A Duchess in the Dark (2 page)

D
aphne had spent the night pacing, cursing her own impulsiveness, anxiety swirling like a tempest in her belly. Somehow, she had to set this all to rights.

Immediately after dressing, she fled to the sunlit breakfast room, where a handful of guests were gathered. A quick scan of the occupants revealed that Edward was not present.
Drat!
Daphne’s gaze settled on her brother-in-law, James. He sat on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with someone whose face she couldn’t see.

She walked across the room and tapped him on the shoulder. “James,” she said. “I’m looking for Lord Wallingford. Do you happen to know where he is?”

James’ eyes narrowed and it was then that his friend looked up. She recognized him immediately. Ashton Fitzgerald, Duke of Claymore. His dashing good looks and pale-green eyes were quite legendary among the ladies of the
ton
. His wicked charm and self-confident swagger drew every woman for miles. Every woman, that was, except Daphne.

She’d been formally introduced to him at Margaret and James’s wedding three years ago. She remembered vividly the first moment she’d glimpsed him—he was wearing white breeches and a dark-blue coat, his dark hair smoothed back from his face. He was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. And
then
her eyes had laid upon the countless women fluttering around him, all vying for his singular attention. Margaret had told her he’d taken
two
widows home that night. He’d broken so many hearts in the past three years, Daphne had been unable to keep count. She’d vowed to herself that she’d never fall for a man like that—handsome, charming,
dangerous
.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledged, before turning her attention back to James.

“Miss Hayward,” he murmured in return.

James shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea where Wallingford is.”

“As usual, you are no help at all.” She sighed and glanced out the window facing the lake. “Perhaps he’s out by the lake with the others.”

Daphne had already turned and was heading for the door when Ashton’s voice rang out from behind. “I’d be pleased to accompany you down to the lake.” He suddenly appeared at her side. As always, his deep, resonant voice sent tingles up her spine. She stiffened, ruthlessly shoving the sensation away.

“That isn’t necessary.” She walked as briskly as her legs would allow, blue skirts swishing around her ankles. Any decent gentleman would have taken the hint. It should hardly surprise her, then, that Ashton kept pace at her side. He was nothing if not persistent.

“I insist.” He flashed her a charming smile. There was something quite different about him. Something in the way he moved, in the subtle way he looked at her—as though keenly aware of her every movement.

At over six feet, he was much taller than she remembered. He wore a gray waistcoat and cream-colored breeches that hugged his muscular thighs to perfection.

He was still quite handsome—there, she admitted it—but she refused to be swayed by something as frivolous as a handsome face. Indeed, she endeavored to gaze upon him with detached appreciation, as one might admire a lovely painting. Lust, human emotion, needn’t be an issue at all.

The heat rioting through her veins was on account of the weather, surely. It was an usually warm morning, and her brisk steps were causing her heartbeats to skip, then quicken.

They were not ten yards from the lake when he paused, leaned over her, and drew in a deep breath.

She stopped sharply and turned to him, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. “Did you just
sniff
me?”

He grunted and mumbled something that sounded like “lavender” under his breath, gazing at her in a rather distracted and unsettling way. He leaned in closer, searching her face for heaven knew what. She opened her fan.

“Have you experienced any unusual facial spasms in the last few hours?” he asked.

Well, so much for civilities! Was he suggesting she had an unnatural affliction that caused her face to twitch? She snapped her fan closed and shoved the tip of it into his chest. Hard. “What exactly are you getting at? And choose your words wisely, for I’m rather dangerous with a fan.” She lifted the fan to his face, brandishing it like a weapon.

Ignoring her fan, he lifted his hands, as though gauging the size of his palms relative to the size of her breasts. An inch or two more and his hands would be cupping her intimately. Her feminine sensibilities should have been grossly offended—and they
were
, assuredly—but something else deep inside urged her to arch up into those large hands. Somewhere deep down, she wanted to feel his hands on her—the warmth of his palms, the strength of his touch.

Just an inch…his palms brushed against her breasts. His scent drew her in, urging her to suck in a deep, satisfied breath. Caging her against a nearby tree, his large body loomed over her, shielding her from the view of the lake. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. What was he about? Did he intend to smell her again, or worse,
kiss
her right here in view of anyone who might happen by?

He dipped his head and took another pull of air into his lungs. He
was
smelling her. And why wasn’t she stopping him? The question flitted across her mind, but before she could address him, his fingers lifted to brush a strand of hair away from the nape of her neck.

“Where did you get this mark?”

She blinked up at him as he lowered his head; so close his lips were near to touching hers. His warm breath fanned across her cheek. Tingles swirled low in her belly. Abruptly, she shoved at his chest and ducked under his arm, putting a respectable distance between them.

“What mark?” She glanced down and brushed out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.

“The one on your neck, just below your ear,” he said.

She ran her finger across the mark and shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant. “It’s nothing. A bug bite.”

It was a lie, of course. In the heat of the moment, the stranger had bitten her there, sinking his teeth in, creating the most thrilling sensation of pleasure mixed with just a nip of pain.

He tilted his head and she suddenly felt nervous. He looked at her intently—far
too
intently for her liking. “Those are teeth marks.”

Her gaze darted to his face. Slowly it dawned on her. Oh no. It couldn’t be. Could it? She didn’t want to believe it, but his peculiar behavior was too blatant to ignore. Anxiety spread through her at the thought of his hands stroking her, touching in her in the most intimate places…

“Thank you for your concern, but I think I’d know the difference between teeth marks and a bug bite.”

Looking deeply into her eyes, glancing from one to the other, he frowned. “No twitching, then?”

What was he implying?

“Not a whit.” She smiled tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He stepped directly into her path, a wall of pure masculine determination. “One more thing. Where were you last night, around midnight or thereabouts?”

Oh, dear God, it
was
him. Why else would he ask such a question?

“Why?” she asked quickly.

“Answer me.”

Sudden dread coiled in the pit of her stomach. If it was him, would he tell James? Surely he would. They shared everything. And James would demand she and Ashton marry immediately, as was proper.

Marry a man like Ashton—self-assured, arrogant, seducer of women? No, surely not. Ashton was handsome to be sure, but she wanted—
needed
—a safe, quiet husband who wouldn’t take half a dozen mistresses to his bed. Her father had been a notorious philanderer, taking a new mistress every fortnight, and Daphne had watched as her mother sank deeper and deeper into despair. Daphne swore she would never be that woman, pining for a man who could never truly love just
one
woman.

Edward was different. He was kind, unassuming, dependable…the perfect match for her.

“Ashton,” she said in a crisp, direct tone. “Perhaps I should make myself clear. I shall be very soon engaged.” It might be too soon to announce such news, especially since Edward hadn’t yet offered for her hand, but she was grasping for excuses. “Whatever you believe may have happened last night, most certainly did not. Now if you’ll move aside…”

He dipped his head and looked up at her through those long, black lashes. “And what do
you
believe
I
believe happened last night?”

What was this sudden feeling of breathlessness, as though all the air had escaped her lungs? And why,
why
couldn’t she stop imagining his hands on her breasts, thumbs gently stroking her nipples as he leaned down and…

“Good morning, Miss Hayward.”

Daphne jerked her head up to see Edward approach. Thank heaven. As usual, he was modestly dressed in a dark-green jacket and tan breeches, his blond hair arranged into a fashionably chaotic state. The effect was meant to create a certain roguish appeal, she gathered, but on him it just managed to look boyish and innocent.

She flashed him a smile. “Lord Wallingford, how delightful.” Her gloved hand slipped easily into the crook of his arm. “We were just discussing Lord Byron. Lord Claymore favors his work. He speaks of little else.”

“Ah yes.” Ashton smiled, slipping easily into her lie.
“She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes…”
He looked directly at Daphne as he said the last, as if communicating some secret message. Her heart leapt in response. He was calling her beautiful in his own absurd, acutely unsettling way, and despite herself, she found it oddly endearing. “I find his poetry often imitates life.”

“How fascinating,” Edward said, not appearing the least bit fascinated.

“Miss Hayward is also fond of poetry, as I’m sure you know,” Ashton said with just the hint of a smile teasing the edges of his lips.

Daphne blinked at Ashton’s unexpected comment. How did he know that?

Edward glanced at her with a warm smile. “I happen to know Miss Hayward prefers embroidering to poems, as most females do.”

Daphne’s heart sank. She hated embroidery. Indeed, she’d told him as much just last week, when her sister had forced her to embroider one of her many throw pillows. She’d wanted a duck surrounded by tall, wispy grass. What she’d gotten was a drowning green elephant surrounded by shrubs.

“You don’t mind if I steal her from you, do you, Your Grace?”

Despite his obvious memory loss, Edward had an easy, carefree manner that adhered people to him. Ashton, however, stared at Edward as though he’d like to run him through with a sharpened stick.

“Of course not,” Ashton said tightly. “Miss Hayward and I will continue our discussion later.
Tonight
, perhaps.”

It was an innuendo, thinly veiled, and it seemed to escape Edward completely. Daphne, however, understood his meaning quite clearly. She couldn’t escape him forever. And when he found her alone again, he would get the answers he was looking for.

“Excellent,” Edward said. “Shall we take a turn around the lake, Miss Hayward?”

“Yes.” She shot Ashton a glare. “That would be lovely.”

The lake was rather large, and they strolled a good distance in silence, enjoying the scenery, watching several ducks glide across the water. She waited for him to broach the subject of last night.

She cringed at the memory of encountering him in the hall. Her reaction to his sudden presence had been less than ideal. Indeed, the moment she’d seen him, she’d squeaked like an injured ferret and darted into her bedroom, nearly slamming the door in her haste to escape.

He glanced at her cautiously and she gathered he must simply be as nervous as she was. But the topic
must
be touched upon. Her future happiness—
their
future happiness—relied on this conversation. She must confess everything, and pray that her only chance at happiness hadn’t been lost. She felt slightly nauseous at the thought. But there was simply no way around it. The discussion must be had.

“So,” she ventured, after the silence between them stretched to an uncomfortable degree. “I hope you won’t fault me for last night…”

“Not at all,” Edward cut in. “I was wrong to have accosted you. I’d only hoped…”

His words dwindled into nothing, and there was a long, uncomfortable pause. She pulled him to a halt. “What were you going to say?”

He smiled, that devastating smile that made Daphne’s knees go weak. He drew her to the edge of the lake. He glanced out over the water, then turned to her and frowned. “I’d only hoped to speak with you alone.”

Excitement thrummed through her. There was little doubt about what he’d intended to discuss alone, in the middle of the night in her bedchamber.

She’d been waiting to hear those words for two seasons, since their very first meeting in Hyde Park. She’d been thrown from her horse—or rather, had been dangling precariously from her sidesaddle as she tried to disengage her leg from the pummel—when Edward had gallantly rescued her. He’d pulled her from the saddle, and for a brief, almost timeless moment, she’d felt
safe
. Then he’d smiled, and she’d instantly been lost to his quiet, unpretentious charm…

Daphne smiled up at Edward. “Well, we’re alone now.”

“Yes.” He steered her toward a marble bench situated on the edge of the lake, beneath a giant weeping willow and took the seat beside her. “But last night I’d hoped to discuss
intimate
matters, not at all suitable for your brother-in-law’s front lawn.”

“Oh?” She managed to sound mildly surprised. Her heart raced. There was no mistaking his meaning. He’d wanted to bed her. Clearly he’d had the same thought she did—if she was compromised, James would have to agree to their marriage. Unfortunately, like a fool, she’d slipped into the wrong room and ruined everything.

Her stomach tightened into a knot—what would he say when she told him the truth, that she was already ruined? The gravity of what she’d done slammed into her. She might lose him forever, and for all for one innocent mistake.