Chapter Twenty-One

She overslept.

Daphne stretched herself awake, slowly reveling in the sensation of soft, warm sheets sliding over her bare skin.

Bare skin?

She sat upright, blinking. Everything that had happened came rushing back with a vengeance. She blushed as she recalled what had happened during the night. She had fallen asleep with James holding her snug against his warm chest.

The light through the window told her it was late in the morning, nearing afternoon. She frantically glanced around the room. James wasn’t here.

Frowning, she stood up. There was a fresh pitcher of water standing on the table next to a basin. Sighing, she looked around. There was a dress laying across the stool, a dove gray wool that was faded yet serviceable. She smiled. Her wonderful James must have wanted to give her privacy, she thought happily. He was the most thoughtful man.

Sighing happily, she began to wash. Her thighs were sticky, which only reminded her of what they had done. She blushed. As she wiped the area clean, she winced. She was tender and sore.

Daphne did not have any unmentionables, and neither had James brought any. She felt naughty and wicked. Resigned, she pulled the scratchy wool dress over head. It was going to be a very uncomfortable journey home.

She started to straighten up the room. Although she knew they had paid well for their night’s stay, Daphne believed it was only right to clean up after yourself. Although it was not a popular notion amongst the elite, Papa had impressed this upon her all throughout her childhood. Her years at the boarding school had also pushed this concept deep into her nature.

She moaned as she saw the ruin of the coverlet, however. There were streaks of blood across the pale cover. She blushed scarlet as she realized what the hostess would know as soon as she came to clean up the room.

Refusing to repine on it further, she tossed her hair over a shoulder and quickly quit the room. She would find James and tell him to pay the owners an extra coin for the loss.

However, James was not downstairs, as she had expected. He was nowhere to be seen. Her heart stuttered in her chest at the thought that he might have abandoned her here.

One of the adolescent boys she had noticed the night before wordlessly brought her a bowl of porridge. Sitting down at an empty oblong table, she ate woodenly. Her heart was racing with anxiety. Why would James leave her?

Just when she was ready to run out and chase him back to London, he walked inside. Their eyes locked from across the room. She smiled shyly at him.

“Daphne, will you be ready to go soon?” he asked her quietly.

“I am ready now,” she murmured. “But…”

He took her arm and led her to the door. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.

She dipped her head so he would not see her blush. “Could you leave them an extra coin? I ruined their coverlet.”

He sent her an amused look. “I already did, Daphne. We need to get going if we are ever going to get to London.”

She sighed. She glanced at the stables and realized that there were two horses saddled. She glanced at him inquisitively.

“I seem to recall you know your way around horses,” he told her warmly. “We will make better time this way.”

She nodded. “Yes, I am an adequate rider.”

Her feet padded across the dirt road. James glanced down and frowned. He had forgotten that she did not have shoes. Not that there was any shop hereabout that could remedy that particular problem, but it bothered him that he had not thought of it.

Daphne stood in front of her horse. It was a lively chestnut mare. She stroked her nose while murmuring praise, allowing her to come accustomed to her touch and voice. James watched her, amused.

“We don’t have all day, Daphne,” he reminded her.

She nodded. “I need help,” she admitted ruefully.

James came up behind her. She refused to meet his stare. She was blushing again. It was mortifying. Daphne thought she might have already blushed more in one morning than she had in her entire life.

“Are you terribly sore?” he asked in a low voice.

Oh, God. “A bit,” she admitted faintly.

“Can you ride?”

James stared at the top of her bent head. What was wrong with her? She was acting more the shy virgin than she had last night. He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. God. He didn’t know how to deal with her. In truth, he never had.

“Daphne, answer me. Are you capable of riding on your own?”

“I believe so.” But it would hurt, she thought miserably. She truly was tender.

He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her. She clutched at the mare’s mane and settled herself. It was not too bad, she mused. A tenderness, a small jolt. She watched him swing into his own saddle. A clean, smooth flow of sinew. He truly was a fit man.

The first few minutes, they rode in silence. Daphne spent the time trying to adjust herself to a bearable position. By the time they reached town, she knew she would be in agony. Determinedly, she tried to forget the discomfort and sidled up to James.

“I am eager to reach home,” she told him with forced cheerfulness.

He sent her a furtive glance.

“The very first thing I shall do is have a bath,” Daphne decided eagerly. “Then I will go check on Villiers.”

James cleared his throat.

“You are going to stay with Lady Sinclair,” he told her implacably.

Daphne sent him a shocked look. “What?”

“You will be staying with the Sinclairs until arrangements can be made,” James explained.

“W-what arrangement?” Daphne sputtered.

He sighed heavily. “Arrangements for our wedding.”

By the time they reached London, Daphne was beyond exhausted. Dusk was beginning to fall when they rode down Mayfair, where Lady Sinclair lived.

Daphne sent James a weary glance. His face was cold and rigid as though it had been carved of granite. His jaw was clenched, most likely to contain the urge to shout at her.

He was a nightmare. She was beginning to wonder if he was inhuman. He had set an impossible pace and, even with all her experience, Daphne had been hard-set to keep up with him. He never stopped and she was beginning to wonder if his body did not have the same needs as everyone else. She had to beg for him to stop long enough to relieve herself. As if the mortification of that had not been enough, he had complained about the wasted time when she limped out from behind the bushes.

She was coming to dislike him a great deal.

Daphne let out a long, ragged sigh when they stopped outside the glossy brownstone. James swung down as if they had just come from a ride in Hyde Park rather than halfway across the island. Silently, he swung her down, making certain not to hold her longer than was necessary. She glared at his wide shoulders as he made towards the steps.

“Won’t you reconsider,” Daphne whispered angrily as she half-limped, half-hobbled up behind him.

“We have discussed this,” he whispered fiercely. “I will be held accountable for my actions, Miss Davernay.”

She rolled her eyes as he lifted the heavy brass knocker. He had been like this all day until he had finally insisted she drop the topic so they could make better time. At first, when he had announced his intentions, she had been overjoyed. Then reality had set in. Whatever else he had said, James did not appear at all excited about their upcoming nuptials.

James thought he was doing the honorable thing…the right thing, but for all the wrong reasons. He was marrying her because they had made love, she realized. She had wanted a night with him. Indeed, she would gladly sell her soul for an endless barrage of nights with him. But he did not want that. The Duke did not want her at all, she had realized as they rode together. He could barely stand to look at her now. He was marrying for her sake, not his. She was nothing more than a much-despised duty.

Closing her eyes miserably, she recalled the desperation that had overcome her before all this had come to pass. She had loved, had known her heart’s greatest desire, and accepted the futility of that wish. She had not sought to escape James because she feared herself, but because of the pain. Seeing him each day, knowing he would never be hers, had been the sheerest hell to endure.

How much worse would it be when he actually married her? She would be bound to him, an eternity without end, seeing him, knowing him, living with him, dependent upon only his condescension for her every breath. He would be forever within her reach, but never truly hers, not where it counted.

James might have wanted her at one time, but now that he’d been with her, she knew he had tasted his fill. He had not so much as offered her a brief kiss throughout this longest day. He had only rarely asked after her. She would love him until her last breath. To him, however, Daphne Davernay would only ever be a duty.

It was deplorable.

Daphne forced her eyes open when door finally opened. She somehow dragged herself into the modest entry and into the drawing room where Lady Sinclair’s manservant asked them to wait as he fetched his lady.

James sent Daphne a worried look. His mouth thinned as he stared at her. Stoop shouldered and bedraggled, she seemed nothing even remotely similar to the vibrant little butterfly he had known. Her hair fell in tangled knots around a pale face. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. She couldn’t even walk properly, he thought, furious with himself. He had treated her callously, as though she were a leman rather than a lady.

He renewed his vow to make it up to her for the rest of his life. She should be garbed in only the rarest of silks, not an offensive stretch of coarse wool. He shoved a fisted hand roughly into the pocket of his coat. If he were not a loathsome, vulgar lout, she would not be in this condition. At least he knew she would be safe when they were wed.

“Daphne, please,” he said roughly, losing control of his uncontrolled emotions, “sit.”

He grasped her arm. She immediately froze, as though terrified he would attack her. A low, keening cry rose deep within his chest. He released her at once. God! What had he done to her?

He drew his fingers back through his mismanaged hair in frustration as Lady Sinclair walked in.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him formally. “Miss Davernay!”

Daphne sent Lady Sinclair a tired smile.

“Oh, you must be exhausted. Please, sit down. Are you hungry?”

“I cannot stay overlong,” James said stiffly, opting to remain standing.

Lady Sinclair took Daphne by the hand and led her to a plump settee, forcing her down. Daphne collapsed inelegantly, exhaustion taking over.

Lady Sinclair sent the Duke of Cheney a worried glance. “My dear, whatever happened? You look terrible.”

“It was terrible, my lady,” Daphne admitted in a low whisper. “That… that awful man took me to Gretna Green!”

Chrysanthe’s mother grasped her hand in alarm. “But you are uninjured?” Please, Lady Sinclair thought wretchedly. Let the girl be all right.

“I am well enough,” Daphne lied.

“I was hoping you could extend your hospitality for a few days, Lady Sinclair,” James interrupted determinedly. “As soon as I can make arrangements, Miss Davernay and I are to be wed.”

“Please,” she whispered pleadingly.

Lady Sinclair glanced from Daphne to the obdurate Duke. “I shall be pleased to help however I might,” she said carefully.

He nodded brusquely. “Miss Davernay needs house room until I can make the arrangements.”

“Oh, please allow me to host a wedding,” Lady Sinclair interrupted.

Daphne sent her a horrified look.

She smiled serenely. “It will give the girls something to do while we wait. Surely you shall permit Lady Annalise to remain with us, as well?”

He bowed his head regally.

Daphne turned to her hostess, her eyes beseeching ineffectually. “It is not necessary—”

“Miss Davernay, there will be a wedding, whether you will it or nay,” James thundered. “I suggest you resign yourself to planning a quick, quiet wedding, to your pleasure. I promise you unlimited resources.”

“Your Grace, you must be exhausted,” Lady Sinclair hurriedly interjected. She had noticed how Daphne blanched as his merciless tone. “Please, will you not allow me to call for refreshment.”

His eyes bore into Daphne’s. “You are gracious, my lady, but no. There is much to do.”

Daphne blinked back tears. She could not bear what he meant to do.

James remembered himself and bowed to Lady Sinclair. “Your servant, madam. Miss Davernay,” he added more coolly.

Chrysanthe’s mother stared after him for several long moments after he had left, a baffling look on her face. She seemed to remember, herself, though, and turned to Daphne with a forced cheerfulness she did not believe the dear woman could actually feel.

“I dare say you are starved,” she said kindly. “What would you like first? Food? A bath?”

Daphne smiled tentatively. “A bath would be good.”