Page 47 of Barbarous

Was there something odd in his voice? Something accusing?

“It did not seem like the proper time when you were bedridden and groggy from laudanum. And I’ve not had a chance to speak to you since then.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. “Can you think of anyone who might have done this?”

“Why would you think I would know anything?”

His smile was oddly gentle. “I don’t think that, Daphne. I am only asking.”

“No, I cannot think of anyone. Unless . . .”

“Yes?”

Daphne eyed his alert expression. It was too late to turn back now. “May I speak bluntly, my lord?”

“I wish you would.”

“Could it be somebody from your past?”

He cocked an eyebrow and Daphne felt the hideous beginnings of a wild blush building, and sighed. “Could it be the brother, father, or . . . husband, of . . . somebody?”

He stared blankly for a moment before throwing his head back and laughing. “Oww!” he yelled, clutching his side, but still laughing. When he’d finished laughing and gasping in pain, he looked up, wiping tears from his eyes. “My dear Daphne, are you trying to kill me? You have outdone even Will Standish in imaginative speculation.”

Whatever that meant. Daphne gave him her coolest stare. “I am so pleased to amuse you.”

“Do you believe it might be some cuckold with a very long memory? Or perhaps a man I’ve managed to cuckold in the brief time I’ve been back?”

She didn’t answer and, to her surprise, he did not taunt her any further. Instead, he stretched out in his chair, tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling—as if the answer might be found there. The minutes ticked past and she took the opportunity to graze on his body like some ruminant released into a verdant pasture, her eyes lingering on the front of his snug breeches.

“Hmm.”

The sound reminded her there was a man attached to the breeches and she looked up.

He shrugged and then winced. “Nobody comes to mind just now but I shall give it careful thought. Can you think of anybody?”

“Me?” Again her voice was sharp. “What would I know of such matters?”

He pushed out his lower lip and tilted his head, his expression one of whimsy. “You introduced the subject. I thought you might have . . . inside knowledge.”

Just what was he implying? “I know nothing of your exploits—now or then.”

He smiled and rose to his feet, his hand moving to cradle his side. “My new curricle will be delivered later today. Perhaps you might care for a drive tomorrow?”

Daphne blinked at the change of subject. “Have you asked Doctor Nichols?”

Hugh came closer, until he was towering over her desk. And her. “I did, but he did not care for a ride. He suggested I ask you, instead.”

Daphne bit her lip. “You are maddening, my lord.”

“So I’ve been told. Often.”

“Are you sure you are healed enough to be tooling about in a carriage?”

“If it will make you feel better, you could take the ribbons and squire me about.”

“I daresay the sight of a woman handling your cattle would cause you to suffer a relapse.” She lifted her shoulders. “If you believe it is wise to racket about in a curricle, then I am willing to trust your judgment.”

He gave her an odd, lopsided smile. “Do you, Daphne? Trust my judgment, that is?”