Daniel nudged his mount through the crowded London streets at a risky clip that earned shouts and furious looks from passersby. He, Daniel Winterbourne, 5th Earl of Montfort, notorious rake, reprobate, and scoundrel had offered to marry Daphne. Well, an almost offer.
…Only you could present a statement as a proposal and find yourself offended at my rejection…
And given that and the lady’s ultimate, if wise, rejection of that offer, his mind remained in tumult from all she’d revealed—Tennyson.
He tightened his hold on his reins and urged Satan on, faster. Tennyson had been the blackguard who’d robbed Daphne of her virginity. The man who’d identified a hopeful romantic and punished that innocence by taking her against a wall like a whore on the streets. Should he be truly shocked, given his own dark deeds and wicked soul? And yet, as he dismounted outside White’s and stalked up the steps, he could not see past the thick haze of rage threatening to blind him.
He fixed on that hatred and fury. Far easier than thinking of his impulsive offer, which hadn’t really been an offer, to marry Daphne Smith.
Ignoring the greetings called out to him, Daniel strode through the club. As he walked, he earned glares and glowers from men he’d made cuckolds of.
…But these are the people you have chosen, Daniel. You turned your back on me and Alice, and who you once were…
Who he once was. He was a man who’d cut, first, Alice from his life. And then Daphne. A friend who he hadn’t bothered to look after her when she’d made her Come Out. Even as he knew what perils awaited a young girl from the country and the rakes who would be lying in wait. A tortured groan lodged in his throat. He yanked out one of the chairs at his table and sinking into the hard contours, motioned for a servant. For it, she’d given her virginity to a man who’d never had a right to that gift.
Agony sluiced away at his insides, blended with a blinding rage. Rage that Tennyson had known her as only he should have. That she had loved the other man, if even the thought of him. That Daniel had kept company with the blackguard. Oh, God. He’d had him as a guest in his home and in the country. They’d shared women and drinks.
I’m going to be ill…
Yanking the stopper from his bottle, Daniel poured a tall glass of brandy, paused, and then filled it to the rim. He raised it to his mouth and took a long swallow, welcoming the fiery trail it blazed down the back of his throat. This was his penance. For his sins and the reckless life he’d lived. Now he would live with the knowing that he’d failed the one person who’d been constant in his life. He’d failed her. In every way.
The lady preferred employment at a miserable finishing school, to life as his countess. Why should she wish to marry a bastard like him? Not that he truly wished to marry Daphne or anyone. He’d no desire to bring about another person’s pain and suffering. Still, her rejection chafed. For it reminded him of his failings.
And what I threw away…
If his life had followed a different trajectory, he would have been the young man waiting for her in London, courting her, and ultimately wedding her. By the time, she’d arrived in Town, however, Daniel had been beyond the point of no return, firmly entrenched in his dissolute lifestyle, long past respectability, and even further past deserving a woman like Daphne Smith.
“I see the important business called you away.” That hated voice, the devil’s baritone cut into his turbulent musings. And with fury pumping through his veins, Daniel looked up. “You should have let me know and I would have joined you.” Lord Tennyson didn’t bother to await an invite. He drew out a seat and, motioning for a glass, availed himself to Daniel’s bottle.
With each casual movement made by the bastard across from him, Daniel’s muscles went taut.
…You should be honored, Miss Smith. I’ve never rutted with a cripple…
His glass splintered under the weight of his grip and he set it down. As Tennyson looked through bored eyes out at the guests about the floor, Daniel studied him. Smug. Self-assured. Ruthless. Arrogant. And in Tennyson, God help him, he saw himself. Saw each crime and sin laid out. All the men whose wives he’d bedded and the shameful events where he’d poured the remaining wealth left by his father. By God, he had even betrayed St. Albans. A man who’d been loyal and confided his greatest fears about marriage and siring a child. Daniel, with a ruthless disregard, had turned those secrets over to the other man’s father.
It was a rather humbling moment, to look at himself, truly look at himself, and find he didn’t much like what he saw. That he didn’t like himself at all. His stomach muscles clenched.
For her faith in him all these years, Daphne was wrong. There was no good in him. “You bastard,” he said quietly, the words reserved for both him and the man seated across from him.
Tennyson slowly returned his attention forward. “What—?”
“I know what you did,” Daniel cut in.
Then a slow understanding dawned in the other man’s eyes. “Oh, you must mean Miss Smith.” He flicked a hand. “Yes, yes. Bad form bedding your sister’s companion. It was a long time ago and I couldn’t know she’d become her companion.” He waggled his eyebrows. “In truth, it would not have stopped me from tupping her.” Tennyson laughed uproariously, his shoulders shaking from his mirth.
Gripped by rage, Daniel propelled forward. He shot an arm out knocking the glass from the marquess’ hands. “Montfort,” the other man’s cry ended on a squeak as Daniel curled his hand around his neck.
“You bloody bastard,” he seethed, fire pumped through him, scorching him with hatred. “I could kill you.” I want to kill him for having broken Daphne’s heart and for having known her body and… The buzz of whispers ricocheted about the club, dimly penetrating his fury. With alacrity, he released Tennyson suddenly and the blackguard collapsed in his seat, sucking in great, gasping breaths.
“By God, Montfort, you’ve gone mad,” the marquess, rasped, rubbing his neck. “Is this because you wanted to have her first? I know there is an appeal to bedding a virgin and a cripple.” He grabbed Daniel’s decanter and took a drink. “But trust me, the lady was rubbish.” A buzzing filled his ears as the marquess’ words came as though down a long corridor. “You should thank me for properly breaking her—”
With a roar, Daniel launched himself across the table, taking Tennyson down. The other man cried out as Daniel buried his fist in his nose. His fingers slippery from the other man’s blood, he continued to pummel Tennyson, punching him over and over. In his mind’s eye, he saw Daphne with this man rutting between her legs. Touching her. Mocking her. He drew back his arm, when someone caught it hard and yanked Daniel away. Driven by bloodlust, he wrestled against the hold.
“You’re going to kill the man, Montfort,” Lord Guilford’s cool tones cut across the momentary haze of madness.
Then Daniel registered the absolute silence. All the patrons stared with their faces wreathed in shock and horror. Breathing heavily, he shrugged free of Guilford. He stepped over the prone body of a moaning Tennyson and stalked through the club. Whispers followed in his wake.
He jerked to a stop beside the famed betting book. Glancing down, he immediately found his name. An entire page’s worth of wagers, all including Daphne’s name.
Nausea roiled in his belly and, in one swift movement, he ripped the piece from the book. The rending loud in the near quiet of the club. Then, the whispers took on a frenzied tenor as Daniel stalked over to a nearby sconce and touched the edge of the page to the candle. The orange flame licked at the corners, curling it back, and then the fire consumed it.
Daniel dropped it to the carpeted floor and stalked away.
As he reached the door, frantic shouts went up and he stepped outside.
There was no escaping Daphne, anywhere.
There never had been.
Four months.
Daphne was seated on the sidelines of Lord and Lady Waverly’s ballroom. Four months were all Daphne calculated as the absolute greatest amount of time she had for the glittering world of Polite Society.
She skimmed her gaze over the ballroom to where her charge stood, surrounded by a swarm of gentlemen. Daniel hovered close; a stony-eyed gaze fixed on those men. A wistful smile pulled at her lips. How very much he’d changed in these nearly three weeks. He’d gone from a brother who didn’t wish to be bothered with a sister underfoot to a scowling, protective father-like figure.
Her smile withered. Given the endless barrage of suitors and the steady stream of lemonade fetched, Daphne had even less time for London.
…You could marry me…
That offer Daniel had made; an offer that was not really an offer, flitted through her thoughts.
After she’d left London, she’d never wanted to set foot amongst Polite Society gatherings. Not because she despised Town. For she didn’t. A girl who’d never left Spelthorne, but for those three months, she’d reveled in a world outside.
Rather, she’d not wanted to come back because it was easier to hide away than be presented with a daily reminder of her greatest mistake. Her idiocy. With the passage of time, she’d challenged the limitations imposed on women such as her. Believed that, even though marriage might not exist for imperfect women with crippled bodies, there were honorable pursuits and ventures that gave one purpose.
Daniel, however, had shown her she was more than that one night with Lord Tennyson. He had proven that, despite Tennyson’s words to the contrary, she was, in fact, a woman capable of passion; a woman defined by more than the bend of her leg.
The orchestra plucked the strands of the next set and Mr. Pratt escorted Alice onto the dance floor. As they took their places, Daniel remained fixed to his spot; shoulder propped against a pillar, a flute of champagne dangled between his fingers.
Impossibly cool. Elegantly attired in his midnight jacket and black fitted breeches. It was that primitive beauty that commanded the legions of women. From over the heads of the dancers, their gazes collided. Her breath lodged painfully in her chest. He lifted his head in an imperceptible greeting and she forced her eyes away. To acknowledge even that slight movement would rouse whispers and rumors about a woman in Daniel Winterbourne’s employ.
“Dreadful affair, isn’t it?”
At the too-loud question, Daphne started. She glanced to the woman seated two seats over. The Marchioness of Guilford sat, patiently smiling. She gasped. “My lady.” She grabbed her cane and made to rise.
“Please do not stand,” the lady quickly interrupted. “Not because I believe you incapable of that movement, but because it’s a rather silly bit of pomp and circumstance that presents one as more important than another.”
And for the first time since Daniel’s empty offer of marriage, a real smile turned her lips.
“Dreadful affair, isn’t it?” the woman repeated.
“Yes,” Daphne answered instantly, earning another grin from the marchioness. “Though, twirling around a dance floor is a good deal less tiresome than sitting on the edge of a ballroom watching.” After all, as one on the sidelines, she well-knew.
“I’m here because of my sister-in-law.” The delicate lady angled her head toward a couple going through the steps of the set. Daphne widened her eyes and swung her gaze over to the host and hostess.
Oh, blast. “I—”
“My sister-in-law being the hostess doesn’t make the event any less tedious.” They stared out at the twirling dancers. “I do not recall seeing you.”
“I have not been to London in eleven years,” Daphne explained. “And then, I was here for but three months.”
“Fortunate,” the marchioness muttered and a bark of laughter escaped Daphne.
They shared a smile. Yet, the lady spent her time in London. Was it her husband who insisted on attending ton functions? Her curiosity stirred.
“You are in the Earl of Montfort’s employ,” the young marchioness said quietly, unexpectedly. “What is a kind young lady such as you doing with a rake like him?” She searched her gaze over Daphne’s face.
Disappointment warred with annoyance. The woman knew nothing of Daphne and only what the gossips said about Daniel. She’d had greater expectations for a woman who’d opened an institution for disabled ladies, that she’d not pass judgment on others. Of course, he’d earned that reputation, deserved it. But he’d also seen more in her than her disfigurement and, as such, he would never be, could never be the shallow bastard Society took him for. “Even rakes require help, my lady,” Daphne said crisply. “I believe we all do.” Including myself.
“Some more than others,” the other woman murmured. “Especially Lord Montfort, I gather.”
Most women would be properly deferential and say nothing in the presence of a marchioness’ criticism; particularly a woman who she one day sought employment from. Daphne, however, would not stay silent because of a person’s rank alone. “He may be a rake, my lady, but he hired me,” she said quietly. To suit his own purposes, but nonetheless he had offered her work without even a mention of her disfigurement. “And in a world where people can’t see past a disability, he saw me as capable of something more. I believe that says more about his character than all the rakish deeds reported in those gossip pages.”
The lady gave her head a slow, approving nod, as though Daphne had passed some unspoken test. “Brava, Miss Smith. You don’t fear anyone, do you?”
“What good would fear do me?” she returned. With first her injury and then the death of her mother and eventually her father, the challenges had become greater and greater. “If I’d spent my life fixed on my troubles, I’d be at the mercy of a relative who’d inherited my father’s properties, instead of this ballroom.”
The marchioness fiddled with a heart pendant at her neck, bringing Daphne’s attention to that gold filigree piece. “Ahh, so that is how you came to be with the earl. Desperation.”
Yes, one could certainly have said she had been driven into the role of companion because she’d been literally and figuratively without options. But how much had come of it. She’d found peace in who she was and an acceptance, at last, that her disfigurement only defined her as she allowed it to. And Daniel. She’d found him, once more. Pain squeezed at her heart. For unless he found himself, her love was destined to die.
“Where will you go when Lord Montfort’s sister weds?”
That unwitting reminder that Daphne’s time with Daniel would soon end, squeezed at her lungs like a vise. She’d spent the past eleven years silent and somber, and he’d teased her and drew her back to the living in ways that she’d not known she’d been deadened. “I’ll seek employment at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School,” she said at last. She’d carry her letters of reference to Mrs. Belden’s on the hopes that those letters from Daniel were enough to secure her a post, but even that was not a certainty.
The other lady blanched. “Egads, whyever would you do that?”
Folding her hands on her lap, Daphne drew a breath. “May I speak frankly, my lady?”
The other woman lifted her head. “Please.”
“Ultimately, I wish to seek employment at your institution.” Surprise flared in the other woman’s eyes. “I have great respect and admiration for a place that would welcome girls deemed unfit by Society, but I also have an equal respect that you’d hire only the most distinguished, worthy instructors for them.”
“You are seeking employment at Mrs. Belden’s in order to attain references,” she spoke those words as a statement she’d already determined the answer to.
Daphne nodded anyway.
“I see,” the marchioness said, when she remained silent. “Why don’t you come accept employment with me?”
She blinked slowly. Had the woman said—?
“I will find a place for you at Ladies of Hope.”
Daphne’s mind raced. The marchioness offered her the very thing she craved—security. She’d have employment and control of her own fate. It was a gift held forth by a stranger, when the world had proven itself remarkably cold, thus far. She should be grateful and, yet, it felt hollow. Handed her as a token gesture, more than anything. “You do not even know me,” she said flatly.
The marchioness leaned back in her chair. “You believe I’ve offered you a place at my institution because of your leg,” she said with a bluntness Daphne appreciated.
She managed a slight nod and Lady Guilford leaned forward. “I’ve offered you a post because you’re unafraid of standing up to ladies who’d wrongfully pity you. Because you rightfully challenged me when I spoke disparagingly of Lord Montfort.” The marchioness proceeded to tick off on her fingers. “You’re honest. You speak freely to me, when most others pick their way around words the way one might move a piece around the chessboard.” Daphne smiled. “And because of my daughter.”
Daphne furrowed her brow.
“Many know about Ladies of Hope and call me the odd bluestocking marchioness, but they do not know why I established the institution.” The marchioness touched the right side of her face. “My daughter is without hearing in one ear.”
That is why the lady knew. Her daughter, too, by Society’s standards was one of those imperfect sorts, like Daphne.
The marchioness spoke in impassioned tones. “I want a world of people who see her and not her differences. I want her to move through life with dignity and strength.” She held Daphne’s gaze. “But sometimes, by your own admission, we all need help. And if it is offered to my daughter when she needs it, I hope she has the humility to take it.”
Daphne’s throat worked. She’d spent the whole of her life wanting to be seen as more than her injured leg. Daniel had proven that she was so much more than that largely useless limb and now this woman, too.
“I’ve need of an instructor now to work with the young ladies who’ve limited use of their legs, Miss Smith. At present, I have a doctor advising them. I would rather they receive guidance from one who knows more than information listed in a medical journal.”
The other woman dangled forth everything she had dreamed of. I will have to leave Daniel… “I…” She fought for the words that would make that coveted post her own.
The marchioness patted her hand. “You do not need to answer now. Think on it.” She looked across the ballroom. “People are eyeing me.” She sighed and levered herself upright. “Now, let me go and assure them that I’m having a perfectly wonderful time.” She rolled her eyes skyward.
Daphne climbed to her feet with some effort. Shifting her cane, she made to curtsy, but the marchioness wagged a finger.
“Curtsies are for emphasizing a divide and I vowed to never be one of those ladies respected for her title alone.”
Daphne again smiled. “I assure you, my lady, no one would dare respect you for anything less than your strength and character.”
She captured Daphne’s spare hand and squeezed. “And remember, whenever you have need for employment, you may come to me.” Waving off her rushed word of thanks, the marchioness swept off with the sure footsteps of a boldly confident woman.
As the marchioness strode through the ballroom, Daphne stared after her. With one chance meeting, a future had been dangled before her. One that included the very thing she’d dreamed of—security in a world that was uncertain for all women. It represented a practical future.
Sitting there, on the side of the ballroom, staring absently at the dancers assembling for the next set, she discovered she craved something more, something she’d abandoned hope for long ago—love.
Nay, Daniel’s love.
Daphne drew in a shuddery breath. She’d but a Season left with him. It would be enough. It had to be.
Or else she was making yet another mistake in London.
One that was far more dangerous than that decision eleven years earlier.