Chapter Seventeen
That very night, Ashton Graham appeared as a dinner guest at the Earl of Albemarle’s table, along with at least a dozen other engaging guests. The duke was delighted to have his younger brother at his side and embraced him heartily, while their tight-lipped uncle was less welcoming.
Daisy was seated opposite the duke at dinner that night and struggled to be an attentive listener as he related his afternoon in the gardens collecting specimens. He described in exhaustive detail his scientific observations, techniques of capture, and preservation . . . then went on to discuss where in his collection he intended to place these new acquisitions.
Twice Daisy tried to change the subject, but “collecting” was all the duke could think about. The elaborate seven-course meal the Albemarles provided sat largely untouched before him. She found herself wishing he would drink a few glasses of wine; he was wound as tight as a clock spring.
Down the long table, Ashton was entertaining both ladies and gentlemen with tales of Ascot races and yachting and the prince’s royal faux pas. She glanced his way and felt a spur of envy that they got to enjoy his scandalous company. During the serving, he looked toward her, as if drawn by her gaze, and their eyes met. She ached to reach across the candelabra, crystal, and linen . . . past the silks, starched collars, and fancy manners . . . to touch him. She wanted to be the woman sitting beside him, enjoying his jaded opinions and droll stories of London society.
And more . . . She wanted to know how he spent his evenings, what books he read, which foods he couldn’t resist, whether he could drive a four-in-hand, and where he would go if he could live anywhere in the world. In truth, she wanted to know him in more than just the biblical sense.
Oh, God.
She paled so abruptly that the duke halted mid-discourse and asked if she were feeling quite well. She produced a fair imitation of a smile and bade him continue his fascinating comparison of the butterflies of western and southern England . . . while she gripped the table edge in a quiet panic.
She had more than just a fascination for Ashton Graham. She had feelings of a kind—she forced her gaze back to the duke—she might never have for Arthur. Her heart sank, leaving a hollow in her middle as she searched her future husband for something, anything to pin a hope on.
Her gaze snagged on his chin and slid to his mouth. Not broad and sensuous, but pleasant and perhaps even promising. She watched his mouth as he spoke, and gradually began to take hope.
It was time she redirected her passionate leanings toward the duke. Given time and proximity, she would surely begin to have the same feelings for him that she was having for Ashton. It was her regrettable nature to be susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. And Arthur, as far as she could tell, was indeed made of flesh.
By the end of dinner her spirits had rebounded and she had made up her mind. She had to kiss Arthur. And soon.
* * *
“Goodness, Daisy, I’ve all but talked your ears off,” the duke said as they strolled on the half-lit terrace outside the salon where their hosts and the other guests were gathered. It had taken a bit of doing to maneuver him outside and alone; in his presence, everyone seemed to show an unprecedented interest in butterfly collecting.
“Nonsense, Your Grace,” she began.
“Arthur,” he corrected.
“Arthur,” she repeated with true pleasure. “I love to see you share your favorite occupation. I’ve learned a lot about insects and butterflies from you. And I think you are very wise to think of cultivating beehives along with your orchard.”
“Don’t know why we haven’t done it before now.” He paused at the stone baluster that edged the terrace and looked down at her in the moonlight. “It seems like I’ve been waking up to a lot of things in recent days. There is so much to do . . . a great house to maintain, estates to run, people to sort out. Some of our servants should have been pensioned off years ago and replaced with younger backs and knees. And I had no idea how much land belonged to us until a week ago. I went to my father’s study—which is usually occupied by Uncle Bertram, who doesn’t like his things disturbed—and I discovered maps showing far-flung parcels of land belonging to Betancourt.”
“You don’t say. That sounds like a big responsibility. You know, you need help, Arthur. Someone with a sound mind and a strong constitution to help you take stock of your obligations and get them in hand.”
“Well, my aunts and uncles—”
“Are getting on in years themselves,” she opined, feeling only a little guilty for pretending concern. “It’s hardly fair to burden them.”
“I suppose that’s true.” He looked at her and slowly cocked his head, as if seeing her from a different perspective. She met his gaze and felt a mild surge of relief that he was finally paying attention to her. When he stepped closer, she broke into a flirtatious smile and put a hand on his arm.
“Of course, it’s true,” came a strong voice from the terrace doors. She withdrew a step. Curse his hide! “Anyone can see the old cods are going dotty. I was starting to fear they would drag you with them.”
“Ashton.” The duke’s face lit with good humor. “I must say, I’m glad to see you’re back in society. I hope this means you’ll be coming to Betancourt more.” He looked to Daisy with widened eyes. “Oh, I nearly forgot. We’re having people in next week. You must come, too. The family will be thrilled to see you. Miss Bumgarten, here, is coming.”
“Really?” Ashton gave her a duplicitous smile. “How lovely. I’d be delighted to come home for a visit.”
She gave him a fierce glare that Arthur missed.
Ashton offered her his arm, which she ignored as she headed for the door.
* * *
The next morning Daisy persuaded the duke to accompany her for a ride. He was not well acquainted with horses and not much of a rider, he confessed, but he agreed to try since she had her heart set on it. When he was younger, his uncles had discouraged him from spending time in the stables or riding over the estates, so he had become accustomed to walking.
Once again, Arthur turned out to be more honest than diplomatic. He sat stiff as a board and bounced in the saddle as if every step the horse took required an equal and opposite reaction. Daisy reined in Dancer to stay close to him and offer a few suggestions intended to make him more comfortable in the saddle and with the reins. She shared with him distracting tales of her early rides and some western lore regarding horses.
In the end, she suggested they gallop a bit to let the horses work off some energy and promised it would smooth out his ride. She was relieved to see that he used his heels to make his mount go and he managed to hang on as they set off across open fields and veered along hedgerows. Frequently she took the lead and chose the path, and when she looked back he was smiling—at least she hoped it was a smile.
To his credit, he persevered, improved, and was often on her heels as they crossed bridges, avoided stone walls, and rounded haystacks in fields. Was it her imagination that he sat more at ease in the saddle and used the reins more effectively now?
The duke was red faced and panting, and she was breathing hard herself as they slowed to a walk and turned back toward the stables. Arthur insisted he was in fine fettle, and to her eye, he did seem invigorated by the exercise. When they came upon the horse trail Lady Regina had described to her, she knew she had found the perfect spot to maneuver him into a kiss.
Marlton’s bridle path was an old cart road lined with mature trees that had grown tall enough to meet overhead and shade the area. It had become a picturesque venue for riders wishing to cool down their mounts before a final jog back to the stables.
Sunlight slanted through the leaves and danced across the duke’s ruddy face, giving him a robust appearance. She smiled and asked if he wished to dismount and walk a bit in the shade. He smiled back, his eyes alight with pleasure as he expounded on the beauty of the place and how much he appreciated her tutelage in horsemanship. He spoke of tending to his stables when he returned to Betancourt, and promised her a tour of the main estate on horseback when she visited.
She was supposed to wait for him to help her dismount. She leaned this way and that, trying to see around his mount, and finally spotted his boots on the far side.
“Your Grace? Arthur?”
A groan from his location galvanized her and a moment later she swung down from Dancer’s back and hurried around to see what was wrong.
Arthur stood bent at the waist, his legs spread awkwardly and his arms dangling from his shoulders. “I—I can’t move,” he croaked.
“Truly?” Alarmed, she rushed to help him straighten, inserting herself under his left arm. “You can stand, can’t you? Lean on me and I’ll help.”
A massive groan accompanied his effort to straighten and he grabbed his lower back and squeezed his eyes shut. Seconds later, he laid his head back and took several labored breaths. “God in Heaven,” he muttered, clearly in pain. “What’s happened to me?”
“I’ve heard of this,” she said, running her hands over his midsection before realizing how inappropriate that was and simply wrapping her arms around his waist to help him keep his balance. “You’re just unused to riding and your muscles have seized up. You’ll be fine in a few minutes. Here, we’ll walk it off . . . get your blood circulating again.”
“Arghhhh!” He nearly fell flat on his face as she urged him forward. “I can’t walk—I can’t even move my legs!”
This was bad, she realized. Very bad. The worst case of city-slicker stumble she’d ever seen. She looked around frantically, hoping for a stump or a felled tree where he might sit and recover. There was nothing of the kind in the vicinity; she had to come up with some way to get him back to the house.
“Your Grace, I’ll have to rub your limbs to get the blood moving again. We’re too far from the house to go for help. Here”—she turned him toward his horse—“hold on to the saddle and don’t move.”
“What are you—ohhhh—aghhhhh—”
* * *
That was the way Ashton found them: Daisy on her knees behind Arthur rubbing and massaging his legs with appalling familiarity, and Arthur gripping the saddle of his horse and moaning as if in great pain or great pleasure—it was impossible to say which. Ashton dismounted and rushed forward calling his brother’s name.
“Oh!” Daisy fell over onto her rear in the grass. Her eyes were as big as Wedgwood saucers. “What are you—”
“Never mind me. What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m all seized up,” Arthur said, the same moment she explained.
“He’s got cramps.”
“I got off the danged animal and my legs won’t work.”
“I was just helping him get the blood circulating again.”
Ashton stared at the pair for a minute, taking in the excuses. Daisy was sprawled on the ground wringing her clever little hands, and Arthur was red faced and wincing in discomfort and deep humiliation.
“I’ll bet you were getting his blood going,” he muttered, glaring at her before transferring his displeasure to his brother. “And you. Whatever possessed you to ride off to God-knows-where on a horse?” He jammed his gloved fists on his waist. “You never ride. You hate horses.”
“I do not,” Arthur declared, drawing himself up as straight as he could. “I simply have not had much experience with them, and it’s about time I learned to handle them. I have duties. And some may require that I ride out to oversee Betancourt’s business.” He sagged, but raised his chin, striking a determined pose. “I’ve just . . . overdone it a bit on my first day out.”
“Dear God.” Ashton glanced at Daisy. “I suppose you’re responsible for this newfound interest—irrepressible horsewoman that you are.”
She scrambled to her feet and brushed grass and debris from her split skirt. Copying Arthur, she lifted her chin and then resettled her hat.
“He wanted to learn and I was happy to accompany him. Now if you’re through chastising us, please lend a hand and help me get your brother back to the house.”
With a growl of frustration and more muttering, he helped Daisy tie the horses in series and then stationed himself under one of Arthur’s arms while she tucked herself under the other. They walked slowly, arms around the suffering duke, who soon announced that he thought his circulation was improving; he was beginning to feel things again. Unable to stop himself, Ashton glanced at the bulge in the front of Arthur’s trousers.
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, hating the fact that he sounded jealous in his own ears.
* * *
There was quite a commotion when they returned to Marlton with the duke barely mobile and clearly in pain. He was carried upstairs and put straight to bed to await the earl’s doctor.
A nasty sprain, the doctor announced gravely to a relieved Earl and Countess of Albemarle, an outraged Uncle Bertram, and a host of curious guests. Liniment, the doctor prescribed, and a strong willow bark tea. Within a week the young duke should be good as new.
Privately, he told Ashton that it was the worst case of saddle-soreness he’d ever seen. “Get him up and walking as soon as you can,” he advised. “Don’t let him cripple up because he’s afraid it will hurt when he moves.”
At the countess’s urging, Daisy offered to read to the duke, to help him pass the time. Uncle Bertram inserted himself before the sickroom door to reject her offer, saying that she’d done quite enough already. The old man insisted on sitting by his nephew’s bedside himself. Ashton chuckled at the news of his uncle’s unprecedented urge to tend a sickbed and snuck Arthur a bottle of strong brandy, relabeled “tonic,” to help him through his recovery.
Whether it was the quality of his uncle’s nursing, the brandy, or the boredom, Arthur emerged from his room the very next day, walking stiffly on a cane and insisting he was well on the way to recovery.
“Splendid, then you’re fit to travel. We’re needed at home,” Uncle Bertram declared, and immediately requested use of the earl’s carriage to take them to the railroad station.
Arthur didn’t argue with his uncle. He collected his new specimens for transport, then bathed and dressed carefully, while the earl’s man packed for him. There was no hurry, he insisted, when Uncle Bertram paced and warned that they might miss the train.
“If so, there will be another later, Uncle,” Arthur said, firmly but politely. Bertram glowered at Ashton as if it were his fault, and dragged him into the salon for a quick, private word.
“What a disaster! Get it done, boy. Finish the chit,” he snapped, leaning in. His face contorted in a way that made him resemble an irritable badger. “See that she loses interest in your brother . . . or else.” Threat delivered, he stalked outside to wait for his nephew.
Arthur thanked the earl and Lady Regina for extending him such gracious hospitality, then sought out Ashton, who had retreated to the billiards room.
“I want you to know, Ash, that I’ve missed you. And I’m heartened to think that you’ll be coming home at last—even for just a visit.”
They shook hands and gave each other a manly half hug.
“I look forward to seeing you again, Artie.” Ashton looked down, then quickly picked up a billiards cue and began to chalk the point. “Take care of yourself. Especially if you intend to further your acquaintance with horses.”
Arthur grinned and lifted the cane the earl had loaned him. “I am counting that any future lessons will be less painful.”
“It wasn’t a total loss. The stick makes you look almost debonair.” He waggled his brows and Arthur exited laughing.
Daisy stationed herself near the great stairs in the center hall, waiting for Arthur, hoping to say good-bye and perhaps give him a peck on the cheek to think about on his way home. Thus, she was surprised when he pulled her into a nook beside the stairs.
“I am so sorry about your injury, Your Grace,” she began.
“Arthur,” he chided.
“Arthur,” she echoed gratefully, knowing that his insistence that she use his given name meant she was forgiven. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He surprised her by laying his cane aside and taking her hands in his.
“My dear Daisy, I am better by the moment. I want you to know that I will be so very pleased to see you next week at Betancourt. You’re a breath of fresh air for me . . . a window onto a world I have ignored for too long.”
Before she knew what was happening, he drew her close and lowered his head to press her lips with his. It all happened so fast. Her impressions were of warmth, simple pressure, and a faint scent of sandalwood. Then it was over and he was withdrawing with a tenuous smile.
“I—I look forward to seeing you again, dear Arthur,” she said.
Smiling broadly, he picked up his cane, turned on his heel, and she could have sworn that he no longer limped as he strode out the center hall to the waiting carriage.
She touched her lips and fought the sinking feeling in her middle. It wasn’t a proper kiss, really. It was too sudden. She was unprepared.
She bit her lip.
And sagged.
There wasn’t the slightest tingle in it.