by Anne Barton
“Some older boys found our fishing spot. They taunted Ralph, called him an idiot. They bet he couldn’t recite the alphabet. Quizzed him on his sums. Said he was a deformed beast that didn’t deserve to walk the earth.”
“How awful! What did you do?”
“Nothing. I sat there and listened to it all. Didn’t say a word.” But even now, over a decade later, he could feel the anger that had bubbled up in him. It was directed at Ralph for being the way he was, at himself for not being anywhere near the kind of brother that Ralph deserved, but mostly at the boys. For being complete and utter asses.
“The more they talked,” James continued, “the meaner their barbs grew. Then one of them walked up to Ralph and shoved him off the rock where he was sitting. He fell into the river, fishing pole and all.”
“No.”
James nodded. “Something inside me turned wild. While my brother flailed in the shallow part of the river, I charged the boy who’d pushed him. When he was on the ground, I straddled him and beat him until blood streamed from his nose. When his friends tried to pull me off of him, I attacked them, too—savagely. I bit and clawed and kicked them till they both writhed on the ground. I might have never stopped if I hadn’t heard Ralph calling me, imploring me to forget about them and come help him. Begging me to take him home. So I did. After that, I learned to fight properly, so no one would dare to pick on Ralph again.”
“No wonder the memory haunts you. But you don’t have to be ashamed of the way you acted. You defended your brother against a trio of bullies. What’s so wrong about that?”
“What’s wrong is the way I’ve acted every day since then. I’ve kept Ralph at arm’s length. I told him, my mother, and myself that he was better off staying at home and avoiding other people altogether. So he wouldn’t have to be exposed to that kind of ugliness again.”
“You were trying to protect him.”
“Was I? Or have I really been protecting myself? It’s been easier for me this way. Less messy. I didn’t bring my school friends around the cottage. Didn’t spend much time there—just a monthly visit with my mother and Ralph to give them some money and check on the place.” He heaved a sigh and pressed his forehead to the cool windowpane. “Pretending that my gentle, kind brother doesn’t exist makes me as horrible as the bullies who taunted him that day. In fact, it makes me a lot like… my father.”
“No. It doesn’t. But if you don’t like the way you’ve treated your brother, why not rectify it?”
“It’s not as though I could bring him to a ball, or even my club.” But he knew Olivia wasn’t suggesting such a thing.
“Let him come to London and stay with you for a week. Introduce him to Owen and Rose and me—anyone you trust. We could go for carriage rides around town, have picnics in the country. Do you think Ralph would like that?”
Yes, he would. “I should ask him.”
“Don’t wait too long. Summer will be a memory before long.”
And James would be gone.
For once, he wished he had more time. With his brother, with Olivia. Ever since the night she’d kissed James on the terrace at the Easton ball, he’d been off-kilter—and he liked the feeling. “Thank you for understanding.”
“You’re welcome.” Olivia smiled, soothing his raw emotions. “Shall we return to our respective sketching and posing positions?”
Not before he told her about her father’s letter. “There’s one more thing you should know.”
“Very well. But why don’t you come sit by—Goodness, I can hear Terrence bellowing to the stable hands from up here. He and Hildy must be back from the carpenter’s. Do you see them?”
James peered out the window and spotted the coachman and maid. “Yes.” Damn. There went his chance. The maid was probably making her way up the stairs by now, and Olivia was hastily trying to right her dress and her hair.
“I’d better get back into my chair before Hildy finds me thus. She will be glad to see me sketching—such a tame and ladylike pastime.”
“True, but if anyone could find a way to make it less so, you could.”
She grinned. “I’m sorry we didn’t have time to finish our conversation. Could we talk later? Maybe this afternoon?”
“Certainly.”
Olivia stood on her good foot.
“Wait.” James strode to her side and wrapped an arm around her, marveling at the perfect fit of her body next to his. He helped her to the chair and while she placed her injured foot on the stool, he bent to retrieve her papers from the floor.
Olivia gasped. “I’ll take those,” she said, trying to snatch the parchment from his hands.
He held the pages just out of her reach and turned the stack over. Then he riffled through the dozen or so sheets he held. All blank.
“What’s this?” he teased. “I sat patiently that whole time and you sketched… nothing?”
She blushed as he handed her the papers. “I wanted to sketch you, but I”—the tips of her ears turned pink—“I didn’t think I could do you justice.”
He chuckled. “Anything you draw will be an improvement. It doesn’t have to be a perfect likeness, you know. Just make sure you get my strong chin, broad shoulders, muscular—”
“James,” she scolded, swatting him with her papers. “Stop at once and pose for me, as you were before.” Reaching for her charcoal, she added, “I want to sketch something before Hildy returns.”
He did as he was told, and Olivia scratched away. Each time she looked up at him, he made a face, which made her giggle. And that made him forget his worries about the expedition and Ralph and the letter from Olivia’s father—at least for a while.
Hildy swept into the room, quickly took in the scene, and shrugged. Though it was hardly proper for Olivia to be alone in the room with him, all sorts of rules had been overlooked the last few days. At least everyone was fully dressed.
“The carpenter said he’d get to work on the crutches right away and that they should be finished later today. He asked that I come back to test them, so Terrence is taking me this evening after dinner.”
“Tonight? That’s wonderful!” cried Olivia. “Thank you.”
James stood and said, “Since you can’t go out, perhaps I could have a dinner tray sent up and join you? And you could finish my sketch.”
“Mr. Averill brought me the supplies, Hildy,” she explained. “Wasn’t that lovely of him?”
“Indeed!” The maid scurried toward Olivia. “Let me see how it’s coming along.”
She clutched the papers to her chest. “Er, not until I’m finished.”
James shot Olivia a knowing look as he walked toward the door. “I’ll see you for dinner, at, say, seven?”
“Perfect.”
James thought so, too.
Chapter Sixteen
Later that evening, James followed the mouthwatering smells of roast beef, vegetables, and freshly baked bread down the corridor to Olivia’s room, but he hesitated when he reached her door.
He felt inside his jacket and checked that her letter was tucked securely in his pocket. Owen might never forgive him for what he was about to do, but it was the right thing. And not just from a legal standpoint. Olivia was a grown woman, and what she did with her father’s letter should be her choice.
Determined to see his decision through, James knocked on the door.
Hildy welcomed him in, sweeping her arm toward a small round table set with linens, china, and a vase full of wildflowers. “Everything is ready for you and Lady Olivia to dine.”
Olivia was seated already and wearing a gown that wouldn’t have been out of place at a London ball. Golden silk skimmed her shoulders and dipped to a low V in the front, baring the ripe swells of her breasts. Her hair was piled high on top of her head, except for several rogue curls that framed her face.
James swallowed hard. She was gorgeous, and the way she smiled at him made him feel like he could scale a pyramid. There was so much he admired about her. She wore her heart on her sl
eeve. She let the people around her know what they meant to her.
She lived life like every damned day mattered.
And when James was with her, he realized it did.
“Come, join me,” she said.
Unable to speak, he smiled and gave a polite nod to Hildy as he seated himself across from Olivia.
“Isn’t it lovely?” In the glow of a single flickering candle, she beamed.
“Indeed.”
Hildy cleared her throat. “Terrence and I will dine downstairs before making our way to the carpenter’s. But just because you’ll have your crutches does not mean you may use them tomorrow. The doctor said you must rest for two days.”
Olivia’s expression turned calculating. “Well, I think the morning of the second day would certainly quali—”
“No,” he and Hildy said in unison.
“Fine.” Her shoulders slumped, but the trace of a smile lit her face. “I shan’t argue with you because Hildy has been spoiling me. Look, she even found us this lovely bottle of wine.”
The maid blushed as she scooped up her shawl and satchel. “I wanted your dinner to be special. You’ve had a trying couple of days.”
“My own fault,” Olivia admitted. “But thank you for helping me make the best of it.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Hildy said, heading for the door. “We’ve a bit of a ride to the carpenter’s but should return by nine-thirty or so.”
The maid walked out, leaving him and Olivia alone. After a brief, cozy silence, he said, “You look beautiful. I didn’t realize tonight was supposed to be formal—and I didn’t think to bring my evening jacket.”
“I shall try to overlook your state of underdress,” she teased, “if you promise not to notice that I am wearing only one slipper.”
“Agreed.” He poured the wine, then reached out and squeezed her hand. “Earlier, I mentioned there was something I needed to tell you. You see—”
“Wait. We should have a toast,” she said, raising her glass. She paused a moment to think, eyes alight with mischief. “To this evening. May it be full of surprises that delight us now… and live fondly in our memories… forever.”
He lifted his glass and though he nodded his assent, he doubted the revelation he had for her—about her father’s letter—was the kind of surprise she had in mind.
“We have no staff to serve us,” she said, “but I confess I prefer it this way. We can pretend that no one exists but us.”
“Allow me.” He removed the lids from her plate and his own and set them aside. “I’m happy to play the role of footman tonight. Whatever you need, all you have to do is ask.”
“My mind is positively swimming with possibilities, but do you know what I’d most like?”
“You must tell me. I live to serve.”
“I’d like to know what it is about Egypt that fascinates you—so much so that you’d leave behind the comforts of London and your family and friends to explore there.”
“It’s complicated. I don’t know if I can put it into words.”
“Will you try, please? I truly want to understand.”
No one had ever asked him this before, but he could tell that his answer mattered to her, so he resolved to try his best to explain. “Your brother and Foxburn assume I’m going to Egypt because I want to escape the strictures of society—especially cravats.”
“And are they are mistaken?”
He grinned. “Not entirely. I plan to leave most of my cravats at home. But it’s more than that.”
She swallowed a bite of asparagus and smiled encouragingly.
“When I was about twelve years old, I read about a tomb in the ancient pyramids and was fascinated by the Egyptians’ concept of the afterlife. I wanted to believe that there was a world beyond this, and I asked my mother how it would be for Ralph. Would he be able-bodied and strong? Would he be able to express himself like the rest of us—clearly and with little effort?”
Olivia put down her fork. “What did she say?”
“She cried. And then she asked me what I thought. I said that if a pharaoh could have soldiers and slaves and cats in the afterlife that the least Ralph could have was his good health.”
She sighed softly. “That seems perfectly reasonable to me, and very sweet. Do you think the Egyptians had it right, then? That the things that are important to us while we are alive are the things we will need after we pass on?”
“In a way. But the things that are important aren’t wealth or servants.”
“What is?”
“The love we have for our family and friends. I think that is the thing that will ultimately endure.”
Her eyes brimmed. “I hope so. I miss Papa, but I like to think of him loving me and Rose and Owen from afar.”
Jesus, this was the perfect opening. “Olivia, I—”
“But I don’t want to talk about that now.” She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “Tell me how your passion for Egypt grew.”
Sensing she needed time to compose herself, he said, “I read everything I could about the civilization. After Napoleon’s Egyptian expedition, there were volumes written on the subject—tomb maps, drawings, and paintings. But I became frustrated when the books didn’t contain the answers to all of my questions. I wanted to know how the pyramids were built and what life was like for those not lucky enough to be born pharaohs. I decided that I wanted to discover the answers myself, digging in the sand of the Egyptian desert, rather than search for them in the dusty pages of a book.”
“So it’s a desire to understand ancient Egyptians that has led you to explore.”
He thought about that for a moment. “I’m intrigued by other ancient civilizations, too, by the possibility of discovering common threads between us and those who lived thousands of years ago. There’s a French linguist who’s been able to decipher some of the hieroglyphics found in the tombs. If we could just read the messages they left behind, we might understand.”
“We might learn they’re not so different from us.”
“Yes,” he said gratefully. “I like to imagine we’re connected by our humanity—our need to love and be loved.” Good God, he was babbling like an idiot.
Olivia sighed. “That’s beautiful. I never knew.”
“Never knew what?”
“That you’re such a romantic.”
“I’m not,” he said firmly. “I’m a realist.”
She shot him a knowing smile. “Of course you are.”
“All that aside, the civilization accomplished so much. And the land and people are both foreign and exotic. I can’t wait to walk the narrow streets of Cairo, ride over miles of sandstone and desert, and see the pyramids and the Sphinx with my own eyes.”
Olivia sat back and nodded to herself. “I believe I understand,” she murmured.
“You do?” His explanation hadn’t felt adequate, but he shouldn’t be surprised that she had managed to glean something from his clumsy ramblings. She’d always met him more than halfway.
“I’ve been quite content living here in my safe, comfortable, familiar world. I’ve never felt the need to travel to distant lands. But you’re so passionate about it that you may have just changed my mind.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know. I’m just happy that I finally understand. And it will make tonight all the more exciting.”
“It will?”
She set her napkin on the table and grinned. “Absolutely. Finish your dinner, and then all will be revealed.”
He let his gaze wander over the sweet curve of her neck and the tantalizing swells of her breasts, shamelessly hopeful that all sorts of things would be revealed.
Olivia took a large sip of wine. James looked especially handsome tonight. His sinewy strength and rugged charm were the same as always, but there was also something different about him. Something that, in all the years she had known and loved him, she had never seen in him before—vulnerability.
For once, he’d stopped
being Averill—dashing solicitor, renowned pugilist, and intrepid explorer—and was just James. James, who worried about his family and questioned his future, just like other mere mortals.
And that openness—the honesty she’d seen in his beautiful green eyes—had made her knees go weak. Even though she was sitting. She could never have survived the conversation standing.
But the night was just beginning.
Brimming with anticipation, she said, “I thought we would do a little more sketching tonight—if you have no objection.”
“None at all. Shall I fetch your supplies? Move our chairs to our respective positions?”
“Not yet. We’re going to do things a bit differently this time.”
His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Differently?”
She nodded. “We’re reversing roles. I shall be the model, and you shall be the artist.”
“No.”
She lifted the hem of the table linens and reached beneath for the large satchel she’d placed there, then set it in her lap. As though she hadn’t heard him, she said, “I’ll just need your help setting up.”
“Olivia, I don’t draw.”
“Move your chair close to the window, as it was before, then help me to it.”
“I’m the farthest thing from an artist there is. I could try to describe you in words. I could use all sorts of numbers and measurements to try to capture your essence. Drawing is out of the question.”
She blinked slowly, then let the full force of her displeasure wash over him. “James, we both know that I am more than words or numbers. And if you think I’m about to let you near me with a measuring tape, you are sorely mistaken. Besides, you haven’t even tried drawing. How can you call yourself an archaeologist if you don’t have a little journal that you whip out of your pocket and draw sketches of your findings in?”
“I record my observations,” he said firmly. “I don’t draw pictures.”
Olivia straightened her spine. “I am not some dusty, lifeless artifact buried along the banks of the Nile. I’m the girl you’ve known for a decade and the woman whom you’ve recently kissed. And you’re going to draw me.”
James stared at her for several seconds. “Very well. But you’ve been warned. The results won’t be pretty.”
