Her father appeared, his face flushed, half his waistcoat buttons undone, his grey eyes as cold as a winter’s frost.
Mrs Foster scurried after him, lip rouge smudged, her hair wild, as though she’d been caught in a gale.
The sight angered Mr Hawke, and for the first time that evening, she noticed a flaw in his composure. “Evidently, you weren’t playing piquet.”
“What the devil is this about, Hawke?” her father demanded, but didn’t wait for an answer. He shouted to the musicians, who sat frozen in their chairs, instruments braced. “Play something, you imbeciles!”
Daphne had never seen him so at odds.
He turned to Lord Templeton, whose next event would be a crush. “For Pete’s sake, man, insist they dance. Ring the damn supper gong. Do something other than stand there like a preened hen.”
The orchestra launched into a reel, all sharp strings and stomping rhythm. Daphne had the absurd urge to join in.
“You know what this is about,” Mr Hawke said coldly.
She watched her father, waiting for a reaction. He glanced away briefly, but it was enough. He had done something to warrant her degradation.
She bit back a smile, a delicious surge of triumph bubbling in her chest. Who could he blame but himself? What excuse would he offer Mr Irving now?
She resisted the urge to clap her hands in glee.
Unbeknown to Mr Hawke, he had saved her from a fate worse than death. A life of abject misery, where the plan was to see her swollen with child by St Stephen’s Day.
“He insisted they dance,” Aunt Augusta said quickly, eager to excuse the fact that she was the world’s worst chaperone. “Then he kissed her shamelessly in the middle of the floor. We were powerless to stop him.”
Daphne held her breath, waiting for Mr Hawke to correct the mistake. She’d likely feel the crack of a birch for the part she’d played. Still, better that than marry a man thrice her age who smelled of stewed cabbage.
Mr Hawke stared at her father like a wolf on the prowl. “Ruining your daughter was only the beginning.”
That should have been her cue to weep. To collapse into despair. To feel the hopelessness of her situation, the utter hatred for the masterful man beside her.
Perhaps she should reach for her handkerchief and pretend to dab a tear, or appear a little unsteady on her feet.
“What is this about, Father?” That seemed like the appropriate thing to say. She sniffed and coughed lightly. A touch of meekness would do no harm. “Why would a man like Mr Hawke seek me out?”
Her father leaned closer, so close she caught a whiff of Mrs Foster’s sickly lavender scent on his coat. “You tell me, Daphne. I’ve a mind to think this is your attempt to sabotage our plans. If you think playing the harlot will free?—”
“Don’t call her that,” Mr Hawke snapped, much to everyone’s shock, for he ran a house of ill repute. “I’m the villain here. Nothing she could have said or done would have deterred me.”
“Mr Hawke seemed intent on taking pleasure in my misfortune,” she agreed, the sudden memory of his mouth on hers warming her cheeks.
Excellent. They’d mistake it for shame.
“This isn’t about pleasure, angel. It’s retribution.”
Her aunt lifted a limp hand to her brow. “Good heavens. He has a moniker for her. Are we to hear of a new apartment in Mayfair? Accounts opened at every famed modiste? A new barouche delivered to the door?”
“I may have no option but to retire to the country. Perhaps even move as far afield as Flanders.”
She might have winked at Mr Hawke, but that would be beyond the pale. Besides, how was he to know she welcomed his attention? The scoundrel had intended to ruin her life.
A sinister shadow passed over her father’s patrician features. “You’ll go where I tell you.” He bared his teeth. Froth gathered at the corners of his mouth. “This charade ends now. We’ll discuss the matter of your exile at home. Irving has a house in Bengal.”
A cold chill swept through her. Bengal.
A place so distant she was unlikely to see home again.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
