Barbara Metzger (5 page)

Ah, well, Daphne thought, it was only for a few days. She’d survive seeing him, the same way she’d survived the last twenty-three months, twenty-one days, and seven hours of not seeing him. Miserably.

* * *

A few days, she could manage, but weeks? Miserable did not begin to describe how her mama’s next letter made Daphne feel. They were all returning to Hampshire shortly, Lady Whilton wrote. Graydon’s doctors thought he’d recover better in the country, away from all the hustle and bustle of his busy social life. He was staying at the Grosvenor Square mansion, having given up his third-floor bachelor quarters on account of his injury. Lady Whilton was able to report that it was no wonder the leg was still bothersome. Dear Graydon was seldom in his bed before dawn, if at all.

She and the earl, therefore, had suggested Graydon accompany them to Hampshire next week for the first reading of the banns. The wedding could take place three weeks hence, if Daphne thought all the arrangements could be made in time.

Well, no, she didn’t think she could book passage to the Antipodes so soon.

*

The first meeting did not go so badly, for a hanging. In the first flurry of welcoming Lady Whilton home, greeting the earl and his sister, Cousin Harriet grumbling as footmen and maids scurried about with baggage, no one heard the beating of Daphne’s heart. Ohlman the butler was taking wraps and asking for preferences of refreshment as he escorted the company into the parlor, and Mama wanted to know if the invitations had arrived from the printer, whether the boys would need new suits of clothes again, which flowers they could expect to be in bloom. Daphne answered her mother’s chatter, then busied herself pouring
the tea.

The blasted man couldn’t take wine, like his father, from the decanter Ohlman was pouring. No, he had to stand next to Daphne, waiting for his cup of tea. And she, like a ninny, fixed it just the way he always preferred, without asking. His mouth quirked in a smile, but he did not comment on her blushes.

His first words, in fact, eased her mind somewhat. “You must be wishing me at Jericho. I offered to put up at the inn, but your mother wouldn’t hear of it. I can make some excuse to leave until the wedding if you want, if you’ll be too uncomfortable.’’

Daphne had to face him now, had to look right up into his warm brown eyes. He was even more handsome than she remembered, more muscular, too. The cane he carried added distinction, with the limp barely noticeable. She wondered if Mama had made up the whole faradiddle about his needing to recuperate, to explain his presence here, but why would he want to come so early? Gray wouldn’t have left the gay life of London just to cut up her peace. He was doing a fine job of it, though, waiting for her answer, gazing straight through her eyes to her very soul. She wanted to tell him, yes, put up at an inn, on the moon preferably, and stop tearing her life apart, but she couldn’t.

She handed over his tea and said, “The inn? No, of course not. The sheets aren’t even aired properly.”

“After Portugal, any sheets at all are a luxury. Truly, I wouldn’t mind if you’d rather,” he offered nobly, still standing as though poised to leave.

“Nonsense, unless
you’d
rather,” she countered.

He shook his head quickly and finally sat down.

“Not at all. And the notion of more traveling about doesn’t appeal either. Thank you.”

“For what? You’ve always been welcome here. That is, Mama’s always treated you like part of the family. I’ve prepared your usual room, unless you’d rather one on the ground level.” Daphne wasn’t sure it was polite to refer to his injury, but she didn’t want him maiming himself for life on the stairs. She had enough on her conscience. “I could make the switch in an instant.”

Graydon seemed relieved at her hospitality, but embarrassed to be reminded of his wound. “That’s not necessary at all, but thank you. The leg is almost healed, the sawbones say, so the exercise should be good for it. In fact, I’m looking forward to some long tromps through the countryside,” he mentioned, leaving room for her offer to accompany him, as she always had.

If he needed exercise, why hadn’t he stayed in London with all its attractions? He could have strolled down Bond Street with the other town beaux, or danced all night at Vauxhall. He’d be bored with the tame rural pastimes within a day. Tromping through the countryside, indeed! Hadn’t the papers claimed he’d cut a wide swath through City life since his return? Instead of expressing her doubts and distrust, she replied, “Then you’ll enjoy the pleasant weather we’re having. The roadside wildflowers are in color, and the formal gardens are beginning to look lovely. Mama won’t have to worry about the church being decorated properly.”

Daphne couldn’t believe this conversation they were having. If anyone had said she’d be discussing spring blooms with Gray Howell, she’d have laughed. The empty phrases made her want to cry, though, all the while she was congratulating herself on how well she was handling an awkward situation. She wasn’t berating him for tearing her heart out, nor was she throwing herself on his broad chest in joy that he’d come home safely. Her hands weren’t even shaking. Those twenty-three months, etc., had taught her something besides arithmetic, after all.

How kind the years had been to her, Gray was thinking as he stared at Daphne over the rim of his teacup. He’d aged, a century it felt like, with scars and weathered wrinkle lines, but Daphne had ripened. She had been an adorable child and a pretty girl after that awkward stage, but now she was a beautiful woman, poised and elegant. She could have been a duchess sitting at the tea table, in her Nile green silk gown that shimmered with every graceful motion. No demure debutante white for Miss Howell anymore, and no fall of lace at her bosom to hide her lack of assets, either. His old playmate had assets aplenty.

Only her unruly blond curls remained of the hoyden who used to tag at his heels, but now the vibrant gold locks were cropped into a short fashionable do, with a ribbon threaded through to keep the curls off her perfect face. She looked like a wood nymph, innocent and seductive both.

God, she was everything he remembered, and more. And less, for this time she wasn’t promised to anyone, himself included. The gentlemen hereabouts must all be dicked in the nob or in their dotage, or dimwits of the tenth degree. Of course, when it came to fools, he’d take every prize. Still, she was going to let him stay at the house. There was hope…unless she’d just pasted on a polite veneer like all the other stone-cold London Diamonds. Not his Daffy, please.

Chapter Five

Things weren’t going badly, for a disaster. Daphne even managed to find a few bits of silver lining in the cloud that hung over her head. It wasn’t pouring rain, for one thing, and no virulent epidemics were ranging the countryside, so Graydon was getting the exercise he wanted—and getting out of Daphne’s way. At least she was managing to avoid his company most of the time. With Mama in such a dither over the wedding plans, changing her mind over the guests, the refreshments, and the decorations, it was easy. There was so much to do that Daphne found it simple to make excuses for missing lunch or tea. She took breakfast in her bedroom, the better to consult her lists, she said, and she planned her busy day by watching the front door for his departure. Other times she left by the kitchen door, if he was still around at the front of the house. She often stayed away on her errands and commissions—with a novel, a blanket, and a packed lunch—until late in the afternoon, returning the same back way to avert any chance encounters.

Graydon was keeping busy, too, it seemed, refamiliarizing himself with the neighborhood and conferring with the bailiff at Howell Hall. His father had never taken the same interest in the land, so there was a great deal to be done after Gray’s absence. He’d also studied some new farming methods while he was recuperating, and was anxious to implement the latest advances. Or so Daphne gathered from the conversations at the inevitable times when she could not escape her mother’s machinations, mostly at dinner and the hours after. No amount of cautious maneuvering could politely excuse her from taking supper with the guests, Lady Whilton insisted. Lord Hollister and his sister would start to think she was avoiding them. How many headaches could she claim?

Instead, Daphne took to inviting company: old Squire Pomeroy when he was well enough to leave his sickbed, and his family, including Squire’s married daughter Sally and her husband, and Squire’s son Miles, of course; the Hartley sisters and old Admiral Benbow, who was mostly deaf; the vicar who would perform Mama’s wedding ceremony, his wife and young curate; even Mr. Foggarty, Lord Hollister’s tenant, who, while a bit rough around the satin and lace edges, had wonderful stories of his India days.

The guests reciprocated with invitations of their own, so that meant a few less evenings Daphne had to spend in Graydon’s company. She made sure she was never alone with him even then, nor available for private
conversation. Daphne thought she’d scream if
he tried to get up a flirtation with her, since he’d be missing his London lightskirts. Instead she conferred with Mama about the wedding, or practiced the pianoforte, concentrating fiercely, or she got up whist games with his aunt and Cousin Harriet while Lord Hollister and Mama cooed in the corner. And she was always the first to scurry off to bed, claiming another early morning. At least she was getting a lot of reading done.

No, things were not going too badly at all, Daphne congratulated herself, and almost a whole week had gone by.

*

Almost a whole week of his visit was gone, without one comfortable tête-á-tête, Graydon fumed. He was as close to recapturing their old friendship as he’d been in Portugal. He’d been hoping for companionship at the very least. Instead she wanted to know if his room was to his liking, if there was a horse up to his weight in the stables, if he preferred macaroons to poppyseed cake with his tea. She was being a blasted hostess, when he wanted his playmate back! The woods were indeed full of wildflowers, and the streams were full of fish. He wanted to share them with her, the way they used to. He wanted to discuss his plans for Howell Hall, to see if she was interested. She was too busy interviewing musicians. He never even managed to get her alone long enough to ask her forgiveness, an apology he’d been carrying around for nigh onto two years.

This wedding nonsense was taking all of Daffy’s time, dash it. The poor puss was being run off her feet. Why, she never had an afternoon free to just sit and chat, and she was yawning over her teacup every night right after dinner. Her eyes weren’t their usually wondrous clear blue, he noticed, but looked tired, as if she’d been poring over her mother’s endless lists too long. As for Lady Whilton, she was practically useless, giggling like a schoolgirl with her first beau. Graydon was delighted to see her so enamored of his father, of course, but couldn’t help resenting the absurd juxtaposition of the older woman’s giddiness while her daughter drudged to make the perfect wedding.

The situation was deplorable. Graydon vowed to be what assistance he could, to lift some of the burden from Daphne’s slender but alluring shoulders. He made a note to ask Foggarty if he’d mind denuding Howell Hall’s gardens and forcing houses for the occasion. The older man was pleasant enough, accommodating Graydon’s wishes to inspect the house and grounds, even though Foggarty knew it meant the end of his stay in the neighborhood. Gray thought he’d miss the nabob’s tales and exotic dinners when Foggarty’s lease was up, but of course, the chap had to go if Graydon was going to reclaim his own home. The governor didn’t care for the Hall, but Graydon did. He was tired of rented lodgings, army bivouacs. He wanted something permanent, even if it meant dislodging his amiable, well-heeled tenant.

Maybe Foggarty would make an offer on Pomeroy’s place. With the old squire ailing, perhaps the Pomeroys would rent a house in Bath. Lud knew Graydon would be happy to see Miles Pomeroy out of the neighborhood, the way he was looking at Daffy. According to Lady Whilton, Pomeroy had been hanging around, biding his time. Miles was older than himself by a few years, and firmly entrenched in the neighborhood, acting as magistrate since his father took ill. From all Graydon heard or remembered, there’d never been a more upright and honest man. Or a duller one.

*

Miles Pomeroy took his job as magistrate seriously. For that matter, he took life seriously. But crime was no laughing matter, so when he heard of an attempted robbery in his precinct, he was quick to make an investigation. When he realized the victim of the attack was none other than a relation of Miss Whilton’s, on the way to Woodhill Manor for the wedding, he hurried to offer his assistance. Thus it was that Miles, hoping to find favor with Miss Whilton, dropped into the midst of an already awkward house party the one person in the world Daphne would less like to have stay at Woodhill Manor than Graydon Howell.

“You’re the ninnyhammer who brought Uncle Albert here?” she shrieked at the unfortunate Mr. Pomeroy in the Manor’s now-deserted hallway. Ohlman the butler was assisting the foulmouthed and foul-breathed Uncle Albert up the stairs—to the master suite. Mama was having hysterics in the parlor, being comforted by Lord Hollister, of course, while Cousin Harriet was threatening to start packing, swearing she’d not spend one night under the same roof with such a fiend. Meantime Harriet was administering smelling salts to Lord Hollister’s sister in the morning room. Daphne neither knew nor cared where Graydon was, but she could only assume he was having a grand laugh at her predicament. “Whyever did you have to bring him here, of all places?” she wailed at poor Miles.

“Well, he is Baron Woodhill. Naturally I assumed…I mean, this is his home and all.”

“His home is a gaming hell in London’s slums. That loose screw has only come to make trouble, I know it!”

“But I couldn’t have left him at that tumbledown hedge tavern with his valet injured and his carriage missing a wheel.”

“Why not? I assure you Uncle Albert is quite at home in the lowest dive. He must have crawled out from under a rock to get here.”