The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous) (8 page)

Her gold-colored hair caught a few flickers of candlelight, making her appear ethereal, as if she were his savior come to rescue him from his current nightmare. Only…her expression did not read as divine, or even angelic. Surprise graced her features, something easily explained given his abrupt arrival; guilt, too, which was harder to explain; and…

Edward swallowed. Out of all the emotions the face could express, pity was not one he had hoped to see animating her face.

“Your Grace,” she said. “I must apologize. I went in search of Thomas Paine and I’m afraid I got lost and stumbled across something most profound—”

In a bold maneuver, he placed a finger to her lips, their lush fullness momentarily distracting him from her horrified apology. Edward could take many things, but pity from a woman he was growing to admire was more than he could bear.

“Please, Miss Farrington. There is no need. If anyone should be giving an apology, it is I. The evening has not gone as I intended.” He let his finger fall, its tip burning from her touch.

“Nor has mine, I’m afraid.” She let out a long breath. “There is something I must bring to your attention.”

Edward’s insides roiled, his fears of her rejection and pity surfacing as Miss Farrington stared down at her ungloved fingers.

“I discovered a discrepancy,” she continued, her voice barely audible. “I’m not normally a prying person, and I pray you’ll forgive me for my intrusion, but I think your trust has been most shamefully abused, Your Grace.”

“Oh?” He could think of nothing else to say. His mother’s antics must be far more obvious than he had first imagined.

She turned and pulled a slender black volume from his collection. “As I said before, I’m not one to read through personal ledgers. Well,” she paused, a light flush coloring her cheeks, “save for my father’s. But I have his permission to check them for errors.”

“Ledgers, Miss Farrington?” What had ledgers to do with his mother’s rude behavior?

She sighed, her shoulders heaving in a visible sign of her frustration. “Yes, Your Grace.” She opened the book and held it to a small sliver of light peeking through the gaps of the shelved books. “Here,” she said, pointing to a small numeral scrawled on the page. “This three should not be here.”

Edward tried to focus on the misplaced numeral. He honestly tried. But the light scent of honeysuckle combined with the flutter of a pulse on Miss Farrington’s exposed and cream-colored neck had him otherwise engaged.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes,” he replied, clearing his throat and redirecting his attentions to her tapping finger.

“This” —she pointed to another three— “is also misplaced. One subtracted from five is four, and not the three this ledger displays.”

“Rightly so, Miss Farrington.” He did not doubt her arithmetic. “It appears to be a simple error.”

She scrunched her pert little nose. “And I’m sure it is meant to appear that way. But it isn’t an accident. The same error repeats itself in a consistent pattern. See here.” She turned the page, her arm brushing against his. “The calculation is wrong again here, with a three misplacing a four.”

God, she was close. He could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, and the fringed shadow cast by her thick dark lashes. If he just leaned over, his lips would be upon hers…

“Your Grace!” She hissed. “Do you not recognize this hand?” She lifted the book so he could take a closer glance.

Pulling himself away from her inviting silhouette, he peered down at the untidy sums. It was just a ledger, similar to all the others he was forced to oversee and approve. And like all the others, he dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I have many men in my employ, Miss Farrington. I cannot identify each of their hands.”

She stared at him aghast. “I highly recommend that you learn. Especially when they are cheating you out of your own funds. This, Your Grace,” she said, “is the hand of Mr. Burnham. And I can prove it.”

“Mr. Burnham?”

Edward pulled the ledger from her grasp and took a second glance at the numbers scrawled across the page. Now that she had pointed them out, he could see that the errors were in the thousands, as in thousands of his pounds. He flipped the book over and studied the spine with the ink-splotched year as its title. He ran his fingers over the dusted pages, his stomach turning over at the severity of Miss Farrington’s accusation.

“This year’s ledger for foreign investments,” he muttered in explanation. “I wonder…” He pulled 1817 from the shelf and handed it to her. “I do not see numbers in the same way as you. I wonder if those same errors fill these pages as well.”

“You trust my arithmetic?” she asked, her eyes filled with surprise.

“I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Farrington. It was you who brought this to my attention, and as you have proven yourself on an earlier occasion to have superior ciphering skills, I trust you implicitly.”

She blinked, her eyes fluttering open and closed at his compliment. “I…I…well, let me see.” She flipped open the ledger and glanced at the pages, her finger running down the columns of last year’s East India tea imports.

“I’m afraid so,” she whispered, her head shaking from side to side. “The same calculations start at the beginning of the year.”

He retrieved the volume and placed it back on the shelf. He turned, his eyes focused on hers. “Tomorrow, I want, or rather, I would ask if you might go through the last seven volumes and calculate exactly how much money you believe was taken. I would like to know the full amount as soon as possible.” His gaze held hers. “I would be most grateful.”

Miss Farrington nodded, her eyes glancing back to the shelf. “But what about the eighth volume, Your Grace?”

Edward snatched the ledger reading 1810 from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. “This one is mine. Tomorrow, Miss Farrington. Please bring me the totals at your earliest convenience.”

Chapter Eight

Daphne was not amused.

Nor was she very awake, given the number of hours she had spent pouring over the duke’s ledgers, running numbers, and calculating the gross total of his loss to the last half-pence. Daylight had begun to peek through her windows by the time she had completed her calculations. And just when she had thought to slip under the covers for a brief nod, her maid had come to dress her for the morning.

A morning she had spent traipsing across the estate in search of a duke, who, despite his request for her to see him at her earliest convenience, was nowhere to be found. That was, until she searched the one place he had spoken of with interest at last evening’s meal.

So it was with neither smile nor patience that she now stood on the edge of the lake, toes tapping against the rocks, waiting as the elusive duke tied up his boat and handed his fishing supplies to the servant boy assisting him.

The duke’s boots crunched over the gravel shore as he came to stand beside her. “I can only assume your findings were quite substantial, given your presence this early in the morning, Miss Farrington.”

Daphne shoved a loose tendril of hair back into her bonnet. “I fear I do not have good news.”

The duke gave a grim nod as he joined her. “Regardless of whether it is good or bad, I wish to hear it. If Mr. Burnham has been stealing, I would like to know exactly how much damage he has inflicted on the estate.”

Daphne started toward the path and sighed. She hated being the bearer of bad news. No one deserved to be betrayed, especially by someone he obviously trusted. But how did one convey that a presumably loyal employee was nothing more than a thief? And a thief of quite a substantial sum at that?

“Miss Farrington?” he asked, keeping an easy pace beside her. “I assure you I can handle any ill tidings you bear.”

It was best not to prolong the inevitable. He had, after all, requested her assistance. This was a business transaction, nothing more.

Why, then, did she feel such an overwhelming urge to protect him from the poor news she carried?

Daphne took a deep steadying breath. “Very well. If my calculations are correct, and I have no reason to doubt that they are, Mr. Burnham has been skimming off approximately two thousand pounds a year.”

An absurd amount of money. Two thousand pounds. More than adequate to support a large family comfortably for a year. With servants. And a carriage.

Which, given some thought, seemed curious. When she had last seen Burnham, his coat had been worn and tattered, his office dank and dilapidated. Nothing about the man or his surroundings bespoke wealth. But then, perhaps he had sported the coat to ward off suspicion that he was a man who could afford, thanks to his cleverly hidden deductions, something much more refined.

The duke’s brows rose. “Quite a substantial amount indeed.”

Daphne’s slippers tapped over the paved stone path. “The sum becomes even more impressive when you multiply it by the number of years he has been helping himself to your coffers. I had seven ledgers, Your Grace.”

“It seems Mr. Burnham has gathered quite a fortune for himself.”

Daphne glanced at the duke. There was no droop in his lips or hunch to his shoulders. The man appeared physically unaffected by the loss of fourteen thousand pounds…but then he was a duke. A man who, from what she had seen in his account books, earned on average thirty thousand a year on foreign investments alone. Heaven only knew what he brought in from his land and tenants. Fourteen thousand was probably of little consequence to the man. Pin money for a duke.

Daphne pulled her eyes away and focused them once again on the path leading up to the house. “One wonders what Burnham hopes to do with such a large amount. He has been amassing a fortune over an extensive period of time. Does he wish to invest in the same markets as you? Or is he hoping to purchase something—his own land, perhaps?”

The duke’s expression darkened. “While all those questions are worthy of attention, at present, I am more concerned with Burnham’s crimes than with his future intentions. I assume you have written down the calculations that will prove all this?”

“Yes, of course. Though…” Daphne hesitated. Where only seconds before the duke had appeared his usual regal self, his mouth was now drawn, his eyes refusing to meet hers. His usual aristocratic posture gave him an authoritative, if not commanding, air and witnessing him as anything less than a confident duke was disconcerting.

She had an overwhelming yearning to reach out and comfort him. To trace her finger along his jaw and erase the tension caused by her own findings. To wrap her arms around his broad shoulders and comfort him for Burnham’s betrayal…

“Yes, Miss Farrington,” he asked, quelling her thoughts. “What is it?”

Other than the fact that she had gone momentarily mad? The duke was English. He was…well, he was…handsome. Endearing. And exceedingly distracting. And she needed to return to the house and away from him forthwith.

Daphne tugged on the loose ribbon of her bonnet. “My calculations are only complete through the seven ledgers you gave me. In order to present a thorough finding, I would need to see the book you withheld in the library.”

The duke’s jaw hardened. “That isn’t necessary. Seven ledgers are more than enough to present our case and to ensure Burnham will never keep another gentleman’s accounts.”

“Are you certain? It won’t take me long to go through its pages. An hour or two should be sufficient.”

“No.” His voice was firm and unyielding.

But why? He had readily handed over the other ledgers…why deny her the last? Was Burnham not involved in the accounting? Or was there something he wished to hide?

“But I don’t understand, Your Grace. I can—”

He spun her by the shoulders so that she faced him, his firm hands planting her in front of his towering form. “I trust that you can do anything when you put your exceptionally clever mind to the task, Miss Farrington. I do not question your abilities. In fact, I envy them. You are an extremely intelligent woman. But I do not require your talents on the last ledger. Its contents are…” He paused and cast his eyes to the ground before returning them to hers. “They are not relevant to the proceedings.”

Daphne stared up at the duke, her heart pounding against its rib cage, her body rigid for fear that if she moved, he might retract the compliments he had so readily given. She could not recall any man calling her clever, and if one had, it had not been said in an admiring light. But the duke valued her intelligence? Envied her mathematical abilities? Such statements were nothing short of extraordinary.

“You think me clever, Your Grace?”

His face softened and a small smile teased at his lips. “Very much so, Miss Farrington.” He lifted a hand to one of the errant curls that had yet again fallen from the confines of her bonnet. Her breath caught as he twirled the lock of hair around his forefinger, the slight flick of his wrist teasing her like a slow waltz. “I’ve never met anyone with such a talent for numbers as you possess. I find your intelligence to be” —he slid his finger from the strand he had twisted— “inspiring.”

A slow liquid heat coiled inside her, warming her insides and stirring a tumult of emotions. She could smell him, the slight hint of cloves and sunshine, and something purely masculine that tantalized her senses and, Lord help her, made her weak against her own defenses.

“I…I am flattered, Your Grace.”

He brushed a hand over her cheek and gently tucked the curl behind her ear, his finger lingering at the nape of her neck as he slowly leaned forward. “That was my intent, Miss Farrington.”

Daphne couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a breath. It seemed an appropriate action to take, given how lightheaded and warm she suddenly felt. She thought her parted lips would only pull in air, but somehow it seemed as if she had drawn in the duke as well. How else could she account for the presence of his lips whispering over hers with the lightest of touches?

Her eyes fluttered shut, her mind racing as she counted first in English, then in Latin, the numbers blurring together as the sweet taste of his mouth overwhelmed her senses. No man had ever taken the liberty of kissing her before. Surely she should protest, especially given his English blood. But with his lips caressing hers as though she were something to be cherished, she was unable to think of anything other than yielding to his touch. And while she knew his actions were bold, unprovoked, and entirely wrong…for the moment, his light embrace felt undeniably right.

Daphne’s arms moved of their own accord, sweeping over the smooth brocade of his waistcoat and atop the width of his broad shoulders. She stepped toward him, a sudden hunger for his touch sweeping through her, lighting a deep need within her that she never knew she possessed.

And that scared her to Hades.

Daphne pulled away, her lips tingling from his touch. “Your Grace, I…” She turned and staggered, her feet unable to march forward at a pace fast enough to remove her from the duke and to the safety the house afforded.

“Miss Farrington, please.” The duke strode toward her, clutching her waist before she stumbled into a particularly thorny rose bush.

He righted her, his strong hands steadying her when her feet could not. He lifted a hand and grazed his warm fingers across her cheek.

“I should ask for your forgiveness for my boldness. I should not have impugned your honor by taking what is not mine. But for the first time today, I am not inflicted with compunction, Miss Farrington. In fact, I regret I did not kiss you sooner.”

…

Edward was a man of honor.

He was also a man aroused, with a very desirable and attractive woman in his arms. One whom he very much wanted to continue to kiss.

But, once again, his ducal arrogance had overwhelmed his good sense. He had asserted his will over hers. Was not the sole purpose in bringing her to Thornhaven to show her that he was a man, not just a figure of authority whose will overrode all others? That he was more than a person to whom everyone must bow?

Initiating another kiss, while exceptionally appealing, would hardly aid in his endeavor. If, or rather when, they exchanged intimacies again, it should be on her terms, not his. She would have to come to him.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t give her a gentle push in the direction he wished her to take. For if he had thought her lips distracting before, he was now a man obsessed, and would do damn near anything to win her approval. Especially if in doing so, he might persuade her to treat him to more than just a kiss.

Perhaps he should start by convincing her he wasn’t a complete ass.

Edward motioned to the young boy trailing behind them. “I will have William return you to your aunt, Miss Farrington. I am sure they are worried by your absence. That is, unless…”

“Unless what, Your Grace?” she asked, after a long pause. Edward glanced up, startled by her hesitation. Could the minx actually be pondering whether or not to stay? She had seemed so eager to escape his embrace…

“Unless you trust my mother has your relations in hand. Then we might simply continue our walk, and you might explain the ramifications of Burnham’s thievery.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip, her teeth grazing the soft flesh. Edward adjusted his stance lest she see the effects of his arousal.

“You wish my counsel, Your Grace?”

He glanced around the deserted path, the outline of his fishing assistant and “chaperone” a distant figure on the lawn. “Is there anyone else with whom I should confer? You were the one who spotted Mr. Burnham’s indiscretions, Miss Farrington. Indiscretions that, for the past seven years, I was unable to detect myself.” And he felt the damn fool for it.

“It’s just that—” She stopped and pressed her lips together.

Edward glanced back at his servant boy, tarrying with the rods. “Would you prefer me to call William?”

“No,” she said firmly, her chin tilting ever so slightly skyward. “I’m simply surprised, Your Grace. I thought you would prefer to discuss such things with Thomas after…after what just transpired.”

Edward began to walk down the path, a long leisurely stroll perfect for indulging in naughty thoughts of his tempting, and all-too-alluring, present company.

“Mr. Farrington was not the one who stayed up all night reading through my personal ledgers, Miss Farrington. You are the leading authority on Burnham’s larcenies. That remains unchanged, regardless of my indiscretion.”

She allowed the barest hint of a smile to grace her mouth. “I suppose you are right.”

He extended his arm, and her hand readily accepted it. She kept pace beside him, her dark slippers ticking off the stones on the path.

“What would you like most to discuss, Your Grace?”

How he might get her to repeat his earlier “indiscretion” if he were to be perfectly honest, but somehow, he didn’t think that was what she had in mind. “Perhaps you could answer a few of my questions.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, her clasp firm on his arm. “And what would those be?”

He tucked a finger under his cravat and let in a wisp of warm air on his hot neck. “Were Mr. Burnham’s deductions the same for every year? Or were they directly proportionate to the amount of income generated?”

A look of surprise flitted across her delicate features. “They were proportionate, Your Grace. When you prospered, so did he.”

Damn.

The acrid taste of betrayal flavored his tongue, making him in sore want of a sweet liquor to wash away the bitterness. He had been a fool and was paying, quite literally, for his temerity. How could he have been so blind to Burnham’s misdeeds? How could he have allowed such a thing to ever happen on his watch?

The path curved and wound its way toward his ancestor’s once great accomplishment, a pile of crumbling stone and broken artifacts protruding from an otherwise manicured lawn.

“What in heaven is such a large collection of rocks doing in the middle of a field?” she asked, her hand clutching his forearm when her foot caught on the uneven stones of the path.

“Protecting it,” he replied, his melancholy fading at the sight of her interest in the once regal remains. He ran the toe of his boot over a worn and moss-covered stone. “Because all great fields need protecting from cows and sheep, do they not, Miss Farrington?”