After Hugh had cleaned off his plate, he swiped a napkin across his mouth. “Good to see you up and about, Foxburn. Can’t have you overdoing it today, though.”
Ben objected to his tone, which was the same one might use with a nearsighted, tottering codger who was too stubborn to give up driving his curricle through the crowded streets of town. “I intend to lie low.” He gulped strong, hot coffee. “How do you plan to entertain your guests today?”
“I thought we’d have a game of cricket on the lawn. Some of the ladies even expressed an interest. Lady Olivia is keen to ‘smack the ball’—her words.”
Perfect. He’d be relegated to a shady spot watching cricket and drinking lemonade with the less adventurous ladies. Maybe he and Lady Worsham could play a rousing game of bridge, God help him.
Averill lowered his paper so that only his eyes appeared above it. “Olivia’s going to play cricket?”
Hugh smiled. “I offered to teach her the finer points of the game, but she said she’d consult with you.”
Averill muttered something under his breath, rustled his paper, and resumed his reading.
“We saw Charlton’s son, Rowland Hallows, in the village yesterday,” said Hugh. “I invited him to join us for the festivities.”
“Let’s hope he’s sobered up by now,” Averill remarked.
A chill crept between Ben’s shoulder blades. Charlton’s son might have seen the portrait of Daphne. And if he came to the house, he could very well see
Daphne
. It hadn’t taken Ben long to identify her; if Rowland Hallows had half a brain, he would, too. Ben’s appetite suddenly fled, but he choked down a poached egg and some toast.
He had to warn Daphne to stay away from Charlton’s son. Damn it. It had been a mistake for her to come to the house party.
Yesterday, he’d allowed her to nurse him and then thanked her by almost seducing her.
Today he was putting her in the path of one of the few men who could have actually seen the portrait.
He
had
to protect her, and that meant he had to get the painting—and get the hell out of her life.
D
aphne owed Anabelle a letter, so the next morning she dutifully applied pen to paper. She described—in impressive detail—how lovely Biltmore Manor was, how well Mama was doing, and how marvelous the weather had been.
She may have neglected to mention that she’d kissed an earl.
In his bed.
While he wore nothing but a robe.
Ben had just seemed so miserable and hopeless. She’d wanted to prove a point—that he wasn’t an object of her pity but of her desire. She’d heard that he’d been out of his room today—a good sign that his leg had improved.
A tiny part of her wondered if yesterday’s episode had been a ruse to gain her sympathy, but she’d quickly dismissed the idea. No one, not even Ben, was that superb an actor.
Today she’d awoken with a clear head and an unusual
sense of calm. Miraculously, no one had discovered yesterday’s indiscretion. Furthermore, the portrait they’d been looking for was in Lord Charlton’s possession, and, at least for the time being, he seemed intent on keeping it hidden.
Her biggest concern this morning had been picking out a dress to wear for the day’s festivities. She’d settled on a white gown with blue trim that Anabelle had insisted she purchase last month, saying that the square neckline and delicate sleeves were the perfect frame for Daphne’s face. Since she didn’t know a festoon from a frog, she always heeded her sister’s fashion advice. Hildy had piled her hair high atop her head and freed several strands so that they curled softly about her face.
Today she’d primped more for a cricket match on the lawn than she would for a major ball. She couldn’t imagine the reason why.
Well, actually she
could
. But she preferred not to.
A knock on the door snapped her attention away from the mirror. Before she could say “Come in,” Olivia burst into the room. Her cheeks were flushed and she wore a pretty yellow gown.
“How lovely you look!” Daphne exclaimed.
“Thank you.” Olivia twirled. “Anabelle made this—she said jonquil is my color.” She tossed a long dangling curl over her shoulder. “Now, then. It’s quite warm this afternoon. Have you a parasol?” She walked to Daphne’s armoire, opened the doors, and began rummaging through the items. Over her shoulder she said, “I understand that Lord Biltmore had a tent erected on the lawn so that there will be some shade, but we can’t be too careful.”
She held up a parasol of blue silk. “Come. Let’s fetch your mother and Rose so we may join everyone outside.”
Daphne could guess the reason Olivia was so eager and could empathize with her more than ever today. “Looking forward to spending the afternoon with Mr. Averill?”
Olivia beamed. “Of course. I’ve already seen him once today—he and Lord Foxburn were in the drawing room earlier.”
“How did he look?”
Olivia raised her eyebrows wickedly. “Handsome as ever.”
“Er, not Mr. Averill—I meant Lord Foxburn. He was not feeling at all well yesterday. Did he seem recovered?”
“He was his typical ornery self,” Olivia said. “That must be a good sign, don’t you think?” She raised a finger in the air. “I almost forgot. He was asking about you and wondering if you were planning on participating in the outdoor activities today.”
Daphne’s face warmed. “Was he?”
“He seemed agitated, but then, he always does.” Olivia shrugged and held the silk parasol over her shoulder like she was winding up to hit a ball. “Are you ready to play cricket?”
“I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” But a sense of foreboding circled above her like an impatient vulture. She was fairly certain that whatever was agitating Ben had something to do with her. And whether it was the scandalous portrait or their dalliance in his room, it couldn’t be good.
Olivia and Daphne found Rose in her room reading a book and still wearing her morning gown. She was therefore subjected to a sound scolding from Olivia.
Daphne attempted to smooth things over between the sisters. “Go on, if you like, Olivia. I’ll help Rose dress and we can meet you on the terrace.”
“I shall wait,” Olivia said, with martyr-like drama. “But she really must not dally or I—
Rose
! Put down the book
this
instant.”
Daphne cajoled Rose into her gown, an apple blossom silk, while Olivia rifled through her sister’s things in search of another parasol. When at last they were ready, they stopped at Mama’s room. Thankfully, Hildy had just finished smoothing her hair into a simple but fetching twist at the nape of her neck.
“I won’t be surprised if the teams have already been formed,” Olivia muttered, marching down the stairs at an unladylike clip.
The rest of their small party followed after her and were soon spilling out onto the terrace where they joined the group of guests. Mr. Edland and Mr. Fogg stood against the far rail, having a spirited debate related to horses. Lady Worsham and her two daughters, Louise and Jane, sat at a small round table sipping lemonade while Mr. Averill stood beside them, looking predictably dapper and making polite conversation. Olivia made a beeline in his direction. Lord Worsham and Mama listened with rapt attention as Lord Biltmore gestured and pointed at various features of the garden.
And Ben was nowhere to be seen.
“Shall we help ourselves to a glass of lemonade?” Rose asked. A nearly full pitcher and several glasses sat on a table on the side of the terrace.
Daphne nodded and, as she followed Rose, scanned the garden and the nearby paths for any sign of Ben. She had
a sudden image of him, holed up in his room and clenching his teeth in pain. If his leg was hurting again, she’d just have to find a way to excuse herself and go to him.
Last evening, she’d given Mrs. Norris a few coins and asked her to purchase some comfrey leaves from the apothecary next time she went to the village. Daphne hoped she received the fresh supply soon. In the meantime, she’d have to look for other methods of easing Ben’s misery. The massage had seemed to help a bit—maybe a hot bath would be even more effective than the warm towels. She pictured him lowering himself into a steaming hip bath: the muscles of his arms flexing, his narrow hips sinking into the water, and his—
“Here you are.” Rose held out a glass, a concerned look on her face. “Is everything all right? You seemed lost in thought.”
“Forgive me, I was woolgathering.” Daphne gave her friend an apologetic smile. They filled their glasses and sipped the tepid, lightly sweetened, lip-puckering lemonade. When they joined Olivia, she was in the midst of impressing Mr. Averill with her knowledge of the game of cricket, which she had acquired by reading into the wee hours of the morning.
Mr. Averill would know where Ben was and how he fared. Daphne was debating how best to ask about Ben’s condition without sounding too interested when she saw him.
He was walking across the lawn, cane in hand, but otherwise looking agile, fit, and—Lord help her—handsome as sin. Sunlight glinted off his brown hair, which had been freshly cut. She could even detect a slight quirk of his lips that suggested he found the whole affair—from the cricket to the tents to the parasols—rather amusing.
He ambled toward the tent that had been erected on the lawn. Beside him was another gentleman, almost as tall as Ben and considerably stockier, with a shock of blond hair. He wasn’t a guest at Lord Biltmore’s house party. In fact, Daphne did not think she’d ever met him. She imagined that would soon be rectified.
“Ah, look—there’s Foxburn and Hallows.” Lord Biltmore pointed in the direction of the tent. To the entire group, he said, “Shall we head for the lawn? If we dally, those two may devour the food without us.” Chuckling, he led the way down a garden path, the men following close behind. The women took a bit longer, adjusting their bonnets and opening their parasols to ward off the sun’s sinister freckling rays.
Daphne hoped that there would be an opportunity for her to speak privately with Ben at some point during the day, and not just because she wanted to ask about his leg. She had other questions, too. Like, what had happened between them yesterday, and what did it mean, precisely? She would not delude herself into thinking that a few stolen kisses with him would lead to a proposal of marriage. Still. It should mean
something
.
She knew what it meant to
her
. Ben was someone she’d come to care about—and whom she found devilishly attractive. As she walked past the spot by the garden bench where they’d kissed, her pulse quickened. Perhaps in the beginning she’d been drawn to him because she needed his help, but now there was something more. He seemed to respect her, not just in spite of her past, but because of it. And she saw the good in him, too.
The problem was, the good was buried beneath thick layers of cynicism and off-putting behavior. Even if he
were inclined to propose—which he most certainly was not—she could never accept.
For one, he had an appalling tendency to be rude to people. She could overlook it, for the most part, because he wasn’t vindictive—just brutally honest. So much so that one well-delivered barb from him could make a girl want to throw herself in the Thames. She couldn’t subject Mama, Anabelle, and her friends to his cutting remarks. Not to mention her future children, should she be so blessed. No. She needed someone kind and well mannered.
Louise fell into step beside Daphne as they left the pebbled garden path and ventured out onto the broad expanse of soft, green grass. The lawn sloped gradually down to a wooded area. Three round tables dressed with snowy white linens had been placed beneath the shade of the tent. Nearby, a long buffet table bowed under the weight of dishes it held: roasted duck, French beans, asparagus, braised ham, and a selection of pastries, jams, fruit, and sweets. A slight breeze rustled the tablecloths and fluttered the ladies’ skirts.
The men had crowded around Ben and the newcomer, so there was little Daphne could do but wait. She turned to Louise, who was wearing a pretty dress of pale pink. “Your performance after dinner last night was wonderful.”
Louise sighed. “I would have preferred to leave my violin at home, but Mother wouldn’t hear of it. She imagines that by drawing my bow across the strings I will become a pied piper, causing scores of eligible bachelors to trail after me. But the only power my music lords over gentlemen is the uncanny ability to put them to sleep. Did you hear Mr. Edland’s snores?”
Daphne winced—everyone had. “Too much after-dinner brandy, perhaps.”
“No matter. The violin is not my ally in the campaign to find a husband. If you require further proof, consider the angle at which I must position my chin. It does not make for a very flattering pose. Trust me.”
Daphne blinked. “Well, I enjoyed the waltz immensely. I don’t know how you manage to move your fingers so nimbly. I am sure the gentlemen were impressed.”
“Lord Biltmore was effusive in his praise, but I think he was simply trying to make me feel better about Mr. Edland’s snoring. Very kind of him, don’t you think?” Louise sighed softly.
“I do. He seems rather taken with you.”
“Do you really think so?” Louise’s eyes sparkled with hope. “Ever since he came to our musicale, Mama’s talked of nothing but his solicitous behavior. She’s half convinced that this house party was merely a ruse to get me under the same roof as him—a ridiculous notion.”
Daphne wondered about that. “Are you fond of him?”
“He’s very handsome.” Louise smirked slightly, revealing a dimple at the corner of her mouth. “I must admit, though, that I feared he was courting you.”
Daphne shook her head. “No, we are simply friends.”
Louise released a breath and gave Daphne’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Well, then, you may be sure that the rest of the men here are besotted with you.”
Daphne chuckled. “Despite being two and twenty, this is my first season and foray into polite society. That makes me something of a novelty. If I seem to draw attention it’s
because everyone is gawking, waiting for me to commit an atrocious faux pas.”
“Do you think you might? It would make it ever so much easier for the rest of us who are trying to secure husbands.” Louise arched a brow and grinned.