Once She Was Tempted (22 page)

“Never fear. It’s only a matter of time. And it may be much worse than anyone ever imagined.”

“Very well. Would you do me another favor, then?” Louise gazed in the direction of her mother and Daphne’s as the older women filled their plates from the buffet.

“Of course, if I can.”

“Mama was adamant that I make an effort to mingle with all the guests, as she’s sure this will impress Lord Biltmore. I confess I find the prospect rather daunting—especially when it comes to Lord Foxburn. He’s not much for small talk, and when he does say something, I can’t help but think that he’s mocking me. Look, he’s even frowning at that gentleman—I believe Lord Biltmore referred to him as Mr. Hallows.”

“Lord Foxburn’s bark is worse than his bite. Do you know anything about the other gentleman?”

“No, but I propose we rectify the matter at once.” With an elbow, she nudged Daphne toward Ben and the mysterious man with Norse-like features.

Ben glanced up as Daphne approached and turned his back toward her. Rude in the extreme. But she should have expected that. A few stolen kisses didn’t change anything—well, not for him.

More determined than ever, she walked directly to him and waited for him to address her and Louise. Mr. Hallows seemed oblivious to their presence, but Ben was deliberately ignoring them. She cleared her throat. Loudly.

Mr. Hallows looked up and raked a bold gaze down Daphne’s body. “Forgive us, ladies. I was engrossed in my conversation with—” He halted and narrowed his bloodshot eyes. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “I know you.”

D
aphne had never seen Mr. Hallows before, but he’d seen her, and she knew where. No wonder Ben had avoided her gaze. He’d obviously wanted her to stay away from Mr. Hallows—and with good reason.

Pulling her bonnet forward, she shook her head. “I’m certain we’ve never met. I’m told, however, that my features are quite common.”

“
Common
is not the word I’d use.” Mr. Hallows took a step closer, bringing the stench of port and sweat with him. “Exquisite.” He reached out as though he meant to take her chin in his beefy hand.

Ben rushed between them and Mr. Hallows’s arm dropped like a rock. “Miss Honeycote and Miss Seaton,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “allow me to introduce Lord Biltmore’s neighbor, Mr. Hallows. His father, Lord Charlton, owns a nearby estate.”

Lord Charlton. A low buzzing began in Daphne’s ears and the air around her grew thin. No matter what Mr. Hallows said, she knew what she had to do—deny all knowledge of the portrait. Refraining from fainting would be a fine first step, however.

“The pleasure is mine, ladies,” Hallows drawled. Chin-length blond hair was slicked back to reveal a pronounced widow’s peak.

“Miss Seaton is here with her parents, Lord and Lady Worsham, and her sister,” Ben explained.

“And what about you, Miss Honeycote?” A snide smile slashed across Mr. Hallows’s broad jaw.

Before Daphne could respond, Ben did. “She is here with her mother, Mrs. Honeycote, and her good friends, Lady Olivia and Lady Rose Sherbourne. Her sister is the Duchess of Huntford. Have you met the duke? He’s a formidable sort.” Ben dug his cane into the ground, making small pockmarks in the dirt. “Very protective of his family.”

Daphne cringed. She was sure Ben meant well, but intimidating Mr. Hallows didn’t seem the best tack. He’d know she had something to hide. She would prefer to convince him that her resemblance to the woman in the portrait was nothing more than a peculiar coincidence.

Mr. Hallows rubbed his square chin. “I’m certain I’ve seen you before, Miss Honeycote. Maybe in our village?”

She attempted her most charming smile. “This is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. I’ve been in London for the last few years, so the country is a welcome change. I understand that after our picnic, there’s to be a game of cricket. Have you ever played, Mr. Hallows?”

“What part of town do you live in?” So much for her
attempt to change the subject. It was an impertinent question, and she was debating how to respond when Ben saved her the trouble.

“You do not move in the same circles as Miss Honeycote, Hallows.” His blue eyes flashed like a warning flare off a ship’s bow. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the guests.” He steered Mr. Hallows firmly away from the ladies.

The large man glanced over his shoulder as he walked away, a suspicious smile on his slimy lips. Daphne’s stomach lurched.

“Well,” Louise said dryly, “that certainly went well.”

Daphne suppressed a shudder. “Mr. Hallows makes Lord Foxburn appear positively charming by comparison. I do not believe I care for the gentleman’s company.”

“No? Well, I would not count on him to take the hint. You look a little pale. Why don’t we fill our plates at the buffet and sit for a bit?”

“Excellent idea,” Daphne agreed, but she only picked at the food on her plate. The exchange she’d had with Mr. Hallows weighed on her like a sack of stones.

There she sat, using the correct fork, wearing an expensive-but-tastefully-unostentatious gown, mingling with the upper crust of society. To all outward appearances, she was a proper lady with impeccable manners.

On the inside, she was still the woman in her portraits.

Desperate. Indecent. Ashamed.

Which only proved that wearing the right clothes and associating with the right people couldn’t help her outrun her past. Today it had caught up with her—in the form of Mr. Hallows.

At least he hadn’t mentioned anything about the portrait.
He couldn’t seem to place precisely where he’d seen her before. If it was true that Mr. Hallows’s father, Lord Charlton, had hidden the painting, perhaps she’d be able to keep up the ruse a while longer. Long enough to figure out where to go after she left London, preferably a remote village where no one would think her odd for preferring isolation and spinsterhood to socializing and a family. Long enough for Olivia and Rose to make brilliant matches and for Mama to be firmly embraced by the other matrons of the
ton
. Long enough so that Daphne might at least nuzzle her little niece when she came into the world. She smiled at her own folly—Anabelle’s insistence that she was carrying a girl must be contagious.

Ben cast her a pointed look, but if he was trying to send her a message, she couldn’t decipher it. The grim lines around his mouth, however, didn’t bode well. She needed to speak with him.

For now, though, she had a cricket match to play.

It was the very last thing on earth she felt like doing, but she couldn’t possibly let Olivia down. Her friend had carefully chosen the optimal teams the previous evening. After thorough and deliberate consideration, and changing her mind thrice, Olivia had determined that she and Mr. Averill should be on separate teams—an arrangement that would give her a better view of him throughout the match
and
show off her new gown to its best advantage.

That was the plan, anyway.

Olivia made a few last-minute adjustments to account for Mr. Hallows’s unexpected arrival. In order to keep the teams even, she’d pressed Ben into service as a batsman. Daphne frowned as he ambled toward the gathering of players. If he did something utterly foolish, such
as attempt to run, she would be forced to do something equally as foolish, such as attempt to tackle him. One hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

No one besides Olivia had given any thought to the formation of teams—much less devised a plan—so it seemed as though her machinations would not be in vain.

She walked to the center of what was to be the playing area and clapped her hands.

“I have worked out the teams so that they shall be as evenly matched as possible.” She withdrew a folded piece of paper from her pocket and snapped it open. “There shall be a Team A and a Team B.”

“Not very original, is it?” Lord Worsham teased.

Undaunted, Olivia continued. “Rose and I shall be the respective captains.” Rose, clearly uncomfortable with being the captain of anything, gave a weak wave. “Rose’s team shall consist of Miss Jane Seaton, Mr. Averill, Mr. Fogg, Lord Foxburn, and Mr. Hallows.” Olivia waved the named players toward her sister. “On my team, we shall have Miss Honeycote, Miss Louise Seaton, Lord Biltmore, Mr. Edland, and Lord Worsham. Obviously, our teams are rather small, but I see no reason we cannot follow the proper rules of the game in every other respect.”

“But we have no wickets,” Mr. Edland pointed out.

“A matter that is easily rectified.” Lord Biltmore flourished a few branches whose ends had been whittled into points and stuck a couple into the earth at one end of the playing field, paced to the other side, and repeated the procedure. “I’ve brought the rest of the equipment as well.” He reached into a canvas bag that lay beside the tent and withdrew a paddle and ball.

Under Olivia’s direction, the match began, with Lord
Biltmore and Mr. Averill designated as the bowlers. The men shed their jackets and played in their shirtsleeves and waistcoats. Olivia took off her bonnet, but Daphne didn’t dare give Mr. Hallows a better look at her face. Players and spectators alike cheered, getting into the competitive spirit—although no one took the game quite seriously enough for Olivia’s liking.

She was particularly vexed with Daphne, who proved hopeless when it came to hitting the ball. In her defense, she was not accustomed to standing in one spot while an object came hurtling toward her like some irate bird. Besides, she was preoccupied with more weighty matters than her striker duties. After her fourth attempt at swinging failed to produce any sort of contact with the ball, she decided it was in the best interest of the team to pass the bat to Louise.

But Ben strode off the field, limping slightly without his cane, and stopped her. “You’re standing too far away from the wicket. Here.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her into position, making her flush. Thank goodness she still wore her bonnet.

“The ball is coming terribly fast. I can scarcely see it.”

“That’s because you keep closing your eyes.”

“How gallant of you to mention it.”

His breath warm on her cheek, he said, “I’ll help you.” He reached around so that his body encased hers like armor and gripped the bat handle just above her hands. “Wait for the pitch. When I say swing, bring the bat around like this. You can do this, Daphne.” He demonstrated the motion, which, she had to admit, was infinitely smoother than her own hacking method.

She squared her shoulders. “I’ll try.”

Ben stayed close but released the bat, leaving the swinging to her.

Mr. Averill wound up and lobbed the ball toward her. She gripped the handle harder, determined not to close her eyes.

The ball bounced once and sailed closer.

She closed her eyes, blast it all. But only for a second.

“Now,” Ben called from behind her, and she swung.

She hit the ball. Or, perhaps, it was more accurate to say the ball hit her bat. Olivia squealed and waved her arms, which was clearly a signal for Daphne to run, but she could only stare at the ball, which had rolled approximately two yards in front of her. Not a great distance, true, but she’d done it.

And Ben had known she could. He returned to his spot on the field, a smug, satisfied look on his handsome face.

“Is it time for a break yet?” Louise called. She stood on the side of the playing field, waving her fan with enough force to launch a small sailboat. “I’m parched.”

“So am I,” Jane chimed in. “Let’s have something to drink and sit in the shade.” Half the players immediately wandered toward the tent; the rest chatted among themselves.

“But we haven’t even finished two innings,” Olivia said, hands fisted on her hips.

“Perhaps our level of play will improve after some refreshment,” Daphne said, although she had her doubts.

“I suppose. This isn’t turning out how I’d hoped.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you have a suggestion for capturing James’s attention.” Olivia scooped up the ball, tossed it in
the air, and caught it with one hand. “I’d hoped to impress him with my knowledge of the game.”

Daphne smiled. “It’s clear that you’re the only female here who knows what she’s doing. And you seem more familiar with the rules than most of the men, too.”

It was true. Unfortunately, the harder Olivia tried to win Mr. Averill’s affection, the more oblivious he seemed. Olivia was slightly mollified by Daphne’s response, however, and conceded to a short break.

Daphne and Olivia found a couple of chairs in the shade, where they sipped lemonade. In spite of the drink and the slight breeze, Daphne felt quite wilted. Her once-puffy sleeves clung limply to her shoulders and the jaunty bow she’d tied beneath her chin drooped. She took some consolation from the fact that everyone was similarly afflicted and therefore equally miserable.

“I’m going to see if Mama needs anything,” Daphne told Olivia. “I’ll be back momentarily.” Mama seemed to be tolerating the heat fairly well, but Daphne didn’t want her overdoing it. She and Lady Worsham carried on an animated conversation about modistes. Of course, Lady Worsham had no idea that they had an expert dressmaker in the family and that she also happened to be a duchess. Daphne stood a few yards away, patiently awaiting a break in the conversation when someone grasped her upper arm. Hard.

“You’re very coy, Miss Honeycote.” She turned and found herself face-to-face with Mr. Hallows, her eyes level with his brown-stained teeth.

She jerked her arm away and looked for Ben. Where
was
he?

“Looking for the cripple? He’s probably gone to take a nap.”

“I don’t care for your tone, Mr. Hallows.”

“Aren’t we high and mighty? There’s no need to pretend with me. I know where I’ve seen you. And let’s just say it wasn’t church.”

“You may
think
you’ve seen me before, but we have never met.”