“I beg your pardon?”
“Marlowe’s a publishing magnate. He’s got scads of money. He might be willing to sponsor the excavation.”
Paul acknowledged that with a nod. “Possibly. He’s up at Babbacombe Bay already, so you’ll have to write to him there.”
“Write? Ask a man to give me twenty thousand pounds by letter? That won’t do. I shall ask him in person. I’m going to Pixy Cove.”
Paul’s face clouded with obvious dismay. “But you can’t. You haven’t been invited.”
“True, but I’m sure once you tell Marlowe I’m home from Egypt, he’ll invite me. He has to. After all, we’re practically family.”
Paul groaned. “You do realize Trix will be there?”
“So?”
“With Trathen.”
“I’m sure we can all behave in a civil manner.”
“You and Trix have never behaved in a civil manner. At least not with each other. You two have been quarreling since she learned how to talk. Marlowe will never believe otherwise. And Trix would never forgive me if—”
“You worry too much, Paul,” he cut in with a deliberately breezy disregard for the difficulties. “That’s your trouble. Once you reassure Marlowe that there won’t be any friction, everything will be smooth sailing.”
“Smooth sailing? No friction? Good God.” Paul laughed, but he didn’t sound amused. “She’s going to shoot me when she finds out about this,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “And you as well.”
That was a possibility, but Will knew he didn’t have many options at this point. Going to Pixy Cove would delay his return to Egypt, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to secure funds before the excavations resumed in October. “Cheer up, Paul. We’re going to Pixy Cove, the most wonderful place on earth.” With that, he turned and started out the door. “What could go wrong?”
“Everything.” Paul’s dour reply followed him out the door, but he wisely chose to ignore it.
Chapter Five
At first, Will’s pretense of optimism seemed destined to become reality.
He spent the day after his conversation with Paul engaged in estate matters with his land agent, and the morning after that, he received a cable from Viscount Marlowe, expressing delight that he was home, assuring him he was indeed welcome at Pixy Cove for the house party as always, and assuring him he wanted to hear all about the search for Tutankhamen.
That afternoon, Will decided to take a walk through Stafford St. Mary. It had been a long time since he’d gone into English society, and just in case funding from Marlowe was not forthcoming, he would need other options. An afternoon stroll in the High Street was an excellent first step toward reestablishing his social connections. A few greetings to old acquaintances, a pint of ale at the White Swan, and a call on the new vicar all helped to integrate him back into the fabric of English social life.
The vicar, Mr. Venables, was a younger, freer thinker than his predecessor, and far more inclined toward discussions of the ancient Egyptians than modern missionary work, much to Will’s relief.
His encounter with Sir George Debenham on the village green was both pleasant and productive, for Sir George invited him to come the following day to see the new filly he’d had shipped from Kentucky. He also mentioned Marlowe’s house party, and after receiving affirmation that Will would indeed be there, invited him to make the trip up the coast to Pixy Cove aboard his new yacht. Will, who loved sailing almost as much as he loved horses, was happy to accept both invitations.
By mid-afternoon, he felt his innate optimism growing stronger, and by the time he reached Halstead’s Bookshop and viewed the extensive number of new books that Halstead had for sale, he began to think the time he spent in England would prove not only profitable, but pleasurable as well.
It was Beatrix, of course, who deprived him of that particular illusion.
He was in the loft above the main floor, surveying the volumes on archaeology in the bookshop’s substantial collection, when the bell over the door jangled, followed by the sound of a woman’s voice.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Halstead.”
Will stifled a groan. For a few short hours, he’d actually managed to put Beatrix out of his mind. He tried to tell himself it was probably some other woman’s voice he’d heard, he tried to return his attention to the row of books before him, but as her footsteps tapped against the floorboards below, bringing her farther into the shop, curiosity impelled him to walk to the wrought-iron rail, just to have a look. When he did so, the faint hope that his imagination had been playing tricks on him vanished.
The woman’s back was to him as she approached the counter, but it didn’t matter. There was no mistaking Beatrix’s luscious hourglass curves, especially without a shapeless motoring coat to conceal them. Perched atop her head was an enormous hat of pale straw, white ostrich feathers, and pink ribbons, but beneath it, her honey-blond hair was plainly visible. And if those two facts weren’t evidence enough of her identity, there was her dress. It was pink, Trix’s favorite color. He fully expected the scent of gardenia to come floating up to his nostrils any moment now.
She paused in front of the counter. “I’ve come hoping to see the new Baedeker guides you ordered, Mr. Halstead. Have they arrived from London yet?”
Baedekers? Will’s lips curved in a smile. And Trix thought she’d changed?
The proprietor of the bookshop started to respond to her question, but the doorbell jangled again, interrupting any reply he might have made.
Will watched Beatrix glance over her shoulder at the sound of the bell, and it occurred to him that if she were to look up, she’d catch him standing by the rail watching her. He started to step back so that she wouldn’t see him, but then she smiled at the man who was approaching her, and suddenly he was unable to move.
Memories came back to him, flashing across his mind as if he were flipping the pages of a picture book. The wide, tooth-gapped grin of a chubby-cheeked little girl proudly holding up her missing tooth for his impressed inspection. The pressed-together curve of cupid’s bow lips whenever she was trying not to laugh at something outrageous he’d said. The radiant smile the day he’d asked her to marry him that told him he’d just handed her heaven on a plate.
As he watched her now with those images from the past going through his mind, his throat went dry and he wanted to move out of sight, but he seemed to have no power over his limbs. He could only stand there as if paralyzed, caught by her smile like a fly in treacle.
He’d forgotten, he realized in astonishment. He’d been gone so long, he’d forgotten just how beautiful her smiles were. How could he have let that happen?
Slowly, however, another feeling came to the fore, an uneasy sense that something was wrong. Her smile at this moment was odd in a way he couldn’t define, different from all the other Beatrix smiles he remembered, but he could not say precisely what the difference was.
She was smiling at whoever had just entered the shop. “Aidan,” she said as a man approached the counter where she stood, and Will realized what was wrong. Her smile seemed different to him because it was not for him. It was for another man.
Tightness squeezed his chest. It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. It doesn’t matter anymore.
He turned abruptly away and returned to the books on archaeology. He grabbed the one on Petrie’s excavations in Palestine, opened it, and attempted to read, but he could not shut out the voices below.
“Do you intend to linger here for long, Beatrix?” the Duke of Trathen asked.
“My answer to that question depends upon Mr. Halstead.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the proprietor answered, “but those new Baedeker guides haven’t arrived yet.”
“Baedeker?” There was a hint of surprise in Trathen’s voice. “You ordered a Baedeker? Whatever for?”
Will gave a low chuckle. “Don’t know much about your fiancée’s reading tastes, do you, old chap?” he murmured under his b
reath, feeling a hint of satisfaction at his superior knowledge of Trix on this particular topic. The only thing she liked better than poring over travel guides at Halstead’s was mucking about with her sketchbook and her paints. Give her either of those pastimes, and she was happy. Add a box of chocolates, and she was in heaven.
“I didn’t order a Baedeker, darling,” Beatrix clarified with a little laugh. “But Mr. Halstead is having an entirely new collection of them brought in, and I thought if they had arrived, I would have a look at them. I wish to . . .” She paused just an infinitesimal moment. “Improve my knowledge of geography.”
“It makes me happy to hear you say that,” Trathen said. “Improving one’s mind through serious study of a subject is the most valuable of pursuits.”
Will rolled his eyes. In his opinion, she ought to tell Trathen her mind was quite improved enough, thank you very much, but she didn’t.
“Intellectual pursuits are very important to me,” she said, sounding as convincing as a denying child caught red-handed with the strawberry tart.
“Excellent,” Trathen answered. “If I am not mistaken, Mr. Halstead has some excellent texts on geography. If you wish to make a study of the subject, those would be of far more use to you than any Baedeker, my dear.”
Beatrix said something Will didn’t quite catch, but he did hear the other man’s reply.
“If you had not intended to stop here too long, perhaps we could call upon Colonel Westholm before meeting your aunt for tea?”
Beatrix laughed. “What you really mean, darling, is that you’ve decided on your next move in that eternal chess game you and the Colonel are engaged in,” she replied, an intimacy and understanding in her words that made Will heartily wish he was somewhere else. If he had to hear her call the other man “darling” one more time, he’d smash his head into a wall.
“Would you mind if I remain here while you visit the Colonel?” she asked, interrupting Will’s contemplation of self-inflicted injury.
“Not at all. I shall call back for you in . . .” Trathen paused, obviously consulting his watch. “Half an hour?”
She must have given a nod of agreement to that, for the man’s boot heels tapped against the wooden floor of the shop, indicating he was headed for the door. “Intellectual pursuits, Beatrix, remember,” he called back, but he was laughing as he opened the door.
“Of course,” she called back, laughing with him until the door closed. Then her laughter stopped, and Will thought he heard her sigh, though from this far away, he could not be sure.
“I fear I shall have to go in search of your excellent geographical texts, Mr. Halstead,” she said to the proprietor, making Will grin. She sounded as delighted as a child forced to do catechism.
“All the geographical texts are upstairs,” Mr. Halstead told her. “Not far from the travel books, my lady.”
With those words, Will’s grin vanished. He shoved Petrie’s book back into place and glanced toward the back of the loft, where—if memory served—there was another set of stairs leading to the ground floor. He ought to escape now, while he had the chance. The loft, despite its rows of tall bookshelves, wasn’t large enough for him to avoid her, and any encounter between them was bound to be deuced awkward at best, damned infuriating at worst, and pointless all around. Yet, as he heard her footsteps on the front stairs, his inclination to duck out the back was overcome by what he could only define as a perverse sense of obstinacy.
He couldn’t avoid her for long. After all, they’d be at Pixy Cove next week, staying in the same house. And besides, he’d arrived at Halstead’s first, and if she didn’t like it, she could be the one to leave. She probably would anyway the moment she saw him. He did not return to the archaeology texts he’d been perusing, however. The same contrariness that impelled him to remain up here also led him to the back corner of the shop, where all the travel guides were kept. If he knew Trix at all, this was where her steps would lead her, and any study of academic geographical texts would go to the wall. He snagged a book on tours of the Nile, settled himself against the back wall, and waited. Sure enough, within moments she came around a tall bookshelf, headed straight for him.
She came to an abrupt halt. “You!”
He looked up, doing his best to act surprised. “Hullo, Trix.” Marking his place with one finger, he closed the book and bowed. “This is a delightful surprise.”
Beatrix stared at him, appalled. “Can’t I even journey to town without running into you?”
He smiled. “Apparently not.”
She lifted her eyes heavenward, made a sound of exasperation, and turned to leave.
“Running away?” he called after her.
She halted, and her gloved hands curled into fists. She knew what he was doing. He was implying now the same thing he had the other day—that she was a coward. Beatrix drew a deep breath and counted to ten. When she felt she could respond in a ladylike manner, she turned her head to give him a cool, pointed glance over her shoulder. “I’m not the one who ran away, Will.”
He ignored this reference to himself, of course. “Surely you don’t intend to go scurrying off whenever you see me?” he asked, and gestured to the shelves. “Halstead’s is big enough for both of us, I daresay. Besides, it’s rather silly of us to spend the entire time I’m in Devonshire avoiding each other, isn’t it?”
Beatrix didn’t think it was silly at all. Avoiding him seemed like an excellent idea. But she hated giving any validity to his implied accusation of cowardice, and when he opened the book in his hands as if to carry on with his own reading, she decided that as long as she could ignore his presence, it was best to tolerate him and be civil. She turned back around and walked past him to the shelves of Baedekers, Cook’s guides, and other travel books, where she began to peruse the titles. After a few minutes, one caught her fancy and she pulled it from the shelf. She felt a hint of excitement as she opened it to a random page.
There is a charming little pensione located there, not the most luxurious accommodations one could obtain in Florence, but with such splendid views of the Ponte Vecchio that—
“Going on a trip?”
She gave a start, realizing he’d moved to stand right behind her. She didn’t look at him, but reminded herself that ignoring him was the best thing to do. If she ignored him, he might go away. She continued to read.
—such splendid views of the Ponte Vecchio that any minor inconveniences are easily tolerated. After all—
“ ‘After all,’ ” Will’s voice murmured by her ear, reading along, “ ‘if one wished for nothing more than the convenience of modern baths and the thickest possible feather beds, one might remain in England and stay at a London hotel. Where would be the charm in that?’ ”
Beatrix sighed and turned her head to look at him. “Do you mind?”
“Sorry,” he apologized, but he didn’t move.
She raised an eyebrow and waited. After a moment he stepped back, and she returned her attention to her book, but she had barely found her place in the text before his voice once again intruded.
“A quaint little pensione with no bath and no feather bed doesn’t seem quite your cup of tea, Trix. Not that it really matters, I suppose.”
She should have known ignoring him would be impossible. Ignoring Will was rather like ignoring a case of the measles.
“Do you have a point?” she asked without turning around.
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” he murmured.
She snapped her book shut and turned to face him. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
He had reopened his book, and he shrugged without looking up. “The more things change—”
“I know the translation, thank you,” she interrupted. “I do speak French.”
He turned a page. “Yet you never go to France.”
“Do you have a point?”
“You love reading about foreign places, yet you never go anywhere.” He shut his book and turned to shove
it into the shelf beside him, then once again stepped forward. “All our lives I’ve watched you do it. Dreaming, dreaming, but never doing what you dream about.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He leaned forward and took the book out of her hand before she could stop him. “A Tour of Florence,” he read aloud and looked at her. “You talked about going to Florence years ago. You were fifteen, and you wanted to go with your governess for the autumn to study art, but your father said no. You were crushed. Do you remember?”
Beatrix looked away, unable to bear letting him see that she still remembered, and that it still hurt. Her father had been terrified that she’d do what her mother had done. “So?”
“Your father said no, and that was the end of it as far as you were concerned. You never talked about going to Florence again. And a few years later when your aunt and uncle took Paul and me on a tour of the Continent, you wanted to go, too, but again, your father said no. Seasons in London were all a girl needed, he said. You pretended it didn’t hurt, but I know it did.” He held the book out to her. “It still does.”
Stung, put on the defensive and feeling prickly as a chestnut about it, she felt compelled to retaliate. “I happen to be going on a trip, soon, I’ll have you know. It’s called a honeymoon. You know what a honeymoon is, don’t you, Will?” she added, snatching back her book. “Or perhaps you don’t, since matrimony is something you seem allergic to. For our honeymoon, we were supposed to journey to Paris, and then take the Orient Express all the way to Constantinople. But we didn’t because you decided two weeks before the wedding to go to Egypt instead. Are you going to blame that on my father, too?”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “No, Trix. But you dream of places instead of seeing them. You yearn for excitement, yet you always end up playing safe. It’s understandable, given the obsessive way your father always kept you under his thumb.”
“Are you saying my father was a tyrant? He loved me.”
Wedding of the Season: Abandoned at the Altar Page 7
