Once She Was Tempted (35 page)

Daphne blinked. Odd. Unless she was mistaken, Hallows was speaking to her. And beneath his anger there was a hint of fear. As if she were some sort of sorceress who could ruin a painting from afar. “I don’t understand.”

Lord Foley pried Hallows’s hands off the gilded frame and repositioned the easel so it faced the crowd.

And Daphne looked.

The portrait was much as she remembered. She stood before a looking glass, a pensive expression on her face. However, there was one significant difference. Instead of the filmy nightgown, she wore a golden ball gown. An exact replica of the one she was currently wearing. The artist had even captured the distinctly unique embroidery around the hem.

She shook her head, trying to reconcile her memories with the painting standing before her. This was the first night she’d worn the dress. And Thomas had painted it well over a year ago. How was it possible?

Lady Bonneville rose from her throne—er, chair—and walked through the crowd like a swan gliding through still water. She stood directly before the platform, which she eyed with undisguised animosity, and held out a gloved arm so that Lord Foley could help her up. Once she’d conquered the step and caught her breath, she raised her lorgnette. Slowly. And examined the painting for a full minute.

It was understood, of course, that the viscountess would take all the time she needed to inspect the portrait and that every other soul in the room would patiently wait for her verdict.

But Daphne’s mind reeled. The dress was new. The painting was old. Someone had added to it. And she could guess who.

Ben.

Well, not
him
, per se, because she didn’t think painting was among his talents. But there was little doubt that he was the person behind it. He’d found a way to save her from ruin.

His plan almost worked, too.

It was a pity that she couldn’t turn back the hands of the grandfather clock to before the rather incriminating monologue she’d just recited.

Lady Bonneville turned with the grace of a woman half her age and cleared her throat with the authority of a woman exactly her age. “This portrait,” she proclaimed, “is quite lovely. While I cannot pretend to approve of the indelicate nature of Miss Honeycote’s gaze”—her nostrils flared slightly as she motioned to Daphne—“I do not think it will be necessary to exile her. Yet.” With that, the viscountess held out her arms and waited for Lord Foley and Owen to escort her back to the potted palms and the comfort of her red tufted footstool.

“You destroyed it,” Hallows accused. “To save your reputation. You had no right to—”

Daphne took a step back and would have tumbled off the platform had she not been swept up in a pair of strong arms.

Ben set her on the floor and she spun around to face him. His casual smile and icy blue eyes made her knees go weak.

“You’re late,” she whispered.

He shrugged guiltily.

“Let me guess. You were delayed by a matter of grave importance.”

“Naturally.”

“Your valet couldn’t tie your neckcloth to your satisfaction?”

“Have you been spying on me?”

She gave him an overly sweet smile. “I have better things to do, my lord.”

“I heard what you said.”

She felt herself flush. “Which part?”

“The entire soliloquy,” he teased. But then his face grew serious. “It was one of the bravest acts I’ve ever seen. I’m very proud of you, Daph.”

A warm glow within curled her toes. “Thank you. I’m pretty proud of me, too.”

Up on the platform, Hallows paced, muttering curses under his breath. “I should call the authorities. You had no right to tamper with the portrait.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Mind if I handle this?”

“Not at all.” As he headed toward Hallows, she placed a hand on Ben’s sleeve and whispered in his ear, “You don’t plan to fight him here, do you?”

“No. I’m going to negotiate with him. I
want
that painting.”

The utterly determined, possessive note in his voice sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

He joined Lord Foley and Hallows on the platform, and Hallows’s face darkened like a thundercloud. He grunted and jabbed his finger at the portrait. Ben’s face gave away little—if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was bored. Lord Foley appeared to play the part of the arbitrator, facilitating the back-and-forth and trying desperately to keep the exchange civil.

Without Ben by her side, Daphne was suddenly bereft. Despite Lady Bonneville’s pronouncement, no one seemed quite sure what the appropriate reaction was. Everyone had been prepared for a scandal, and the apparent lack of one was hugely disappointing.

Miss Starling may have been the most disappointed of all. She startled Daphne, who was straining to hear snippets of Ben’s conversation, when she approached from behind and hissed in her ear, “You and your sister have an uncanny ability to narrowly escape the clutches of disgrace. You wouldn’t be witches, would you?”

Daphne turned and blinked innocently. “If I were, you’d be a toad.”

Miss Starling gasped and then smiled with reluctant admiration. “Touché, Miss Honeycote. Under different circumstances, we might have been friends.” She drifted back into the crowd, allowing Daphne to turn her attention back to the platform.

Lord Foley raised a palm in the air to quiet the murmurs that bounced restlessly around the ballroom. “I know that many of you attended in the hopes of participating in the auction of this lovely painting. And while tonight’s events have been somewhat unexpected, you shall not be disappointed. This portrait would be a lovely addition to any collection. And the bidding shall start… now.”

A few shouts went out. Daphne blinked. She hadn’t expected to be standing there as gentlemen bid on her portrait. Although it was no longer scandalous, she still felt a bit like a horse at Tattersall’s.

The pace of the bidding increased. Certain gentlemen received scathing looks from their wives.

Lord Waldron seemed determined to outbid every
other person there, hushing the competition with a staggering offer of four thousand pounds.

Lord Foley raised his eyebrows. “Going once, going twice—”

“Five thousand!” Lady Bonneville raised her lorgnette in the air like a general charging into battle.

Lord Waldron bowed out gracefully—a wise move, considering his opponent.

All things considered, it was a fitting end to the evening. Nothing had gone quite as Daphne expected, but at least no one had suggested she should be burned at the stake. Yet. Come to think of it, she’d do well to avoid Miss Starling for the rest of the evening.

It looked like Daphne had been very lucky as far as the portrait was concerned.

Whether her luck would extend to Ben remained to be seen.

“Lady Bonneville has bid five thousand pounds. Going once, going twice—”

“Ten thousand.” Ben tossed his cane in the air and caught it in one hand.

Lord Foley’s jaw dropped, as did every other person’s in the room who’d heard the bid. Daphne could barely breathe.

Hallows’s eyes went wide, as though he couldn’t believe his good fortune. The sum would likely pay off his vowels and allow him to return to a life of gambling and pleasure seeking.

“There is one caveat,” Ben said. “I cannot imagine that you would have a problem with it, Mr. Hallows, given the extremely generous offer I am making.”

Hallows’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see. What’s the catch, Foxburn?”

“Half of the money will go directly to the charity of Miss Honeycote’s choosing.”

“Half?” Hallows was aghast.

“Half.”

“I’d rather accept Lady Bonneville’s offer.”

“I withdraw it,” she said.

“Mr. Hallows,” Lord Foley said under his breath, “the alternative to Lord Foxburn’s offer is debtor’s prison. I suggest you accept his terms. Gratefully.”

“Fine.”

“Foxburn, it looks like you are now the owner of the infamous English Beauty. Er, of the portrait, that is.”

The crowd burst into applause.

Ben made an exaggerated bow and stepped off the platform, wearing a knee-weakening smile as he sauntered toward her.

“I told you I’d get it.”

“Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

“It is. Do you think I might at least have a dance with the real English Beauty?”

“A dance?”

“A small favor to ask after ten thousand pounds.”

Daphne frowned. “It’s not that. I… I just assumed you would abhor dancing.”

“Under normal circumstances, I avoid it like the plague. But it’s different with you. Waltz with me.”

“I haven’t received my vouchers yet. I don’t have permission.”

“You just stood up in front of God, Lady Bonneville, and everyone and courted scandal. What’s one little waltz?”

Daphne cast a glance at Miss Starling, who was
watching her much like a hawk tracking a mouse. She thought about it a moment and shrugged. “I’d be delighted to dance with you, Lord Foxburn. However, do you think we might wait until the orchestra resumes?”

“And here I thought you were no longer a slave to convention.”

“Give me time,” Daphne said with a saucy smile. “I grow more wanton by the day.”

T
he moment the music began, Ben handed his cane to Hugh, pulled Daphne into his arms, and whirled her onto the dance floor. If he didn’t move as fluidly or as quickly as the other men, Daphne didn’t seem to mind. They stayed on the periphery where there weren’t as many couples and no one cared if they didn’t quite keep pace with the music.

The only thing that mattered to him was
her
. When she’d stood up in front of the entire
ton
and confessed to posing for the portrait, he could see her trembling hands and hear the slight quaver in her voice. It had taken every ounce of restraint he had not to jump up on the platform and create a distraction, or simply unveil the portrait and spare her from the whole ordeal. Instead, he’d stood in the wings and watched her face her fear—and conquer it. She’d never looked more beautiful or radiant.

Best of all, she didn’t seem overly upset with him for arriving late to the ball. He wasn’t so daft that he didn’t realize he had some explaining to do.

“I’m sorry I was late.”

“I’d just about given up on you.”

“But you didn’t?” It was more question than statement.

She glanced away. “I’m sure you have more pressing matters than balls.”

“I do.”

She stiffened slightly and gazed at the floor.

“Earlier this evening, for instance, I met with a duke.”

“Oh?”

“I believe you know him, in fact—the Duke of Huntford?”

Disappointment and hurt flicked across her face. “Owen came to the ball with us. He’s been here all night.”

“Of course he has. We met in Lord Foley’s library less than an hour ago, before you revealed the painting. You were amazing, by the way. Perfect. I knew you could do it.”

She blushed prettily. “I’m glad you were there. I meant what I said about being grateful to you. I don’t care what the Miss Starlings of the world think of me. And I don’t regret what I did for my family.”

God, he wanted to kiss her. And more. But for now he was content to dance with her and bask in her light.

“Look,” she said, inclining her head toward the center of the room. “Lord Biltmore is dancing with Louise. They make a lovely couple, do they not?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder at the pair. “Indeed. Not as lovely as you and I, but close.”

Daphne arched a golden brow. “So you approve?”

“Miss Seaton makes Hugh happy, and I can tell she truly cares for him. For those reasons alone, I think Robert would have liked her.”

“Are you all right?” she asked. “If your leg is hurting, we could go sit on the terrace.”

“I’m fine.” He’d never been better. “I saw a new physician yesterday. Someone Averill’s been nagging me to see. The doctor can’t make any promises, but he has a few newer treatments that he thinks might help me.”

Her eyes went wide. “And you’re willing to try them?”

“Why not? I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

The smile she gave him—full of promise and hope—made his heart beat wildly.

When the dance ended, he led her back to Huntford. Anabelle, Olivia, and Rose flocked around Daphne and enveloped her in a hug.

“It’s been quite an evening,” Huntford announced. “I think perhaps we should gather Mrs. Honeycote and go home before we create any more spectacles.”

“Owen,” Olivia cried, “how can you make light of this? It was a courageous thing that Daphne did.”

Huntford inclined his head toward his sister as if to warn that another spectacle was brewing.

Ben cleared his throat. “I agree with Huntford. It’s time to go.”

Olivia arched a brow at him. “Didn’t you just arrive?”

Huntford gave Ben a sympathetic and long-suffering look. “Let’s all meet out front in five minutes,” he said firmly.

Ben escorted Daphne across the ballroom to where her mother sat with Lady Bonneville. At the sight of her daughter, Mrs. Honeycote leaped to her feet, a worried expression on her face. As Daphne tried to convince her mother that she was truly fine, the viscountess crooked her finger at Ben. Much as he hated to admit it, a chill ran down his spine.

“Good evening, Lady Bonneville. I regret that we were pitted against each other in the auction.”

She snorted. “Don’t lose any sleep over it, Foxburn. I didn’t really want the painting. I knew you’d outbid me. I just wanted to drive up the price.”

Of course she did, but she had a softer side, too. “And perhaps spare Miss Honeycote further embarrassment?”

“I thought you knew me better than that. I don’t have a kind bone in my body, but I do appreciate a good scandal as much as the next person.” She gave a satisfied sigh. “This ball has been the most entertaining of the season.”

“Indeed. That is why I think it best that I escort Mrs. Honeycote and her daughter home.”

“Good idea.”

A few minutes later, the entire party was gathered out front of Lord Foley’s house and both of the duke’s coaches were brought round. Ben pulled Huntford aside. “Might I be permitted to deliver Miss Honeycote home in my coach?” As he awaited the duke’s answer, he was uncharacteristically nervous.