Page 43 of The Lady Knows Best

“So if she refuses,” added Ashborough, “set your sights elsewhere. Don’t gamble on a second chance.”

“With Daphne?”

“With any of us.”

There was something remarkable about their protectiveness. Miles found it both admirable and unsettling. No wonder Daphne wrote in secret and yearned for a place in which she was both appreciated for herself and allowed to stretch her wings.

But what chance had he, really, to be the sort of man such a clever woman needed?

“Understood. I’ll speak with her tonight, with your permission.”

Both Raynham and Ashborough deferred to Burke, whose face was set in hard lines as he gave a grudging nod. “Come,” he said, and the other two rose. “We’ll take you to her now.”

CHAPTER 14

In the drawing room, Daphne sat with a book on her lap, pretending to read. She could not have said what it was about, but it served as a useful deflection for the others’ attention. Her plan had seemed simple enough at the start, if hardly foolproof. She would write an essay on rakes—which was to say, an essay on that devil, Deveraux. Shocked by the essay’s revelations, society would turn its back on him for good. He would have no power over her or the magazine then, which would render the proposal of marriage he’d extorted from her moot. She would be free.

She had not considered what might happen if Paris, Gabriel, and Tristan refused to let Miles continue his courtship—either by demanding that he marry her immediately, or by refusing to give their blessing to the match. Then, as Miles himself had said, she would be left to choose her fate: marry him against her family’s wishes, her own inclination, or both; or be exposed as Miss Busy B. and face the consequences.

Whatever the nature of the conversation presently taking place among the four men, her courtship period was rapidly coming to a close, and so far her research had not turned up anything nearly scandalous enough to achieve the ends she desired.

While Daphne ruminated over her plans, she gave an occasional ear to Bell, who was amusing herself by playing the pianoforte—though not particularly well, because she rarely practiced. Pity the gentleman who sought an accomplished bride and set his sights on Bellis Burke.

Cami and Erica sat a few feet away, together on the same sofa, discussing babies: the much-anticipated births of both Paris and Rosamund’s and Erica and Tristan’s third child, any day for Rosamund and in the autumn for Erica. From the snippets Daphne had overheard, Erica would have preferred to return to the country, but because Percy’s birth had been difficult, her husband was determined to stay in London for the rest of the year, where there were more and better physicians to care for her. Tristan was not an open or sentimental man, but no one could doubt how much he loved his wife.

With her eyes fixed unseeing on the page, Daphne struggled to remember word for word everything Miles had said over dinner—for the essay, of course. Except that nothing had struck her as particularly dangerous, or even all that rakish. Just that bit of nonsense about her dress, and Bell had practically forced that out of him. Otherwise, he’d been unusually quiet.

Was he still? Were Paris and Gabriel talking circles around him?

Or would they provoke him to say more than he should?

Both too soon and an eternity later, the doors to the drawing room opened to admit the gentlemen. All four of them—and none the worse for wear, though Paris looked tired, like a man who’d left Berkshire early that morning and would return in a few hours, at first light. He went and spoke to Bell at the piano.

Daphne had half expected fisticuffs to break out in the dining room after she and her sisters had left, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved that they obviously hadn’t. Gentlemen had other, more dangerous ways of settling disputes.

Gabriel crossed the room to Cami, who rose and asked, “Shall I ring for tea?”

“In the family parlor, if you would, my dear,” Gabriel answered with a smile that revealed nothing. “Lord Deveraux has something he wishes to say to Daphne, and I’m sure he would rather speak without an audience.”

Cami’s answering nod was so brusque, Daphne saw no more than the flash of light against her spectacles. The six of them left more quickly and quietly than Daphne would have imagined possible, leaving Miles gazing up at an enormous painting of a wooded valley in Shropshire, in which Stoke Abbey was nestled, if one knew where to look.

He did not turn until Daphne snapped shut her book.

When he walked toward her, he moved with an athletic grace that made it difficult not to watch, though she tried. She had considered whether the essay ought to include discussion of such matters. Young ladies were kept in woeful ignorance about bodies, their own and those of men. To her mind, and in the opinions of everyone at the Magazine for Misses, that lack of knowledge left them vulnerable.

But could she really put into print her recent discoveries about the appeal of the masculine form, and its consequent ability to distract a woman from her higher goals?

“Daphne?” He sounded both puzzled and vaguely pleased; she wondered how much of her thoughts her expression had given away.

Wrenching her wayward mind to heel, she laid the unread book aside. With a mild smile, she gestured to the chair nearest hers. He sat down on the edge of the seat, his legs angled beneath him as if he expected to have to spring to his feet on a moment’s notice. Their knees nearly touched.

“Were they awful?” she asked at last, when he did not speak.

The question seemed to require more reflection than expected. Finally, he said, “Not to me, no. Your family is—”

“Extraordinary? Exceptional?” she suggested automatically.

One shoulder lifted. “I suppose. But I was going to say overwhelming. I find myself wondering whether they pushed you into their shadows, or whether you went willingly.”