The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous) (4 page)

Which was precisely how long this walk would take if she allowed him to continue boasting.

“Your Grace, I was wondering—”

“Why I invited you here?”

She had wondered precisely that. Glancing at his face, she found him staring at her with such intensity, with such complete concentration, she also wondered if she didn’t have a seed from a strawberry stuck to her teeth or a flake of skin peeling from the tip of her nose.

“Well yes, I mean no.” Babbling was doubtless an attractive quality in any young lady. Perhaps she should not have spoken until seven, certainly not six, or perhaps even eight…

“I was wondering if I might ask you for your assistance.”

His expression hardened. “Was Lord Westbrook less than amiable, Miss Farrington?”

What had the earl to do with her requiring the duke’s assistance? “He was a complete gentleman. What I mean to say, is that I was—”

“Then he did not say something to which you might take offense?” the duke pressed, the lines on his forehead deepening as he stood watching her.

“No, not that I am aware—”

“And my mother’s guests?” the duke continued. “Are they agreeable, Miss Farrington? I’m afraid they can be a bit slow to welcome those outside their circle.”

Would he never allow her to finish a statement before interrupting her with an officious inquiry? “I have found them to be…most welcoming.” For sharks.

The duke laughed, a deep rich velvety laugh that made her want to join in with him. “Now I know you to be untruthful.”

Untruthful. So that was how a duke described blatant mendacity. “I did not mean to give offense, Your Grace.”

The duke placed a hand on top of hers. Despite her exasperation, his comforting palm warmed her. “No need to apologize, Miss Farrington. Tell me,” he said, no doubt attempting to spare her from further embarrassment, “how does London compare to Boston?”

Daphne nearly rolled her eyes in exasperation. How in heaven’s name had the conversation veered from her original request to a debate about two unequal and incomparable cities?

“It would not be fair to compare pearls with oysters, Your Grace.”

“I’m pleased to hear London has captured your admiration, Miss Farrington. She has much to offer, does she not?”

Daphne pictured the Mary Frances slipping into the Pool of London without her, and yet the image did no good to stave her retort. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. I far prefer Boston, with its tidy shipping yards, to the crude docks onto which I disembarked when I arrived at London’s shore.”

The duke paused in mid-stride and stared at her. “London may be…rather…dilapidated, in places, but surely you cannot discredit her history. Why, Westminster has been the coronation site of every British monarch since 1066,” he stated, puffing out his chest.

Daphne retracted her hand and took a step away, her arms brushing against the green leaves of the proper English privet hedge. Of all the things to take pride in, the duke would choose the monarchy. Did he not realize with whom he was speaking? Or where she was from?

She’d swim home. “Boston has the merit of being free of the tyranny of a controlling and spoiled king.”

The duke chuckled, his rich laughter eliciting an unexpected, and certainly unwanted, swirl of heat in her chest. “You may be right, Miss Farrington, that Prinny and his father are nothing to brag of. But the culture of Boston surely cannot compare to that of London. Have you visited the British Museum? The marble collection Lord Elgin presented is quite enthralling.”

Marble? The man was proud of cold and hard stone? Of boring sculptures created by a civilization not even his own?

“The open forests and vast wilderness surrounding my city are far more alluring to me than some ancient artifacts, Your Grace.” And they were. She could almost smell the fresh pine of the forest mingling with the salty mists swirling in from the harbor…

“Really? I’m told those very same forests are teeming with violent and bloodthirsty savages.”

Daphne glared up at the duke. “The same could be said to describe London’s hovels.”

The duke’s smile turned lupine. “Violent the hovels may be, Miss Farrington, but many of His Majesty’s finest sailors are plucked from its streets.”

She knew full well it was not in her best interest to provoke the duke, which was why, when she replied, she did so in her nicest, friendliest voice, “Ah, yes. You must be referring to the fine specimens of naval supremacy that were somehow defeated on two separate occasions by the smaller American navy.”

The duke’s chin rose ever so slightly, the smile on his lips waning. “The English defeated Napoleon, Miss Farrington. I hardly think the Americans, who rely more on luck than trusted and disciplined military tactics, could have done something similar. Why, the only reason His Majesty’s navy was defeated was because we were occupied with more weighty opponents.”

With a silent remonstrance to lighten her tone and not antagonize the man, Daphne began to count. Fittingly enough, in French.
Un…deux…

She took a deep breath and returned the duke’s smile. “Weighty opponents Napoleon and the French may be, Your Grace, but they were still defeated by the British. The Americans, however, were not.”

The duke plucked a rose blossoming beside her waist. The sleeve of his coat brushed against her, the small movement causing her face to flush. Why her traitorous body responded so readily to his presence when he aggravated her with his comments, was beyond her comprehension. Did it not know to whom it reacted?

“Miss Farrington,” the duke began, twirling the rose between his fingers. Daphne’s eyes were drawn to the small movement, his careless, yet graceful action filling her with a yearning to be touched, if only for a moment, by the leather-encased fingers.

Trois
. Daphne held up her hand, eager to quit the conversation. Clearly her mind was befuddled because her thoughts were straying to the absurd. “I really must return to my aunt. Thank you for your time, Your Grace.” She curtsied and turned to make her way toward the end of the waist-high maze.

His hand reached for her, the smooth, supple leather of his glove clamping over her wrist. “Miss Farrington, please. If I cannot persuade you to remain here, then allow me to escort you back to Lady Amhurst.”

No doubt he could feel the racing of her pulse as it hummed beneath his grasp. With a slight twist of her wrist she was free of his hand, but not from the thoughts his touch elicited, of a deepening attraction, an unlikely affection, and the sudden desire to feel the warmth of his fingers against the back of her neck, pulling her into his embrace…

Daphne shook her head, her eyes landing on the light brown jacket and black curls of Lord Westbrook. Hardly an ideal replacement: after all, he was just as English as the duke. But her aunt and cousins were nowhere to be found. And the duke was too infuriating, too English, too…well, ducal with the nerve to be proud of his heritage, for her to remain beside him an instant longer.

“I don’t wish to encroach on your time any longer, Your Grace. You have other guests demanding your attention and Lord Westbrook can ably provide escort.”

Chapter Four

Edward tried not to stare as Miss Farrington dashed toward Westbrook, the pink ribbon at her waist whipping behind her in the breeze.

What the devil just happened?

He glanced down at the red blossom he still held between his fingers and frowned. He’d been rather attentive, nay, accommodating even, especially considering that his nation’s military had been belittled and his homeland insulted. Why, when he really stopped to think about it, he’d been rather kind.

And to what purpose? Had she not left, eager to sprint away from what she perceived as his vile presence, only to run to another man?

Edward’s fingers rubbed together, the thin stem of the bedraggled rose growing soft and limp in his grasp.

Well, damn.

Just as the first man had lusted after the forbidden fruit, he, too, now found himself coveting that which he had been denied: the companionship of the intriguing Miss Farrington.

Good Lord, she was an enigma. Like ice and fire, cool and distant in her demeanor, yet with an obvious disdain for his countrymen simmering beneath the thin veneer of her polite, but pointed, barbs.

And yet, even with her contempt for his compatriots, he couldn’t help but notice the attractive flush of her face or the slight widening of her eyes whenever he got a little too close.

Irony, it seemed, was having a laugh at his expense. And just when he was about to brush off the girl and assume her to be like all the rest…

Edward lifted his head and caught a glimpse of the white and pink trimmed muslin of Miss Farrington’s gown. Her gloved hand rested in the crook of Westbrook’s arm, which, he noted, was a bit closer to her person than was polite. In fact, Westbrook’s entire body was far closer than propriety demanded. If the pair had been sitting, he wasn’t entirely certain that the young lord wouldn’t have been so bold as to place Miss Farrington directly on his lap.

Had Edward not set about to protect her from such churls? And there she was, parading around with Westbrook, one of the worst he’d had the misfortune of inviting to this afternoon’s event. The boy could hardly be over two and twenty. And having just come into the title, he had none of the sense of a man honed by aristocratic duties. The young earl’s family seat, a large and floundering estate in Sussex, was threatened by a lack of funds—some of which Edward had only recently relieved from the lad during a rousing hand at Whites. Had he known the financial straits the young lord was in, he never would have bet against him, but Westbrook had been so brash and loose with his coin, Edward couldn’t help but teach the boy a lesson.

And with the look of revulsion settled on Miss Farrington’s face, it looked as if Westbrook needed another tutorial.

“Edward.”

He lifted his head and turned, his shoulders stiffening at the disapproving tone in the all too familiar voice. “Mother.”

She cast him a speculative glance, her eyes narrowing as they fell upon the bedraggled rose still clutched within his grasp. “Lady Isabella is with her mother.”

“Indeed, and so am I. How very coincidental.”

She drew in a long breath, the fine lines around her mouth deepening as she pursed her lips. “I wish for you to accompany me to her side.”

Of course she did. And because he was ever the considerate son, he would accommodate her. But damn if he didn’t first set his conscience to right before he was forced into ducal duties and dull conversation by her persistent and unwanted hand.

“And so I shall, Mother. But before I do, I was wondering if you have seen Lady Amhurst. I’m afraid the one guest who decided to converse with Miss Farrington has infringed upon my hospitality and overstepped the bounds of decorum.”

His mother’s eyes immediately darted to the opprobrious scene behind him. Her nostrils flaring ever so slightly and she cleared her throat. “The countess and her daughters are enjoying tea with Lady Charlotte on the west side of the lawn. Five minutes. And remind the earl of his manners. I do not wish to have a scandal at my luncheon.”

His lips curled into a smile. “As you wish.”

…

Given the number of people in attendance, divided by the ratio of aristocrats to servants, and taking into consideration the size of the lawn and the area to which the guests were confined, the odds of finding at least one of her four dark-haired relations were still in her favor. Yet, even with such mathematically supported calculations, Daphne was unable to catch sight of even one of them. And that, coupled with the sudden and unnerving stare of the young earl, made this moment, and indeed the entire day, the most irrational of her existence.

Daphne cleared her throat, eager to return to her aunt’s side. “Have you seen my aunt, my lord? I have been unable to find her, and I wish to rejoin her company. I fear the heat of the day has tired me.”

The earl set down his flute of champagne and dabbed a monogrammed handkerchief to his lips. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen your aunt since last we spoke. Though if you are feeling ill, I can take you to a more secluded spot in the shade.”

Daphne shook her head. The last thing she needed was to be alone with the earl. Not that she didn’t feel, at least in conversation, that she already was. Outside of the required pleasantries exchanged with the duchess’s guests, Daphne had yet to converse with anyone beyond Lord Westbrook and the duke.

More than one curious glance was cast her way, but so too were bald stares and raised noses. Indeed, she was rather beginning to feel like a leper. Not that she minded. It was nothing less than she had expected from people who would likely dismiss her brother’s death as the tragic cost of war and hold her father’s work in such low regard. In fact, she was grateful for their rudeness. She’d hate to have to make concessions toward anyone English. Especially the duke.

“Have you seen Lady Henrietta, my lord? Or perhaps her sister, Lady Albina? I am most certain they could direct me to my aunt.”

“But Miss Farrington, I would be remiss if I did not first attend to your needs. A cool spot in the shade with some punch will be just the thing. I’m certain we can find your aunt once we attend to your well-being.”

Daphne pursed her lips and took a deep steadying breath. The man was far more persistent than she originally perceived, and irritatingly so. “As delightful as that sounds, I do not wish to impose on your time. I am certain there are many eager ladies waiting for you to join them in conversation.”

The earl shrugged. “I am only interested in one.”

She was tired of playing games, and was quite honestly, just plain tired. She had not been exaggerating when she had complained to the earl of the sun’s effects. And as subtlety had yet to gain her the results she desired (if she were to be frank, neither had direct confrontation), Daphne, with acerbic bluntness, asked, “But why? Especially when there are plenty of tolerable and good English girls to whom you might give your attentions?”

Lord, had she actually prefaced English with the word good?

The earl’s eyes widened before taking on a decidedly dangerous glint. “Are you implying American girls are not good, Miss Farrington? That they might be more wicked than English ones?”

Daphne cleared her throat and proceeded slowly, not entirely certain how to interpret the sudden change in his eyes. She had seen such a look, the same intense and almost hungry gaze on some of the men in her father’s employ. The sailors, who after long months at sea were starved of female attentions, often stared at her that way, but her brothers had always been present to shield her from any unwanted advances. That, however, was in Boston. Here, no one stood between her and the very attentive eyes or husky voice of the earl. Had fleeing from the duke been in her best interest?

She took a step back. “I suppose everyone has a bit of wickedness inside of them, my lord. It is, is it not, why many a sermon has been preached on that very subject?” Daphne glanced toward a group of ladies gathering around a nearby table. “What I mean to ask is why you wish to waste your attentions on an American. I’m not blind or deaf, my lord. I see the disdain in which your acquaintances hold me, no matter how politely they veil it.”

He continued to stare down at her, the pale blue-gray of his eyes darkening into the same menacing shade as the impending storm clouds. “I suspect you mistake disdain for jealousy, Miss Farrington. It is not every day we have someone from the former colonies amongst us. Especially a lady of such grace and prestige. One would have to be blind not to notice your fine qualities.”

Daphne was beginning to wonder if the man was not blind himself. Could he not see everyone’s contempt? Or the upward tilt of their noses as they raised them in indignation? “But I’m afraid your peers find me…behind in some regards.”

The earl snorted, his gaze intensifying as he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “If anyone is behind the times, Miss Farrington, it is the majority of ladies present. I would be hard pressed to say that they are even aware of the most recent skirmish between our two nations.”

Skirmish? Was that the word the English used to describe years of endless battles, of men defending their nation’s sovereignty, and the insult of his country’s soldiers burning her nation’s capital? Her jaw clenched at the injustice and she stared hard at the pale leather of her slipper and the green landscape surrounding it. The lush blades of grass were surprisingly spry, despite the large number of people tramping over the lawn. If something as insignificant as a blade of grass could spring back after having been stepped on by the English, then so too, could she.

“The ladies present are not jealous of my nationality. I suspect they dislike me because contrary to them, my wealth was earned by my father’s own two hands.”

Like a candle being doused for the evening, so, too, had the intrigue in the earl’s eyes been extinguished. Confusion graced his features as he frowned. “Your father is a laborer, Miss Farrington?”

How had he not heard the whispers that even now were being exchanged behind gloved hands? Was he deaf as well as blind? “My father is a successful owner of a fleet of merchant vessels.”

“But your mother is the daughter of a marquess, is she not?”

Again, her lineage and ancestry were presented as if her self-worth was contained within the faded and ripped pages of some dusty tome of the peerage.

“My mother was the daughter of a marquess, my lord. She passed away when I was quite young.”

The duke silently appeared at her side, the spicy smell of his soap the only indication of his arrival.

“A tragedy most profound. No lady should have to be raised without the gentle instruction of a mother’s teachings,” the duke stated.

Daphne’s heart warmed at his sincerity. “Your Grace,” she said, bending her knees.

“Miss Farrington,” he bowed. “I have located your aunt. It seems she has been conversing with Lady Charlotte over tea. May I take you to her?”

A few stray beams of sunlight caught on the duke’s sideburns, the light-colored hair on his face now glittering like gold against his skin. He looked almost ethereal, as if he were an angel saving her from the earl, who now stood in the dark shadow he cast.

The image was utterly ridiculous. The duke was the very opposite of anything remotely divine. Sharing the same royal blood as those who commandeered her brother Samuel’s ship; better to compare him to a monster out of some forgotten storybook, with hair more akin to a golden mane and with—

The earl cleared his throat. “Miss Farrington is not feeling well. I was about to take her into the shade. A footman can locate Lady Amhurst while we wait.” He stood, his feet hip-width apart, in a decidedly defensive stance.

Her chances of finding her family with either man were equally improbable. It was time to resort to the way she always handled things and do them herself. With the weight of her family’s plight still heavy on her shoulders, she gave both gentlemen the warmest smile her temperament would allow.

“Thank you both for your concern, but I find that I am no longer in need of your assistance. I am certain I will have little difficulty finding my aunt.”

“But Miss Farrington,” the duke began, a hint of underlying steel lacing his voice. “I would be remiss in my duties as host if I did not accompany you.”

She stared up at him, his jaw firm and rigid, his eyes glittering with a threat, as if he were daring her to refuse him.

“Come now, Miss Farrington,” the earl cut in, a lopsided grin playing on his lips. “At least allow one of us to guide you to Lady Amhurst. You did, after all, seek out my assistance on the matter. That is, unless…” His grin deepened and his eyes flitted to the duke. “You sought me out for something else? Conversation, perhaps?”

A flash of anger flared in the duke’s eyes before a cool mask of indifference affixed itself on his face. “Indeed, Westbrook, if Miss Farrington wished to discuss the finer qualities of Sussex soil, I’m more than certain she would have sought you out above any other in attendance. Perhaps you could expound on the subject, since you possess such a vast knowledge on the finer points of running an estate.”

Clearly the two men had some sort of underlying quarrel to settle. The earl’s smile had been replaced by a stoic line, and his hands flexed ever so slightly at his sides. Daphne’s foot slipped to the left, moving her a fraction closer toward the cluster of decorated tables set out for the purpose of conversing, and where, presumably, her aunt sat sipping tea. Whatever disagreement Lord Westbrook had with His Grace, she rather wished to remove herself—at least another two and a half inches to the left—then she might be able to slip into the folds of the crowd that was now gathering around them.

The earl lifted his hand and inspected the fit of his glove. “Ah, yes. And I take it should Miss Farrington wish to know how to exploit a man’s vulnerabilities, she would inquire after your expertise on the matter.”

“As a gentleman, I strive to be as accommodating as possible.” The duke pulled his gloves taut and flexed his fingers inside their leathery confines. “And I suspect any man worthy of such a title would do the same.”