Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

The night was more than half through by the time Daphne found herself standing in a group with Julian, Cass, Lucy, and Derek. “Has Lord Fitzwell asked to speak with you alone, Julian?” she asked, twisting her ring finger.

“Not since the last time you asked me. What was that, twenty minutes ago?” Julian replied. The men had been summoned from the study by their wives and had danced, laughed, and drank their way through the evening. The only problem was, every time Daphne caught a glimpse of Lord Fitzwell, he seemed to disappear.

Cass nudged her husband. “Be kind. Daphne is having a difficult evening.”

Cass was correct on that score. Not only had Lord Fitzwell not yet asked to speak to Daphne’s brother, let alone her, she’d only ever danced with him once and they’d barely said two words to each other. What was happening? He intended to offer for her, didn’t he? He’d been courting her for weeks. They’d gone on rides in the park. He’d introduced her to his mother. They’d talked. They’d laughed. They’d enjoyed each other’s company. Or so she’d thought. He’d accepted the invitation here this weekend. She couldn’t be wrong about it. She just couldn’t.

“Perhaps you should have a drink, Daphne.” Lucy plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman.

“Daphne doesn’t drink,” Julian replied.

“Oh, that’s right,” Lucy replied. “Captain Cavendish said as much earlier.”

“Excuse me, please.” Daphne couldn’t keep the edge from her voice as she left the small group. The night was turning into a colossal disaster and she had no idea how to salvage it.

The only good thing about this evening was that she’d managed to evade Rafe so far. Since he’d emerged from the study with the other gentlemen, Delilah had kept him occupied. The girl was like a hound with a scent. She hadn’t let the man out of her sight all evening. Good girl, Delilah. At least she was earning the king’s ransom Daphne had promised her. But Delilah would be sent to bed soon and then Daphne might have to contend with Rafe herself. If only Lord Fitzwell would offer for her. They could make the announcement and this whole awful charade could be over. Well, after Rafe granted her the annulment.

***

An hour later, Delilah had gone to bed, Daphne had danced with nearly every gentleman in the room (except Rafe), and Lord Fitzwell remained nowhere to be seen. She was just finishing her second dance with Sir Roderick when Julian strolled up. She thanked Roddy for the dance and excused herself to speak to her brother.

“Nothing from Lord Fitzwell yet?” Daphne asked.

“My dear sister, has it occurred to you that if the chap does ask me for your hand, I’d be offering them both? One is already taken at present.”

Daphne glanced around to ensure no one could overhear them. “Only temporarily taken. Quite temporarily.”

Julian slid his hands into his pockets. “Very well. I’ll say yes if it’s what you wish but the truth is I haven’t even seen him tonight.”

Daphne scanned the ballroom. She wished she had a chair to stand upon. It wasn’t easy to see over the sea of coiffures and pomaded heads. “Wait. There he is. Over there.” She pointed a gloved finger.

“Ah, yes, there he is,” came a familiar voice over her shoulder.

Daphne spun around. Rafe was standing not a foot behind her, holding two champagne glasses.

Julian cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’ll just go make myself available should Lord Fitzwell have anything to discuss.”

Daphne’s smile at her brother faded as he left her alone with Rafe.

“I’d offer you one of my drinks,” Rafe drawled. “But I know you wouldn’t take it. I’d say it’s a pity, but more for me.”

That was it. Daphne had had enough. Enough of this wretched night. Enough of everyone’s preconceived notions about her drinking habits. And enough of Rafe Cavendish jabbing at her with his words. She reached out and plucked the glass from his hand, brought it to her lips, downed the entire contents, and shoved it back into his hand.

Rafe’s brows shot up. He whistled. “Impressive.”

A footman carrying a tray of bright, gleaming champagne glasses walked by just then and Daphne took another. She downed its contents quickly.

“Be careful, love.”

“I’m not your love.” Daphne marched over to a table against the wall and discarded her empty glass. Rafe followed her.

“Aren’t you, Grey?”

“I can drink, sometimes, if I choose to. I just don’t normally choose to. That is all.”

“Ah.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not a goddess.”

“Ah.”

“I’m not pristine.”

“Ah.”

“Stop saying ‘ah.’”

His grin was unrepentant. “Why are you choosing to drink tonight, then? Disappointed that Fitzwell isn’t holding up his end of the bargain?”

Daphne glared at him. “You’d know about not holding up bargains, wouldn’t you?”

Rafe casually sipped his own glass of champagne. “Ouch. Have a care, love.”

She curled her hand into a fist. “Stop calling me love, and Grey—don’t call me that, either.”

“What would you prefer I call you then?”

“I prefer you not call me anything. I prefer you leave.” She ground the toe of her slipper against the parquet floor.

“And miss seeing how this evening turns out? After you’ve had two glasses of champagne? Not a chance.”

She stuck her nose in the air and turned her face away from him. “You think you know me so well, but you don’t. You don’t know me at all.”

“So it seems,” he drawled. “What else don’t I know about you?”

“That I’m about to have a third glass of champagne.” She turned on her heel and left.