When Only a Rake Will Do Page 2
“Shall we read it now?” Charlotte asked, turning to Daphne with an eager smile.
They’d read the book at least a dozen times before, but Charlotte never tired of the story. “If you’d like,” she replied, returning Charlotte’s winsome smile. Born with a weakness of the lungs and unable to exert herself physically, Charlotte had developed a love of books at an early age, and like Daphne, fairytales had always been amongst her favorites.
Climbing onto the bed, Charlotte kicked off her pink satin slippers and then scooted toward the center of the mattress, propping herself up with the pillows that rested against the wooden headboard. Then, patting the empty space next to her, she waited for Daphne to join her.
Settling onto the bed next to Charlotte, Daphne knew that she had made the right decision. She loved her sister more than anything in the world and if she had to sacrifice herself in order to protect her, then that is exactly what she would do. “Shall I read to you or will you read to me this time?” she asked, tipping her head and resting her cheek atop Charlotte’s soft brown curls.
“I’ll read to you,” Charlotte replied, opening the book in her lap. “Once upon a time…
Chapter 2
“Good lord, who is she?” Brendon Leighton uttered aloud, his gaze focused upon the stunning blonde who’d just twirled past in the arms of the Marquess of Bouqefort.
His good friend, Lord Harold Sedgewick, Viscount Dearing, standing at his side in the Earl and Countess of Chesterfield’s immense ballroom, turned his head to follow Brendon’s gaze. “Ah,” he began, smiling as he spotted the woman in question. “I should have known that it wouldn’t take you long to spot the prettiest girl in the room,” he continued with a knowing grin. “She, my friend, is Lady Daphne Hewitt.”
“Hewitt?” Tearing his gaze from the young beauty, Brendon turned his attention back to Harold. “George’s sister?”
Harold nodded. “She’s eighteen now and out for her first Season.”
“Surely young Thomas hasn’t managed to tear himself from the gaming tables long enough to launch his sister into Society,” Brendon commented in a sardonic tone. Though George Hewitt had been one of his closest friends since their schooldays at Eton, Brendon had never particularly cared for George’s younger brother, Thomas. Sadly, since George’s death, his opinion of the young man had fallen even further.
“He has indeed. Astonishing, isn’t it?” Harold responded with a derisive snort.
“Undoubtedly he is eager to marry her off post-haste, so that he can return his attention to squandering the family fortune.”
“One would imagine. Though I dare say it shouldn’t take long, for although she made her debut just three weeks past, Lady Daphne has already acquired a slew of eligible suitors,” Harold remarked.
Having just returned from his latest trip abroad, Brendon had been in the city for less than forty-eight hours and thus he wasn’t current on all of the latest goings-on within the ton. Not that he cared overmuch, for Society matters generally didn’t interest him, nor did Society functions for that matter. In fact, the only reason that he was in attendance at the Chesterfield affair that evening was because the earl and countess happened to be close friends of his. “And how is it that you know so much about Lady Daphne and her suitors?” Brendon queried with a raised brow. “Have you set your cap for her as well, Harry?”
“Bite your tongue, man,” Harold replied with a light-hearted chuckle. “You know that I am in no rush to become leg-shackled, no matter how lovely the lady. However, unlike you, I have been in London these past weeks and the enchanting young miss has been the talk of the town,” he continued.
“I see. So you have no interest in the girl, other than that she is the talk of the town of course?” Brendon prodded teasingly, his expression skeptical.
Harold grinned unabashedly. “Well, I admit that I may have considered relinquishing my bachelorhood upon our initial introduction,” he acknowledged. “But fortunately I came to my senses before dropping to one knee in the midst of the Markingham’s ballroom,” he continued good-humoredly.
Brendon grinned back. “You’ll have to slip your neck into the parson’s noose someday, Harry. You’ve a title to pass on after all,” he reminded him. “Isn’t that why you attend all of these bothersome gatherings?” he continued with a puckish waggle of his brows.
“Gad, you sound just like my mother,” Harold lamented with a look of mock horror. “And you know perfectly well that I present myself at these blasted events on occasion only to diminish her incessant harping.”
“A shame you were born first, Harry,” Brendon remarked with a chuckle. “If only you’d made your appearance a few years later, young Gregory would have been the one to suffer your mother’s impatience to add a daughter-in-law to the family and commence the begetting of the next Dearing heir.”
“My wretched luck,” Harry agreed with a good-natured scowl. “But why all this sudden talk of marriage?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, his expression turning quizzical as he regarded Brendon. “Hells bells, Leighton, don’t tell me that you are finally considering a trip to the altar.”
“Hardly,” Brendon said with a laugh. “I’m enjoying myself far too much to set up housekeeping just yet.” It was true, for at only six and twenty he was in no great hurry to join the ranks of the legally wed.
“Well that’s a relief. You had me worried for a second there, old boy,” Harold replied, grinning.
Brendon merely rolled his eyes as he turned his attention back to the dancers, a spinning blur of colorful silks and satins intermingled with pristine white shirts, black cutaway jackets and matching trousers, all of which were illuminated beneath an array of sparkling, gas-lit chandeliers and further enhanced by the flickering candlelight emitted from the dozens of sconces affixed to the ballroom walls.
As the music came to an end and her latest partner led her from the floor, Daphne cast a quick glance about the room, wondering where Thomas had disappeared to and desperately hoping that he hadn’t found his way to one of the card rooms set aside for those who preferred gaming to dancing.
But then, much to her relief, she spotted him on the far side of the room, conversing with Miss Prudence Flemming, a young American heiress whose mother, the stern-faced widow standing at her side, was said to be inordinately determined to marry her daughter to an English title. Unfortunately, however, aside from her considerable fortune, the young lady had little else with which to lure potential suitors. Possessed of a pear-shaped figure and a woefully unattractive countenance, she was rumored to be a bit dull-witted as well. Nonetheless, Thomas, having quickly come to the realization that Daphne’s impending marriage would provide him only a temporary reprieve from his financial woes, had decided that the unfortunate girl might be just the solution to his problem. Perversely, she couldn’t help but appreciate the utter irony of the situation.
Reaching the edge of the dance floor, Daphne smiled prettily as she turned her attention from Thomas and Miss Flemming and back to the handsome Marquess of Bouqefort. “Thank you, my lord,” she said graciously.
“No, it is I who must thank you, Lady Daphne,” Bouqefort replied chivalrously, as he relinquished her gloved hand. “As it was last week at the Havershem’s affair, partnering you on the dance floor has been the highlight of my evening,” he continued with a warm smile.
“How very kind of you to say so,” she replied, just as she caught sight of the Earl of Blackburn from the corner of her eye. He was standing at the edge of the parquet floor a short distance away, watching her as she conversed with the marquess.
“I hope that you will allow me to call upon you later this week?”
“Of course, my lord. I would enjoy that very much.”
“Until then,” he said, nodding politely before taking his leave.
As Daphne turned, her gaze met momentarily with the Earl of Blackburn’s. Nodding imperceptibly, he didn’t appear in the least displeased by her interaction with the marque
ss, quite the opposite in fact. He looked inordinately pleased. But that is exactly what he wanted her to do, of course, to charm all of Society’s eligible bachelors, to win their affections and to make each and every one of them think that they had a chance at securing her hand, the loathsome scoundrel.
Upon their initial discussion a few weeks past, the earl had expounded upon what Thomas had already conveyed to her regarding the earl’s intent, making his expectations, or rather his requirements, exceedingly clear. With not even an ounce of shame or ignominy, he’d told her precisely what he required her to do. She was to smile, to charm, to dazzle and to entice and ultimately to set about securing her position as the Season’s most coveted prize. And by the end of it, he wanted every last one of London’s most sought after gentlemen clamoring for her hand. Then, when their engagement was officially announced at the Season’s end, he wanted each and every one of those men, as well as every other member of the English aristocracy, to know (or rather to believe, though he hadn’t voiced that specific word aloud of course) that she had chosen him over them.
It was despicable. For no other reason than to inflate his own ego he had concocted the whole wretched scheme, and as much as she might have wished to refuse his demands, Daphne had had no choice but to go along with his contemptible ruse. She hated misleading them, encouraging their attentions, for it made her sick inside. But if she’d refused her entire family would have suffered the consequences. He’d made that exceedingly clear as well.
Therefore, carefully concealing her aversion behind a well-practiced facade, Daphne tipped her head indiscernibly in return. Then, with Thomas presently occupied and seeking a quiet moment to herself, she turned and quickly made her way through the milling crowd.
Entering one of the ladies retiring rooms a short while later, she was relieved to see that aside from an older woman who was on her way out and the uniformed maid in attendance, the chamber was otherwise unoccupied. Smiling politely at the woman as she passed, Daphne proceeded into the elegantly-appointed space, declining when the accommodating young maid asked if she could be of any assistance. She walked to the far corner of the room then, where a velvet-covered bench seat was set before a small vanity table and mirror. Sitting down, she breathed a quiet sigh and allowed the obligatory, overly-bright smile that she’d been sporting all evening to slowly fade as she lifted her eyes to the large, oval looking glass. She simply sat there for a time, relishing the temporary tranquility, her gaze blank and unfocused.
When she looked at herself at last, really looked at herself, the face staring back at her was one she barely recognized. While the features were the same, the smooth ivory complexion, the familiar green eyes fringed by long, dark lashes and topped with delicately arched brows, the gentle slope of her nose and the same pink-hued lips she’d had since birth, there seemed something altogether different about it as well. It was an underlying bleakness, she realized, an inner sense of despair and desolation that seemed to transform her entire face, for she hated the charade that she was being forced to enact and already it was beginning to take its toll upon her, both physically and emotionally. Regrettably, however, there was little she could do to change things. For the sake of her family, she would simply have to keep doing what she was doing as she did her best to endure the miserable situation.
And so, taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine and reached upward to adjust one of the jeweled hairpins that had come loose from her elegantly-styled coiffure. Once she had the wayward pin tucked properly back into place, she rose reluctantly to her feet. For much as she might have wished to remain hidden away in the retiring room for the remainder of the evening, she knew that a lengthy absence would not go unnoticed. So, smoothing the wrinkles from her voluminous skirts, Daphne cast one last look in the mirror, adjusting the narrow, puffed sleeves of her gown as she took in her appearance.
The dress, designed by one of London’s most celebrated dressmakers and styled from the latest Parisian fashion plates, was an exquisite creation of cream-colored silk and lace, the hem and the edges of the sleeves adorned with delicately embroidered pink roses intertwined with a profusion of intricately-detailed green leaves. Though it was assuredly one of the most-beautiful garments she’d ever worn, Daphne found it difficult to truly appreciate its beauty, as it was simply another part of the elaborate pretense she was being forced to carry out. For determined that she shine brighter than any of the other young ladies making their entrance into Society’s midst, the Earl of Blackburn had funded the purchase of an entire new wardrobe for her debut.
Finally, satisfied that her appearance was in order, Daphne turned and started to the door, knowing that she couldn’t delay the inevitable for much longer. The wide, oaken panel swung open before she could reach it, however, as two young ladies hurried into the room.
“Marie, fetch the needle and thread,” one of them exclaimed, turning her frantic gaze to the young maid who rose to attention from the small wooden stool that had been tucked into the corner of the room.
“For goodness sake, Amelia, there is no need for hysterics,” the other girl chided. “The damage to the hem is minor and I’m certain that Marie can have it repaired in a trice.”
“Of course, my lady,” the maid replied. “It will take but a moment,” she said, hurrying toward a small table that held an assortment of odds and ends, including scissors, needles and several spools of thread.
Dropping onto the nearest chair, Amelia lifted the hem of her skirt to survey the damage, while her sister Lizzie glanced about the room.
“Oh, Daphne, here you are,” Elizabeth Warrene said as her gaze fell upon her, causing Amelia to look up from her hem and focus upon Daphne as well. “We were wondering where you’d gone off to.”
Approaching her two closest friends, Amelia and Lizzie Warrene, Daphne glanced down at Amelia’s hem. “Whatever happened?” she asked sympathetically, eyeing the small tear at the bottom of her gown.
“Baron Wymore happened,” Amelia replied with a little huff of frustration. “Honestly, that man has two left feet,” she continued as Marie dropped to her knees in front of her, needle and thread in hand. “And of course his clumsiness couldn’t have happened at a more inopportune time,” she added with a frown.
“Oh?” Daphne regarded her curiously.
Amelia’s expression brightened at once, her frown magically disappearing as her lips curved upward into a jubilant smile. “He’s just arrived,” she said excitedly. “I saw him as I was dancing with Wymore.”
“I saw him too,” Lizzie chimed in gleefully, “standing next to Viscount Dearing.”
Understanding dawned at once. “Ah.” Daphne didn’t need to ask to whom her friends were referring, for she knew with absolute certainty that only Lord Brendon Leighton could have affected such exuberant reactions. And although she had never met the gentleman in person, she was well-acquainted with his reputation. He was the second son of a duke, brother to the current Duke of Sethe and the prosperous owner of a fleet of merchant vessels, all of which he had personally captained at one time or another. He was also purported to be one of the handsomest men in all of England and one of the country’s most-eligible bachelors, despite his lack of a title and his long-held status as the ton’s most celebrated rake and libertine. Having listened to Amelia and Lizzie go on about the man since they’d made his acquaintance two years earlier, in addition to reading about his numerous romantic exploits in the various scandal sheets and gossip rags that she snuck into the house and hid under her mattress, she had to admit that her curiosity was piqued.
“Just wait until you meet him, Daphne,” Amelia declared animatedly. “Then you’ll be smitten, just like the rest of us.”
“Truly you will,” Lizzie seconded, her eyes bright with anticipation.
“Well, if he is all that you have said he is, then I suppose I shall,” Daphne agreed with an amused grin.
Amelia nodded, sending her blonde curls bobbing. “Oh believe me, he is.”
“There you are, my lady,” Marie interjected, snipping the end of the thread and rising to her feet.
Amelia glanced down and examined the repaired hem. “Marie, you’re a wonder,” she proclaimed with a grateful smile as she stood up, shaking out her full, pale-pink taffeta skirt.
“See, you needn’t have panicked for ‘tis good as new,” Lizzie declared with a bright smile. “Now come, let’s hurry back,” she continued, prodding Daphne and Amelia toward the door.
Minutes later, as the girls reentered the ballroom, Lizzie and Amelia immediately began scanning the crowd for Lord Leighton.
“There he is,” Amelia exclaimed a short while later, clutching Daphne’s forearm excitedly.
Daphne swiveled her head, following the line of Amelia’s gaze, searching the throng of guests for the gentleman she’d heard so much about.
“Look, he’s coming this way,” Lizzie exclaimed in an excited whisper.
It was then that Daphne saw him, heading directly toward their little threesome from across the room. Oh my, she thought as she focused her gaze upon him, he did appear quite good-looking, even from a distance. And tall, she noted as he drew ever closer, considerably taller than her own five-foot seven-inch height.
Nodding politely to friends and acquaintances as he made his way through the multitude of guests, Brendon stopped a few feet before the trio of elegantly-clad young women standing beneath the grand archway leading into the room. Earlier in the evening, Tiffany, Lady Chesterfield had solicited his promise to partner each of her young sisters-in-law out for their first Season on the dance floor, and he was nothing if not a man of his word. “Good evening, ladies,” he greeted amiably.