Chapter Twenty-Four
She looked up to find him watching her with a glint in his eyes.
“Ah?” She stiffened. “I just confessed to you the one thing that would disqualify me as the bride of a shop clerk, much less a duke—and all you can say is ‘ah’?”
“It’s not exactly news to me,” he said, refusing to release her hands when she tried to jerk them away. “Daisy, you don’t act like any tyro I’ve ever seen. You have to know that. You flirt with your eyes, and kiss like a goddess, and lick your lip when you’re thinking pleasurable thoughts. A little hard to miss when you’ve been around experienced women.”
“You knew that I’m not a virgin? And you let me go on and try to prove myself worthy of—why? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wasn’t sure it mattered. You weren’t exactly ‘standard’ in any other way, so why expect something as ordinary as sexual inexperience.”
“It’s not just inexperience; virginity means being pure and innocent.”
“And terrified of a man’s touch. Frantic to avoid ‘the beast’ in men. Told to stare at the ceiling and think of England. Sounds dreadful to me. Tedious and dull. Words, I might add, I would never associate with you.”
She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.
“Then what words would you use for a girl of sixteen who thought she fell in love with a handsome wrangler and met him secretly . . . several times . . . until her mother found out, fired him, and sent him packing?”
“Headstrong,” he said. “Curious. Adventuresome. Reckless.”
“Not immoral? Not tainted and befouled and soiled?”
“Are we discussing women or bed linen?” He gave a short, ironic laugh, and she drew back. Seeing that he had offended her, he softened. “You’re serious. You believe what you did was vile and unforgivable.”
“Well, not exactly vile, but it was sinful and wrong.”
“Because it turned you into a slattern who prowls the streets seeking to satisfy your base appetites in the gutters?”
“No,” she said, emotion rising and pricking the corners of her eyes. “I’m not like that. I could never be.”
“How many men have you slept with since that unforgivable episode?”
“None!” She was horrified that he might think she’d continued to pursue liaisons with men. “I’ve been with one man in my entire life.”
“And he made you feel dirty and befouled and wicked,” he pressed.
“No.” She scowled and made fists around handfuls of skirt. “He wasn’t like that. He was sweet and gentle and did everything he could to make it good. But the aftermath—the fury, the humiliation—was so terrible, I’ve never been tempted to repeat it.”
“Never?” He canted his head to look at her with that sultry, kiss-me-senseless stare, challenging that little white lie.
“I thought I had put away all of those longings and forgotten those feelings. Lots of people—doctors and preachers and even my own ma say women aren’t supposed to have feelings like that. That women who do are wicked and immoral—sinners from the start.” She couldn’t meet his gaze anymore.
“And you believe them?” He sounded saddened by the possibility.
“I don’t know what to believe. I mean the good Lord made us male and female, right? And we’re supposed to marry and live together and have babies. Why make it pleasurable if we’re not supposed to feel it? But then, I have those desires, those urges—maybe my thinking is muddled and sinful, too.” She took a heavy breath and freed her hands from his.
“That is all history now, and it helped to make you the passionate and caring woman you are today.” He turned her chin so she would look at him. “All that matters to me is that you are honorable and steadfast with Arthur. Promise me that . . .” He paused a moment, looking into her eyes, making that soul-penetrating connection that was coming to mean more to her than any physical pleasure. It was a knowing and being known, a belonging and acceptance, a commitment to caring.
Love; it was love.
She felt like she was crumbling inside—being demolished—then slowly, painfully reassembled into a different and not-yet-complete form. She was becoming something new, growing, changing . . . like one of Arthur’s caterpillars transforming into a butterfly. She prayed she would be something better, finer than what she had been. And she understood now that her time with Ashton, their talks, their loving, their honesty with each other, was responsible for those changes. He was the one her heart had chosen. And she could feel in her depths that he felt the same about her.
“Promise me that you will be true to him,” he said. “Promise me that when he seems tiresome and provincial and makes you want to pull your hair out with his rants about bugs and beasts—you’ll remember he is more than that, and understand that he can be more still.”
She rose and stood looking at him, barely able to get her breath. He rose, too, and stood before her, his heart in his eyes.
“Promise me, sweet Daisy, that when a handsome man pays you compliments and sweeps you across a dance floor, you will remember the earnestness of Arthur’s heart and the steadfastness of yours. That you will not give in to the temptation coursing through your veins and burning in your loins. That you will not let your passions rule you and betray Arthur. I could not bear to think of either of you disgraced or in despair.”
She stared at him, her love pouring through her eyes, speaking without words the truth she had just discovered.
“There is only one man who could ever tempt me away from Arthur.”
She held her breath as tension charged the air between them.
Now. It was now or never. He had to confess his love—take her into his arms and heart. He had to ask her to be his instead, to marry him and cast her lot with his on the sea of Fate.
She saw the light dim in his eyes, but continued to hope. Please . . . please . . .
His shoulders sagged and he took a step back. Then another. Every inch he put between them tore a bit more of her heart.
He wouldn’t say it.
He was ceding her to his titled brother. It was his duty.
He gave her a smile so filled with pain it was terrible to witness.
“I wish you the best, Daisy Bumgarten. I would be the first to say: Lady Marguerite, Your Grace.”
Then he turned on his heel and left, taking the air in the room with him.
She gasped short breaths that didn’t quite reach her lungs. It felt like she’d been dropped down a well and lay at the bottom, winded and broken. She took two steps to the sofa and collapsed, staring at the door in disbelief.
When the room became too blurry to see, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced her tears down her cheeks. Moments later, she doused the candle flame and sat in the cool gray moonlight from the window for a long time.
* * *
The countess was late rising the next morning and it was half past ten before Daisy decided to go down to breakfast alone. A number of the guests were still abed or taking trays in their chambers, and the two older gentlemen lingering over coffee and scones at a small table in the morning room were clearly dressed for walking. Their tweeds, field glasses, and notebooks marked them as birding enthusiasts. After she settled at the long table with a plate of eggs and sausage, Arthur entered dressed in similar tweeds with similar binoculars hanging around his neck.
“Daisy,” he greeted her with a broad smile. “I was hoping to see you before I left.” He blinked as if just struck by a thought. “I say, you wouldn’t want to come with us, would you? I promised Cousin Ralph and Baron Kettering a bit of birding. I’ve seen some lovely songsters about the place.”
“Oh. Thank you, but I think I would only slow your pace,” she said, sensing the others’ relief at her refusal.
“Very well. But I would love another riding lesson later.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, sipping her coffee.
Moments later, the old gents trundled out the door behind Arthur and she found herself alone. It was a mercy, really. She hadn’t slept well and feared the strain and puffiness around her eyes would tell on her. As she poured a second cup at the sideboard, Reynard Boulton lurched through the doorway, banging against the frame and planting himself just inside the room. He winced at the sunlight streaming in the long windows, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. They were as red as sunset.
“Coffee,” he rasped out, looking like a sheet just come out of the wringer. “If there’s an ounce of mercy in you—”
She poured him the last in the silver pot and added milk and sugar as he staggered to the table holding his head. “Here. Sit.”
He sank stiffly onto a chair. “You are a goddess, Miss Bumgarten.”
“Not exactly, Mr. Boulton.” She smiled as she carried her own cup back to the table and resumed her place, across from him. “But I do have sympathy for a drink-swollen head. I’ve dealt with Uncle Red’s for years.”
“You can tell a lot about a woman’s character by how she treats a morning-after,” he said, gulping the coffee with his eyes closed. “Jesus, I’m wrecked.” He cracked his eyes open enough to glance around. “How did I get back here?” He wrapped both hands around the cup, greedily absorbing its warmth. “The last thing I knew, I was with Ash at the Iron Penny.”
“The Iron Penny?” she asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“A local establishment.” He buried his nose in the cup again. “Coaching inn at the edge of Betancourt. More tavern than way station these days. We went there to—” He halted and looked at her quizzically. “To have a few drinks. Ash seemed determined to drain a barrel or two and break any nose that got in his way. Mad as a wet cat over something.”
“Did he say what?” Daisy asked, trying to sound casually interested.
“Not really. More of a sullen bastard when he’s drinking.” He looked past her to the sideboard. “Could you be an angel and serve me up some eggs if they’re still warm?”
She narrowed her eyes. He widened his, imploring.
With a growl, she rose and soon assembled a plate of eggs and cold ham. She rang for another pot of coffee and some hot scones, then came back to set the plate in front of him.
“My undying gratitude,” he said with a sigh, and tucked into the food like a starving man. “I got the impression he was angry at the family for some reason or other.”
“Not surprising,” she said, wishing she could say how she truly felt. “They’re not the nicest people. Except Arthur. He’s dear and a little too accommodating to the old—his relatives.”
Reynard looked like his head was banging like an anvil, and from the way he gripped his stomach he was in misery there as well. But his nose for gossip was working famously. He studied Daisy as he chewed and slowly came more alert.
“Not a great admirer of the Meridian clan, eh?”
“Not particularly.” She sat back in her chair, cradling her cup. “And I am certain they would pour water on me if I was drowning.”
He laughed, then grabbed his head with a wince. “Don’t make me laugh, Miss B. In my grievous state it feels like a hot poker in my head.” He took two more bites of eggs and brightened as a servant entered with fresh coffee, waving the fellow over emphatically. She could have sworn tears welled in his eyes at the sight of the scones and strawberry preserves.
A scone and several gulps of coffee later, he managed to focus on her again. “Don’t take it hard that the Meridian elders aren’t your greatest admirers. They don’t like anybody. Not even themselves. God knows, most of the county hates their guts.”
“They do? Why?”
“They’ve sold off every marketable commodity—sucked the wealth out of the farms, and when the tenants can’t pay their rent they evict them. They quit buying from the local free-holders, and when the farmers became destitute they snatched up land that’s been in families for generations.”
“They’re frantic to keep the place running,” she said with a quick glance around the room, noting the fading drapes and yellowed paint.
“That”—he chewed thoughtfully—“or they’re tucking away the money elsewhere.” He traced the path of her gaze around the room with his own. “Doesn’t look like they spent it here. God knows they’ve had Ashton on low rations for years. He’s perpetually skinned.”
“He doesn’t have funds of his own?”
“Just what he wins at the tables. And the occasional boon from a friend. He lives in a house in Mayfair with a few other scapegraces at the largesse of the Marquis of Kirkland. . . who now resides with his wealthy wife in France.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“I make it my business to know things.”
“So I’ve heard.” She finished her coffee. “And the duke knows nothing of this?”
“Artie? I doubt it. He’s been otherwise occupied for years. They’ve seen to that.”
“They’ve . . .” She halted, recalling the uncles’ behavior in the study. It was worse than she thought. Heaven help him, Arthur was slowly waking up to the way things were being manipulated around him. But did he have the steel to set things right and take charge of Betancourt?
“I’m sure His Grace will find a way to sort it out,” she said, dodging the Fox’s all-seeing gaze.
“He might,” Reynard said, returning to his food. The man did love to eat. “If he finds the right wife.”
She glanced up to find him watching her with one eyebrow up. She was not about to respond to that.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must check on the countess. She’s late coming down this morning.”
The Fox watched her go and smiled, despite the discomfort it caused. Miss Bumgarten was quite a package—bright, unconventional, levelheaded, and utterly bed worthy. He might consider making a run at her himself if he wasn’t so sure she had already set her cap for the duke. Hard to compete with a duke in the marriage market.
* * *
Minutes later Daisy paced the countess’s bedchamber, waiting for her to emerge from behind the screen where she soaked in a tub of rose-scented water. Elaborate bathing marked a major change in the countess’s ordinarily utilitarian routine and Daisy might have been concerned if she wasn’t already occupied with worries on three major fronts: Ashton, Arthur, and the double-dealing Meridians.
“Well, that explains the rumors of the duke’s failing finances,” the countess called from behind the screen. “Reynard Boulton probably started them himself.”
“Perhaps. But they seem to be true. I mean, the house needs a lot of care and the whole estate seems oddly empty. The people who came out to see us on that first day seemed surprised to find there was still a duke.”
“Hmmm.” The countess sounded distracted. “Well, you still have a few days. Perhaps now you can get on with nudging His Grace to the altar.”