The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous) (2 page)

The first, shared by all righteous Englishmen, was of course, a fear of God, the sovereign entity who rescued one from the lakes of fire and pits of despair. And while he didn’t consider himself an entirely religious man, he did his best to live a moral life, his love of gaming aside, if only to avoid an afterlife spent roasting.

Second, and one he would have shared with a sibling, had his parents been given to the kind of relationship required for such a result, was the fear of his mother’s retribution should he act in any manner other than in the way in which she expected. Since his days in leading strings, Edward had been awed by his mother’s ability to deliver that look, where her unusual amber, almost golden-brown eyes bore into his with a fierceness that lent him to believe that God himself had given his mother a special power to right his immoral ways. The duchess was formidable and determined to steer her only son out of the gaming rooms and into the ballrooms. He was, in the eyes of his mother and society, a man in possession of wealth and fortune, and of an age when he ought to have a wife.

Third, and perhaps most harrowing, was a fear he was certain he shared with no one, a fear he hadn’t even realized he held himself until his mother began her earnest efforts to push him into marriage: the fear of never being known, or seen, for himself. Edward knew this fear to be ridiculous, and did his best to quash it whenever he felt its maudlin pull. But still, it was a valid trepidation and one he knew would come to fruition should his mother select his bride. He was a duke, one who had been told since his first breath how to act, with whom to associate, and to which girls he could pay his addresses. His mother dared not interfere with his ducal responsibilities, at least those pertaining to the estate, but did not hesitate to meddle in his affairs concerning marriage when the responsibility in question was the continuance of the Waverly line.

“Edward, dear, I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying.”

His mother sat across from him, the scent of her rosewater perfume filling his coach, the peacock feather that had been carefully placed in her latest hat tickling the top of the brocade interior.

He did his best to appear interested in her conversation. He honestly tried. But given that the majority of his mother’s ramblings revolved around his lack of a bride, he found it far easier to ignore her sentiments.

“I’m sorry, Mother. What was it you were saying?” he asked, gazing out the window.

“What do you think of Lady Isabella?”

He turned toward his mother. Which one of the simpering, twittering, white-gowned hopefuls was Isabella? How many of them were Isabellas?

“You’ll have to be more specific. Would you like to know how I think of her as a dancing partner? As a lady? As a painter?”

His mother whipped out a fan rife with fat, naughty cherubs and snapped her reticule shut. “I mean as a wife. As your potential wife, Edward. The daughter of Lord Dewbury would make an excellent duchess, would she not?”

If he valued good breeding over intelligence, he supposed Lady Isabella would make an excellent wife. But not his. As the girl had yet to return his conversation with anything other than inquiries on how she looked in her latest garment, he had no fear of Lady Isabella claiming the role of his duchess. “Lady Isabella and I do not suit.”

His mother gave a huff. “You are being difficult, Edward. She is the daughter of an earl, for heaven’s sake.”

“And Miss Sagebrook, the daughter of a viscount,” he replied, naming the first girl who came to mind. “Perhaps we should consult DeBrett’s and list other young women who are bound to be found on its pages.”

“Miss Sagebrook’s mother is the youngest daughter of a knight, Edward. The girl is hardly suitable for a duchess.”

“And here I thought I was accompanying you on a shopping trip for pastries, not women.”

“You are five and thirty. I wish to see the duchy of Waverly secured with the birth of an heir.”

“And you think harassing me daily will accomplish this?” he asked pleasantly.

“Apparently not,” she snapped. “Which is why I’ve taken it upon myself to secure your future for you. The Countess of Dewbury and her daughter are expecting us for tea this afternoon.”

Edward mentally reviewed a number of curses in both Italian and French. As his mother so thoughtfully reminded him, he was a man of five and thirty, not eleven or eight. He would not sit idle as she took his private life into her impatient hands. “I am more than capable of finding my own duchess, Mother. I simply have yet to find one to my liking.”

His mother readjusted the emerald brooch King George had complimented before the old boy had gone permanently barmy. “Her breeding is impeccable. She comes with a large dowry and her father is a worthy ally in the House of Lords. I fail to see how she does not measure up to your expectations.”

Because his expectations did not hinge on the percentage of aristocratic blood found in the girl’s veins. Hell, they did not hinge on her beauty, her title, or her wealth. While each of those points was worthy of merit, they would not determine to whom he would be married.

“What of the latest on-dit?” he asked, hoping to sway the conversation to more neutral ground.

His mother pulled down the shade as they passed two drovers having a rousing disagreement in the middle of the street. “Lady Amhurst’s niece is visiting for the next three months. Rumor has it that the girl’s brother is staying in some lodgings in Mayfair while she rooms with Lady Amhurst and her daughters.”

Houseguests staying with a widowed wife of an earl was hardly untoward. “And just why is Lady Amhurst’s niece worthy of speculation?” he inquired, his hands clutching the velvet cushions as his coach pitched over the cobbled street.

“Because the niece and her brother”—she paused, snapping open her naughty fan and waving it through the air—“are American.”

American? Good God. Could it be possible that the determined, headstrong snip of a girl he had encountered yesterday in Burnham’s office was the same American his mother referenced?

“And just who are these Americans Lady Amhurst is so generously housing?” Edward inquired.

His mother’s eyes brightened at his interest. “A Mr. Thomas Farrington and his sister, I believe. Not that their name matters. They are American, Edward. Can you believe anything so unseemly? Why Lady Amhurst even acknowledged such uncouth relations is beyond my comprehension. Mark my words. No one of quality will associate with her nephew or her niece, even if the girl’s looks are rumored to be passable.”

Edward blinked at the absurdity of his mother’s statement. With her sunshine-colored curls and cornflower blue eyes, Miss Farrington was as fine as any English lady, her porcelain-smooth skin and freckle-dusted cheeks lending her an air of innocence even the finest of society maidens lacked. To say her beauty was rumored to be passable was to suggest his mother had a passing interest in grandchildren.

“Given that Lady Amhurst is her aunt, then surely the niece has some connections. Her mother or father is obviously of English blood.”

“I don’t care if she is English, Edward. She was raised in America, and any English blood she may have had was polluted by geography. To think that some girl from the former colonies could be even remotely refined—why, the notion is absolutely ridiculous.”

Despite his mother’s musings and his own brief encounter with Miss Farrington, Edward couldn’t help but feel that Miss Farrington’s obvious slight in Burnham’s dank office had been no misstep or accidental breach of societal protocol. Perhaps it was the way her chin thrust defiantly upward, taunting him, as she refused to acknowledge his introduction. Or the firm set of her jaw as she rightly questioned why a man of his rank held interest in something other than landed estates. He had a suspicion that Daphne Farrington was more than remotely refined in her manners—when she chose to display them.

His mother’s fan continued to flutter about her person. “She is likely some charity case Lady Amhurst felt inclined to support. I doubt anyone from that area of the world has any fortune to their name.”

“Miss Daphne Farrington is no more a charity case than I am.”

He had spent weeks listening to Burnham tout the accomplishments of the prestigious Farrington Shipping Line, and most notably of the family responsible for its success. If Burnham’s praises were to be believed, Daphne was a veritable heiress, a woman equal in wealth to a vast majority of his peers.

His mother’s fan stopped in mid-air. “You are acquainted with Miss Farrington, Edward?”

Damn and perdition. “Her brother introduced us just the other day.”

“And how did you come to be acquainted with Mr. Thomas Farrington?”

“I know people, Mother. It is one of the advantages of being a duke. We’ll have to inquire after the Farringtons at Lady Dewbury’s. I’m certain she’ll have the latest details on Lady Amhurst’s guests. Unless of course…”

“Unless what?” his mother asked, resuming to fan herself.

“Unless you’d like to gather the details yourself and see firsthand whether they truly are the Marquess of Haldersgate’s grandchildren, as their connection to Lady Amhurst suggests.” He crossed his arms, watching the assortment of emotions run across his mother’s face as she considered his proposal.

Her fan went still in the air, the tassels now swaying precariously between the two of them. “Edward, tell the driver we have a change in destination. We are going to call on Lady Amhurst and her daughters.”

Chapter Two

“Detained?”

Daphne placed her fingertips over her mouth in a poor attempt to hide the excitement at the possibilities that single word evoked. Could it really be true? Had the Mary Frances actually been detained?

Thomas stared at her from across their aunt’s cozy library. A thin ray of afternoon sunlight slipped over the shelves of books and trinkets and brightened her spot on the only feminine and floral chair in the room. “Detained,” he repeated, the scowl on his weary face deepening. “Indefinitely.”

While it was apparent Thomas saw this unexpected delay as a problem, Daphne claimed it as an opportunity. Arrangements could still be made for her to board the vessel, to return home without ever visiting the rest of this horrid country.

“I can have my things gathered shortly, Thomas. I have yet to fully unpack. If you make the arrangements we can leave—”

“Damn it, Daph.” Thomas’s large hand slammed down on the top of their deceased uncle’s desk. “I said indefinitely.”

Before they’d come to London, her brother had rarely lost his temper, and never with her. Now, he barked at her almost every day. She was growing weary of his cantankerous behavior.

“So the tide has been low or all the travel documents have not been obtained. Whatever prevents the crew from sailing will be resolved before long,” she said.

Thomas let out a low laugh. “If only it were that simple. This is entirely your fault.”

Daphne’s hand flew to her chest. “My fault? What are you talking about? A few days detainment is nothing uncommon. It can hardly be placed upon my shoulders.”

“Oh, but it can, and it will. Because, God bless it, no matter how low of a snake or underhanded Mr. Burnham may be, he was right.”

“Mr. Burnham?” What in heaven’s name was her brother rambling on about now?

“Let me inform you, dear sister, of what has transpired in the twenty-four hours since you so intemperately insulted Mr. Burnham, in his very office. The Mary Frances is no longer sitting fully stocked. In fact, her hull is now only seventy percent full. Would you like to know why?”

From Thomas’s tone, Daphne inferred the question to be a rhetorical one, but as her brother continued to glare at her, she asked out of politeness, “Were the goods spoiling?”

“No.” Her brother’s eyes closed as he tilted his head, cracking the vertebrae in his neck. “Nothing was damaged or rotten. At least for the present. But the longer the ship sits in the harbor, the greater the likelihood of such an outcome.”

Thomas stalked over to a half-empty decanter of brandy sitting on the sideboard and poured the amber-colored liquid into a glass. “Given the weak excuses merchants claimed as they retrieved their goods from our vessel, I can only presume Burnham made good on his threat. We are at seventy percent, because Burnham was right. We are on his side of the Atlantic, and despite what we might think of his business tactics, he does have connections. Connections who will act on his advice. Who knows how many others will pull out before we can stem this tide of vicious gossip?”

Daphne wrung her hands, her fingers interlocking as she knit them together. She had known her behavior would have implications, but none as far-reaching as what her brother implied. “Surely if a duke speaks on our behalf, he can quiet Burnham’s malicious rumors?”

“Yes,” Thomas tossed back a swallow of liquor. “If we can persuade the duke to invest with us. But we have yet to secure his agreement. No documents have been signed.”

Daphne watched him dispense with his drink and wished she might also have a medicinal tot. “He appeared eager and ready to invest just yesterday.”

“And just yesterday, Burnham had yet to smear our good name. The duke may no longer wish to work with us. If you had not stormed into the meeting, spouting your accusations—”

“Why did you not trust me?” Daphne asked. “Had this been some arrangement in Boston, I would have been privy to the details of the contract. But instead, I had to sneak around like some sort of thief, reading documents by candlelight.”

“This isn’t Boston, as you very well know. You created this mess, and God help me, you are going to clean it up.”

Daphne snorted. “And just how do you propose I do that? By pleading with the duke on bended knee to clear our name and right Burnham’s wrongs?”

Her brother sat on the edge of the desk, a small smile appearing on his lips. “Exactly.”

Daphne sprang from her chair and stormed across the room. “Why not you, Thomas? As you continue to point out, London is a man’s world, one where business arrangements are best made between men. Would my intervention not endanger any potential agreement? The duke seems to be a reasonable man, and you a persuasive one. It would be best that you proceed with the arranged meeting.”

The smile on Thomas’s face broadened. A smile that had, on numerous occasions back in Boston, come just before he told her of one of his outrageous schemes to secure yet another business deal. Schemes in which she invariably played a vital role. But somehow, she felt that this time, the role he had in mind for her was one she would have no desire to enact.

“I don’t believe so. I think our case would be better made with you at the helm. The duke requires convincing, Daph. He needs to see that our family is worthy of his investment.”

“And you wish me to convince him by begging his forgiveness and asking him to forget the particulars of our last encounter?”

Thomas eyed his glass. “My wish is that you spend time with the man. Impress him with your business expertise. Show him why our shipping line is better than our competitors’.”

While flattered and, indeed, surprised by her brother’s unexpected compliment, she was not dissuaded from her argument. “God in heaven, are you serious? You expect me to…to woo a member of the English nobility after what befell our own brother?”

“Blasphemy doesn’t become you. How are you to gain a man’s favor—”

“I don’t intend to gain any man’s favor. Especially an English one.”

Her brother’s face softened, the familiar crooked smile she knew all too well reappearing on his lips. “But don’t you remember all of our successes? Of all the times we’ve put our heads together and come away with lucrative deals?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, suppressing the smile he was trying to provoke. “But that was before—”

“Did you not say you wanted a role in acquiring business here?” he pressed, lifting his brows in inquiry.

“Well, of course, but I had not thought—”

“Then I suggest you convince the duke of our family’s professionalism. Since you took it upon yourself to interject in our meeting yesterday, the duke has learned you have a more active role in Farrington Shipping than Burnham originally disclosed. It would be wise, if not savvy, to impress the duke with your acumen in order to quash any misgivings he might possess toward having a business association with a woman. Allow him to get to know you. Let him see that our good name is worthy of his protection and that we are capable of playing by his rules. We are not uncouth, despite what Burnham may say. I wish for you to prove him wrong.”

She snatched the iron poker beside the hearth and jabbed at the logs, sending sparks flying into the room. “And what if I refuse?”

Her brother wrested the poker from her hand in one deft twist. “Father left explicit instructions pertaining to your welfare. I am your elder and have been instructed to fill Father’s role as your guardian while here. You will gain the attention and favor of the Duke of Waverly. You will ask him to right this discord with Mr. Burnham and you will ask him to use his position and rank to acquire investors. Do you understand? Or shall I ask Aunt Susan if you can stay here for a year, rather than the three months we originally agreed upon.”

Daphne stared at her brother aghast. “You wouldn’t—”

Thomas leaned forward. “I most assuredly would. Our livelihood, not to mention the future of our merchant fleet, depends on it.”

She hated when her brother resorted to ultimatums, especially when he was in the right. She might refuse to forgive the English the crimes they committed against her family, especially after they so callously murdered her brother, but she wouldn’t be so selfish as to allow the bastards to inflict further suffering upon the Farringtons. Even if she were to sacrifice her pride in this ridiculous farce, would the duke be interested enough to make it plausible?

“I admit to being a rather outspoken American with no title, Thomas. What makes you think a duke would give me an audience?”

For the first time since their arrival in London, Thomas looked pleased. “Believe me when I say that is the slightest of my concerns. The way he gazed at you in Burnham’s office was not the look of a man indifferent to your…ah…charms.”

Whether the duke found her worthy of a second glance was no reason to believe he would listen to her plea. Thomas’s idea was ridiculous, outlandish, and utterly absurd. And the duke was still arrogant, aristocratic, and English.

“He is a sworn enemy. How am I supposed to befriend a man whom I despise?”

“You despise the man because of his nationality? He is merely English. He is from the same country our mother claimed as her home.”

“Mother never claimed England. England denied her the right.”

A sharp rap sounded on the thick library door as it burst open, their eldest cousin bounding her way into the middle of the room with her hands flailing about her flushed face.

“The Duke of Waverly. He’s here. Downstairs. Waiting in Mother’s drawing room with the duchess!”

A smile spread across her brother’s face, his blue eyes brightening with every breath their cousin inhaled.

“The Duke of Waverly?” he asked, looking damnably smug.

“Yes,” squealed Henrietta. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but we must hurry. Come.” She grabbed Daphne by the arm and hauled her to the door.

Thomas flashed Daphne a stern look. “You mustn’t keep the duke waiting. Oh, and Daphne, keep in mind what we discussed. I expect to see a genuine effort on your part.”

A genuine effort? As a friend? To the Duke of Waverly?

…

The Duke of Waverly stood in her aunt’s sunny drawing room, not five feet from Daphne, his eyes alight with amusement. Aunt Susan, however, stood approximately eight and a half feet from the duke’s right shoulder, her hands gripping the back of an oak chair as Henrietta made her way beside her.

“Ah, Miss Farrington. What a pleasure it is to see you again,” said the duke. “And Mr. Farrington.”

“Your Grace.” Thomas bowed and stepped beside her. “How kind of you to call on us.”

Daphne started a slow count to ten—in French this time—to steady her nerves. The duke couldn’t possibly be here. Not now. Not before she’d had the chance to think of a way to extricate herself from her brother’s ridiculous scheme.

Thomas elbowed her in the side, the sharp and unexpected pain causing her to gasp. It was a warning, and she knew it. Be nice. Mind your tongue. Or stay in England for an entire year.

“Miss Farrington?” the duke questioned, a look of concern on his face.

“Your Grace,” she exclaimed, her voice coming across a bit higher than she intended. She began her descent into a curtsy when her ankle wobbled, propelling her upper body forward. The duke’s hands righted her, his firm grasp making her not only forget the French words for eight, nine, and ten, but her voice entirely.

Henrietta cleared her throat beside her and said, “This is quite the unexpected surprise, Your Grace. I’m afraid my sisters are not here to receive you. They are in town, shopping for new bonnets.”

Only a few months Daphne’s junior, Henrietta was stunning, her dark, glossy curls always arranged in a pleasing frame about her smooth and pale face. Daphne released a long breath. Of course he had come to see her cousin. Why else would he be here?

“The fault is all mine, Lady Henrietta. My apologies for not giving notice, but the duchess was most anxious to make the acquaintance of Miss Farrington.”

“Me?” Daphne squeaked.

The duke grinned, looking younger and damnably charming, sending her heart aflutter. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid ever since I made mention that I had already made your acquaintance, Mother has been quite jealous and wished to see you for herself.”

“Will you introduce us, or must I have Lady Amhurst make the introductions?” the elder woman beside him asked.

Daphne had been so distracted and anxious by the duke’s presence that she had barely noticed the petite woman standing beside him.

“I would be more than happy,” her aunt began, but was silenced by the duke’s outstretched hand.

“My apologies, Mother. I have quite forgotten my manners. Your Grace, may I present Miss Farrington?”

Dark-haired, and with the most unusual golden brown eyes, the Duchess of Waverly stared at Daphne with an intensity one might fix on a criminal just before the noose was slipped around his neck. She was being measured. Judged. And, no doubt, found wanting. All by someone she had neither met before this very moment nor wished to see any time beyond it.

She dipped into a curtsy, her feet sinking into the carpet. “Your Grace.”

Aunt Susan heaved a heavy sigh, no doubt thankful Daphne had not further embarrassed her in front of such noble company. “Shall I order some tea, Your Grace?” her aunt asked.

“Please. I look forward to getting to know the enchanting Miss Farrington and uncovering just how the two of you are connected,” she said, waving her closed fan between Daphne and her aunt. The duchess sat in the nearest upholstered chair, motioning for everyone else to join her.

Daphne claimed a seat on a cream-colored settee farthest from the duchess. Thomas followed, standing just behind her, no doubt to remind her of the mission he demanded. Henrietta chose the empty seat beside Daphne, nestling into the brocade pillows artfully arranged on the furniture. The duke remained standing, occupying the formerly empty space behind his mother’s chair, his watchful gaze once again making Daphne’s insides flutter and her cheeks warm.

The room was silent, the duchess obviously waiting for some sort of explanation on their familial relationship. In her most polite voice, Daphne said, “Lady Amhurst is my aunt, Your Grace. She and my mother are sisters.”