Patrica Rice (11 page)

“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered, not at all certain what “this” was. He couldn’t be the highwayman. She wouldn’t believe it.

“I am trying to protect you, Daphne,” he murmured near her ear, his lips brushing against her hair. “Do not ask me to explain just yet. Give me time and all will be known, my word on it.”

Before she could utter any protests, Gordon lowered his mouth to hers.

His kiss was very soft. And warm. His lips caressed hers with respect, but were quick to take advantage when given no opposition. They plied her mouth slowly, delicately, telling her with action and not words that she wasn’t to worry. His hands on her arms slid lower, caressing, reassuring, until Daphne raised her hands to his chest and turned her head to gasp for breath.

He held her there briefly before saying, “We had best go in.” He cupped her elbow, giving her time to recover. “I will not apologize, Daphne. I have been waiting to do that for days. But I hope you will be more patient than I and wait until I can give you explanations before condemning me.”

Daphne was too stunned to do more than follow Gordon’s lead. She had never been kissed before. Really kissed. There had been a few young gentlemen who had attempted to steal more than she was willing to give and had hastily retreated when she made it clear she did not appreciate their attentions. This wasn’t the same at all. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it hadn’t been this.

She felt the kiss all the way down to her toes. Obediently, she followed him. She didn’t have any answers, only more questions. She couldn’t afford to ask more questions just yet.

In the shadows of the shrubbery, a figure watched them go with a curse on his tongue and pain in his heart. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He didn’t want to fight, but it didn’t look like he had much choice.

With resolution, he crept back through the shrubbery toward the side of the house.

* * * *

Violin music filled the air as the guests indulged in a late supper. Daphne brought her aunt a fresh glass of sherry and exchanged comments on the delightfulness of the evening with several of her aunt’s companions. Before one of the young bachelors could push their way from the buffet to return her niece to the party, Agatha requested an errand.

“Lord Griffin says he left a volume of
Emma
on the library table for me. Will you fetch it so I will not forget it before we go?”

“Of course.” Daphne handed her empty plate to a servant and slipped out a side door to make her way to the viscount’s male-oriented library.

She could not imagine why he should have a copy of Austen’s
Emma
other than out of curiosity, since the Regent had requested it be dedicated to him, but she didn’t mind the diversion from the crowd in the other rooms. Ever since that stroll on the terrace she had desperately wished for a moment alone, time to think and make sense of what had happened, but she had been kept busy smiling politely and chatting to neighbors and friends as if nothing momentous had happened. She took a deep breath of cool air in the deserted hall and pushed open the library door.

She sincerely hoped Lord Griffin had left the book in a noticeable place. No candles had been lit in here since the sun went down, and she doubted that she could linger long in this overwhelming blackness without succumbing to the urge to dash for the well-lit hall. It would be exceedingly embarrassing to come out with a volume of world history or Latin essays.

Before she could reach the library table, a figure stepped out of the shadows at the rear of the long room. “Daphne,’’ a familiar voice entreated.

She looked up in surprise at the familiar blue frock coat and white embroidered waistcoat of Lord Griffin. Had he known her aunt would send her here? She took a step backward as he approached, then stood firm. She had nothing to fear but herself. “Gordon?”

Evan Griffin hesitated, regarding her slight figure with trepidation now that he had her here. He had wanted to stand before her on the same grounds as his brother, scrubbed and decent and looking like a gentleman. Out of habit and in the interest of concealing his identity, he had donned a coat from his wardrobe that matched his brother’s. It had not occurred to him that the one time he wished her to recognize him, she would not. That presented interesting, if ungentlemanly, possibilities.

“I didn’t think I’d have a chance to speak to you before you left,” he murmured in his best imitation of Gordon’s low, serious tones.

Daphne wrestled with a sense of unease, a sense of something not right, but his proximity was obliterating her usual perception. His golden head was bent near hers, the stiff folds of his cravat were just within reach of her fingertips should she raise her hand, and the clean scent of his shaving soap enveloped her.

When his gloved hand caught hers and his other hand went to her waist, she did not even open her mouth to protest. The violin music seemed to swell in proportion to his nearness, and to her amazement, she floated off on waves of music.

They danced in silence, the dim lights of the sconces in the hall casting shadows as their feet glided along the wooden floor. Daphne forgot how to breathe as a strong hand guided her with easy grace around the obstacles a library presented, but she remembered how to waltz. She remembered how she loved waltzing, and she closed her eyes and let the music and the man carry her off to their own private heaven.

It was only then, with her eyes closed and the blue coat out of sight that she realized her error. A quiver ran through her, but she didn’t stop dancing. Perhaps she was losing her mind. If so, she intended to enjoy every step of the way.

A blissful smile turned up the corner of her lips, devastating the man staring down into her face. He pulled her closer, felt the sway of her body beneath his hands, and almost groaned at the surge of desire crippling him. How could he rage at her interference, curse at her stubbornness, and despise her feminine treachery, while his body cried out to take her, possess her, and never let her go?

When the music stopped, so did their feet, but they didn’t separate. Daphne stared up in confusion at his square jaw and continued to cling to his hand. The hand at her back had become a permanent part of her, and she was suddenly, totally aware of the lean length of his body not inches from hers.

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” They could be talking about two entirely different topics, but the answer would still be the same. Did she realize who he was now? Or had Gordon succeeded in convincing her they were one and the same?

“Probably not, but you could at least give me the opportunity to try.” Daphne backed away then, but he did not release his hold on her fingers.

“So you can turn me over to Captain Rollings? He has been at your side the better part of the evening, has he not?”

Only Gordon would have known that. Evan couldn’t possibly have been the genial host in that salon. But this had to be Evan. She couldn’t put her finger on the difference, but it was there. The confusion welled up and grew greater and she turned her head away in frustration.

“Do you enjoy tormenting women? Or is it only helpless women that you prefer to pick on?”

“Helpless? You’re about as helpless as a she-wolf. If you had a care for my neck, you’d go back to London where you belong. When you grow impatient with the wheels of justice, will you oil them with your knowledge?”

This was Evan. She didn’t know how he did it or why, but she could not mistake the harsh irony that was no part of his brother’s nature. She wondered briefly at the relationship between these two, but there was little time for more. She shook free of his hand and turned to the library table again.

“Believe whatever you wish. It is no matter to me.” Angrily, she turned her back to him. She had been sent here for a book. She would find the book and he could go to the devil.

He had danced her to the far end of the room, and the unfamiliar territory combined with the dusky light suddenly heightened her fears. In her haste to escape, she tripped over a knee-high stepladder, twisted her weak leg, and tried to catch herself on what turned out to be a spinning globe. She would have fallen had her nemesis not cursed and come out of the shadows to catch her.

“Why in hell don’t you behave like a cripple so a person knows the difference?” Evan caught her by the waist and held her steady. The scent of her light perfume wafted around him, filling his senses. He remembered clearly her reference to an “old war wound’’—indeed, he remembered clearly everything she had ever said—but he had never thought of her as imperfect. And still didn’t, he realized, as he pulled closer.

Angry at herself, angry at him, Daphne tried to jerk away, but he wouldn’t let her go that easily. “I’m not a cripple,” she replied testily. “Do you wish me to sit in a corner and whine and demand that I be waited upon hand and foot?”

“Not any more than I expect Rhys to do the same. What in heaven’s name persuaded you to find him employment?”

“I should have known he was a friend of yours.’’ Finally shaking loose of his hold, Daphne reoriented herself. Finding the library table, she started in that direction, still shaken by the encounter. Odd, but it was no longer the dark she feared.

“More than a friend, but that is beside the point. He was a complete stranger of the most disreputable kind to you. Whatever possessed you even to speak to him? Do you do that kind of thing often?”

“What business is it of yours?” She swept her hand along the table, looking for the solidness of a book.

“I’m making it my business.’’ Evan stepped forward and watched her quizzically. “What in the deuce are you looking for?”

Exasperated, Daphne straightened and glared at him. “Your language, sir, is abominable. If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, you may leave the room. And my business is not yours and never will be. Rhys Llewellyn asked for a job and I found him one. You could do the same for the rest of the men in the woods if you put your mind to it. It is one thing to take up the plight of the maimed with words and quite another to do so with actions. And if you will find me the volume
of Emma
that is supposed to be here, I will leave and you need not endure my opinions any longer.”

Evan easily located the book and clasped it in his hand. “Are you planning on spending the remainder of the evening reading, Miss Templeton?” he asked smoothly.

“Of course not! I mean to spend the evening on the dance floor and end it with a jig. Aunt Agatha is waiting. May I have the book, please?”

This wasn’t turning out at all as he had hoped. He had only meant to show her that he could play the gallant gentleman as well as Gordon. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he couldn’t. All he had done was insult her and raise her ire. Perhaps Gordon was the better man when it came to women, but he’d be damned if he would surrender the fight yet.

“And you would have me find jobs for my men when I cannot set foot out of the woods without being hunted down like a fox? I did not choose this life, Miss Templeton, believe me. Not any more than you chose yours.”

She didn’t want to be reasonable. She wanted to remain angry at this provoking man who confused her so thoroughly whenever she was in his presence. It had never been necessary to do more than make polite small talk to any of the gentlemen of her acquaintance before. Why was it this one who led her down such circuitous pathways that what she thought was right became wrong with just a twisting of words?

“Then, someday, Mr. Griffin, perhaps you will explain to me how you came to be a criminal. Until then ...” Daphne walked toward the door.

A confusion of noise in the foyer caused her to hesitate. Had she been gone so long that the gathering was already breaking up? Aware that Evan lingered not too far behind, she hastened forward.

As she reached it, the sonorous tones of the butler announced to the company in the salon, “The Honorable Melanie Griffin.”

At the heartrending groan behind her, Daphne turned a startled glance over her shoulder.

Slumped against the table, Evan gave her a bleak expression. “My sister.”

Chapter Nine

“I’m so glad to have finally met you, Miss Templeton. I know all about you from Gordon’s letter. I could not wait to meet such a paragon of virtue and courage.”

Miss Melanie Griffin swung her lavender parasol over the tips of her lavender half-boots revealed by the highly stylish walking dress of sprigged muslin with three rows of flounces that stopped just at her ankles.

Daphne had no need to judge this breathtaking ensemble to know her visitor was daringly lovely. The sudden silence of the two men at her side told her that much. Melanie’s arrival in the company of Jane Dalrymple had effectively ended their wary and rather one-sided interview.

“I did not know Lord Griffin was given to exaggeration,’’ Daphne replied dryly.

Jane Dalrymple giggled and continued the introduction. “Melanie, I don’t believe you had a chance to meet Captain Rollings last night. He is here to save us from the dreadful Robin Hood.”

Jane hesitated as she turned to the second man standing in the drive beside Daphne. His stance and mien were not that of a groom.

Daphne supplied the answer to Jane’s questioning look. “Mr. Llewellyn was kind enough to note the mare Lord Griffin loaned me needed a shoe.” She did not need to explain he was an ex-soldier currently working in his lordship’s stable. The wooden leg and his horsy smell provided that information even to the uninitiated.

To Daphne’s surprise, Miss Griffin only made polite noises over the handsome captain but turned a melting smile on the groom. “Mr. Llewellyn! It is you! I thought it must be ...”

Before the lady had a chance to say more, the unsavory groom gathered up the reins of the horse he was returning to the Templeton stable and started down the drive. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, gentleman,” he tugged his forelock, “I’d best be getting on.”

“But I have not yet. . .” The Honorable Melanie looked dismayed as the groom turned his back and limped down the drive. “Well, I never. I know I have met him somewhere. Is he one of your men, Captain?”