Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Read online

  “He looks rather intimidating,” murmured a quiet voice in Florence’s ear.

  “Dreadfully fierce,” Florence agreed, smiling at Grace. The girl had been so subdued and listless since she’d arrived at Holbrook, it was a relief to see her interacting at all. “Do you think he bites?”

  “Only if you mention how much you love sunsets and bunny rabbits,” Grace said, sliding her arm through Florence’s.

  Florence chuckled and sent Grace a look of amusement, but the girl was staring out of the window, a faraway look in her eyes. “Grace?”

  She didn’t so much as stir but tugged absently at a loose blonde curl of hair, her grey eyes the colour of an overcast summer’s day.

  “Grace?” Florence tried again. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  The girl started, looking alarmed.

  “Wrong?” She laughed and shook her head. “Oh… Oh, no… n-nothing.”

  Florence lowered her voice and drew her into the corner of the room. “Yes, there is. You wrote and told me you’d done something stupid, and you’re clearly unhappy. Won’t you confide in me?”

  Grace chewed at her lip, staring about the room like some wild thing caught in a snare.

  “Not now,” she said desperately, and tugged her arm free of Florence’s hold before hurrying away from her.

  Florence sighed.

  The meal, as with all those served at Holbrook, was divine. Not that Florence noticed it much. The debate going on between their hostess, Lady St Clair, and her brother vastly entertained most of the guests, and Florence was no exception. Henry’s opinions intrigued her. The topics were far-reaching, from Henry Fox Talbot’s extraordinary exhibition of photogenic drawings at the Royal Institution—which Henry had missed but had read about with fascination—to the Chartist riot in Birmingham the previous month. Florence was beguiled by his easy manner, his breadth of knowledge, and not only pleased by his sympathy for the Chartists and what they were trying to achieve—an effort her father supported—but his agreement with his sister that women as well as men should have the vote.

  “Well, as the most intelligent person I’ve ever met was a woman, it seems foolish to deny the possibility they might make better decisions,” he observed, lifting a glass in a toast to Lady St Clair.

  It seemed every time he opened his mouth, he proved himself to be the man Florence had longed to find and had begun to think as rare as a unicorn. Yet here he was, right in front of her, forthright and confident, handsome, and full of such energy and masculine vigour that he held everyone’s attention.

  As hard and fast as Florence was falling for him, it was astonishing how the man could be seated so close, almost opposite her, and ignore her so thoroughly. He was charming and witty with everyone else, yet barely paid her the briefest of attention. She wondered if anyone had noticed it yet, for it bordered on rudeness. Worse, the only time he’d paid her any mind was when he’d done his level best to get the taciturn Mr Oak to speak to her. The attempt had failed, as Mr Oak seemed to have little interest in speaking to anybody. It had just made her feel foolish and annoyed.

  Well, if she’d had any doubts about his lack of interest in her, tonight’s performance ought to have driven them from her head and made her determined to turn her attention elsewhere. It would have done if she’d had an ounce of sense. Sense seemed in short supply this evening, however, and it was all she could do not to gaze longingly at him over her bowl of syllabub. Instead, she stared at the dessert with a morose sigh and ate the whole thing without speaking a word to anyone. Oh, but it was delicious. She’d always been partial to syllabub. Sighing with pleasure, she forgot herself for a moment and licked every trace of cream from the bowl of the spoon.

  Feeling eyes upon her, she looked up. Henry was staring at her, his gaze riveted on her mouth. Florence flushed. Drat the man. The one time he looked in her direction and she was behaving like a mannerless child. His jaw stiffened, and he turned resolutely away from her, plunging into conversation with the Marchioness of Montagu.

  Florence felt ill, the syllabub churning unpleasantly in her stomach. She did not understand it. Everyone said how charismatic and likeable Henry was. No one had a bad word for him, and yet he seemed to despise her for no reason. It couldn’t even be because she’d made a fool of herself by flirting shamelessly or setting her cap at him, for he’d not shared more than a few words with her. Miserable and confused, Florence decided she must endure the rest of the evening as best she could and go to bed. Perhaps tomorrow would be a brighter day.

  Henry did his best to attend the conversation with Matilda, who was a friend of many years, but it was nigh on impossible. He was simply too distracted. Matilda kept giving him these odd, searching looks too, which was most unsettling. He tried to remember what they’d been talking about, but the sight of Miss Knight’s neat pink tongue lingering over the smooth curve of her spoon was engraved upon his mind.

  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. You are not a lecherous beast. She’s half your age.

  No, she’s not, a belligerent voice in his head retorted.

  Too close to half for comfort.

  Henry tried to understand what it was about her. Yes, she was beautiful. Her glossy black curls shone in the candlelight and, now and then, he glimpsed irritation in her green eyes that made them flash sparks like emerald fire. Oh, hell. Yes, she was lovely, and that was why he was staying far, far away from her. He’d been conscious of her from the very first moment she’d walked in the room on arriving at Holbrook. His entire being had vibrated like a tuning fork, shockingly aware of her. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with. He’d felt just same way once before, a long time ago.

  He’d believed in love at first sight in those days, but he was not a green boy any longer. Women were not to be trusted with your heart and, for some people, love was an illusion that faded quickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in it. Too many of his friends were happily married not to provide examples of the way it could be. But it was not for a man like him. As far as Henry was concerned, only lust was honest, and he was not about to turn into one of those disgusting men who chased after young women. His first love affair, his foolish, youthful folly had been forgivable, if humiliating. To fall into the same trap again at his time of life would be….

  His stomach clenched, and the back of his neck felt hot and uncomfortable just considering it.

  Miss Lily Johnson. No, Lady Nettlebury now. Christ, he’d not thought of her in years. Once, she had been the only thing he’d thought of. When she’d thrown him over, he’d thought he’d die of misery. He hadn’t, naturally, and all too soon he’d realised his error. He’d had a lucky escape. Lily had been beautiful, blonde, and exquisite. A blue-eyed angel. It had been all on the surface, though. Beneath the lovely exterior she had been shallow, selfish, and ruthlessly ambitious. Oh, no, he was not being played for a fool again, especially by some slip of a girl. Not that Florence Knight seemed at all the same kind of creature as Lily, despite her beauty.

  It was clear she had been cosseted and indulged her whole life, but she did not appear spoiled. When she spoke, it was with intelligence and wit; hardly surprising, with Lady Helena as her mama. That was another thing… he was friends with her father. Gabriel would likely tie him to the tracks and run him down with one of his blasted trains if he had the slightest idea of Henry’s attraction to his daughter. Besides, he did not wish to marry. Not ever. It wasn’t for him. So that meant dallying with any respectable unwed young lady was out of the question.

  There was only one thing to do, and that was to make certain he kept as much distance between him and the alluring Miss Knight as possible.

  Chapter 1

  Dearest Florence,

  It was so lovely to see you at Holbrook and to spend time with everyone. I must confess it is good to be home, though. How strange it is that Royle House has become my home so quickly. Now that Hilda has gone to Paris and Hugo is happily married, the house is so much calmer. Of cou
rse the duke is a dreadful handful, worse than any spoilt child, but I rather adore the cantankerous old devil.

  Freddie and Bertram have a new governess, who is a delightful lady, and they already adore her, though she’s had a stern word with Bainbridge about the influence of that wicked parrot. I’m beginning to think he’s right and the wretched bird knows exactly what to say at the precise moment to make your toes curl. I had the most mortifying encounter with the gardener last week when he brought over his prize-winning marrow to show us. Of course Bainbridge was in fits, but I did not know where to put myself.

  Have you spoken to Grace yet? I have been so worried about her. Do keep me informed.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Arabella Grenville, The Most Hon’ble, The Marchioness of Bainbridge (daughter of Mrs Alice and Mr Nathanial Hunt) to Miss Florence Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

  Early hours of the 8th of August 1839, Saxenhurst Hall, Sussex.

  Henry woke with a start, his heart thudding and all the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He sat up, wondering if he’d been dreaming, and listening out for the blood-curdling sound that had invaded his sleep. It came again, rending the peace of the night and echoing through the old house. That was no dream.

  Henry flung himself out of bed, snatching up a banyan and pulling it on, tying the belt as he ran from the room. He wouldn’t have bothered, but he always slept naked and did not wish to traumatise the female staff any more than the scream would have done.

  Naturally, the entire household was awake, the flicker of candlelight illuminating the house at intervals with small patches of golden light. Panicked whispers threaded through the strange silence that remained in the absence of that unsettling sound.

  “Where did it come from, Parker?” he demanded of the butler.

  “Conflicting reports, sir. Some say the north wing, but Cook says she’d swear it was the library.”

  “Are all the staff accounted for?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Henry nodded, organising the men into groups to search the property from top to bottom before running towards the library himself. Two of the footmen accompanied him but, as they burst through the door, the library was still and quite obviously empty.

  “I want every inch of the house and grounds searched,” he said, but had hardly finished the sentence when a crash sounded upstairs.

  Henry and the men flew from the room, taking the stairs three at a time. On the landing that led to the nursery and schoolroom was a smashed vase.

  The search went on for several hours until Henry was satisfied that no corner of either the house or the garden had been missed. They found nothing. The staff went back to bed to snatch what little sleep they could before morning, muttering about ghosts and ill omens. Henry did not believe in ghosts or ill omens any more than he believed in witchcraft, but he did believe people could do ridiculous things for a myriad of reasons. Someone was playing silly buggers, and he intended to find out who.

  Despite telling herself she was an idiot for getting her hopes up, Florence was looking forward to today. Lady St Clair had gained an invitation from her brother for their guests to picnic at Saxenhurst Hall. Whilst the Hall was nothing like as grand as Holbrook House, it was a very fine building. A moated manor house on the very edge of the border between Sussex and Kent, it dated back in parts to the thirteenth century. Florence wondered if it was haunted, and if Henry would allow them a tour. For the moment they were picnicking on a high spot, where views reached far across Kent: miles and miles of fields and woodland as far as the eye could see. It was a glorious day, with tiny wisps of cobwebby clouds touching the cobalt sky.

  Florence was relieved to discover it was a proper picnic, too. She had been to some grand affairs where the entire dining room was simply transported out of doors, which was a poor sort of picnic in her view. Henry had done it properly, with blankets spread on the ground and enormous wicker baskets stuffed full of delicious food that were at once indulgent and easy to eat with your fingers. It was one of the things she liked about him, that he was down to earth, with easy manners. Henry was a gentleman of means and used to moving in the highest circles of society. He had wit and charm and exuded confidence, but he had also gone out of his way to put Mr Oak at ease today. Mr Oak was a gentleman, if a little rough about the edges, but he did not seem at home among Henry’s guests and was clearly cursing Henry for having persuaded him to attend. Despite this the friendship between them was obvious and Henry did his best to draw the taciturn fellow into the conversation. Florence could not help but believe that the broad-shouldered Mr Oak would far rather be about his farm doing something physical. The thought made her smile.

  Henry caught her eye at that very moment and followed her gaze to Mr Oak. Florence blushed and looked away, embarrassed. Dash it all. The fellow had the worst timing. Now he would think she was interested in Mr Oak. She groaned inwardly.

  “What is it, darling?”

  Florence turned at her mother’s enquiry; her unease must have been visible. Mama was somehow managing to look supremely elegant whilst eating a chicken leg. It was a gift Florence had yet to master. She set her own down and wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin.

  “I was thinking about you and Papa, actually,” she said, as it had been on her mind of late. “About how you met and married.”

  Her mama laughed. “Goodness, what a long time ago that was, and yet it seems like yesterday.”

  “Papa didn’t like you at first, did he?” Florence asked, comforted by the knowledge.

  “Oh, I love this story,” Grace said with a wistful sigh. “Do tell us, Lady Helena.”

  Mama gave them an indulgent smile.

  “No, your Papa did not like me one little bit, darling. He thought me spoiled and shallow, a pampered heiress who was only interested in him because he would not give me the time of day. He was right, of course,” she added, laughing merrily.

  “But you didn’t let that put you off, did you, Mama? Because you knew he was the one,” Florence pressed, needing to hear that she wasn’t being a complete fool for believing in something, or someone, when there was no reason to do so other than some sixth sense that nagged at her heart and whispered in her ear.

  “No. I was rather shameless, I’m afraid. Something I do not encourage you to emulate,” Mama added, her expression growing stern. “Things are far stricter for you girls than in my day. Even so, I was lucky that Gabriel was an honourable man, with strong principles, and that he truly cared for me. Not all men are the same. If I had not chosen so well, I might have ended in a great deal of trouble.”

  Florence considered her mama, who stared thoughtfully out at the view before them.

  Grace frowned down at her plate, tracing a pattern in the crumbs. She seemed to have the weight of the world on her shoulders. Florence looked between them. Had Grace taken a chance on someone?

  “But if you’d not taken a chance, if you’d not dared him to race you to Brighton, you’d never have won him, would you,” she urged, wanting to hear her mother agree to give her reassurance.

  Her mother shrugged, her green eyes taking on a faraway look, her beautiful mouth curving with a soft smile. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I would have found another way. It might have taken me longer, but… I’m nothing if not persistent.”

  “It is a family trait,” Louis César murmured, gaining himself an elbow in the ribs from Evie, who had also been listening.

  “Someone has to stop you from misbehaving. I think of myself as the voice of your conscience,” Evie said airily. “Without me you’d go to the devil in no time.”

  Louis César snorted at that and cut a neat slice of apple, handing it to Evie before cutting another for himself. “Between you and Agatha, I shall be willing to enrol myself in the nearest monastery before the year is out, just to get a little peace.”

  “Piffle. You enjoy the attention. Oooh, look, macarons! My favourite.”

  “A
t least you are easily distracted,” Louis César observed, reaching for the plate and setting it in front of her. “Do not eat all the pink ones.”

  “Why not?”

  “I like them best,” he replied with a wink. He turned to where the children were playing some game of their own devising across the field and called out. “Aggie, viens ici, mon enfant.”

  “You’re teaching her French?” Evie asked. “You’re supposed to be helping me, you might remember.”

  Louis shrugged. “Yes, but your accent is shocking. It gives me a headache.”

  “You’re a very rude man,” she said, laughing. “But I shall forgive you because it’s true. No doubt I try your patience horribly.”

  “Beyond enduring,” Louis agreed amicably, waving at Aggie to come and join them.

  Florence sighed, her gaze inevitably moving across the assembled company towards Henry. He was sitting as far from her as it was possible to get, laughing with Ash and Lord St Clair. Even Mr Oak looked more at ease now, which was surprising, as the austerely handsome Marquess of Montagu was also among their group. He was usually enough to make any man feel self-conscious. She turned her attention to their conversation. It sounded as though Henry had been telling them of his time in India.

  “I swear, a ruby almost the size of a hen’s egg. I’d seen nothing like it in my life before, but the prince was so vastly wealthy it was a mere trifle. His palace was extraordinary, incredibly beautiful. Indeed it was a magical place, like a fairytale, though I admit the heat was hard to tolerate.”

  “Was he dreadfully handsome?” Lady Montagu asked, voicing the question all the women were thinking and causing her husband to arch one perfect blond eyebrow at her. “What, darling? I’m interested. I want to know more about him. Was he an interesting man? I’m sure he must have been quite splendid.”

  Montagu sighed and shook his head. “I knew the day would come. A marquess is a poor substitute for a prince.”