“You will not! I wear that to protect my clothes.”
“If you had clothes worth protecting, I could see your point.”
She ignored that. “It belongs to me, and you have no right to destroy anything of mine.”
“Miss Wade, I do not ever want to see this garment again unless you are working. Please,” he added as he tossed the two pieces of her now dismantled apron toward a corner of the room.
She was not fooled into thinking that word made it a request, but she did not argue. She hoped they could just get on with the business at hand, but he did not seem inclined to do so. Instead, he reached out and jerked off her spectacles.
Daphne gave a cry of outraged protest, but of course, he ignored it. He folded the glasses and put them in the pocket of his jacket, then took another look at her face. “Much better.”
“Give them back.”
“Miss Wade,” he interrupted, “you have beautiful eyes. To distort them behind a pair of thick glass lenses is a shame at any time. When you are with a gentleman, it is unpardonable.”
How many times had she wished he would notice something, anything, about her? She was fully aware that any compliments he gave her now were empty ones. He wanted her time, and if compliments would get him more of it, he would tell her she was as alluring and captivating as Cleopatra had ever been. Daphne held out her hand. “Give me back my spectacles.”
“Do not the rules of please and thank you apply to you as well as to me? I just paid you a compliment, Miss Wade.”
“Thank you. I want my spectacles back, if you please.”
“You are not going to be wearing them to Covington’s ball. I promise I shall give them back to you when we are finished here.” He lifted his hands to her neck.
Daphne gasped as his fingertips brushed against her skin, too startled to continue arguing with him. “Now what are you doing?” She reached up to pull his hands away, but her efforts were futile.
“That bun is almost as hideous as the apron,” he answered as he began removing pins from her hair, the pads of his thumbs brushing against the sides of her neck. “Since we are alone and there is no one here to stop me, I am ridding you of it. I have wanted to do this for days.”
As her hair came down, Daphne felt her sense of control unraveling. She could have pulled away, but that would imply that she was affected by what he was doing, and she forced herself to remain still. “And you always get what you want, of course.”
“Not always. If I did, you would be staying. Hold these.”
Daphne looked down and took the pins from him. She could not believe she was letting him do this, but the feel of his hands in her hair was so delicious, she could not bring herself to pull away. No man had ever touched her so intimately before. “How do you know how to dress a woman’s hair?” she asked, trying to distract herself from those dangerous feelings.
“I don’t.” He raked his hands upward through her hair, twisting her tresses into a pile atop her head. Holding her hair in place with one hand, he took a pin from her with the other and pushed it into place. “I am making this up as I go along.”
“But if it isn’t pinned right, it could come tumbling back down.”
He looked at her between his upraised arms and gave her a wicked grin. “God, I hope so.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she spoke again. “I cannot imagine why you are concerning yourself with something as trivial as my hair.”
“To a man, a woman’s hair is never trivial. Imagining a woman with her hair down, imagining how it looks loose around her shoulders, how it feels in his hands or spread across his pillows, can become a man’s obsession.” He paused to look at her, curling a loose tendril of hair at her ear around his finger, his knuckles brushing her cheek. “I know it has been mine on occasion.”
Waves of heat flooded through her body at his words and his touch as the image of her hair spread across his pillows flashed across her mind, followed immediately by horror at the very thought of such a thing. She reminded herself of his contempt and her pain, throwing the chilling water of reality on the hot, inexplicable hunger flaring inside her, a hunger she could see reflected in the intensity of his gaze.
Daphne forced herself not to look away. “The outside of a woman is your first priority, then?” she asked as if they were discussing the weather. “Are all men concerned only with the package rather than the goods within?”
He took another pin from her hand and continued his task. “In thinking about women, men are not very deep.”
She gave what she hoped was a disdainful sniff. “You do not seem to have a very high opinion of the character of your own sex.”
“Men have no character when it comes to women. Love turns us into complete idiots or dishonorable villains. Usually both.”
“Why do you always speak of love in such a derogatory manner?”
“Do I?” He paused again, and his lips compressed briefly into a thin line. “That is an irony, for the truth is that I am in utter awe of love. It scares the bloody hell out of me. That is why I have never allowed myself to fall into that state.”
This was a man who walked the earth as if he owned it—all of it. She could not imagine him afraid of anything. “Why does love frighten you?”
“Forgive me for my choice of language,” he said, his gaze skating away from hers. “It is not proper for a man to curse in front of a woman,” he went on as he resumed his task, “and I apologize. Discussions of this sort bring out the worst in me.”
“You did not answer my question. Why should love be a frightening thing?”
“You should know the answer to that,” he countered, plucking a hairpin from her grasp and pushing it into place. “It frightens you.”
“It does not.”
“Oh, yes it does.”
“Don’t be absurd. Love does not frighten me.”
“Really?” He lowered one hand to grasp her chin in his fingers. He lifted her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Why do you insist on donning that apron, never removing your spectacles, wearing dresses in the most drab colors imaginable, and fashioning your hair in the most unflattering style invented by womankind? You are hiding from something.”
Daphne realized he had neatly turned the tables on her, putting her on the defensive without revealing anything of himself, and she wished she had never asked him the question. She jerked her chin out of his grasp and lowered her gaze to his perfectly tied cravat. “I am a sensible person. I dress to suit what I do.”
“How convenient, if one wishes to fade away and become unnoticeable.”
Like a stick insect on a twig.
Repeating those words in her mind was like a kick in the stomach. Her mind flashed through all the times her feelings for him had compelled her to withdraw into herself, to be so afraid of her own emotions and his certain rejection of what she felt that she had tried to become invisible. Repeating the pattern of her whole life. Knowing she would always be leaving for the next project, the next set of acquaintances, the next good-bye.
No wonder she had been so hurt. His opinion might have been unkind, but it had the ring of truth. True or no, she would die before admitting anything of the sort to him. “I am not afraid of love,” she lied. “If I were, I certainly would not be considering the idea of a husband.”
Anthony did not reply, and he did not look at her, but he was standing so close that even without her glasses, she could see every feature of his face in perfect focus. His brows were drawn together as if this task were the most important thing in the world to him. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, the dark lashes above and below nearly tangling together.
He shoved the last hairpin in place and lowered his arms. As he stepped back to survey his handiwork, Daphne felt that horrid ache of vulnerability. Fading into the wallpaper was so much safer than being noticed.
His lips tightened. If he said one horrid thing, just one, their bargain was off. His museum and her future could both go t
o the devil.
“Much better, Miss Wade.” He broke off and took a deep breath. “You look…very pretty.”
There was something in those words, or perhaps in the almost unsteady note of his voice as he said them, that caught at her heart, that made her want to believe he meant more by it than he really did, but she would not delude herself ever again to think he set any store by her. “Two compliments in one evening? I am astonished at your sudden propensity to flatter me.”
“I never flatter anyone. I give my opinions honestly.” He pulled her spectacles out of his pocket and held them out to her. “If you really wish to find a husband, Miss Wade, stop hiding your lights under a bushel. We shall then see if a husband is what you really want.”
She took the pair of spectacles from his hand, and the moment she did, he took a step back from her. “We have gotten well away from your dance lesson.”
The idea of dancing with him just now was unbearable to her dazed senses. She was already raw from his touch and his words and his razor-sharp perceptions of her deepest fears. “Perhaps we should postpone this until tomorrow night,” she suggested.
To her surprise, he agreed. “Very well.” He took another step back from her, bowed, and turned away. “In the morning, I shall wish to meet with you,” he said over his shoulder, “and begin taking an inventory of those artifacts which you have ready for me to have taken to London. Please be in the antika at ten o’clock.”
Daphne stared at his back as he walked away, still feeling the tingle of his touch against her neck, and he was halfway to the door before his words sank into her consciousness. “Tomorrow is Thursday, your grace,” she called after him. “My day out, if you remember our bargain.”
“I do.” He paused in the doorway, turning to look at her. “We shall meet on Friday. Enjoy yourself, Miss Wade.”
With that, he departed.
Daphne remained where she was, staring at the empty doorway, bemused. He was the most unpredictable man. One day, she was a stick insect, and the next, she had beautiful eyes. Just when she was starting to loathe him, he did something nice, and just when she was starting to like him, he did something to remind her of all the reasons she should hate him.
Daphne reached up to touch her neck, still tingling from the brush of his fingertips, and she was forced to admit that even though she no longer cared about having his good opinion, she could not find it in her heart to hate him.
Chapter 13
During the entire six months she had been at Tremore Hall, Daphne had seldom had opportunities to explore the house and its environs or go into the village. She had Sundays free, of course, and always rode into Wychwood for early service with the Benningtons, but she had never taken time away from her duties to visit the village shops or appreciate the beauty of Anthony’s estate.
Now that she had Thursdays out as well as Sundays, Daphne decided to walk into the village for a bit of shopping. She wanted to spend a little of the thirty-two pounds she had earned since her arrival, her first step toward less work and more play.
She set a leisurely pace, enjoying the charming beauty of thatch-roofed cottages, ancient oaks, and the stunning reds and golds of autumn as she walked the road into Wychwood. She could not help comparing the scenery here in Hampshire to the date palms, sand, and scrub of North Africa, the red cliffs of Petra, and the hills of Crete, hills covered with the green of rosemary and the pink and white of dittany. Each place had its own attractive qualities, but Daphne found the English countryside more beautiful than anywhere else she had lived. She doubted she would get tired of the English weather, but if she ever did, all she would have to think of was Mesopotamia in a sandstorm, and rain would seem wonderful again.
Thinking of rain brought Anthony’s face to mind, and her own realization last night that he had looked at her in a new way. Like a woman. She remembered the touch of his fingertips on her skin, and his words about how a woman’s hair could be a man’s obsession. That triggered again that hot, aching hunger in her body, just like the lovesick girl who had gazed at his naked chest through a spyglass. She could not really blame herself for that. After all, it was rather a stunning thing when a handsome man you had adored finally noticed you, even when it was too late. Even when it did not mean anything.
Perhaps he did believe she had beautiful eyes, perhaps he had come to see her as more than a machine, but Daphne knew he was far more concerned with his museum than with her. She pushed thoughts of Anthony firmly out of her mind and quickened her steps into the village.
Within Wychwood itself, there was a High Street lined with shops, and Daphne began walking down one side, content for now just to look in the shop windows she passed, but when she reached the shop at the corner, she found herself lingering for more than just a glance.
Daphne stared through the glass window of Mrs. Avery’s Dressmaking Establishment, where several beautiful gowns were displayed to tempt young ladies passing by. One of them tempted her. It was of rose-pink silk with a beaded filigree design around the hem in cream and deeper pink. It had a neckline that barely skimmed the shoulders, and looked just as likely to fall down as not, and the sleeves were absurd puffs of silk with more beading of deeper pink. A pair of embroidered silk slippers to match were displayed beside it. Daphne had never seen anything so feminine and pretty and impractical in her life before.
She touched the glass, staring at the gown, and a wave of longing swept over her. She had never taken any interest in clothes before—there was little use for pink silk in the desert sands of Morocco or Petra—and her practical, thrifty nature had never allowed her to justify a pretty dress, especially one so frivolous as this evening gown. But her life was very different now, and she was not in the desert anymore.
Daphne imagined how it would feel to wear such a dress, and before she could even think of changing her mind, she pulled open the door and went inside the shop.
As she stepped inside, a tiny bell sounded, and the half dozen or so women in the shop looked up. Daphne gave a smile of greeting that took in all of them, then she turned to have a closer look at the gown in the window.
The moment she did, she was lost. She wanted that dress, and she didn’t care if she spent every shilling of her thirty-two pounds to acquire it. It looked as if it would fit her, but even if it did not, she would have one made up just like it.
The bell over the door sounded again, and Mrs. Bennington entered the shop. The other woman came to her side at once. “My dear Miss Wade, did you not hear me calling you? I spied you from down the street. Why, I had no idea you were coming into the village today. Why did you not tell me so at breakfast?”
“I did not know how I would spend my day out. By the time I decided, you and Mr. Bennington had already left.”
“It is fortunate, then, that I have seen you, for the duke has been so kind as to allow my husband and myself to use one of his carriages today, and you will be able to ride back with us.”
She gave Daphne’s arm an affectionate little pat. “I am glad to see you spending more days out, my dear. Heaven knows, going to Enderby will be such a tonic for you, trapped as you have been in that dirty cottage—what does Mr. Bennington call it?”
“The antika.”
“Yes, yes, the antika. Such an odd name.”
“Good day, Mrs. Bennington.” Another voice entered the pause in conversation, and both of them turned to find a red-haired young lady of about seventeen standing only a few feet away.
“Miss Elizabeth, how lovely to see you. I hope you are well?”
“She is always well, ma’am,” a slightly older girl said, coming up to their group. “And silly, too.”
“So are you,” Miss Elizabeth replied, then cast Mrs. Bennington a pointed glance and looked at Daphne, causing the older lady to give a cry of vexation.
“Oh, have the three of you not met? How remiss of me! Miss Wade, this is Miss Anne Fitzhugh,” she said, gesturing to the older girl, “and Miss Elizabeth Fitzhugh. My dear you
ng ladies, Miss Wade.”
They dipped mutual curtsies.
“It is such a pleasure to meet you,” said Miss Fitzhugh. “Why Mrs. Bennington has never introduced us after church services, I cannot think.”
“I would, I would,” the older woman assured with a laugh, “but Miss Wade always runs away before I have the opportunity.”
They all gave her such a curious look that Daphne felt compelled to explain. “Mr. Bennington is uncovering artifacts so rapidly that I have been spending my Sunday afternoons in the duke’s library, sketching as fast as I can.”
“If I were staying at Tremore Hall, I should find any excuse not to leave either,” Anne confessed, “just on the chance the duke himself might come by and actually speak to me.”
“If he did,” her sister put in, “you would faint dead away, I am sure.”
“I would never do anything so undignified.”
“Of course you would,” Elizabeth answered, laughing.
“I would not!”
“That will be quite enough, my dears.” A new voice spoke, and Daphne turned to another older woman who joined the group. “Do not quarrel.”
When the woman moved to stand between Elizabeth and Anne, it became evident to Daphne that she was the mother of the two, and a very attractive-looking woman, with a face as yet unlined by age. Her hair was free of gray and was a darker red than her younger daughter.
After being introduced to Daphne, Lady Fitzhugh said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wade, for I have heard nothing but praise about you from my husband.”
“Sir Edward is very kind.”
“He is fascinated by antiquities, as I am sure you are well aware. I believe he read every paper your father ever wrote, for he quite admired him.”
“Papa says you draw very well,” Elizabeth put in, “and know Latin and Greek, and have been to all sorts of wild places. Have you been to Abyssinia? That is where the Nile is, am I not right?”
“Yes,” Daphne replied, smiling. “You are right, and yes, I have been there.”
“You must come to tea on Sunday and tell us all about such places, for we know nothing of them. Anne and I are not very studious girls. Papa thinks we are frivolous, which of course is one of the reasons he so admires you, Miss Wade. He says you are a sensible person.” She laughed, adding merrily, “From Papa, that is the highest of compliments.”
Guilty Series Page 12
