Page 27 of Guilty Pleasures

Anthony picked up his glass of wine and leaned back in his chair at the head of the table. His lashes lowered as his gaze raked over her with the leisure of a well-fed lion. “But Mrs. Bennington, I might describe her that way myself, for artifacts are rare and mysterious things, intriguing and difficult to interpret. One so often draws erroneous conclusions about them.”

Daphne’s hand tightened around the serviette in her lap. What was he saying? she thought wildly. That she was not an unnoticeable stick insect after all? She forced herself to unclench her fist and pick up her wine glass. “You believe I am a mystery, your grace?”

“I do, Miss Wade.”

“I cannot think why.” She took a sip of claret and set her glass back down. “I assure you, I am no great mystery at all.”

“Miss Wade, I believe the duke has a point,” put in Mr. Bennington from her other side. “Why, Mrs. Bennington and I have often discussed that very thing ever since your resignation.”

“I know you were surprised, but—”

“Surprised?” Mrs. Bennington interjected. “Bless us, it was astonishing. Not that we blame you, of course, for wishing to go to Lady Hammond. Such a treat for you, dear, and no question you deserve it. But we had no idea you were such a great friend of the viscountess. So you see, his grace is quite correct that you are mysterious. Close as an oyster.”

Daphne did not know what to say. She had never thought of herself as either mysterious or secretive.

“So you see?” the older woman went on when she did not reply. “Even now, you tell us nothing. If you were a bit more forthcoming with others, it would not go amiss, dear. One never knows what you think and feel.”

“Can’t expect the young dandies in London to be able to read your mind, you know,” Mr. Bennington added with a chuckle.

“Not dandies, dear,” his wife corrected. “That term is quite out of date. Beaux, they are called nowadays.”

“Since we have all agreed that Miss Wade is a mystery,” Anthony put in, “shall we allow her to choose what our entertainment shall be, now that dinner is over? Then we may draw conclusions about her from what she chooses.” He set aside his glass of wine, leaned forward in his chair, and looked at Daphne as if her opinion were of the gravest importance. “What shall it be, Miss Wade?”

“You must help me, your grace,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. “You are so thoughtful and considerate that I am sure you have prepared several amusements for us. You must tell me what they are.”

“A very deft and clever answer,” he said, laughing. “It flatters me, buys you time, and tells none of us more about you. Very well, I shall give you choices. If you would like music, I can summon musicians for you. Or would you prefer poetry?”

“Do not choose poetry, Miss Wade, I beg of you,” Mr. Bennington said. “I shall fall asleep.”

“No, Mr. Bennington,” Anthony admonished him. “Do not say such things. I should be happy to recite Byron or Shelley or Keats for Miss Wade myself if that is what she wants. Her wish is my command.”

Daphne did not want to hear him talk that way, as if he meant such an outlandish thing. And she could not bear the idea of hearing him reciting romantic lines of Byron to her. She stood up and cast aside her serviette. “I believe I should like to see your conservatory, your grace, for Mrs. Bennington has told me it is quite the most breathtaking thing, and I have had no chance to see for myself if that is so.”

“A walk in the hothouse it is,” Anthony agreed, rising to his feet with the others. “Haverstall, send a footman ahead to have the conservatory lit.”

“Very good, sir.”

The house steward signaled for a footman as Anthony turned toward the door, offering his arm to Daphne. “Shall we go?”

She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they left the dining room, Mr. and Mrs. Bennington behind them, a footman racing ahead to obey the duke’s instructions.

They strolled down the long corridor toward the conservatory at a much slower pace than the footman. Neither of them spoke, but she could feel him watching her out of the corner of her eye. She stared straight ahead, compelled to give nothing away, but they had not quite reached their destination when she had to ask the obvious question. “What conclusions do you draw from my choice of entertainment?”

“That you are fond of flowers?”

Despite herself, she laughed at how pat his answer and how ruefully he said it. “You see, I am not so mysterious, am I?” she countered. “All women are fond of flowers.”

“I like hearing you laugh.”

Her insides took a tumble, and she almost stopped walking but recovered herself just in time. She did not reply, and they continued toward the conservatory without speaking.

He broke the silence between them just as they reached the conservatory. “I must confess, Miss Wade, that taking a turn around the hothouse was not what I was hoping you would suggest.”

“And what had you hoped for?”

“Twenty questions,” he murmured as they walked inside the conservatory. “But only if I could ask them of you.”

She pulled her spectacles from the pocket of her skirt and put them on. “Not in a thousand years,” she said primly, and turned away for a look at the indoor garden around them.

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