Daisy didn’t know whether to be offended or pleased. “Yes, you–”
“Handsome,” her sister repeated for the third time, resorting back to her fingers. “Honest. Or as honest as a man can be expected to be.”
“Why can’t we set our expectations–”
“And ofcourse, it goes withoutsaying, that he must be wealthy and titled.” Although Violet’s tone remained light–almost too light–the shadow that temporarily crossed her pretty face was dark. “Maybe you should write this all down.”
Daisy tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I think I can remember.”
“Does your scoundrel from the stables meet all of the requirements? Thatiswho you were with tonight, isn’t it?”
“How did you guess?” Daisy’s chest puffed with indignation. “Were you…were you spying on us?”
“Please.” Violet rolled her eyes again. “I don’t need to spy when you can’t keep a secret to save your life. And unlike Mother, I didn’t indulge in two glasses of wine, which means I could see the whisker burn on your cheeks when you came over to our table. What is his name?”
She hesitated only for a moment. “Everett.”
“Everett St. Giles, the Earl of Brookfield?” Violet yelped. “Thatis your scoundrel? Daisy! He’s Lord Hollibrook’s heir, and Lord Hollibrook is the Duke of Cranbrook’s heir! If you married him, you’d just be thrice removed from a becoming a duchess!”
“In other words, two perfectly healthy people would have todie–”
Her sister waved her hands in the air. “It happens all the time. Wait. You cannot marry Lord Brookfield. What if it doesn’t work out with myself and the Duke of Argyle? What if…what if I have to marry a viscount or, heaven forbid, abaron?I couldn’t live with myself.”
Daisy sighed impatiently. “First of all, he isn’t Lord Brookfield. Secondly…not everything has to be a competition between us.”
“Yes it does, and yousaidhis name is Everett.”
“It is.” She pursed her lips. “Apparently Everett is a rather common name at this house party.”
“What’s his surname? Does he have a title? How did–oh.Oh. I don’t believe it,” Violet gasped. “Daisy, what does your Everett look like? How old is he?”
“I’m not exactly sure...five and twenty, maybe? His hair is black, his eyes are gray, and–do you need to sit down?” she asked, vaguely alarmed when the blood drained from her sister’s countenance.
“Daisy,” whispered Violet.
“Yes?” Daisy whispered back.
“Your scoundrel…is the Duke of Aikens.”
Chapter Five
I Don’t Like Dukes
Everett awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and a stomach filled with regret. The sore belly, he understood. While he lacked morals and generally good upstanding character, he wasn’t completely bereft of a conscience. His gut knew what his cock had ignored last night: he never should have kissed Miss Daisy White. Once he had kissed her, he definitely should have stopped earlier than he did. And undernocircumstances should he have dreamt of her in all manners of undress and various positions until a beam of sunlight sneaking through the drapes proved a rude awakening.
“You look like hell warmed over,” Hollibrook observed when Everett staggered into the solarium where breakfast was being served for the duration of the house party.
Bright and airy, the room was enclosed in enormous rectangular glass panels with wicker furniture and large potted ferns scattered throughout, reminding Everett of his time spent on an island off the coast of Spain with a jug of rum and a curvy brunette whose name escaped him now.
Come to think of it, he was suddenly hard pressed to remember the name of any woman save one…and she shared her name with a flower.
“Coffee,” he croaked, raking a hand through his hair. Before leaving his chamber, he’d washed his face with cold water and changed into clean clothes. The bare minimum to make himself presentable. In the comfort of his own home, he could parade about buck naked if he wished (and give the servants quite the show). But here, trapped at one of the most established estates in all of England (just his luck) in the midst of an exclusive house party (kill him now), he wasn’t Everett Grimm, rogue and wastrel extraordinaire. He was–for better or worse, mostly worse thus far–the Duke of Aikens.
“Here.” Filling a porcelain cup with coffee from the pitcher in the middle of the table, Hollibrook gestured for Everett to sit. “Drink up. Lady Hollibrook has an outing planned for this morning, and you’re expected to attend.”
“But my head hurts,” Everett moaned as he collapsed into a chair.
“Then you shouldn’t have spent the night drinking,” Hollibrook said without a trace of pity.
