The Irresistible Rogue (Playful Brides #4)(37)

“You cannot possibly mean that,” Fitzwell said.

“Why not?” Daphne asked, blinking at Lord Fitzwell. “Would you like to hear a song?”

Rafe smothered his smile.

Lord Fitzwell tugged at his cravat this time. No doubt the man was sweating. So was Rafe. “I came out here to— Well, I’ll just say it. I came from your brother’s study, where we had a talk, came to an understanding. He provided his blessing in my asking for your hand. Your cousin told me I might find you here.”

Daphne lifted her hand in front of her face and stared at it. “My hand? I thought Delilah was asleep and I can’t imagine why you would want my hand. It’s a funny expression, isn’t it?” She waved her hand in front of her face, still staring at it.

“Lady Daphne, have you or have you not been drinking?” Fitzwell demanded, stamping his booted foot.

Daphne lifted her skirts and performed a simple three-step. “I have indeed. Quite a lot. Champagne, you know. It’s ever so delicious.”

Fitzwell frowned at her. “I must have your word that you’ll never drink to excess again if we are to marry.”

“Never? Never again?” Daphne asked, one hand clutching her necklace and her nose scrunched adorably.

“That’s right. And I’d also like your word that nothing untoward happened between you and Captain Cavendish here tonight.”

Daphne’s face instantly sobered. She plunked her hands on her hips. “What did you think had happened?”

“I certainly don’t know but it looked quite bad,” Fitzwell replied.

Daphne’s hands remained firmly planted on her hips. “So you just assumed that we had what? Been rolling around on the grass together on purpose?”

Fitzwell puffed up his chest. “I didn’t know what to think.”

Daphne raised her nose in the air and drew herself up to her entire five-foot height. “Lord Fitzwell, you are judgmental.”

The baron’s eyes nearly bugged from his skull. “Why, I—”

“And not only are you judgmental, you’re also quite wrong.”

Fitzwell’s face turned an alarming shade of red. Rafe slid his hands into his pockets and whistled. There was nothing left to do here but to let this little drama play out.

A scattering of pebbles announced someone else’s arrival as Claringdon came around the hedge. “Is something the matter? I was out for a walk and I heard a commotion.”

Lord Fitzwell’s eyes lit up. “No. Nothing. I was just about to ask Lady Daphne here for her hand in marriage. I do hope you’ll be able to attend the ceremony, your grace.” Another obsequious bow from the baron. Rafe rolled his eyes.

Claringdon’s shrewd gaze covered the three of them. “If Lady Daphne wishes it.”

“I do not wish it,” Daphne announced.

Rafe scratched the back of his neck.

“Lady Daphne, you cannot mean to exclude the Duke of Claringdon from our wedding,” Lord Fitzwell said, sounding entirely shocked. He turned to Claringdon and bowed again. “I’m sorry, your grace. She’s not well this evening and—”

“I don’t mean that at all,” Daphne interjected. “I mean that I do not wish to marry you, Lord Fitzwell.”

Fitzwell’s head swiveled to face her. “What? Why?”

“I do not think we suit. Nor fit … well.” She couldn’t help breaking into a new round of giggles over that one. Rafe bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing too.

Fitzwell’s face was quickly turning a mottled shade of red. “I cannot imagine what you mean. I was under the impression that you would welcome my suit. I thought that we—”

“That was before I realized how judgmental you are,” Daphne announced.

“I don’t know what to say.” Lord Fitzwell’s hands returned to savagely grip his lapels. “I am in shock and am entirely without words.”

Ah, finally, his opening.

“That may be for the best.” Rafe flashed the baron a grin. “The lady has spoken, my lord. Might I suggest you leave?”





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE




The soft knock at her bedchamber door the next morning didn’t wake Daphne. She was already wide awake and had been all morning. Most of the night, too, if she was honest. Last night, Julian had sent a maid with some concoction a friend of his had invented for people who’d had too much to drink. She’d downed the noxious stuff and then, a sputtering mess, had fallen fitfully to sleep. But she’d been up with the sun, biting at the tip of her thumbnail and replaying the whole awful sordid night in her head.

“Who is it?” she called toward the door.

“It’s Cass, dear. May I come in?”

Daphne sighed. No doubt her sister-in-law had heard all about her foibles last night. “Of course,” she called back.

Cass came sweeping into the room wearing a pretty peach day dress and a wide smile on her lovely face. She made her way over to the bed, pulled the chair from the writing desk next to it, and took a seat. “How are you feeling, Daphne?”

Daphne groaned and rubbed a hand to her forehead. “Like I was run over by the mail coach.”

Cass winced. “I’m so sorry.” She reached out and patted Daphne’s hand.