Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 3

  Lady Montagu laughed, her eyes glittering with adoration. “Foolish man.”

  “Not in the least foolish, as you were born to be a princess,” he said with the utmost gravity, taking her hand and raising her fingers to his lips.

  Lady Montagu blushed at the devilish look glinting in her husband’s eyes and Florence sighed, wondering if she would ever have that. The kind of connection she saw between Lord and Lady Montagu was the same she saw between her own parents, yet none of them had gained their heart’s desire without a fight… Lady Montagu especially. Well, then, she must not give up too easily. She did not know for certain that Henry didn’t like her. Perhaps he was shy, or perhaps he thought he was too old. He was a friend of Papa’s, after all, though younger than him. Indeed, now she thought about it, her father might not like the match. Florence chewed at her lip pensively as she considered this. The idea had merit, for she knew Henry was an honourable man. She stilled, suddenly aware of eyes upon her. Florence looked up, finding Henry watching her with an intense expression. He looked away at once, busying himself with opening another bottle of wine. But Florence had seen. Her heart beat hard, hope flickering to life in her chest.

  Oh, no, she wasn’t giving up yet. She’d only just begun.

  Fool, Henry cursed himself, tugging the cork free with more force than was required. He might make himself sit as far from her as he could get but keeping his eyes from her was another matter. It was as if she radiated some magnetic force, and he was helpless to resist turning towards her, like a sunflower raising its face to follow the light. The moment he let his guard down, he found himself looking for her, listening for the sound of her voice. It was intolerable. Memories of the days after Lily had jilted him filled his mind, and he embraced the memory of hurt and humiliation to remind himself of the danger. He remembered too well, remembered the pain, as if his heart had been torn from his chest, remembered the mortification that burned so badly he’d hidden himself away at Saxenhurst and refused to see anyone for months. Irritated, he flung open the lid of the basket beside him, looking for the glasses, and stilled as he saw what lay within.

  “Don’t touch it!” Sterling snapped, seeing what Henry had seen.

  “Whatever is it?” Ash asked, peering to look at the basket.

  Though his back was to her, Henry was aware of Florence getting to her feet, too curious not to investigate. She looked over his shoulder, and he was ridiculously aware of her closeness, certain he could feel the warmth of her body through his coat, which was absurd.

  “Why, it’s just a little corn doll,” she said in surprise, clearly wondering what they were both looking so shocked about. “A pretty one, too, though Lammas Day was almost two weeks ago.”

  It was beautifully crafted, no bigger than his hand, the corn stalks woven together with the frilly ends where the grain bloomed making the doll’s skirts.

  Florence reached to pick it up.

  “No!” Mr Oak said sharply, but it was Henry who reached out, grasping her wrist before she could touch it.

  Her gaze snapped to his as something that felt like electricity crackled between them. The shock of recognition lanced straight to Henry’s core, and he sucked in a swift breath, dropping her hand as if the contact had burned him.

  “What the devil is going on?” Montagu asked, staring at the corn doll with suspicion. “That’s the kind of thing Pippin makes—our old cook, that is—but I’ve seen no one look so anxious about it before.”

  “Witchcraft,” Mr Oak said succinctly. “You’d best tell them, Henry.”

  Henry shook his head, irritated. “No, it’s a load of nonsense.”

  “Someone breaking into your house and causing havoc is not nonsense.”

  Mr Oak’s words had everyone’s attention, including Harriet’s.

  “What’s this, Henry?” she demanded.

  Cursing Sterling, and with a sigh of resignation, Henry told them about the dolls in the hedge and about the events of last night.

  “Someone wants to hurt you.”

  Henry’s heart gave a little skip in his chest at Florence’s words, at the worry in her eyes. He waved her concern away.

  “With a corn doll?” he retorted, a mocking tone to the words.

  She put her chin up, holding his gaze. “It wasn’t just a doll, though, was it? A woman screamed in the night, a valuable vase was broken. Someone is trying to scare you, at the very least, and who is to say this isn’t just the beginning? Perhaps they will get bolder.”

  “Well, I’m not easily scared, Miss Knight, certainly not by handicrafts and amateur theatrics.” Henry plucked the doll from the basket and tossed it into the grass. “Who wants wine?” he asked, reaching for the glasses he’d wanted.

  Florence hesitated, her hands twisted in her skirts. He could sense her agitation, her concern for him, and it warmed him as if he’d stepped in front of a fire after a long day out in the cold. It was seductive, that heat. A chill ran down his spine as he recognised the danger to his heart. No. No, he would not tread this same path again and make a damned fool of himself. Florence, though, was not done.

  “Mr Stanhope, I think you ought to speak to your staff at once. Surely they ought to know how it got in the basket. What if someone in your household holds a grudge? You might be in danger and—”

  “Miss Knight, much as I appreciate your concern, I fear you’ve read one too many Gothic novels. You’re becoming hysterical.”

  Henry hated himself the moment the words left his mouth, his tone hard and derisive. His self-loathing burned harder still when Florence blushed, swallowing hard as everyone stilled in shock.

  “Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I… I am sorry my concern is such a trouble to you.”

  With great dignity, she turned and walked away, sitting down with her back to him on the far side of the guests.

  There was an uncomfortable silence and Henry was too aware of the weight of disapproval directed towards him. God, what an arse. More so because now he owed the wretched girl an apology. Somehow the silence was broken, and conversation began once more, but the convivial atmosphere had been tarnished and the picnic broke up not long after. Henry was unsurprised when his sister accosted him on the walk back to the house.

  “What the devil is wrong with you, Henry?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling with anger behind her spectacles. “I’ve never seen you act so badly. Poor Florence was mortified. How dare you speak to her so, and in front of everyone? Surely you know how fragile a young woman’s self-esteem is, and for you to belittle her in front of her friends and family….”

  “I know, I know,” Henry gritted out. “I’ll apologise.”

  “I should think so,” Harriet snapped, scrutinising him with the delicacy of a rapier. “But what I don’t understand is why. You’ve never been rude to anyone in your life, certainly not a young woman.”

  Henry groaned, wishing his sister were a little less perceptive.

  “I suppose these blasted dolls have rattled me more than I wish to admit,” he lied, grasping at straws quite literally. “And I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night for obvious reasons. I… I’m tired and bad-tempered. Forgive me, Harry. I’ll make it up to her, I swear.”

  Harry snorted. “Indeed you will. You’re only lucky I’m here speaking to you and not Helena. She’s furious, I might add.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  Well played, you stupid bastard. Now, not only must he give a heartfelt apology to the woman he’d been doing his utmost to avoid, but he’d offended her mother, who would no doubt tell her husband about it too. So, his friend, Gabriel, would also be angry with him. No, strike that. The way Gabriel protected his daughters, he’d be lucky not to have his tongue ripped out for speaking so to Florence.

  “I’ll speak to her at once,” he promised, only to have Harriet shake her head.

  “No, you won’t. Helena is taking her straight home for she has a headache, and no wonder. You may come tomorrow morning, by which time I hope you will h
ave come up with a better excuse than the one you offered me.”

  With that, his sister stalked off, clearly in high dudgeon.

  Henry turned as a friendly hand slapped him on the shoulder. Harriet’s husband, Jasper Cadogan, the Earl of St Clair, grinned at him.

  “Buck up, old man. The fair sex ever did turn a man’s brain to treacle.”

  Henry frowned at him, not understanding.

  “I was awful to poor Harry for years,” Jasper whispered, before winking at him and striding off after his wife.

  Hell and damnation!

  Chapter 2

  Dearest Arabella,

  I am so glad you are happy at Royle House, not least because you may have another house guest soon.

  Oh, Bella, I’m so mortified. Henry gave me such a set down yesterday at the picnic, and in front of everybody, too. It was all I could do not to cry or throw something at him. There was a large apple pie which would have made an excellent weapon, but then I reminded myself that I have manners, even if he doesn’t, the brute. Except he does, with everyone else.

  Why does he hate me so? I don’t understand it, and now I must endure an apology from him, which will be simply excruciating. I know he’s only doing it because everyone is cross with him, not because he means it, and that just makes it worse. If things don’t get any better, I shall come and stay with you and learn every one of your parrot’s dreadful words. Perhaps he can teach me something to insult Henry badly enough that he won’t forget it, or me.

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

  10thAugust 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

  Florence spent a great deal of time getting ready the next morning, but she was determined to look her best. Damn Henry Stanhope for making her feel too much. She was angry and out of sorts, restless and frustrated, and it was all his fault. Why had she become infatuated with a man who couldn’t stand the sight of her? It was thoroughly absurd and so annoying to feel this way. Why couldn’t she make it stop? She was an intelligent woman and perfectly capable of rational thought. Yet she could not stop her heart from wanting a man who clearly held her in contempt. She was besotted, there was no escaping it, and there seemed to be nothing she could do about it, either. Perhaps it was a family trait, to be drawn to people who did not want or like you. Perhaps Mama had just been supremely lucky with Papa, and this strange fascination she had for Henry was nothing but a malfunction in her brain. She sighed as her maid put the finishing touches to her hair.

  “Thank you, Maisie. It looks lovely.”

  “You’re welcome, miss. You look good enough to eat, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Florence smiled gratefully at Maisie and took one last look at herself in the mirror. Her gown was a soft lilac and went well with her green eyes, somehow making the colour brighter by contrast. Not that it mattered, Henry was not coming to see her because he wished to, but to execute an unpleasant but necessary task. Like getting a tooth pulled, she thought with a grimace. Ah, well. Best get it over with.

  She made her way down to the library to find her mama waiting for her.

  “Oh, darling. Oh, you do look lovely,” Mama said, giving her a warm smile.

  Florence blushed a little, wishing she’d not gone to so much trouble.

  “I wondered if you would like me to stay with you?”

  “Oh, no,” Florence said at once. She didn’t doubt Henry was dreading this as much as she was. Having to apologise in front of both her and her mother would be too embarrassing for words, and he’d hate her even more. “No, I’ll be fine. Really.”

  Mama nodded, frowning a little. “It’s the strangest thing, though. I’ve never known Henry to be rude to anyone before in my life. I—”

  “Oh, well, you know how it is. Some people just rub you up the wrong way for no reason,” Florence said, wanting the conversation over as quickly as possible. “He probably thinks me an empty-headed ninny who was interfering in men’s business.”

  Her mother bristled at once and Florence sighed, realising she’d said precisely the wrong thing.

  “If he does—”

  “Oh, Mama, ignore me. I’m just nervous. You cannot get angry at the man when we have no idea what motivated him, especially as he is coming to apologise. Perhaps he has things on his mind that we know nothing about, and he did not mean to lash out at me at all. Everyone says how out of character it was for him to do so, therefore there must be an explanation.”

  Shame burned in Henry’s chest as he stood in the open door of the library and heard Florence defend him for no good reason he could think of. He cleared his throat, and she whirled around. Oh, God help him. His breath caught, a dart of longing stabbing at his chest. Her eyes were thickly lashed, and they widened at the sight of him. Henry stared into them, discovering they were most astonishing shade of green and ever so slightly tilted, giving her a somewhat feline appearance.

  “Miss Knight, Lady Helena,” he said, bowing.

  Lady Helena gave him a cool, considering look that lingered for a second longer than was comfortable. She patted her daughter’s arm.

  “I’m going to take a walk down to the lake with Harriet if you want me, darling. Henry,” she added as she walked past him, a warning note in the sound of his name he did not miss.

  Helena left the door ajar, but they were alone now, and Henry had never been more aware of the fact in his life. His senses seemed heightened somehow by her proximity, every part of him orientated towards her. Concentrate, you blithering idiot.

  He cleared his throat again, feeling like a snotty schoolboy and not a man who had seen more of the world than most.

  “Miss Knight, I….” he began, forcing himself to remember the words he’d rehearsed on the ride over here. “I must begin by—”

  “Why don’t you like me?”

  Henry stopped, staring at her in alarm. No, no. This was all wrong. She wasn’t supposed to ask questions, she was supposed to listen to his apology, make him feel wretched a bit longer, and then accept it so they could both go about their business.

  “Er….” Oh, very eloquent, and he was supposed to be the sophisticated man about town.

  She sighed and gave him an impatient glance before walking to the window and staring out.

  “You don’t like me,” she repeated, except it wasn’t a question this time. “You avoid me, never speak to me, even when I’m right in front of you. Have I done something, offended you somehow…?”

  “No!” he said at once, appalled it had been so damned obvious. What a blasted imbecile he was. “No, of course not.”

  She glanced back at him, such hurt in her eyes that he felt that awful stabbing sensation in his chest again. God damn it.

  “Miss Knight, it isn’t… I don’t….” Henry muttered an oath and ran a hand through his hair.

  Every instinct was yelling at him to go to her, to tell her…tell her what? That he wanted to kiss her from her perfect little nose to her innocent toes, and every splendid inch of skin in between, that he wanted to feel her body against his and make her cry out his name. Oh, yes, her parents would love an apology of that nature. Christ. This was bad.

  “It’s all right, Mr Stanhope,” she said, with something that looked horribly like sympathy in her eyes. “I suppose it simply isn’t possible to like everyone. Perhaps I remind you of someone else who was unkind to you in the past. Either way, it is of little consequence. I know you are sorry, so there is no need to prolong the agony. Good day to you.”

  “No. Wait,” he said the words escaping him before he could consider the consequences. “Please.”

  She paused, watching him warily. Damn, but she was perceptive, this young woman, for how else could she know how she stirred the memories of his past? Not that she reminded him of Lily’s golden, blue-eyed beauty. In looks they were like night and day, excep
t Florence Knight was far lovelier, for she had a good heart, a heart he had wounded. She did remind him of his past, though, of the fact that he could be hurt, hurt very deeply, and that made him angry. He did not want to remember a time when he’d been vulnerable. He never wanted to be vulnerable ever again. Yet he owed her something.

  Nausea churned in his guts, but he forced the words out.

  “You do remind me of someone,” he said, not entirely truthfully, but it was as close as he could get, as much as he dared give her. “And I wish to offer my sincere apologies for… for punishing you for another’s sin. It was unforgivable, and I regret it, Miss Knight. I swear that I do.”

  Her expression softened and he saw compassion in her eyes, which only ignited a spark of defensive pride in him. Damn it, he didn’t want her pity. Yet he promised himself he would hold his temper in check, no matter what, she deserved that much. Strangely she seemed to sense the change in his mood and her expression became bland, her voice soft but not too kind, avoiding the sort of well-meaning sympathy he could not tolerate.

  “I understand, and I thank you for your apology, Mr Stanhope. I only hope you can forgive me for reminding you of something painful. Sadly, I do not know how to make amends for that, but I shall try. Good day to you.”

  She left the room and Henry stood rooted to the spot, wishing he’d had the courage to tell her the truth, and then cursing himself for having no more sense than he’d had all those years ago. Florence Knight was a danger to him, whether or not she meant to be, and that was all there was to it.

  Henry rode home, feeling strangely frustrated and annoyed with himself, and with Florence. It was irrational to be angry with her. He knew that. The girl did not know what she did to him and so could hardly be held accountable. Only it was so damned inconvenient. Why couldn’t he have felt a surge of lust for one of the lovely women Harriet had selected for him? At least with a widowed lady of his own age, he might have enjoyed a brief affair with no consequences and got the whole thing out of his system. That was hardly an option with Florence. If he so much as kissed her, they’d have to marry, and that would be him nicely trussed up for the rest of his days. He refused to allow himself to consider the idea, reminding himself that marriage was the very last thing he wanted. What in God’s name did he want with a wife and an end to his freedom? And then there would be children, interfering with his well-ordered life and squalling at all hours of the night and day. No, thank you very much.