Once She Was Tempted (7 page)

“Good evening, Miss Starling.” Lord Foxburn stepped in front of Daphne as though he’d physically shield her from further insults.

Daphne’s lower lip trembled. The night was proving to be as disastrous as she’d feared. She glanced toward Mama, happy to see her chatting animatedly with Lady Bonneville. While a few other guests cast curious looks Daphne’s way, most of the room seemed oblivious to the confrontation.

Rose reached over and squeezed her hand. “Take deep breaths,” she advised. “Do not dwell on Miss Starling or her insults. She cannot hurt you.”

Olivia snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Do not give credence to a word of the hatred she spewed. She is nothing but a bitter, jealous shrew. When you arrived on the scene, she was taken down a peg. She
used
to be the most beautiful miss on the marriage mart, but not anymore. You are more beautiful by far.”

“Inside and out,” Rose agreed.

Ridiculousness. She was no beauty, and at the moment she felt like a shell, hollow and empty. A huge fraud.

Miss Starling’s tirade may have been ugly, but it also happened to be the truth. And the worst part was that if Daphne’s wanton behavior was exposed, all the people she loved—especially Rose and Olivia, whom she thought of as her sisters—would suffer the most. Daphne longed to go home but feared a hasty exit would only call more attention to herself.

“The musicians are poised to begin,” Lord Foxburn said. Turning to Olivia and Rose, he said, “You should stay and enjoy the performance. I’ll escort Miss Honeycote onto the terrace for a few moments.”

Rose sat up a little straighter. “Only if that is what Daphne wishes.”

“Yes.” Fresh air and a few minutes away from inquisitive eyes sounded heavenly.

The earl grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “The terrace is this way.”

She and Lord Foxburn moved against the tide of guests drifting toward the rows of chairs. He stepped in front of her and used his broad shoulders to cut through the crowd like the prow of a ship slicing through ocean waves. When he reached the doors, he did not release her hand but pulled her away from the house to the far side of the rectangular flagstone terrace. The twining of their fingers felt terribly intimate, sending wonderful shivers up and down her arm. It was only because he was so… so…

Masculine. It was the slightest shadow of stubble on his face, the predatory look in his eyes, and the decisive way he handled every interaction. He said exactly what he thought and did exactly as he pleased and didn’t apologize for it.

Of course, this behavior was also rather infuriating. But at the moment, while their palms were pressed together, all she could think was that Lord Foxburn was very attractive indeed.

The night air was warm but still refreshing compared to the stuffiness of the music room. Several lanterns strung around the perimeter of the terrace glowed like mischievous fairies, and the fragrances of roses and rich soil tickled her nose.

He pulled her to a small marble bench, which felt smooth and cool beneath her bottom, even through the layers of satin and crepe.

Daphne faced the earl, very aware that no more than an arm’s length separated them. Her eyes were level with his neckcloth; she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. His mouth was drawn in a thin line and his eyelids appeared heavy. His expression wasn’t quite angry or bored or interested, and yet it was all three.

“Thank you,” she said, breaking the silence. “I felt as though I’d scream if I had to endure another minute in that room.”

“I don’t think that would have helped matters.”

“No, but I’m afraid Miss Starling knows precisely how to bait me.”

“She isn’t worth even a second of your worry.”

No? Daphne couldn’t dismiss her so easily. And if either of the scandalous portraits were made public, Miss Starling’s disdain would seem trivial in comparison to the
ton’s
condemnation.

She gazed at her skirt rustling in the breeze and tried not to dwell on the tingling warmth between their palms. In that instant, she knew what she had to do. If she didn’t do it right away, she might never have another opportunity, another private moment in which to speak with him. But the greater danger was that she’d simply lose her nerve.

Steeling her resolve, she looked into his eyes. “I have a confession.”

B
en liked confessions. Especially from beautiful women. “Go on.”

“The woman in the painting… is me.” Miss Honeycote didn’t hang her head or even blush, but instead looked straight at him as though she’d make no apologies for her behavior. Good for her.

“I can’t pretend to be shocked. But if it would help, I could feign mild surprise.”

Smiling, she said, “That won’t be necessary. When you first confronted me, I was caught off guard. I suppose I shouldn’t have denied it, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid that I might taint the reputation of my family. I still am.”

“Understandable. However, I do not intend to publicly display the painting. I gave you my word,” he said, mildly offended that she’d doubt him.

“I know. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“I need your help finding the other one.”

Good God. “There’s
another
one?”

She heaved a sigh. “Yes. Just one, but it’s equally scandalous. And I don’t know where it is.”

Part of his brain reeled from the shock of learning there was a second portrait, but the male part was busy imagining what the second scandalous painting might look like.

“Would you help me find it?” The slight tremor in her voice told him what it had cost her to ask him. The truth was that she looked so vulnerable—yet beautiful—in the light of the lanterns that he would have done any damn thing she asked.

“You think I can help you track it down.”

She nodded. “I’m terrified that it will turn up somewhere—just as the one you have did. I have very little information to go on, and even if I were able to locate it, I would need someone to help me purchase it—not the money, you understand, just someone to take care of the transaction.”

“I am vastly relieved to know that no special skills are required of me. Purchasing a painting doesn’t sound terribly taxing. I think I could be up to the task.”

She arched a blond brow. “Finding the painting could prove difficult. It’s very important that we keep my identity as the portraits’ subject a secret. I know this is all a lark to you, but I haven’t slept well since the day you visited my sister’s drawing room.”

He wanted to say that he hadn’t either. That he was tortured by dreams of her. But that was sure to scare her off. “I know what it’s like—to be haunted by things you wish you’d done differently.”

“I don’t regret what I did, Lord Foxburn. I had my reasons. What I regret—deeply—is the trouble and pain that my actions could cause my family. And yes, I have my own selfish reasons for wishing that I could keep the portraits secret.”

What reasons could she have had for posing? She had alluded to her family’s impoverished state, but weren’t there other ways to earn some coin? Mending, laundry, selling oranges? Not that he was one to judge, but her manners suggested that she was raised as a proper lady, and the painting that hung in his study was not even vaguely in the realm of propriety.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but they couldn’t remain on the terrace much longer. “I will try to help you.”

“Thank you.” The corners of her eyes were suspiciously moist.

“There’s one thing I would ask in return.”

Her expression turned wary. “What would that be?”

“I want to know the truth—about why you posed for the portraits and…”

“And what, Lord Foxburn?”

Damn it all, there was no subtle way to ask. “The nature of your relationship to the artist.”

She drew up short. “Why would you want to know that?”

Why, indeed? “I am a student of human nature. I like to know why people behave the way they do.
You
, Miss Honeycote, are something of a puzzle.” He also wanted to know whether Robert had some connection to her and how he’d come into possession of her portrait. What if his friend had loved her? It seemed as though that should
change things, but Ben wasn’t quite sure how. He needed information, and he needed time to sort through it all.

“I suppose that is fair,” she said at last. “I will confide in you if you will do your best to help me recover the second portrait.”

He faced her and ceremoniously shook her hand. “We have a deal. I will arrange a time and place for us to talk and send word to you.”

“With each day that passes, the risk of discovery increases.”

“I understand the urgency of the matter and am at your service.”

She gave a smile that warmed him to his core. This could well be the most enjoyable assignment he’d ever had. And where his heart was concerned, it could also be the most dangerous.

Daphne and Lord Foxburn slipped quietly into the drawing room through the French doors at the rear during Beethoven’s concerto, and thankfully, no one seemed to notice them.

Daphne returned to her seat in the back row, which was otherwise unoccupied—until Lord Foxburn sat in the chair directly beside hers. She endeavored to act indifferently, as though she couldn’t care less where he chose to sit, but the truth was that delicious shivers swept over her whenever he was near.

She told herself that this strange and powerful response to him was only because he knew her secret and could ruin her, if he chose to.

But deep down she knew it was more than that.

It was desire.

He was so close that she could see the dimple in his cheek and a hint of stubble on his chin. She wondered what it would feel like and checked the wholly improper urge to strip off her glove and run a fingertip along the length of his jaw.

Good heavens. This would never do.

She flipped open her fan and leaned slightly toward the earl. Under her breath she said, “Please don’t feel that you must remain here with me. I don’t mind sitting alone.”

“Neither do I,” he said, flashing a wickedly handsome grin. “But I like this spot. It affords a nice view.”

She felt herself flush.

“Of the musicians, I mean.”

“Of course.” She was starting to grow accustomed to his teasing, but not to her traitorous body’s reaction. Her heart beat so loudly she feared he would hear it. She fanned herself lightly and resolved to turn her attention to the performance.

But instead, she found herself staring at the hand he drummed on his thigh in time to the music. What would it feel like to have his hands on her skin, caressing her shoulders or the swells of her breast? She swallowed and fanned herself faster. Though she was not normally prone to such impure thoughts, it was shockingly easy for her to imagine him stroking her legs, particularly the soft skin at the tops of her thighs and the curve of her bottom. Worse, she wanted to run her hands over
him
—to explore every inch of him, from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips to the hard length of his…

Dear
God
, what was wrong with her that she should think such wanton thoughts while her own dear
mother
sat a few yards away?

Daphne coughed, and Lord Foxburn leaned closer, which did not help matters in the least.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Just a bit parched,” she lied. “I think the concerto must be over soon. I’ll fetch a drink at the intermission.”

He looked at her curiously for a moment, as though he were capable of reading all her wayward thoughts. Then he unleashed a slow smile that washed over her like a wave, leaving her skin tingling in its wake.

Daphne resumed fanning herself—with a bit more vigor—and kept Mama firmly in her sights so that she would not be tempted to let her thoughts stray to the earl again.

The quartet was composed of the Seaton sisters and two other young ladies, all of whom played prettily. As soon as the intermission began, Daphne stood and—eager to put some distance between her and Lord Foxburn—went to speak to Mama. “May I fetch you and Lady Bonneville some refreshments?” she asked.

The viscountess, whose feet were propped on her ottoman, waved a bejeweled hand. “No need. I have already sent my maid in search of sustenance. Something substantial shall be required if I am to endure another hour of mediocre talent.”

Daphne looked behind her to make sure the musicians hadn’t overheard. “Begging your pardon, Lady Bonneville, but I think the quartet is quite good.”

The viscountess raised her lorgnette and, through it, glared at Daphne for several seconds. Turning to Mama, she asked, “Were you aware your daughter lacks a musical ear?”

Mama smiled. “My Daphne is an idealist.” Funny, it almost sounded as though she were apologizing.

Lady Bonneville clucked her tongue. “Thank God she has sufficient beauty to balance out the deficiency.” To Daphne she said, “Loveliness such as yours is rare, but it’s both a blessing and a curse.”

Daphne shook her head to clear it. “What’s wrong with being an idealist?”

The viscountess harrumphed as though Daphne were quite hopeless. “Mingle, gel,” she said, pointing the way with her lorgnette.

Olivia and Rose had headed for the refreshment table, so Daphne joined Miss Louise Seaton, who was once again industriously tuning her violin. “I’m enjoying the concert,” said Daphne. “You must have taken up the violin at a young age to have developed such talent.”

“Thank you. Mother thrust the bow at me when I was barely four. I wish I could say the violin is a passion of mine. The truth is, I’m dreadfully tired of practicing.”

“Really?” said Daphne. “Then why do you do it?”

“Mother believes it is the only way Jane or I will gain a gentleman’s attention. This whole evening is a blatant attempt to showcase our talents and catch the eye—or ear, as it were—of prospective husbands.”

“Oh.” Daphne glanced around the room. “Has any gentleman here captured your fancy?”

A blush stained Miss Seaton’s round cheeks, and she twirled a brunette curl that dangled in front of her green eyes. “Lord Biltmore is very handsome, is he not? Mama was over the moon when he accepted our invitation.”