It was a universal truth that every woman, regardless of station, status, or level of wit and beauty, enjoyed a visit to the modiste. Or, it had been a universal truth, until Daphne Smith had gone and shattered it.
The lady stood with her head tipped back, the sharp lines of her cheeks etched in planes of equal parts horror and terror as she gazed upon the establishment. She stole a frantic look down the street and, for a long moment, Daniel expected the lady to bolt in the opposite direction as far and as fast as her legs could carry her. With her determination, she could outpace any man should she so wish.
But now, given that horror, the last place she wished to be was here.
“Oh, how exciting,” Alice piped in, the excitement in her tone contrasting sharply with Daphne’s behavior. “Just so we are clear, I am not wearing white and ivory, Daniel.”
He cuffed her under the chin. “I’ve no idea what is appropriate for a lady. We will have to defer to Miss Smith.”
His words had the intended effect, springing Daphne into movement. “I don’t—”
“Then, we shall defer to Madame Thoureaux,” he offered up, instead.
She looked blankly at him and he favored her with a wink.
His sister rushed ahead, yanking the door open, and Daniel gestured for Daphne to enter. The lady wet her lips and cast a single, longing look back at his carriage. He dipped his head close to hers. “Miss Smith, they are gowns and shifts and chemises, not venomous snakes and spiders.”
The fire in her eyes was enough to singe a man. “You cannot speak of a lady’s undergarments in the street,” she hissed, frantically searching her gaze about at the curious passersby staring on.
He motioned with his hand. “Then, come inside,” he paused. It was unconscionable to deliberately bait her. “So we may discuss them in here.” But he’d never been accused of having a conscience.
Daphne emitted a strangled, choking sound and hurried inside.
He closed the door behind them and as it closed in their wake, it set the tinny bell ajingle. Madame Thoureaux, the small, turban-wearing woman rushed forward, speaking in a hideous rendition of a French accent.
“My lord, I zee you have brought me,” she jolted to a stop, flaring her eyes as they settled on Daphne, “another…” She passed a critical stare over the redhead, her gaze lingering on the wooden cane. The proprietress grimaced. “…lovely creature to attire.”
Daphne stiffened and he stole a sideways glance. Her thin shoulders brought back, she elongated that long, graceful neck with a regal grace befitting a queen.
At the thinly veiled attempt at the modiste’s disdain, fury stirred. He opened his mouth, but Daphne cut into the scathing comment on his lips with a pleading look. “Indeed,” he said in clipped tones. “My sister,” he motioned to Alice who stood assessing bolts of fabric. “And her companion, Miss Smith.” The modiste swung her eyes back to Daphne and understanding dawned.
“Of course, she is zee companion.”
Of course. Daniel stitched his eyebrows into a single line.
Madame Thoureaux clapped once. “I will see to zee young lady.”
“Miss Smith will also require garments befitting her station as companion,” he informed the woman. He could all but see her eyes counting the coins before she rushed off to aid his sister.
One of the woman’s assistants came forward to collect Daphne, who made a sound of protest. Her desperate gaze found his, but he winked, studying her as the younger woman urged her over to the fabrics.
Daphne now occupied, he strolled over to the pillar at the center of the shop and continued to watch her. Periodically, the assistant would hold up a fabric and she would nod, her lips moving in a polite declination.
He folded his arms at his chest. The modiste had made the erroneous, though certainly not unfounded, conclusion about Daphne’s status. On any day and any occasion, the last place he’d care to be was at a modiste with his sister. However, this was not solely his sister here—it was Daphne—and as such, he’d mustered the fraternal devotion and foregoing the pleasures of his clubs, had, instead, sought out more proper pursuits.
A slow grin that would have made any proper companion or mama fearful curved his lips. Daphne was not his lover and with her hideous chignon and ill-fitting garments, bore no hint of the stunning creatures he usually accompanied to this very shop. Given her status as his onetime friend, he’d not given much thought to more than her generous lips and long neck. Now he deepened his scrutiny. There was a restrained beauty to her that proved his reputation as rake. For he wanted to tug those pins out and allow her crimson curls to cascade about her in a waterfall. He roved an eye over her, taking her in with male appreciation.
When she’d stormed his home and demanded the return of that child’s treasure she’d found long ago, he’d not assessed her with his usual rakish critiquing. Now, he rectified that failing. At five or so inches shorter than his own six-foot three-inch frame, she stood taller than most men. Even the cane she relied upon could not detract from her willowy grace. Small breasts. Narrow waist and intriguingly generous hips that fair begged for a man to sink his fingers in as he settled himself between her cream white thighs.
The object of his scrutiny glanced up from another bolt of yellow the assistant lifted for her inspection and their gazes collided. Those emerald eyes deepened to a rich jade. Did she sense the hungering running through him even now? To lay her down on the crimson satin fabric on display and make love to her as she so desperately needed?
Shoving away from the pillar, Daniel stalked forward, coming around the table to where she stood conversing with the assistant. The young woman stopped mid-sentence and looked to him. “Emerald satin,” he directed. “The lady requires an emerald satin with a black lace overlay and Austrian crystals adorning the décolletage.”
“Brown and grey will suffice,” Daphne quickly countered, holding up one of those dreary fabrics.
Alas, a lord’s word in these establishments may as well have belonged to God Almighty himself. Daniel inclined his head. “Greens and blues. Rich hues.” He assessed her once more, lingering his gaze on her modest décolletage. “A daring neckline.”
Daphne gasped, slapping her fingers over her mouth. He was the bastard all knew him to be, because a grin played on his lips at her outrage. The assistant rushed off to search for the respective fabrics. “This isn’t appropriate, Dan…my lord,” she said in hushed tones, as soon as they were alone.
It had always been one of his greatest joys as a youth, baiting and teasing Daphne Smith. “What is that?” The lure was just as strong, all these years later. “Me properly attiring my sister’s very proper companion?”
The lady met his gaze. “A daring décolletage is never—” He winked at her and those words ended swiftly. She retreated a step.
“Ah, but a daring décolletage is always appropriate,” he murmured, continuing his slow pursuit as she limped awkwardly away from him. Retreating, making her way down the aisle.
“Companions do not don gowns of emerald and sapphire with black lace overlay and daring décolletage.”
Companions in his employ would. Particularly this one. He’d not have her covered up like an abbess in a nunnery. Not when he wished to see her willowy form displayed before him. “Tell me, Daphne,” he whispered. “Why does a siren with crimson-kissed hair hide that beauty behind tight coiffures and ill-fitting garments?”
She wet her lips and his gaze took in that slight, seductive gesture. Blood surged to his shaft and he fought the hungering to dip his head ever so slightly and make love to her mouth. After all, a beautiful woman was a beautiful woman and what was the point unless he was kissing one. “There is neither the money nor the need for expensive garments, Daniel,” she said with a matter-of-factness that dulled his desire. “I am a woman of nearly thirty years.”
“You are eight and twenty.” She started and he swiftly lowered his arms to his side, his heart thudding. He didn’t know those personal details about a lady. Daniel drew in a breath and forced himself to calm. Of course, this was Daphne. Entirely different knowing things about her.
She paused alongside a table and trailed her fingertips over a shimmery orange material that harkened back to days spent watching sunrises with this woman then child, at his side. Yes, she was nearly thirty and, yet, how little she’d changed in some ways.
“You always hated dresses, Daphne Smith,” he said bemusedly, starting as that remembrance was pulled from somewhere inside.
“Not always,” she said softly, still smoothing her palm over the fabric with a loving caress. God, how he envied that bolt of material. “The girl you last knew didn’t stay that same person. She grew up. I grew up,” she amended. “You were just not around to see it.” Was it his own desiring that accounted for his hearing the wistful regret there?
“No, I was not,” he conceded. After Alistair’s death and his mother’s passing, the only person to remind him of his past, had been this tall, slender figure before him. As such, it had been easy to sever her thread from the fabric of his life. Or he believed it had been easy. He balled his hands. “Who did she become?” he asked softly.
“A silly dreamer.” She stilled the distracted movements of her fingers and studied those long digits as though she could divine the meaning of life from them. An unexpected, inexplicable hungering to know what caused the ache of regret in that soft admission.
“We all begin as dreamers, Daphne,” he said quietly as he, a self-absorbed bastard who’d not given a jot about anyone, sought to reassure. The same hold she’d had over him as a girl, remained, all these years later. There had always been an ease between them and time hadn’t erased it. He motioned to the table and she followed that gesture with her gaze. “Wearing grey skirts and brown dresses cannot undo the regrets we carry.” As soon as those words left his mouth, a frisson of disquiet went through him. He wasn’t one of those gents with meaningful words for anyone.
Daphne raised her eyes to his, eyes that had always seen so much. “Neither will donning black jackets and false smiles. And yet, we each survive in our own way, don’t we?” His body stilled under the piercing insight; words that suggested the life he lived was nothing more than a carefully crafted façade. “I’m no longer a dreamer,” she said, that calm pragmatism at odds with the frisson of panic unfurling in his belly. “I’m a practical woman. Logical. And I wish to live a life of purpose.”
A life of purpose. His very existence made a mockery of her goals; serving as an always present reminder of his father’s words that he had made true with time. He gave her a slow, practiced grin, needing a protective space between them. He neither wanted, nor needed, Daphne rousing any feelings in him. “Do you know what I live for, Miss Smith?” he whispered, with that slight formality erecting that barrier. He continued approaching her.
Daphne gave her head a slight shake and God love that slight movement that dislodged her rotten chignon and freed a crimson strand as it was meant to be free.
“Pleasure,” he purred.
She paled and her freckles stood stark in her cheeks. She backed up. “You’re trying to shock me.” There was a breathless quality to her accusation better suited for whispered endearments behind chamber doors.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Is it working?”
“I wiped your tears when you cried after I bloodied your nose. I cannot be shocked by someone I’ve known that long, D-Daniel.” That faint tremble made a lie of her bravado.
With every step, she moved deeper and deeper into the shop as he intended, pulling them away from the flurry of activity while his sister pored through fabrics with the modiste. Daphne’s back knocked against a pillar, ending her retreat. She glanced about as he came to a stop before her.
Raising an arm, he rested his palm above her head, effectively trapping her, standing so close his chest brushed the soft flesh of her breasts. A wave of lust bolted through him as her eyes briefly clouded with passion. “If you cannot be shocked, then I’ll tell you how I live for the blissful surcease that can only be found when you lose yourself in another body.” For in those empty exchanges, where there was a moment of mindless ecstasy, he could then forget. Forget that everyone who loved him had died. His mother. His brother. And that of those who remained, was him, the Devil’s spawn, as his father had dubbed him. “For everything melts away in the throes of lovemaking. Where you live for nothing but feeling.”
“I am not one of your lightskirts,” she whispered as he shielded her with his body.
“No,” he conceded. “But…” You could be.
By the regret in her eyes, she braced for that improper offer.
He tried to push out the words intended to shock and hurt. To give them to her, the truest words; he’d like to lay her down and explore her body in every way, releasing her from the bonds that held her, until she exploded in climactic joy. What had become as a means to push her away and protect himself, now became something altogether more real, dark, and dangerous. I want her… Shock slammed into him. He, who reviled innocence and goodness, hungered for her.
As if the fates sought to remind him of exactly the kind of man he was, a soft, husky purr sounded over his shoulder. “Lord Montfort, I thought you’d never return from the countryside.” He wheeled around. The Baroness Shelley, an overblown creature, a lady he’d taken as his lover on and off through the years stood there, regarding him through catlike eyes. Her smoky lashes lowered as she fingered the vast expanse of flesh spilling over her plunging neckline.
It was a sight that should inspire lust, if not at the very least, appreciation. Instead, a wave of annoyance hit him at her untimely interruption. “Baroness,” he greeted smoothly, while Daphne slinked away. He positioned himself between the two women, but the baroness merely angled her head.
She surveyed Daphne for a brief moment and then, with a haughty flick of her head, sauntered closer to him.
He frowned. How easily this woman and the modiste dismissed Daphne. Yet, with the women side by side, he appreciated Daphne’s understated beauty and elegance more. From over the wanton widow’s shoulder, he followed Daphne’s movements as she limped around the opposite side of the table and made her way to his sister’s side.
Baroness Shelley layered herself to him, calling his attention, once more, up. “I often think of our night together.” Her lips tilted up in a seductive, calculating grin. She trailed a searching hand up his leg, brushing him through his breeches.
His skin pricked with the feel of knowing eyes at the front of the shop. And by God, if he, Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort, didn’t find himself with a hot neck for a second time in the course of a bloody day. He artfully disengaged the lady’s gloveless hand and raised it to his mouth for a smooth, practiced, and deterring kiss. “Just the one?” he countered easily, with ease that only came from years as Society’s most notorious rake.
She tossed her head back and an emotionless, husky laugh spilled past her lips. “I have thought of many of our nights together, but the night of your orgy, particularly,” she whispered. The lady stretched up on tiptoes and pressed her lips close to his ear. “You’ve an invitation to my bed this evening, my lord.” The rose fragrance that clung to her skin hung heavy and cloying, nearly choking him. So very different from the delicate scent liberally dabbed upon another lady’s skin.
He glanced up. His and Daphne’s gazes collided and cheeks afire, she swiftly returned her attention to a bolt of fabric held up for her inspection.
What in blazes was this fascination with Miss Daphne Smith and why did he not feel so much as a stirring of lust for the wanton creature against him, even now?
She should not be shocked. Nor scandalized. Nor even the faintest bit surprised that Daniel Winterbourne had gone from an ill-attempt at seducing her against a pillar in a modiste’s to favoring a lush, stunning beauty courting his favors.
Of course, any attention he bestowed on any woman was a meaningless, artful attempt from a notorious rake. In every way, her imperfect body had earned her derision from those who’d not employ her to gentlemen who’d never noticed her to one nobleman who’d bedded her for no desire other than to add a cripple to his list of conquests.
But God help her… Daphne briefly pressed her eyes closed—for one breathless moment, with her back against that pillar and Daniel’s body shielding their scandalous exchange from scrutiny, she’d felt very much a woman…a beautiful, desirous one, who yearned to know the passion and desire he spoke of.
For that act he so exquisitely painted was the manner of splendor she’d dreamed of and hoped for. In the end, there had been nothing but pain. A quick coupling with skirts yanked about her waist and a man who professed love, rutting between her legs and grunting, while she fought through the agony, seeking the very beauty Daniel had just described.
She forced her gaze back to him and his nameless beauty and allowed the truth of who he was and the truth of the mistakes she had made to sink in with the weight of her previous folly. Lest she become lost in the false defenses she provided his hopeful sister or lured by his easy charm, he was a rake. And ultimately, those rakes took their pleasures where and when they could. Be it against a pillar in a modiste’s shop or against a wall inside a host’s library with a virginal lady so desperate to know love. Her stomach twisted in remembrance of her own long-ago folly and she balled her hands. She’d not further risk her reputation and her chance of a future at Ladies of Hope.
“She looks scandalous.” Alice’s words penetrated the memories of that night made in folly. “The woman with Daniel,” she whispered. “Is that the manner of woman gentlemen prefer?”
Midnight curls, breasts over-spilling the strained bodice of her gown, flawless, unfreckled skin, yes, Daphne rather thought that was precisely the manner of woman gentlemen preferred. Particularly rakes. “I expect some gentlemen,” she settled for.
Alice grunted. “Well, I’d hoped Daniel had more discriminating tastes than to take on with that woman. Shamelessly throwing herself at him.”
“My lady, I am ready for you,” Madame Thoureaux called. The woman rushed over to gather Alice, once more.
Her charge gone, Daphne was left alone on the shop floor with the assistants bustling about, and Daniel and his…his…siren. Or lover. Or whatever they two, in fact, were. Nor did it bother her whether they were something or anything, or nothing. She stole another peek. Daniel still clung to the baroness’ fingers. His sister had been incorrect. No throwing necessary. A pebble of jealousy, dark and niggling and very much unwanted, settled in her belly. That green-eyed emotion making a liar of her earlier thoughts.
After endless hours in the miserable shop with Daniel hovering in the corner, they’d finally concluded. Never was she more eager to be free of an establishment.
Holding the door open, Daniel allowed his sister and her companion to move ahead of him. Daphne deliberately held back and followed along at a slower pace behind brother and sister.
Her role in this family was that of servant and, as such, her place was behind them. Propriety dictated as much.
Liar. You just need distance from him. She needed an order over her senses and a restoration of logic, where she could quash his correctly whispered supposition about how she’d hidden herself away these years. What would he say if he knew of her dreams as a woman? A gentleman so driven by his own self-pleasures, he’d, no doubt, sneer and jeer a lady taking employment inside an institution for disabled women.
Staring at his broad shoulders as he lifted his hand in greeting to passing lords, Daphne marveled at the divergent direction their paths had taken. Once they’d danced along the same trail, but somewhere along the way, he’d moved along one where he was this revered, sought after gentleman, so wholly in his element among people of every station. And then there was her. Reserved. Quiet. Eager to shape and make her own way in the world.
But it hadn’t always been that way. There had been a time she had thrilled at the adventure of Daniel’s world. The balls and soirees, the slide of satin fabric as a maid had helped her into the extravagant piece. Time had proven how useless those scraps were. The immaterial mattering so very much more. And so when she’d left London with her own secret shame all those years ago, she’d been eager to put distance between herself and the mistake of her poor judgment. She’d not looked back with regret. In time, she’d built herself up on the hope and determination to be more, when the world insisted she could not.
Now, there was Daniel, the immovable rake, who, by the accountings of him, was nothing more than a shallow, selfish figure. And yet, he’d seen the lie she’d told herself for so many years. He’d looked close enough to see the regret there and that passion she secretly yearned to know.
As they moved over the pavement bustling with pedestrian traffic, Alice assessed the wares in shop windows. Daniel remained as aloof as he’d ever been, not even bothering to glance at Daphne.
“Montfort!” That greeting cut across her tumultuous musings and Daphne slowed her step behind Daniel and Alice. They had stopped to greet the owner of that booming baritone.
“Webb,” Daniel returned, impatience lacing that exchange.
Tall, blond, and sporting a similarly cold smile as the one donned by Daniel, the other man’s grin painted him as a rogue. But then, would he truly keep company with any other?
She hovered at a safe distance as the gentlemen exchanged slight bows and greetings. Alice dropped a curtsy and returned her attention to perusing the front, dusty window of a bookshop. Just then, the door opened with such alacrity, the wood panel slammed into Alice’s hip and she gasped as a patron stepped outside.
Young, with pale blond hair, and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, the gentleman took one look at Alice and blanched. “Egads, f-forgive me,” he stammered, doffing his hat. “I did not—” The young man’s words trailed off as he stared wide-eyed at the equally wide-eyed girl.
At the silent, but charged exchanged, Daphne cocked her head.
“Montfort, this graceless clod is my brother, Mr. Henry Pratt,” his friend spoke in bored tones.
Mr. Pratt’s neck went red and he jammed his hat back on. All the while, he lingered his gaze on Alice. A small blush marred her cheeks as she glanced down at her slippers. The young man shifted a wrapped package under his arm and sketched an awkward bow. “How do you do?” he murmured to Daniel, his stare wandering once more to Alice.
While the necessary introductions were made, Daphne stood a silent observer. The young pair eyed one another with equal interest. A potentially dangerous interest when shown to the wrong suitor, as she knew too well. And yet, where there was a feral glimmer in the man named Webb’s eyes, this gentleman’s sparkled with kindness. She looked to Daniel. He took in the silent exchange between Alice and Mr. Pratt with a frown.
“You are withholding introductions, chap,” Webb chided and Daniel snapped his focus over to the other man who gawked at Daphne’s cane.
She reflexively curled her hand hard over the head of her walking stick. Society had a bothersome and unwanted fascination with a disfigured person. Interesting enough to gape at but, by their standards, not worthy enough to hire. She tightened her hold on the wood. …you should be honored, Miss Smith. I’ve never rutted with a cripple before… Bile burned in her throat and she briefly closed her eyes as the harsh laughter echoed around the chambers of her mind.
Daniel’s voice reached across that horror, pulling her back. “May I present my sister’s companion, Miss Smith. Miss Smith, Baron Webb, and his brother, Mr. Henry Pratt,” he said, his smooth baritone forcing her eyes open. Curiosity wreathed the brothers’ expressions.
She shoved aside those old, but still fresh memories. Daniel’s brow dipped and he looked at her, a question in his brown eyes. A concern that was oddly harder to take from this man than the wicked glimmer of before. “My lord,” she greeted. “Mr. Pratt,” she added, dropping a hasty curtsy. She gasped as her leg buckled under the suddenness of her movement. Her cane slid along the ground. Her stomach lurched as she stumbled sideways.
“Miss Smith,” Alice cried out.
Daniel instantly shot a hand around her, effortlessly catching her to him and her heart thumped hard as he spared her the indignity of crashing to the cobbles. The weight of his hand at her waist was strong, reassuring, and burning her with the heat of his palm.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her face awash with humiliation as she sought to avoid his gaze.
The baron peeled his lip back in a derisive sneer that sent further shame burning through her. Mr. Pratt frowned at his brother and bent to retrieve her cane. “Miss Smith, it was a pleasure,” he said gently. Alice’s little sigh cut across the busy London street sounds.
Daphne accepted the walking stick and cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said quickly. Webb stole another mocking look at her. She was never more grateful than when the unlikely pair of brothers took themselves off and left her alone with the Winterbournes. As she limped, ahead her movements were met with further scrutiny. The stares from the shopkeepers, lords, and ladies were no less probing now than they’d been all those years ago. Other than an object of sick fascination, Society had little use for a woman such as her.
Daniel was so very wrong. There was nothing thrilling in London. And the sooner she was gone to begin the life she wanted for herself, the happier she would be.