Chapter Six
For some reason beyond the limits of understanding, chaos reigned. An English duke, of all people, valued her opinion. Or at least it appeared that he did. Why else would he ask her to withhold judgment of his character? A character she had readily placed into a neat little box labeled annoying, arrogant, and definitely not worth a second consideration before getting to know him.
Daphne took a deep breath. She needed to focus, to place everything in logical order. But no matter how she struggled, she could find absolutely nothing logical about her current situation. Clearly something was amiss in the universe.
“I don’t understand,” Daphne said. “You will lend your protection and invest in my family’s name if I reserve judgment of you as a man?” The question sounded even more ridiculous spoken aloud.
“Not precisely.” He steered her toward the edge of the room where the crowd was at its thinnest, and where the subtle scent of him, of bergamot and cloves, blended together and made her want to lean closer, if only to fill her nose with the exotic fragrance. “I don’t expect you to readily toss aside your misconceptions. I fully intend to prove them wrong. Respectively, I expect the same from you in exchange for my investment and the weight of my name.”
“You wish for me to prove the worthiness of my name while considering you as a person without the weight of yours?” she asked. Never mind that this entire idea was absurd. She had no intention of casting aside her opinions of him, just because he, arrogant man, proclaimed them to be wrong.
The duke lifted two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and handed her one. “More or less, yes.”
Daphne frowned at his madness before taking the glass, his gloved fingers lingering over hers and making her near drop the dratted vessel. She took a small sip of the bubbling drink, allowing the delicate bouquet to dance over her tongue before replying, “The success of our shipping line should be evidence enough of our credibility, and one I can readily prove with documentation. My brother has brought along records and can vouch for our accomplishments.”
“I’m certain he can,” the duke said, leaning forward, his voice taking on a deeper and more sensual tone. “But I did not ask for Mr. Farrington’s opinion. I asked for yours.”
Daphne’s heart raced beneath the thin layer of silk and lace her aunt had insisted she don for the evening’s entertainments. The man was positively vexing. As long as the ledgers provided proof of her family’s success, what difference did it make as to who displayed them? Attempting to infuse her voice with a patience she did not feel, she replied, “I can arrange a meeting where Thomas and I provide you with the relevant documents.”
He glanced at the sparkling liquid and took a deep swallow. “Excellent. And as time is of the essence, you can do so in three days, when you arrive at Thornhaven.” He placed the empty glass on a tray and led her a step closer toward the violinist and her growing crowd of admirers.
“Thornhaven?” she asked, glancing nervously around her as she glided past more curious faces. Perhaps it was in another area of Mayfair, overlooking Grosvenor Square or the boundaries of Hyde Park.
The duke swept her past a rotund man with large jowls and beady eyes. “Thornhaven is one of my estates, the closest one to London, just under a day’s ride away and where I wish to challenge your misconceptions and sway your mind. The countess and her daughters will accompany you and your brother, of course.”
It was a demand, not a request, and she had no intent of acceding to it. A trip to an estate outside of London implied an extended period of time. Time, that would likely be spent in the close company of a man whose very scent made her mind spin and her body yearn for his touch. A meeting within the city’s boundaries would be more than sufficient to address any of his concerns—and keep him at a distance.
“But would not a visit to my aunt’s home suffice?” Daphne persisted. “Thomas keeps the majority of his papers in my uncle’s library. Surely we can accommodate your needs without hindering you or your staff.”
“Yes, I suppose you could,” he said. “Though that would not allow enough time to change your perception of me.” He peered down at her, his crystalline blue eyes heating her more thoroughly than the crushed and ill-ventilated ballroom.
Daphne drank down a gulp of champagne before letting out an exasperated sigh. “And who am I that you value my opinion so highly, Your Grace?” She had made her disdain for his country quite clear. Why did he persist in tormenting her with his presence?
The duke flicked a piece of lint off his superfine jacket. “Just as you have asked me to clear your name of all misconceptions, I wish to disprove the false claims against my own.”
“But you are English and a duke. Your title, alone, evokes accepted assumptions.” The man made absolutely no sense at all.
“I do not deny my title, Miss Farrington. I do, however, wish to make you see that just because I am an English peer does not mean I am evil. I am an independent person who does not like to be prematurely judged—much, I believe, like yourself.”
The man was nothing like her and to be compared to him was an insult. Just as she could not sever her ties to her brother, neither could he cut the ones connecting him to his title and ancestry. It was why she was requesting his aid, was it not? So that she could use his influence to assist her in clearing the lies circulating about hers.
“A few days, Miss Farrington, is all I require for you to see me outside of society. If I am not able to gain your approbation after that time, then so be it. But I will not invest in the Farrington Line until I’ve at least had a chance to change your mind.”
…
Edward did not value the opinions of others. Unless, of course, those opinions were of him. He strove to portray perfection, a man unaffected by society, a moral and commanding authority, and he had done so successfully—at least he had until Miss Farrington had literally shoved her way into his life.
That she judged him based not on his actions but on his bloodlines, irked him beyond reason. That she thought him completely without merit was frustrating as hell. Yes, he was a duke, but he was a man first and foremost, and Edward was hell-bent on making certain that Miss Farrington saw him not as the aristocrat she and everyone else expected, but as a warm-blooded male who could more than prove her wrong.
Because of all things, he was intrigued. Curious. And if he dared to admit, enchanted by the idea that a woman of intelligence was not the least bit seduced by the very mask he wished to toss aside.
Did the same passion in which she wielded her disdain for everything English translate into every aspect of her life? Would she be as bold and fiery in bed as she was in her speech?
He sure as hell wanted to find out.
It was why, for the second time in less than a week, he had issued an impulsive invitation without giving much thought to its consequences. And he hadn’t offered the invitation so much as demanded it, acting with the very ducal arrogance Miss Farrington had accused him of in the first place.
He was a complete ass.
His only redemption at the moment was that in his idiocy, he had chosen Thornhaven as the retreat where he could further embarrass himself with his complete disregard for reason.
His father’s bachelor lodgings prior to marriage, Thornhaven was an estate his meddling mother did not frequent. Which suited Edward’s purpose just fine. There, he could entertain Miss Farrington in ways that were accepted, and hopefully in those that were not, while discussing unusual business particulars.
“I don’t understand,” his mother huffed. The emeralds dangling from her ears bobbed in perfect unison, the glittering gems swaying with her indignation as they rode over Park Lane.
“I don’t expect that you do.” He pulled the leather gloves from his fingers and rubbed a handkerchief over his face. “Perhaps we can discuss this after we’ve both had some rest.”
“You’ve made your interest in Miss Farrington abundantly clear.”
He supposed he had. Good. Perhaps men like Westbrook would avoid pursuing her, then. Miss Farrington, had, after all, requested the protection of his name. And had he not just given it?
“Confound it, Edward.” His mother ripped off her gloves and flung them against the door. “Why Miss Farrington? Why not any of the other ladies I have brought before you? What makes her so different, that you must go against my wishes?”
Her intelligence? Her wit? The passion with which she defended her ideals? “She intrigues me.”
“Then have her settle your curiosity discreetly. I did not fulfill my obligations to this family only to have you toss them away on some tart from the colonies.”
“If I wished to ruin the duchy with a tart, I’d have chosen Lady Chadwick, Mrs. Spalding, or any other of the recently widowed women interested in jumping into my bed. Despite her nationality, Miss Farrington is a lady and should be treated as such.”
She glared back, her stance unwavering, despite the carriage’s movement over the rocky cobblestone. “I am well aware of her interest in your title. Lady Amhurst has made it abundantly clear how excited she is in your attentions toward her niece.”
“And has not Lady Dewbury proclaimed to all who would listen her excitement at your interest in Lady Isabella?”
The thin membranes of her nostrils flared. “Lady Isabella is a titled lady. She cannot be compared to Miss Farrington.”
Edward closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “For Christ’s sake, she is the granddaughter of a marquess. She is a lady, whether she bears a title or not, and I expect you to treat her as one.”
She stared at him then, her scrutinizing glare one of complete mystification. “What is this about, Edward?”
He wondered the very same thing.
“If you must tarry with the American chit, do so behind closed doors. You do not have a choice. A duke never has a choice. He does what is best for his line, and marrying the daughter of a peer is what is expected for the future of this duchy. Lady Isabella will be your wife. I’ve already discussed the settlement terms with her father.”
Something inside of him roared to life.
“No.” He was five and thirty, not the little boy in leading strings she still thought him. “It is cause for concern, madam, that you should think yourself in a position to tell me with whom I may share my bed.”
“I am your mother,” she stated, as if her relationship explained everything.
“And I am the bloody damn Duke of Waverly,” he thundered. “I will choose a wife who fulfills my expectations and is acceptable to me. You will get your duchess, but it will be on my terms, not yours.”
She sat in silence, her mouth gaping open and closed like a hungry trout hunting for food in a freshwater stream. It was minutes before she lifted her gaze to his and whispered, “I don’t understand, Edward.”
And neither did he.
When had the opinion of an American woman he had known for less than a week become more valued than that of the woman who had guided him since birth?