Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daisy drank the sleeping powders the countess produced for her as she was tucked into bed, and she prayed it would work. Heaven was apparently closed for the night; it didn’t. She had to pretend to fall asleep so the countess—who was roused in the dead of night to tend her traumatized protégée—would leave her.
She was going to marry a duke. Arthur chose the middle of the greatest disgrace of her life to assert himself as a man and propose to her on bended knee. Out of shock, despair, and utter gratitude, she had accepted.
Dear God, what had she done?
The desolate look Ashton gave her as he watched Arthur kneel and ask her to marry him was now all she could see. It cut her afresh, each time she closed her eyes and saw him withdraw and cede his love for her to his titled brother and her wretched ambition. She stumbled from her bed to pace her darkened chamber. Maybe the countess’s medicine was having an effect after all . . . because her wits were running in a circle . . . scolding over and over that she was marrying the wrong danged man.
* * *
The next morning chaos reigned at Betancourt. The young duke had gone off the rails, the servants whispered. He used to be quiet and turned inward; now he invaded Lady Sylvia’s and his two uncles’ chambers with servants to pull things out of drawers and empty wardrobes! Heedless of the shock rippling through the household, Arthur ordered Sylvia’s maid to pack her things and went toe to toe with the old girl herself, announcing her change of lodgings and assigning servants to carry her things—including the furnishings she claimed were hers by right—down to the hay wagons drawn up to the front doors. None of the staff were grieved to see the old girl go, though some were eager enough to see her depart with their own eyes.
Lady Evelyn and Daisy watched from Daisy’s bedchamber window as the second wagon bearing Sylvia’s things trundled off toward her new home. The countess allowed Daisy to move from bed to chaise, but refused to leave her side, insisting she rest, stay tucked in suffocating blankets, and drink smelly teas she emptied into an unused chamber pot the minute Lady Evelyn’s back was turned.
Over the course of the morning Daisy gave her an account of the happenings at the inn. The countess was horrified by the treachery of the Meridian elders and genuinely surprised by the duke’s valiant defense of her.
When she revealed the duke’s proposal, Lady Evelyn almost fainted.
“Truly? Sweet Heaven.” She blinked and fanned herself with her hands. “Tell me again—every blessed word!”
When Daisy recounted the duke’s proposal a second time the countess sank, stunned, onto the chaise beside Daisy.
“You’ve done it, Daisy. You’re to be the Duchess of Meridian. I had doubts at times, I confess.” Her smile grew warm and her eyes grew wet. “But you persevered and you won the day.” She seized Daisy’s hands. “I am so proud of you.”
Red was a bit more conditional in his acceptance of the news. He rose late, having slept through the night’s dramatic events, and when he heard from Collette of Daisy’s distress, he rushed to her room, threw open the door, and hugged her within an inch of her life.
“Good God, Daize—you about gave me a heart attack!” He released her long enough for her to take a breath. “What got into you—goin’ to some damned tavern in th’ dead of night? And what’s this about th’ old bastards findin’ you there and the duke—hell, I don’t care what his high-and-mighty-ness did, so long as it kept you from gettin’ hurt.” He pulled her against him and stroked her hair as he had when she was a little girl.
“What he did, Uncle Red, was propose,” Daisy said, her throat tight.
“He did?” He set her back to search her face. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. Th’ boy’s got more onions than I give ’im credit for.” He thought for a minute. “That’s what ye came for, a duke.” He scowled. “You sure this is what you want, Daize? Bug-crazy Arthur for a husband?”
“Sure, Uncle Red.” Her smile was as weak as her will to resist fate. “I’m happy as a pig in a summer wallow.”
Red cocked his head, studying her, and his frown gradually transformed to a wry expression. “Always was a stubborn little thing.” He straightened as if he’d decided and patted her blanket-smothered knee. “Hurry up and get better, girl—we got us some celebratin’ to do!”
He rose and grabbed Lady Evelyn, dancing her around the room over her protests. “You did it, Evie girl. You got her a duke, after all!”
“Oh, out with you . . . you crusty old geezer,” the countess said, dragging him to a halt and giving his shoulder a shove that could only be called playful.
Daisy watched with surprise as Red winked at the paragon of rectitude who had disdained his every word and action for nearly two years. “Evie girl” blushed. Was it possible Lady Evelyn—
“Now you,” the countess said, tucking the blankets securely around her, “rest and regain your strength. We have so much to discuss—so many delightful things to consider.” She paused at the door with an oddly wistful expression. “Planning a wedding for a duke. I never thought I’d have such a privilege.”
As the door closed, Daisy groaned and dropped her head back on the pillows . . . relieved that she was finally alone and dreading the fact that her life was about to become a lot more complicated.
How complicated, she was to learn later that evening when she rose and insisted on dressing and going out to the garden for some air. She wore a simple cotton day dress and wrapped up in a thick crocheted shawl. Her hair was down and the rising breeze teased wisps around her face. Betancourt’s garden was less than memorable, but just being out of doors lifted her spirits.
As she walked, she made herself remember the pain of watching Ashton turn his back on her after she had practically thrown herself at his feet earlier. Turning pain to anger and anger to determination, she forced her thoughts to settle on what would be, not what might have been. Her future husband was noble and gentle and, occasionally, even courageous. Sooner or later she would be able to take him to New York and fulfill both his dream of travel and her own of gaining entrance to New York society.
But first she had to find a way to move her stubborn passions from . . . where they currently lay . . . to her future husband. And there was no better time to begin than now. She marched back into the house to find Arthur.
Servants had been hauling faded rugs, curtains, and bed drapes down the stairs all afternoon, coughing and sneezing at the dust being stirred. Unused to such vigorous work, they were now exhausted and hungry, and they grumbled that the duke didn’t have to clean the house all at once. When Daisy appeared, they nodded to her and quickly went back to work. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread that she would soon be their new duchess.
She paused to ask where she could find the duke, and they pointed toward the rear hall.
The sound of his voice drew her toward the study that had once been Arthur’s father’s. He was probably busy, but—she squared her shoulders and adopted a determined perkiness—she intended to pry Arthur away from whatever occupied him and see they had some time together.
She strode into the study, still wearing her shawl, and stopped dead at the sight of them with their heads together, studying documents spread over the great desk. Ashton looked up and straightened. Arthur noticed Ashton’s distraction, looked up, and smiled.
Damn his handsome eyes.
“Daisy!” Arthur hurried around the desk, hands out to take hers. “Are you well enough to be up and about?” He pulled her to a chair, but she remained standing.
“I’m of hardy stock, Your Grace. I recover quickly.”
“What time is it?” Arthur looked around for a clock, finding none. “We haven’t missed dinner, have we?”
“No. We have missed tea, however,” she said, acutely aware of Ashton’s gaze on her. “I think everyone forgot about it—even the cook.” She pulled her shawl tighter. “I just wanted to see what you’re up to.”
“Ash and I are going blind from searching through this legal claptrap.” He gestured to the stacks of papers, maps, and folios that covered every horizontal surface in the room. “There’re piles and piles of it.”
Just then Mrs. Ketchum, the housekeeper, came rushing in with her face ashen. “Your Grace—it’s Edgar. He’s sat down and can’t get up.”
“I’ll come with you, Your Grace,” Daisy said, moving toward the door. He stepped in front of her and took her by the shoulders. She looked up, surprised. “I may be able to help.”
“You’re barely out of sickbed, yourself,” Arthur said in paternal tones. “No, no—I’ll go. Promise you’ll sit and rest until I return.”
He didn’t seem in a mood to take no for an answer. With genuine reluctance, she sighed and sat. Once she was settled, he hurried off with Mrs. Ketchum, leaving Daisy alone with Ashton . . . the one man in the world she couldn’t bear to be alone with. The man she owed undying gratitude for saving her more times than she cared to count. The silence grew prickly.
“I suppose I should thank you for what you did last night.” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “I never imagined it could be a trap.”
“You came,” he said quietly. Her fingertips started to tingle and she squeezed them into fists. Her response betrayed both her hurt and remorse.
“I did.”
There were volumes to be read between his two words and hers, but neither was willing to open that painful book again. The desperate passion that sent her rushing to a country inn in the dead of night now seemed to belong to another lifetime. The decision was made. That moment was past. She had to find a way to get along without “love.” She’d done it before—survived having her heart broken. She could damned well do it again.
“What are you doing at Betancourt?” She tried to sound casual as she eyed the door.
“Artie asked me to stay a while to help sort out the mess the grisards left behind. Who knew he had it in him to give that lot the boot? God knows he put up with plenty over the years.” He looked around the study, seeming ill at ease. “It took them threatening you to make him come out of his shell.”
“I hope to be useful in other ways, in days to come,” she said, feeling that traitorous tingle moving to her lips.
“I’m sure you will be.” He strolled farther away, stopping near the window seat that for now was filled with ledgers and documents. “There are probably thirty years’ worth of records in this room alone.”
“When the sorting is done and the house is back to rights, what will you do then?” Imagine the torment of having him under the same roof while she tried to fulfill her duty to give the duke an heir! She groaned silently, convicted by her thoughts. Fortunately, he wasn’t looking at her.
“I’ll probably go to America.” He had picked up a ledger and leafed through it. “I understand the people there are quite impressed by titles.”
She could feel her face flushing. “You don’t have a title.”
“However, I am entitled to be called Lord Ashton Graham. That should be enough to get me an invitation or two. After that, I’ll make a way on my own. Who knows, maybe I’ll find a—” He paused to clear his throat. “But there’s a lot to do before that. We’re not even sure the death tax from my father’s passing was fully paid.”
She was stuck on the thought of him wooing, wedding, and bedding some bloodless New York deb. When she looked up, he was silhouetted against the golden glow of the late day sun coming through the tall window. His dark hair was flame-kissed, his skin seemed burnished, and his eyes shimmered with heat. Her breath caught.
She stared. Suddenly hungry.
He stared. Hungrier.