Loved by a Duke (The Heart of a Duke #4)(3)

“I can’t think when you speak like that.” Her mother clenched her eyes tight and rubbed her temples, pressing her fingers into the skin. “I…”

Remorse flooded her and she swept across the room. “Shh.” She took her mother by the shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “You should rest.”

The older woman nodded. “Yes. Yes. That is a very good idea. I should rest.” She turned away woodenly and left in a sea of black, bombazine skirts. The only time she replaced her mourning attire was when she was forced out into Society with her still unwed daughter.

With a sigh, Daisy wandered back to the hearth and stared down into the orange-red flames. The fire snapped and hissed noisily in the quiet of the room. When she’d been a small girl, she’d loved to hop. She would jump on two feet, until she’d discovered the thrill of that unsteady one-footed hop. Then her mother had discovered her hopping and put a subsequent end to any such behavior.

At least when there was a hint of a possibility of Mother being near. Now, with her father gone, dead in his sleep not even two years ago, and a mother who’d ceased to note her existence, Daisy would quite gladly trade her current state for that overbearing, oft-scolding mother.

She gently tugged up the hem of her gown and jumped on her two slippered feet. A smile pulled at her lips as the familiar thrill of the forbidden filled her. Even if it was only the forbidden that existed in her mind, from a time long ago. Did she even remember how to hop? She’d not done so in…she searched her mind. Seven years? Surely not. Entirely too long for any person to not do something as enjoyable as jump or hop.

Daisy held her arms out at her side and experimented with a tentative hop. She chewed her lips. Boots had been ever so much more conducive to this manner of enjoyable business. “How utterly silly,” she mumbled to herself. It was silly. Quite juvenile, really. And yet, despite knowing that and all the lessons of propriety ingrained into her, giddiness filled her chest. With a widening smile she hopped higher, catching her reflection in the mirror, a kind of testament to the fact that she was, in truth, visible. Still real. Still alive when the loved, cherished brother no longer was. “I am here,” she said softly into the quiet of the ivory parlor. Daisy lifted her skirts higher and hopped up and down on one foot. Her loose chignon released several brown curls. They tumbled over her eye and she blew them back.

Ladies did not hop. Invisible ones, however, were permitted certain freedoms.

Her smile widened at the triviality of her actions. For many years, she’d been besieged with guilt for daring to smile or laugh when Lionel should never again do either. Eventually, she had. And along with guilt there was also some joy for the reminder that she was in fact— “Ahem, the Duke of Crawford.”

Daisy came down hard on her ankle and, with a curse, crumpled before the hearth. Her heartbeat sped up as she caught a glimpse of Auric’s towering form, over the ivory satin sofa, at the entranceway. He wore his familiar ducal frown. However, the usually stoic, unflappable peer hovered blinking at her in her pile of sea foam green skirts.

She mustered a smile. “Hullo.” She made to shove herself to her feet.

He was across the room in three long strides. “What are you doing?” Not: how are you? Not: Are you all right? And certainly not: My love, please don’t be injured.

She winged an eyebrow upward. “Oh, you know, I’m merely sitting here admiring the lovely fire.” His frown deepened.

Then in one effortless movement, he scooped her up and set her on her feet. A thrill of warmth charged through her at his strong hands upon her person. “Are you hurt?”

Well, there, a bit belated, but she supposed, better late than never. “I’m fine,” she assured him. Her maid appeared in the doorway. “Agnes, will you see to refreshments?”

The young woman, who’d been with her for almost six years, turned on her heel and hurried to see to her mistress’ bidding. Agnes had come to know, just like every other servant, peer, and person, that there was no danger to Daisy’s reputation where the Duke of Crawford was concerned.

She took a tentative step, testing for injury.

“You’d indicated you were unhurt,” he spoke in a disapproving tone, as though perturbed at the idea of her being hurt.

Goodness, she’d not want to go and bother him by being injured. “I am all right,” she replied automatically. Then, “What are you doing here?” Mortified heat burned her cheeks at the boldness of her own question.

He gave her an indecipherable look.

“Not that you’re not welcome to visit.” Shut up this instant, Daisy Laurel. “You are of course, welcome.” He continued to study her in that inscrutable way of his. Sometime between charming young boy of sixteen and now, he’d perfected ducal haughtiness. Annoyed by his complete mastery of his emotions, she slipped by him and claimed a seat on the ivory sofa. “What I intended to say is,” I, “my mother missed your visits.”

There was a slight tightening at the corners of his lips. Beyond that, however, he gave no indication that he either cared, remembered, or worried about the Marchioness of Roxbury.

She sat back in her seat. “Would you care to sit?” Or would you rather stand there glowering in that menacing manner of yours?

He sat. And still glowered in that menacing manner of his. “What were you doing?”