Page 71 of Guilty Pleasures

“We both did what we hate to do, Daphne. We both lost control. I take all the blame, for I knew what the result would be, yet I could not stop myself from doing it anyway. You call me cruel? You will not even allow me to make up for the wrong I have done you. If I am determined, it is only to make you safe. It is you who are cruel, Daphne, to deny me that.”

The dance came to an end, and the music stopped. As he returned her to her place beside Elizabeth, he defied the stares directed at them and whispered close to her ear, “I remember everything, and I cannot believe you have forgotten. If you have, I will make you remember. I vow on my life I will.”

Chapter 24

Despite his accusation, Daphne had not forgotten their night together, nor anything else about him, and she could not believe he could think for a moment that she had. Memories of him were etched into her brain like carvings in stone, memories of how he had kissed her and made love to her, memories of the hard strength of his body, and the glorious delight of his hands and his mouth. And the act itself—the delight and pleasure of that experience never left her for a moment. She would never forget him, and even had she wanted to, the fortnight that followed their evening at the Haydon Assembly Rooms gave her no chance to do so.

The first day after their dance together, he sent her twelve bouquets of variegated tulips and rosemary to convey his admiration of her beautiful eyes and to signify his memory of the first time he had told her that. Each bouquet was in its own crystal vase banded with a ribbon knotted around a gold hairpin. Daphne fingered one of the dangling hair ornaments, remembering exactly what he wanted her to remember—of how he had taken down her hair that night and refashioned it himself.

A woman’s hair can be a man’s obsession.

Was he imagining her hair down, spread across his pillows?

That was the night he had admitted to her his awe of love, confessed his fear of it, recognized her defenses against it.

This gift was so lavish and expensive that the proper thing to do was send the whole lot—flowers, crystal vases, and gold hairpins—back to him. In the end, she kept the flowers, but she sent back the rest, with a note that reminded him she could not keep gifts, particularly such absurd, extravagant ones, for if she did, others would think them engaged, and they were not.

A few days later, twelve bouquets of dittany proclaimed his passion for her and his memory of their picnic, when she had described the hills of Crete to him, but they were tied with simple silk ribbons, and there were no gold hairpins or crystal vases with them.

After another few days, twelve more bouquets arrived. These were sprays of peach blossoms.

“You hold me captive,” Elizabeth read from the book in her hands, then lowered it to lean forward and sniff one of the fragrant sprays in Daphne’s bedroom. “It also means, ‘I am in your power.’” With a sigh, she turned away from the bouquets on the windowsill and fell forward onto Daphne’s bed. “I would fall in love with a man who told me that.”

“He is talking nonsense,” Daphne answered, squeezing the water out of her freshly washed hair into the bowl on her dressing table. “ ‘I am in your power,’ ” she repeated as she wrapped her head in a towel. “As if Anthony could mean anything so ridiculous.”

She turned away from the dressing table, and her gaze caught on the flowers. She paused, pressing her fingers to her lips, remembering that night they had bargained over her spectacles.

Do you not see how much power you could have over me?

The same warm, aching sensation of anticipation and desire spread through her limbs as she remembered that night.

“But does it not soften your heart, at least a little?” Elizabeth asked.

Daphne jerked her hand down and frowned at her friend. “He does not mean it.”

“You do not believe he is sincere?”

“I do not know!” she cried in vexation. “Let’s not talk of it anymore.”

Elizabeth did not mention it again, and the rest of the Fitzhugh family remained tactfully silent on the subject as well, although when twelve lime trees laden with fruit arrived, conveying the duke’s undimmed intent to marry her, Sir Edward asked with amused exasperation whether these demonstrations of his grace’s affection would extend to the next Christmas season, for if so, he feared they would be receiving an enormous quantity of partridges and pear trees.

In addition to the flowers sent to Daphne, they received stacks and stacks of cards and invitations. So many visitors came to Russell Square that the small drawing room could not always accommodate them all. Every person who called talked delicately of weddings and engagements, though none were so bold as to discuss the rumors about hers. No engagement had been announced, but Daphne’s silence on the subject was thought to be motivated by an understandable desire for discretion rather than the unbelievable alternative that she had refused him.

The baron called on them numerous times during that week, making several such visits as well as some outings with him so that they might get to know one another. Daphne had no idea if her grandfather was coming to have a genuine concern for her, or was simply pretending his familial interest in her affairs. Whatever his reasons, Durand remained convinced that despite her denials, Daphne would soon be wed to the duke.

His conviction was reinforced by the pages of every society paper in London, for all of them seemed to take her acceptance of Anthony’s suit for granted. Decorum prevented her from denouncing these rumors publicly, and she could do nothing but wait for the speculation to die down.

However, as the second week of this unusual courtship progressed, the speculation did not end, it only grew. Word of the lime trees got out, as did the news that Anthony was using the book of Charlotte de la Tour as the basis of his courtship. Soon London bookstores were depleted of every available copy and people of the ton found occasion to walk in the park of Russell Square quite often, hoping to see another of the duke’s floral letters to Miss Wade pass through the doors of Sir Edward Fitzhugh’s house.

There was a great deal of discussion in the papers about Daphne’s background, which was so significantly lower than Tremore’s. There was also some talk of her parents’ elopement and the baron’s desire to cover up such a scandal by claiming his daughter was in Italy with relations there. One or two hinted that her parents had not married at all, but such rumors were quickly refuted.

The most incredible statements about her life in Africa were bandied about, along with the news that she had been employed by the duke to do research on his antiquities and render the sketches for his museum.

Comments were made about her unprepossessing looks, her lack of a substantial dowry, and her connections, which though respectable, were hardly worthy of a duke. All of this pointed to her complete lack of suitability to be a duchess and led some papers to wonder if Tremore was quite right in the head.

Daphne did her best to ignore the hurtful things that were being said about her in the papers and repeated to her by rumor-mongering acquaintances who “meant well.” Harder to bear was the scrutiny. She could not go anywhere without being observed and discussed, and she truly began to appreciate what Anthony had told her about how smothering his life could be.

That did not stop him from adding fuel to the fire. The day of the Fitzhugh card party, another floral message from him arrived at the house in Russell Square.

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