Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole

Chapter 6

Daisy found herself being escortedinto dinner by the duke himself, and she was so stunned by this event that she couldn’t talk. She felt Lady Rutherford’s gaze boring into her back. It wasn’t her fault that the duke happened to be speaking to her just as the dinner gong sounded! It was polite to offer to escort the nearest lady, regardless of who she might be.

She wore her new gown for the occasion, the one she sewed from the gifted fabric. Lady Rutherford glared at her when Daisy removed the cloak, but Daisy had no idea why she really cared. Bella’s gown was far more impressive. In fact, everyone’s outfits were more expensive and showy than Daisy’s. She was a moth among butterflies.

Soon, the guests were seated in a large, windowed room with a long dining table. Tristan led Daisy to her seat, which was of course not next to the end, where he would be sitting. In a duke’s home, seating arrangements were all made in advance, accounting for the rank and influence of every guest.

Through the glass windows, one could see the pond below the house, and the fields beyond it, all now turning golden and russet in the fading sunlight. Daisy wished she could be out there, rather than in the dining room among strangers. With the exception of Lyon himself, she felt no one wanted her there. Indeed, she still wasn’t sure why she was there.

The meal was not a happy one, though the guests certainly never allowed it to become a silent one. Bella commented only rarely, perhaps thinking her pink-and-white English rose looks—all fair skin and blonde hair and limpid blue-green eyes—conveyed all she needed to. Daisy was acutely conscious of the other girl’s impeccable gown and jewelry that murmured rather than shouted of wealth. Lady Rutherford was equally well-draped. It all left Daisy feeling out of place and vulnerable.

The conversation ranged wide and often included topics Daisy knew nothing about—nor did she wish to.

“Governess, my foot!” Lady Weatherby said at one point, speaking of a local resident. “That woman is Mr. Billing’s natural daughter and the job a merest fiction.”

Miss Wallis choked on her tea.

“I beg you pardon, ma’am,” Lady Rutherford said in agreement, “but it is the truth. At least he’s providing for her, that all I can say.”

Miss Wallis still looked appalled at the coarseness of the discussion, and the duke must have realized a change in subject was called for.

“I noticed that a number of fields at Lyondale lie fallow. Is that common in this area of the country?” He looked at Lady Rutherford and asked politely, “How are such matters handled at Rutherford Grange?”

Lady Rutherford looked blank, then turned to Daisy and repeated, “How are such matters handled at Rutherford Grange?”

Daisy put down her cup before saying, “The management of the land is of course considered from several factors, and what is done at Rutherford Grange may not suit Lyondale. Both the tenant farmers and the estate’s own fields are scheduled years ahead, with some going fallow to restore the land between plantings. I believe ten percent are fallow at any particular time.”

She had begun speaking directly to her stepmother, but then turned to Tristan, who’d asked the original question.

“It sounds as if considerable planning is required,” Tristan said. “I wonder if I might arrange for my estate manager to speak to yours.”

Daisy had no answer, for the fact was that Rutherford Grange had no such manager. The last man had been let go a few years back, and Daisy handled everything now. But it would be embarrassing to admit that in such company. Both Lady Rutherford and Bella were staring at her in alarm.

At last, she squeaked out, “I am certain that everyone at Rutherford Grange would be most pleased to answer whatever questions come up.”

“Indeed,” Lady Rutherford jumped in. “We will do anything in our power. His grace has but to ask. Isn’t that right, Bella darling?”

“Of course, Mama,” Bella said, peeping at Tristan beneath lowered eyelashes.

“Miss Bella,” the vicar said then, with an unctuous smile. “May I say that you look particularly charming tonight. Is that the much-vaunted gown your mother was telling me about?”

“It is, sir,” Bella said, her eyes modestly downcast. “Mama indulges me.”

“You are my only daughter, darling,” Lady Rutherford replied, ignoring Daisy completely.

Lyon cleared his throat, but Lady Weatherby managed to ask Lord Dallmire something and diverted the conversation before Lyon could step into a very awkward subject. Thus saved from being the center of conversation, Daisy did her best to chat with her neighbors, and managed to not embarrass herself, though she knew she was no salon wit.

Thankfully, attention never returned to her. Hornthwaite asked Lord Lyon if he had plans to attend services in the village. “The late duke did, you know. Until his illness prevented.”

“I shall add that pilgrimage to my responsibilities,” Lyon said.

“It would be advantageous, your grace.”

“For whom?” Lyon asked.

Hornthwaite looked flustered, but then said, “Is it not always beneficial to attend church?”

“Not if a man needs to catch up on his sleep after a night of cards,” Lyon replied.

Daisy saw the set of his jaw, and wondered if Hornthwaite would have the sense to stop questioning the duke about his habits. Thankfully, the topic changed soon after.

The meal progressed to the dessert without mishap, though Daisy for one was ready to flee from the tension in the room. All the personalities vying for control, all the people asking favors from others and trying to find favor with Lord Lyon…she had no part in it, and felt like a deer among wolves.

After the meal, the ladies went through to the drawing room, while the men remained for the customary smoke and drink.

A maid handed out tea or sherry to the women. Everyone chatted while Lady Rutherford stared daggers at Lady Weatherby, and Bella and Caroline exchanged pleasantries as if their mothers were not about to go to war. Daisy accepted a tiny glass of Madeira wine, unsure if she even really liked Madeira.

“Perhaps a little music?” Miss Wallis asked hopefully. She looked to Daisy, who unfortunately did not count pianoforte among her accomplishments.

Daisy, still holding her glass, gestured toward Bella, about to explain that her stepsister was the one gifted in music. Just then, Lady Weatherby sneezed, knocking Daisy’s elbow. The glass of Madeira went flying…directly toward Bella.

The red wine exploded all over the pale gown.

“Oh, no,” Daisy whispered.

“Oh, no!” Bella wailed at the same moment.

“You clumsy little girl!” Lady Rutherford cried in dismay. “You’ve ruined your sister’s new gown!”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Of all the things to do, Daisy. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Poor Bella deserves better.”

“It was an accident, Mama,” Bella said, grabbing at a serviette Lady Caroline thrust at her. She dabbed frantically. “Oh, the stain is spreading…!”

Indeed the deep red of the Madeira was rapidly expanding on the thin, highly porous silk, causing Bella to look as if she wandered through an abattoir. Tears glistened in her Aegean-blue eyes. “Mama, I look hideous.”

“This is your doing, Daisy,” Lady Rutherford hissed. “Get out of my sight.”

Daisy was only too eager to obey. Turning, she fled down the hallway not knowing or caring where she ended up, only that it would be far, far away from her stepmother.

Daisy instinctively sought out the darkest, most solitary location she could find at Lyondale, which was the garden. Though near the great house, it was blessedly deserted, since all the guests were currently inside, probably making jokes at Daisy’s expense.

“I never should have come here,” she said out loud.

“What’s so bad about Lyondale?” a male voice asked from the darkness.

Daisy gasped, whirling around to discover who or what was speaking.

“Over here,” the voice continued. “By the roses.”

She could smell the roses, and a moment later, she could see them too, for there was a dim light from a lantern placed on a low wall nearby. Next to the lantern, a figure lay on a chaise.

“Hello?” Daisy asked, approaching it.

“Good evening,” the figure replied. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but in my defense, I didn’t want to eavesdrop on your conversation with the plants. I’m Jackson Kemble, at your service.”

This little speech was delivered from a prone position, as the speaker was clearly not well enough to get up. Daisy now saw that he was covered in a wool blanket and that he was uncommonly pale. This must be the convalescing friend Tristan had mentioned at one point during dinner.

“How do you do, Mr. Kemble?” she said, remembering her manners. “I’m Miss Daisy Merriot. Shall I leave you in peace?”

“Were you hoping to escape into the darkness?” he asked. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Some of the plants in these gardens are carnivorous.”

“They are not,” Daisy objected, but with a laugh, for it was absurd to think about.

Mr. Kemble laughed too, a thin sound compared to the size of man he was. “Very well. But it could be true somewhere.” He held up a book. “I’ve been reading about some discoveries of amazing plants in the tropics. Alas, reading about them is about as close as I’ll get for a long time. Travel does not agree with me lately.”

Daisy stepped closer. “His grace spoke of a friend who was quite ill, and therefore could not join the dinner party. Was that you?”

“Indeed. I’ve known Tris—excuse me, the duke, since we were schoolmates. He was kind enough to haul me along when he decided to see Lyondale at last. The doctors say the air in the country is better than that of London.”

“I’ve only been to London a few times,” Daisy said, “but I must agree with the doctors. Do you feel any improvement?”

“I’m coughing less,” he admitted. “And I can sometimes sit up in a chair for an hour or two, which is more encouraging than it may sound. However, it will be a long time before I can return to Chancery.”

“You’re a solicitor?”

“Was. Now I’m an invalid.” He smiled. “But that is dull talk. Tell me why you told the plants you shouldn’t have come here. For myself, I’m quite happy you have.”

She sat down on a wrought iron chair a few feet away from Mr. Kemble. Though he was a virtual stranger, Daisy felt instantly comfortable with him. And while she ought not be alone with a man, one could hardly object to her sitting with an invalid who couldn’t do any harm.

“The matter is a trivial one,” she explained. “I made an embarrassing scene. Only I was harmed and the harm shall not last long. I am not important enough for anyone to care if I humiliate myself. Well, it is likely that my sister’s gown was ruined, but she has plenty in reserve.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like comedy, not tragedy. But if she is your sister, won’t she forgive you?”

“In fact, Bella Merriot is my sister by marriage only,” Daisy said, to clarify the matter. She added, “We do not have much in common.”

“Ah, the Merriots of Rutherford Grange,” he said. “I’ve heard mention of them. I’m a bit confused, though,” he went on. “Because if those Merriots are here by marriage, how are you connected to the late baron?”

“I’m his daughter from his first marriage.”

He frowned. “And yet you are not the baroness now?”

“It’s all a bit tangled,” Daisy said, “and I’m afraid that I am not very good at explaining the details of all the legal aspects, especially to a lawyer.”

“Try me,” he said kindly.

So Daisy related the basic facts as she knew them. As she spoke, she was reminded of those first few months of numbness and pain after losing her father. She’d disregarded so many things then, and it was all still a haze.

“You never read the will yourself?” Kemble asked at one point. His tone was mild, but Daisy could tell that he was incredulous.

“Well, I may have, and I simply don’t recall. I was only fourteen. Much of the language of the documents was quite beyond me.” She tried to think of another subject, one that was less mournful. So she asked, “How did you meet the duke?”

“We were at school together, and remained friends after he went off to the Continent to join the fighting, and I stayed here in England to study the law,” Kemble said. “As it happened, Tr—that is, his grace returned on a medical discharge. I had space, so I insisted that he come live with me while he recuperated. Unfortunately, I seem to have got rather run down, and I took very ill just as he was recovering.” He looked frustrated. “At least he’s back on his feet. I feel like I may never be.”

“Was it very bad?” Daisy asked hesitantly. “The duke’s injuries, I mean. He looks strong now, but I gather that he might have…died?” She didn’t even want to imagine the possibility.

Kemble nodded. “It was as dire as one can get without meeting one’s Maker. Did you hear how it happened?”

“Only some garbled rumors.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, both to set the story straight and because he never will. He’s too modest.”

Kemble paused, recalling the details, and then began to relate what had happened.

“Tristan Brooks—as he was called then—was part of a company defending a mountain pass that the French were keen to take. Our boys had the high ground, which helped. But the enemy had brought along some nasty machinery, setting up barrages of cannon fire to make life difficult for the defenders. Tristan happened to be walking with a few of the most senior officers one day as they surveyed the camp and were trying to make plans for new defenses. How Tristan knew something was coming—even he can’t explain that. But he shouted and hurled himself at the major general, who was in the direct line of fire. Knocked him and a couple others to the ground just before the shell struck. Tristan saved the lives of more than one man that day…but he was closest to the shell, which exploded on impact and hurled out scraps of burning metal. Many of them hit Tristan.”

“It must have been so painful for him,” Daisy whispered, imagining the horrific scene.

“More than he’s ever admitted out loud,” Kemble agreed. “He was taken to the field hospital first, where they said he wouldn’t last until nightfall. But he did! And a few days later they sent him to recover farther away from the front, still thinking he’d succumb to the wounds, or fever, as so many soldiers do. But he survived that too. And then the word came down on high, and Tristan was promoted to lieutenant and offered an honorable discharge on account of his wounds being so severe that he could never return to the army. He resigned his commission and went to his home in London to recuperate. And that’s where the solicitors of the Lyondale estate found him…and told him he was the next in line for the dukedom.”

“What an astonishing turn of events. I’m so happy for him,” Daisy said, meaning it. “It’s evidence of Providence, that he is now duke. He’ll be able to do so much good with that influence, and an understanding of life’s difficulties that few other men in his position have. Perhaps you could tell him that for me.”

“You can tell him yourself, if you like.” Mr. Kemble gestured to something behind Daisy, and she turned to discover the duke standing there, his presence making her shy all over again. Had he been listening? She couldn’t imagine speaking so boldly to the duke himself, telling him how he ought to live his life!

But if he overheard, he didn’t show it. He said, “I came out to see if you were still here, Jack. It’s dark now, and too cold for your health.”

“Mother hen,” Mr. Kemble muttered, but with a resigned expression. “I should have gone in earlier, but I was quite distracted by this young lady’s company.”

At that moment, two footmen and a housemaid arrived, obviously there to help Mr. Kemble inside and to gather all the accoutrements he’d been using. Mr. Kemble stood with the assistance of the footmen. Still, he managed a polite little bow in Daisy’s direction.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss. I do hope to see you again.”

“I should like that very much,” she replied warmly. She glanced at Tristan, realizing that any such visit would entail her being invited to Lyondale again. “That is, if his grace would permit it.”

“Anything for a friend,” he replied, with a cryptic smile.

“Watch over Miss Merriot, will you?” Mr. Kemble told Tristan.

“Certainly,” the duke replied. “Perhaps she’ll allow me to take her for a turn around the garden path.”

Daisy felt a little thrill. Of course she’d want to spend more time with him! But, she thought out loud, “Won’t your other guests miss you?”

“What other guests?” he replied, making butterflies suddenly take flight through her stomach. That was a flirtation, she realized. Whatever had happened between them on the afternoon they met was not merely in Daisy’s imagination. He felt something too.

The housemaid bustled about, gathering the blanket and lantern as she hurried after the others. As she began to walk along the path away from the house, Daisy noticed that the book Kemble had been reading was left behind, and she stooped to pick it up.

“She missed this, and books ought not be left outside,” Daisy said. She looked at the cover and smiled, telling Tristan, “He said that the book details some very dangerous things! I wonder if it’s even safe for me to hold it,” she joked.

Tristan took the little book from her, saying, “There are other books I could think of, far more dangerous to a young lady’s innocence than this one.”

“A book can’t be so corrupting.”

The corner of Tristan’s lips quirked. “Oh, some can. Not that you can know what I’m talking about,” he added hastily.

Daisy was a little indignant. “I know exactly what you mean!”

“Oh?” His eyebrow arched, and she blushed in embarrassment. “Just how might a proper young lady like you know what I mean?”

They’d just reached a turn along the path, and they were now concealed from the house by several tall yew trees, providing a green wall of privacy that made Daisy aware of just how alone they were.

And Tristan had stopped to look at her, awaiting her answer.

“Well, in fact,” Daisy said haltingly, “Mrs. Bloomfield had a particular bookcase…which was locked…but I found the key one day…”

“…and you found an interesting collection of bedtime stories, is that it?”

“I don’t think this is a topic of conversation that we should pursue.” How mortifying, to wander into such a topic.

“On the contrary, I’m fascinated,” he said, not allowing an easy escape. “What exactly did you learn from these books?”

“Nothing!” she said, far too quickly to be believable.

“How many did you read?”

“Um…all of them.” Some had been illustrated, and Daisy had been both shocked and utterly amazed at what they depicted.

“And you learned nothing? I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Please…I can’t talk about this sort of thing with you.”

“Then we won’t talk.”

He brushed his lips against the back of her hand, very lightly. Daisy’s eyes slid closed as she savored the feeling of the kiss, so unlike anything the forbidden books had mentioned. The glide of his lower lip along her knuckles made Daisy faint with desire.

“Did you read about that?” he asked softly, pulling away.

“I read about kissing,” she answered, dazed. “But none of the books said a kiss on the hand felt so…special.”

“A major oversight.” Once again, he treated her to that half kiss, that teasing sensation. Daisy was suddenly aware of a desire to touch him, to run her fingers along his skin and see if she could evoke the same sort of reaction. How did men feel when touched like that? Was it the feeling of growing warm and slightly dizzy, of wanting more of the same until some unknown threshold was reached?

“Speaking of special,” he murmured, his lips sliding to her wrist, and then the inner part of her forearm. Daisy inhaled, her nerves singing.

It was an experience entirely different than any she’d had before. Alone with a man in the darkness of the gardens, with the vast presence of the great house behind them. Daisy’s heart was beating rapidly, her breathing uneven in the wake of Tristan’s attention. She never wanted it to stop.

But he’s the duke.

The reality of the situation felt like cold rain on her consciousness. In her haste, Daisy almost shoved him away.

“I am so sorry,” she said in a rush. “I should not be alone with you! It’s most inappropriate, and what you must think of me…”

Tristan stepped back, his manner shifting from passionate to aloof in the space of a breath. “Then let’s get you back to your family.” He offered his arm, the gesture cold and proper.

Daisy slipped her own hand around it, feeling her cheeks hot with shame and embarrassment. She’d done something very wrong, and she was sure that she’d somehow hurt or disappointed Tristan.

Before their mutual absence could be remarked upon, the duke escorted Daisy back to the drawing room, where the guests had gathered. However, neither of the Merriot ladies were present.

“They left, your grace,” a footman informed them when the duke inquired.

“Left? Without one of her daughters?” he asked, puzzled.

“It was my fault,” Daisy interjected. “Earlier, I spilled wine on Bella’s gown. It was an accident, but I’m afraid I quite ruined her evening.”

The footman nodded in confirmation. “The baroness called for their carriage immediately. The lady said her daughter couldn’t be seen in company after the…incident.”

From the footman’s tone, it seemed he was glad they were gone. So was Daisy, except for the fact that they’d taken the carriage, leaving her stranded. She gazed at Tristan’s hand, since he was still arm in arm with her, though the pretense for any kind of formal “escort” had evaporated the moment they’d stepped into the house.

He noticed her gaze and put his hand down, out of her sight.

She looked at his face again, and was caught by his eyes, which were shadowed in the poor light of the foyer, but still watching her with an indecipherable expression. Daisy had never been good at conversation, and definitely not with a duke, or any man who insisted on looking at her so steadily. “I should go. It’s a long walk back, and—”

Tristan was incredulous. “You’d walk three miles in the dark wearing evening slippers, Miss Merriot? Not likely.”

Before Daisy could object, the duke ordered for his own carriage to be brought up to the front of the house.

“Certainly, your grace,” a footman said. “It will take a quarter hour—we’d not been anticipating needing any carriages until tomorrow.”

“Fine, that shall give me time to bid good-night to the other guests.”

This task was performed with startling efficiency. The guests had obviously been expecting to stay much longer—an evening in the drawing room with some music or entertainment, and no doubt more of the duke’s excellent food and drink. But instead, they found themselves hustled out to the foyer, and draped with their cloaks and outerwear while nearly stepping over themselves to thank the duke for his hospitality.

The duke kept Daisy near him as he bid the other guests goodbye. When he spoke to Lady Weatherby and her daughter, he thanked Lady Caroline for her scintillating conversation, sarcasm that neither woman appeared to notice.

Hornthwaite left after reminding Lyon once again that it would be well for the lord to appear in the village church sooner rather than later. Tristan gave a noncommittal answer. The last of the guests besides Daisy left, and Tristan sighed with relief.

“That’s done,” he said. He turned to the majordomo. “From now on, only people I actually enjoy being around are allowed on the property. Have the footmen shoot anyone else.”

“Yes, your grace,” the majordomo replied.

“I believe he’s joking,” Daisy added hastily.

“Yes, miss. I’ll supply the footmen with blanks to maintain the effect.”

Tristan laughed. “That will do,” he said. He seemed entirely recovered from any annoyance by Daisy’s behavior in the garden or the hassle of unwanted dinner guests. “Is my carriage ready now?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Excellent. I shall take Miss Merriot home.”

“Yourself!” Daisy said in surprise. “But I can’t bother you further, your grace.”

“No bother at all. I would not have it said that I would allow a young lady to be sent off alone into the night.” With a nod of his head, Lyon indicated his wishes, and the staff all leapt to accommodate him.

Well, Daisy thought. He may not have been Duke of Lyon very long, but there was no question that he was the lord now. He walked with Daisy to the coach and helped her in himself, leaving a slightly startled footman in his wake.

In the carriage, he sat opposite her as the driver urged the horses on. “Once again, I must thank you for coming tonight,” he said in a low voice.

“I have a question about that, your grace. Why was I invited?”

“Jack—Mr. Kemble, that is—thought you’d be a good addition to the party.”

“Ah,” she said. So Tristan had nothing to do with it. “I am sorry to have disappointed him.”

“Disappointed? What makes you say that?”

“My conversation is thoroughly provincial. I talked about crop rotation.”

“Your conversation wasn’t why we included you. Miss Merriot, your presence was key. On three separate occasions, I nearly yelled at the whole party to get out.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because you were there.” He looked a bit sheepish. “I thought I should prove that I can endure a whole conversation without losing my temper or fleeing the scene.”

“Oh.” Daisy wasn’t sure what to say to that. “You might have started with a less challenging group, then.”

His face broke out into a smile, and he laughed, which made her laugh too. She shook her head. “Now I’m being rude.”

“No, just accurate.” After a moment, Tristan said, “I can see why Jack took such a liking to you. You must come back to chat with him. I’m terrible company most of the time. But you…any man would rise from the grave if you were expected to drop by. How about Thursday afternoon?”

“I should like to, your grace. But I do not have much time to myself. The running of Rutherford Grange keeps me busy.”

“Are you politely putting me off?”

“No! It’s just that the marketing must be done Thursday.”

Tristan said, “You will come to Lyondale for that afternoon. No excuses—Elaine and Jacob can do the marketing.” Somehow she wasn’t surprised he knew the names of her servants. Tristan Brooks seemed dedicated to making up for the time lost before he moved to Lyondale.

“In that case, I will be here at the appointed hour. I know better than to argue with a lord.” All at once, she giggled, thinking of the Duke of Lyon posting footmen as guards to keep the guests away.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked.

“You are. You can’t post guards to keep society out.”

He leaned forward, looking more serious. “Then what should I do?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because this is the world you’re from. You understand them. Whereas I grew up among commoners, and then lived among soldiers.”

She sighed. “It’s been some time since I’ve been part of that world. I’m neither fish nor fowl now. I have the name but not the wealth to be accepted among society. I don’t fit in among the village, because they’re afraid to insult me by treating me as if I’m not gentry. So you see, I’m not the one to seek advice from.”

He reached out impulsively, and took her hand. “Is that how it seems to you? You fit in perfectly back at Lyondale, during supper, as if you did that every week.”

Daisy swallowed nervously. Tristan was looking at her intensely, and it was hard to think when all she could notice was his eyes, the blue color all dark in the dim light of the carriage. “I would soon be unmasked if I had to do that every week, if only because I’ve just this gown for the occasion.”

He looked her over approvingly. “It suits you.”

“I hope so. I made it,” she added shyly.

“You look lovely.” He hadn’t let go of her hand, and she just noticed that he’d threaded her fingers with his. Definitely not approved etiquette, but she didn’t want him to stop. In the darkness of the carriage, it was a very intimate and interesting sensation.

“I have to ask for your forgiveness,” he said then. “What happened in the garden was very much my fault.”

“I cannot forgive you, because I enjoyed it,” Daisy whispered. “I’d be lying if I said otherwise.”

He looked surprised. “I thought I offended you.”

“I thought I offended you,” she admitted.

Suddenly, they both laughed. Tristan said, “Ever since…I got hurt, I assumed no woman would tolerate my interest.”

“A woman so shallow does not deserve your interest,” Daisy retorted.

Tristan looked quite surprised, then cautiously pleased. He seemed about to say something, then he simply raised her hand to his lips again. “May I?” he asked, his eyes locked on hers.

“Please,” Daisy whispered.

Tristan peeled the glove off before kissing her fingertips. It was even more sensual than before, and when he actually took one fingertip into his mouth and sucked, Daisy felt a reaction in her very core.

She let out a little gasp.

Tristan kept teasing her, but moved from where he was sitting opposite, to kneel in front of her. Daisy took a ragged breath as he finally let her finger go, his mouth curving into a sensual smile, made crooked by the scar on his cheek that pulled one corner down. But Daisy was already learning to read his particular expressions, and this one was pure pleasure.

On his knees, Tristan still commanded her attention. He trailed his fingers along her jaw. “That’s a thank-you for possibly the nicest thing I’ve heard in a year and half.”

“It was just truth,” she whispered.

“Well, I liked it.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. He said, “Do you know how tempting your lips are?”

She shook her head, feeling far out of her depth. “How…how tempting is that, your grace?”

He lowered his mouth to her own, and suddenly Daisy got a taste of what temptation meant. All her clandestine reading did not measure up to the intense swirl of feeling from Tristan’s kiss. His lips on her hand earlier was enticing, but this was astonishing.

She needed more, so she raised her head and pressed her mouth to his, demanding greater contact. She parted her lips and felt a jolt through her whole body when his tongue grazed hers.

“Christ, yes,” he moaned, the blasphemy sounding sweet in her ears. She put her hands on his upper arms, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her touch.

Then she felt him press against her, his hands running along her thighs. She realized that she’d parted her legs to allow him closer, and their entwined position was now far more scandalous than anything they’d done before. If anyone saw them now, Daisy would be ruined.

Would it really be so bad to be ruined?Daisy thought. She was unmarriageable as it was. She was poor and no man wanted to take on a dowry-less woman. Why not enjoy one night of pure abandon? It was all she’d ever get.

Daisy kissed him back hungrily, her brain swirling with conflicting arguments. Why argue when she could simply enjoy the moment?

Unfortunately, the carriage came to a halt then. Daisy gave a startled little moan of protest, and glanced outside to see the familiar sight of Rutherford Grange. She was home.

“I wish you lived farther away,” he murmured, then released her. “Or much closer. You’re a little distracting.”

“I don’t mean to be.” She quickly set her gown to rights and pulled her glove back on— why did the removal of one glove somehow feel as naughty as removing everything?

“That’s part of your appeal.” He smiled as he moved to help her out of the carriage. As she stepped out, he said, “Good night, Miss Merriot.”

“Your grace…if you like, you could call me Daisy.”

He smiled slowly. “I would like that very much. But I will only do so if you call me Tristan.”

“Oh, your grace, that would be far too forward…”

“After what we just shared?” He smiled lazily. “Besides, I want to hear you say my name.”

“Tristan,” she whispered, trying it out.

“There. Was that so difficult? Don’t forget our next meeting…Daisy.”

Daisy would certainly not forget that. As she drifted asleep later that night, she imagined that she could still feel Tristan’s lips on her own.