An Enchanting Dare (Daring Daughters Book 10) Read online

  He leaned closer, so close that her words snagged in her throat. His scent tickled her nose, shaving soap and freshly laundered linen, a trace of peppermint. No expensive, overpowering cologne, no waft of brandy, just clean male skin.

  “Do your friends truly know you, Lady Aisling? Do they know the person you really are, the passionate woman you keep hidden and buttoned up and that makes you blush and stammer for fear people will guess what you are hiding?”

  Aisling lurched to her feet, too unnerved not to react.

  “Whatever it is you think you know, you’re wrong,” she said, her fingers curled into fists, too much anger in the words not to reveal he’d hit a nerve.

  He sighed and sat back, watching her. “I would not betray your confidence, Aisling. Perhaps I could help you. I know you sneaked out of Rowsley House after midnight in nothing but your nightrail in the middle of December. Were you meeting a lover? Someone you feel real passion for, unlike your affectionate regard for Mr Anson? Are you in trouble, love?”

  “How dare you,” she whispered, so badly shaken she couldn’t think straight. “How d-dare you suggest—”

  He got to his feet, a lithe, elegant movement that brought him too close to her. Aisling took a step back, uncertain if her knees would support her much longer.

  “Aisling,” he said softly.

  “No. I never gave you leave to use my name.” Aisling grasped at that, at something tangible and simple she could be angry about.

  “My lady,” he corrected, his voice still gentle, persuasive.

  “No!” she said, shaking her head. Aisling picked up her skirts and fled, unheeding of anyone watching her flight. She needed to be as far away from Sylvester Cootes as she could get, and she needed to stay away.

  “Damnation,” Sylvester muttered under his breath.

  People were looking at him, their gazes speculative. Ashton Anson among them. And now the fellow was coming this way. No doubt to warn him off. He could hardly blame him, either. He’d made a spectacular mess of that when he’d only wanted to put Aisling at ease. Why he felt so certain she needed his help, needed him, he did not know. Perhaps it was arrogance on his part, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Perhaps he’d convinced himself he was helping her when it was his own selfish desires at work, and he did desire her. He could not get the wretched woman out of his mind. She was an itch he could not scratch, and he was soon going to drive himself mad.

  “She hates you,” Ash said cheerfully, sitting on the edge of the fountain and trailing his fingers in the water.

  “Must you look so pleased about it? It’s not like you want her,” Sylvester groused, folding his arms. He’d spent a little time with Ash in Brighton, but didn’t know him well.

  Ash smiled. “No, but I am her friend and feel a responsibility for her. I should not wish to see her made unhappy.”

  “And you think I mean to make her unhappy?” Sylvester demanded, irritation climbing.

  “Oh, set your hackles down, Mr Cootes. I meant no insult. As a matter of fact, I think you’re good for her. I’ve never seen her speak her mind or look so animated as she does in your company. You bring out the worst in her and it is a joy to see.”

  Sylvester regarded Ash with consternation, taking a moment to decide if that had been an insult or not. He decided it had not and relaxed.

  “I mean her no harm. I would never—”

  “Toy with her affections?” Ash suggested, smoothing his hand lovingly over his white waistcoat and admiring the way the sun glittered on the gold thread of the embroidery.

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” Sylvester muttered. “As you so kindly observed, she hates me.”

  Ash shrugged. “Perhaps hate is too strong a word, but she does not like nor trust you. She doesn’t trust anyone, I think.”

  “Why not?”

  Ash got to his feet and turned to look in the direction that Aisling had disappeared in. “I don’t know. None of us do. Perhaps you can find out, but tread gently, Mr Cootes. I should hate to have to break your pretty nose.”

  Ash winked at him and sauntered off, leaving Sylvester to ponder how on earth he was supposed to gain Lady Aisling’s trust.

  Chapter 2

  Wolf,

  If you set foot on English soil, I will murder you with my bare hands. My reputation is shiny indeed, but it is only a superficial gleam and if you come and tarnish it, I will not easily forgive the harm you do. I am in pursuit of a wife, of a woman who means more to me than I care to consider, and if she slips through my fingers because of a scandal of your making, we will be at outs.

  Once I am married, I will return to Paris to introduce my bride, or you may come to England with my blessing, but please, I beg you, not yet. The English have long memories and if you think your presence will not have people reaching for their weapons, whether with words or more tangible arms, you are a fool. Your father’s name is still spoken as a curse here. You might keep that in mind.

  Do not for a moment think I have forgotten you, troublesome boy. For all there is a scant three years between us, I knew you needed a father who was not a brute even more than I did. It bewilders me to discover you consider me in this light when Nic is far better placed for the position, but I should be proud if we ever came close to providing something of a family for you. Please do not force me to return and mend something you broke in a temper fit. We always guarded each other from the monsters, did we not, Wulfric? I always shall. Tell me what troubles you and I shall give what words of wisdom I can.

  I miss you too, though I do not miss the mayhem you cause. I could use you at my back now, I think, for I have the strangest notion I am being watched. You are certain all our enemies were vanquished? For sometimes I get this sick sensation in my gut and—but I become fanciful. Ignore my foolishness.

  For now, perhaps you should follow our example and find yourself a wife. Perhaps she could tame what I only ever held on a leash. Nic sends his best regards too and promises to visit you again soon. You are neither forgotten nor abandoned, petit loup, by either of us. Try to behave yourself for our sakes, and we will make it up to you.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Wulfric ‘Wolf’ De Vere from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

  5th May1841, Lady Drummond’s Spring Ball, Mayfair, London.

  Aisling tapped her feet to the music, edging further behind a large potted palm. Her fingers curled about a glass of cool lemonade, welcome in the stifling room. She sipped it as she hummed to the music and watched the ladies and gentlemen swirling around merrily… and wished she were back at Trevick. Not too much longer, she promised herself. It would be summer soon and even the most determined of the ton would surely be gone by July. She could keep up the pretence until then. Even her brother Conor would champ at the bit to leave by June, so it might be earlier with luck. It was easier on nights like this when her brother escorted her to the dance instead of her parents. Mama would have noticed she was hiding by now, but Conor was too busy with his friends. Not that he wasn’t an attentive brother. He was, but she could evade him in a way she would never have managed with her mother. Aisling leaned closer to the fern and gently bent one long frond down so she could get a better look at the dance floor.

  “Are you a keen pteridologist, my lady?”

  With a muffled shriek, Aisling jumped, launching her lemonade from her glass. A deal of it splashed over her gloves and narrowly missed staining the skirts of her gown.

  “Oh! You blithering idiot. What do you mean by creeping up on me like that?” she said, huffing with irritation.

  “My apologies, Lady Aisling though I did not creep to be fair. I called to you, but you were so taken by the music you must not have heard me,” Mr Cootes replied, passing her his handkerchief. “And if you will lurk in dark corners, a fellow must take desperate measures to gain your attention.”

  Aisling took the hanky and mopped her gloves, which were damp and unpleasantly sticky. “Hold this,” she said, thrusting her glass at him
whilst she peeled them off and draped them over the side of the plant pot. “And no, to answer your question. I have no particular interest in ferns, other than their usefulness in offering me a hiding place. Sadly, this one is not as efficient as I’d hoped.”

  “I came to ask you to dance with me,” he said, returning the glass to her when she reached for it.

  “No, thank you,” she said, sending him a dazzling smile and making little shooing motions with her free hand. “There you go. You have your answer and can run along now.”

  “Hmmm.” To her annoyance he did not shoo as she had suggested, but leaned back against the wall, regarding her with that placid expression he always adopted. “But what would your mama say if she knew you hadn’t danced all evening?”

  “I danced!” Aisling objected, knowing better than to return home without having danced at all.

  “Ah yes, with your brother, with Ashton Anson, and with Hart De Beauvoir, who looks like he wants to be here even less than you do.”

  “Are you spying on me?” she demanded.

  He laughed at that. “In full view of the ballroom, yes, I suppose so. Come, give me your dance card. I wish to see how many of your other dances are spoken for.”

  Before she could protest, he’d caught hold of the little notepad dangling from her wrist, effectively trapping her hand too.

  “My lady, tut, tut,” he scolded her, giving a sad shake of her head. “Not one. Not one dance taken. Just how long have you been back here?”

  “Not that long,” she grumbled, tugging her hand free.

  “Nonsense. If you’d been in plain view, you’d have to beat the fellows off with a stick.”

  “No, I should not,” she returned coldly. “I am not popular, Mr Cootes, nor have I the desire to be.”

  “Why not?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “You’re beautiful, funny, and clever. Why would the men not flock to you?”

  Aisling stared at him, an odd fluttering sensation in her belly in response to his words. He thought her beautiful and funny and clever? What nonsense. It was just the sort of thing men said to get what they wanted. He might look sincere, but men lied often and with ease. She’d not forget that in a hurry. Standing with him in this secluded spot was inadvisable too, for all they were in a crowded ballroom.

  “Because I am not easy company, Mr Cootes.”

  “Ah, yes. Shy Lady Aisling, who becomes tongue-tied and stutters and blushes and can barely hold a conversation with a young man.” His eyes glinted with humour.

  Aisling clamped her lips together instead of uttering the crushing set down she wished to give, because it would only prove his point. She was neither shy nor stuttering with him.

  “Young men of today are fools, my lady. They simply do not know how to go about bringing a timid young woman out of her shell. Whereas I have a singular knack, it appears.”

  “Oh, yes, to vex the poor creature so badly, she’ll lose her temper and forget she was shy at all,” Aisling retorted.

  “Exactly.” He beamed at her, looking as if he thought he deserved a reward for his cleverness.

  “Except it wasn’t a cleverly thought-out scheme, but simply your abrasive personality that had the desired effect,” Aisling muttered.

  He laughed then, a warm, rich sound that wrapped about her and made a frisson of pleasure skitter down her spine. Aisling shot him a glance, disturbed to discover she liked that she had made him laugh. Some people had a knack for it, like Evie, who was funny and clever with words without ever resorting to cruelty or sarcasm. Aisling had always rather envied her quick wit.

  “Come. Won’t you dance with me?” he asked again, his voice gentler now, holding out his hand to her. “I’ll not persist if you refuse me again, but I truly should like to waltz with you.”

  Aisling hesitated. Waltzing with him was a bad idea, but if he would leave her be afterwards, perhaps it was worth it.

  “If you promise not to ask me for another tonight and let me hide in peace. Your word on it,” she said, studying his face for a hint of deception. She had long since realised that, for many men, their word was a worthless item and their honour nothing more than a façade.

  “My word,” he said gravely.

  Aisling took the hand he offered. She was unconvinced he meant what he said, but it would be as well to test him. They strolled the edges of the ballroom as the dance in progress ended, and people took their places for the next.

  “Thank you,” Mr Cootes said, as he took her in hold for the waltz.

  Aisling frowned up at him, her nerves skittering at the feel of his hand on her waist. His touch was light, but the sensation burned through her gown and her insides felt all muddled and stirred up.

  “For granting me a dance,” he said in response to her glower, before easing her into the waltz.

  “Oh,” she said, knowing she was being ungracious but too on edge to stop. Besides, if he didn’t want a partner who was rude to him, there were dozens of other young ladies to choose from. Which begged the question, why her? “Why aren’t you dancing with one of the more engaging young ladies here?”

  He sent her an amused glance. “I have been dancing with the more engaging young ladies.”

  Well, she’d asked for that.

  “I had to do something whilst I was looking for you,” he added, his tone softer, as if easing her hurt feelings… which was ridiculous, because she had none. She didn’t give a tinker’s cuss who he danced with.

  “Next time, I suggest you don’t waste your evening looking for me. Find someone more agreeable.”

  “All the ladies are agreeable,” he replied with a soft laugh. “It’s very trying.”

  Aisling wondered what the devil he meant by that, and her perplexity must have shown, for he spoke again.

  “I much prefer arguing with you. It’s very dull when ladies agree with everything you say.”

  “What mad article agreed with you?” she asked in blank astonishment, the words flying out of her mouth before she could think better of them.

  He threw back his head and laughed, causing several people to turn and look at them. Aisling blushed and wished she’d never agreed to dance with him.

  “Not everyone finds me as objectionable as you do, my lady,” he replied, his voice oddly gentle, as if he was trying to reassure her. “And stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. They are only jealous of the wonderful time I am having in such charming company.”

  To Aisling’s everlasting relief, the dance ended, and she dropped his hand as if it had scalded her, stepping away from him.

  “Stop it,” she said, though the words she had meant to sound angry were edged with fear. “Stop trying to charm me. I don’t know why you insist on doing so, but it won’t work.”

  Mr Cootes stared at her, the concern in his eyes too easy to read. “What is it you are afraid of?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her voice cold and hard now as she stiffened her resolve. “I am afraid of nothing, and you would do well to stay away from me. You are right about one thing, Mr Cootes. I am not as fragile as I appear, not a damsel in distress, so go and rescue someone else. I don’t want or need your help, or your trust.”

  Aisling hurried away, her nails digging into her palms to give herself something to focus on, so she would not cry. Her chest was tight, and her stomach twisted into a knot. A warm hand grasping hers made her spin around in shock and she had a bare moment to school her features as she realised her brother had come after her.

  “Conor! Oh, you made me jump,” she said, clutching at her chest and forcing out a startled laugh.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, glowering at her. “Did Cootes upset you?”

  “What? Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head, though he had upset her, only not in the way Conor meant. He had tried to be kind or pretended to be kind. “No, he’s annoying, but he was quite the gentleman.”

  “Then why do you look so out of sorts?”

  She returned a wry look and
Conor snorted, well aware of her dislike of being in society. “If you need me to thump anyone, you need only say.”

  Aisling laughed and took his arm, relieved to have his reassuring presence close by. He was tall and lean and though he had inherited their mother’s dark colouring as she had, his eyes were the blue of their father’s and full of affection. She leaned into him, smiling now. “Isn’t it unfair, Conor, there’s poor Cara and Vi, desperate to be out, and here we are, dying to go home.”

  He snorted and gave a heavy sigh. “Too true, but no one ever said life was fair, deirfiúr beag.”

  She smiled at him calling her little sister in Irish and jabbed him with her elbow. “Stop trying to sound old and wise. I know better.”

  “I am older and wiser,” he countered, smirking at her.

  “No, just older,” she said, trying for humour and only sounding wistful.

  She sighed inwardly. No one knew just how wise Aisling was, nor of the hard lesson she had learned by bitter experience, and the weight of guilt about her neck that she felt unequal to carrying. But that was simply cowardice. She had hardly made amends yet, but in a few years—as soon as her advanced age freed her from spending her time pretending to catch a husband—she would do everything in her power to cleanse her spirit of the wicked thing she’d done.

  Chapter 3

  Child,

  You know how to get through this.

  One green candle, one brown, one blue.

  Amethyst, Citrine, and Jade.

  Sandalwood.

  Stop getting in a tizzy and remember yourself.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Aisling Baxter from Old Biddy Burke.

  14th May 1841, Cavendish House, The Strand, London.

  “Oh, do hurry, Aisling,” Cara fretted, jittering about in a most distracting manner.

  “If you’d only stop harrying me, I might be able to think straight,” Aisling complained, shoving her bonnet on in such a haphazard way her maid tsked and hurried over to set her to rights.