Once She Was Tempted (4 page)

Olivia and Rose scurried into the drawing room and pulled her to the settee. Daphne linked her shaking hands in her lap and assumed what she hoped was a serene expression. The last thing she wished to do was worry her dear friends.

“Tell us,” Olivia said, bouncing on her bottom. “What message did Lord Foxburn relay from Lord Biltmore? This is so romantic, is it not?”

Romantic, no. Ironic… perhaps. But Daphne smiled. And stalled for time.

“It was nothing, really.” She searched her mind for some tidbit of her conversation with Lord Biltmore from the night before, something plausible she could use.

“Do not be coy, Daphne!” Olivia gave her a playful push on the arm that almost catapulted her into Rose’s lap. “You spoke to the earl for at least a quarter of an hour. That’s not nothing.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” Daphne fiddled with the sash of her lemon-colored gown. She could feel Rose’s all-too-perceptive gaze reading her like the morning paper—or, perhaps, the gossip rags.

Daphne hated to lie, but the truth simply wouldn’t do. “Lord Foxburn simply wished to let me know that… ah…”

Rose laid a slender hand on top of hers. “You needn’t tell us if it’s a private matter.”

Olivia threw her hands up in the air. “Are you mad? Of course she must.
Especially
if it’s a private matter.”

And then Daphne recalled what seemed a rather innocuous, random snippet. And she used it.

“Lord Biltmore is making a short trip to visit his cousin. He’ll be in Southampton for a couple of days but hopes to see us at the Seaton musicale later this week.” There, that sounded reasonable. Or at least conceivable.

Olivia clasped both hands over her open mouth, and Daphne wished she could take it back. “Do you know what this means?” Olivia asked.

Daphne exchanged an apprehensive look with Rose. “That Lord Biltmore wished to explain his brief absence from the London scene?”

“No.” Exasperation oozed out of Olivia’s pores. “That is,
obviously
. But it’s much more than that, don’t you see?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Daphne said.

“He wanted
you
to know. You’ll notice he did not ask the earl to convey the message to Rose or me. Which means he holds
you
in higher esteem.”

“Oh, I hardly think—”

Olivia held up a forefinger. “Don’t be modest. Rose and I are not offended in the least, are we, Rose?”

The hint of a smile danced at the corner of Rose’s mouth and she shook her head.

“On the contrary, we are delighted for you,” Olivia continued. “It seems a match is in the offing.”

Heavens. Quite the opposite was true. How had the conversation taken such a drastic and unintended turn?

“You misunderstand. Lord Biltmore is a kind and considerate gentleman. I’m sure he meant nothing.”

Rose tilted her head thoughtfully. “I must agree with
Olivia. It seems like more than a polite gesture, and the message
was
clearly directed at you.”

Encouraged, Olivia sprang from the settee and began to pace with such vigor that she almost toppled a piecrust table.

Daphne had to distract Olivia before she could pursue the subject further. “Could we please forget about the earl’s visit? Tell me the latest news of Mr. Averill.”

Olivia was never happier than when she related the dashing solicitor’s archeological adventures. With a dreamy, distant look in her eyes, she opened her mouth and… blinked. “You are quite clever. Very well, we shan’t discuss Lord Biltmore any more today. Tomorrow, however, is another matter.”

“Thank you,” Daphne said sincerely. “Would you mind terribly if I went to my room to rest?”

“Not at all,” Rose replied. “Would you like me to send up some tea?”

“No, I believe I’ll lie down for a bit. Thank you, though.” She hugged Rose. Both girls had become like sisters to her. To Olivia, she said, “And I do hope you’ll tell me about Mr. Averill later.”

Olivia flashed a saucy smile. “Have I told you about the time I pretended to trip over a tree root in order to—”

“Later, Olivia,” Rose scolded. “Daphne is tired.”

“Very well. Just don’t bring up the tree root debacle in front of my brother.”

Daphne chuckled and hugged Olivia. “I promise. I’ll see you both at dinner.”

Well, this was a fine predicament. She was supposed to discourage Lord Biltmore’s attentions but had somehow led her friends to believe he was courting her.

And that was the least of her problems.

She walked swiftly up the stairs and down the hall to the guest bedchamber she’d been given. The room was spacious and decorated in lovely hues of blue and gold. Gilded furnishings glinted in the afternoon light, but for once, Daphne appreciated none of it. After closing the door and turning the key in the lock, she sat on the edge of the bed and clutched fistfuls of velvet counterpane. Her whole body trembled and her teeth chattered in spite of the day’s warmth.

As quickly and unexpectedly as it had begun, her season was over.

She would have to pack her trunks once again and go live with her mother’s cousins in a village whose sheep population outnumbered humans by a ratio of five to one. How could she possibly stay in London? Each time she was introduced to a new gentleman, she’d wonder if he’d seen one of her portraits and would therefore assume the worst of her, as Lord Foxburn had.

Everything had been going so well before she met the earl, but one conversation with him had left her future in tatters. He didn’t even know her and yet he’d judged her and found her lacking the necessary morals. It would be easy to make him the object of her anger, especially since he was so arrogant and callous. He was a miserable, soulless person.

But this dilemma wasn’t of his making.

She’d
made this terrible mess, and it was up to her to rectify it.

She rushed to the desk beneath the window. As she withdrew a piece of paper from the drawer, her hands shook.

The earl had seen the portrait in which she was on the sapphire chaise. She wore a thin white morning gown—not hers—that gaped at the back. For countless hours, she’d posed, one shoulder leaning against the arm of the chaise, as she smiled over the other at Thomas. Her bare feet dangled over the edge of the seat, the lacy edge of the gown tickling her ankles.

She’d known the pose was scandalous, of course, but she’d never thought her reputation among the
ton
would matter.

She’d trusted Thomas—an old and dear friend—completely. He’d known her family needed money and suggested the arrangement, but he’d never pushed Daphne to sit for him or made advances. On the contrary, he seemed too consumed by his art to be distracted by lesser human emotions such as desire. He was an unknown, but she hoped—for his sake—that his passion and talent would someday earn him recognition among society’s elite.

What was it he’d said about his patron? Daphne did not know his name, only that he was a wealthy landowner who shunned town life. He’d challenged Thomas to find and paint “the perfect English beauty” and promised a handsome reward if the portrait pleased him. Thomas had split the money with her.

She wasn’t exactly ashamed of the painting. Under the same circumstances, she’d pose again. But so much had changed since then. Mama was well, Anabelle was a duchess, and Daphne was having a season.

If either of the portraits was prominently displayed, though, and she was identified as the subject, she would be completely and utterly ruined. No gentleman would court her. No lady would befriend her. She would be
exiled to the realm of unsuitable persons. A lump the size of an egg settled in her throat.

She supposed her circumstances could be worse. Anabelle would always make sure she had a roof over her head. Lately, however, Daphne had begun to wish for something more—marriage to a kind and proper gentleman, a houseful of laughing children, and years of domestic bliss. Those dreams were shriveling like tender blossoms in the summer sun.

Worse, her reputation was inextricably entangled with her sister’s, as well as Rose’s and Olivia’s. Belle’s sisters-in-law, in particular, had endured such a difficult time since their mother fled to the Continent and their father committed suicide. With Olivia’s propensity to speak her mind and Rose’s extreme shyness, they’d never been embraced by society. This season was to be their chance to restore their own reputations after having been dismissed as too odd and eccentric to join the
ton’s
inner circles. In fact, just last week they’d received an invitation to Lady Yardley’s annual ball. However, if the portraits of Daphne were placed on exhibition… she shuddered at the thought.

Daphne had to get the portraits back.

She dipped her quill in the ink and scratched out a message.

While she waited for the ink to dry, Daphne paced. How she longed to confide in Anabelle. Her sister, two years older and infinitely wiser, would know what to do and, even better, would find a way to make Daphne feel less miserable. But Anabelle was newly married and quite possibly expecting her first child. She’d been the one who had sacrificed everything when Mama was ill. Her extortion scheme had paid their rent and kept a little food on their table.

Daphne had never told Anabelle about the money from the portraits. She’d used it to pay the apothecary and the doctor when the bills had piled up. But her sister would have objected to any source of income that could jeopardize Daphne’s well-being, and now it seemed she was, indeed, in trouble.

No, running to Anabelle would be selfish. Daphne could not rely on her to fix all of her problems. She would handle this dilemma on her own.

Daphne folded the letter and addressed it, miserably aware of what it represented.

Her last prayer.

T
he next day was precisely the sort that gave London weather a bad name. Clouds hung low and gray, spitting fat raindrops at will. Every half hour or so, the sun flirted with the idea of making an appearance, a debutante coyly peering over her fan. But then the wind kicked up and the clouds returned, casting shadows over streets and storefronts. In the duel between gloom and promise, gloom inevitably won out.

As Ben’s coach rumbled through the streets toward home, he absently rubbed the gnarled muscles of his right thigh. After sitting through a two-hour appointment with his solicitor, his leg was as stiff as the whalebone busk in a spinster’s corset.

His solicitor and friend, Averill, had tried to give him the card of a young physician who had newfangled ideas about how to treat patients with permanent injuries. Ben refused to take it. He’d been poked and prodded by a dozen different doctors already, and they all suggested the same remedy: cutting off his leg.

Those quacks could take a flying leap into the Thames. He’d almost died in order to save his leg, and he wasn’t about to part with it, even if it routinely felt like someone was twisting a knife into it.

Maybe, in a decade or so, he’d grow accustomed to the pain. In the meantime, he should probably barricade himself in a cave like a wounded animal. If he lived in a cave, he’d presumably be exempt from balls and soirees and house parties. Conversely, others would not have to suffer his perpetually bad mood. All things considered, it sounded like a winning proposition.

The only drawback was that there would be no suitable wall on which to hang Miss Honeycote’s portrait.

He hadn’t taken the painting down yet. He’d planned to that morning, but he’d gotten absorbed in the review of a contract, and every quarter of an hour or so he liked to reward himself by glancing at the wall opposite his desk in his study. Now that he knew the subject was Miss Honeycote, he found the artwork more fascinating than ever.

He wondered about the circumstances under which she’d posed and whether the artist was her lover. It hardly mattered, and yet, the thought chafed like a pair of burlap drawers. Ben had used a magnifying glass to examine the scrawling signature in the bottom right corner of the painting but couldn’t decipher the name—only the initial
T
.

At least Miss Honeycote would no longer have her cap set at Hugh. With any luck, his young protégé would meet a proper miss and be married before Michaelmas so that Ben could retreat to his country house, which, while not quite as private as a cave, was bound to be more comfortable.

He stared out the coach window at a few gray-clad servants scurrying in the pelting rain like mice dodging the paws of a menacing cat. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a glint of gold that made his heart trip in his chest. He pounded on the roof of the cab, and as the driver slowed the horses and pulled over, Ben craned his neck around to be sure he hadn’t imagined her.

Miss Honeycote.

She stood outside Gunter’s, beneath an umbrella that was proving less effective by the minute. The damp skirt of her light green gown clung to her, revealing the curve of her hips and the long line of her legs. Her pink bonnet covered half her head but the thick blond coil at her nape was practically a beacon. And she was quite alone.

Ben hopped out of the coach before it had even stopped rolling, ignoring the pain that shot through his right leg when he hit the ground. The rain plunked on his head and dripped down his neck as he strode toward her. When she saw him approach, her eyes grew wide, as though she’d been caught stealing a cake.