The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) (8 page)

“Sir Dalton, I asked you not to address me as such, unless you meant it.” She thrust her chin, in a now-familiar affectation he found quite endearing, and how he admired her spirit. “It is strange how we covet whimsical dreams and aspirations, far and away beyond the point of madness. Yet we cling to our fantasies, praying for a miracle, which might save us from the cold hard reality of our circumstances.”

“Daphne, will you not share your burden?” As he neared the same precipice, the solution to her confounding riddle, he approached with care. “You have my word, as a gentleman, I would do whatever you require. I could write the King and ask to be appointed interim governor, until your father returns.”

“Why would you do that, Sir Dalton?” Robert asked. “What do you hope to gain? And what are your intentions, regarding my sister?”

“I believe you misconstrue my motives, lad. So I am prepared to look past the slight.” Caught with his hand in the cherry compote, Dalton could only feign innocence. “Given your sister’s altruistic proclivities, and your father’s unexplained absence, my cause is just, and my aim is true. I wish to maintain order in Portsea, provide protection for your family, and recover the brooch.”

“If you contact the King, you could sabotage my sister’s efforts to locate your precious heirloom, as you are a stranger in these parts.” Dalton had grossly underestimated the elder brother, and Robert evoked comparisons with Dirk. “What would you do then,
Londoner
?”

“I understand.” The scamp’s tone defined the referenced city as an epithet, but Dalton refused to take the bait. It was then he discovered himself the subject of Daphne’s scrutiny. “I could forgo a letter to the Crown, if you permit me the use of your home for the impromptu festivity.”

“What have you to offer us, in exchange for our cooperation?” Stiffening his spine, Robert folded his arms. “And who is going to pay for the food, drink, and servants, to tend the guests of your party?”

“You do not presume that I would invite myself into your home and charge you with the costs.” Myriad possibilities flooded his brain, but he reminded himself he needed nothing more than the chance to search Courtenay Hall. “I shall cover the expenses, hire additional personnel from the inn, and I can rent the ballroom, if you would but name a price.”

“That is not necessary, Sir Dalton.” Daphne stood beside her brother, and thus the lines of allegiance were drawn. “You may have the ballroom,
gratis
, in fair trade for your discretion, regarding my father’s unplanned leave.”

“Perfect.” Dalton smiled. “Then we have an agreement.”

#

A sennight later, Daphne skimmed the contents of her armoire and bemoaned the state of her wardrobe, as she did so wish to look pretty for a certain knight. For the past week, she had spent most of her time in the company of Dalton Randolph, preparing for the impromptu gala, and he had spared no expense.

The grand ballroom boasted new Chippendale chairs and matching tables, along with sumptuous velvet drapes. As he had gifted the items to her family, in exchange for the use of Courtenay Hall, she considered the boon a blessing, as she would sell the lot once Dalton had departed Portsea Island. At the thought, tears welled.

“Stop it, Daphne. You could never win his heart.” The party started in three hours, and she had not made a final selection from her girlish dresses.

“Miss Daphne, a package just arrived for you.” Mrs. Jones strolled into the bedchamber carrying a large parcel, which she placed on the
chaise
. “And here is the accompanying card.”

“Thank you.” She recognized the bold script with the emphatic flourish beneath her written name and ripped into the envelope. “Oh, what has he done now?”

My Dear Miss Daphne,

It has long been my desire to see you garbed as befits your inimitable beauty. As you have so graciously agreed to act as my hostess, I would reward your gesture with a humble token of appreciation intended to bring a smile to your lovely face.

Your most devoted servant,

Dalton

In utter shock, she dropped the missive, tore the brown paper, lifted the lid, and gasped. The sapphire creation, made of some lush material she could not identify, featured puffed sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a conical skirt. But the signature detail was a diaphanous cream overlay, heavily embroidered with fanciful swirls and embellished with tiny seed pearls, which bedecked the bodice and trimmed the bottom edge of the skirt.

“Mrs. Jones, have you ever seen anything so exquisite?” When Daphne drew the spectacular gown from the bed of cotton, she discovered a pair of matching slippers. “How could he have managed this? And what if they do not fit?”

“I might have helped Sir Dalton with measurements.” The housekeeper glanced at the ceiling and clucked her tongue. “He is a persuasive rogue.”

“You didn’t.” Studying her reflection in the long mirror, Daphne held the superb garment, the finest she had ever owned, to her chin and smiled. “Mrs. Jones, I am so happy I could cry.”

“Well, do not do that, as you will make your eyes puffy.” Mrs. Jones sniffed. “Now let me style your hair, as we require an elegant coiffure to compliment your attire.”

In a flash, Daphne plopped into the seat before her vanity and all but bounced with nervous excitement. Mrs. Jones fussed and fretted, as she tarried, arranging Daphne’s blonde tresses into loose curls, which framed her face, and a single thick lock traced the curve of her neck and rested at her throat.

“What would I do without you, Mrs. Jones?” Daphne stood and untied her robe. “Now, will you help me into Sir Dalton’s magnanimous gift?”

“Of course.” With great care, the housekeeper draped the gown over Daphne’s head and shoulders. “Give me a shimmy, my girl.”

“The way I did as a child?” Daphne giggled and wiggled her hips, and the skirt dropped into place, with a whispery shush. “Oh, Mrs. Jones. I feel so regal, like a princess.”

“Hold still, while I tie your laces.” A familiar chorus of grunts and groans signaled the battle had commenced, as Mrs. Jones pulled Daphne left and then right, in an awkward tug of war. “Exhale, Miss Daphne.”

“This is so unfair.” She hugged the corner of her four-poster. “I wager men have never suffered such degradation in the name of fashion.”

“All right.” The housekeeper retreated. “Turn around and let me have a look at you.”

“What do you think?” Daphne rotated. “Will Sir Dalton be pleased?”

“Perhaps.” Narrowing her stare, Mrs. Jones frowned. “Wait right here.”

Alone, Daphne stepped into the new slippers, walked to the center of her chamber, extended her arms, and whirled. An imaginary world, straight from a fairy story, materialized, with brilliant pastorals, azure skies, and mischievous cherubs, as she hummed a little ditty and squealed with delight. When the door opened, she skidded to a halt.

“Did you find what you sought, Mrs. Jones?” Daphne inquired with a hastily mustered air of ennui.

“Yes.” The housekeeper loosened the ties of a velvet bag. “I think these will suit the color of your dress.”

“Mama’s pearls.” In a flash, visions from the past composed a staccato of precious moments. Sewing tutorials, history lessons, lute practice, stillroom organization, and charitable visitation. Her mother had always indulged Daphne’s insouciant dreams of independence and then taught her another recipe or household management skill. “Dare I wear them?”

“Mrs. Harcourt always intended you to have them.” Mrs. Jones secured the necklace in place, as Daphne donned the matching earrings. “And there is no better time than the present.”

“But she had saved them for my wedding day.” She trailed her fingers over the delicate orbs. Standing before the long mirror, Daphne did not recognize the woman in the reflection. “Do you think Sir Dalton will find me satisfactory?”

“Oh, I say.” Mrs. Jones snorted. “If he can summon a coherent comment, upon spying you, I will eat my old purple bonnet.”

The sun rested
below the yardarm, and Dalton stowed his lucky coin and checked his pocket watch, as the coach halted before Courtenay Hall. As usual, he was punctual. After a quick assessment of his black formalwear, which he had summoned, along with his valet, from London, he descended to the graveled drive and then skipped up the front stairs.

“Good evening, Sir Dalton.” Hicks bowed. “Miss Daphne awaits your presence in the ballroom, as we will use the separate side entrance for the guests. If you will follow me, I will take you to her.”

“Excellent.” For some odd reason he could not fathom, his palms dampened, and his pulse raced. He wondered if Daphne favored the garment he had sent or if he had insulted her with his well-intentioned gift. When he passed through the double doors and spied his lady, he clenched his gut, sucked in a breath, and an invisible but nonetheless potent lightning bolt seared him, on the spot.

“Sir Dalton, how handsome you look.” The source of his strange affliction cast him a shimmering smile, and she bestowed upon him a radiant countenance. “And I cannot thank you enough for the beautiful gown.”

In that instant, she rotated for his inspection, and the one-eyed marauder below his belly button woke with a vengeance. Numerous polite compliments and even more not-so-nice propositions echoed in his brain, as he fought to maintain composure.

“There, now.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, grinned, as she elbowed Daphne. “What did I tell you?”

“It appears your old bonnet is safe.” Daphne giggled, but he could make no sense of her statement. “Will you join me, in the receiving line, Sir Dalton?”

“Yes.” He shuffled his feet, tugged on his cravat, and cleared his throat. “I-I am fine.”

“I beg your pardon?” The stunning Miss Harcourt blinked, as she could not possibly comprehend what she had done to him, and he dared not apprise her. “Are you all right?”

“Where are your brothers?” Until he could marshal his wits and leash the beast, he sought safe harbor in an innocuous subject. “Should we not assume our positions?”

“Yes, as I believe we have our first arrivals.” Daphne peered over his shoulder. “Robert, Richard, take your places, and no grumbling.”

“We will be but a moment, as I require a word with your brothers.” The scamps attempted to evade him, but Dalton splayed his arms. “Gentlemen, this evening is important to your sister, and I will not allow you to spoil it. Robert, if you upset her, in any way, I will box your ears. And Richard, whatever wiggles in your coat pocket had better remain there else I will make you swallow it. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the gadlings replied in concert.

“Wait a minute.” Dalton adjusted Richard’s neck cloth. “Who taught you to tie a cravat?”

“I did.” With a mighty scowl, Robert folded his arms. “And I think it looks fine.”

“Well that explains it.” Never had he dealt with such unruly delinquents. Dalton gave his attention to the elder sibling and a butchered mathematical. “Yours is not much of an improvement on his.”

“What do you care?” As he reworked the yard-length of linen, Dalton met Robert’s harsh stare. “And what are your intentions, in regard to Daphne?”

“This is neither the time nor the locale to discuss such matters, and button your coat.” And Dalton had no idea how to answer the question, as he had not pondered his fledgling feelings for the governor’s daughter. “You will do. Now march, and smile for your sister.”

After a lengthy tour of duty at the entrance, welcoming what he presumed was the entire Portsea population, the orchestra, if he could call it that, as it was comprised of an awkward assemblage of resident musicians—again a generous description, struck the signature, if less than graceful, notes of a waltz. And given their brief rehearsal, he could only hope they maintained a consistent rhythm. As prearranged, he claimed his hostess for the evening, to commence the gala.

“Shall we show your neighbors how it is done?” Just the simple practice of anchoring his arm about her waist had Dalton pondering how any man had resisted Daphne, as she manifested a potent combination of innocence mixed with unassuming strength, which could drive a sane man mad as a March hare from an overwhelming desire to possess her.

“I do so wish to make a good impression.” With a glowing expression, she rested her palm on his shoulder, and they clasped hands. “But I am nervous, as I have never danced with anyone but my father.”

“Then you may rely on me, as I am an expert.” For a scarce second, he doubted her inexperience. Then again, Miss Daphne had spent her entire life, thus far, on an island. “Stay close, my dear.”

In that instant, Dalton steered the impeccable backwater lady in what he hoped was the most refined ride of her existence. Around and around, they twirled in each other’s embrace, moving as one entity, until he could no longer discern where he ended and she began. Soon they slipped the bonds of the mortal coil and whirled beyond the crowded confines of the palatial ballroom, soaring ever higher. Swathed in an imaginary indigo blanket filled with twinkling stars, and aware of nothing save the constant beat of his heart, he luxuriated in her ocean blue gaze.

And then a pebble struck him in the cheek.

Gritting his teeth, he glanced to his left and discovered her brother Richard, standing at the edge of the dance floor, grinning as he tucked a slingshot into his coat.

“Is something wrong?” Daphne traced circles on the back of his neck. “Did I trounce your toes?”

“No.” For several seconds, he studied her plump and rosy lips. “Promise me something.”

“Anything, Sir Dalton.” All manner of naughty requests echoed in his ears, given her generous offer.

“While I understand you must entertain your guests, I would have you save your waltzes for me, alone.” The simple request would raise many eyebrows in London, but they swayed not within the
ton
’s confines, so he would make his own rules. “Will you do that, for me?”