turned to face him, he’d have even more to fuel his dreams.
“Blanche,” he said simply, loving the liquid sound of her name as it poured over his tongue.
“No, milord. Mlle La Tour rarely rises before noon. I, however, am quite rested and ready to start work.” She turned to face him.
“Daisy Drake.”
“Lucian Beaumont,” she returned smoothly. “Now that we have settled the issue of our identities, we can begin. As you can see, I’ve brought the investment you required of Mlle La Tour.”
She waggled her fingers toward a small chest resting on the glass-smooth walnut of the refectory table in the corner. Lucian desperately needed the funds, but he didn’t see how he could accept them by Daisy Drake’s hand.
“Hold a moment.” Now that he thought about it, he chided himself for imagining for an instant that she was Blanche.
Daisy Drake was a good head shorter than the courtesan, and once she spoke, her clipped English bore no resemblance to Blanche’s lilting French. And though the dress she was wearing hugged her form—an exceedingly pleasant arrangement of curves, even though they belonged to Miss Drake instead of Blanche—the gown was the plainest of muslin, a fabric no courtesan would dream of wearing. It had been merely a trick of the light in the parlour that was responsible for his mistake.
That and a longing to see Blanche again that bordered on obsession.
“I didn’t agree to your being here,” he said.
“Really? Then you’ll have to discuss that with Mlle La Tour’s agent. Oh, wait! That would be me.” Daisy folded her hands, fig-leaf fashion.
A deceptively innocent gesture, he thought.
“Blanche has requested that I represent her in this matter,” the infuriating chit explained.
“How on God’s earth do you know a French courtesan?” he demanded.
“Through my great-aunt, Isabella Haversham,” Daisy said sweetly. “Both Blanche and I are staying at Lady Wexford’s home for the Season.”
Of course. He’d totally forgotten the connection between the houses of Wexford and Drake. It was a tenuous, by-marriage sort of relationship, the kind maintained only by people who genuinely liked one another, since no actual blood tie bound them.
Daisy Drake in residence certainly explained how Lady Wexford heard about his project so quickly. Daisy probably put her up to inviting him to that blasted ball, probably urged Blanche to—No, Blanche was not the sort who could be cajoled into doing anything if it didn’t please her. She was too strong-minded for that.
Blanche had no idea of the enmity between Lucian’s father and all things Drake, else she’d never have chosen Daisy as her unlikely representative.
“Clearly, there has been a misunderstanding,” Lucian said, aiming for a more conciliatory tone. “Blanche was supposed to send a gentleman as agent, one who could help with the work.”
“I doubt she mentioned sending a gentleman, since she rarely has but one use for men,” Daisy said with a raised brow. “Blanche says men try to intimidate women in matters of business, so she prefers to trust agents of her own gender to tend to such things.”
“But she said she’d send someone who could help me.” Lucian rubbed the small scar on his chin. “I know you’re handy enough with a pike, but I confess I can’t imagine you with a shovel, Miss Drake.”
“If needs must, I suppose I could manage. As you can see, I’ve dressed in rustic fashion in anticipation of any contingency, but perhaps my talent would be better used in translation. I am quite fluent in Latin and can help you catalogue your finds,” she said airily. “And since you call Mlle La Tour by her given name, you may call me Daisy. It will be easier, since we’ll be working quite closely together.”
“Miss Drake,” he said pointedly, “we will not be doing anything of the sort.”
“Blanche will be most displeased.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “She was quite taken with
“Blanche,” he said simply, loving the liquid sound of her name as it poured over his tongue.
“No, milord. Mlle La Tour rarely rises before noon. I, however, am quite rested and ready to start work.” She turned to face him.
“Daisy Drake.”
“Lucian Beaumont,” she returned smoothly. “Now that we have settled the issue of our identities, we can begin. As you can see, I’ve brought the investment you required of Mlle La Tour.”
She waggled her fingers toward a small chest resting on the glass-smooth walnut of the refectory table in the corner. Lucian desperately needed the funds, but he didn’t see how he could accept them by Daisy Drake’s hand.
“Hold a moment.” Now that he thought about it, he chided himself for imagining for an instant that she was Blanche.
Daisy Drake was a good head shorter than the courtesan, and once she spoke, her clipped English bore no resemblance to Blanche’s lilting French. And though the dress she was wearing hugged her form—an exceedingly pleasant arrangement of curves, even though they belonged to Miss Drake instead of Blanche—the gown was the plainest of muslin, a fabric no courtesan would dream of wearing. It had been merely a trick of the light in the parlour that was responsible for his mistake.
That and a longing to see Blanche again that bordered on obsession.
“I didn’t agree to your being here,” he said.
“Really? Then you’ll have to discuss that with Mlle La Tour’s agent. Oh, wait! That would be me.” Daisy folded her hands, fig-leaf fashion.
A deceptively innocent gesture, he thought.
“Blanche has requested that I represent her in this matter,” the infuriating chit explained.
“How on God’s earth do you know a French courtesan?” he demanded.
“Through my great-aunt, Isabella Haversham,” Daisy said sweetly. “Both Blanche and I are staying at Lady Wexford’s home for the Season.”
Of course. He’d totally forgotten the connection between the houses of Wexford and Drake. It was a tenuous, by-marriage sort of relationship, the kind maintained only by people who genuinely liked one another, since no actual blood tie bound them.
Daisy Drake in residence certainly explained how Lady Wexford heard about his project so quickly. Daisy probably put her up to inviting him to that blasted ball, probably urged Blanche to—No, Blanche was not the sort who could be cajoled into doing anything if it didn’t please her. She was too strong-minded for that.
Blanche had no idea of the enmity between Lucian’s father and all things Drake, else she’d never have chosen Daisy as her unlikely representative.
“Clearly, there has been a misunderstanding,” Lucian said, aiming for a more conciliatory tone. “Blanche was supposed to send a gentleman as agent, one who could help with the work.”
“I doubt she mentioned sending a gentleman, since she rarely has but one use for men,” Daisy said with a raised brow. “Blanche says men try to intimidate women in matters of business, so she prefers to trust agents of her own gender to tend to such things.”
“But she said she’d send someone who could help me.” Lucian rubbed the small scar on his chin. “I know you’re handy enough with a pike, but I confess I can’t imagine you with a shovel, Miss Drake.”
“If needs must, I suppose I could manage. As you can see, I’ve dressed in rustic fashion in anticipation of any contingency, but perhaps my talent would be better used in translation. I am quite fluent in Latin and can help you catalogue your finds,” she said airily. “And since you call Mlle La Tour by her given name, you may call me Daisy. It will be easier, since we’ll be working quite closely together.”
“Miss Drake,” he said pointedly, “we will not be doing anything of the sort.”
“Blanche will be most displeased.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “She was quite taken with
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