Once She Was Tempted (3 page)

“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Rose said. “As to the purpose of Lord Foxburn’s call, he must want to further his acquaintance with someone.” She arched a brow at Daphne, and her stomach flipped. So much for remaining cool and unaffected.

“Me? I do not think we have much in common. But then, the earl is something of an enigma, isn’t he? He says little, and yet, those blue eyes of his are so intelligent, so intense, that I feel like he’s capable of reading my thoughts.”

“Precisely,” Olivia declared. “I hope he read mine last night at dinner.
I
was thinking it a shame that his title and dashing good looks were squandered on someone with his ill manners.”

“Olivia!” Rose cast a mildly scolding look at her sister. “He has been through much. Come, we should not keep the earl waiting too long.”

As they made their way down the hall, Daphne concentrated on keeping her breathing even and her hands steady. Thank goodness Rose and Olivia were with her; although the earl obviously wanted a word with her alone, she was not feeling particularly brave.

Rose led the way into the drawing room and greeted their guest.

The earl unfolded himself from the wingback chair, rose to his full height, which was a head taller than any of the women, and bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies.” His gaze went to Daphne and she resisted the urge to stare at the carpet. “I hope the duchess is well?”

“My sister is fine. Thank you for your kind concern.” Daphne didn’t quite believe his question arose out of concern. He was no doubt relieved to find her sister absent, since it meant there was one less person he needed to shoo away.

He raised a dark brow and to Olivia said, “Might I be permitted a brief word with Miss Honeycote? I realize it’s a forward request, but I wish to convey a message—a private one—from my young friend, Lord Biltmore.” The smile he flashed revealed his dimple and seemed to say,
We all know that the silly little rules intended to preserve ladies’ reputations need to be bent once in a while
.

Daphne had to admire the impressive show of charm. It would never do to underestimate him.

Olivia crossed her arms in the imitation of a fierce chaperone. The effect was completely spoiled by her face, however, which was alight with excitement. “Your request is highly irregular, Lord Foxburn. One naturally wonders why Lord Biltmore did not come himself.”

“Naturally,” the earl said dryly. He stroked his chin, which was darkened by the slightest stubble. Daphne curled her fingers into her palms and waited to see what story he would concoct.

“My protégé is shy and not at all sure how his message will be received. I am only trying to play the part of ambassador. Like Cupid.”

Of all the—Daphne suppressed a groan.

Olivia, on the other hand, cracked like an egg. “I see no reason why you should not be allowed a short visit. Rose, do you agree?”

Rose flicked her eyes to Daphne, clearly trying to ascertain her wishes in the matter. She gave a slight nod.

“If my dear friend is amenable, I have no objection. For propriety’s sake, the door shall remain open, of course, and we shall be just across the hall.”

“I would not have it any other way.” The earl’s expression was polite, at odds with the subtle bite of his words.

Apparently, she was the only one who noticed. Olivia gave a satisfied nod, took Rose by the arm, and departed, leaving Daphne and Lord Foxburn alone.

She waited for him to say something. Instead, he walked toward her, approaching her from the side. When he was an arm’s length away, he paced in a half circle in front of her. One of his legs appeared stiff, and yet his movements were quick and sure. He studied her, his gaze roaming over her face and body in a manner that might be considered brazen if he didn’t seem so detached—as though he were a botanist and she a mildly interesting species of flora.

When at last the silence and the staring became too suffocating, she cleared her throat. “There is no message from Lord Biltmore, is there?”

“No.” He looked at her like she was some sort of simpleton. “I lied.”

“I see. Is this… lying… something you do often?”

“When it suits my needs.” His matter-of-fact tone was chilling.

“I suppose truth can be terribly inconvenient.”

The corner of his mouth curled slightly and he stepped closer. She lifted her chin in order to look into his eyes.

“Spoken like a woman with something to hide.”

“
I
have nothing to hide, Lord Foxburn. Perhaps
you
should reveal the reason you’re here.”

After a glance at the open door, he clasped her elbow and gently but firmly propelled her to the far corner of the drawing room. He leaned close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “I know about the portrait, Miss Honeycote.”

The hairs on Daphne’s arms stood on end, and her knees wobbled.

Dear God. No.

The earl stared at her, measuring her reaction. Her heart thudded in her chest. What was it that she’d planned to do if ever she were discovered? She screwed her face into a perplexed expression. “Portrait?”

“Shall I describe it in detail?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Needing distance—and a moment to think—she turned and began to walk away. He followed.

“There’s a painting of you, wearing a white gown. I use
wearing
in the loosest sense of the word. It would be more accurate to say the gown—which is little more than a night rail—is falling off your pretty little shoulders.”

Good heavens.

Daphne sucked in a breath and whirled to face the earl. “You are mistaken, my lord. I have never had my portrait painted. If there’s a resemblance, I assure you it’s only a coincidence.”

He gave a wry grin. “I don’t think so.”

“What are you implying?

“That I’m not the only one who lies to suit my needs.”

Heat crept up her neck. “You are wrong. My sister and I do not come from a family of means. Before she married
the duke, we couldn’t afford sugar cubes for our tea. The idea that we could have hired an artist to paint my portrait is ludicrous.”

“I’m not suggesting that you hired the artist. I’m suggesting that the artist hired
you
.”

Daphne swallowed hard. The future she’d let herself envision—marriage to a kind, respectable man—was vanishing like morning mist on the lake. The paintings weren’t supposed to be displayed in public—Thomas had promised. How foolish she was. And now she, and the people she loved, would pay a great price. Mama and Anabelle, who knew nothing of the portraits, would be shamed. Olivia’s and Rose’s reputations would be tainted by their association with her. She’d ruined
everything
.

“I think you should leave, my lord.”

“Easy,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I have no secrets.”

“Miss Honeycote,” he said smoothly, “we
all
have secrets. They’re practically a form a currency.”

Blending: (1) A technique used in painting that ensures the gradual transition from one color to another
.

(2) The act of appearing as though one belongs in a glittering, privileged world—even when one clearly does not.

M
iss Honeycote glared at Ben impressively, but as she swept an errant strand of blond hair off her forehead, her hand trembled. “That sounds like a threat, Lord Foxburn.”

“Not at all. I merely hoped we could reach an agreement.” He cast a glance toward the open door, listening for the hovering Sherbourne sisters. He didn’t have much time.

“I have already told you that I know nothing of this portrait. I grow weary of this conversation and of your insults. If you will not leave, then I shall.”

“Wait.” He had to admire her feistiness and the fire flashing in her blue eyes. A woman with her charms could easily snare a rich, titled husband. And why shouldn’t she? Ben didn’t give a damn who she seduced—as long as
it wasn’t Hugh. “Lord Biltmore is smitten with you. You must discourage him.”

She shook her head as if she doubted her pretty little ears functioned properly. “What does Lord Biltmore have to do with this?”

“His brother, Robert, was my best friend. I made him a promise.”

Only, it was more than a promise. It was a vow of the highest order.

One of Napoleon’s men had charged and knocked Robert out of his saddle. He hadn’t been struck down by a sword or injured by the fall—that was the hell of the thing. He’d been trampled by horses, some of them riderless, spooked by cannon fire. By the time Ben found him, grabbed him beneath his arms, and dragged him away from the reverberating clash of swords, a thin red line trickled from the corner of his mouth. He choked out his last request:
Take care of Hugh
.

Four words, punctuated by the gurgle and sputtering of blood. And then his soul—or whatever it was that had made him Robert—left, and his eyes turned cold and vacant.

“I’m very sorry about your friend.”

Ben looked up, saw the sympathy in her expressive eyes, and flinched.

“This promise,” Miss Honeycote said, “what was it?”

“To look after his brother. Which means I must ensure that Hugh marries a proper and respectable young lady.”

It was her turn to flinch. The color rose in her cheeks, and she crossed the room to stand before the window overlooking St. James’s Square. She rested her forehead and palms on the glass and remained frozen for a full
minute. When at last she turned to face him, she clasped her hands loosely below her waist.

“Lord Biltmore is my friend. I refuse to be rude to him just because you happen to think I resemble a woman in a scandalous painting.”

“Go about it as nicely as you like. As long as his heart is broken in the end, I shall be satisfied.”

“And you think that’s what your friend would have wanted?”

Ben bit his lower lip to keep a nasty retort from jumping out of his mouth. His leg, which hadn’t hurt much this morning, began to throb. In a measured tone, he said, “Robert was very unlike me, Miss Honeycote. He was something of a romantic and wanted his brother to enjoy a long and happy marriage to a woman who would be faithful. But he knew that Hugh was—and still is—somewhat naïve. Robert once confided in me his fear that if something were to happen to him, Hugh would be blinded by an opportunistic, fortune-seeking beauty.”

“I am not—” She stopped midsentence, and her gaze flew to his thigh, which he’d absently begun to rub.

“What happened?”

He removed his hand and shook his head firmly. The injury was
not
something he discussed. He had no desire to be an object of morbid curiosity or, worse, sympathy. “Do we understand each other, Miss Honeycote?”

“I understand you are of the opinion that I would not be a suitable wife for Lord Biltmore.”

“And you will discourage his attentions?”

“I will need some time to think on the matter.”

“You’ll have no difficulty finding another rich, titled gentleman to take his place.” He’d only meant to point out
the bright side, but her narrowed eyes and clenched fists suggested she wasn’t appreciative of his effort.

“It may surprise you, my lord, to know that I don’t view gentlemen as replaceable commodities.”

“Are you that taken with him, then?” The thought hadn’t occurred to him, and damn it all if his leg wasn’t hurting more. Like someone had stabbed him with a hot poker.

She frowned slightly, and a tiny dimple marred her forehead, just above her left eye. “I don’t know—that is, we’re friends and I’d thought perhaps…”

“It’s settled, then. You’ll let him down as gently as you can, and I won’t breathe a word about the portrait.” He could hear someone in the hall humming. Off-key. He should escape before the sisters returned to check on their charge. “I’m glad we were able to strike a deal, Miss Honeycote.”

He would have liked some acknowledgment of their agreement, but she simply gazed at him with a slightly puzzled look. “What makes you so sure that the woman in the portrait is me?”

It didn’t occur to him to lie. Not about this. “You reflect light.”

“Pardon me?”

“In the painting, as in real life, you are… luminous.” It was true. He’d never known a person who shined like her. It wasn’t just her pale blond tresses or her radiant skin or gleaming eyes. She shone from the inside, and it made him uncomfortably and acutely aware of the cold, damp, dark foxhole that was his life.

Her pink mouth opened slightly as though she were… what? Surprised, insulted… touched? Whichever was the
case, he’d take it as his cue to leave. He nodded politely as he walked past her, concentrating on making his leg move as naturally as possible instead of thudding across the floor.

“Lord Foxburn.”

Damn. He’d almost made it to the door. He stopped, faced her, and arched a brow.

“I’m curious.” She approached him slowly and his heart beat a little faster. Interesting. “Where did you see the painting?” Quickly, she added, “The portrait that you think is of me.”

“Do not worry. It’s part of a private collection.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

She let out a sound that was part gasp and part whimper.

“Good day, Miss Honeycote.”

Daphne braced an arm on the back of a chair for support.

The earl had her portrait.

She breathed in deeply and tried to tamp down the panic banging at her chest. How on earth had he come to possess that painting?

And more importantly, where was the other one?

She’d known Thomas, the artist, since they were children, and he’d assured her that the paintings were for a wealthy squire who was something of a recluse. Of course, at the time she’d posed for the paintings, she was a poor nobody. She supposed she still was, but now her sister was a duchess and everything else had changed. Daphne never dreamed she would be rubbing shoulders
with nobility. Even so, she’d naïvely hoped that the paintings would stay tucked away in the squire’s country home. Conveniently locked away in an attic.

But somehow one of the portraits had ended up in the hands of Lord Foxburn. Which meant the other one could be circulating as well.