Chapter Twenty-Two

Daphne walked slowly into the parlor, careful not to overtax her sore, aching muscles. She looked around curiously. Chrysanthe had rarely invited her friends over to visit. Daphne used to think it was because she was worried her home could not meet up to their expectations but as she stared at the outstanding décor, not to mention the handsomely attired woman to whom all this belonged, she could not help but wonder what Chrys had been worried about.

“There she is,” Annalise crooned, half-rising from her perch upon a comfortable chair upholstered in fine brocade in her eagerness.

Daphne smiled faintly. It was so wonderful to be surrounded in a bower of women at last. She had not realized how much she could miss her friends until she had been deprived of their comforting support and their bickering and jests. It was like having a stray beam of sunlight flicker through drawn draperies on the most dreary of days.

“Come, my dear child; sit by me,” Lady Sinclair invited, patting the settee where she sat with a steaming cup of chocolate.

Annalise poured Daphne a cup of tea while she slowly walked across the room. The bath had helped a great deal, but her thighs were still throbbing incessantly. She felt mismatched as she sat down, oddly out of place in the outstanding room. They had a difficult time finding aught Daphne could borrow until her own clothes arrived. Both Lady Sinclair and Chrysanthe were quite petite and small-boned. Even Annalise was too slim for Daphne to stretch into her clothes. Lady Sinclair had finally found an old, flowing dressing gown she had worn while pregnant with Chrysanthe.

Daphne sat comfortably for several long minutes, sipping at her tea. It was almost amusing. All three women were staring at her as though they expected her to break out into song at any moment. She knew they expected her to admit aught that had happened to her since she had disappeared. Daphne had no such intentions, however, although she knew she would have to admit a great deal.

Chrysanthe was the first to break. She had always been the most impatient.

“So? Tell us what happened, Daph! We’ve been dying with suspense.”

“And worry,” Annalise hastily added, as though Daphne might misunderstand what Chrys had meant.

Daphne sighed and sat the tea into her lap. It was most unnerving to have three pairs of female and, admittedly, intelligent eyes gawking at her.

She cleared her throat nervously and began, “Well, I suppose you know most of it. Earl of Brentwood broke into the Duke’s home a few days ago and kidnapped me.”

“But why?” Annalise wondered. “I mean, we have ideas why he did it, but why did he really do it?”

“You know he was pursuing me and that I was avoiding him, Annalise,” Daphne retorted simply. “He got tired of waiting, I suppose. He took me out of the house and into a hack he had obtained for the occasion.”

Daphne stopped and frowned, considering how much to tell them. She wasn’t about to admit how terrified she had been, or any of his numerous threats. Nor did she have any desire to explain how he had coerced her into cooperating with his malevolent plans. Self-consciously, she dipped her head so that her hair would mostly cover her cheek. Although it had healed nicely, there was still the briefest shadow of a bruise marring her face.

Daphne cleared her throat. “He took me to Gretna Green,” she continued quietly. “I knew my time was about out if I wanted to find a way out of the… situation.”

She glanced up at them with an amused smile in her eye. “Gretna isn’t at all romantic,” she added furtively. “It was terrible and muddy and ugly. I cannot understand why so many ladies speak so fondly of the place.”

Lady Sinclair chuckled slightly, amused. She sent Daphne a benevolent beam.

“But how did you get away?” Chrysanthe demanded abruptly.

Daphne told them briefly of how she tricked the minister and how he, and everyone else as far as she could tell, refused to help her. She told them how she spent most of the night running away, in the mud, hiding in first one place and then another.

“Then he caught me,” she sighed. “But it was okay. Jam-erm, the Duke arrived. He saved me.”

Lady Sinclair lifted her brows. “He saved you, dear girl?”

Daphne shifted uncomfortably. She had absolutely no intention at all, whatsoever, of ever telling another soul about that moment. Just thinking about it made her heart pound. James had been so frightful, so absolute. He had not hesitated at all when he had gunned down Brentwood. She did not want anyone else to know what happened.

Especially Anna.

“Yes, my guardian saved me,” Daphne repeated more forcefully. “He put me on his horse and we rode most of the night. He did not want to stop at an inn until we were safely back in England.” Or so she had assumed, anyhow. He had not precisely said so much to her, had he?

“Then what happened?” Chrys wanted to know.

Daphne smiled. “He found an inn and we stayed the night. He purchased a dress for me as mine was beyond redemption. In the morning, he had a horse for me, and we rode here in all haste.”

“Uh, Daphne,” Annalise said weakly.

“Yes, Anna?”

“You left something out.”

Daphne blinked. “Did I?”

“You did,” Lady Sinclair agreed benignly.

“L-like what?”

Chrys glowered. “Like why you are going to be marrying as soon as possible.”

Daphne gulped. “We aren’t,” she announced defensively.

Lady Sinclair patted her hand. “He appears to have other ideas, my dear. Perhaps we could help?”

Daphne let out a long sigh of relief. Possibly Lady Sinclair could talk James out of his ridiculous notions. Or help her run away. Or… anything that might save her and James from what he meant to do.

“He is being utterly foolish,” Daphne confided passionately.

“How?” they all wanted to know.

“Well, the inn had only one room available,” she lied. James hadn’t even asked, she recalled. He had wanted one room, period. The end. “We were forced to share a room for the night. Because of this he seems to believe my reputation shall be utterly ruined unless he… rectifies the situation somehow.”

Annalise sent her a disbelieving look.

“It is true,” Daphne spat feelingly.

“No one said it was not,” Lady Sinclair murmured knowingly. Daphne’s version of the events appeared to have some gaping holes. She could easily fill in the blanks herself. “But if what you say is true…”

“Would I lie to you? To my friends?” Daphne felt a twinge of guilt for doing just that.

“Would you?” Anna worried.

“Where did you sleep?”

Daphne frowned down at her tea. She took a sip and nearly choked. It was now lukewarm and not at all palatable. “Um, it was a bit cold so I slept under the covers. He slept on top.”

“On top of what?” Chrysanthe asked slyly.

Daphne flushed with embarrassment. “The covers!”

“My dear, your guardian is correct,” Lady Sinclair interrupted the amusing exchange. “You are quite ruined now.”

Daphne shrugged. “I was already ruined.”

“For one Season, perhaps merely two,” Chrysanthe’s mother chided. “If you spent a night alone with a man, any man, you are wholly ruined now.”

“But Elliot would marry me anyway,” she pouted. “Indeed, I dare say he would marry me if I had slept with the whole of the Royal Calvary.”

“Daphne Davernay,” Annalise gasped, horrified.

Chrysanthe sniggered. “See? I told you she was becoming more like me.”

“That isn’t something to boast about,” her mother scolded her meaningfully.

“But Lady Sinclair, I cannot possibly wed to…him,” Daphne said hotly. “I have an understanding with my…with Elliot,” she supplied. In truth, it was difficult to see her cousin as a husband. “What will happen to him?”

“He is a man grown, my dear, indeed elder to you by several years, unless I miss my guess. He is capable of taking care of himself.”

“But—”

“Daphne,” Lady Sinclair said in a voice that brooked no argument, “you must marry the Duke of Cheney.”

Chrysanthe and Annalise shared a worried look. Daphne was looking petulant and, unless they misjudged her, not at all inclined to go along with the plan. Had they miscalculated her true sentiments for her guardian?

More gently, Lady Sinclair added, “Truly, dear child, the sooner you accept this, the better all shall be. When you accept, we can begin.”

Daphne blinked. “Begin what?”

“Why, planning a wedding fit for a duchess, of course.”

* * * *

“The pink satin!”

“No, the gold brocade.”

“Try the Venetian silk.”

Daphne stood still, goggling, as a harried seamstress slid bolts of fabric over her shoulders as the women argued and made impossible suggestions until surely the Frenchwoman would throw up her hands and refuse to finish the job.

Daphne shrugged out from beneath a pile of cloth and marched over to her hostess, fisting her hands on her hips. “This is utterly ridiculous, your ladyship! This is a mockery of a wedding. The Duke does not want much of anyone present. A waste of coin and time, and I for one—”

“Will suffer through the indignity of it all with nobility and decorum, as any grateful duchess should,” Chrysanthe’s mother told her threateningly.

Chrysanthe goggled the two women. Daphne had just risen in her regard. She had never seen anyone stand up to her mother before. Her respect intensified tenfold as Daphne scowled menacingly.

“I mean no disrespect, my lady, but I am not a duchess, I am just Dumpy Daphne. I don’t want a wedding gown, I don’t want diamonds and I most certainly do not wish to wed that barbaric scoundrel,” she said, her voice rising up until she was shouting at the very end.

Lady Sinclair lifted a brow in fascination. “Well done, Daphne. Add a few years, and you should have all the ton cowed.”

Daphne stomped to the window, muttering under her breath all the while. Chrysanthe distinctly heard something about men and she thought she heard a few blasphemies aimed at her mother, as well. Chrysanthe had never dared such irreverence in her life. One look at the livid look in her mother’s eyes, and she knew she never would be quite so brave.

Helena Sinclair was capable of great kindness. She could nurture and love like the best of them, but when riled, her temper was insurmountable.

Chrysanthe would never dare to chance her ire. Nope. No way. Not in this lifetime.

Lady Sinclair forced a breezy smile. “Daphne, dearest, do you have a preference over flowers?”

Daphne sent them all a fulminating look. “Thistles,” she said sweetly.

“Hyacinths would be charming,” Annalise interjected, praying to calm their tempers. “Don’t you think?”

“Roses,” Chrysanthe murmured.

“Quite suitable.” Her mother sent her only daughter an approving nod. “What color?”

“Pink and gold.” Annalise sighed.

“White,” Chrysanthe said thoughtfully.

“Black.”

The Frenchwoman burst into raucous laughter.

“B-black?” Annalise stammered weakly.

“Yes, black. My flowers should illuminate the occasion, don’t you think, Chrys?”

“Um…ah…”

“Yes, you are quite right, Chrysanthe, we should decide on the colors for the wedding before deciding about what color the flowers should be,” Lady Sinclair snapped. “Perhaps lavender and—”

“Black. Black, black, black, black!” Daphne screeched.

“Oh, my,” Annalise breathed. She had never, ever seen Daphne so overwrought before. It was a terrifying sight.

Her curly hair, always thick, seemed to crackle with her emotional energy. Her eyes were wide and wild, the pupils dilated until they were nearly black. Her chest heaved, her fingers curled like terrifying talons.

She was menacing.

Daphne stomped around in her fit, glowering and snarling. “I want a black dress,” she told the seamstress, livid by the way she was being handled. “Velvet, if you have it. I want an onyx ring. I want dead flowers, black hangings.”

Lady Sinclair sighed unhappily. Sending the seamstress a complacent look, she managed a wry smile. “The bride is overcome, Madame. Perhaps if you returned this afternoon?”

The seamstress and her assistants gathered up their materials and scurried out. Later, she would tell her husband that even as they quit the place on Mayfair, the young woman was still screaming for black.

Most women would have been insulted by Daphne’s temper fits, which grew more and more recurrent as days passed into one another. Most women would have given up, or perhaps struggled to help the poor child gain her ends just to find some peace.

Lady Sinclair, however, thought to do none of these things. She understood how Daphne Davernay was feeling. She had no control over the situation, none at all. She had been told, not asked, to marry a man who, as far as she was concerned, had no true interest in her. She had been given a specific time frame, a fortnight, in which to arrange a wedding. She was being told what she could and could not do, she was being kept a virtual prisoner in a house that was not even hers. She was being pushed and prodded until she barely even had a choice of what to eat any longer.

Once, a very long time ago, Lady Sinclair had suffered so. Her choices had been taken from her, and her downfall had come about quite swiftly once that had occurred. She refused to dwell upon such things now, but still the pain of it lingered. She understood Daphne much more than the girl could ever comprehend.

She did not try to end the tantrums; indeed, she pushed Daphne to go as far as she was wont to do. The more of the anger she released before her wedding, the more possibility there was that the Duke might be able to calm her ire.

Of course, Lady Sinclair thought unhappily, it was not as though the man was putting much attention into his fiancé’s care, as it were. She could not believe that he had not so much as sent a single note to her. Most men should send a gift of some sort, if naught else, to betray his pleasure of their upcoming nuptials. No gifts arrived, however, no word but to say that he would arrive at Lady Sinclair’s household at the appointed time. She was half-tempted to pen a scathing note for the recalcitrant Duke herself.

It would not take much to soothe Daphne’s fears, Lady Sinclair thought furiously. Not much at all. A gift, a note, flowers. When Daphne burst into tears when the seamstress presented her wedding gown, it was all she could do to keep from marching to the Duke’s townhouse herself just to give him a few instructions upon how to treat a lady.

“Leave,” Chrysanthe’s mother ordered everyone menacingly.

Soothingly, she brushed Daphne’s mismanaged hair away from her face and drew her into her arms. Helena Sinclair stroked her hair and back, crooning gently as though Daphne were naught more than a babe.

“There, there,” she soothed. “All shall be well, my darling. You shall see.”

“But he doesn’t even want me,” Daphne sobbed. “He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t,” she wept.

Abruptly, Daphne pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself. Chrysanthe’s mother could only watch, horrified, as she rocked herself back and forth, again and again, as tears streamed down her pinkened cheeks. It boded ill. She had only seen such movements from those who were dangerously close to breaking their delicate minds.

“Darling, it cannot be as bad as that—”

“He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t love me at all!” Daphne sobbed.

Lady Sinclair felt pain double her belly. What she had most feared… She had prayed that it had not come to it… She squeezed her eyes shut in abject misery. She had prayed that Brentwood would not have had a chance to misuse this poor, sweet child. Daphne had given no indication that he had, but… Everything made sense. Her guardian’s insistence that they wed, no matter of the bride’s objections. Daphne’s weak story of why he sought to wed at all. Her heart clenched in heart-felt sympathy.

Quietly, she took Daphne’s hands in hers, squeezing. “Listen to me, sweet child. I swear it shall not be so bad. I dare say the Duke will hardly trouble you at all with his baser passions. Already he may be seeking a mistress.”

Daphne stared at her, horror-struck.

“It is the way of things, Daphne. He will find a mistress, and she is the one he will go to…to…to spend himself,” she supplied weakly. “Once he begets an heir on you, all shall be well. I promise. He may never come to your bed again.”

Upon hearing these damning words, Daphne promptly buried her face in her hands and screamed.