Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(71)
I do hope to hear from you soon. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind my recent increase in expenditures. I’ve commissioned an entire new wardrobe and have begun making a few, much-needed alternations to our London home. I’m sure you will agree that the paintings of the former dukes were decidedly de trop and much in need of replacement. I’ve had them sent to the attics.
Sincerely,
Daisy Trent
Daisy found herself being ushered into the salon of the Duchess of Leeds by a butler who looked as if he’d be more at home on the docks than he was in his formal attire. He possessed none of the formidable starch of Giles, and he seemed far too young for the position, tall and broad and commanding, with a head of black hair and a wicked scar running down his right cheek.
He was almost handsome, though not in the classical sense. Rather, his was a raw, brawny attractiveness that was most disarming in a servant who was meant to blend into the wallpaper unless he was required. This man would never blend into wallpaper. Damask could not possibly contain him.
The invitation from the duchess had arrived two days before, disarming Daisy, for she didn’t recall ever having much discourse with the Duchess of Leeds. And precious few invitations had been forthcoming for the American who had eloped with the duke who’d subsequently disappeared.
Daisy read the gossip sheets, even if she knew she shouldn’t. She was more than aware of her reputation and what was being said of her. It wasn’t pretty.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Trent,” the man masquerading as a butler announced.
Daisy entered the salon to an unexpected sight. The Duchess of Leeds sat on a gilded settee, surrounded by a bevy of dogs, an orange cat curled on her lap. One dog, a handsome terrier with an under-bite, rose and sauntered toward Daisy, sniffing her skirts.
Daisy didn’t think twice before lowering herself to the dog’s level, offering him her hand for a judicious sniff. He sniffed deeply for a few moments, pressing his warm nuzzle into her palm, before delivering a lick.
“Your Grace,” said the duchess, drawing Daisy’s attention back to her with a smile that only served to heighten her exotic beauty. She had rich chestnut hair, high cheekbones, and flashing green eyes. “It seems as if you’ve met with Hugo’s approval.”
“He is a dear.” Daisy removed her glove to rub Hugo’s satiny head. He rewarded her by getting onto his haunches and licking her directly across the mouth.
“Oh heavens, Hugo. Down, boy.” The duchess’s voice rang across the salon, cutting and authoritative. “My dear duchess, please do stand else I fear the little mongrel will stuff his tongue down your throat.”
Daisy laughed as Hugo licked her cheek. “I don’t mind.”
As a girl, she’d longed for a dog, and that same longing returned to her in a rush now, likely compounded by an entire month of loneliness and isolation. March had turned into April, the weather warming, spring blossoming over the city, and still her husband had not returned. No word. No indication he even still breathed. The pang in her chest tightened, and the little dog seemed to sense her distress, for his simple lick turned into a frenzy of wet, overzealous canine kisses.
“Oh dear heavens, you little scoundrel,” the duchess chided. “Down, Hugo!”
The dog at last obeyed, settling himself on his haunches and blinking up at her with large, chocolate eyes. Daisy gave his head another pat before she stood, recalling her manners as she swept into a curtsy.
“Pish, none of that now,” the duchess said, an open and friendly smile curving her lips and rendering her even lovelier. “I don’t believe in standing on ceremony.” She gestured about her airily. “I’m somewhat of a collector of strays, you see.”
A collector of strays—yes, it made sense, from the dogs, to the cat, to the butler. Daisy couldn’t help but wonder if the odd woman before her viewed her as yet another one.
“How kindhearted of you.” Daisy strove for diplomacy. “Thank you for your invitation, Your Grace. I find myself something of an outsider in London.”
“You mustn’t thank me. Do come in and get settled,” the duchess ordered. “And please, you must call me Georgiana, I insist. Ludlow will bring tea shortly.”
Daisy hesitantly found her way to a chair that flanked the duchess, Hugo trailing happily along with her and sitting on the hem of her skirts after she’d found her seat. They chatted politely until the unlikely butler returned, looking almost ridiculous as he bore a dainty silver tray in his meaty paws. Daisy didn’t miss the look the duchess exchanged with the man before he quietly retreated from the room once more.
Innocuous chatter continued over tea, Daisy grateful for the companionship and the distraction both. Georgiana, as it turned out, was a fellow American heiress. Having grown up largely abroad, she possessed the cultured accent of any lady to the manor born. Daisy felt herself warming to the garrulous duchess, who was quick to laugh and equally generous in her smiles. During the course of their tête-à-tête, she almost forgot the misery of her current situation.
Until Georgiana eyed her sympathetically over her tea and uttered the observation she least wished to hear. “You seem dreadfully in need of a friend, Daisy.”
Daisy nearly spat her tea all over her silk gown. Yes, she supposed she was dreadfully in need of a friend. But who was this odd woman she scarcely knew, who kept a menagerie of small animals and had a terrifying butler, to say so?