Stanton merely found the idea amusing. “God help the woman who thinks she has a hold on me.”
“I recall saying something similar once, when Shadowmere was the netherworld for the depraved.”
He was not ashamed. It had been a means of survival. Life was different now.
“One of your disappointed guests has turned her attention toThe Sentinel.” Stanton checked that people were occupied with their champagne. “Though she had the grace not to name you while debasing my good name.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Dominic gripped Stanton’s arm and drew him aside. “Who is it? What did she say?”
He should have walked away.
The last thing he needed was another damn quest.
“Like a true coward, she remains anonymous. Apparently, being friends with you must make me a bare-faced liar.”
He pursed his lips, trying not to grin. “A low blow. The lady has done her research.”
“Not well enough.”
“What does she want?”
“My head on a spike.”
“Not everyone agrees with what you print. It’s never bothered you before.” Stanton had survived religious fanatics, rotten tomatoes, and a brick through his office window.
He drew a letter from his pocket and thrust it under Dominic’s nose. “Smell that and tell me this isn’t a wicked form of intimidation.”
He inhaled once. “And you have the gall to accuse me of losing my mind. I can’t smell a thing.”
Stanton drew back and frowned. “It’s potent. I hate the woman but love her perfume. It’s a bloody conspiracy.”
“We’ll discuss this tomorrow. Not on my wedding day.”
Stanton drew his hand through his hair. “Forgive me. It’snothing. I was wrong to mention it. She’ll tire of writing eventually. They always do.”
Thankfully, Beattie appeared in the doorway, gave one ring of his handbell and invited everyone to take their seats in the dining room.
The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of toasts and laughter. Montfort rose first, glass in hand, and said something about love that made Charlotte snort and Stanton reach for more wine.
Dominic kept Daphne at his side, his chair drawn close enough that their shoulders brushed when he turned to speak. Beneath the table, his hand found hers. Their fingers laced, hidden by linen, the quiet pressure of his grip a silent promise.
When the guests rose to return to the drawing room, he leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. “We could slip away to the cottage for half an hour.”
“Won’t our guests wonder why we keep disappearing?”
“Let them wonder. I need to know if you’re wearing the garters I saw in that silk-lined box.”
She smiled. “Always so impatient, Mr Hawke.”
“Only with you, angel.”
Her breath caught. “Call me that and I’ll follow you anywhere.”
They were about to sneak through the terrace doors when Ramsey found them. “There’s a delivery. A wedding gift. The fellow wants you to check for damages before he leaves. Beattie told him to take it to the cottage.”
“Can it not wait?” The sigh was for Ramsey’s benefit. He turned to Daphne. “As it’s a wedding gift, we should both inspect it.”
“Yes, we should study it closely.”
