort of touching seemed imprudent. “I’ll find a way to repay you.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t expect to be recompensed, Miss Honeycote.” He looked weary, as though this brief conversation had sapped his strength. “I should return to the house before people notice we’re both gone.” With that, he hobbled off, leaving Daphne perplexed and curiously bereft.
Texture: (1) The visual and tactile qualities of a canvas, often achieved through the buildup of paint or application of other materials. (2) The unique feel of a surface, such as the slight prickling of a gentleman’s chin beneath one’s fingertip
.
B
en stared at the plaster ceiling, unable to sleep. Given his behavior in the garden earlier, one might suppose he suffered from a niggling conscience. By all rights, he
should
be guilt-ridden.
He wasn’t.
What kept him awake and as alert as a debutante’s mother in a roomful of rogues was pain. Of the excruciating variety.
It originated in his thigh but radiated through every bone in his body. Even his teeth hurt.
He began administering treatment—such as it was—at two o’clock in the morning, but the brandy didn’t have the desired numbing effect. It merely set the room spinning, compounding his misery. Never had a spell lasted so long. Throughout the night he writhed in pain, cursing himself each time a whimper escaped him.
When the first rays of daylight taunted him, his head pounded in protest.
An insistent knocking added to his agony; he answered with a groan.
The door swung open and Averill stuck his head into the room. “Get up, Foxburn. We’re going hunting, remember?”
Hunting had seemed like a good idea the night before. It would have taken him out of the house and away from Daphne. It would have taken his mind off things he’d rather not contemplate.
It now seemed a hellish idea. “Not going.” Speaking was a Herculean task. “Leg’s acting up. Need to rest.” He covered his head with a pillow and waved Averill away. He listened for the sound of the door shutting, but it did not come. “Damn it, Averill. Can’t you take a hint?”