Page 48 of Barbarous

What did he mean? By the time she opened her mouth to ask, he had already turned to leave.

The door closed with a soft click and Daphne lowered her head onto her desk. Hugh was looking for a person with reason to harm him. Of course he was. Good God. How she wished she had told the truth before this attempt on his health—or life. How could she possibly tell him now?

* * *

To Daphne’s relief, Hugh did not again raise the subject of his injury or who might have caused it. Nor did he avoid the subject because he was avoiding her. On the contrary, he seemed to seek out her company more than ever, going riding with Daphne and the boys, joining a fishing expedition on one particularly fine day, and even accompanying them into Eastbourne, twice.

Two wonderful, glorious weeks flew by before she knew it. Hugh and Daphne had finished dinner one evening and were preparing to engage in a game of chess when a footman entered the library with a message.

Hugh glanced at the rectangle of parchment on the salver and then at Daphne. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but this is in Delacroix’s hand—the Ghost has returned.” The message must have been brief because he looked up after only a few seconds. “I’m afraid I shall miss my chance to thrash you at chess this evening.”

Daphne snorted softly. He was an average chess player, at best, and she had beaten him in every match so far.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips, delivering a lingering kiss along with a lingering look. “I would not run off if I could delegate receipt of this particular package to anyone else.”

Daphne hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding in her chest. She nodded and tugged her hand away. “I shall take the opportunity to work on the drain problem. I believe I might have found a solution.” She regretted her prosaic words the moment they left her mouth.

Hugh laughed. “I look forward to discussing drains—or any other subject you desire—when I return, my dearest Daphne.”

* * *

Several hours later Daphne was still awake and working in the library. She was so engrossed in calculations and plans, she almost didn’t hear the sound of carriage wheels in the courtyard below. She consulted the mahogany longcase clock and saw it was after midnight. It could only be Hugh returning from the ship.

She worked for another quarter hour and then realized she lacked one portion of the drawings, which must still be in Randall’s office. Grumbling, she picked up a candlestick and headed to fetch the plans. On her way she noticed a small candelabrum on the console table outside the smallest sitting room—a room nobody ever used.

She opened the door and froze. The only source of light in the room came from the crackling blaze in the fireplace. Hugh sat on a sofa, and he wasn’t alone. Pale arms clung tightly to his neck and a woman’s face was buried in his cravat. He had his mouth to her ear but looked up at the sound and met Daphne’s eyes. For a moment neither of them moved; then the woman turned to see what had disturbed Hugh.

Even in the subdued light Daphne could see her hair was a gorgeous auburn and her enormous eyes were lined with what could only be kohl, a cosmetic aid Daphne had heard about but never seen. The woman was swathed in a black cloak; the only visible parts of her were two delicate arms and tiny feet shod with strange, colorful sandals.

Hugh began to disentangle the woman’s arms. “Daphne.” He sounded pained rather than guilty at being caught clutching a strange woman in the middle of the night.

Daphne locked eyes with the woman, who no longer looked startled. Instead, her perfect, bow-shaped mouth curved into an expression of regret or shame or—

“Daphne?”

She wrenched her eyes from the beautiful stranger and began backing out the open doorway, looking anywhere but at Hugh’s face. “I apologize for interrupting. I did not know anyone was in here. I came this way looking for the rest of the cottage plans. I was working on the drains,” she added inanely. “I didn’t know anyone was in here,” she repeated, searching behind her with one hand for the door handle.

“Daphne, wait.” He lunged to his feet, his body angled toward her, one hand outstretched.

Daphne’s vision wavered and blurred and her fumbling hand located the handle. As Hugh moved toward her, she stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut, seizing her heavy skirts in one hand and sprinting, not for the library, but for her chambers. She didn’t stop running until she was inside her room. She slammed the door shut and locked it before flinging herself onto her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, as if for protection. Something warm slithered down her cheek; she squeezed her eyes shut on the hot rush of tears but an image of Hugh with the woman in his arms waited for her behind her eyelids. She dropped her head back against the headboard and stared blindly at the opposite wall. Was this woman the “urgent package” Hugh needed to collect?

Daphne snorted. How like a man to confuse a woman with a package!

And he’d had the nerve—the temerity—the gall—to bring her here, into her home. Daphne bit her lip. Well, it was really his home; not that he knew that, of course. She ground her teeth as the image filled her head, even with her eyes open. She shook her head violently until the picture dissolved in a red haze of pain. The insidious thoughts, however, were not so easily dislodged.

How dare he bring his mistress to Lessing Hall? This was Daphne’s home—where her children and Lady Amelia and she lived.

She squeezed the pillow until her arms ached. Who was the little redhead? His mistress? Or . . . might she be his wife? His wife? The thought was like a slap in the face.

Why not? her cold inner voice demanded.

Daphne hurled the pillow across the room and it struck a bronze statuette on the mantelpiece. The sculpture teetered back and forth several times before crashing to the marble hearth, the resultant clang deafening but strangely comforting.

Daphne stared at the still-wobbling statue, horrified. She had never done such a thing in her life. Emotional outbursts of any kind were anathema to her. Even during the worst times—when she’d been living under Malcolm’s roof and enduring his constant harassment—she had not given in to her temper. No, not until Hugh arrived had she started feeling this way—behaving this way. Before he’d come along she’d had no trouble sleeping or concentrating and had spent her time raising her children, managing a household—several, in fact—and living a fulfilling life.

And now? Now she spent her days gazing at nothing while thinking of him, seeking out opportunities to spend more time with him, and—and—

A low, fierce growl slipped from her lips. Just who did he think he was? Some eastern potentate assembling his harem? In her home? The word harem created images that were far worse than the one of Hugh with the woman in his arms; images of Hugh reclining among silk cushions—his muscular body naked, of course—with kohl-eyed beauties around him, eager to please. He was touching them, his big, gentle hands stroking and exploring while they opened themselves to him and—