Chapter Five
Daisy froze for an instant, her heart pounding as a specimen of Prime, Grade A English beef came into focus. She could have sworn she was still asleep, still dreaming about that very face with its kiss-me-witless-lips and strip-me-naked eyes. It wasn’t until Lord Ashton stepped behind her and began to pull her laces that she knew for certain it was no dream.
“Aghhh—what are you—”
She tried to shoot to her feet, but her ball gown lagged behind, held down by its own ponderous weight. With a strangled cry, she sank back to collect her gown about her before lurching up again.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Crimson-faced, she turned on him and followed his gaze to her breasts, which were doing their best to escape her corset. She pulled her gown higher and wrapped her arms around it to hold it in place.
“Saving your modesty, it seems.” He strode around her, turned her by the shoulders, and seized her corset laces. “Against every impulse in my flawed mortal frame.”
He yanked hard enough to make her gasp.
“Will you stop that?”
He pulled her back toward him by her laces and leaned to her ear.
“Most ladies say that when someone is trying to get them out of their clothes.” Those words—uttered with finger-tingling intimacy—brought her resistance to a halt.
“I guess you would know,” she snapped.
“Yes,” he responded with a wicked chuckle. “I would.”
The moment he finished tying off her corset she turned to give him a royal dressing down. But Uncle Red chose that moment to stir.
“You want him to know I caught you half naked in the drawing room?” Lord Ashton whispered, reaching for her shoulders to turn her again. “Horrors. Think of the scandal.”
If he thought that, she told herself, he seriously underestimated Uncle Red’s tolerance for breaches of etiquette, not to mention her own intolerance for being told what to do. She wrenched free and backed away just as Uncle Red reached his feet.
“Who the devil are you?” Red demanded, rubbing his bleary eyes.
“This is Lord Ashton, Uncle Red. He’s here to . . . to . . .”
“Authenticate your niece’s lineage,” Lord Ashton said with aristocratic aplomb.
Red scowled and scratched his chin, chest, and belly thoroughly.
“He’s the duke’s brother.” Daisy tried to clarify things. “He’s supposed to make sure those names you recited last night are real.”
“Actually, I believe I’m here just to certify your proof of that. A small but important distinction.” Lord Ashton stepped over to the card table, giving the still open back of her gown a pointed glance as he passed. “And I must say, I am surprised to find you have already made a start toward documenting her forbearers.” He lifted a page to peruse. “But then, you Americans are known to be an industrious lot.”
“Awww,” Uncle Red growled. “It’s too damned early to be puttin’ up with the likes of him.” He headed for the door, continuing his morning scratch. “I need me some coffee.”
“I took the liberty of ordering some,” Lord Ashton said even as Uncle Red lumbered out. Shrugging off Red’s rejection, he unbuttoned his coat and seated himself with a flourish in her former seat at the card table.
Liberties. Daisy watched him settle into her chair as if he belonged there. He had perfected the art of the disarming intrusion. She had never met a man so ready to seize control at the slightest opportunity. You’d think he was the duke instead of his brother.
“What have we here?” He perused her notes. “‘Beaufort’. . . a rather grand point of origin for your family tree, I must say.” He scanned another page, then another. “Your ‘Woodpiles’ are most likely ‘Woodvilles,’ you know . . . a controversial family who supplied England with a queen and a lot of upstart nobles. These ‘Nibbles’ I suspect to actually be ‘Nevilles.’ You do have cheek, you Bumgartens, claiming connection to some of England’s most famous noble houses.”
She snatched the papers from him but stopped short, distracted from uttering a few air-sizzling epithets. The names actually made sense?
“What famous houses?”
“Come now. Why not just confess that you plucked a history book off the shelf and wrote down every name you came across?”
Her eyes narrowed. On their ranch in Nevada she had been taught that there were animals in the wild that a body should never run from. Apparently that bit of wisdom applied to civilized society as well, for it was clear to her now that Ashton Graham was just such a beast.
Flashes of sensual heat notwithstanding, she had to make him understand she did not intend to abandon her quest.
“I’m not much for history books. But if I were, you can bet they’d be American ones, not English.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “If Uncle Red says his pa made him memorize those names, then he did. I can’t imagine how else he’d come by them otherwise—him being just a hard-drinking old prospector from the Nevada hills.”
He looked her up and down; the corner of his mouth pursed as he studied her testy declaration, then went back to sorting through the pages.
“What have we here? A Palmer, a Howard, and a Fitzroy.” There he stopped with his finger on the last name. His face darkened. “You claim to have a Fitzroy in your lineage?”
“Apparently.” She tried to read the change in his demeanor, but found too few clues in his sudden intensity. “What does that mean?”
He mulled it over. “A Palmer and a Fitzroy.”
“Sounds faintly Irish. I know you English have a grudge against them, but—”
“It is not Irish. ‘Fitzroy’ is purely English. ‘Fitz’ means ‘born from,’ ‘roy’ refers to the royal—‘the king.’”
“Born from”—she was more focused on his attitude than his words—“a king?” Her heart sank when she realized he was serious. Her knees weakened. Damn and blast Uncle Red for claiming royal connections! What had he gotten them into?
She snatched the page from his hands and found the name that had caused such a change in him. “Charlotte Fitzroy?” She looked up. “Who was she? Anybody . . . special?” She had almost said “anybody real?”
He stared at her for a long moment, suspicion slowly melting into a frank examination of her face. His gaze kept coming back to her right cheek. She could feel there was something on it, but refused to touch it and give him the satisfaction of knowing his scrutiny made her self-conscious. He rose and she found herself facing a wall of a chest and the abundant heat of a big, male body.
Damn.
Tall and dark. With wicked possibilities in his eyes. Her breast tingled where he had touched it. Double damn. Her skin remembered him.
“Why do you want to be a duchess?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Why wouldn’t I?” She took a step backward. “Duchesses wear rich clothes and fine jewels . . . attend fine parties and balls . . . go to grand soirees and ceremonies. They have armies of servants to see to their every need and admirers to flatter every mood. They live in palaces and ride in great carriages—”
“All of which you have right now, if even a small part of your reputed wealth is real,” he charged. “What do you need a duke for?”
There was no reason not to tell him, she reasoned. Doing so might legitimize her quest a bit and reaffirm her own sense of purpose.
“The standing, of course. As you pointed out, I already have the best of everything else. Why not the best husband possible?”
A laugh burst from him, surprising her.
Damned enthralling sound.
“Sorry. I’m just having trouble picturing my brother as ‘best husband’ material. Good God, woman, you’ve listened to Arthur and even danced with him. Surely you have higher aspirations than that.”
His bluntness shocked her, until she realized he was trying to draw her into agreeing with him. Her face flamed with indignation, and she tossed the papers back onto the table and drew herself up straight.
“All right, if you insist on knowing . . . I have three younger sisters. Three. They’re lovely, accomplished, sweet-natured girls who are totally shut out of the snooty ranks of society in New York because their fortune is too new. An ‘old’ title will balance out our ‘new’ money and gain society’s acceptance for them.”
“So, you’re sacrificing yourself on the altar of familial obligation.”
“Hardly a sacrifice, I think, marrying a top nobleman.”
“Hardly an informed opinion, I think, that would lead you to marry into a family and a society you know nothing about.” He huffed amusement and looked her over. “What do you know of a duchess’s life?”
She strode to the window, threw back the heavy velvet draperies to admit more light, and turned to face him.
“On an ordinary day, a duchess sleeps until ten o’clock, emerges at noon, receives callers until four, takes tea until six, then dresses for dinner at nine . . . after which she indulges in ‘entertainments.’ She’s abed by two and up again at ten for a lengthy toilette and another round.” Daisy crossed her arms, grateful for the beams of bright sun warming her mostly bare shoulders. “She attends the opera and the races with equal verve, hosts fox hunts and shooting parties, sponsors charities and is a patroness of the arts. She is a guiding light for the duke’s household and the world at large. She holds duty dear and her family’s welfare even dearer.”
All of which had been memorized from the countess’s numerous lectures, for just such an occasion. The way Ashton seemed to be re-evaluating the situation as he edged toward her made the effort seem worthwhile.
“You have conducted a thorough study indeed.” He gave a courtly nod. “But I fear you have left off the foremost duty of a duchess.”
“Which is?” she said archly, emboldened by her success.
“To give the duke an heir.” He leaned forward, letting his gaze drift downward to her well-displayed bosom. “To furnish the duke’s bed and bring forth a healthy son from what transpires there.”
He would bring that into the discussion. She rolled her eyes, hoping the gesture would distract from her overheated cheeks.
“That takes no special talent or attention to duty.”
“A view probably not shared by numerous queens of the realm who were divorced, beheaded, or replaced for failing at that very thing.”
“Millions of women give birth to male children each year. The proof is plowing fields, swabbing ship’s decks, and mucking out horse stalls all across the country.” A reckless impulse made her add: “Who knows—I may find that particular duty quite pleasant with your brother.”
That took some of the smugness out of his expression.
“You overestimate Arthur,” he said, straightening. “He is hardly the amorous sort.”
“Every man is ‘the amorous sort,’ given the proper occasion.”
“Once again, Miss Bumgarten, you invite the question of how you became such an expert on men.” He strolled still closer, spreading his coat to prop fists on his waist.
She was prepared for the question this time.
“I grew up on a ranch in Nevada, where men outnumber women five to one. I lived among and worked alongside all kinds of men. I’d have to be a ‘dim Dora’ indeed not to have learned something about them.”
He assessed that comment and her steady, unapologetic regard.
“I think you’ll find ‘cowboys’ and dukes of the realm are cut from very different cloth.”
“Oh? Dukes are too grand to be moved by the sight of a well-turned ankle? Too high-minded to appreciate the scent of a lady’s hair or the warmth in a pair of flirting eyes? Can you honestly say they are never affected by the brush of a fan against their sleeve or the feel of a woman’s waist as she is assisted into a carriage?” She laughed quietly at the way his eyes darkened and his chin jerked back.
“Arthur is a devout naturalist. A virtual hermit,” he said, with growing irritation. “Comfortable only with his bugs and his peering glass.”
When she didn’t respond immediately, he looked down at her. She smiled, feeling solid ground under her feet for the first time that morning.
“I believe I can say with some authority that your brother is as susceptible to such things as the next man.”
He stiffened visibly, his face a slate she found hard to read. He didn’t like the notion of his older brother being human enough to desire and take pleasure? Or was it the idea of Duke Arthur taking pleasure with her that he found objectionable? She smiled at that thought.
“Your Lordship!” came the countess’s strained voice from the doorway, causing them to break apart and back away from each other. Daisy’s sponsor bustled into the room with a harried air, her face flushed, smoothing her dark skirts nervously. “A most pleasant surprise.”
“The duke’s brother was just attempting to tutor me on the duties of a duchess.” Daisy’s voice carried a bit too much determination. “I told him that I would have no difficulty with what is required.”
The countess halted halfway across the chamber, reading in their proximity and posture that something personal had transpired between them. Blotches of color appeared in her pale cheeks.
“Well, of course not,” she said emphatically, taking in Daisy’s half-laced bodice. “A young lady of superior breeding and fine old lineage—Miss Bumgarten will be a jewel in the Meridian crown.”
“Yes, well. What she is and what she will be remains to be seen.” Lord Ashton tugged down his waistcoat and stepped to the table to lift a page from the pile of papers. “The Beauforts? Half of England makes claims to their seed and with good reason; they were a potent and tempestuous lot and—conveniently—most of their family records have been destroyed. There is no way to prove or deny claims to them.”
“None at all?” Daisy’s heart sank and she glanced at the countess, who was scowling pointedly at her half-laced gown and making a furtive swiping gesture toward her cheek. The potential collapse of Daisy’s hopes eclipsed the countess’s inscrutable hints. Then it struck her that she was taking his word for it. The library-lurking, eavesdropping, freehanded varmint—why in the world would she ever believe him?
“Well, if there is no way to prove we come from Beauforts”—she dug deep into her pride and squared her shoulders—“we’ll have to find someone else, someone further down the list . . . like . . . like that Fitzroy girl, that Charlotte.” She ignored the way the countess moved closer and motioned more openly. “If she was a king’s daughter, she has to be listed in records somewhere.”
“King’s daughter?” The countess halted mid-hint, her jaw dropping.
“I believe the countess is trying to tell you that you have ink on your cheek,” Lord Ashton said, tossing the page back to the table and producing a handkerchief. He positioned himself in front of her, holding the linen ready, and ordered, “Stick out your tongue.”
“I beg your pardon.” Daisy was confused by both his proximity and his demand. What the devil was he—
“Have it your way,” he said, then moistened his tongue, gave the cloth a long, slow stroke with it, and turned the dampened linen on her.
“Hey!” He held her by the arm and wiped her cheek as if she were a newborn calf that needed licking. “How dare you?” she growled, finally succeeding in shoving one arm aside. “Get your paws off me!” A moment later he released her and backed away, leaving her wrestling with the impulse to kick him someplace that would leave his future kids dizzy.
“Charlotte Fitzroy?” he said, his voice sounding a bit huskier than it had a moment ago. He tucked his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. “The living expert on the Fitzroys is at Oxford. Queen’s College. Professor Broadman Huxley. And if you can get information out of that old prune, you’re a better man than most.”
Her spit-cleaned cheek burned like it had been washed in lye.
“I am better than most men,” she snapped, flinging a finger toward the hallway, demanding he exit. “I am a woman.”
The wretch threw back his head and laughed—laughed—as he struck off for the front door. He arrived at the archway to the hall at the very moment the butler arrived with a rattling cart laden with coffee and morning buns.
“Ah. Just in time.” He paused to pour himself a cup and cream and sugar it properly. Then he stood for a moment with the cup in one hand and the other propped insolently on his waist. Only when he had drained the cup did he hand it off to the bewildered manservant with a “Damned fine coffee” and stride out.
Daisy’s teeth were clamped so hard that her jaws hurt.
“That,” the countess said, glaring after him, “is no gentleman.”
“Gentleman, hell—he’s a low-down, sneaky, egg-suckin’ hound.” Ignoring the countess’s cringe at her language, she collected the skirts of her weighty ball gown into her arms—revealing the stockings and garters she had rolled down to her ankles for comfort—and headed for the stairs. Just inside the archway to the hall, she paused at the coffee cart, poured herself a cup, and threw back a big gulp.
“But maybe a useful hound.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners and a slow, crafty smile appeared. “Jonas,” she addressed the butler, “bring down our trunks out of storage.” She turned a full, knowing grin on the countess. “We’re going to Oxford. Wherever the hell that is.”
* * *
Just down the street, minutes later, Ashton sat in a two-seater cab watching the doors of Daisy Bumgarten’s house and trying desperately to purge the memory of the texture of her skin from his senses. He kept seeing that ink on her cheek—not just a smudge, but an entire word absorbed from the inked velum her face had rested on. One word. Damned if he hadn’t felt a jolt of prescience the moment she raised her head.
Wife.
Before long, a young boy came running out of the alley beside the house to perch, breathless, on the step of his cab.
“Th’ under houseman . . . ’e’s jawin’ about havin’ to drag out them big trunks agin, an’ the cook, she’s complainin’ about all th’ food she’s laid in goin’ bad if there’s nobody there to eat it.”
“Good work,” Ashton declared, flipping the boy a gold coin that made the urchin’s eyes pop as he detached from the cab door and scurried off.
Rapping on the roof with his knuckles, he called out to the cabbie, “Severin House in Grosvenor Square. And make it quick.”
She had taken the bait.