“Indeed we are.” She pulled a pair of well-worn, exceptionally sturdy walking shoes from the wardrobe as well as a hat far simpler than the one she’d had on and returned to the parlor. “I was afraid I had forgotten these.” She smiled in triumph and settled on the sofa. “I wasn’t sure I was going on to Greece when we left London.”
“Those may be the ugliest shoes I have ever seen.”
“Aren’t they, though? They’re also practical and comfortable and, I suspect, indestructible. They’ve seen me through many an adventure. I adore them.” She slipped off the short boots she had on.
Silly how the flash of a stockinged ankle could bring to mind all sort of delightfully wicked things. Sliding his hand along the long length of her leg. Untying her garters—
“Stop it, James,” she said mildly.
“Stop what?” He widened his eyes in feigned innocence.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“Not as easy as it sounds,” he murmured then drew a steadying breath. “Back to my original question. Why are we here?”
“Do you remember that I once wrote poetry?” She pulled on one of the shoes. Apparently there was nothing like seeing a shapely ankle imprisoned by an ugly shoe to quell a man’s desire.
“Vaguely, as I don’t believe you ever let me read your poems.”
“Yes, well, there was a reason for that.” She grimaced. “They were quite dreadful. I did fancy myself a sort of Lady Byron.”
He winced. He’d never been fond of Byron.
“I was in Vienna a few years ago when someone I met somewhere said something about a society dedicated to the appreciation of the life and works of Lord Byron. They mentioned it meets every year in Athens so obviously I had to come.” She slipped on the second shoe and tied it.
“It doesn’t seem the least bit obvious to me.” His brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t this society meet in England?”
“Lord Byron died in Greece. In the war for independence. He’s a national hero here.” Indignation flashed in her eyes. “I’m shocked you didn’t know that.”
“Of course I knew that.” It did sound vaguely familiar.
“So Cleo and I decided to join the society and now we come every year. This is our third, I believe.”
“To talk about Lord Byron?”
“Well, yes, in part. We do discuss his life, the places he visited, the adventures he had.”
“All extremely scandalous I believe,” he noted. “If I recall correctly, wasn’t he denied burial at Westminster Abbey because of his dissolute behavior?”
“A dreadful miscarriage of justice. The man was brilliant, one of England’s greatest poets.” Her brow furrowed with indignation. “He should have taken his place at Westminster with Chaucer and Sheridan and Mr. Dickens. At the very least he should have some sort of memorial in the abbey as do Shakespeare and Milton and Jane Austen.”
“It is rather a shame when a man’s past—his terrible decisions and dreadful mistakes—are held against him even in death.” He smiled pleasantly.
“Yes, well, death does stifle one’s abilities to reform.” She met his gaze pointedly. “Fortunately, as you are feeling much better, there’s certainly time for redemption. Perhaps if Lord Byron had lived longer he too would have shown remorse.”
“Entirely possible.” Although, given what he could recall about Byron’s life, he doubted remorse was in the man’s nature.
“Discussion of his life is really a minor part of the gathering here. I’ve always had the distinct impression that regardless of how much society members appreciate his work, the impropriety of his life makes some of them...” She thought for a moment. “Oh, uncomfortable, I would say.”
“Imagine that.” It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. Those society members he’d seen talking to her in the lobby struck him as likely to be scandalized by using the wrong fork at dinner let alone the raucous life of Lord Byron.
“And we have readings of his work, several every day. Sometimes at the hotel but often at some of the local ruins—the Temple of Zeus or the agora. You have no idea how moving it is to hear someone recite The Maid of Athens or the Song of the Greek Poet in the shadows of ancient Greece. The first reading is tomorrow at the ruins of Hadrian’s library. It will be most inspiring.” She rose to her feet. “Many of the members write poetry as well—in the style of Lord Byron. A sort of homage if you will.” She paused. “Admittedly, much of it is awful.”
His lips twitched with the need to grin. “Do you?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Well, not anymore. I gave up writing bad poetry quite some time ago.” She picked up her hat and moved to a wall mirror. “The original poetry is always read here in one of the hotel parlors on the last night of our gathering. It’s very, oh, bohemian I would say.”
“I can imagine.” Although, judging by those society members he’d seen clustered around Violet in the lobby, bohemian was the last word that came to mind. More likely the evening of recitation of original poetry was pretentious, endless and extraordinarily dull. Surely there was a way to avoid it.
Violet tied her hat into place.
“Didn’t you just take a hat off?”
“I did, but this one is more sensible.”
He frowned. “Are you going somewhere?”
“We’re going somewhere.” Her gaze met his in the mirror. “Unless you prefer not to join me.”
“It depends.” He narrowed his eyes. “Does it have anything to do with poetry?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Then I’d be delighted to accompany you.”
She glanced at his feet. “You might want to change your shoes. Did you bring anything sturdier? More practical, perhaps.”
“More practical for what?” he asked cautiously.
She inclined her head toward the balcony. “The Acropolis.”
“It’s a bit late in the day for sightseeing, don’t you think?”
“Nonsense, we have a good two hours before sunset. The view from the Acropolis is the very best way to see all of Athens. Besides, there’s nothing more glorious than observing the last rays of daylight vanish behind Mount Aigaleo with the Parthenon at your back. And then watching the stars rise. For more than two thousand years people have observed the sunset from the top of the Acropolis. Why, one can practically feel the presence of all those who have gone before, the ghosts of antiquity if you will. It’s the perfect way to begin a stay in Athens. And goodness, James.” She flashed him a grin. “It’s an adventure.”
“Oh, yes, that does sound enjoyable,” he muttered. “It’s rather a climb, isn’t it?”
“Only for the faint of heart. Surely you’re made of sterner stuff than to let a little thing like a bit of a climb dissuade you?”
“I’m not the least bit dissuaded,” he said resolutely, although he could think of a dozen things he’d rather do. “And I’m sure my shoes will be just fine.”
A few minutes later they met Marcus and Mrs. Ryland in the lobby.
“We’re off to the Acropolis,” Violet told them. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Oh...” Marcus frowned.
“He was just confessing to me today that he doesn’t like heights,” Mrs. Ryland said quickly.
“That’s it.” Marcus shook his head. “Even the thought of being at the top of that block of stone...” He shuddered.
“Well, then, it’s best you avoid heights at all costs.” James took Violet’s arm and steered her toward the door.
Somewhere between discovering their destination and meeting the others, James had come to the realization that seeing the Acropolis and the Parthenon, and whatever else was up there, alone with Violet would indeed be rather perfect. After all, she’d said moonlight on the Parthenon was most romantic.
He had always been fond of romance.
&nbs
p; JAMES HATED THESE SHOES. Oh, they were fine for walking the streets of London, but climbing to the top of the Acropolis was another matter altogether. If he ever got off this blasted hill, he’d make buying appropriate footwear a priority.
They’d reached the summit of the flat-topped limestone hill that towered over Athens shortly before sunset. By the time they’d admired the Parthenon and the views and who knew how many other remains of temples or outbuildings, the sun was sinking below the mountains. The last rays of sunlight cast intriguing shadows over the grounds littered with broken pieces of the ancient world. Occasionally, a fragment of marble carved with a face stared up at him from the rubble. He jumped more than once and attributed it to his shoes, but looking at the ground and having it look back was unsettling. While at first he was annoyed that they were not the only visitors to the ancient site this evening, now it was nice to know they were not entirely alone. It was hard to dismiss Violet’s comment about ghosts of antiquity.
Along with a blanket they spread on the stairs at the base of the Parthenon, the hotel had provided a lantern as well as a basket with a bottle of wine, bread and cheese. Their driver would wait at the bottom of the hill.
They shared the offerings in the basket, and Violet continued her tutorial on ancient Greece while James gazed at the stars. It was a long time since he had done nothing but gaze at the night sky. The stars weren’t nearly as bright at home, obscured by fog and smoke and city lights. But here, starlight negated the need to light their lantern although he suspected they would indeed need it to negotiate the stairs and walkways on the way down.
“There was no French count or Italian sculptor or Greek poet, was there?” he asked when she paused to think of yet another obscure fact about ancient Athens.
“Of course there were.” She shrugged. “Simply not any whose bed I shared.”
“And yet, you let me think you had.”
“Did I?” Doubt sounded in her voice. “I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“I didn’t know I needed to deny it,” she said in a lofty manner, then paused. “I suspect you now know how I felt about the other women who occupied your life. Unpleasant, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He blew a resigned breath. “I would do anything to have made different choices.”
“I know.” She took a sip of wine.
He stared at her. “Is that possibly forgiveness I hear?”
“Possibly.” She smiled out at the night sky and the flickering lights in the buildings of Athens below them. “There is something about being here, looking down over the city, as the ancient gods might have, that puts things in an entirely different perspective.” She paused. “‘Maid of Athens, I am gone. Think of me, sweet! When alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul. Can I cease to love thee? No!’”
He tried, but couldn’t hold back something that sounded like a cross between a snort and a laugh.
“You don’t like that?” Indignation rang in her voice.
“No, sorry, I don’t.” He sipped his wine. “It’s Byron, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “From ‘Maid of Athens, ere we Part’.”
“I never have liked him. I find his work...” He tried to find the right words. “Overly done, perhaps. Too flowery and somewhat pretentious.”
“I think it’s quite romantic,” she said staunchly.
“I’ll grant you that. Women in particular seem to love it.” He grinned. “Even I have spouted him on occasion.”
“To great success, no doubt.”
“Well...” He shrugged modestly.
“You are incorrigible.” A reluctant smile curved her lips. “And unrepentant.”
“In that you’re wrong, my dear Violetta.” He chuckled. “Repentance is my sole purpose in life.”
“Utter nonsense.” She huffed. “Even so, you must admit some of his writing is quite compelling.”
“Changing the subject, are we? We’re back to Byron, then.”
She ignored him. “As was his life.”
“I’m not sure compelling is the right word to describe his life. Didn’t someone call him mad, bad and dangerous to know?”
“Lady Caroline Lamb. One of his many lovers,” she added casually. “You were once considered mad, bad and dangerous to know if I recall.”
“Was I?”
“You needn’t look so smug about it.”
“I’m not the least bit smug. Proud perhaps. You just compared me to your favorite poet.”
“In the worst possible way.”
“Those days were quite some time ago.” He chuckled. “I haven’t been mad, bad or even remotely dangerous for years now.”
“I don’t know. I suspect you’re still dangerous,” she said softly.
He wasn’t sure if that was bad or very good. He studied her profile, silhouetted against the star-filled sky. Byron might have been right. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” he said softly. “‘Of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’”
Violet’s gaze jerked to his and she stared at him for a long moment. “We should go,” she said abruptly, tossing back the rest of her wine.
And wasn’t that interesting. “All right.”
“It’s been a long day of travel and I would prefer to retire early.” Her words tumbled out as if there was so much to say there was no time to take a breath and she quickly packed the basket. “Travel is always tiring, you know, and there is a reading in the morning—at the Library of Hadrian—not far from the hotel. I don’t know exactly what poem will be read—but I don’t want to miss it. It is the first day, after all.”
James tossed the blanket in the basket, then lit the lantern.
“It might be best if I took the lantern,” Violet said. “As I am more familiar with the area.”
“By all means.” He stifled a chuckle. Apparently, his recitation of one of Byron’s works affected her in a way he did not anticipate. Although he hadn’t really anticipated anything at all. The words had simply come to him when he’d seen her lovely face against the starry night. Regardless of his overall opinion of Byron, those words were nothing short of perfect. The man could have had Violet in mind when he put pen to paper.
Violet continued to babble about nothing of significance all the way down the hill and on the short ride back to the hotel. If one didn’t know better, one might think the confident, sophisticated Lady Ellsworth was distinctly flustered.
She disappeared into the bedroom the moment they reached their suite, again claiming exhaustion and noting what a long day it had been. All obvious excuses to escape his presence.
A few minutes later the door opened and she thrust an armful of blankets and pillows at him. “You’ll need these.”
“My dressing gown would be nice, as well,” he said, accepting the bundle of linens.
“It’s under the pillow.” She adopted a cordial smile. “Good night, James.” She turned and hurried back into the bedroom as if the hounds of hell were at her feet.
“Sleep well, Violetta,” he said, just as the door closed.
He chuckled. He’d wager a considerable amount she would sleep no better than he. He stripped off his clothes and put on his dressing gown. He might be willing to sleep on a sofa, but he was not about to sleep in his clothes. He tossed the pillow on the sofa, turned off the lamp and lay down, pulling the light blanket over him. Aside from the fact that the sofa was a bit too short and he had to prop his feet on the armrest, it was fairly comfortable.
Violet was right. It had been a long day. Travel, together with the hike up and down the Acropolis, had taken their toll and he too was tired. Pity it seemed to make no difference.
Knowing she was in the next room was almost worse than her being on th
e other side of a row of pillows. Light showed under the door to her room for a long time then at last extinguished. But he could hear her bed creak with her attempt to sleep. Good, she was as restless as he. Was she as aware of his presence as he was of hers? Was she too wondering at his feelings for her as he was wondering about hers for him? Did she ache for his touch as he did for hers?
Good God, the woman was driving him insane. If he hadn’t been such an idiot they would have been together long before now. If he had made an effort six years ago to claim her heart they would even now be living happily together. No, he wasn’t ready for marriage then—wasn’t ready for the feelings he’d refused to acknowledge then. Not beginning a life with her when they’d first married might well have been the only intelligent thing he’d ever done when it came to Violet. They would have both been miserable.
Bloody hell, it was stuffy in here. He shoved off the blanket, got to this feet and threw open the doors to the balcony. A slight breeze whispered over him. The night was clear, the air refreshing and the stars were bright. He could just make out the dark shadow of the Acropolis rising over the city. He braced his hands on the railing and gazed out at the night.
He heard the bedroom door swing open.
“Why did you do that? Was it just something to say? Something you’ve said before to women?”
“Why did I do what?” He glanced over his shoulder.
The light was on in the bedroom behind her. Violet wore that ridiculously charming kimono of hers. “That she walks in beauty nonsense.”
“Nonsense, is it?” He raised a brow. “I thought you liked Byron.”
“I do and ‘She Walks in Beauty’ is one of my favorites.”
“It’s the favorite of many women.” His gaze shifted back to the Acropolis. “It’s the only poem of Byron’s I know. And I’m afraid I have said it before.”
“I see.” Faint disappointment edged her words.
“But never on the top of the ancient world with the stars as a backdrop. Never when it was significant. And never did the words ring true before. Before tonight it was simply something to say.”
The Lady Travelers Guide to Happily Ever After Page 29
