Page 25 of The Dove
“Would you please see that Rowney has these sent out as soon as possible?” she said to the maid while stuffing small envelopes with her regrets.
The maid wrinkled her brow at the sight of Daphne’s refusals. She never spoke on it, but seemed concerned that her mistress spent most of her time at home, or in Mrs. Russel’s coffeehouse.
She smiled, holding up the invitation for tomorrow night’s soirée. “All is not lost, Clarice. There’s a ball tomorrow night, and I intend to go.”
The maid’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, my lady, how splendid! You should wear the gold satin!”
Daphne smiled, certain this was the first time she’d ever seen her lady’s maid portray any real emotion. She’d been so formal and distant that she’d begun to worry that Clarice was not fond of her.
As if uncertain after such an outburst, the maid reeled herself in. Clearing her throat, she schooled her face into a passive mask.
“That is, if my lady is amenable,” Clarice added in an even tone of voice.
Reaching out to take the maid’s hand, she laughed. “I think the gold satin would be lovely. It’s never been worn, and I believe I have some jewelry to match it—a few pieces my mother passed down to me. What do you say we choose accessories after you’ve handed those notes off to Rowney?”
Clarice’s smile was back, and she nodded. “That would be splendid, m’lady.”
Daphne sent the maid off before crossing through the open doorway to her bedchamber. By the time Clarice had returned, she’d retrieved the ballgown from its place in her dressing room and laid it across the bed.
For an hour, the two went about selecting the right shoes, comparing bits of jewelry and the small collection of hair clips and feathers that Daphne had purchased to complement her wardrobe. It felt good, turning her mind to mundane things for a short time. Once they had decided on a complete ensemble, Clarice bustled off to get to work, ensuring the gown was pressed and pristine. Which left Daphne with nothing to do until dinner.
Deciding that lunch at the coffeehouse would be just the thing, she retrieved a spencer and shawl and set out on the short walk. If she hurried, Mrs. Russel would have meat pies fresh from the oven. There was a slight spring in her step as she walked, the unusually pleasant weather continuing to grace them with sunshine. She fairly skipped down the street, heedless of the people passing her on the sidewalk, or the open-air barouche pulling up in the intersection between two streets—until it veered into her path, preventing her from crossing the street.
Indignation bristled her spine, a sharp reprimand perched on the edge of her tongue as she stared up at the man seated on the perch. The words died on her lips as she met the gaze of the driver, her heart stuttering to a stop for what felt like ages.
It was Adam, dressed in snappy riding attire, black gloves covering his large hands, which clutched the reins of a pair of beautiful black bays. The horses stamped and snorted, but minded the pull of the reins as he grinned, looking very much like he wished to devour her.
Despite the sunlight shining down upon her, she shivered.
“Pardon me, my lord,” she said and an imperious lift of her chin. “You are blocking the road.”
“Aye, but ask me if I give a bloody damn,” he teased. “Get in, little dove.”
Heaving a frustrated sigh, she backed away from the barouche. Just when she was beginning to enjoy her day, he had to turn up and ruin it. Still, it was difficult to tear her eyes away from the sight of him, his coat and breeches clinging to his bulging muscles, his hair left loose and hanging down his back. He did not wear a hat, but that should not have surprised her. Adam was never proper if he could help it.
“I am enjoying my walk,” she protested. “I’ll thank you to let me be on my way.”
He chuckled, in a better mood than she’d expected after the events of the previous day. “So formal … one would think I had not tied you down and fucked your mouth just yesterday.”
She gasped, her gaze darting left and right to ensure no one who walked past them had overheard. Despite wishing to appear as if he did not affect her quite as much as he did, she felt her face flushing.
“Will you lower your voice?” she hissed.
“Only if you get in,” he countered. “Now, Daphne … before I cause a scene.”
Already, passersby were slowing to stare at them, searching beneath her hat to see who stood on the corner of Half-Moon Street talking to the Earl of Hartmoor. Weighing her options, she realized he had left her with no choice. She had no doubt he would cause the threatened scene if she did not comply.
She would give him what he wanted, if for no other reason than to preserve her dignity. Besides, he couldn’t maul her in an open barouche with all of London looking on.
“Fine,” she huffed, gathering her gown in one hand and climbing into the conveyance.
Adam’s large body took up so much of the seat that when she settled beside him, their hips and thighs met, their bodies mashed together by the confined space on the perch.
Straightening her back, she tried not to think about the heat emanating from his body, the way his hard thigh felt pressed against hers. His scent invaded her senses, overwhelming that of city smog and horse. He gave his reins a snap, and the beasts set off at a canter, pulling them into the light traffic coming and going along the lane.
Once they were well underway, she turned to him. “What do you want, Adam?”
Keeping his eyes upon the road in front of them, he shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t a gentleman invite a woman to ride with him without being accused of having ulterior motives?”
