Guilty Series Page 25

  “Stop it.” She was blushing under the staring eyes of a room of people.

  “I remember how you said my name over and over again as I touched you, of how I loved hearing you say it, of how you were filling my senses until I could not think.”

  She caught back a sob of pain and fury. “You are cruel, Anthony,” she told him in a fierce whisper. “Cruel to say such things to me when we both know it is only your determination to have your way that impels you to say them.”

  “We both did what we hate to do, Daphne. We both lost control. I take all the blame, for I knew what the result would be, yet I could not stop myself from doing it anyway. You call me cruel? You will not even allow me to make up for the wrong I have done you. If I am determined, it is only to make you safe. It is you who are cruel, Daphne, to deny me that.”

  The dance came to an end, and the music stopped. As he returned her to her place beside Elizabeth, he defied the stares directed at them and whispered close to her ear, “I remember everything, and I cannot believe you have forgotten. If you have, I will make you remember. I vow on my life I will.”

  Chapter 24

  Despite his accusation, Daphne had not forgotten their night together, nor anything else about him, and she could not believe he could think for a moment that she had. Memories of him were etched into her brain like carvings in stone, memories of how he had kissed her and made love to her, memories of the hard strength of his body, and the glorious delight of his hands and his mouth. And the act itself—the delight and pleasure of that experience never left her for a moment. She would never forget him, and even had she wanted to, the fortnight that followed their evening at the Haydon Assembly Rooms gave her no chance to do so.

  The first day after their dance together, he sent her twelve bouquets of variegated tulips and rosemary to convey his admiration of her beautiful eyes and to signify his memory of the first time he had told her that. Each bouquet was in its own crystal vase banded with a ribbon knotted around a gold hairpin. Daphne fingered one of the dangling hair ornaments, remembering exactly what he wanted her to remember—of how he had taken down her hair that night and refashioned it himself.

  A woman’s hair can be a man’s obsession.

  Was he imagining her hair down, spread across his pillows?

  That was the night he had admitted to her his awe of love, confessed his fear of it, recognized her defenses against it.

  This gift was so lavish and expensive that the proper thing to do was send the whole lot—flowers, crystal vases, and gold hairpins—back to him. In the end, she kept the flowers, but she sent back the rest, with a note that reminded him she could not keep gifts, particularly such absurd, extravagant ones, for if she did, others would think them engaged, and they were not.

  A few days later, twelve bouquets of dittany proclaimed his passion for her and his memory of their picnic, when she had described the hills of Crete to him, but they were tied with simple silk ribbons, and there were no gold hairpins or crystal vases with them.

  After another few days, twelve more bouquets arrived. These were sprays of peach blossoms.

  “You hold me captive,” Elizabeth read from the book in her hands, then lowered it to lean forward and sniff one of the fragrant sprays in Daphne’s bedroom. “It also means, ‘I am in your power.’” With a sigh, she turned away from the bouquets on the windowsill and fell forward onto Daphne’s bed. “I would fall in love with a man who told me that.”

  “He is talking nonsense,” Daphne answered, squeezing the water out of her freshly washed hair into the bowl on her dressing table. “‘I am in your power,’” she repeated as she wrapped her head in a towel. “As if Anthony could mean anything so ridiculous.”

  She turned away from the dressing table, and her gaze caught on the flowers. She paused, pressing her fingers to her lips, remembering that night they had bargained over her spectacles.

  Do you not see how much power you could have over me?

  The same warm, aching sensation of anticipation and desire spread through her limbs as she remembered that night.

  “But does it not soften your heart, at least a little?” Elizabeth asked.

  Daphne jerked her hand down and frowned at her friend. “He does not mean it.”

  “You do not believe he is sincere?”

  “I do not know!” she cried in vexation. “Let’s not talk of it anymore.”

  Elizabeth did not mention it again, and the rest of the Fitzhugh family remained tactfully silent on the subject as well, although when twelve lime trees laden with fruit arrived, conveying the duke’s undimmed intent to marry her, Sir Edward asked with amused exasperation whether these demonstrations of his grace’s affection would extend to the next Christmas season, for if so, he feared they would be receiving an enormous quantity of partridges and pear trees.

  In addition to the flowers sent to Daphne, they received stacks and stacks of cards and invitations. So many visitors came to Russell Square that the small drawing room could not always accommodate them all. Every person who called talked delicately of weddings and engagements, though none were so bold as to discuss the rumors about hers. No engagement had been announced, but Daphne’s silence on the subject was thought to be motivated by an understandable desire for discretion rather than the unbelievable alternative that she had refused him.

  The baron called on them numerous times during that week, making several such visits as well as some outings with him so that they might get to know one another. Daphne had no idea if her grandfather was coming to have a genuine concern for her, or was simply pretending his familial interest in her affairs. Whatever his reasons, Durand remained convinced that despite her denials, Daphne would soon be wed to the duke.

  His conviction was reinforced by the pages of every society paper in London, for all of them seemed to take her acceptance of Anthony’s suit for granted. Decorum prevented her from denouncing these rumors publicly, and she could do nothing but wait for the speculation to die down.

  However, as the second week of this unusual courtship progressed, the speculation did not end, it only grew. Word of the lime trees got out, as did the news that Anthony was using the book of Charlotte de la Tour as the basis of his courtship. Soon London bookstores were depleted of every available copy and people of the ton found occasion to walk in the park of Russell Square quite often, hoping to see another of the duke’s floral letters to Miss Wade pass through the doors of Sir Edward Fitzhugh’s house.

  There was a great deal of discussion in the papers about Daphne’s background, which was so significantly lower than Tremore’s. There was also some talk of her parents’ elopement and the baron’s desire to cover up such a scandal by claiming his daughter was in Italy with relations there. One or two hinted that her parents had not married at all, but such rumors were quickly refuted.

  The most incredible statements about her life in Africa were bandied about, along with the news that she had been employed by the duke to do research on his antiquities and render the sketches for his museum.

  Comments were made about her unprepossessing looks, her lack of a substantial dowry, and her connections, which though respectable, were hardly worthy of a duke. All of this pointed to her complete lack of suitability to be a duchess and led some papers to wonder if Tremore was quite right in the head.

  Daphne did her best to ignore the hurtful things that were being said about her in the papers and repeated to her by rumor-mongering acquaintances who “meant well.” Harder to bear was the scrutiny. She could not go anywhere without being observed and discussed, and she truly began to appreciate what Anthony had told her about how smothering his life could be.

  That did not stop him from adding fuel to the fire. The day of the Fitzhugh card party, another floral message from him arrived at the house in Russell Square.

  “He is impossible!” Daphne declared, watching as two men maneuvered an enormous bouquet of flowers through the door, an arrangement in all the colors of the rai
nbow that filled the drawing room at once with the fragrance of its many flowers.

  Lady Fitzhugh had a corner of the room cleared away to accommodate the thing, for it was at least three feet across, four feet high, and could not possibly fit in their tiny vestibule. Once this was accomplished, the two men who had delivered it departed, Elizabeth and Anne examined its flowers with exclamations of delight, and Daphne turned to Lady Fitzhugh in exasperation. “What am I to do?” she cried. “He will not take no.”

  “You are refusing him?” Anne cried. “Oh, Daphne, how can you be so heartless as that?”

  The accusation stung, and Elizabeth must have seen it. “She should not have to marry him if she does not love him!”

  “Do you not love him?” Anne asked, incredulous. “But why not?”

  “Anne, that is enough,” Lady Fitzhugh said. “It is not our business to inquire about Daphne’s feelings. Now, girls, I believe we must depart for Lady Atherton’s. It is nearly three o’clock. Let us allow Daphne some peace. Heaven knows, she is in need of it.”

  She gave Lady Fitzhugh a grateful look as the other woman ushered the girls out of the room, leaving Daphne alone with her latest present. She studied it for a long time.

  Despite the dozens of flowers and plants in front of her that told of his passion, his attention to his duty, and his desire to protect and honor her, Daphne could not help but notice that there was no symbol anywhere in this enormous display that conveyed a declaration of love.

  It hardly mattered. Anthony himself had deemed his feelings for her a temporary affliction, and even if a rose or a carnation or a spray of forget-me-nots had been tucked somewhere amid this vast quantity of flowers, it would not have convinced her he felt anything permanent for her. There was no flower, no gift, no words that could ever convince one’s heart of anything.

  Anthony knew there was no way to court Daphne without generating gossip. What he was not prepared for was his own anger every time he saw another snide comment about her in the society papers, an anger that burned all the stronger since he had once been as blind as that himself. During the week that followed their waltz together at the Haydon Rooms, he did not call on her at Russell Square, hoping that would cause the gossip to die down.

  Instead of Russell Square, he spent a great deal of time at his club. One night a week after the evening at the Haydon Rooms, he came into Brooks to find Dylan there, halfway through a bottle of brandy.

  Anthony accepted Dylan’s invitation to join him and sat down. He leaned back in his chair, noting the other man’s drawn face and bloodshot eyes. “Every time I see you like this, I am grateful I do not have the artistic temperament,” he commented.

  “I do not have it either, it seems,” Dylan said wearily. “I cannot seem to write two notes together, so I am occupying myself with a binge of alcoholic excess.” He gestured to the bottle on the table. “Would you care to join me? From what I hear, you could use a drink yourself.”

  Anthony admitted nothing. Instead, he signaled for a glass. When it came, he poured a brandy for himself, ignoring his friend’s amused stare.

  “I hear the London florists are quite busy.”

  Anthony took a sip of brandy in silence.

  “Perhaps I shall begin sending flowers to young ladies. That would be something new for me. How do you use flowers to ask a woman to share your bed?”

  Anthony smothered a laugh. “You have already bedded so many, how do you keep count?”

  “Not true,” Dylan corrected. “I haven’t bedded yours, much as I would enjoy doing so.”

  Anthony stiffened, his hand tightening around his glass. He said nothing.

  Dylan leaned back in his chair and his brows rose with that mocking amusement. “The society papers call her plain, you know. They say her skin is a bit too tanned for fashion, her cheeks are too round, and her hair is an unremarkable brown. You would compare the color to honey, no doubt.”

  Anthony was in no frame of mind for Dylan’s mockery. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

  “I confess I am. I would like to see the ducal hauteur come down for once. D’you know, in all the years I have known you, I have never once seen you lose your temper? Not once. But let us leave your character for another day, and talk of the charms of Miss Wade.” He took a swallow of brandy. “They say her vision is very poor, for she wears her spectacles nearly all the time. All the women of London are baffled by how such a dowdy thing has claimed your heart, but I—and I think there are plenty of other men who would agree with me on this—see something quite appealing there.”

  Anthony picked up the copy of The Times that lay on the table and folded it back to the political pages.

  “She has a luscious figure,” Dylan went on. “I saw that straightaway, for I always notice the most important things first. Now, the papers may have a point about her face, for it is a bit too round to be truly pretty, but sweet enough to look at for all that. It is not a face to give much away, is it? I watched as you danced with her, and I might have thought she didn’t care tuppence for you. And as for her eyes, God, what a color!”

  Anthony slapped the paper back on the table. “Do not push me, Moore, for I am not in the mood for your satiric comments tonight.”

  “You in the agonies of unrequited love is a satire. In fact, watching this romance from a distance as it unfolds has become my most entertaining amusement. Lime trees, Tremore? No one to touch you for folly. Miss Wade does not seem to share your passion. How do you feel? Frustrated? Wounded? Outraged that the gods have thwarted you?”

  A muscle ticked in Anthony’s jaw. “Go to the devil.”

  “I already have, my friend.” Dylan refilled his glass and lifted it. “Here’s to hell,” he said, and knocked back the brandy. “Now that both of us are there.”

  He shoved back his chair and rose as if to depart, but before he did so, he leaned toward Anthony, resting his palms on the table. “I believe I shall compose a piece in Miss Wade’s honor,” he said in a low voice. “‘Daphne of the Violet Eyes,’ or something like that. Who knows? I might succeed with a sonata where your flowers have failed.”

  A blackness came over Anthony like a curtain going down, and the next thing he knew, his greatest friend was on the floor with a bloody lip, a bone-jarring ache was in his fist, and other members of Brook’s had seized his arms to hold him back.

  Dylan touched his hand to the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the smear of blood on his fingertips, then raised his gaze, confronting Anthony’s rage with a rueful smile. “You see, my friend?” he murmured. “Madness comes to us all. Even you.”

  Chapter 25

  As he had promised Lady Fitzhugh, Anthony accepted the invitation to her card party, though he knew it would only inflame the already rampant gossip.

  He wanted to see Daphne. He wished propriety did not prevent him from seeing her privately, but seeing her amid a group of people was better than not seeing her at all. When he arrived at the house in Russell Square, however, he received exactly what he had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with her.

  The usual flutter of excitement the arrival of a duke created was followed by introductions to the other guests, and resulted in the inevitable awkward silence. Lady Fitzhugh cleared her throat and turned to her husband. “Perhaps we should begin?” she suggested.

  Sir Edward concurred at once. “Yes, yes, capital idea, Elinor. Let us start the play. A pair of us will have to make do with piquet, I fear, instead of whist. Mr. Jennings has developed a cold, and his wife sent word late today that they would not be able to attend, so we are two short for whist.”

  Daphne turned to Anthony. “Perhaps your grace would prefer chess to cards?” she suggested, gesturing to the doorway that led into an adjoining room.

  The silence that followed was not awkward, but deafening. For some reason, Daphne wanted a private interview with him, and though he doubted it was for the same reasons that motivated him, he was quick to take advantage of it.

 
“I love chess, Miss Wade,” Anthony said. “I would be honored.”

  “Excellent.” She strode into the adjoining room, where the chessboard had been moved out of the way for the card party. He bowed to the other guests and followed her. When she sat down, he took the opposite chair.

  “Your grace,” she began without preliminaries, “you have to stop—” She broke off, frowning at the smile on his face. “Why in heaven’s name are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because by tomorrow everyone in London will know we are engaged.” He gestured to the board. “A lady makes the first move.”

  “What are you talking about? We are not engaged.” She frowned as she shoved a pawn two spaces forward in an abstract fashion. “And I do not care in the least what people think.”

  “In front of everyone else in the room, you have invited me to be alone with you,” he pointed out, moving his own pawn. “The inevitable conclusion is that we are engaged. If I had known it would be this easy, I would have maneuvered you into chess days ago.”

  Daphne shot an impatient glance at the doorway and slid another pawn forward. “This is ridiculous. We are not alone and the doors are open. Lady Fitzhugh can see us perfectly well from where she is sitting.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We have moved into another room, and we are now having a private conversation. No couple not engaged are allowed this sort of liberty.” He moved his knight, and looked at her, still smiling. “When you were looking up rules in etiquette books, did you miss that one?”

  “Anthony, you must stop this. The fact that I even need etiquette books proves what an inadequate duchess I would be.”