Barbara Metzger (3 page)

His head was pounding and his position was indefensible, yet he answered his father’s sermon
with: “Dash it, Daphne knows I’m not a monk.”

“She’s a sweet young thing, still new to the social rounds. It’s her innocence that makes her so appealing, and at the same time so vulnerable. Who knows what she thinks? You could have shown a little discretion, however.”

“Blister it, I have enough trouble keeping track of my own social calendar. Am I supposed to memorize hers, too?”

The earl studied his fingertips. “Perhaps it might be a good idea to move the wedding forward, to relieve her worries.”

“The wedding? We’re not even formally engaged! I’m not ready for leg shackles yet. By Jupiter, I’ve barely reached my majority. Most chaps wait till they’re thirty or so to set up their nurseries.”

“If you’re having second thoughts about Miss Whilton, you’d do better to bring them out now, when she can make another choice. I’d hate to see it, naturally.”

Graydon dragged his fingers through his already tousled hair. “Lud, that’s not it. I know my duty to the name and all. You’ve told me often enough that there are no other Howells to succeed me, and Daffy’s just what I’d want in a wife, if I wanted a wife now. Daffy’s a right ‘‘un. She’ll understand. After all, she sat next to that Fanshaw fop all night and I’m not complaining.”

“But she didn’t sit in his lap. And Fanshaw’s a viscount. He’d never go beyond the line.”

“And I would, you think?”

“I think you could break her heart.”

“Gammon, Daffy’s too downy for that. She knows it’s all in fun.”

*

“Fun? Seeing my promised husband making a cake of himself over a…a lightskirt in front of half the
ton
? No, I do not consider that fun, Lord Howell.”

“Cut line, Daffy, we aren’t even engaged yet, and it’s just your pride that’s hurt. I said I’m sorry, and I swear I won’t embarrass you that way again.”

“You won’t embarrass me by taking your fancy piece out in public, or you won’t take her out at all?” she wanted to know. “There is a big difference, my lord.”

They were dancing at Almack’s, not the most propitious place for such a conversation, but Daphne hadn’t been home the afternoon after the opera, not to Graydon, at any rate, and then he’d gone out of town to a mill planned ages ago. Almack’s was his first opportunity to smooth the waters, and her stormy look told him he’d better paddle hard and fast. His apology hadn’t worked, though. Daphne wanted her pound of flesh, too.

“You’re asking me if I’ll give up my, ah, outside interests before we’re even betrothed?”

“I’m asking if you intend to be faithful to your vows or not, Graydon Ambrose Hastings Howell, and you very well know it.”

He missed his step, causing the next couple in line to fumble. “The devil! We haven’t taken any vows, Daffy!”

“We’ve been pledged for ages, haven’t we?”

“That’s different. After we’re married, of course…”

“Oh, then I can take lovers now?”

He stopped dancing altogether, earning them frowns and mutters from the rest of the set. Gray pulled his partner to the side. “Don’t be a widgeon. It’s altogether different.”

Daphne stood her ground. “Why? If you don’t consider yourself promised, why should I?”

“It’s different, that’s why. Promised or not, you are supposed to stay pure and chaste for me—for your husband. It’s the man who needs the experience.”

Daphne stamped her foot, oblivious to the stares from those around them. “The deuce it is! Do you think I want a man like Uncle Albert? Is he experienced enough?”

Now Graydon was starting to lose his temper, too. “Blast it, are you comparing me to that old reprobate?”

“Why not? Everyone’s been quick to keep me informed about your drinking and your reckless wagers and the low company you’re keeping. What’s so different there?”

He wanted to shake her, and would have, if not for Lady Drummond-Burrell’s throat-clearing. “I am not like your uncle Albert,” he ground out. “And you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, brat. It’s not like I’m even keeping a mistress or anything, just having a little fling here and there. It means nothing, Daffy.”

“Obviously it’s my feelings that mean nothing to you! You can’t even give me your word!”

“After we’re married, I swear!”

“After? If you loved me, you’d never look at another woman, before, during, or after!”

The music had stopped. Now everyone was staring at them, still on the sidelines of the dance area.

He tried to tug her farther out of the way, but she dug her feet in. He couldn’t very well pick her up and toss her over his shoulder the way he used to. Instead he turned his back, trying to shield them from prying eyes. “What the devil does love have to do with anything, Daffy?”

“If you don’t know that, Graydon Howell, then I don’t want to know you!” she shouted. So much for a bit of circumspection. When he was sure they had every eye in the place on them, Daphne ripped the locket off her neck, threw it to the floor, and stamped on it twice for good measure. “That’s what you’ve done to our understanding, you dastard!’’

Now there was nothing for it but for Graydon to grab her arm and pull her after him, willy-nilly, into the refreshment room. He shoved a glass of punch into her hands. “For heaven’s sake, Daffy, calm down. You’re making a scene.”

“I’ll make more than a scene if you don’t unhand me, sirrah. And stop calling me Daffy. I’m not that little girl who used to follow you around, happy just to be in your shadow. I’m a woman now, even if you haven’t noticed, with a woman’s feelings.”

“Then act like one and drink your punch instead of looking daggers at me for everyone to see. And what am I supposed to call you? Miss Whilton? After wiping your nose for you a hundred times? Listen, things will look different in the morning. We’ll go for a ride, talk this out.”

“We have nothing more to say. Good evening, Lord Howell.”

She made to leave him, but he grabbed her arm again and spun her around. “Dash it, Daffy, don’t make
this any worse. You can’t stir up a
bumble-broth at Almack’s.”

“Why not? Why can’t I complain about my fiancé’s lack of fidelity here, of all places? After all, everyone does it, they tell me. The best people, the highest sticklers, every one of them seems to cheat on their husbands and wives, if you listen to enough gossip. Why, even Sally Jersey is said to be having an affair with—”

He clamped his hand over her mouth, so she kicked him in the shin. Then she poured the contents of her punch glass over his head. “I don’t care if they never let me back in this dreadful place, and I don’t care if I never see you again either. I wouldn’t marry you, Graydon Howell, if you were the last man on earth.”

Chapter Three

As far as public notices went, Daphne’s went far indeed. And fast. By morning, everyone in London knew that her informal betrothal was infamously ended. What Rumor didn’t spread, the gossip columns did. Daphne couldn’t have put her nose outside even if she wanted to, even if it weren’t all red from weeping. What she wanted was to get out of this wicked city of shattered illusions, out of his father’s house of painful reminders. She wanted to go home to the country. The air was cleaner, the people were more honest, and one didn’t have to work so hard at having a good time. Besides, after that outré outburst, she might be invited to another London party in a year or two, if she was lucky.

Lady Whilton and Cousin Harriet were even now making travel arrangements and overseeing the packing, when they weren’t trading recriminations over the incident. Lady Whilton blamed her cousin for Daphne’s intractability; Cousin Harriet
blamed Mama for raising her daughter with blinders on.

While her relations bickered, Daphne took care of some housecleaning. A bundle of letters, a box of fairings, a monogrammed handkerchief, and a recently pressed white rose all joined the broken locket in the dustbin. With them went the last of her childhood.

So many years, so many dreams. So very, very stupid. Gray didn’t love her and never had, except in an offhand, brotherly fashion. He was used to her, perhaps even fond of her, but he never loved her. He was prepared to do his duty by his family name and social standing eventually, that was all. He’d be comfortable married to his childhood pal. Daphne’d be miserable, even more miserable than she was now, if that were possible. She shredded those letters into bits so small, they could have been grains of rice, at a wedding that never took place.

*

Lady Whilton had a few broken dreams of her own, but she set them aside for her daughter’s sake and took up the loose threads of her country life again. She was a mother first, she told herself as she visited tenant farms instead of the theatre, and sat in on church-lady committees instead of literary salons. She could catch up on her resting, reading, and needlework, fiend seize them all—and that wretched, wretched boy.

*

Cousin Harriet felt vindicated. She’d always said the only thing between a man’s ears was a hat rack, that what they used for brains was between their legs. She’d just been proved right again, damn them all, especially that Howell fellow for making such a mingle-mangle of the whole thing. Harriet never wanted little Daphne to fall into a decline, and she never wanted her to dwindle into an old maid. Men did have their places, after all—in bed making children, and at the bank making money. If there was a way to do without them, Harriet certainly hadn’t found it, loving her cousin’s child and living on her cousin’s largesse. That wasn’t what she wanted for Daphne. Neither was a lying, cheating, womanizing, silver-tongued devil of a handsome man for a husband.

*

The lying, cheating, etc., non-husband-to-be was still in London, but not for long. He was a laughingstock among his friends, and a great deal poorer after paying off those exorbitant wagers at White’s on his chances of turning Daphne up sweet. Sweet? She’d rather suck a lemon than read one of his letters, it seemed. They were all returned unopened. He paid up; the betrothal was off.

Graydon should have felt like a free man. He didn’t. He shouldn’t feel guilty for doing what every other man in London did, engaged, married, or otherwise. But he did. Damn and blast! He wasn’t ready for parson’s mousetrap, but he wasn’t prepared to be the target for every matchmaking mama in town either. Two young ladies had already tripped outside his rooms, and one fell off her horse in front of him at the park. Peagooses all. If he wasn’t ready to wed Daffy, he surely wasn’t going to drop the handkerchief to some conniving miss who had designs on his fortune and title, and who couldn’t ride. Why would a man marry someone he couldn’t trust? A tiny voice that sounded remarkably like Daphne’s echoed in his conscience: Why would a woman?

Deuce take it, the worst thing was, he couldn’t even confide his confusion to his best friend. If she wouldn’t answer his letters, she sure as Hades wasn’t going to welcome him at Woodhill Manor. If the impossible brat weren’t so damn honest and open…he wouldn’t like her half so well.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe she’d find a man worthy of the adoration he’d accepted as his due for all those years. Maybe she’d find a man to love her to distraction, like those heroes in the novels she was always reading. And maybe Gray would tear the dastard’s heart out. With his teeth.

Did he love her? She was just Daffy, his fishing companion. She wasn’t the most beautiful chit in the world, though not far behind, nor the most even-tempered or seductive. She wasn’t even the brightest female of his acquaintance or the most talented. Then why did he feel that a vital part of him had gone missing, an arm or something? If he’d just taken her for granted, always there, always ready for anything, then why was he lost without a road map for his life? What was he going to do if he wasn’t going to marry Daphne Whilton? The endless rounds of parties and sporting events didn’t hold much appeal, nor did women who put a price tag on their charms. Daffy’d been his for the asking.

*

“You’re asking me for advice? Now?” His father was no help. “How did I ever raise such a fool? You had what every man wants: the love of an honest woman who’s an heiress to boot. And you toss it away for a bit of slap and tickle. Faugh! I wash my hands of you, you gudgeon. Besides, if you weren’t my own son, I’d call you out. The gel’s like a daughter to me and you insulted her, made it hard for her to show her face in town, dash it.”

As upset as Lord Hollister was for Daphne’s sake, he was more irate for his own loss. “And that means her mother won’t put a foot out of Hampshire either, blast you. Deuced comfortable woman, Cleo Whilton.”

Graydon put his glass down and sat up. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning nothing yet, you cawker. And likely nothing ever, thanks to you. How can I go courting a woman whose daughter hates the sight of my son?”

Courting? His father and Daphne’s mother? Now that he thought of it, they were perfect together. Lady Whilton had thrown herself into the earl’s busy political schedule with pleasure, and she was the first woman the earl had squired about since the death of Graydon’s mother.

“For all I know,” his father was going on, “they hold me to blame for your sins. That Cousin Harriet’s got us both tarred with the same brush anyway. Slammed the door in my face when they left. My own door, too.” The earl stared morosely into his brandy glass.

Lud, now he had to feel guilty for blighting his father’s chance for happiness, too, Gray thought, as he downed his own drink. The governor needed a hostess and social partner, and deserved a warm companion as much as anyone. There was no one Gray would rather see in his mother’s place than Lady Whilton. She was already one of the family. Or had been. His father was right: She’d never take up with Gray or his family now.

“Deuced shame, too,” the earl mumbled. “One of the finest females a fellow is like to come across.”

“Lady Whilton?”

“Her, too. But I meant little Daphne. Sweetest gel
you’ll
ever find. Too bad she thought you were some kind of god, a regular hero. The silly twit.”

There was nothing for it but for Graydon to leave town. No, the country. If he was gone, perhaps Lady Whilton and the earl could get together without upsetting Daffy, who’d never had a selfish bone in her body. She wouldn’t curse his father if he wasn’t around to embarrass them all. So he’d leave. To hell with the empty London life, and to hell with the succession and his father’s dreams of a government career for him. Graydon emptied his purse and bought himself a commission. She wanted a hero, he’d damned well be a hero.