Chapter Three
God, he was an idiot.
Impending imbecility was the only rational explanation Edward could offer for inviting the lamentably American Miss Farrington to his mother’s exclusive, pompous, and vapid annual picnic, an event where nothing but potential marriages were discussed, the latest fashions judged, and scandalous gossip exchanged.
And where the candid Miss Farrington would stick out like a rose among thorns.
He had wanted an excuse to see her again. To have an opportunity to challenge himself to make her smile. And to expose that adorable dimple in her left cheek whilst catching a glimpse of her refreshingly rebellious personality.
And if, in the process of seeking her out, he saved himself from an afternoon of enduring a throng of dim-witted women, then so be it.
Edward wound his way through a grouping of linen-covered tables exquisitely laid out with delicate Sevres and solid English Jasperware. Arrangements of blue hydrangeas and golden carnations were everywhere, obstructing his view, and making it difficult to see anyone, let alone find Miss Farrington. The very least he could do was act as her guide through the shark-infested waters. He had, after all, invited her to this mess. Why not assist her in navigating through it?
Peering over a particularly fragrant display of lavender, he caught sight of her windswept skirts, just before another set impeded his view. “Mother,” he started, but she silenced him with a glare.
“What were you thinking? Inviting that…that…American…to my luncheon?” His mother flitted about the lawn, her bronze-colored dress catching in the early summer breeze. “You do realize her father works in trade. Trade! Did you not stop to think of the ramifications of such an invitation? Good gracious. You have just given our very public approval of her presence in society.”
And he had. His invitation all but stated that he not only approved, but welcomed Miss Farrington into the folds of British polite society.
“You think her not worthy of such distinction?” he asked, his new boots sinking into the freshly sodden grass. The smell of last evening’s rain mingled with the lavender, the heady aroma giving him a sense of calm he did not feel.
Likely it was his mother’s displeasure that had his nerves wound tighter than a ball of yarn. Surely Miss Farrington’s arrival could not be to blame for his discord.
“Regardless of her fortune or her ancestral ties, I do not think Miss Farrington worthy of any distinction beyond those given to her class. Her father’s hands are tainted by service. She does not belong at this event. She will have nothing in common with the people I have invited.”
That her father had earned his fortune instead of inheriting it, indeed, that he chose his profession instead of having it forced upon him, did not make his daughter any less of a person or a victim worthy of Edward’s mother’s scorn. But centuries of societal hierarchy and tradition stood against that enlightened opinion.
Edward raised a brow. “Perhaps you should focus less on how her father made his fortune, and more on how much of it he has accumulated. She is of noble birth and you cannot discount the fact that more than one viscount or earl is in need of an heiress to save his estate. I have no doubt that many will welcome her, or at least her fortune, with open arms.”
If he found the alluring Miss Farrington enchanting, so would every other male, bachelor or otherwise. They would be on her like a pack of hounds on a fox, salivating at the chance to charm a very beautiful, very eligible, and not to mention, very wealthy woman into their arms. He was an idiot. A hopeless, doomed idiot.
…
Six weeks spent over the edge of a merchant vessel tossing up the insides of her stomach had been nothing compared to the nightmare in which Daphne currently found herself. Five more minutes of stiff conversation and brazen stares, and heaven help her, she would stick a hairpin into her eye to save herself from further misery.
The duke stood at the farthest table, surrounded by a crush of lavishly dressed women. Daphne doubted she would have a chance to exchange a single pleasantry with the man, much less pull him away from the picnic to ask for his assistance. It would be far easier to calculate the odds of her securing his attentions than it would be to actually obtain them.
She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. The sooner she asked the duke for his aid, the sooner the hull of the Mary Frances would fill, and the sooner she would be on her return journey home to the familiar shores of Boston.
But if the women vying for his attention weren’t enough of an obstacle, her aunt and cousin further complicated matters. The two adhered to her side, introducing her to every person in attendance, from those curious to meet her to those who held absolutely no interest, their bored expressions and snide comments making her wish she were anywhere but on the manicured lawn of the Duke of Waverly. Albina and Sarah, her younger cousins, had once again managed to disappear unnoticed—perhaps she could as well, if she just stepped a few paces back—
Aunt Susan yanked on Daphne’s hand. “And dear, dear Lady Rathborne, may I make known to you Miss Farrington?”
Lady Rathborne’s smile could have terrified tigers.
Daphne gave the obligatory curtsy, and engaged in polite conversation that could have lulled even the tiger into a state of drowsiness. Excusing herself, she sought a moment’s reprieve, only to have Henrietta’s fingers wrap around the lace trimmed sleeve of Daphne’s gown. “There is the Earl of Westbrook,” she squealed. “Is he not handsome?”
Daphne followed her cousin’s appreciative gaze to a young man with dark hair who stood smiling in their general direction. Of middle height and average build, he did not appear different than any of the other men scattered over the lawn. And certainly not worthy of the interest Henrietta seemed determined to give him. Had he been a foot taller and in possession of the same shade of azure-colored eyes as the duke, perhaps she would have concurred with her cousin’s assessment. But then, when had the duke’s eyes become azure-colored instead of a plain and simple blue?
Daphne tugged down the lace of her sleeve. “He is no more handsome than any other man of my acquaintance.”
Henrietta giggled. “That is only because you have met the Duke of Waverly. Few men are more handsome than he.”
Joining them, her aunt snapped up a fourth helping of canapés from a passing footman. “I have to agree with Henrietta, dear. The duke is quite distracting.”
Daphne thought longingly of the taffrail on the Mary Frances. Slipping free of Henrietta’s grasp, she turned to face her relations. “No, you don’t understand. I merely meant to say that the Earl of Westbrook is no more handsome than any other man, here, or anywhere, for that matter.”
A deep voice chuckled. “How very disappointing. I thought I’d at least best Lord Strathmere. The man is ancient and a veritable hunchback.”
“Lord Westbrook,” Henrietta gasped.
Aunt Susan’s face paled. “My lord, we didn’t see you there.”
Daphne saw herself executing a graceful dive from the Mary Frances’s decks into a school of hungry sharks, all of them wearing top hats and bonnets.
Doing her best to appear demure, she turned around to face the man. “Forgive me, my lord,” she began, but the earl silenced her with an outstretched hand, a look of amusement on his roguish face.
“No, please forgive me. Had I worn the dark jacket my sister had insisted upon, then perhaps I would have bested Lord Strathmere and captured your admiration.”
Henrietta giggled into her gloves. Aunt Susan stepped forward, edging her daughter behind her. “Lord Westbrook, please allow me to offer my most sincere apologies.”
“They are most graciously received, Lady Amhurst.” The earl bowed to her aunt, but his gaze remained on Daphne.
Daphne looked away, hoping to discourage the earl from requesting an introduction, but it seemed that once again, misfortune was on her side. Her aunt grabbed Daphne’s hand and placed her directly in front of the earl.
“Please allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Farrington of Boston.”
The earl’s face brightened. “Boston? Are you visiting from Lincolnshire?”
“Oh no,” Henrietta corrected. “Daphne is from Boston, Massachusetts. She is American, my lord.”
The earl’s dark brows rose. “American? How very intriguing, Miss Farrington.”
The earl seemed poised to take a step in her direction, but suddenly the air grew thin as the space between them became occupied by a tall, well-dressed form. “Yes, Westbrook. Miss Farrington is in London reconnecting with family. But I daresay you already knew that. Were you not inquiring after her, badgering Lady Isabella with your questions of Miss Farrington’s identity?”
The earl flushed. “You cannot fault me for being curious, Waverly. Not when your mother has invited such an enchanting creature to her luncheon. I merely wished to make her acquaintance.”
“Ah, but it was I, and not my mother, who invited Miss Farrington,” the duke corrected. “She is my guest.”
His guest? Daphne stared at the duke, the warm breeze tousling his sand-colored hair, curling it over the brim of his top hat. Was there a difference between those guests who had been invited by the duchess and those by the duke? Just what differentiated the two? And why was she suddenly interested to know?
The earl snapped off a nearby sprig of honeysuckle and smashed it between his fingers. “And how is it that you know Miss Farrington, Waverly? Is this not her first event this Season? I can only believe the truth, as I would most certainly have remembered those eyes had I come across them before this afternoon.”
The duke straightened his shoulders and snatched a flute of champagne from a passing tray. He gave the mangled honeysuckle bits on the ground a sympathetic look, and aimed his so-charming smile at Aunt Susan. “I have an acquaintance with her brother, Mr. Thomas Farrington. He was kind enough to introduce us.” While the duke’s face did not give any indication of his feelings toward the earl, his voice was filled with pity.
The duke turned, cutting off her view of the earl. “Where is your brother, Miss Farrington?”
If Thomas knew what was good for him, he was booking Daphne’s passage home. “He had some business that required his attention, Your Grace. He asked me to give his apologies.”
Thomas had indeed gone to attend business earlier this morning. With merchants withdrawing daily, he had hastened to the pier to save what investments remained—and had left her with a stern reminder of his command—a command Daphne would see to completion, if only to stop her brother’s harping.
“Your Grace,” Daphne rushed, hoping to hold his attention before her courage failed. “I…I want to thank you for your invitation. I am…” I am lying though my teeth and doing it badly. “I am…most flattered, Your Grace.”
He placed his empty champagne glass on a table, his direct gaze making her cheeks warm. “I wonder if you might be interested in a tour of the gardens, Miss Farrington? With your aunt’s permission, of course.” He gave a hopeful glance to Aunt Susan.
Before her aunt could open her mouth to reply, the earl edged in front of the duke.
“What an excellent notion, Waverly. I was just about to ask Miss Farrington that myself. No doubt you have guests that require your attention.” He held out his arm to her.
“Not so much as your great-aunt requires yours,” the duke countered. He stepped to the side and motioned toward an elderly woman pounding her cane on the stone walk.
“Westbrook, is that you?” she called. “Stop dawdling, and give me your hand.”
The earl gave a tight smile. “My apologies, ladies, but I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.” He bowed and gazed up at Daphne. “Perhaps another time, Miss Farrington.”
When pigs wear corsets. “Yes, perhaps.”
The earl nodded and turned toward the duke. “Waverly.”
“Westbrook.” The duke watched the earl stalk toward his relation before returning his attention to where Daphne stood with her aunt and cousin. “Miss Farrington? Our walk?”
Here was the opportunity for which she had most anxiously hoped. Yet now that it was hers to grasp, she hesitated. While she had no wish to go anywhere with the presumptuous earl, neither did she want to take a turn with the handsome, smiling, and charming duke. He was unsettling at best, his very presence evoking an internal discord of unfamiliar sensations, likely spurned on by the awkwardness of her plight.
Before Daphne could frame a polite demurral, her aunt nudged her forward. “She would be delighted, Your Grace.”
Daphne would be anything but delighted at the opportunity to walk about the lawn with the man; his ease in manipulating the earl warned her she’d have to be very careful in how she sought the duke’s financial support. But then, she could hear Thomas’s voice in her ears. Gain the man’s favor. Tell him about the financial advantages of Farrington Shipping. Then you can leave this damnable country and pack your bags…or spend the entire year in London.
It was, after all, just a walk, and likely a short one. While the advantages of her family’s business were many, it wouldn’t take long to list them. She placed her hand on his extended arm. “Yes, yes of course. I would be most delighted, Your Grace.”
The duke led her toward a small maze of waist-high hedgerows, the voices of the guests quieting into a faint murmur as he whisked her farther from the crowd. They walked in silence, with Daphne doing her best to appear calm.
Perhaps if she commented on the roses or the fine state of the greenery, she could unwind her nerves and broach the topic of asking for his assistance with greater ease. Or at least fill the awkward and uneasy quiet that settled around them.
She drew in a deep breath. One. Two. Three. Three beings in the Holy Trinity. Surely that was a good sign, convincing as any—
“These roses are quite lovely. The best I’ve seen since my arrival in England.”
Which was the absolute truth. That these were the only roses she had viewed since stepping upon English soil was of little importance.
The duke gave her a small smile as his eyes traveled over the fragrant blossoms. “They were a gift, given to the very first Duchess of Waverly for her stalwart loyalty to the crown by Queen Anne herself. This particular line of roses heralds from those created by the House of Stuart, dating back at least two hundred years.”
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.”