Once She Was Tempted (5 page)

“Why are you standing out here?”

She glanced up and down the street quickly before responding. “Good afternoon, Lord Foxburn. I was supposed to meet someone at four o’clock.”

Good grief, it was almost half past.

“It appears my friend has been detained.” She deflated a little and sighed.

“Come. I’ll give you a ride home.” He jabbed a thumb behind him toward his coach. His warm, dry coach.

“No thank you.” A huge drop rolled off the edge of her umbrella and plopped onto his nose.

“How long do you intend to wait?”

She looked down at her dress and frowned. “Another quarter of an hour, perhaps.”

“You could float away before then.”

“I’ll take my chances.” As an afterthought she added, “But I appreciate your kind offer.”

He got the distinct feeling he was being dismissed, but damn it, he was not going to let her stand out here and catch her death’s cold. “You could wait for your friend inside my coach.”

She hesitated for a moment, probably weighing impropriety against the puddle forming around her pretty new boots.

“No one is about,” he said. No one who was
anyone
, at least. “If we drew the shades, no one would be the wiser.”

When she nodded—almost imperceptibly—he clasped her elbow and guided her toward his coach before she could change her mind.

He plucked the umbrella out of her hand and held it above her head as she stepped lightly into his coach. After a word with the coachman, Ben climbed in and eased onto the bench across from her. He lowered all the shades but left a narrow gap on the window to Miss Honeycote’s right, allowing her to watch the front of the shop. Sure enough, her gaze flicked there every few seconds.

For a while, they sat in companionable silence—an impressive feat given their conversation yesterday afternoon.

Then, Miss Honeycote delicately cleared her throat. “I’ve been wondering about something.”

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms as though he was only mildly interested. “Have you?”

“The portrait—the one that you believe is of me—where did you get it?”

“If the painting is not of you, why do you care?”

To her credit, she didn’t cower in the least. “Whether the portrait is of me or someone else, it’s clear that the subject at least resembles me, or I resemble her. I’ll admit that it’s distressing.” The furrows in her brow confirmed she was, in fact, troubled.

“You’re concerned that others might have seen the painting and also come to the incorrect conclusion that the model is you?” He didn’t bother hiding his skepticism.

She raised her chin, challenging him. “Yes. A lady’s reputation is a fragile thing. I’ve only just arrived on the scene, Lord Foxburn. I should not like to be ostracized from polite society before I’ve managed to attend one major ball.”

He grunted. “Balls are highly overrated.”

“I’d like to make my own determination,” she retorted. “Besides, my reputation is not the only one at stake. My friends, Olivia and Rose, could also suffer from their association with me.” Her pretty blue eyes, which were framed with thick blond lashes, clouded with worry.

“I have an idea,” he said.

She leaned forward. “What?”

“You could simply explain to everyone that the painting is not you.”

“What do you mean, ‘everyone’? You said you would keep it hidden.”

“And I shall—if you want me to.”

“Yes. I think that’s best. After all, people may not believe me.”

Quite true. He did not.

“And I suppose that is why I’d like to know,” she continued, “how you came to be in possession of the painting.”

“It belonged to a friend. I found it in his study, along with several other paintings. He hadn’t had a chance to hang them yet.” Ben’s chest ached, making him feel tired and old.

Miss Honeycote sat up straighter and her lips parted slightly. “Were there any others… that looked like me?”

“No.” He would have remembered.

She frowned. “So your friend gave it to you… as a gift?”

“Not exactly, but I knew he would have wanted me to have it.”

Understanding and sympathy shone in her eyes. “You’re talking about Lord Biltmore’s older brother—the one who died at Waterloo.”

“Yes.” As always, the mere mention of Robert sent Ben back to that god-awful day, complete with the taste of gunpowder and the sting of smoke in his eyes. The grunts of soldiers wielding their swords and the inhuman moans of patriots struck down in battle still echoed in his ears.

“I’m sorry.” She reached across the cab and laid her slender hand on his forearm, instantly dragging him back to the present. The warmth of her touch penetrated the damp wool of his jacket sleeve and radiated through his body, heating his blood. He let his gaze linger on her hand, memorizing the way her tapered fingers curled around his arm and squeezed with light, soothing pressure.

Ben nodded. “Hugh couldn’t bring himself to sort through Robert’s personal items. He asked me to do it and encouraged me to take whatever mementos I wanted. I wanted the painting.”

She sighed softly and withdrew her hand, leaving him surprisingly bereft. “You miss him.”

“Every. Damned. Day.”

She didn’t flinch at his bad manners but merely nodded as though she understood. And yet, she seemed entirely too young and innocent to have been touched by death. As if privy to his thoughts, she said, “I miss my father that way.” But then a smile lit her face, belying her words.

“And yet, you seem almost impossibly cheerful.”

“My sister has often accused me of the same thing.” She glanced at the shop and swallowed before continuing. “Thinking about Papa makes me happy. I remember his deep, kind voice and the texture of his beard. I miss him, but I know he’s in a better place.”

He should have guessed. “You believe in God.”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

Rain continued to patter on the roof of the coach. He raised the shade to his left and scanned the nearly deserted street. “I don’t think your friend is coming.”

Miss Honeycote bit her lower lip, and he had the very improper urge to reach across and trace the fullness of that lip with the pad of his thumb. “No,” she said. “It would appear not.”

“May I give you a ride home?”

She cast her eyes downward, apparently defeated. “Yes, thank you.”

Ben excused himself and stepped outside to give the coachman her address. When he climbed back into the coach, his damned leg cramped and almost buckled.

Miss Honeycote boldly reached out and guided him to the seat. Right beside her. The green silk of her skirt touched his buckskin breeches. “What do you do for the pain?” she asked.

“Pardon?” He’d heard her, of course. He just hadn’t expected her to be so direct.

She inclined her head and slid her gaze to his thigh, causing his blood to thrum in his veins. “How do you treat your leg?”

“I drink,” he said dryly. “Copiously.”

His answer had been intended to dissuade her curiosity, but she smiled sweetly. “Do you find it to be an effective form of treatment?”

“No, actually, but it happens to be the best bloody option.”

Glancing around the coach, she said quite seriously, “Do you have any spirits here?”

“Thirsty, are you?”

She blushed prettily. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

Ben did his best to hide his injury—his weakness. Most people seemed oblivious to his discomfort, or maybe they thought it impolite to inquire about it. Miss Honeycote, on the other hand, had no qualms about prying into his business. And she was too perceptive by half.

“Don’t worry on my account,” he said. “I suspect this is payment for past sins. If so, I’m getting off easy.” Her doubtful yet calculating expression made the hairs on his neck stand on end. A change of subject was definitely in order. “Before leaving for Southampton, Hugh mentioned he wanted to return in time for the Seaton musicale Friday evening. I assume you’ll be there?”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hugh is more infatuated with you than I had realized,” he announced bluntly.

Daphne swallowed. “And you find this distressing.”

Highly. “That may be overstating it. I find it problematic.”

“Lord Biltmore is a kind man. He doesn’t deserve to be treated poorly.”

“Agreed. The fact remains,” he continued, “that you would not be a suitable wife for him.”

“You’ve made that exceedingly clear, my lord.”

He gave a wry smile, then asked, “How do you feel about him?” He kept his tone casual, almost offhand, but there was a tightness in his chest. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking her answer didn’t matter to him.

It mattered very much. And for more reasons than he cared to examine.

“Lord Biltmore is a true gentleman. He has many admirable qualities.” Though she didn’t make an outright comparison, her meaning was clear:
He is everything you are not
.

“Do you love him?”

“That is a highly personal question, my lord.” Her cheeks flushed pink.

He stared at her for several moments, long enough to see that whatever she might feel for Hugh—admiration, esteem, respect—she didn’t feel passion.

“That’s good,” he said.

“What’s good?”

“You don’t love him.”

“Of all the—Do not presume to tell me what I feel.”

“I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m telling you what you
don’t
.”

“A ridiculous distinction.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Hugh will be there. At the musicale,” he said. “I trust you’ll abide by the terms of our bargain.”

A wounded look flashed across her face as the coach
drew to a stop in front of Huntford’s house. “I haven’t forgotten, Lord Foxburn.”

Guilt—an emotion he’d long thought himself incapable of—gnawed at his gut, and he glanced away, reminding himself that she was not as innocent as she seemed. After all, she’d posed for a portrait half naked
and
insisted on lying about it.

Ben helped her from the coach and walked her to the duke’s doorstep.

The silk flowers on her bonnet had wilted from the rain. Her smile seemed similarly affected, damn it all.

“Look, if I act like a boor sometimes, it’s because I’m trying to protect Hugh. That, and I’m an ass.”

She smiled serenely—just like in her portrait. “I know.” Placing a hand on the door handle, she said, “Will you be at the musicale?”

Him? Good God. It was sure to be an amateur, if not torturous, performance. But if she was going to be there… “Perhaps. Good day, Miss Honeycote.”

She arched a blond brow and said, “Good day,” before stepping inside.

As his coach rumbled down the street toward his town house, Ben ran a hand over the velvet seat still warm beside him. A faint floral scent lingered in the coach, and regardless of what he’d told Miss Honeycote, the truth was that the hounds of hell couldn’t keep him away from the musicale—or, more specifically, from her.

Damn it. Apparently, Hugh wasn’t the only fool in danger of succumbing to Miss Honeycote’s charms.

Glaze: (1) A thin, transparent layer of paint used to add depth or modify color. (2) To become glassy, as in
The quartet’s lifeless—and somewhat torturous—rendition of Beethoven’s concerto caused the earl’s eyes to glaze over.

T
wo days later, when Daphne returned from her walk, Mama was waiting for her in Owen and Belle’s drawing room. She’d returned from Bath looking better than Daphne could ever remember seeing her. She’d swept her shoulder-length brown curls—streaked with silver—into a pretty bun high on her head. Hand-painted combs added sophistication. But it was Mama’s full cheeks and easy smile that made Daphne want to weep with joy.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Mama.” She hugged her fiercely, loving her recently increased girth.
This
was the Mama from her childhood—the one who’d sung to her at night and kissed her skinned knees. After her mother’s long and horrible illness, Daphne had begun to wonder if she’d ever be the same. Seeing her looking so healthy and vibrant suddenly made Daphne long to cry into her
shoulder and tell her about everything. The scandalous portraits. The fear that she’d bring shame upon her family. The deal she’d made with Lord Foxburn.

But she was no longer a girl who could run to her mother to make everything better.

“Oh, let me look at you.” Mama placed her hands on either side of Daphne’s face and studied her intently. Daphne could almost see her counting freckles, making sure that no new ones had popped up during the two weeks she’d been away. “I’ve ordered tea. Now, sit and tell me everything that you left out of your letters.”

Daphne happily obliged—to the extent that she could without incriminating herself, that is. She recounted every social affair she’d attended in the last fortnight, playing up the bits Mama enjoyed best, such as the evening Lord Huxton stumbled into a Greek sculpture in Lady Fallow’s dining room. Owen seized it just before it hit the floor, preventing not only a royal mess but also a rift between the families that might have lasted for generations.

Mama sighed happily. “I missed you and Anabelle, of course, but I was surprised to find that I missed town, too.”

“You did?” Daphne blinked. In the event that her greatest fear came true and the
ton
identified her as the woman in the painting, she had comforted herself with the thought that Mama might actually
prefer
living in a remote cottage. But perhaps not.

“Indeed. Henrietta is lively company—as you’ll soon discover—but we found little to amuse us. There was the occasional fete in the Upper Assembly Rooms, but nothing like the dazzling entertainments here.”

Who
was
this woman who claimed to be her mother? Perhaps the waters in the Pump Room were more potent
than anyone realized. Mama’s traveling companion, Lady Bonneville, was no doubt partially responsible. The elderly viscountess was known for her spunk, and Anabelle was confident she’d be a good influence on Mama.

Daphne wasn’t so sure.

“I do hope we have some engagements lined up.” Mama placed a fruit tart on her plate.