Page 26 of Earl for the Summer
“Yes,” he agreed, but he didn’t mean the flowers.
As if she sensed it, warmth rushed into her cheeks. The same shade as the nearbycamellia japonica.
“I cannot meet you alone, Lord Windham.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “But my sister and brother-in-law are hosting a small dinner party this evening, if you’d like to come.”
He’d not yet purchased a ticket to depart London, nor arranged for a telegram to be sent to Julian. Heaven help him, he wanted more time with Daphne Bridewell and the chance to give her the honesty she deserved.
“I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER 6
“Good grief, I missed one ball, and yet there’s a novel’s worth of events to sort out.” Ivy had listened with rapt attention as Daphne recounted all that happened at the Bancroft ball and then at Kew Gardens.
“Not quite a whole novel’s worth.” Daphne had told her sisteralmosteverything. She’d left out the fact that she’d touched Windham—that they’d held onto each other—and that he’d lent her his tailcoat.
They seemed too intimate, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about those moments. His coat had smelled of his scent, nothing perfumed, just the clean hints of citrus and clove shaving soap. After she’d returned the garment to him, his scent had lingered on her skin.
“What novel are we discussing?” Lily, their eldest sister and Duchess of Edgerton, asked as she joined them in the drawing room.
She wore a Worth gown of cobalt blue that none of them could have dreamed of affording a year ago, when they’d lost their home in Derbyshire. Now, Lily had fully embraced her role as duchess and had become one of the most popular hostesses in London.
“Not a novel. Events related to Lord Windham,” Ivy told her before Daphne could stop her.
“Ah,” Lily said with the flash of a smile. “The earl we’ve added to tonight’s guest list.” She took a spot on the settee next to Daphne and cast her a quizzical look. “He’s a friend of yours?”
Daphne swallowed and flicked her gaze from one sister to the other, both of whom watched her expectantly.
“Yes,” she said, “he’s a friend.” Her cheeks warmed to betray her, of course. She was dreadful at fibbing. As dreadful as she was at knowing which gentlemen to trust.
“He was a suitor of Lady Selina Lytton’s,” Ivy added. “But no longer, since she’s caught herself a marquess.”
Daphne would have glared at Ivy if she thought it would do any good. But it wouldn’t, so she sighed with resignation instead.
Lily arched both brows. “Oh, yes, I did hear about the Lytton-Strathmere engagement. The marquess’s mother attended my tea yesterday. I take it both families are quite pleased with the match.”
“Selina seems happy too,” Daphne added, recalling her friend’s enthusiasm when discussing Strathmere.
“And now Lord Windham is coming to dinner,” Ivy put in, her tone arch and pointed. “Perhaps his interest has turned elsewhere.”
“Would that be welcome?” Lily asked softly.
“No,” Daphne responded with forced coolness. “He did me a kindness, so I invited him to dinner. And he likes gardening and camellias.”
Lily’s face softened with a slow smile, while Ivy wore her signature knowing smirk.
“You’re both going to be disappointed,” Daphne insisted. “We share an interest and have spoken a few times. Nothing more.”
But itwasmore. From the moment they’d collided at the Ellburtons’ ball, something had shifted. He’d been different, and her reaction to him had been…what it had never been before.
Every encounter with him caused her guard to slip a bit more.
She couldn’t deny the way his gaze always seemed to find her, nor how it stirred a hope she told herself she could no longer trust where handsome men were concerned. The incident with Moreland had smothered it for a while, but now some fragile flicker seemed to ignite every time she looked Lord Windham’s way.
Opening her heart to another man felt unthinkable, and yet all she could think about was Lord Windham—the moment he’d burst into the library, the fact that he’d come and sought her out at all.
Did he feel something for her? And, more importantly, did she wish him to?
It would mean trusting again, opening herself up to being hurt again.
