A Kiss to Remember Read online

  Annalise started out of the parlor, and Daphne followed silently. She did not know how to mend this bridge, not now, but she did not want Annalise to go off like this. She started to open her mouth, but Anna was already addressing a waiting Villiers.

  “Please escort Miss Davernay to my brother,” she ordered the butler. “I believe he is expecting her?”

  The cold, formal tone was like a slap. Daphne gasped. She knew Annalise heard her, but she did not turn around to look at her. Her straight shoulders stiffened as she turned towards the spiraling stairs that led upstairs.

  Villiers bowed his head to her. Daphne blinked.

  “If you will but follow me, Miss Daphne.”

  She did not want to, but she found there was no other choice. Sighing inwardly, she followed the dark figure of Villiers through a glittering hall into a less-brightly lit corridor. Here there were paintings on the walls, old paintings depicting the venerated line of dukes and nobles that had preceded the current Duke. There were no flowers or light watercolors to soften the formality of the corridor, no soft, inviting colors.

  The heavy oaken doors were all shut to her, as she passed several, and she could not help but wonder what great mysteries they contained. At the very end of the hall was an enormous door, somewhat thicker than the others, set far away from all the paintings. On the opposite wall, down to the left, was a high pedestal where an ivory bust rested. She found herself gawking at the hawkish features of the face, and wondering who it could possibly be or just why anyone would want such a thing in their home.

  She was so absorbed in glaring at the offending statue, she did not hear Villiers knocking on the door or the quiet conversation between the two men. Although Villiers said her name several times, she did not hear him. Finally, he touched her shoulder lightly. She jerked her attention, eyes wide with alarm.

  “Miss Daphne, His Grace will see you now.”

  She nodded. She would have liked to thank him. As intimidating as he was, Villiers had treated her kindly so far, but she found her lips would not move. Bowing her head, she stepped inside the formidable room.

  The door shut with a small click of finality behind her back. Beneath the veil of frizzy curls and her own lowered lashes, she cast a cursory glance around the room. She took in the wide mahogany desk, the two chairs set in front of it, and several bookcases filled with journals or, possibly, ledgers. There was also a small chest which would, she had no doubt, have several important papers hidden, probably locked away.

  She waited until the last possible moment to glance at the towering man standing behind the desk. Heart beating frantically now, she took in the sheer height of him, the width of his shoulders, and became breathless. His green eyes were as sharp as daggers biting into her.

  He seemed to be waiting for him to look at him.

  “Good evening, Miss Davernay.”

  * * * *

  James could only stare for several long, tense moments at the girl before him. No, a woman he corrected himself. She was no longer the chubby child he recalled, but a woman grown.

  And such a woman! Rather than being the somewhat overweight little midget he had expected, she was magnificent. Beyond magnificent, he thought wryly. Indeed, it was nigh impossible for a man, even one so remote as he, not to react to her appearance.

  She was quite unlike any debutante he had ever met before, he mused. Something about her set her apart from the others.

  It was not simply that she was so petite in stature, for he had met many girls of slighter height. It was not either that her hair was such a sweet hue of gold, or that it seemed to shimmer in the light. He had, indeed, known many blonde beauties. Nor was it the fact that her wide chocolate eyes were heavily lidded and thickly lashed, or the soft fullness of a generous mouth. It was not even the faintly golden hue of her skin, speaking of the hours she enjoyed to spend outdoors.

  She wore a dark gown of mourning, as was appropriate. The black should have made her look drawn, or perhaps washed out, but it only accentuated the sheer golden glow of her, the innate beauty. It also revealed generous, feminine curves, a woman’s body ripe for…

  Marriage, he reminded himself sternly. She was of marriageable age now. She was ready for her first Season.

  He cleared his throat at the uncomfortable train of his thoughts. Damnation, the girl was sad and remote, and all he could think about was how pretty she was, indeed, those generous curves made his fingers itch to touch. He was the lowest sort of cad!

  “Please,” he said in a voice far more gruff than he intended, “take a seat, Miss Davernay.”

  Head still bowed, she did so, and he watched with no little amusement as she made a great show of settling her skirts just so before she carefully folded slim hands in her lap.

  James glanced at the papers sat out on his desk. He had been poring, once more, over the will. He could barely comprehend the vast size of the estate himself. He knew when society heard tale of the young heiress he would have every single destitute scoundrel in London beating in his door.

  “We were sorry to hear of your grave loss,” he began, only to cut off when her intense brown eyes shot up to his. They were burning with emotion. So dark and liquid, so deep… He found himself losing his thoughts, his very senses, simply looking into her eyes.

  Discomfited, James glanced away as he cleared a suddenly tight throat. “Ah, I had not known that your father had made so many changes to his will, Daphne.”

  She shifted, uncomfortable with the subject. He glanced back to her worried face. “I did not know,” she admitted ruefully.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her why Baron Davernay had named him as Daphne’s guardian should he die before she reached her twenty-first birthday, but as he studied her tensed shoulders, the wary, barely disguised fear, etched on her soft features, he decided to hold off to another time.

  The truth was he had barely known her father. He had met the man all of two times, the first being Daphne’s tenth birthday party which James had escorted his sister to attend, and the second being a chance meeting at White’s when the baron was briefly in town. Both times they had spoken amicably enough, but they could hardly have been called comrades.

  With a brief sigh, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. If he had high hopes of clearing up the confusion her father’s last wishes had left behind, he knew that it would not be now. The remote young woman sitting before him was keeping her tongue still. Whether for dubious reasons of her own, or simple shock and sorrow, he could not yet say.

  “Your father left you a substantial inheritance,” James commented, testing the waters. It was a vast understatement.

  She shook her head, sending glittering curls dancing. Her eyes were clouded with confusion. “I did not understand when…when—”

  He shook his head. He had little doubt that she had understood. Davernay’s barrister had been a self-important old man who, in James’s opinion, dealt better with the complicated intricacies of the law than with people. He also, James recalled, had a very peculiar sense of humor.

  “Daphne, erm, Miss Davernay, did you honestly have no idea as to just how wealthy you were?”

  She shrugged. “I do know Papa was forever working on his books,” she whispered in a voice filled with heart-wrenching sorrow. “We did not struggle, but…”

  How like a woman to have little care for financial matters so long as she has what she desires, he mused darkly. “I dare say Baron Davernay was one of the wealthiest men in all England. How odd that so few knew of it.”

  Daphne shook her head, smiling slightly, despite herself. “Papa liked the simple life. He never wanted all the trappings of life in the city. Breeding horses was his greatest joy. What will happen to them now?”

  He reached back and rubbed the tensed muscles in his neck. “All his earthly belongings passe
d onto you, Daphne. If you like, I can arrange for your horses to be taken to one of our country estates. It would be better for the animals than life in the city,” he added ruefully.

  Her eyes cleared. She sent him an inquisitive look. “What of the servants, Your Grace? Will they remain at Lilac Hall?”

  He let out a weary sigh. “Daphne, Lilac Hall is no longer your concern. The next baron shall have the choice of choosing whether to keep them or pension them off.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Davernay, the title and lands attached to the title are old. It has been in your family for several centuries. One of your ancestors did mention that, ah, should the current lord die without the benefit of a male heir, it shall pass unto the next male descendant. This is, I believe your—”

  “Uncle Jonathan,” she exclaimed. “I don’t… Please, Your Grace, it is my home! It is the only home I have ever known.”

  James saw tears fill her eyes. He turned abruptly away to pour himself a snifter of brandy. He didn’t really want it. He had little tolerance for the drink. Neither did he want the trial of enduring feminine tears. He was hopelessly inept at dealing with women and their wayward emotions.

  He was still turned away from her when he mumbled, “There is nothing to do be done, Miss Davernay. If the manor is lost, it will immediately revert back to the crown.”

  She sniffed inaudibly. “I see. So, you are saying that I have no rights, not even to my own home! I can never return?”

  He sighed. At least she sounded incensed rather than weepy now. He turned back to face her once more.

  “It follows the letter of the law, Miss Davernay. No one, not even a Duke,” he added dryly, “can alter the law. From what I understand, your uncle, Jon Morton, isn’t it?”

  At her nod, he continued firmly.

  “I understand he is quite destitute.”

  She blushed faintly, yet nodded once more. She wasn’t about to try to explain about her uncle’s gambling problems, and subsequent failing health. Nor did she have any desire to explain why her apparently wealthy father had downright refused to bail him out this latest time. Papa had long ago given up on reforming Uncle Jonathan’s recalcitrant ways.

  “Then there is every chance that the estate will be lost. If that happens, it is possible that our king will place it on the market. It takes a great deal of blunt to properly run any vast estate, and your father left nothing but for what is required by law.”

  “By law?”

  “That is, any family heirlooms, family possessions. His private belongings and wealth now belong entirely to you. Even if you choose to marry, they will belong to you. Nothing can change that, Miss Davernay.”

  She frowned slightly. “But…”

  He lifted his brows in inquiry when she trailed off. “Yes?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “At…at the boarding school, we were told that any inheritance we may ever have will transfer directly either to our guardians or husbands. Women are not permitted to sustain personal wealth.”

  He nodded. “In most cases, that is true, Miss Davernay,” James agreed. “Your father was intelligent enough to put the majority of his wealth into a special trust for you, and only you,” he added sternly. “Should you marry, it shall always be yours, to do with whatever you like. Consider it protection.”

  She bristled. “Protection against what?”

  “An unwise husband who would run through your dowry and inheritance without a thought for the future.”

  She remained quiet for several moments. James sipped at his brandy, waiting. He knew she was rapidly thinking about all he had told her.

  “If that is true, Your Grace, then should I not be able to purchase my own home here in London?”

  He shook his head. “As your guardian, I would never permit it, Miss Davernay.”

  “Surely there are many women who own their own property—”

  “Not ones I would ever allow you to associate with! Miss Davernay, unmarried ladies of breeding simply do not cavort about on their own without escort. Some widows may choose, briefly, to live alone, but even they have hired companions, and most do eventually choose to remarry.”

  “That is what I would wish to do,” she said stubbornly.

  James sighed deeply. He was not cut out to deal with women, or young girls. Supporting Annalise was one thing. He had no choice in that. She was family. Daphne Davernay was a whole different matter altogether.

  “I will forbid it, Miss Davernay. Until you reach your majority, or until you find a suitable husband, you will be under my control.”

  Her mouth firmed into a taut, unhappy line, but she said no more. James carefully sat back down and nervously shifted the papers once more. He did not know what to say to her to soften the blow. He could imagine how she felt just now, orphaned, at the hands of a world that did not respect women, or even consider them remotely capable. That James knew there were sound reasons for the law did not mean he could not understand how a woman, one especially as young and naïve as Daphne Davernay, might react in such a situation.

  “We do have a decision to make, Miss Davernay,” he mumbled.

  She sent him an odd look. “I am sorry, Your Grace. What did you say?”

  James felt his own face heat with a slight blush. Damnation! He had spent years teaching himself control. He no longer mumbled when he was nervous, not for years now. How could this slip of a girl, lovely though she may be, revert him back to the pain of his youth? He repeated himself while glaring intently at the weave of the wood of his desk.

  “Decisions? What possible decisions have you to make? You control my life, as you have reminded me,” she hissed.

  “Not your life,” he calmly countered. “You are in my protection, and if you need protecting from yourself—”

  “I assure you, I do not!”

  “Very well, then.” James wisely decided to change the tone of their conversation. “Under normal circumstances, you would spend a quiet year of mourning for the loss of your father before you are seen about town. However, it is my understanding that you were preparing for a London Season?”

  “Yes, Papa had already taken me before the queen. He was going to hire a local woman to see to my wardrobe,” she added thoughtfully. It was occurring to her just how many people relied on her father for their sustenance and would now be struggling themselves.

  “As that may be, perhaps you would consider a Season now? Understand, I do not mean to undermine your father,” he added hastily when Daphne blanched. “If you choose, I shall hire a companion for you and shall send you to one of my quiet estates to mourn him in peace. I would take you myself, but, you understand, Annalise needs her Season, as well. It shall be necessary that I stay here for her needs.”

  Daphne swallowed audibly. She had gone pale, he noticed, and looked for all the world as though she might faint. She remained quiet for so long, that James thought of sending for a woman to tend her. She looked absolutely ill.

  He had just started to rise to do just that when she speared him with a dark glance. “I suppose I should go ahead and face my own Season, Your Grace.”

  Chapter Two

  Daphne lay on a cream-covered chaise that was settled before a tiered window, staring out listlessly into a dull London afternoon. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, while thick raindrops splattered down on the cobbled stones far below. The streets were mostly empty, with a hack rushing by occasionally, as though to hurry their fare to their destination so the driver could find a warm, dry spot to refresh himself.

  She sighed and thought about the current muddle of her life. It would have been so easy if her guardian would have agreed to allow her to purchase her own home. For goodness sake, she was more than ready and willing to take on a companion. Why would he consider a companion for her in the country, but not in the city? She
was certain he could not be happy about having a ward, especially a girl that had always been an annoyance to him.

  Even if she could stay in the city, and he would turn a blind eye to her as he cavorted Annalise to all the balls and musicales and luncheons they could stomach, it would have been better. Apparently, the foolish man was prepared to play his part of this ridiculous charade, however. She could not even begin to think of where to begin with the high-and-mighty Duke standing over her shoulder.

  Daphne jerked into awareness as her door swung open, then slammed once more. She swung her legs down to the floor and sat there, gawking at Annalise. Her friend was wearing a dull, gray gown that did absolutely nothing for her pale complexion. Her hair, for once, was down, sliding like strands of rich silk over her shoulders. Her eyes were flashing with true anger and, more, hurt, Daphne thought. She opened her mouth to speak, but Annalise beat her to it.

  “Why are you ignoring me?” she demanded shrilly.

  “What? I’m not—”

  “I was pounding on your door for at least five minutes, Daphne! Don’t you dare tell me you weren’t ignoring me.”

  Daphne stood up slowly, warily, as though approaching a dangerous animal. Her friend, it was apparent, was in a high temper and none of the platitudes that came easily rushing to her tongue would help matters.

  “I am sorry,” Daphne said slowly, truly contrite. She had spoken abominably to Annalise last night. “I must have been wool-gathering.”

  “Wool-gathering. Hmph.”

  Daphne struggled not to smile. “Anna—”

  “Don’t you think you can get around me that way, Daphne. I want some answers! What is wrong with you?”

  Unconsciously, Daphne began to pace. She knew now that she would need to tell her friends what had happened, and what she must now do. Without their understanding, she could fail or, much worse, lose her friends completely.