Once She Was Tempted (2 page)

Enjoying her first season.

Even she, the eternal optimist, never dared to dream of such a thing. Because of her sister’s marriage—a love match to rival any fairy tale—Daphne would gain admittance to lavish balls and perhaps receive her vouchers to Almack’s. She might even be presented at Court. The very thought of which made her pulse race.

Yes, it was
that
thought that made her pulse race. Not Lord Foxburn, or his bottomless blue eyes, or his irreverent grin. He seemed a jaded, bitter sort, but Lord Biltmore held the earl in such high esteem that he must have
some
redeeming qualities. Something beyond the broad shoulders and the dimple in his left cheek. She endeavored not to stare, but he was sitting directly across from her, and a girl could hardly gaze at the ceiling all evening.

If she was nervous tonight, it was only because her recent good fortune seemed almost too perfect, too fragile. Like a tower of precariously balanced crystal glasses that would come crashing down from the slightest vibration. She pushed the image away, inhaled deeply, and savored her last bite of pineapple ice, which was surely a spoonful of heaven.

Shortly after the dessert course, Daphne and the other ladies filed into the drawing room for tea. The moment the doors closed behind them, Belle drew her aside and, as only a sister could, began interrogating her without preamble. “What did you think of him?”

“He is a bit boorish, but I think that, under the circumstances, we must make allowances.”

Belle squinted through the spectacles perched on her nose, perplexed. “Lord Biltmore?”

Oh, drat. Of course her sister was asking about Lord Biltmore—the kind, young viscount who’d sent flowers once and called twice. “I thought you were asking about Lord Foxburn.” Daphne’s cheeks heated. “Lord
Biltmore
is a true gentleman. Amiable, gracious, and—”

“Did you notice his shoulders? They’re quite broad.”

Daphne frowned, wishing her sister would use pronouns with a bit more moderation. “Whose shoulders?”

“Lord Biltmore’s!” Belle made the pinched face again, then let out a long breath. “No matter. If he doesn’t strike your fancy, there are plenty more eligible men I can introduce to you. I just thought he’d be—”

Daphne reached out and clasped the hand Belle waved about. “Lord Biltmore is the finest of gentlemen. Thank you for hosting this dinner. You arranged it all for me, didn’t you?”

A mysterious smile curled at the corner of Belle’s mouth and a gleam lit her eyes. “It’s only the beginning.”

Oh no. Belle didn’t undertake any task halfway. Daphne had once asked her to replace the ribbon sash on a plain morning gown. Within a few hours, Belle had transformed the gown into a shimmering confection of silk and delicate lace. If matchmaking became her sister’s mission, Daphne would not have a moment’s peace. “You are newly married and a duchess to boot. Surely you have more pressing matters to attend to than filling my social calendar.”

“Not a one. This is your chance, Daph. No one deserves happiness more than you.”

“I
am
happy.” But she wasn’t happy like Belle was with Owen. That was a rare thing.

“You know what I mean.”

Daphne bit her lip. “Yes.” If her sister was determined, why not let her do her best? There was no one in the world Daphne trusted more. She gave Belle a fierce hug and extricated herself before she turned completely maudlin.

Needing a moment, Daphne poured herself some tea, wandered to the rear of the drawing room, and sank into a plush armchair near an open window. A warm breeze tickled the wisps on her neck, and the simple pleasure of it made her eyes drift shut.

This season
was
her chance, presented to her on a silver salver. She, a poor girl from St. Giles, would mingle with nobility. With just a smidgen more luck, she might marry a respectable gentleman. Someone kind and good. Greedy as she was, she even dared to hope she’d fall in love. With a man who viewed life the same way she did—as a chance to bring happiness to others.

Lord Biltmore seemed the perfect candidate. His manners were impeccable, and he treated her like a rare treasure, or a fragile egg that might break if jostled. His boyish smile held not a trace of cynicism, and the way his russet-colored hair spiked up at the crown—much like a tuft of grass—was utterly endearing. Although he’d lost his parents
and
two older brothers in recent years, he managed to see goodness in the world around him and reflect it back tenfold.

The viscount could have his pick of the season’s debutantes, yet he appeared to be taken with
her
—a newcomer with few connections and no fortune to speak of. The advantage of being an unknown was that she had no reputation—so far, it was unblemished.

She could hardly believe how nicely the pieces of her life were falling into place.

A shadow slanted across the teacup in her lap, and she looked up. A torso clad in a finely tailored dark blue waistcoat appeared, precisely at eye level.

“Miss Honeycote, might I have a word?”

Daphne blinked, tilted her head back, and directed her gaze to the face above the snowy white neckcloth. What Lord Foxburn lacked in manners he certainly made up for in good looks. His tanned skin set off his startlingly blue eyes. The fine lines at their corners seemed to have resulted not from smiling, but rather from glaring, if his current expression was any indication. Although his mouth curved down at the corners, his lips were full. She was quite sure that his genuine smile—should she ever see it—would be dangerously charming.

His light brown hair curled, softening the angles of his cheekbones and nose, but it was his eyes that left her slightly breathless and off balance. Turbulent as a churning sea, they harbored a storm of accusation, curiosity, determination, and perhaps a glimmer of hope. And that was only on the surface. She could not imagine what else lurked below, and the mere thought of exploring their depths made her skin tingle like—

Lord Foxburn cleared his throat.

She started, and her tea sloshed, forming a moat in the saucer. Hoping to remedy the small lapse in etiquette—what was it the earl had just asked her?—she smiled apologetically. “How clumsy of me.” Heat crawled up her neck, probably producing more than could be considered a fetching blush. She waited for him to offer a gracious word, or at least smile back.

He did neither. Instead, he sighed as though he were already bored with their conversation. If, at this juncture, it could even properly be considered one.

Ah, well, the earl had returned from the battlefield not so long ago. One could understand how his manners might be out of practice. “Would you care to sit?”

“If you have no objection,” he said wryly.

“I’d be delighted.”

As he lowered himself to the settee, his lips drew into a thin line. He moved with the natural confidence of an athlete, but she’d detected a limp earlier. “Does your leg pain you?”

He narrowed his eyes. Yes, the lines reaching toward his temples were almost certainly due to this sort of squinting. An unflattering look for most men, but it rather suited him.

“A great many things pain me, Miss Honeycote.” His arched brow told her he wasn’t referring to physical ailments alone.

Well. Although sorely tempted, she would not retaliate in kind. “I am sorry to hear it.”

He studied her, no trace of remorse on his face. “I require a word with you, in private.”

Daphne glanced around the drawing room. The closest person was several yards away, and her curiosity was piqued. “I’m listening.”

The earl pinched the bridge of his nose. He was perhaps the most impatient person Daphne had ever met. “The matter I wish to discuss is of a delicate nature. I think it would be best to arrange a meeting for tomorrow.”

“I confess I’ve never had such an odd or intriguing request.” She’d received her fair share of improper
advances from men, but Lord Foxburn didn’t seem the type of man to force his attentions on a woman. With his striking good looks, Daphne was quite sure he wouldn’t have to.

Perhaps he wanted to share some information about Lord Biltmore. The young viscount had mentioned that Lord Foxburn had been his brother’s closest friend and that, after his death, the earl had helped him adjust to his new role. But what did that have to do with her?

“I realize this must seem forward. However, I think you’ll appreciate the need for discretion once the topic of our discussion becomes clear. May I call on you tomorrow?”

Daphne pretended to regard him thoughtfully for several moments, in order to give the impression that a fierce debate raged inside her. In truth, she was much too curious to say no.

“I’m staying here, with my sister, while our mother is in Bath.”

Concern flicked across his face. So, he wasn’t as unfeeling as he’d like people to think. “Taking the waters?”

“No, Mama’s surprisingly healthy. But she’s not accustomed to the parade of parties and social engagements. I think she just wished to escape it all.”

“Your mother’s a wise woman.” The earl rose and inclined his head in a manner that could be perceived as either polite or mocking. “Until tomorrow, Miss Honeycote.”

Before she could ask one of the twenty questions swirling through her mind, Lord Foxburn walked away. For someone with an injured leg, he made an amazingly hasty departure. How vexing. And unpardonably rude to leave
without giving some hint of what he wanted to discuss, some clue as to why he insisted on secrecy.

If he was toying with her, she did not care for the game. His brooding, cynical air might intimidate some, but a girl from St. Giles didn’t survive long if she was the cowering type.

She’d never been one to shy away from a challenge.

D
aphne ventured to the duke’s library the next morning, determined to pass the time with a book. However, after reading the same paragraph in
The Canterbury Tales
for the third time, she set the volume aside. Tucking her feet beneath her, she leaned back into the overstuffed armchair and breathed in deeply. Leather, parchment, ink, and lemon oil tickled her nose, and the shelves of books stretching out before her made her heart beat faster. To have such treasure at her fingertips was… a complete and utter waste. She couldn’t concentrate if her next ball invitation depended upon it. More than a little vexed, she tucked the book into its space on the shelf.

What did Lord Foxburn have to say that was so secretive?

This morning at breakfast, Daphne had debated mentioning to her sister the conversation she’d had with the earl, but then Belle would tell her husband, and Daphne was sure the duke wouldn’t approve of whatever game the
earl was playing. And now Belle was upstairs sleeping—her third nap this week—which could very likely mean she was with child, and
that
would be too wonderful for words. Daphne sighed happily.

Perhaps she could persuade Rose—Belle’s sister-in-law—to play chess. Daphne had little hope of winning against Rose—a wise, serene opponent if ever there was one. A dose of Rose’s soothing calm demeanor was just what Daphne required.

She found Rose in the morning room dutifully plucking the strings of her harp like a redheaded cherub, while Olivia slouched on the settee, her legs sprawled like a hoyden’s.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” said Olivia. “Rose has played every song she knows and we are both bored beyond measure. Play something for us on the pianoforte, would you?”

“Yes, please,” said Rose, looking exceedingly relieved. She was already setting her harp aside.

“Of course,” said Daphne, reaching for the sheet music. Any distraction from the earl’s impending visit would do.

“I should like to hear a ballad—one that is sad and moving.” After stating this preference, Olivia actually laid the back of her hand on her forehead.

“Has something happened?” Daphne eyed her distraught friend. “Just what transpired between you and Mr. Averill last night?”

“Nothing.” Olivia sprang off the settee and paced. “
Nothing
! Don’t you see? That is precisely the problem. I’ve waited over half my life for
something
to happen—and it never does.” She plopped back onto the settee and hurled a pillow across the room, narrowly missing a vase of pink tulips.

Daphne exchanged a quick glance with Rose before situating herself on the bench at the pianoforte. Needless to say, a sorrowful ballad was entirely out of the question. Deciding on one of her mother’s favorite Scotch reels, she said, “Perhaps this will cheer you.” She launched into the merry tune, and despite Olivia’s best efforts to remain miserable, she was soon tapping her foot in time to the music.

With each song, Olivia’s mood improved. Meanwhile, Daphne grew more anxious.

Lord Foxburn didn’t seem like the sort of man who would go back on his word, but he could easily have been detained by more important duties. Which was why she saw absolutely no point in flustering the entire household over the mere possibility that an earl might call on her today.

But then, that was probably overstating things. It wasn’t as though the earl were courting her, for heaven’s sake. She hoped her sisters-in-law wouldn’t misconstrue the visit. Olivia, in particular, had a flair for the dramatic. Rose was much calmer by nature but was quite the romantic. Daphne adored both girls and had no wish to disappoint them.

Just as she was about to suggest a chess match, Dennison appeared at the doorway.

“Lord Foxburn awaits your company. In the drawing room.” His tone was even, but his bushy white eyebrows had crawled halfway up his forehead, betraying his surprise.

Olivia gasped. To no one in particular, she said, “Oh my. A handsome war hero, in our drawing room. Why on earth would he be here? The earl does not seem the sort who generally pays social calls.”

Rose shrugged her slim shoulders. “No man is an island.”

“Perhaps not.” Olivia cocked her head and twirled a brunette curl around an index finger. “But I should think the earl is a peninsula connected by the thinnest strip of land one could imagine. Even you must admit he is peculiar. Have you ever known an
earl
to purchase a commission in the British Army? I could understand if he were a second son who inherited unexpectedly, but—”