Chapter Fourteen
Daphne was a master of many things. She could speak fluently in three different languages when she felt so inclined. She could name all forty-six senators in the United States senate. She could even solve a complex sum in less time than a single breath. She could not, however, be silent in the space of one.
Not that she didn’t try. She had, with the utmost diligence, done her best to slip through the side doorway with the quietest of motions. Edward had assured her the easily missed entry was reserved for servants only and would be well-oiled and waxed to make certain their movements went unnoticed by the household.
Unfortunately, Daphne must have come on the day it was scheduled for its treatment, for the door whined as though it never received any such attention at all. With a shrill squeak and a low groan of protest, it jerked open and into a narrow hallway. The fraying rugs and bare walls in the servants’ hallway were exactly as Edward described it, including its echoing emptiness. Fortunately, everyone was, as she had hoped, readying for the evening meal and not bustling about on this side of the house.
With a shove and another shrill shriek of protest, the door slid back into place, leaving her free to navigate the empty hallway toward the security of her room. The task was easy enough, given Edward’s clear directions, along with the promise that he would be entering through the same door precisely five minutes after her, a promise he insisted on after her forceful reassurance that she could walk, or rather hobble, to her quarters without his aid.
No one needed to see her current state of dishevelment. One need not be a genius to deduce what had transpired between them. He had first carried her up the stairs, insisting all the while that secrecy was not needed. That he did not give a damn what others thought of their physical appearance, her injury explanation enough for their delay.
But in truth, Daphne didn’t want anyone to see her. Not because she was ashamed or embarrassed of their predicament, but because anyone with two eyes would likely see the affection she held for Edward.
She stumbled, her feet catching on an overturned edge of the floor runner. After a glance down the hallway, she gave a short prayer of thanksgiving that no one was present to witness her clumsiness and another hoping that the slim door in front of her was the one leading to the hall outside of her room.
A quick flip of a metal latch, and she stepped into a lavishly decorated hallway, and straight into a solid chest and pair of large arms.
“Bloody hell,” a deep voice cried. Two hands gripped her shoulders and set her off to the side. “Have a care, or I’ll report you to your superior.”
Daphne’s eyes widened. She had barreled right into the Earl of Westbrook.
Recognition dawned as he squinted in the dim light of the hall. “Miss Farrington?”
She must look a fright. Her hair had fallen from its pins ages ago, her blond curls flailed about her face and every which way past her shoulders. Her dress, which she had salvaged from the cottage’s unswept floor, was stained and tattered, not to mention, wet, limp, and not fully laced. She no doubt looked like a country maid after a turn in the stables. And from the burning gaze and lazy grin on the earl’s face, it appeared he agreed.
“My lord,” Daphne stuttered, inching her way back toward the now closed door. “Are you headed to dinner? I fear I have lost my way.”
“Indeed you have, for this”—he motioned toward the length of the corridor—“is the men’s wing.”
The men’s wing? She must have taken a right instead of a left, or was it a left instead of a right? Not that it mattered. Heaven only knew what assumptions could be made, or in the case of the earl and his roving gaze, what conclusions he had already drawn.
“Yes, well, if you could show me the way to the women’s corridor, I would be most obliged, my lord.”
The earl fingered a piece of ribbon at her shoulder. “How is it that you came to be here, Miss Farrington? And in such a”—he paused, his eyes hungrily roving over her body—“disorderly state?”
Daphne’s skin prickled with fear at the earl’s leering expression and insinuating tone. “I came from a walk and was caught out in the rain,” she answered, sliding away from his touch. “I thought to utilize the servant’s hall and obviously lost my way.”
The explanation was nothing but truth, and yet it sounded false even to her ears.
With one swift movement, the earl’s arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her between him and the wall. “Come now, Miss Farrington. There is no need to play coy. My bed warms just as easily as any other.”
Daphne’s palm met the side of his cheek with a smack that left her fingers stinging. “I have never warmed anyone’s bed, Lord Westbrook, and I most certainly have no desire to enter yours.”
The earl’s eyes flashed, his broad chest and thick arms retaining their lock around her as his head lowered to her neck. “My God, I had no idea you engaged in the arts of punishment.” His hand slid over her breast and squeezed. “Should you wish to further abuse me, I advise that we move out of the hallway and somewhere more private.”
Daphne gasped, her body stiffening with rage. The man was beyond vulgar. That he should think she was actually encouraging his attentions was…was…well, it was utterly preposterous. She lifted her arms and gave a firm shove to his chest, the force of her exertion lurching her backward. Her ankle knocked into the wall, making her near cry out in pain. “I am not engaged in anything but the act of removing myself from your presence, Lord Westbrook. Do not touch me again.”
Edward’s voice faded as he glanced upward toward Lord Westbrook.
The earl chuckled. “Dear heavens. I’d say you may have a future in the theater, Waverly. The surprise in your voice is almost believable, though I think we all know exactly why Miss Farrington is here.”
Edward’s arms constricted. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Westbrook. Miss Farrington and I were simply out for a walk, as our wet appearance implies.”
“Through the servant’s halls?” The earl clicked his tongue. “While your delivery is laudable, the story needs work. Unlike mine. My story is truth based on fact.”
Edward touched a finger under her chin. “What the devil is he talking about? What story?”
Hot tears slid down her cheeks, the salty droplets further dampening Edward’s soggy and gray-tinged shirt. Her fists curled into little balls, clenching the dingy fabric as she sought for words to counter the earl’s claims.
“Go on, Miss Farrington,” the earl prodded. “Tell him the story about the Seraphina. The one where you discover that your beloved funded illicit trade and supported the captain who so unjustly took your brother’s life.”
Edward’s grip faltered, his arms slackening about her waist before his embrace tightened with a new fervor and he near crushed her against his chest.
“Your discord is with me, Westbrook,” Edward said. “I suggest you leave Miss Farrington alone before you further sully your honor.”
“Honor,” Westbrook chided. “As if someone associated with murder and smuggling knows anything of honor. I should have known you were little more than a thief when you stole everything from me at the tables. Why, you hardly merit the title of gentleman.”
A low growl rumbled in Edward’s chest. Daphne was certain that were his hands not engaged in the task of holding her, they would have been pummeling the side of the earl’s jaw. Though the thought of such vindication was appealing, so, too, was the acquisition of answers.
“Edward, please,” she pleaded, her hands gripping the smooth lapels of his jacket.
With a resigned sigh, he lifted her through the door, gently lowering her into the servants’ hall, before addressing the earl. “You are no longer welcome on these grounds, Westbrook. I suggest you leave now, before my temper gets the better of me and you leave in more than one piece.”
The earl gave a lazy nod. “So be it, Your Grace. Oh, and Miss Farrington,” he said, leaning around the duke’s towering form. “Should you find yourself in need of some consoling, my door is always open.”
Edward’s jaw tensed. He took a step forward, but Daphne grabbed his hand and pulled him back, the young earl’s smirking face disappearing as the door closed into the latch.
With his grip tightening around her hand, he turned around. “Daphne, I need to—”
But she shook her head, her chin lifted with resolve. “And I need to know the truth. Take me to the first ledger.”
…
“I don’t think that is advisable.”
Edward kept Daphne’s hand firmly within his grasp, matching her uplifted chin with an equally impressive tilt of his own.
“And why, sir, is that?” she asked, her slender fingers flexing around his knuckles, searching, no doubt, for a break in his hold.
But she would not find one. His grip was tight and with just cause. Westbrook, the cur, could still be standing behind the door. One did not need to be in possession of any imagination to know the course of direction the young lord wished to pursue. Lust had virtually rolled off him, his tongue panting with desire at Daphne’s unbound hair and half-exposed breasts. He was all too aware of what might have occurred had he not lifted the latch precisely when he did.
It was the threat of Westbrook’s audacity that kept his fingers clasped around hers. Well, that, and unadulterated fear. For despite his botched attempts to tell her, Daphne knew his secret.
God, he was a coward. How many missed opportunities had passed where he could have told her about that damn ship, about how his name was, indeed, linked to the ill-fated Seraphina and that her vilification of English aristocrats could very well be justified?
Daphne’s breathy whisper pierced through the silence, bringing his focus back to her haltingly blue and tormented eyes. “Why, Edward?”
Pain, thick and bitter, infused her voice and demanded his response. But he didn’t want to give it. Not now. Not ever. But most certainly not in the back servants’ hall where all manner of gossip prevailed. “I think it would be best if we first saw to your ankle.”
“I don’t give a damn about my ankle.”
“But I do. And unless you wish to have it even more swollen, I suggest we address it.”
She lifted her chin an inch higher, the sides of her pert little nose flaring in annoyance. “You knew about the Seraphina and you didn’t tell me. I want to know why.”
Why? Because of his inability to trust her with his secret, for fear that at its revelation she would leave him. Believe him to be the aristocratic, smug, and snobbish duke everyone else believed him to be.
Edward tugged on her hand, but her feet remained planted on the thin strip of carpet tacked to the floor.
“I promise to answer your questions, but not until we have moved to a more appropriate venue,” he assured, though the thought of going anywhere with her accusing eyes boring into him was not one he relished.
“You deceived me, and now you ask me to blindly follow behind, trusting that you will keep your word?” She shook her head and wrenched her hand free from his grasp. “I can’t do that. And I won’t.”
His blood turned cold at her refusal. Would she not offer him an opportunity for explanation? “Then I fear you’ll be gravely disappointed. I have no intentions of explaining anything until we retire elsewhere.”
Her head cocked toward the side, the muscles in her jaw straining as she clamped her lips together. Even colored with disdain, her features were exquisite, her beauty unrivaled. His fingers itched to run through the loose curls spilling over her shoulder and down the front of her chest. He was bewitched, entranced by her beauty.
And rendered immobile by her icy glare.
“I wish to see the ledger.”
“I’m certain that you do.”
With a quick scoop, he lifted her and stalked back down the corridor, her body stiff and heavy in his arms.
He deserved every bit of her anger, every note of her disdain. He had infringed on her trust and withheld a truth that she had every right to hear. But damn if it didn’t sting to see how easily swayed she was to believe the very worst about him. To see her ready acceptance of Westbrook’s accusations.
Edward dipped to trigger the latch, opening the door that led them into the women’s area of the house. With three gliding steps he had her at the threshold of her chamber door, a guest room he had personally allocated for her, its golden interior reminiscent of the color of her curls cascading over his arm and teasing him with their floral fragrance.
Hot tendrils of steam emitted from a tub, the rose-infused water still fragrant, denoting that someone had been diligently tending the water, ensuring it remained warm for Daphne’s imminent arrival.
“Unless you have hidden the ledger underneath my nose, this is not where I wished to be brought,” Daphne huffed.
He carried her over to her bed and released her onto the golden coverings. “It is where you need to be. Someone has obviously been anticipating your arrival.”
“And someone has obviously been avoiding the truth. You were responsible for Samuel’s death. You knew the details, and yet you hid them from me, pretending ignorance!” A fresh set of tears rolled down her cheeks, her features contorting with a mixture of both anger and sadness.
“Would you have thought better of me had I told you? Would you have even considered that I had an explanation, a reason connecting me to that bloody damn ship?” Edward asked, raking a hand through his hair.
Daphne’s neck stiffened, her chin tilting into its familiar defensive stance. “An explanation, or an excuse?”
Anger replaced any lingering guilt. “Neither, for it no longer matters. Whatever truths I tell or evidence I reveal will make no difference. You have already condemned me.”
“Because you’ve given me no reason to do otherwise,” she persisted. “You have not denied your connections or Westbrook’s accusations. Nor have you brought me the ledger to disprove Westbrook’s claims. What else am I to believe?”
“Westbrook likely came across a trail of gossip connecting Burnham to my unique hobbies. Both profited from harboring my secret.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“And yet, you are so willing to believe him,” Edward said. “Have you never made a mistake? Never erred or been swayed into a bad decision that you wish to the heavens you could undo?”
“The only mistake I ever made was allowing myself to believe that you are something other than what I first knew you to be.”
Edward closed his eyes, her words pricking like pins beneath his lids, scraping his skin, his heart, and his soul. “I see. I really do. Because I made the same mistake. I thought forgiveness prevailed, but I was wrong. I shall trouble you no further. Good evening, Miss Farrington.”
He stalked across the room and shut the door behind him.