A Duchess in the Dark(4)

Immediately after dressing, she fled to the sunlit breakfast room, where a handful of guests were gathered. A quick scan of the occupants revealed that Edward was not present. Drat! Daphne’s gaze settled on her brother-in-law, James. He sat on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with someone whose face she couldn’t see.

She walked across the room and tapped him on the shoulder. “James,” she said. “I’m looking for Lord Wallingford. Do you happen to know where he is?”

James’ eyes narrowed and it was then that his friend looked up. She recognized him immediately. Ashton Fitzgerald, Duke of Claymore. His dashing good looks and pale-green eyes were quite legendary among the ladies of the ton. His wicked charm and self-confident swagger drew every woman for miles. Every woman, that was, except Daphne.

She’d been formally introduced to him at Margaret and James’s wedding three years ago. She remembered vividly the first moment she’d glimpsed him—he was wearing white breeches and a dark-blue coat, his dark hair smoothed back from his face. He was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. And then her eyes had laid upon the countless women fluttering around him, all vying for his singular attention. Margaret had told her he’d taken two widows home that night. He’d broken so many hearts in the past three years, Daphne had been unable to keep count. She’d vowed to herself that she’d never fall for a man like that—handsome, charming, dangerous.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledged, before turning her attention back to James.

“Miss Hayward,” he murmured in return.

James shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea where Wallingford is.”

“As usual, you are no help at all.” She sighed and glanced out the window facing the lake. “Perhaps he’s out by the lake with the others.”

Daphne had already turned and was heading for the door when Ashton’s voice rang out from behind. “I’d be pleased to accompany you down to the lake.” He suddenly appeared at her side. As always, his deep, resonant voice sent tingles up her spine. She stiffened, ruthlessly shoving the sensation away.

“That isn’t necessary.” She walked as briskly as her legs would allow, blue skirts swishing around her ankles. Any decent gentleman would have taken the hint. It should hardly surprise her, then, that Ashton kept pace at her side. He was nothing if not persistent.

“I insist.” He flashed her a charming smile. There was something quite different about him. Something in the way he moved, in the subtle way he looked at her—as though keenly aware of her every movement.

At over six feet, he was much taller than she remembered. He wore a gray waistcoat and cream-colored breeches that hugged his muscular thighs to perfection.

He was still quite handsome—there, she admitted it—but she refused to be swayed by something as frivolous as a handsome face. Indeed, she endeavored to gaze upon him with detached appreciation, as one might admire a lovely painting. Lust, human emotion, needn’t be an issue at all.

The heat rioting through her veins was on account of the weather, surely. It was an usually warm morning, and her brisk steps were causing her heartbeats to skip, then quicken.

They were not ten yards from the lake when he paused, leaned over her, and drew in a deep breath.

She stopped sharply and turned to him, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. “Did you just sniff me?”

He grunted and mumbled something that sounded like “lavender” under his breath, gazing at her in a rather distracted and unsettling way. He leaned in closer, searching her face for heaven knew what. She opened her fan.

“Have you experienced any unusual facial spasms in the last few hours?” he asked.

Well, so much for civilities! Was he suggesting she had an unnatural affliction that caused her face to twitch? She snapped her fan closed and shoved the tip of it into his chest. Hard. “What exactly are you getting at? And choose your words wisely, for I’m rather dangerous with a fan.” She lifted the fan to his face, brandishing it like a weapon.

Ignoring her fan, he lifted his hands, as though gauging the size of his palms relative to the size of her breasts. An inch or two more and his hands would be cupping her intimately. Her feminine sensibilities should have been grossly offended—and they were, assuredly—but something else deep inside urged her to arch up into those large hands. Somewhere deep down, she wanted to feel his hands on her—the warmth of his palms, the strength of his touch.

Just an inch…his palms brushed against her breasts. His scent drew her in, urging her to suck in a deep, satisfied breath. Caging her against a nearby tree, his large body loomed over her, shielding her from the view of the lake. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. What was he about? Did he intend to smell her again, or worse, kiss her right here in view of anyone who might happen by?