The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 5

  “Now I would not say that.” For some unfathomable exercise in foolishness, Dalton bent his head and claimed a quick but lethal buss. Again, to his indefinable confusion, the earth beneath his feet rocked, the world tilted on end, and molten fire scorched a path from his lips to his crotch. When she emitted a soft gasp of surprise, he retreated a step. “I beg your pardon, Miss Daphne, as such behavior is unforgivable.”

  “Oh, please, do not apologize.” With an expression of pure wonder, she touched a finger to her mouth, and the apples of her cheeks flushed a charming rose hue. “I would take it as the height of insult were you to mark my first kiss with an exclamation of regret.”

  “Your first kiss?” For the second time in as many minutes, shock invested his frame. “Do you mean you have never indulged in a bit of harmless love play with the local dandies?”

  “I have not.” She frowned and thrust her adorable chin. “What do you take me for, Sir Dalton? Let me assure you, I am no woman of loose morals.”

  “And I never implied such, but—what about when you were a young girl?” Incredulity rattled him to his toes. “Did you not explore any newfound physical urges with someone of similar age?”

  “What physical urges?” She blinked, and he reminded himself the governor’s daughter was but a backwater lass, reared on an island, no less. “I know nothing of the sort.”

  “You must have been curious.” Stunned by the revelation, and the newfound temptation she manifested, he sputtered and stammered. Then he surmised she joked. “Pull my other leg.”

  “Pull your leg? Are you mad?” She scoffed and backed beyond reach. “I will do no such thing.”

  “Relax, as it is a harmless old adage, my dear.” Dalton splayed his palms. “It was not my intent to alarm you, but you have addled my brain, given your unexpected, rare, and altogether arresting naïveté.”

  “Are you complimenting or insulting me, sir?” She gulped. “As I am unsure.”

  “Believe me, I pay you the ultimate compliment, loveliest Daphne.” Never in his life had he possessed carnal knowledge of a virgin, as his tastes leaned toward more experienced territory, but he wrestled with a sudden urge to explore Miss Harcourt’s uncharted harbor. “And it would be my honor to dine with you.”

  “Then we shall welcome you at six, tomorrow evening.” She sketched a half-curtsey and then, to his befuddlement and delight, leaped forward, pressed her lips to his with a resounding smack, squealed, and ran into the house. Never had such an innocuous overture impacted him with such fervor, as the cannon in his crotch primed for battle. His ears pealed, like the bells in a Wren steeple, and telltale warmth pervaded his chest. For several seconds, he just stood there, grinning as a giddy schoolboy, for no particular reason. When his stallion whinnied, Dalton jumped into the saddle and steered for the lane.

  A side path, which led behind the estate, caught his attention, and Dalton veered to the right, even as he retrieved his lucky coin from his waistcoat pocket and flipped the talisman into the air, as was his way. He kept the horse to a simple trot along the verge and ventured forth, scanning either side of the trail. Soon a rundown barn loomed, and he neared with care, on alert for any possible witnesses. After circling the structure, he dismounted.

  What struck him as odd was the fact that no stable hand had appeared. In fact, the outbuilding seemed all but abandoned. Inside, each stall sat empty, devoid of even a scrap of hay. There remained not a single tackle, saddle, or coach, and only one phaeton, dust-covered and marred by a broken spring, parked in the main area.

  As he stepped into the sunlight, he gazed at the sky and frowned. “Miss Daphne, your situation is more dire than I had thought.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Palpable silence filled her ears, excepting the repetitive beat of her heart, more deafening than the most ominous clap of thunder or piercing scream. A black chasm encompassed the world, absent any sign of life, save the riveting gold coin, which glowed as a beacon of what she knew not, yet it inspired no fear or trepidation, as it tossed in the air.

  Gasping for breath, Daphne lurched upright in her bed, in what had become an all too common occurrence, after napping with the brooch affixed to her dress. As always, the dream gave no hint or clue to the owner of the curious object, other than the respective lore that indicated the item belonged to her one true knight. But how could she solve the mystery? Should she enact impromptu interrogations? Was she to rifle through the pockets of the entire local population of townsmen?

  Of course, deep down inside, where she was always honest with herself, she had to admit that only a single prospective suitor had captured her attention, in defiance of the artifact’s predictive nature. Although she would deny it, should anyone ask, she had grown fond of the dashing Sir Dalton Randolph, as never had she met anyone of his stature, and he stirred something within her, something magical, which she could neither identify nor explain.

  “Oh, you are awake.” Mrs. Jones carried an outdated gown to the foot of the bed. “I mended the sleeves and let out the hem, as much as possible, Miss Daphne.”

  “What time is it?” Sitting, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “It seems as though I slept an eternity.”

  “You needed the rest, given the amount of work you have assumed.” The housekeeper, more a second mother than a servant, smoothed the skirt of her latest alteration. “And it is just after six.”

  “What?” Panic broke the calm, as she scrambled to the floor. “How could you let me linger so long? I want to look my best for our guest, and he will be here in less than an hour.”

  “That sea captain is a fine, sturdy one.” Mrs. Jones chuckled. “They did not make them like that when I was your age.”

  “Sir Dalton is one-of-a-kind.” If she were smart, Daphne would have concentrated her efforts on locating her true knight, but she could not resist the handsome gentleman from London and could only hope she found her fated suitor half so appealing. So she sat at her vanity, picked up her brush, and arranged her hair in her most flattering style. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she frowned, as a particular wayward curl refused to cooperate. “And he has been so generous with his time and money, to the benefit of our community, which is why I issued the invitation.”

  “Then we should endeavor to present him with a most pleasant evening, as well as an elegant escort, in grateful appreciation of his admirable altruism.” The housekeeper stood behind Daphne and assumed command of her coiffure. “Lord, but you look more and more like your mother, every day, and she would be so proud.”

  “Do you really think so?” Daphne sighed, as she pondered how different their situation would have been, had her mother survived the nasty fever she had contracted, while caring for some of Portsea’s most unfortunate citizens. “Dear mama, how I miss her.”

  “There, now.” Mrs. Jones yielded the silver-backed brush, folded her arms, and assessed her work. “I don’t expect the most expensive stylist could have done better.”

  “You are a miracle worker.” With a quick glance from side to side, Daphne stood. “Oh, if only I could purchase a new dress.”

  “Why will you not wear some of Mrs. Harcourt’s things? We could take them in much easier than altering your old clothes.” The housekeeper cupped Daphne’s chin. “She would want you to make use of them.”

  “I know, as yours is a logical suggestion.” At the mere prospect, tears welled, and she gulped, as Mrs. Jones loosened the laces of Daphne’s morning dress, which slipped to the floor. “But I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  “Then what about the shoes, given yours pinch your toes?” Mrs. Jones frowned. “Do not even try to convince me you are comfortable.”

  “Everyone must sacrifice something, and my feet pale in comparison with what others have surrendered.” With a wiggle of her hips, Daphne shimmied into the unflattering and immature gown. “And mama’s slippers are too big—Oh, you removed the ruffles.”

  “Well, I had to open the seams, so it struck
me as an obvious revision.” The housekeeper adjusted the collar and grinned. “No one would guess it is but a girl’s frock.”

  “That has to be the sweetest lie you have ever told, old friend.” The powder blue satin, with the conservative neckline and passé bodice, screamed youth and innocence. On normal occasions, Daphne bothered not with such shallow concerns, but for the first time in her life, she rued the deficiencies of her wardrobe and struggled with shame. “All right, enough primping. Let us go downstairs and subvert whatever mischief my brothers entertain.”

  “You should watch Robert, as he does not approve of your alliance with Sir Dalton.” Mrs. Jones opened the door, and they strolled into the hall. “And Richard follows his elder brother’s example.”

  “Yes, he does, much to my chagrin. And we cannot risk insulting Captain Randolph, given all he has done for us.” She noted the shine on the newel post. “Did you polish the bannister?”

  “Hicks did, this afternoon, while I beat the rugs.” Mrs. Jones adjusted a stunning arrangement of fresh flowers, which brightened the foyer. “And these arrived only an hour ago. The accompanying card is addressed to you.”

  “I am sure it is nothing.” Daphne ripped the envelope and withdrew a note.

  My Dear Miss Harcourt,

  Please accept this meager offering to your incomparable beauty, in thanks for the dinner invitation, which I await with baited breath. Until this evening, think of me with fondness, as I shall think of you.

  Your most humble servant,

  Dalton Randolph

  “I wager I was correct in my assumption, regarding the sender?” Mrs. Jones giggled. “As you blush.”

  “Indeed, they are from Sir Dalton.” Daphne’s knees buckled, and her fingers shook, as she read and reread the missive. A strange sensation blossomed in the pit of her belly, and a giddy euphoria invested her consciousness, as hope filled her chest. “Mrs. Jones, do you think a worldly man of the sea could ever love a simple backwater girl, blessed with no connections or fortune?”

  “I do not see why not.” The housekeeper arched a brow. “This is eighteen fourteen, not the Middle Ages.”

  “But London society lives by its own rules, and it is notorious for its rejection of outsiders that do not conform to its sensibilities.” Yet Daphne could not quell the fantasies coloring her vision, no matter how unrealistic. “And Sir Dalton is a knight of the Crown, though I know not in what capacity.”

  “You care for him.” With an expression of utter shock, Mrs. Jones pressed a clenched fist to her breast, and her mouth fell agape. “I had thought you tolerated him, but you have developed a sincere attachment to the captain.”

  “Yes, I have, but I know not what to do about it.” And she had no experience with matters of the heart, beyond the books she had read, thus her current situation prevented her from mingling an illusory fictional existence with a harsh reality. “But since he anchored at Portsea, when I am with Sir Dalton, I feel safe, as though nothing could hurt me, and I dream of that which I never thought possible—a husband, a family, and a comfortable home absent financial worries and the stress of my responsibilities. Am I being silly, Mrs. Jones? Is it wrong to want such things? Am I selfish?”

  “Merciful heavens, no.” The portly housekeeper wrapped an arm about Daphne’s shoulders. “You are the sweetest young woman I have ever had the pleasure of serving, and I will do so, until I die. And Sir Dalton is most fortunate, if he has earned your regard.”

  “Sir Dalton’s coach is just arrived, Miss Daphne.” Hicks adjusted his collar, tugged on his sleeves, and straightened his coat. “And everything is in order, per your instructions.”

  “Wonderful. Open the door, so we might welcome our esteemed guest.” She assumed her station in the entryway and noted the empty positions to her immediate right. “Where are my brothers?”

  “I am not sure, Miss Daphne.” With a mighty frown, Hicks shook his head and twisted the latch. “They have disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?” With her shoulders rolled back, she lifted her chin and stiffened her spine. “Are they or are they not in residence?”

  “I have no idea, Miss Daphne.” Hicks set wide the oak panel and stood at attention, just as the graceful equipage slowed to a halt. “When I entered their chambers, Richard and Robert were gone.”

  “How dare they insult Sir Dalton, after all he has done for us? I shall have words with them, tonight.” As the oh-so-dashing sea captain descended the coach, she mustered a smile, although she lamented her appearance, in light of his unrivaled attire. “Mrs. Jones, could you please serve refreshments—”

  “I have taken the liberty of arranging a bottle of wine, some cheese, and bread in the back parlor,” Hicks said, in a low voice. “Sir Dalton, may I take your coat and gloves?”

  “Thank you, Hicks.” And then she met her unwitting champion’s gaze, which softened whenever he met her stare. “Good evening, Sir Dalton.”

  “Miss Daphne.” As usual, he studied her from top to toe, before taking her hand in his to place a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “I swear you grow more beautiful with each passing day.”

  “How is it you always know what to say to give me shivers?” Realizing, too late, what she had just declared aloud, she winced and bit her tongue. Had she not always spoken her mind? Yet never had she considered it a curse—until now. “I had not intended to share that bit of information.”

  “Somehow I guessed that.” The incorrigible sailor chuckled and winked. “But let us explore your unutterably charming revelation, perhaps, in your drawing room, as we await dinner?”

  “Actually, I had thought we might adjourn to the back parlor, as it is more cozy.” And Courtenay Hall no longer included a serviceable drawing room, but she would divulge that regrettable fact over her dead body. So she endeavored to persevere, as she accepted his proffered escort. “Shall we?”

  “I see you received my flowers.” Sir Dalton arched a brow. “Do they please you, Miss Daphne?”

  “You know they do, and thank you.” Although Hicks and Mrs. Jones kept the wood paneling and trim polished to a high shine, Daphne wished her refined visitor would not notice the once vivid but now faded and outdated Chintz-style woodblock wallpaper or the tattered Oriental hall rugs. But she had moved the best furnishings that remained in the home to the back parlor, and Daphne and Mrs. Jones had taken the newest drapes and carpets from a long unused guestroom to complete a renovation, of sorts. As they entered the relaxed chamber, she ushered Sir Dalton to the chaise. “May I pour you a glass of wine?”

  “Only if you join me.” After resituating some pillows, he sat. “And what news have you of the brooch?”

  “I wondered if you had considered an alternate conclusion to the quest for the missing jewelry.” With a courage-bolstering gulp of wine, she perched on the edge of a chair. “Are you certain you did not misplace the pin? Could it not be lost in your cabin?”

  “I have made a thorough inspection of my quarters, and the heirloom is gone.” He narrowed his stare. “And you gave me the impression you knew the location of the artifact, as well as the identity of the thief. Are you changing your story, my dear?”

  “I beg your pardon? I have made polite inquiries, and I may or may not know the location of the missing item, but your threat to summon the authorities could complicate matters. And if I am to—” It was then she discovered Sir Dalton’s dimpled grin. “You deliberately baited me.”

  “I did.” He snickered.

  “But, why?” Inwardly cursing herself, she sought distraction in a bit of cheese.

  “Because I enjoy our verbal fencing, Miss Daphne.” Leaning forward, he rested elbows to knees. “And your cheeks manifest a tantalizing shade of red. Perhaps now you will tell me about those shivers I give you?”

  “I suppose it is too much to hope you might overlook my less than graceful admission.” She smoothed her skirt and attempted to ignore his devilish expression. “A gentleman would, no doubt, pretend he had not heard
the spontaneous and clumsy confession.”

  “Not a chance, as I have never claimed to possess such noble characteristics.” He laughed when she frowned. “And I shall never forget your disarming disclosure, as I will carry it to the grave and beyond. So let us not avoid the topic foremost on my mind.”

  “I apologize for my brothers’ absence.” She adjusted her sleeve, and her thoughts raced to ascertain an escape. “But they are young and spirited, so I am sure you can relate and forgive any unintended slight.”

  “Oh, I understand more than you realize, and I do not think their slight is unintended, but I find it more amusing than insulting.” Dalton shifted his weight. “Now about your shivers—”

  “Can we please change the subject?” Once again, quivering in a heady pool of frustration mixed with temptation, Daphne stood and paced before the window. “Diverted by your arrival, I inadvertently made known my unusual affliction, which I had sought to keep secret.”

  “But you must know that I am not the sort of man with whom you can share such an enthralling detail and possibly expect me to disregard the obvious implications?” His throaty voice enveloped her, as honey on a hot scone. “So I influence you as no other? Has no one else thus affected you?”

  “No.” Wringing her fingers, she turned to discover herself toe-to-toe with the source of her internal unrest, and she shrieked. But when he set his hands to her waist and pulled her close, she swallowed hard. “Sir Dalton, what are you doing?”

  “I thought it evident.” He bent his head. “I am going to kiss you.”

  The prospect defied the limits of sagacity, and Daphne pondered a hasty retreat, yet she held her position. For several seconds, she savored the warmth of his amber gaze, as he had captured her. When he caressed her bottom lip with his thumb, she shuddered.

  “Now that is what I was waiting for, and you did not disappoint me.” Then he covered her mouth with his, her knees buckled, and he groaned and hugged her close.