Page 30 of The Lady Knows Best

“But surely you disapprove of Lord Deveraux as a suitor,” she ventured. “You would not want to see me married to such a man.”

“If his conduct has been what is often claimed,” Cami said, “I disapprove of it, certainly. Though there are often innocuous explanations for what appears to the world to be outrageous, unforgivable behavior.” Daphne knew now she was thinking at least as much of the stories that had swirled about her own husband before they married. “As to whether I disapprove of him . . .” She paused to take a sip of tea—an uncharacteristic hesitation. “Well, I should want to know him better before making a judgment, either way.” A faraway look settled over her eyes, and her lips quirked at some memory. “You know what they say about husbands and reformed rakes.”

Daphne nodded. “I do indeed.”

She laid a hand on the bundle of quills, and though one corner of the note pricked her palm warningly, she tightened her grip. The entire conversation only confirmed that she must write her essay and remind young women of the true danger such men presented.

And there was something particularly satisfying in the notion of Lord Deveraux being hoist with his own petard.

CHAPTER 10

From the street, Laurens House was comparatively unassuming: a double-front brownstone, rows of evenly spaced windows, and an engraved brass knocker. It might have been the home of any well-to-do gentleman; nothing about it in particular marked it out as the home of the Duke of Raynham.

What set Laurens House apart were the gardens, a rarity in Mayfair.

Alistair’s sisters were chattering about them when Miles joined their party. They were still chattering as the five of them waited in the receiving line, which wound through an elegantly furnished drawing room from whose windows the gardens could be glimpsed. He heard talk of spectacular roses and a display of exotics brought back from far-flung travels.

For his own part, Miles was considerably more interested in the duke and duchess.

He’d seen them before, of course, but not since he’d met Daphne. And, well, Alistair’s words and present circumstances had cast the whole family in rather a different light. As they paid their respects to the dowager duchess, the present duke’s stepmama, Miles was almost too distracted to weigh in on Alistair’s apologies for bringing an uninvited guest. Freddie had to kick the side of his foot twice before he realized that he ought to bow and beg the woman’s pardon on his own behalf.

“Not at all,” she said with a smile. Her blue eyes twinkled knowingly. “You are most welcome, Lord Deveraux.”

The duke did not smile—in fact, Miles wondered whether such an expression might not cause the man’s granite-hewn features to crack. He said, “Deveraux,” in a convincing approximation of a greeting, however, and Miles, who was trying to forget everything he knew about Daphne’s brothers-in-law and their proclivities for spilling blood, bowed his head in acknowledgment and hurried Freddie down the line.

He searched the duchess’s face for some familiar feature, a reminder of why he’d come. But Daphne, who looked nothing like her sister, the Marchioness of Ashborough, looked even less like her sister, the Duchess of Raynham. Not in the eyes, which in the duchess’s case were a warm hazel brown, almost golden in the afternoon light, and certainly not in the hair, which was a breathtaking, scandalous shade of red.

Miles bowed and apologized for himself this time, but the duchess waved away his concerns. “What’s one more?” That lack of restraint, a willingness to defy the rules of so-called good society, was the first family trait he noted, and one he generally admired.

As a philosophy of entertaining, however, it meant the house was almost uncomfortably full of guests. The receiving line wound through the drawing room with all the alacrity of a river of molasses. And in the dining room, opposite, people crowded together, talking around mouthfuls of watercress sandwiches and lobster salad.

Miles began to despair of ever even spotting Daphne in this mass of humanity.

The gardens, when he and Lady Frederica eventually reached them, were a welcome respite. Though there were ladies and gentlemen everywhere, walking arm in arm, admiring the abundance of roses in every imaginable shade, at least a fellow could breathe.

Well, most fellows could, anyway. Turning Freddie loose to follow her brother’s sneezes, Miles set off in the opposite direction, down a path of springy, close-cropped grass.

Outdoors, it was easier to ignore the other guests’ snubs and cuts, easier to tell himself that they were turning away to inspect an unusual flower, and not because they refused to risk brushing shoulders with a man so low, he would make wagers involving ladies. He thought of Alistair’s claim that he was incapable of believing himself disliked. But the truth of the matter was somehow more embarrassing yet.

He was incapable of being alone . . . and to ensure such a fate never befell him, he was willing to marry a woman who disliked him intensely.

And speak of the devil . . . was not that Daphne, seated on a bench in a rose-bordered bower, enjoying the attentions of not one but three lovelorn swains?

His heart began to thrum in a way that he would have surely called jealousy in anyone else. But really, why shouldn’t Daphne attract gentlemen’s notice? She was witty, with a winning smile when it could be coaxed to appear; she had lovely, expressive eyes, and soft, kissable lips....

The woman in the bower was Bellis, however. Not Daphne. And the relief he experienced at that discovery was not something he cared to investigate too closely. In fact, he turned away rather than approach her and see the contempt in her eyes, which were no doubt a familiar shade of steely blue. Daphne might not look like her elder sisters, but the resemblance between the two youngest sisters was striking.

“Lord Deveraux?”

He could pretend not to have heard his name, pretend that the hum of conversation, the lush shrubbery and flowers, had absorbed the sound of her voice. He took three strides back toward the house, then paused and glanced over his shoulder. She had risen and was coming after him.

“You were looking for Daphne, I suppose?”

The question was not as hostile as he had expected. Still, he hesitated. “I, er . . .”

“She’s upstairs. With Vivi and the boys.”

He didn’t understand a word she’d said, but he smiled his gratitude nonetheless and focused on the first detail. “Upstairs?” Above them was nothing but brilliant blue skies, hardly even a cloud.