Once She Was Tempted (27 page)

Well. That was putting it bluntly. “Yes.”

Some of the blue washed out of his eyes, and he refused
to look directly at her, focusing on a spot somewhere over her shoulder.

Every second that he didn’t answer was an answer in itself. Her chest ached.

“Daphne. I meant what I said to you last night. I care about you more than I thought possible, but I cannot marry you.”

She’d known there was a chance he’d say that, but she wasn’t prepared for the way the words cut her—each one was a shard of glass. Her throat constricted. “Why?”

“Look at me.” The anger in his voice jarred her. He stood, hoisted his cane, and slammed it against the side of the stone bench with a
crack
, splintering it into ugly, stringy pieces. She flinched. “Why on earth,” he choked out, “would you want to be shackled to someone like me?”

She stood and faced him, toe to toe. “That is a very good question, and the answer escapes me at the moment. Perhaps you could tell me why we
shouldn’t
be together.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you.” His voice was low, just above a whisper, and then he was silent for the space of a dozen beats of her pounding heart. “You are an amazing young woman with your whole life ahead of you, and I’m not good e—”

“
Stop
.”

He paused midsentence, mouth open.

“Don’t presume to tell me what’s good for me. I know what I want. I know
who
I want.”

“You think you do. But you can’t know how you’ll feel about me in six months or six years. Dealing with this”—he jabbed a finger at his leg as though she hadn’t a clue what he was referring to—“gets very old, very quickly. It’s a burden I need to carry myself.”

Hot tears welled in her eyes, a sharp contrast to the cool raindrops that splattered on her cheeks. “Why? Why do you think you must endure it on your own? Don’t you trust me?”

“That’s not it, Daphne.”

“Then why?”

He stood, unmoving for several seconds—long enough for her to wonder if he was even going to answer her. “Because,” he said softly, “if we married, you would eventually grow weary of me and my… limitations.”

She parted her lips, wanting to ask what on earth he was talking about, but he held up a hand.

“After a couple of years, you’d resent me. After a few more, you’d despise me. And if there’s one thing that I absolutely couldn’t bear, it’s that. I don’t want you… ever… to despise me.”

His confession was heartbreaking and maddening at the same time. “I don’t think you give me enough credit. I’m not an ingénue or a sniveling debutante who has a fit of the vapors when she runs her stocking. I know what it’s like to wake up hungry and face an empty cupboard.” She sighed. “You may not know it to look at me, but I’ve faced adversity, and I’m not the sort of person who would abandon, in any sense of the word, someone I l—” She caught herself. “Someone I care about.”

He shook his head, as if he’d like to rid his ears of the words she’d spoken.

“Just think about it,” she pleaded. “What do you want your future to look like? Because it is your choice, you know. You can choose to be miserable and alone, or you can choose… me.”

“You should envision
your
possible futures,” he
retorted. “A happy, full life with a man who twirls you around dance floors, indulges your every whim, and gives you a brood of children… or me.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” she said, “the choice is rather obvious.”

Confusion clouded his handsome features. “Exactly.”

She picked up her book as though the matter was settled. In her mind, it was. Somehow, she’d have to prove to him that love trumped everything. But how? “What time shall we leave tomorrow?”

He planted his hands on his hips. “What?”

“For Lord Charlton’s house,” she said with exaggerated patience. “You’ll recall we planned to visit him. Shall we say the foyer at two o’clock?”

“Fine.” Ben looked slightly dazed.

And she left him just so, walking away without looking back.

He did not look at her, seeming to prefer the scenery outside the window, which consisted of gray skies and muddy roads. A bit lowering, even if she wasn’t looking very stylish this afternoon. Hoping to avoid recognition by Lord Charlton’s staff, she’d tucked every last strand of hair beneath her bonnet and donned her plain russet-colored dress. She wasn’t as nervous about the staff, however, as she was about Mr. Hallows.

At the picnic, he’d spoken to her as though she were less than a person. As though in posing for the portrait she had surrendered a part of herself, giving him the right to demean her. She knew Ben wouldn’t let him harm her, but Daphne would know what Mr. Hallows was thinking. That alone made her skin crawl.

“Mrs. Parfitt might turn us away,” Ben said. He still did not look at her.

“Yes.”

“You know, it takes more than a dowdy cap and plain dress to disguise your sort of beauty.”

It might have been a compliment—if he hadn’t spoken as though she were quite simple.

“Thank you, I think.”

He glared at her for a long moment before turning back to the window.

As the coach pulled up the circular drive, Daphne took a fortifying breath and reached for the basket she’d prepared. Lord Biltmore’s cook had given her a jar of beef broth and his housekeeper provided a variety of tea leaves. Daphne had picked some wildflowers and tied them with a cheerful yellow ribbon. The baron might be too ill to enjoy the gifts, but they certainly couldn’t hurt. And when he awoke, it might please him to know that his neighbors were concerned.

Trepidation filled her as she alighted from the coach. Squeezing her hand, Ben said, “You’ll be safe with me.”

“I know. It’s just odd to think that everything’s come full circle. I’m going to meet the man who commissioned the portraits.”

“You hope you will,” he corrected. “First, we must make it past the front door.”

“You make it sound as though the house is guarded by Cerberus.”

“You haven’t met Mrs. Parfitt.” Ben knocked on the door.

The butler answered, and upon hearing their request to visit with the baron, he immediately sought out the housekeeper.

She scurried toward them a minute later, wiping her hands on her apron. “Lord Foxburn, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” She looked questioningly at Daphne.

“This is Miss Honeycote. She’s a guest at Biltmore Manor, and when I mentioned that Lord Charlton was quite ill, she insisted on visiting him to see if she could help.”

“Here are a few things for him.” Daphne handed her the basket. “Forgive me for being so forward, but I spent several months nursing my mother back to health and, through trial and error, learned quite a bit. May we visit the baron for a few minutes? I wouldn’t disturb him in the slightest, but seeing him would give me an indication as to what troubles him.”

The housekeeper’s eyes turned to slits in her round face. “The baron is receiving excellent care.”

“We do not doubt it, Mrs. Parfitt,” Ben assured her. “But Miss Honeycote has something of a gift for healing. I, myself, have been the recipient of her care—for a war injury. Hopeless cases are her specialty.”

Daphne could have kissed him—would have, if she could have.

The woman sighed and ushered them farther into the house. “Mr. Hallows is not at home,” she said evenly. “I’m certain that he would chastise me for admitting anyone into his father’s room, so you must be quick.”

“Of course,” Daphne assured her.

“My sister is with him.” To Ben she said, “You remember the way to his room?”

“Yes. This way, Miss Honeycote.” He placed a warm hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the stairs.

They were halfway up the flight when Mrs. Parfitt’s voice halted them. “This visit wouldn’t have anything to do with the painting, would it?”

A chill slithered down Daphne’s spine.

“No,” Ben said. “You have my word on that.”

The round woman nodded and hurried down the hall carrying the basket.

Daphne preceded Ben up a second set of stairs, impressed by the agility with which he took them. As though he’d read her thoughts, he muttered, “I’ll pay for this later.”

Daphne was relieved to see the pretty, feminine wallpaper above the chair rail in the hallway and the tasteful, if unimaginative, oil paintings of flowers and fruit that graced the walls. Inconsequential though it seemed, she’d feared that the baron’s home might have been a garish monstrosity decorated in an abundance of red and gold and that her portrait—at least, at one time—had been the centerpiece of it all. But it was simply a stately country home that had probably seen generations of children slide down its banisters and grow up within its walls. There was nothing sinister about it; however, it did feel a little sad.

Such a large house should be bustling, but instead, it was hushed. Most of the rooms they passed were unused and sparsely furnished; the curtains were drawn shut.

“Here we are.” Ben consulted his pocket watch. “Two-thirty. Let’s keep our visit to no more than a quarter of an hour.”

A broad-shouldered woman filled the doorway. “May I help you?” she asked—rather insincerely in Daphne’s opinion. To her credit, the woman was clearly protective of Lord Charlton.

“Good afternoon,” Ben said, flashing a smile. “You must be Mrs. Parfitt’s sister. She sent us up for a brief, neighborly visit.”

“The baron hasn’t opened his eyes in days. When he wakes, I’ll be happy to tell him that his neighbors stopped in.”

Though Daphne hadn’t yet stepped foot in the room, she could feel heat radiating from it. A fire burned on the grate and the windows were shut tight. Mrs. Parfitt’s sister’s dress was stained with perspiration. “We understand that Lord Charlton is resting and have no intention of disturbing him. Perhaps we could just sit with him for a few moments while you take a well-deserved break?”

Her frown faltered. “Who did you say you were?”

“Forgive us. We didn’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m Miss Honeycote, and this is Lord Foxburn.”

“I see. Well, if Mary sent you up, I suppose it would be all right.”

Daphne exhaled silently. “Thank you.”

As the woman lumbered out of the bedchamber, Daphne did a quick assessment. The room was even warmer than she’d imagined, and although Lord Charlton’s face was slick with sweat, at least two wool blankets lay over him.

“Stand guard by the door,” she told Ben.

“What?”

“Let me know if she returns.”

Obligingly, he leaned one broad shoulder against the
doorjamb. An amused smile lit his face. “Let me guess. You’re making a poultice.”

“No.”

“Surgery?”

“Quite amusing. I’m just going to try to make the baron a bit more comfortable.” She pulled back the top two blankets, leaving a thin cotton one that covered the patient to his chin. While it might have been Daphne’s imagination, she could have sworn that Lord Charlton breathed easier and deeper, like a weight had been lifted off his chest. She eyed the fire with disdain—nothing to be done there. But she could let in some fresh air.

She pushed back the heavy velvet drapes on the window closest to the bed and pulled on the stubborn sash, to no avail.

“I’ll do that,” Ben offered, and he was at her side in an instant. “This room is on fire. The poor man must be roasting.” With one tug, he eased the window open. A damp breeze blew in and Daphne paused at the sill, savoring the slight relief.

“What the devil is going on?”

Dread washed over her. She spun around to find Mr. Hallows stumbling into the room, red-faced and reeking of liquor.

Looking like he was ready to kill.

B
en stepped in front of Daphne, shielding her. “Easy, Hallows. We’re just visiting your father.”

Hallows seethed, fists clenched at his sides. “He’s not exactly fit for visitors. I know the real reason you’re here.”

Ben felt the gentle touch of Daphne’s hand on his back as she spoke over his shoulder. “We were concerned about him.”

“What a load of bull. The two of you were opening the window. Drop something outside, did you? A little trinket that might be worth something?”

Ben tucked Daphne farther behind him. Hallows wasn’t the type of man you could reason with, even when he was stone sober.

And no one could accuse him of
that
. From the looks of his clothes, he’d been out all night. His soiled shirt peeked through a hole in his jacket where the shoulder seam had split, probably in a brawl. Whoever the other chap had been, Ben felt sorry for him.

“The room was stifling. We wanted to let in some air.” A groan sounded from the bed, and before Ben knew it, Daphne had shouldered past him to the baron’s side.

“He’s stirring,” she said hopefully. She took a towel from the washstand, and, with practiced expertise, dipped it in the basin and pressed the damp cloth to Charlton’s forehead. She whispered soothing snippets that Ben couldn’t make out.

Hallows seemed oblivious to the scene that played out on his father’s sickbed. He was probably preoccupied with enumerating the ways he planned to maim Ben. As if he weren’t in bad enough shape already.

“We’ve had a chance to pay our respects,” Ben said. “As soon as your father’s nurse returns, we’ll leave.”

Hallows cracked his knuckles, which were cut and bruised. “Like hell, you will.”

Ben arched a brow. “The ladies must swoon over your gentlemanly manners.”

“Don’t act so superior,” Hallows slurred. “If you’re with her, you’re no gentleman.”

Damn it. “Call me what you like, but do not besmirch Miss Honeycote’s name. Apologize.”

“Never mind that,” Daphne exclaimed. “Look, Lord Charlton is waking.”

Ben turned toward the bed. Bad decision. Hallows’s fist plowed into Ben’s jaw and he staggered back, grasping the windowsill to keep himself upright. Christ. It felt like his lower jaw had been relocated a full inch to the right of where it was supposed to be. For a drunken slob, Hallows had wickedly good aim.