That evening, after a long, miserably bumpy carriage ride without any volatile sparks or baiting conversations or dangerously seductive grins, they arrived in London.
The air was dank and heavy. The clouds thicker. The sky darker. The streets stank like refuse that had sat too long in the summer sun. In short, it was everything Daphne remembered it to be. And given as much as she despised this town for the memories contained here, she was never more grateful to reach a destination.
Not bothering to ring for help in changing her dusty garments, Daphne rested her cane alongside the nightstand. Her movements stiff and painful from a day of traveling, she sat down on the edge of her borrowed bed and slowly lowered herself onto her back. Closing her eyes, she stretched her arms above her head and reached the tips of her fingers toward the ceiling. A little moan escaped her lips as the tight muscles popped in protest.
Society took a crippled lady as weak. Those low expectations found women and men like her without work, living a life where they constantly strove to demonstrate their worth or, worse, found themselves shut away in a hospital or asylum. She withdrew the scrap from her pocket and held it overhead. Her eyes automatically went to the center of the page.
…Only those with a belief in the ideology and principle of the establishment, as well as experience and glowing references will be considered for employment…
To present herself to the marchioness, with neither references nor experience, and make a plea for employment would be nothing more than an appeal to the gracious woman’s pity. Daphne would not be a charity case taken on, but rather a worker who’d earned a place within the respectable institution.
A knock sounded at the door and she started, the scrap of paper falling from her fingers. Mayhap it had been another door. For surely after a long day of traveling, no one would request her presence now.
Another knocking ensued. “Miss Smith, His Lordship requests your presence in his office.”
Daphne scrubbed her hands up and down her face and made a small sound of protest in her throat. She’d been wrong. He would request her presence now, after a long day of traveling. Then, he was no friend to her. He was her employer and she a servant in his employ; a servant who sought to prove her capabilities, despite her injury.
“Miss Smith?” the hesitancy in the maid’s query reached her ears.
With a regretful sigh, Daphne grabbed her paper and stuffed it inside her pocket. She shoved herself onto her elbows. “I’ll be but a moment.” She angled her body left and then right. Then, biting her lower lip, she scooted to the edge of the bed and retrieved her cane. Settling it on the floor, she propelled herself to a stand. A small cry left her lips and she crumpled against the nightstand, knocking her hip into the sharp edge.
“Miss Smith?” the maid called, a frantic worry underscoring those two words.
Gritting her teeth through the strain, she counted her breaths until she trusted herself to speak. “I am all right,” she reassured. She took a step and agony shot from her foot up her thigh, to her hipbone, making a liar out of her. Pain had become such a part of her existence that long ago, she’d set aside self-pity. But still, on the occasional moment, regret slipped in that she did not move with the youthful grace she’d once known. The same languid, elegance Daniel still demonstrated with his every effortless movement. Perspiring from her exertions, she reached the door, and grabbed for the handle.
She opened it to reveal Tessa, the same smiling, patiently waiting young servant who’d shown her abovestairs not even thirty minutes earlier. “Oh, there you are, Miss Smith.” The girl beamed. Her grin dipped as she took in Daphne’s cane. “Are you certain, you’re well? Should I tell His Lordship that you are unable to come down?”
Daphne grinned wryly. “Do you expect it would make much of a difference to His Lordship, if I had you do that?”
A little twinkle lit Tessa’s lovely hazel eyes. “No, ma’am, I rather expect it might not.” They shared a smile and a friendship was born. Motioning Daphne to follow, she started a path through the quiet corridors. It did not escape Daphne’s notice that Tessa moved with slow, precise steps, carefully looking over her shoulder to be sure Daphne followed. “Though in truth, it might matter,” the maid added belatedly. She hummed a discordant tune that Daphne vaguely recognized as A Fox May Steal Your Hens, Sir.
Daphne looked questioningly at her.
“His Lordship,” the girl clarified. “Not nasty like the last lord me and me mum worked for,” she whispered. “Doesn’t yell, doesn’t make his servants be quiet. So you’re free to sing.” Free to sing? With that, the young girl continued her humming of the old folk song, leaving her to puzzle through that slight but telling reveal about the manner of employer Daniel had become.
The households she’d entered in her last foray into London had been stiff, formal affairs, with deferential servants who avoided gazes and certainly didn’t speak freely. Her lips pulled in a grudging smile. Of course, an unapologetic lord like Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, would rule his household with that same, free spirit.
They reached the top of the stairwell and Daphne gripped the rail. She lowered her eyes. There were thirty-three stairs, certainly an odd number for any architect or builder to settle on for those marble steps. And she only knew as much because the only thing that had gotten her through the long climb not even thirty minutes prior was that counting.
“Miss?” Tessa urged gently, springing her into movement.
If she wished to spend her days working with girls and women inside Mrs. Belden’s or Ladies of Hope, she’d have to battle far more than thirty-three steps. Daphne placed a tentative foot forward and then step by agonizing step, made her way down. A small bead of sweat trickled from her brow and ran a trail down her cheek. Her skin itched and she paused to briefly wipe the moisture.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-two.
And, thirty-three, that final, odd-numbered step. Feet settled on the white marble foyer, she thrilled at that small victory and proceeded to follow Tessa down the corridor.
As a young woman ruined and humiliated by Lord Leopold, Daphne had spent years hating herself and her injury. The second son of a marquess, Lord Leopold had proven men craved proper wives who made expert hostesses and performed grand activities, like dancing or walking and only used broken, marred woman as a diversion to satisfy their sick curiosity. Regardless, she’d come to find peace with who she was. She aspired to far more than being a pretty arm ornament for a bored nobleman.
“Here we are, miss,” Tessa murmured, bringing them to a stop outside a heavily paneled door. She knocked once.
“Enter,” Daniel called distractedly.
Tessa gave her an encouraging smile and pushed the door open. Daphne stepped inside.
His jacket abandoned so it hung haphazardly over the back of his leather winged back chair, Daniel stood with his broad back to her, arms folded, and hands clasped behind him. He’d the look of a military general assessing his battlefield plans. Daphne wet her lips. She didn’t want to notice the way his biceps strained the fabric of his white lawn shirt or the shocking intimacy of him standing before her so. In fact, it would have been far easier had he grown into one of those boring, pompous lords who padded his waistcoats and doused himself in floral fragrance. But then, if he were one of those staid monocle-sporting figures, at his age, he’d even now have a proper wife and a passel of babes. There would be no need at all for a highly improper companion such as herself.
A lady who’d proven herself all manner of corruptible and weak for a gentleman, a good deal less inspiring than Daniel.
The door closed with a quiet click behind her and Daphne jumped, casting a single, longing last glance at that wood panel between her and freedom.
“I require your help,” he announced, not even bothering to glance back.
Required help? A gentleman who commanded a room and a person with such ease, needed no assistance from her in anything. He shot a questioning look over his shoulder and she cleared her throat. “You never liked asking for help.” They’d always been alike in that regard—two proud people refusing to humble themselves.
Daniel flashed her a slanted grin. It pulled at that dimple in his right cheek, transforming him so easily into the always smiling boy he’d been, long, long ago. “Yes, well, it does speak to my desperation.”
She thumped her cane once on the hardwood floor. “Desperation that required my presence summoned so soon after arriving?”
“Absolutely.” Either he failed to note or care about the dryness of her inquiry. Daniel refocused his attentions forward. “It’s the bloody Season.”
“You should not use that word,” she corrected automatically, limping forward.
A rough snort left his lips. “You’ve used far more impressive curses than that one.”
“Yes,” she muttered. “But I was a child.” Which wasn’t entirely true, as there’d been a nasty bunch she’d strung together about the man whom she’d thrown her reputation and future away for. And Mrs. Belden. And… Yes, she was still given to cursing. She’d sooner snip out her tongue than admit as much. She stopped alongside his desk and studied the parchments laid out before him. Daphne furrowed her brow. Alice’s Marital Plans. “What are these?” That was rather silly to even ask when he’d quite neatly titled the sheets.
“They’re the plans to marry off Alice.”
She’d found him wanting not even a day earlier for failing to ask the appropriate questions and discuss his sister’s entry into Society. How very humbling to see that for her hastily formed opinion, he had put some thought into it. Daphne perused the pages. Two pages, to be precise. Proper Balls. Cultured Activities. Of which he’d broadly listed the museum and opera.
At her silence, Daniel picked his head up from those sheets and glanced at her.
“Uh, it is a start,” she managed.
He cracked his knuckles. “It is, the only way to see that we both accomplish our like goal. She will be wed, and then I can resume my carousing, and you can…do whatever it is you care to do at Mrs. Belden’s.”
Whatever it is she cared to do. He’d so little interest in the woman she’d become to know her goals beyond this post or even his own sister. Her fledgling respect flickered out like a snuffed candle. “How very touching,” she said with an acerbic edge.
For the first time in the whole of his life, Daniel was filled with—uncertainty. Yes, in matters of—he shuddered—planning a young lady’s London Season, he was remarkably out of his element. Particularly a Season for his sister where his entire happiness, and hers, now rested.
Interestingly, the only woman he’d turn this concern over to was the woman before him. Odd, he’d not seen her in greater than thirteen years, but how easily they’d moved into their respective roles of friends. In some ways. His gaze went to her slender hips and small breasts that would fit quite comfortably into his palms. He grinned wickedly. And not so much, in other ways.
She disapproved of his titled list.
Such an understanding didn’t only come from his ability to read the subtle nuances of a woman’s body but rather because this was Daphne. He knew her in ways that moved beyond the sexual. As a child, he’d long been fascinated by the pronounced vein at her temple that ticked whenever she was displeased or frustrated.
It mattered not. The lady was entitled to her disapproval or disappointment or any of those other fault-finding responses to the person he was. He’d never presented himself falsely before her as someone he was not. He hadn’t done so as a boy and he’d not do it now, as a man. “Well?” he demanded impatiently, comfortably steering himself back into the role of unaffected employer who didn’t give jot.
What he did require was help.
Daphne sighed. “I am thinking, Daniel.”
With her attention trained downward, he used her distraction as an opportunity to study her. Drab, ill-fitting brown dress that clashed abominably with her crimson tresses aside, the lady had an incredibly long, graceful neck. An odd feature to admire in a lady. He’d always preferred a woman’s hands or lips, of which hers were certainly in the kiss-worthy category. The neck, however, had held little appeal. Until now. He took in the details he’d previously not considered. The pulse that throbbed there, a marker of a lady’s heightening desire. And he ached to place his lips to that cream white flesh and mark it with a faint love bite—
She glanced up. “Are you all right?”
“Quite.” The lie emerged garbled to his ears.
“You groaned.”
“I am sore from a day traveling.” That second prevarication came out as easily as every other one he’d ever offered a woman. Or man. Or friend. Anyone really. Lying was fair game for all and ultimately necessary.
The suspicion faded from her eyes. “Yes, I understand that.”
He frowned as her words only made him feel like the worst sort of rotter. Which he generally was. He was not, however, the manner of gentleman who didn’t take into consideration the comforts of a lady. “Would you care to sit?”
She looked up with a healthy dose of surprise. It spoke volumes to the level of her regard—or in this case, ill-regard. Then, with the assistance of her cane, she lowered herself into his torn leather winged chair.
“Where is there to begin?” he demanded as soon as she’d settled into the seat.
“I do not know,” she said, her tone heavy with impatience.
He dragged over a chair, positioning it close to hers. “What do you mean, ‘you do not know’. You are a woman and you had a Season.”
She pursed her lips, only drawing his lustful thoughts back to that plump flesh. “I mean I do not know,” she said with a cantankerous edge that effectively killed all his improper musings. “I had one Season.” The slight, drawn-out emphasis of that particular number was better reserved for an instructor trying to reason with a lackwit. “You had thirteen.”
“It is entirely different for a gentleman.”
“Even more so for a rake,” she added.
“Yes, entirely,” he concurred, earning a wild eye roll from the lady.
“I was being facetious,” she said with a sigh.
“You were also invariably correct.” The events he attended and oftentimes hosted—the orgies, the scandalous masquerades—were no proper affairs a debutante and her companion would dare attend. Unless they were bent on ruin. In which case, they most certainly would attend. “In your one Season, you’ve acquired far more an idea of what…” he slashed his hand at the page gripped in her fingers, “is expected in the launching of Alice.”
Daphne set the page on the desk. “We are speaking of your sister. Not a ship.” His neck heated and by God, he, for the first time in too many years, was blushing. “Her happiness should be your utmost priority, not the speed with which you’re able to resume your rapid decline into self-destruction.” Who’d have believed it possible that he, the Earl of Montfort, felt this niggling of shame turn in his belly? “Second,” Daphne thankfully returned her notice to that largely empty sheet. “I didn’t have a true Season, Daniel. I came in the middle of the Season and didn’t have…” She brought her lips closed into a tight line.
He studied her closely, waiting for her to complete that thought. When it became apparent with her silence she’d no intention of clarifying, questions trickled into his mind. What hadn’t she had? Suitors? A happy time? Something in that possibility, for the girl she’d been and the friendship they’d once shared, raised a frown. How very different they’d taken to this place. She, born for the country, he, perfectly suited for Town.
Daphne sighed. “There are certain gowns she’ll require,” she eventually said.
A surge of relief went through him. Of course she would know. She’d always known all. Even as he would have sooner severed off his left hand than admit as much when they’d been children. “You will see to it.”
She looked at him sadly. “I spent the whole of three weeks, a fortnight and three days, in this place.” Well, that was a peculiarly specific number for a girl who’d long despised math. His curiosity piqued. “I am sure you know the most fashionable modiste.” He did. He’d paid many visits to Madame Thoureaux’s, with inventive mistresses and their expensive tastes. “We must begin there.”
“On the morrow.” Daniel flicked an assessing look over her drab dress, drawing forth an image of Daphne draped in a daring ice blue silk gown that clung to her lithe figure. That dress would draw out the rich hues of her hair and the green of her eyes. A wave of desire went through him. For Daphne, the former friend of his past? A woman narrow and remarkably uncurved like the usual ladies he took to his bed. He shoved aside that shock. After all, he was a rake. “You’ll require gowns, as well,” he added.
Daphne dissolved into a paroxysm of coughing, that shook her frame and turned her cheeks the same red as her hair. He leaned over and thumped her hard between the shoulder blades. “You are mad. I do not require gowns.”
He studied her curiously. Any and every female he’d known before her craved baubles and fripperies, trading favors to coax more from him. And she rebuffed that offering? “You very much require them,” he said with wry humor that raised a frown.
“I don’t,” she protested.
His intrigue redoubled at her declination and he peered at her. How singularly different she was than the ladies of the peerage he’d dallied with. “Would you have the ton question the status and suitability of Alice’s companion?” The color drained from her cheeks. Damned if he didn’t feel like the naughty boy who’d kicked a pup.
“One dress,” she conceded.
“Five.”
She remained unyielding. “One.”
By God, if this wasn’t the same discussion he’d had with spoiled mistresses, only with their negotiating roles entirely reversed. He dragged a languid look over her slender frame. “Four and a peignoir.”
If the lady shot her eyebrows any higher, they’d disappear into her hairline. When had she become this serious, easily shocked creature?
“I was jesting, Daphne,” he drawled. “Unless you wish to have a peignoir.” In which case, he’d have Madame Thoureaux drape her in various satin and silk beaded creations and insist on watching.
She searched his face with sadness in her far too expressive eyes. “Is everything a joke with you, Daniel?”
Actually, since his brother’s drowning, everything had become a game. It had begun as a means of ratcheting up attention from his heartbroken mother and his catatonic father. Somewhere along the way, the boy he’d been had merged with another, capable of only caring for and about himself.
…It should have been you, Daniel… He forcibly thrust back that steely whisper hurled at him by his father.
At his silence, she sighed. That faint exhalation bespoke her condemnation more than any damning charges. He gripped the arms of the chair, despising himself for noticing that slight whispery sound and giving so much as a damn. “It is a grand production,” she said quietly. “A lady must wear a gown of white, adorned with a train, and a certain number of feathers in her hair.”
Daphne would have been lost in white. It would have turned her cream white, freckled skin a sallow shade that did nothing to enhance her earthy, natural beauty.
“She’ll need to be presented at Almack’s,” she continued. The lady would certainly not be so methodical if she knew the improper path his thoughts had wandered. “The patronesses will decide upon her acceptability.” Her lip peeled back in the faintest sneer.
Daniel didn’t give a jot about what people were thinking or feeling, or anything truly that involved a single emotion. Mayhap it was fatigue from the days of travel. Or mayhap it was nostalgia wrought by her presence. “And what did they decide about your acceptability?” He should have been there. At that point in his life, he’d been a rotted bastard, but she’d have been a friend he’d not seen in just two or three years.
“They didn’t much care either way.” Daphne fiddled with the fabric of her skirts and smiled faintly. “I was merely permitted entry because your father arranged for it.” He started. My father. The cold, unfeeling bastard who’d sent the family spiraling into dun territory had vouched for the lady.
“My father made an appeal,” she murmured.
An uncomfortable silence descended. Daniel cleared his throat and picked up the nearest sheet. “Very well, then. A visit to the modiste tomorrow for a proper wardrobe. The following evening—”
“I expect it will take at the very least a week for gowns to be created.”
He chuckled. “I assure you, you and Alice will have no fewer than two gowns each by the following day’s end.” Such assurance came not from arrogance but in very specific dealings with the modiste.
She shook her head bemusedly. “How very foreign it is to me, this world you live in. Where you desire something and…” She snapped her fingers once. “It is vastly different for the rest of us.” She lumped herself in with an entirely different lot than the ton. And yet…that is what she was. She’d been a childhood friend and a neighbor of his late father’s properties, but they may as well have rotated in entirely different solar spheres. “You’ll need to host a ball for her debut,” Daphne said, shoving herself slowly up.
Daniel hopped to his feet and made to assist her, but she pointedly ignored his arm and, instead, reached for her cane. “Balls are costly.” His mind tabulated all the funds that would go into such an event.
Daphne limped around her seat, coming so close, her arm brushed his. “If you can afford to host those wicked summer parties every July you can afford to throw your sister a proper ball.”
Fair point. He followed her slow, painful march across his room. “Daphne,” he called out when she reached for the handle. She looked back. “If you wish to attend one of those wicked parties, there is always an invitation for you.”
Her lips tugged and she caught the plump flesh of the lower lip between her teeth. Her shoulders shook with her amusement and even with the length of the room between them, the light cast by the roaring fire in the hearth set her eyes aglow. “Goodnight, Daniel,” she said with a wry amusement.
“Daph,” he managed and, oddly, when he gave her a half-grin, it felt vastly different than the false one she’d taken umbrage to in the carriage ride.