Never Entice an Earl (11 page)

Kate looked so tormented. Daphne couldn’t keep the truth from her a moment more. “I
did go there…to the Blue Swan—”

“Oh, my God, I knew it.” Kate’s eyes widened, and flooded with tears.

“But I met the most wonderful man, and Kate, don’t despise me, but I told him my name
was Kate, because I was frightened and I didn’t know what else to do, but he…he made
everything right.”

“Oh, dear. I can see your admiration for him written all over your face. You’re glowing.
Look at your cheeks. Did you…did he—?” Kate demanded fervently.

“A kiss. Well, perhaps five or six, but they were magical.” And wildly passionate,
such as she’d never forget.

“I’m going to be sick.” Kate put her hands on her waist, and bent forward.

Daphne raised her back up. “Don’t be. He was a gentleman. A complete and utter gentleman.
And I’ll never see him again. Truly, I know nothing but his first name, and he understands
that he should never try to see me…or you, I suppose, again. He will forevermore be
an exciting and happy memory.”

Kate covered her eyes. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

Daphne pulled her hand away. “You’d do the same for me.”

“Of course I would, but,
Daphne
, it’s different for me—”

“No it isn’t—at least, it shouldn’t be.”

“But it is. You have a future. I know you say you don’t intend to marry, but what
if someone found out? The scandal would be enormous—”

She lifted a silencing hand, and smiled. “Pah, I can’t hear you. Besides, Mother will
come out looking for me in a moment. Just go, sweet friend, and pay a visit to your
family to share the news, and don’t worry another moment more.”

Returned to the table, she took a bite of her fried potatoes. Her adventure the night
before—and more so, her intense relief that it was all over—had made her ravenous.
In a blink, she cleared her plate. She considered going for another, but her mother
folded her napkin and stood.

“It’s nearly ten. Mrs. Brightmore will be expecting us for our review of the account
books.” Her mother, of late, had insisted on both girls accompanying her on her daily
visits with the housekeeper, as they would both soon have households of their own
to manage. Daphne humored her, and went along.

Clarissa stood and pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “I’ve prepared another
list of questions.”

“Very good.” Lady Harwick nodded, pleased. “Daphne, what about you?”

“Ah…no, I thought I’d just ask whatever questions come to mind.” Or let Clarissa ask
all the questions. Even better. Nothing put her to sleep faster than an account book
being opened.

“Very well.”

They followed Lady Margaretta into the corridor. However, a flurry of activity at
the front of the house drew their attention. One of the footmen held an enormous arrangement
of brilliant coral roses.

“I knew it!” Clarissa exclaimed, clasping her hands together. Her smile transformed
her face. “I think I even know who sent them. Oh, Daphne, wait until you meet him.”

How romantic! Despite Clarissa’s fickle taste in suitors, Daphne sincerely hoped she
would find someone wonderful and fall in love. Perhaps last night it had happened.
In that moment she remembered Cormack as he’d stood in the alley, his face and clothing
slick with rainwater, his hand extended to her. A sudden longing struck her, deep
inside her chest, such as she had never experienced before.

“Don’t assume, dear,” Lady Margaretta chided softly. “They may very well be for your
sister. Mr. Ollister, could you please carry the flowers into the green sitting room?”

They followed the footman inside the high-ceilinged room, where hand-painted green
paper covered the walls, the perfect color for spring. Ollister placed the flowers
on a table beside the window.

Clarissa pulled her by the wrist. “Oh, Daphne, this is just the beginning of our wonderful
season. Let’s open the card together.”

Daphne didn’t want to look. She had a sneaking suspicion the flowers might be from
Lord Rackmorton, the scoundrel she’d seen the night before at the Blue Swan. He’d
been so overly attentive yesterday afternoon at Lady Buckinghamshire’s Venetian breakfast,
and he had scowled so terribly when she’d had to leave, insisting on escorting her
all the way to the carriage. Everyone considered him such a gentleman, and she’d have
such a time explaining why she felt compelled to dump the entire arrangement out the
window. She wondered what had become of him in the moments after the constables arrived,
but didn’t concern herself overly much. She knew full well that men with names like
Rackmorton rarely had to answer for their actions.

“That’s all right,” she said to Clarissa. “I’m certain they’re for you. You open the
card.”

Clarissa slipped the little envelope from the center of the arrangement, and lifted
the flap. “Oh.”

Her countenance reflected surprise.

“What does it say, dear?” Lady Harwick hovered close. “Are they for you or for Daphne?”

“Neither of us.” She gave a little nervous laugh.

“Oh.” Her mother blushed. “They are for me?”

“Not you, either,” her sister declared. “Though I wouldn’t at all be surprised.”

“What does that mean, that you wouldn’t be surprised?” Daphne inquired, dismayed and
a little unsettled. Both her sister and her mother had new suitors? “What happened
last night?”

Clarissa threw her a sly look. “Mother has a friend. His name is Mr.—”

“I do
not
have a
friend
!” Lady Margaretta exclaimed, her face even redder now.

“—Birch! And he is smitten.”

The viscountess raised a hand to the tendril of hair that slipped from her nape. “I
don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me!” wailed Daphne.

Clarissa winked. “I’ll tell you later.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Lady Harwick assured, but the brightness in her eyes told
another story.

“The card, Clarissa,” Daphne urged, feeling a bit dismayed over talk of her mother
and any man but her father, though she knew she ought not to be. “What does it say?”

“It’s for Miss Fickett.”

Kate? Kate didn’t have any suitors that she knew of—

Oh, no.
Daphne swallowed down a gasp, as anxiety flooded her stomach.

“Miss Fickett?” Lady Margaretta repeated, her smile taking on a curious slant. “I
wasn’t aware she had a suitor. Daphne, what do you know of this?”

“Ah…no.” Daphne’s voice sounded hollow. “I wasn’t aware, either.”

Clarissa examined the white card stock again. “There isn’t a name, just an initial,
the letter
C
. Clearly a man’s handwriting.” She turned the card for the benefit of their mutual
examination, her eyebrows raised above sparkling eyes. “So masculine.”

Daphne’s gaze fixed on the solitary letter, emblazoned in thick black ink, and a whisper
of pleasure swept through her, weakening her knees.

Her mother turned to the footman. “Mr. Ollister, could you please summon Miss Fickett?
Hopefully we’ll catch her before she leaves the premises on Miss Bevington’s errands.”

Daphne knew for a certainty Kate hadn’t gone anywhere, because there weren’t any errands,
and if her maid was going to visit her family, she’d wait until the morning rush at
the shop was over. But that didn’t mean she was going to wait here for her web of
well-intentioned deceit to unravel on the drawing room floor.

Daphne reached for the vase. “You know Miss Fickett, she’s very private. I can take
the roses upstairs to her.”

She would take them into a closet, or outside and throw them over the back wall. Anywhere
that Kate wouldn’t see them, and be more concerned than she already was.

“No, no. I want to see her face,” said Clarissa, eyes sparkling with glee. “A suitor.
How exciting.”

“The flowers are indeed beautiful, and such uncommon blooms came at no small expense,”
the viscountess observed, touching the luscious petals. “I’d hate for the household
to lose Miss Fickett, but the idea of a romance is thrilling, is it not? As long as
the gentleman’s intentions are honorable.”

Daphne bit her lower lip. Things would only get more awkward once Kate appeared.

At that moment, Kate entered the room and curtsied to the viscountess. “I was told
I’d been summoned?”

Daphne exhaled through her teeth. Oh, fig. What a tangle.

“Miss Fickett,” Clarissa sang like a happy little bird. She waved the card in the
air like a prize won in a party game. “Look what’s arrived for you. Forgive me, I
opened the card thinking the flowers were intended for either myself or Daphne. How
conceited of me. Surprise, they are for you!”

Kate’s eyes widened. “That can’t be.”

She blinked rapidly, and her cheeks bloomed a deep crimson.

“See for yourself, here’s the card. Oh, dear. You appear discomposed.” Clarissa touched
Kate’s arm and, moving even closer, gave a comforting rub. “Do you even know who this
Mister C is?”

“I…believe so.” She blinked, staring down at the card. “And I’m not upset, this is
just…very unexpected.”

Bless her! Kate did not so much as glance in her direction. Daphne moved to stand
beside the vase, and smelled one of the blooms. Beautiful. So fragrant and lovely.

“Does he have honorable intentions, my dear?” asked Her Ladyship.

Clarissa placed an arm around Kate’s shoulders. “You know we consider you as dear
as family, and won’t suffer any man treating you with anything less than the respect
you deserve. Just say the word, and I’ll have Mr. Ollister take them to the rubbish
heap.”

“Oh, no. Don’t do that,” Kate gasped, raising a hand to her cheek. “He is someone
I met only briefly, but is…very much a gentleman, in manner and deed.”

“You intend to see him again, then?” Clarissa’s demeanor softened.

“No, it’s not like that at all,” Kate answered. “Indeed, I believe the flowers were
simply intended as a very kind gesture of farewell.” She looked at Daphne and offered
a gentle smile.

Daphne nodded. Yes, that was it. A kind farewell.

Her chest tightened with a surge of the most exquisite tangle of emotions. Admiration.
Longing. Relief. Cormack had proven himself to be nothing less than a hero, and an
impeccable gentleman. He had done exactly as he promised, and asked for nothing in
return.

How utterly tragic—and somehow
perfect
—that she would never, ever see him again.

T
hat’s the last of it, then?” Cormack inquired, from his place in the tub. He dropped
the newspaper he’d been reading, now folded, to the floor. Hugin and Munin dozed nearby,
having already gone for an early morning run in the park that ran adjacent to the
hotel.

Bergamot-scented steam rose up around him, compliments of the doe-eyed maid with strong
shoulders who’d poured the buckets of water just moments before. She’d offered to
massage his shoulders, a service he’d politely declined, despite his muscles being
a tangle of tension. Two days before, when he’d accepted the same offer, things had
quickly gotten out of hand.

Jackson, who over the past two years had acted as his driver, his valet, and his man
of all business, replied, “We didn’t have much to begin with, my lord, but yes, everything’s
been packed. So…a house, you say?”

They waited for the girl to go, before continuing.

“She’s a pretty girl,” Jackson observed, once she had gone.

“I had not noticed. You ought not to, either.”

“Hmm.” His manservant rolled his eyes.

Jackson often called him a prude, but he’d never been one to avail himself of such
a la carte services. While he could be just as randy as any other hot-blooded man,
he preferred his liaisons to be of a certain quality, with women of passion, motivated
by mutual attraction rather than monetary need. If such opportunities came less frequently,
so be it. He found them infinitely more satisfying than those requiring an obligatory
coin and the further exploitation of a girl in unfortunate circumstances. She could
tidy the room, or shine his boots, and he’d compensate her just as generously and
hold his conscience clear.

Along those lines, he hoped to meet someone soon. Widows were always the obvious choice.
A love affair, he feared, was the only way to blot out Kate’s memory, which against
all reason lingered vividly in the back of his mind even now.

“Not just a house. I want a palace, at least in London terms. See what you can find,
somewhere in Mayfair. I liked what I saw of the area last night.”

Jackson grinned. “Expensive.”

“All for a necessary cause.”

Money. Lord knew he still had plenty of that. He’d spent only a fraction of his Bengal
fortune since returning to England two years ago. The resurrection of Bellefrost Manor
to her former shine and glory had been no great expense, since she had not been overly
grand to begin with. Yet to him and his family, she was priceless and they had continued
to live there despite now being in possession of the much grander Champdeer estates,
which earned enough in tenant rents to wholly support themselves.

Originally, he’d thought to bring his mother and father to town, along with little
Michael, but he feared that in some way, his parents’ spirit had been forever broken
by Laura’s death. The mother he’d once known would have grown giddy at the thought
of suddenly becoming a countess, and of going to town for her first London season,
and his father, while never impressed by a title, would have enjoyed days filled with
scientific exhibitions and lectures. But they had declined, preferring to remain at
Bellefrost with Michael, in the insulated world he had created for them. They were
reasonably happy, of course. They did not live each day immersed in misery. Michael
was a delight, for all of them, but at the same time a reminder of the injustice done
to Laura. A grievous injustice that had yet to be set right.

His parents had long ago begged him not to seek revenge. Not because they’d forgiven
whoever had dishonored Laura, nor forgotten. But because they feared losing him, too,
perhaps to a duel or to some other violence or misfortune. Also, who would be there
for Michael once they were gone? It had to be him.

So he hadn’t told them of his true intentions in coming here, and he’d promised not
to stay long, saying that he intended only to take in a few weeks of the customary
festivities. The opera. A gallery viewing. An agricultural lecture or two, but nothing
else. After all, it wasn’t as if he was looking for a wife, because Sir Snaith had
undergone a change of heart about the return of their lands. He was more than willing
to overlook a little scandal in the Northmore family’s recent past, in exchange for
a gentleman’s agreement that his young daughter would one day be betrothed to an earl,
the earl of course being himself. Cormack was fully at peace with that future because
by marrying the girl he would bring about the return of their ancestral properties
and bring his world one step closer to being whole again, leaving only the mystery
and injustice of Laura’s death to be resolved.

This new endeavor of taking a house in London would require that he write his parents
a letter to advise them he intended to extend his stay. He would of course again invite
them to join him. After all, whatever revenge he exacted would be of a private nature,
so as not to distress them more. What he intended, even he did not know, but the man
responsible would answer for what he had done. Cormack had committed murder in his
mind a thousand times over, but would he kill the man who had shamed his sister if
given the chance? He didn’t like to think about it. He only knew he wasn’t walking
away.

“So, somewhere near Hamilton Place, you say?” Jackson grinned slyly, naming the square
where Kate lived. He spread a piece of linen and laid out a shaving blade and leather
strop.

He hadn’t said Hamilton Place, but Jackson knew him better than anyone else.

He shrugged and rubbed a cloth heated by the water over his face. “I liked the feel
of it last night. It’s close to Hyde Park, where the Four-in-Hand Club gathers to
show off to one another on Sundays, and there’s a few gentlemen in that club I’d like
to meet.”

The Four-in-Hand Club boasted within its membership some of the most powerful titled
men in England. They were competitive, and gamblers by nature. It only made sense
that there might be members of the Invisibilis among them.

“Grosvenor Square is closer to Hyde Park. So is Berkeley Square, for that matter.”

“I don’t care for those areas quite so much.” It was not that he wanted to pursue
a relationship with Kate. She’d made clear that couldn’t happen.

“No, I didn’t think you would.” In a circular motion, his manservant frothed the shaving
lather in an earthenware mug. “While I’m off looking for a house, what do you intend
to do?”

He set down the cup and lifted the blade, which he drew across the well-worn strop.

“Go to Savile Row, for bespoke clothes, then Tattersalls, where I’m going to purchase
the most ridiculously priced horseflesh I can find.”

“Ah, a horse. After all, it is the attention of their lordships you wish to attract.
Not the ladies.”

Or a lady’s maid, for that matter.
He had done his duty to Kate, and sent her some lovely flowers, in what he hoped
would be perceived as a fond gesture of good-bye. Now he must focus on the reason
he was here, once and for all. Still, the idea of catching a glimpse of Kate walking
in the park with her mistress would be immensely satisfying. He’d like to know she
was happy, or at least safe and content.

He rested his head back against the heated metal. “That newspaper says the Marquess
of Rackmorton rides in the park each afternoon at six o’clock sharp. He’s the only
Marquess of R-dom whom I can discern is aged in his early thirties.” He eased lower
into the tub.

Jackson approached with the mug of shaving lather and chuckled. “Then I feel sorry
for him.”

Two days later, Daphne sat in Lady Harwick’s new canary yellow barouche, with her
mother and sister, as they entered the gates at Hyde Park Corner. Already a haze of
dust hung over the park, with hundreds of carriages crowding the lane. As they traveled
past, excitement rippled through the fashionable pedestrian crowd that lined the central
thoroughfare, in the form of raised voices and movement. Faces turned and stylishly
clad bodies—most of them fellow members of the
ton
—surged toward their vehicle, with all eyes greedily seeking them out with more than
customary interest.

But as all ladies of their class would certainly do, the three of them maintained
blasé expressions and pretended not to notice.

Yet Clarissa said between her teeth, with only the barest movement of her lips, “Why
is everyone looking at us?”

Lady Margaretta tilted her parasol just enough to obscure her face from curious eyes,
and with a tilt of her head inquired, “Neither of you have done anything that requires
a confession to your mother, have you?”

I have
, Daphne mentally confessed, and prayed the interest of the crowd had nothing to do
with her dancing on a stage made from shipping crates, or traipsing about London with
a handsome saltpeter merchant.

“There’s Havering,” murmured Daphne. “Ask him if my petticoat is caught on the outside
of the door.”

Indeed, Lord Havering appeared on horseback to ride alongside the carriage.

“Ladies.” He tilted his hat, revealing a glimpse of ash-blond hair. They acknowledged
him fondly, with Daphne reaching both of her gloved hands for his, which he gallantly
turned, and pressed upon them an affectionate kiss.

“Hello, my dear,” he said to her.

“Hello,
my
dear!” she exclaimed.

“And good morning to my other dear,” he said to Clarissa with a bow of his head.

“And to you, Fox!” she replied.

The crowding on the road forced their driver to slow their barouche to a stop, and
their handsome escort followed suit. Havering, or “Fox” as they called him, had been
their neighbor growing up. Having long ago repudiated all ties to his scandalous scoundrel
of a father, for reasons that were only ever whispered about, he had been unofficially
adopted into the family.

All her friends asked why one of the Bevington daughters hadn’t snatched up the handsome
Corinthian as a husband, but he was more like a brother to them all. Except for Sophia,
perhaps? They had been closer than the rest, likely because of their proximity of
ages, but Sophia had married the Duke of Claxton instead. Sophia had once confided
to her sisters, under the strictest of confidences, that despite Wolverton’s affection
for the young man, he had long ago warned Havering against making designs on any of
his granddaughters. Sophia didn’t know the circumstances of the prohibition, and none
of them had ever pried for more answers.

They’d come to a consensus that perhaps it had something to do with Havering’s mother,
who, according to the village gossips, had gone quite mad when he’d been just a boy,
and died in an asylum within months of having been committed there. It was a sad and
terrible story, and they supposed that because madness often repeated itself in families,
their patriarch simply sought to protect his own. Whatever the case, Havering had
never seemed anything but admiring of the old man, and the old man of him, and that
was all that seemed to matter.

“Daphne,” Havering said. “Please tell me again on what night your debut ball will
take place.”

Daphne straightened the seams of her glove, hoping her downward glance concealed her
frown, and the faint shadows under her eyes. Her ball. She hardly looked forward to
it, knowing that the most exciting man in London wouldn’t be there. No offense to
Havering.

Cormack.
She sighed inwardly, trying to ignore the sudden surge of longing that had only intensified
in the days since they’d said farewell. In her mind he had come to represent a fascinating
world of adventure, one that existed far and away from wallpapered drawing rooms,
museums, and manicured parks and gardens. A place where young ladies such as she weren’t
ever supposed to go.

For three nights she’d suffered the most intriguing and torturous dreams of him, and
as a result hardly got any rest at all. The night before, for instance, she’d awakened
just after midnight from the most sensual of fantasies, where they’d both been completely
naked and making love in a field of flowers. Even now, their heady fragrance teased
along the edges of her mind, along with the memory of the way he’d teased her breasts
with their petals, before sucking all traces of the syrupy nectar from her aroused
tips.

At one point, as she’d boldly stroked his male sex to attention, he’d been wearing
a helmet like the Achilles statue, which she had found odd…but strangely titillating.
Once awake, she’d been unable to return to sleep. She’d spent the rest of the night
at her window, staring out over the city and wondering where he was, and hoping he
was thinking of her. And replaying, again and again, every moment of the dream in
her head. Just remembering brought heat to her cheeks, and a shameful wish to see
him again.

“Daphne?” Havering was still there, waiting for his answer. “Are you all right? You
look a bit feverish.”

“Two Thursdays hence,” she blurted.

“Invitations go out Tuesday,” added her mother.

Daphne remembered something just then that she’d intended to ask him. “Please tell
me you intend to be my first dance. With Wolverton unable, and father and Vinson gone,
I can think of no one else I’d rather it be.”

Cormack
, her heart sighed. She wished it could be Cormack.

“To be honest, Wolverton had already spoken to me about it.” He reached to cover her
hand with his own. “I’d be honored. You know you are like a sister to me.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Lady Harwick, who watched, misty eyed.

“About the invitations…” He leaned toward them and rested his forearm on the pommel
of his saddle. “I’ve had three acquaintances in the last hour press upon me to use
my influence to see that they are included on the guest list.”

Her mother smiled. “What a compliment!”

“And what a relief.” Clarissa relaxed into the seat. “For a moment after entering
the park, we were concerned that we’d committed some dreadful faux pas, the way everyone
went to chattering and staring. It is good to know we are still in good standing.”