Page 12 of Barbarous

For a moment she considered reminding her maid she was out of mourning and ordering her to select another gown. Ultimately, however, she decided she was in no mood to engage in a second argument with her emotional servant.

Besides, it annoyed her that she was even entertaining thoughts of dresses. She’d always despised frivolous matters such as clothing and fashion.

It annoyed her still more that the reason behind her sudden interest in clothing—all six-and-a-half feet of him—was a man who would never notice a tall, matronly, and bespectacled woman like herself.

And it especially annoyed her that her body’s response to his potent masculinity had been so immediate and almost overwhelming.

She told herself that women far more sophisticated than she probably wouldn’t remain unaffected in such a man’s presence. But that didn’t help her humor.

It wasn’t just his gorgeous exterior—which was bad enough—it was the confidence, danger, and sheer animal magnetism he exuded.

And then there was the fact he was One-Eyed Standish.

Daphne rolled her eyes; he was a pirate, for pity’s sake. And not just any pirate, he was the pirate. Well, if one were to be precise—and precision was a characteristic Daphne valued highly—the man was not in truth a pirate but a privateer. A pirate with the King’s blessing, in other words. The very same man all of Britain referred to as the King’s Privateer.

It was beyond fantastic that her very proper husband’s nephew would turn out to be none other than One-Eyed Standish, the scourge of corsairs and French sailors everywhere. What would Thomas have said about his nephew’s return? What would he have thought about his normally prosaic young wife’s immediate attraction to a man who was a consummate rake and scoundrel? Daphne had to smile at the thought. Thomas had possessed a finely honed sense of the absurd—as did Hugh Redvers, although he took no pains to hide it as her staid, elderly husband had done.

One thing Daphne knew for certain was that close proximity to Hugh—living in the same house with him—would lead to danger. And most likely humiliation.

But what else could she do? Disclose the truth about her sons at the dinner table tonight and leave before morning? And go where? How would they live? Would she have to tuck the twins away in the decaying house in Yorkshire—the only piece of property she truly owned?

She had her jointure, so there would be enough money to scratch out a humble existence. But what kind of life would her sons have in the aftermath of such scandal? And what if Hugh Redvers was the kind of man who wanted retribution?

Sickness and fear roiled in her stomach and she pressed her hands against her midriff. Hugh Redvers had gone without what was his for years—surely Daphne could take a little time to consider how best to broach the matter? To make plans?

Malcolm’s bloody face drifted through her mind and she closed her eyes. Malcolm. She had forgotten about him and his threats. Good God. How long did she have, with Malcolm nipping at her heels like an ill-tempered lapdog?

Daphne brooded on the matter while Rowena fussed with her hair, attempting to conceal the scratch and goose egg on her forehead. Daphne had almost come to blows with her fractious maid when Rowena had discovered the injury.

“You must get in bed immediately, Miss Daphne.”

“I will do no such thing, Rowena.”

“Indeed, you must. I will make a poultice and you will—”

“I will not argue with you,” she’d said, her voice cold enough to freeze water. But of course that had not been the end of it and Daphne had argued for half an hour more.

How could she possibly lie in bed with a smelly concoction on her head while Hugh Redvers was at large? She was far too restless to keep to her bed, even if she had felt like it.

She stared at Rowena’s deft hands as the maid tamed her unruly blond curls, her mind on Hugh Redvers and the evening ahead. How she wished she’d asked Thomas more about his long-lost heir when she’d had the chance. But the subject had always been a painful one for her husband and she knew Thomas blamed himself for sending Hugh to the Continent all those years ago.

A familiar tightness built in Daphne’s chest at the thought of her beloved husband, friend, and mentor. Thomas had been good to her in so many ways—from the moment he’d offered her the protection of his name to all the years that followed. He had been especially good to her children—whom he had always called theirs.

“They are the best sons a man could wish for, Daphne. And you, my dear,” Thomas had said on his deathbed, “are the daughter I always wished I’d had. While I’m sorry you’ve been forced into a marriage of convenience rather than enjoying the union of love you deserve, I’m honored to have been of use to you.”

Daphne had stayed with Thomas day and night after the riding accident that had left him paralyzed and broken. She’d been unable to envision a life without his safe, caring presence. Without his love.

“I only wish your mother could have lived to see the beautiful, strong woman you’ve become, Daphne. She would have been so proud.” The earl’s eyes had been clouded and distant, and she knew it was her mother, Althea—Thomas’s dearest friend—that he was seeing rather than Daphne.

“You are still a young woman, Daphne, and it is my dearest wish that you finally find happiness after I’m gone.”

“I have been happy with you, Thomas.”

His pain-filled smile had been gentle. “I want you to find love—love like I once had.”

Tears welled in Daphne’s eyes as she remembered those words—among his last.

Rowena squinted at Daphne’s reflection, her hands pausing in their work. “Are you ill, my lady?”