Seduction Becomes Her (11 page)

“But you have suspicions,” Trevillyan remarked shrewdly. “You know more than you are telling me.”

“Do I?” Charles returned with a faint smile.

Trevillyan shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Raoul always said that you were a fellow who played his cards close to the vest. He used to complain loudly that you never let him know what you were doing or where you were going.”

“Did he now?” Charles muttered, hoping his face revealed none of the loathing he felt at the very mention of his brother’s name.
Half
brother, he reminded himself again. Only half, thank God!

“You knew him better than I,” said Charles a moment later. “You two were friends from Eton and of an age. I’m sure that he told you things that he did not mention to me.”

Trevillyan looked thoughtful. “I suppose you are right.” He sighed. “I still find it impossible to believe that he is dead, and killed by a madman.” He cut his eyes toward Charles. “With your reckless ways, I always expected you to be the one to die before your time—Raoul often expressed that notion himself.”

Charles smiled grimly. “I am not surprised. I’m sure that Raoul never forgot that if I died, he would inherit Stonegate.”

“Oh, come now,” exclaimed Trevillyan, shocked. “Never say that Raoul wanted you dead!”

Charles shrugged. “After Daniel’s untimely death, the thought was bound to have occurred to him.”

“Well, yes, perhaps it did. It is only natural. Look at the situation between Huxley and myself. I did not want the man dead, but I was aware that it would be to my benefit if he died.” Trevillyan scowled. “Or it would have been if that pup, Adrian, had never been born.”

“I thought you were getting along with him rather well,” Charles commented with a raised brow.

Trevillyan grimaced. “No use being overtly rude, and I was his guest, after all.” He glared at Charles. “And none of this would have happened if you had not gone tearing after that sister of his.”

Charles laughed and kicked his horse to greater speed. “Yes, that’s true, but do you know, I do not regret it in the least.”

Daphne did not
exactly
regret her engagement to Mr. Weston, but she did have concerns, and those concerns were uppermost in her mind when she and Adrian and Mr. Weston met the next afternoon at Mr. Vinton’s office in Penzance to discuss settlements. If Mr. Vinton was taken aback at her presence during a meeting that was traditionally held between the males of the families, he gave no sign of it, graciously ushering her and Adrian into his office, where Mr. Weston already awaited them.

Charles’s mobile mouth flickered into a smile when Daphne sailed into the room, looking charming he thought, in a mulberry pelisse, light tan gloves, and an amber velvet hat adorned with brilliant peacock feathers. He wasn’t surprised that his bride-to-be insisted on being here, and he was skeptical that Daphne would ever sit back and tamely allow her fate to be totally arranged by others. Especially, he amended, by mere men.

She shot him a challenging glance from under her dark lashes but beyond offering him her hand and a polite nod, displayed none of the gratification expected of a young lady who had snared a very eligible gentleman. Charles was uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused by her manner. In the end, amusement won out, and he bit back a smile at the cool profile she presented to him.

Daphne risked another glance at him, her heart thumping madly in her chest when he smiled at her. Embarrassed to be caught looking at him, her gaze dropped, and her cheeks bloomed rosily. She’d been certain that it had been her imagination that had made him so tall and broad, and pure girlish fantasy that had made those harsh features of his so very attractive. But it had not been imagination. He was tall, and his dark blue coat fit those broad shoulders superbly. The nankeen breeches also fit him very well, delineating every sleek muscle of his thighs with loving detail. She swallowed, remembering what it felt like to have that hard, tough body pressed against hers, remembering, too, the taste and plunder of his kiss. A queer ache sprang to life in her belly, and her fingers curled in her lap as she looked at his mouth. It was such a nice mouth, she thought, before forcing her gaze to study the rest of his face.

He wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, she admitted. His features were too hard, too boldly carved, the chin too aggressive, the thick black brows too heavy to ever adorn the statue of a Greek god…and yet…and yet there was something so intensely male, something so attractive about that face and body that few women would ever turn away if he lifted even only one finger to beckon them into his arms…. Daphne shook herself and reminded herself that he was only a man, not a sorcerer, for heaven’s sake! She sat up straighter and looked down at her hands in her lap, but against her will, her gaze strayed to that long, mobile mouth again. Memory slid back, and she could recall every moment of his kiss, every feeling that had swept through her…. With an effort, she tore her eyes away from the distinctly sensual curve of his bottom lip, and that silly little heart of hers almost leaped right out of her chest when she discovered that he was looking at her, watching her as she stared at him.

He smiled, and something in those cool green eyes sharpened that ache in her belly unbearably. Perhaps he
is
a sorcerer, she thought with a delicious shudder. To her relief, Mr. Vinton began to speak, and she fixed her attention on what he had to say.

Adrian had only the vaguest notion of what was expected of him, but Mr. Vinton was there to advise him and to see that he made no mistakes in settling his sister’s future. Daphne, on the other hand, had a very good understanding of the importance of this meeting. It had been because of the money settled on her mother at the time of her marriage that the late Mrs. Beaumont had been able to provide for her children as well as she had. Daphne wasn’t thinking far enough ahead to add children to the mix—she was still reeling from her sudden engagement—but she was determined to safeguard the money that her grandmother had left her. Her lips tightened. And if people thought her vulgar to care so much about money, let them.

Upon her marriage to Mr. Weston, in fact, from the moment of their engagement, Daphne was terrifyingly aware that everything she owned essentially became his, even the clothes on her back. He would determine the dispersal of her money, and under the law, she had no say. She didn’t fear, at least not very much, that Mr. Weston would prove miserly, but he was a stranger and who knew how he would act?

As the meeting progressed, she realized that she needn’t have harbored any fears that Mr. Weston had designs upon her pittance of a fortune. Not only did he waive any interest in it, but he also insisted that it be part of the monies settled on her. At his words, that insidious fear that had lurked at the back of her mind dissipated, and she smiled shyly at him. She hoped that he didn’t think she was a money-grubber, but it had been a difficult struggle since her mother died, and she didn’t know how she could have kept the family together without that pitifully small sum her grandmother had left her. To have him take control of it had filled her with the utmost fear, but she relaxed once she knew that it was safe. She gasped and her eyes widened, however, at the small fortune he proposed adding to it.

Charles smiled at her. “What? Not enough?” he asked carelessly. “I can add another ten thousand pounds if you like, and do not forget—we have yet to discuss your pin money.” He looked at Adrian and murmured, “What do you think of three thousand pounds a quarter? Do you think that will keep her in clothes and jewels?”

Since she had fed and clothed their entire family on less than three thousand pounds a
year,
Daphne was taken aback. Before she could think, she blurted out, “Isn’t that rather excessive? I’m sure that I could make do on less. In fact, I
know
I could.”

Mr. Vinton coughed and said kindly, “My dear Miss Beaumont, I am familiar with the extent of Mr. Weston’s assets, and there is no reason for you to, er, make do. I assure you that the sum offered by Mr. Weston is not unreasonable. It is a generous amount, and I urge you to accept it.”

“Very well,” Daphne said meekly, but when she looked at Mr. Weston, her gaze was troubled. It was one thing for him to be an honorable man and offer her marriage, but did he have to be wealthy in the bargain? She bit her lip. The circumstances surrounding their betrothal were causing gossip enough. He was, after all, the cousin to an earl while she was, not to wrap it in clean linen, a little nobody. To learn that he was also wealthy was the crowning blow. People were bound to think that she had staged the whole affair, Daphne thought miserably. Unkind persons would be certain that she was some sort of scheming harpy, willing to do anything to become a rich man’s wife.

Charles sensed that something was bothering her, and his eyes narrowed. Surely not because of the money?

As they rose and prepared to depart, he caught Daphne’s arm and said to Mr. Vinton and Adrian, “Do you mind if I have a private word with Miss Beaumont?”

“Of course not,” replied Mr. Vinton. Smiling at Adrian, he said, “If I can interest you in a cup of tea in the library?”

Adrian, after a curious look at Charles, readily complied, and the two men left the office.

“What is it?” Daphne asked, nervous at being alone with him. Especially considering the train her thoughts had taken only a few minutes previously.

“I believe that’s my question,” Charles said. “What is wrong? Do you not think the money is sufficient?”

Appalled that he could think her so grasping, Daphne gawked at him. “Oh, no. No. You have been more than generous.”

“Then what? And don’t prevaricate. Something is troubling you. What?”

Her gaze fell. “I didn’t know that you were so wealthy. It…it was a shock.”

“A pleasant one, I hope,” he said mildly.

She glanced up at him. “It is bad enough,” she said unhappily, “that you were forced to offer for me and that your cousin is an earl, but now I find that you are quite wealthy.” She swallowed and looked miserable. “There is talk enough about our engagement, and now people are bound to think that I deliberately schemed to trap you. I’m sure that some already think that I seduced you.”

Charles pulled her into his arms. His lips gently traced the outline of her mouth. “Hmmm, let the fools talk.” He kissed her, his mouth warm against hers. Fighting the demon that rode him, he kept the kiss light. Reluctantly lifting his lips from hers, he smiled down at her. “And as for seduction….” His smile became decidedly wicked. “If anyone is going to be doing any seducing, I can assure you, that I shall be doing it. And you, my poppet, will be the one seduced.”

He kissed her again, this time, his hunger slipping from his iron grip. He crushed her next to his tall body, molding her slender form against his, making her aware of the powerful muscles and warm flesh concealed beneath his clothing. His lips hard on hers, his tongue took possession of her mouth, demanding a response.

Dizzy with desire, Daphne trembled as his mouth and tongue took their pleasure. Her arms slid around his neck, and she arched against him, reveling in the soft groan that escaped him when her lower body pressed into the swollen length of him.

Heedless of their location, Charles’s hands cupped her buttocks, pulling her harder against him. He was drowning in need, the demands of his body driving him nearer and nearer to the edge of no return. In the grip of a powerful desire that gave him no succor, he pushed her up against the wall, his hands fumbling with her clothing, the craving to touch her naked flesh overriding all else.

It was Daphne’s startled gasp when his fingers had at last found the heat and center of her that brought him crashing back to earth.

Appalled at how easily he had lost control, his hands dropped, and he abruptly stepped away. Color high on his cheeks, his eyes bright and feverish, he breathed deeply, fighting to regain some mastery over his emotions.

Her eyes dark with turmoil, her mouth swollen and red from his kisses, Daphne stared back at him, never realizing how close she had come to being ravished where she stood.

Charles understood too well the dangers of the moment. A minute more, and he would have freed himself from his breeches and buried himself within her. And by God, if she didn’t stop looking at him like that, he might very well finish it, and convention be damned! He put a few more feet between them and ran a shaking hand through his thick hair.

Daphne felt as if she had been struck by lightning—her entire body tingled and throbbed. She was convinced that when she undressed tonight, there would be scorch marks on her skin. I wasn’t ready for him to stop, she thought dazedly. I wanted him to continue. And like a common whore in an alley, I would have let him take me. Ashamed at her actions, embarrassment flooded her, and she scuttled toward the door.

“Wait,” Charles commanded.

He walked toward her, his eyes narrowing when she shrank against the door. “I have no intention of kissing you again,” he said bluntly. He reached out and straightened her hat, which his embrace had knocked askew. Her hat fixed to his liking, like a father with a child, he brushed down her pelisse where it was still ruched up from his frantic search beneath her clothing.

Mutely, she stared up at him, hardly daring to breathe, longing and equally terrified that he would take her into his arms again.

“Well, I think we have settled the question of seduction, don’t you?” Charles muttered.

Daphne looked confused, and he cast her a twisted smile. “I have just proven my point. Seduction is my game. Not yours.”

R
ejoining the others, Daphne politely refused a cup of tea, and shortly after that, she and Adrian were in his new blue and yellow gig and on their way out of town.

Adrian shot her a puzzled look or two before finally asking, “You upset about something, Daffy?”

She pasted a smile on her lips and glanced at her brother. “No. No. Of course not.”

He didn’t look convinced. Trying another tack, he said, “I thought the settlement was very generous.”

“Yes, yes, it was.” She frowned. “Did you have any idea that Mr. Weston was so very wealthy?”

He shook his head, concentrating on guiding his horse, a spirited bay mare known to be a sweet goer, around a heavy farm wagon drawn by two plodding gray draft horses. The open road in front of them, he set the mare at a smart trot and turned his attention back to his sister. “I think it is a jolly good thing for us that he is so warm in the pocket. Imagine if he had been a loose fish without a feather to fly with. We’re dashed lucky he was around to save you.”

Rattled by how easily she had succumbed to Mr. Weston’s lovemaking, Daphne’s teeth gritted together. “He did not save me,” she said testily. “You did.” She looked at the passing countryside, the native oak trees that were well tended, and the long coombes and rich verdant valleys where there was good arable soil. “If he had not insisted on staying with me in that horrible cave, none of this would have happened. It is all his fault.”

“But I thought you liked Mr. Weston,” Adrian exclaimed, dismayed.

“I like him well enough,” Daphne was honest enough to acknowledge, “but you must admit that this whole affair has changed our lives forever.”

“Yes, that is so,” Adrian agreed. “But I think that once we get used to the idea, that we shall be merry as grigs.”

Daphne shot her brother a disagreeable look. How easy it was for him! He wasn’t the one being married to a virtual stranger.

She reminded herself again of all the advantages that would befall her brother and sister upon her marriage to Mr. Weston. Mr. Weston’s relationship to the earl figured large in those advantages, as did the discovery that her betrothed possessed a fortune that made Adrian’s seem almost paltry. Which would be a great benefit to April and Adrian, she conceded, and provided Mr. Weston did not interfere, she could lavish all sorts of gifts on them that had been beyond her means. For a second, she was happily distracted by the thought of the luxurious gowns and gleaming jewels she could buy April and the blooded horses and extravagant accoutrements she could give to Adrian. But that glow quickly faded when she considered the circumstances surrounding her sudden wealth.

Despite the vicar’s championship, she knew that her marriage to Mr. Weston was going to be the main topic in many households over the coming weeks. People were definitely going to talk, some of it would be cruel and spiteful—she couldn’t pretend otherwise. And they were going to talk and gossip and speculate much more than they would have if Mr. Weston did not have an earl for a cousin and had only possessed a respectable fortune rather than an impressive one. She sighed. As long as none of the gossip spilled onto Adrian or April, she could endure it. She could, and would, endure
anything
for them. Even marriage to Mr. Weston. And just never mind that his kisses aroused feelings and sensations she had never dreamed of and that one look from his cool green eyes made her feel as if her limbs had turned to honey.

Remembering those exciting but most regrettable moments in Mr. Vinton’s office when Mr. Weston had taken her into his arms, the taste of him, and the sweet sweep of his hand against the cleft between her legs, her heart raced, and that queer little ache throbbed in her lower regions. She stared grimly ahead. She was not going to dwell on what had happened, or nearly happened, but she was going to take care that she did not put herself in that position again.

Deciding that it did no good to dwell on events over which she had no control, Daphne settled down to enjoy the drive back to Beaumont Place. The day was cool and clear, the steady breeze coming in from the Channel making her glad that her pelisse was nice and warm. The passing countryside didn’t have a great deal to excite the senses: the high moorland was desolate except for those areas broken by the rich, narrow valleys. It was also surprisingly green for this time of year and at the moment, free of snow. The Penzance area, she had learned, seldom had snow, and when it did snow, within a few days, it melted away. Barring a few protected areas, the constant, blowing sea winds prevented timber trees from growing to any size, but the air was extremely mild.

A few miles outside of Penzance proper, the road curved around a small hillock, and nestled near its base was a tiny thatch-roofed cottage. Enclosed by a tumbling rock fence, the cottage sat a hundred yards or so off the main road, and a winding footpath led to the front door.

Remembering Mrs. Hutton’s description of where Mr. Goodson’s sister, Anne Darby, lived, Daphne touched Adrian’s arm.

When he glanced at her, she said, “Please stop. I believe that Goodson’s sister lives here. Since we are here, I wish to make her acquaintance.”

Puzzled but agreeable, Adrian pulled the bay to a halt. Without waiting for his help, Daphne alighted from the gig. Smiling at him, she said, “There is no reason for both of us to descend upon her unannounced, and I know you will not want to keep your horse waiting. Why don’t you walk the mare—I shall not be a moment.”

It wasn’t until she was just a few feet from the wooden door at the front of the cottage that Daphne had second thoughts about the wisdom of her actions. Anne Darby was reputed to be a witch—what business did Sir Adrian’s sister have with such a creature? Ghostly business, Daphne decided wryly as she forced herself to cross that short distance.

Her gloved hand was raised to knock when the door swung open. Daphne didn’t know what she expected, some wrinkled old crone? But it certainly wasn’t the trim little woman who had opened the door.

If Anne Darby and her brother were of an age, Anne looked to be easily a decade younger. Her soft brown hair, neatly tied at the back of the neck, showed scarcely any silver in it, and except for a few laugh lines around her large, lustrous eyes and the corners of her full mouth, there were few signs of the passing years. Her fair complexion looked like that of a woman half her age, and for a moment, Daphne wondered if perhaps it was Anne Darby herself who stood in the doorway of the cottage.

The woman laughed, the dark eyes dancing. “Yes, Miss Beaumont, I am, indeed, Anne Darby, Goodson’s sister. I have been expecting you. Please come in.”

Taken aback, Daphne hesitated. The woman knew who she was? And she had been expecting her?

Anne opened the door wider and said, “Come, come now. There is nothing to be afraid of. I only put curses on people who annoy me. You are perfectly safe,” she grinned at her, “unless you annoy me.”

Charmed and mayhap a trifle apprehensive, Daphne allowed herself to be coaxed inside the cottage. Again, she didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t the cozy room in which she stood.

A small stone fireplace was centered on one wall; a worn woolen carpet, the once bright colors faded to a dusty rose and palest green lay upon the floor; and the scent of beeswax, lavender, and some other indefinable scent—heart of toad, tongue of lizard? Daphne wondered—wafted in the air. Blond lace curtains hung at the windows; the furniture was old but obviously cherished. But what caught Daphne’s eyes was the table made from a thick slab of oak near the back of the room and the tall cabinet behind it, its shelves filled with gleaming glass bottles of various sizes, bowls, even a marble mortar with a brass pestle. She swallowed. Was that where the witch brewed and concocted her potions?

“Please be seated,” Anne said, indicating a settee under one window. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Um, no, thank you,” Daphne said. “I only mean to stay a moment. My brother awaits me on the road.” Curious, she asked, “How did you know who I was? And that I was coming to see you? I didn’t know it myself until I saw your cottage.”

Anne laughed and seated herself in the small chair across from her. “Nothing very mysterious about it. I came to visit my brother one day last week, and you were pointed out to me. As for the other, Mrs. Hutton mentioned that you had, er, questions about the local legends and that you would be coming to visit one of these days.” The dark eyes twinkled. “I’ve been expecting you for a few days now.”

Daphne smiled, liking Goodson’s sister. “No crystal ball or black cat?” she asked lightly.

Anne returned the smile and shook her head. “No crystal ball, I’m afraid. I do have a friendly orange tabby, but Samantha is too fat and lazy to be considered a familiar of the devil. I leave that sort of nonsense to the gypsies.” Her smile fled, and she studied Daphne. “I cannot tell the future, my dear, but if your heart is heavy and I can help you, I shall.”

Daphne flushed. “Am I that obvious?”

“Few people come to see me who are without worries they hope I can make disappear or desires that they want me to help them attain.”

Looking anywhere but at that kind, concerned face, Daphne said carefully, “My worries and my desires are my own, but I would like to learn more about the legends surrounding Beaumont Place.”

“Vicar Henley is a noted historian in the area,” Anne said quietly, her eyes fixed on Daphne’s face. “Did you speak with him?”

Daphne sighed. “Yes, I did, but I don’t think that his records will tell me what I…” She looked helplessly at Anne, unable to think of a way to phrase her request without sounding like a candidate for Bedlam.

Anne’s expression sharpened, and she leaned forward. “Why do you think that I would know more than Vicar Henley?”

Wishing she had not started this conversation and that she had not given in to the impulse to stop, Daphne didn’t reply. She might have a favorable impression of Anne Darby, but she wasn’t about ready to confess to the local witch that she thought a ghost had visited her.

Forcing a smile, Daphne murmured, “Mrs. Hutton said that you would know the, um, less formal versions of the same stories I might find amongst the Vicar’s collection.” She glanced down at her gloved hands. “Until we learned of Sir Huxley’s death and my brother’s inheritance, we had no idea that we had any other family.” Her eyes met Anne’s. “I want to learn the stories and legends about the Beaumont family that have been handed down from generation to generation,” she said earnestly, if a bit mendaciously. Her cheeks flaming, she added, “I would be more than willing to pay you something for your time.”

Anne sat back and regarded Daphne thoughtfully for several long seconds. Then she shrugged. “I have no objections to telling tales of long ago Beaumonts…but are you certain that you want to hear them?” She looked grim. “Some of your ancestors were not very nice people.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Daphne said wryly. “And since yours have served mine from the beginning of time, if Mrs. Hutton and Goodson are to be believed, there must have been a relative or two of yours with a dark past.”

Anne nodded and smiled. “Too true, my dear, too true. For every blackhearted Beaumont, I’m sure you’ll find an equally blackhearted Goodson lurking somewhere in the background.” She cocked a brow. “When did you want to hear some of these tales? Now?”

Knowing that Adrian must be wondering what was taking her so long, Daphne rose to her feet. “Oh, no. I did not mean to intrude upon you this way, but I did want to meet you. Perhaps we can set a time and place to meet again?”

“Of course,” Anne said agreeably, standing up. “Since you are the one paying,” she said dryly, “my time is yours. What is your pleasure?”

They settled on meeting at two o’clock Friday afternoon, with Daphne preferring to come to Anne’s cottage rather than having Anne come to Beaumont Place.

“Just as well,” Anne said as she walked with her to the door of the cottage. “My brother will be in a taking if he knows that I am filling your ears with tales and stories he would just as soon pretend he never heard.” She shook her head. “Our meetings will not remain secret for long, though, but your coming here will somewhat delay Goodson discovering that we have met.” She smiled. “He is sure to ring a peal over me when he learns you are coming here, but it won’t be the first time I’ve upset him, nor the last.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble between you,” Daphne said, concerned.

Anne waved her away. “Don’t worry about Goodson and I. I enjoy shaking him out of his complacent pompousness from time to time.”

Daphne hurried back along the path where Adrian, looking impatient, was tooling up and down the road. Spying his sister, he pulled the mare to a stop near the edge of the road. “I say, Daffy, it is about time! I was becoming worried, you know,” he said when Daphne stopped next to the gig. “What took you so long?”

Giving him an apologetic smile, Daphne scrambled into the vehicle. “I am sorry. Do let us continue on our way.”

Grumbling, Adrian urged the mare into motion. After a silent moment, he said, “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

“It is nothing, really. Mrs. Hutton told me that if I wanted to learn some of the legends and stories about our ancestors, Anne Darby would be the person to see.” She smiled at Adrian. “She’s reputed to be the local witch, and I was curious about her.”

Adrian looked astounded. “A witch?
Our
Goodson’s sister?”

“Indeed, yes, but I can assure you, she is nothing like you might imagine. I was pleasantly surprised by her. In fact, I liked her.”

Adrian cut his eyes in her direction. “And did she tell you anything of interest? Such as why our thrice-great grandfather left the area vowing never to return?”

Daphne shook her head. “No, there wasn’t enough time for much conversation. I merely wanted to meet her.” She hesitated. “I am going to see her again on Friday afternoon.”

As he rode toward Lanyon Hall that Wednesday afternoon, Daphne’s plans to consort with a local witch wouldn’t have surprised Charles, but then, little about Daphne surprised him. Stunned him, perhaps. Confounded him? Oh yes, upon occasion. Frustrated him, certainly, but surprise? No.