Once She Was Tempted (26 page)

A serene smile softened her face. “He won’t find it.”

Her confidence was heartening. Ben hoped that Charlton recovered soon and wasn’t so addled that he’d refuse the exorbitant sum he was prepared to offer. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more to be done—for now. I appreciate your time, Mrs. Parfitt. Would you keep me informed as to the baron’s condition?” He withdrew a calling card from his pocket and handed it to her. It disappeared into the folds of her apron.

“I will notify you if there is any change.”

With the help of his cane he heaved himself to his feet, wincing at the stiffness of his leg muscles. “I would prefer to keep my interest in the painting between us.”

“I understand, my lord.” She cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. “I’ll see you out.”

And then, because he couldn’t resist, he asked another question. “What is it like? The painting, I mean.”

“You haven’t seen it? And you intend to
buy
it?” she asked, her tone suggesting that she’d never understand the ways of gentry.

“It’s for a friend.”

Her eyebrows rose as if she were skeptical. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she inhaled deeply and stared over his shoulder. “The painting is remarkable.” If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought the portrait hung on the wall behind him. “It’s unlike any portrait I’ve seen—wistful and ethereal and uplifting, all at the same time. The young woman is very beautiful,” she said.
“She’s not a lady—that much is obvious from her manner of dress.” Color gathered in the apples of her cheeks. “And yet, she has a quality about her that is almost… regal.” She shook her head slightly and blinked as though the picture had suddenly disappeared, then shifted her focus back to him. “Lord Charlton hung it in his library, along with the other one, which disappeared some months ago. He vowed he’d never have it in his bedchamber, out of respect to his dear, departed wife.” The housekeeper’s chest swelled a little at that.

“Are there any rumors about the identity of the woman in the portrait?”

“Not that I know of. Lord Charlton seems to think that she is a product of the artist’s imagination.”

“And are you of the same opinion?”

She seemed to contemplate the question, then shook her head. “The artist may have taken some liberties with her features, but I suspect she is real. Her expression is too complex—too uniquely feminine—to be conjured up in the mind of a man.”

“We are a simple lot,” Ben admitted.

Her round cheeks dimpled. “I’ll see you out now, before Mr. Hallows comes down seeking a cure for last night’s overindulgences.”

Sure enough, Rose captured her bishop. Daphne did not expect to win against Rose, but she usually managed to employ
some
feeble strategy.

“It’s as though you’re in a daze,” Olivia said. She narrowed her eyes. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“I’m just a little preoccupied.” She hadn’t seen Ben all day, and Lord Biltmore said that he’d taken his coach somewhere—probably a drive into the village.

But Daphne knew he’d planned to visit Lord Charlton. She prayed Ben would be able to convince him to part with the painting. Her whole future depended upon it.

And
that
was why she could not play chess to save her life.

“We can postpone the match,” Rose offered. “Would you like to take a stroll? There’s a lovely path near the lake.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company. Why don’t you and Olivia go? I think I’ll read until dinner.”

“I know what the problem is,” Olivia declared.

Daphne swallowed hard. “You do?”

“You’re missing Anabelle. I’m sure she’s doing just fine. It’s only two more days until we return to London; then you shall see for yourself.”

Daphne did miss her sister—desperately. She wished she could go to her and tell her everything so that she could somehow fix it. But there were no easy answers to her predicament, and she had the sinking feeling that things were about to get much worse.

“Yes, it will be good to be back in town.”
Unless
she returned to find that her portrait was made public and put up for auction.

“Why, good afternoon, Lord Foxburn.” Lady Worsham’s singsong voice cut through the conversations in the drawing room. “You have been the subject of much speculation. Your ears must have been burning.”

“My ears were blissfully unaware,” he said dryly.

Daphne’s pulse quickened at the sight of him. His buckskin breeches showed off his narrow hips, and his dark green jacket fit snugly across the breadth of his shoulders. Of course, she now knew precisely what lay beneath his expertly tailored clothes, and the memory of his hard body gave her a little jolt. His gaze swept around the room and lingered on her for a moment longer than it should have. She didn’t think anyone else noticed, but she had. And she realized just how difficult it was going to be to pretend that there was nothing between them. That he had never stroked her skin or kissed her… everywhere. That she hadn’t given herself to him with reckless, adoring abandon.

“Do put an end to the suspense,” Lady Worsham pleaded, “and tell us where you have been.”

“Nowhere worth mentioning. Besides, I would be remiss if I didn’t greet everyone before launching into boring accounts of my day.”

He ambled around the drawing room, making polite conversation with Mama and Lady Worsham for a few moments before joining Lord Biltmore and the other gentlemen who were discussing politics. Finally, he made his way toward her, Olivia, and Rose, limping slightly. “Good afternoon, ladies. You’re all looking very well today.”

His heavy-lidded gaze caused Daphne’s heart to beat wildly.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Olivia. “This happens to be a new dress, but some people”—she rolled her eyes in Mr. Averill’s direction—“have yet to take notice.”

“Good God, they must be blind.”

“One does begin to wonder,” Olivia mused. “And
rather than sit here, unappreciated, my sister and I have decided to go for a stroll around the lake. Would you care to join—Er, forgive me. I forgot about… your injury.”

“I appreciate the invitation, half-issued though it was. As you predicted, I must decline.” He focused stormy eyes on Daphne. “Will you join your friends, Miss Honeycote?”

“I thought I’d take advantage of the cooler weather and read my book in the garden.”

“Daphne is missing her sister,” Olivia said, as though that explained everything.

Ben raised his dark brows. “Then we must make it our mission to cheer her.”

“You may do your best. After dinner,” Daphne said. “My book is calling to me now.” She dared not look at Ben as she left the drawing room and headed up the stairs to her bedchamber to retrieve a book. She was fairly certain that he would make an appearance in the garden. She hoped he would. They had much to discuss.

And, somehow, she must summon the courage to speak what was in her heart.

I
t may have been overly sentimental, but Daphne thought of the stone bench beneath the trellis as
their
spot. He would find her here, she hoped, in order to tell her what had transpired during his visit to Lord Charlton’s.

More importantly, she would confess to Ben how she felt about him.

It mattered little that low, grayish clouds had drifted in front of the sun or that a warm breeze portended the distinct possibility of a late afternoon shower. A few raindrops might spot her dress, but nothing could dampen her mood.

During breakfast that morning, she’d had an epiphany. She’d watched as Lord Worsham pushed his wife’s chair in and leaned down to whisper in her ear. Lady Worsham blushed and affectionately scolded him, but her eyes had glowed with love.

Daphne wanted
that
.

More specifically, she wanted that with Ben. And it occurred to her that if there was to be any chance of that sort of future actually coming to pass, she would have to convince Ben that he wanted it, too.

It was a daunting prospect, seeing as she was not accustomed to persuading gentlemen to declare their affection for her. She’d never been particularly comfortable pressing others into service if it involved more than passing the jam.

But when doubt slithered into her ear, whispering that Ben would never change his mind, she simply remembered the way he’d held her—like he never wanted to let her go. That had to count for something.

The distinct
step-step-thud, step-step-thud
of Ben’s feet and cane trodding the path made her shiver in anticipation. She ignored the fat raindrop that plopped on her chest.

“There you are.” As he lowered himself onto the bench beside her, his wide smile contorted into a grimace.

Without asking him—without even thinking—she placed her palms on his thigh and began to gently knead the flesh. He stiffened at first but slowly relaxed, and after a minute or two, the muscles seemed more pliant. “Better?”

“Thank you.” He lifted one of her hands and pressed his warm lips to the back of it. Her heart tripped in her chest. “I didn’t get to see Charlton today. He’s not well.”

“Oh no. What’s wrong?”

“His housekeeper informed me he’s been unconscious for a few days.”

“It must be serious. Does he have a fever? How is his pallor?”

“I didn’t see him, much less have the chance to examine him. The problem, obviously, is that as long as he’s in his current state, I can’t ask him to sell the painting.”

“That
is
vexing, but not nearly as important as the baron’s health.” She wondered if Lord Biltmore’s library contained any medical journals. Of course, she would need to know more about Lord Charlton’s condition if she were to have any hope of diagnosing his illness. “I need to visit him.”

Ben stared at her like she was touched in the upper works. “Impossible.”

“Why?”

“The housekeeper refused to let me see him. Why would she let you?”

Why indeed? “His symptoms sound similar to my mother’s—when I cared for her. I might be able to help him.”

“He’s an old man, Daphne. The list of things that ail him is probably as long as my arm. He has a doctor.”

“So do you, I presume. And yet, I was able to help you.”

His eyelids lowered a fraction and a corner of his mouth curled. “That is true. I don’t doubt your ability to heal people. Just sitting here, next to you, makes me feel better.”

She softened. “I may not be able to help Lord Charlton, but it’s worth a try.”

“We can’t risk it.”

“Risk what?”

“You being recognized. Mrs. Parfitt, the housekeeper, has seen the painting. She’ll identify you as the English Beauty.”

Her eyebrows rose. “The English—”

“That’s what Charlton dubbed you. I like it,” he admitted. “But it’s not just Mrs. Parfitt. The staff has seen your portrait, too. Some of the footmen moved it to its current hiding place.”

That
was
problematic. The more people who could connect her name to the painting, the more trouble she was in. Still, there had to be a way to avoid detection. “I could hide my hair under a large bonnet and pull the brim low over my face.”

“No.” It was firm. Final.

Or so he thought. “If there’s a chance I can help Lord Charlton, I must. Even if it means I’m discovered. What about your friend Robert? What would he have had you do in this situation?”

She’d struck a nerve. He bit his lower lip and trained his blue eyes upon her. “Lord Charlton could wake. Bonnet or no bonnet, he would recognize you in an instant. Are you willing to risk your reputation and that of your family and friends for the mere possibility that you could aid him?”

Normally, adding her family to the scale tipped it in that direction. But she knew Mama and Anabelle wouldn’t want anyone to suffer the way Mama once had. Not if it could be helped. “Yes. I’m willing to risk it.”

She braced herself for a string of curses, a scathing glare. But instead he nodded slowly and looked at her as if he were… proud. “Hallows will try to prevent you from seeing his father. He thinks he’s going to sell the portrait, pay off all his vowels, and have a grand sum left over. He’ll be suspicious the moment either one of us sets foot in his home. Actually, he’ll be mad as hell. It could get ugly.”

“I know.”

“We can go tomorrow.” The way he said
we
—so casually—made her feel warm inside. Now that the one matter was settled, she summoned the courage to broach the more difficult subject.

“I’d like to talk to you about last night.”

Concern wrinkled his forehead. “Of course.”

“I…” She swallowed hard. What if the words she’d rehearsed in her head sounded desperate or, worse, trite? Taking a deep breath, she began again. “Last night was special to me.
You
are special to me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and what I think is that… we should be together.” Her traitorous hands trembled, and he clasped them between his steady palms.

“We
are
together. I promised you I would help you get the portrait back. My word is good.”

She narrowed her eyes, all but certain he was being purposefully obtuse. “I’m not talking about the painting right now. I’m talking about
us
. We are rather well suited—that is, if last night was any indication.”

A wicked smile lit his face. “Indeed.”

“I’m relieved to know that we agree on that point.” Good Lord, this was ten times more mortifying than she’d imagined. He was going to make her spell it out. “Since we seem to be so compatible—not only in the physical sense, mind you, but in other ways as well—I propose that we take our relationship, as it were, to the next logical step.”

He inhaled deeply and rubbed his chin. “You’re proposing that I propose?”