When She Was Wicked (40 page)

It was the sort of social affair Ben had avoided since returning from Waterloo. Cheerful gatherings, replete with inane conversation about the condition of the roads and the prospects for rain, made him feel like the worst kind of hypocrite. He sat in one of London’s most elegant dining rooms enjoying savory roast beef while members of his regiment lay buried in the cold ground.

It seemed almost traitorous.

Ben’s leg twitched, signaling its agreement.

Damn. That twitch was like a warning shot before cannon fire. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he clutched his fork so hard the fine silver handle bent.

Beneath the polished mahogany dining room table, he gripped the arm of his chair while the twisted muscles in his right thigh spasmed and contracted like a vise. He gritted
his teeth, keeping his breathing even. The dinner conversation became muffled, like he was listening through a door. Objects in front of him blurred, and he could no longer tell where the tablecloth ended and his plate began. Silently, he counted.
One, two, three
… The episode could last ten seconds or ten thousand, but he gleaned a shred of comfort from knowing it would end. Eventually.

He reached eighty-six before the pain subsided and the room slowly came back into focus. After a glance up and down the table, he relaxed slightly. No one seemed concerned or alarmed, so he must have gotten through the spell without grunting. As inconspicuously as possible, he swiped his dinner napkin across his damp forehead. Miss Honeycote cast him a curious look, but he ignored it, took a large gulp of wine, and tried to pick up some thread of the conversation around him.

Hugh was grinning at Miss Honeycote like an idiot. He seemed to fall further under her spell with each bloody course. At this rate, they’d be betrothed by dessert. “I understand you volunteer at the orphanage on Thursdays,” Hugh said.

“Yes, I enjoy being around the children.” She lowered her eyes, as though uncomfortable discussing her charity work. Little wonder. She probably wouldn’t know an orphan if one bit her on her lovely ankle.

“The children adore Daphne,” the young duchess said proudly. “With a smile, my sister can brighten the darkest of rooms.”

“I do not doubt it,” exclaimed Hugh.

Miss Honeycote blushed prettily, while Ben just barely refrained from snorting. He had to admit, she did a fair job of brightening his study.

She probably wouldn’t deign to bat her lashes at Hugh if a viscount’s title hadn’t been tragically plopped onto his lap. Hugh was so smitten he’d already sunk to composing bad poetry in her honor, which meant Ben would have to confront her about the painting—in private, and soon. With any luck, he’d spare Hugh the humiliation of learning that the woman he fancied himself in love with was, for all intents and purposes, a doxy.

“Lord Biltmore tells us you’re something of a hero.” Olivia Sherbourne, the more animated of the duke’s sisters, leaned forward, gazing expectantly at Ben.

He shot Hugh a scathing glance before responding to Miss Sherbourne. “Hardly. I had the misfortune of finding myself in the path of a bullet. Let me assure you—there was nothing vaguely heroic or romantic about it.”

“Nonsense.” Hugh sat up straighter. “The colonel himself came to visit Lord Foxburn, and he said—”

“Enough.” It was a bark—harsher than he’d intended. The duchess fumbled her fork and it clattered onto her plate. Accusatory silence followed. The women stared at him with owlish eyes and, at the head of the table, Huntford glowered.

Ben set his napkin next to his plate and leaned back in his chair. If they were waiting for an apology, they were going to wait a long time. In fact, his flavored ice, which had been cleverly molded into the shape of a pineapple, was already starting to melt. Instead, he said, “I’m certain there are more appropriate topics of conversation for a dinner party.”

The duke arched a dark brow.

Ben responded with a grin but didn’t let it reach his eyes. “Better to stick with less distressing subjects when
conversing with the gentler sex.” He sounded like an insincere ass, and no wonder.

“Must we limit our conversation to weather and roads, then?” Miss Sherbourne looked like a chit who’d discovered her diamond earrings were paste jewelry.

“Of course not.” Ben scooped the spike of the ice pineapple into his spoon. “There are plenty of interesting,
appropriate
topics for young ladies.”

“Such as?”

He froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I don’t know… the color of Lady Bonneville’s newest turban?”

Every head at the table swiveled toward him, and no one looked particularly pleased.

Miss Honeycote cleared her throat, drawing the attention away from him like a matador unfurling a scarlet cape. She smiled, instantly raising the temperature in the room several degrees. “Lord Foxburn, I cannot speak for my entire sex, but let me assure you that my sister, Olivia, Rose, and I are not nearly as fragile as you might think. If you knew us better, you wouldn’t worry about offending our sensibilities. You’d be worried that we’d offend yours.”

The ladies giggled, murmuring their agreement, and even Huntford chuckled reluctantly. Miss Honeycote pursed her pink lips and tilted her head as she met Ben’s gaze. Her knowing smile and heavy-lidded eyes were an exact match to those of the woman in the portrait.

And, coincidentally, to the woman who invaded his dreams.

Daphne took a sip of wine and, over the rim of her glass, marveled at the luxury surrounding her. A fire
crackled in the marble fireplace of the duke’s dining room, gilt-framed pictures graced the sea-green walls, and a chandelier sparkled over the mahogany table.

Her sister, Anabelle, blushed prettily under her husband’s appreciative gaze. If the new fullness in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes were any indications, being a duchess suited her quite nicely.

Her sister, the Duchess of Huntford. The thought still made Daphne giddy.

A year ago she and Belle had been living in a tiny rented apartment wondering how on earth they were going to be able to feed themselves, much less purchase the medicine Mama needed. Daphne had spent night after night in Mama’s room, watching over her, as if that would keep Death from skulking in and snatching her away. Some mornings, when the room was thick with the pungent smells of strong tea and bitter medicine, she was afraid to approach Mama’s bed. Afraid that she’d take her hand and find it cold and stiff.

Daphne shivered in spite of herself. She wasn’t the sort to dwell on dark times, but remembering was useful on occasion—if only to make one appreciate one’s blessings.

And she had many.

Mama was now the picture of health. She and Daphne lived in a townhouse twenty times the size of their old apartment and a hundred times more beautiful. They had a butler and a cook and ladies’ maids, for heaven’s sake. If a gypsy had foretold it, Daphne would have fallen off her chair from laughing. And yet here she sat, in a ducal dining room of all places.

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 their 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 lemon 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 was 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 transformed it 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 would view 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. Though he’d lost his brother barely six months ago, 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 to speak of—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 a tendency to smile, but rather, to glare, if his current expression was any indication. Although his mouth curved down at the corners, his lips were full. Daphne was quite sure that his 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. Daphne 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 face. 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.