As You Desire (9 page)

“Well?” he prompted, smiling down at her quizzically.

“I was wondering why you didn’t race off to hunt up an Apis bull with the rest of the pack after Mr. Schmidt made his offer,” she lied.

“Simple. Your grandfather asked me to see you first entertained and then safely home. I take my responsibilities seriously,” he said glibly, looking over the crowd.

She took the opportunity to examine his profile: the deeply sensual bow of his upper lip, the short,
thick fringe of bronze lashes, the strong, cleanly shaved throat. He glanced down, well aware she’d been studying him, his expression gently—nearly tenderly—amused.

She cleared her throat. “I know why.”

“Why what?” He cocked his head.

“Why you aren’t scuttling about the streets of Cairo looking for Mr. Schmidt’s Apis bull.”

“Yes?”

“It’s because you already as good as have one in your pocket. Probably sent a message to your teenage apprentice, Rabi, somewhere between the fruit and cheese course at dinner. I swear I saw him lurking about the outside of the hotel earlier tonight.”

He grinned. “Just another lovesick male under your spell, Dizzy.”

She made an unladylike sound. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“I know you don’t, it’s part of your charm.” He directed her attention to the line of young officers gazing morosely in her direction. “There’s your devoted following now.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Unfortunately that’s all they do … follow. None of those lads ever comes to call, hardly ever ask me to dance, and the only person who takes me out, besides Grandfather, is you.”

“Not that you’re complaining.”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed seriously. “If one of them did take me out, it would probably be for a walk in the gardens. No one would think to take me to the places you do. The really interesting places.”

“The forbidden places,” he suggested gently.

“Now, Harry, you know if I were expressly forbidden to go somewhere I wouldn’t go.”

“You know, Diz”—he leaned close so his lips were just an inch from her ear—“you’re something of a blackguard yourself.”

“Pshaw.” She fought and lost her battle to remain unaffected by his warm approval and covered her confusion with a sniff. “Diversionary tactics won’t work, Harry. As I was saying, the reason you aren’t running around, bumping into Simon and Grandpa and Georges in dark alleys, is either because Rabi will find you an Apis bull or you’ll just purchase that one you were talking about earlier. That one from …” She trailed off invitingly.

“You are the least subtle woman I know. And, no, that Apis bull won’t do for Cal’s purposes. Far too small.”

“But you know where to get the right-size one, don’t you?” she prompted.

He shrugged and she felt his shoulder muscles bunch beneath her palm: silk-smooth economy. “You give me more credit than I deserve, Dizzy. Apis bulls aren’t that easy to come by. Especially a ‘Texas mantel-size’ one. I wonder what else old Cal has on his Texas mantel—one of the Elgin Marbles?”

She couldn’t help but laugh again. As if to reward her mirth, he spun her madly once more along the dance floor’s perimeter. Her breath staggered thrillingly in her throat and she gazed up at him, feeling merry and wicked and strangely exhilarated. “Aha!” she teased when she’d caught her breath.
“Won’t you be surprised if my grandfather does come up with one and cuts you out of a lucrative deal? That would put your nose out of joint, Harry Braxton.”

“You’re right. It would. Not, you’ll note, that I’m particularly worried.” He twirled her once more and she clutched his shoulders, enjoying the sensation of being caught in a vortex, spinning as lightly as goose down in his arms. Harry wasn’t a polished dancer, but he moved with an athletic grace. “Fortunately, while your grandfather is a marvelous scholar, he doesn’t know a damn thing about dealing.”

“Such arrogance, Harry. Did it ever occur to you that
I
just might search for one myself and I
do
know something about dealing?” It was mostly bravura, but the idea that had taken hold earlier had become more and more appealing. What did she have to lose?

“I grant you, you’ve a wicked way with fruit vendors.” He grinned condescendingly. “But an antiquities trader is not a street peddler.”

“You know, I’ve half a mind to prove you wrong.”

“Please do.”

“Oh!” She pushed at his shoulder. “You can be the most provoking, patronizing …”

“You think I’m patronizing?” he asked, suddenly serious. “You, my dear, haven’t a notion of what patronization means. But if you end up back in England, you’ll learn soon enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your life here is singular, Dizzy. Exceptional. People respect your judgment, they ask your opinions. In England, no one is going to give a little blond chit more than an ogling.”

Those hated words.
Singular. Peculiar. Exceptional
. She answered them rather than his meaning. “No.”

“You’ve never lived in English society, Diz. It isn’t free and cosmopolitan and delightful. It’s narrowminded and restrictive and punishes those who do not conform to its concept of normalcy.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

“Why?” He stopped her suddenly in the middle of the dance floor, his hands gripping her upper arms, his expression demanding.

She squirmed. Immediately he let go of her arms, recapturing her hand and leading her off the floor. Around them, dancers swirled apart and drifted back together as they passed, like water birds settling in the wake of a swiftly sailing
dahabiya
.

“Why?” he asked again, his voice quieter.

She paused, uncertain how to voice the subtle longings the word “home” and “England” and … and “normal” aroused.

“Miss Carlisle?”

She turned. Gunter Konrad towered over her, preening his bristling red mustache with the back of his forefinger.

“Mr. Konrad,” she acknowledged the huge Austrian. She smiled, fixing Harry with a bright glare, willing him to do something to get her away from Gunter. A year ago, not an hour after their first introduction,
Gunter had publicly declared himself her slave.

Dizzy might have pitied Gunter except that his “devotion,” tame and courtly in the extreme, was so patently a device to push himself to the fore with the rest of the archeological community. She resented him using his “infatuation” as an excuse to get close to her grandfather and Simon and Georges.

“You are wonderful beautiful tonight, little tiny girl,” Gunter bellowed. “You do not know the joy you have given me. I was ecstatic,
transported
when Braxton told me.”

“Harry told you
what
?” she asked.

“About the polka festival at the Austrian Club tomorrow afternoon. That you and your most eminent grandpapa will be my most honored guests there. It will be most gay. Schnapps and music—perhaps your grandfather will bring a friend? The director of the Cairo Museum? I have invited him, but he does not answer—”

“What
polka festival?”

“Ah!” Gunter waggled one sausage-shape finger playfully. “You are shy that you have told Braxton how much you wanted to go to the polka festival with me. This coyness pleases me very much.”

“Harry told you that I wanted to go to a polka festival with you?” Her stomach felt hollow.

“Yes. He said you would all enjoy very much. You, your grandfather … Braxton.” Gunter smoothed the scowl that appeared the instant he’d said Harry’s name. “I see my ploy works.”

“Ploy?” she repeated numbly.

“Yes. I, too, can play ‘hard to get.’ ”

Her gaze swung on Harry with the deadly accuracy of a dervish’s blade. Oh! She quivered, furious she could feel such acute disappointment that Harry would use her. Of course he would use her. He was Harry.

“Ah, Gunter old son, I’d go a bit lighter on the—”

“You be quiet, Braxton. It is only because you bring me such good tidings that I do not squash you like a bug for the double-dealing, conniving blackguard you are. If you interfere with me again, I
will
squash you. You got off easy this time, Braxton. Next time, I will not be so munificent.”

“You promised Gunter I’d go to a polka festival with him so he wouldn’t exact whatever punishment you undoubtedly deserve at his hands?” she asked in a small, stilted voice.

Harry’s face tightened in sudden recognition of her hurt. His dark brows lowered. “Diz, I—”

“What is wrong?” Gunter asked.

She took a deep breath and pitched her head way back so she could look up into Gunter’s face. “Mr. Konrad,” she said clearly, “I am sorry to have to inform you of this, but I did not tell Mr. Braxton that I wished to attend a polka festival with you.”

Gunter’s eyes widened and then shifted frantically about the crowd surrounding them. He attempted a gruff, dismissive laugh. It sounded as if he were croaking. “No matter. Gunter sees the way you look at him, little girl. I note how you always just ‘happen’ to be where Gunter is,” he said loudly.

With each word, Desdemona’s sense of injury
grew. Gunter had padded after her for a year, and now he was declaring to all within earshot that
she’d
been hounding
him
.

“We still go to the polka. And your grandfather. And the director your grandfather will want to invite, too.” He winked.

“No, Mr. Konrad. I will not. I have prior commitments.”

“You do? Well, at least your grandfather and the director—”

“Oh!” She was tired of being used. As a translator, as a door prize, as a rung on someone’s ladder. “Mr. Konrad. My grandfather will not be able to go either. I do not have the vaguest notion what the director’s social calendar looks like. If you’re interested, I suggest you ask him yourself. And furthermore, I must inform you that I have no romantic or professional interest in you. Nor have I ever. If you wish to continue under this delusion, please do so from a distance.”

She tried to keep her voice as low as possible, but others heard. A few shocked gasps arose from those nearest, and Desdemona felt a surge of guilt. Gunter’s mouth dropped open, slammed shut, and dropped open again.

“Miss Carlisle, perhaps you should reconsider—” Gunter said, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.

Harry stepped between Gunter and her. Harry was not so big as Gunter, but he wes big enough. His breadth, always so supple, now seemed formidable … even protective. Which was ridiculous.
Gunter Konrad would sooner eat ground glass than be caught intimidating a lady, let alone actively threatening her. In that area at least, Mrs. Konrad had done a good job with her behemoth son.

“You heard her,” Harry said pleasantly. Gunter’s hands twitched at his sides as he glared with unmistakable hatred at Harry’s bland face. Harry stood his ground, his nonchalant grace a direct contrast to Gunter’s rigid fury.

For a long, silent moment—well, not that silent; she could hear Gunter mouth-breathing like a congested dragon—they stood toe to toe. And then the silent confrontation was over. Stiffly Gunter stepped back. Harry smiled. “Sorry old chap, I must have been thinking of some other Desdemona.”

“I hold you responsible for this, Braxton!” Gunter ground out. “That’s twice you have embarrassed me. This time, you’ll pay.”

“Send me a bill,” Harry suggested, taking her elbow. Unhurriedly, he threaded their way back toward their table where the others waited. She kept her face averted from him the entire time, fighting the sharp ache that had replaced the earlier pleasure of dancing with him.

When they were nearly to their table, Desdemona saw Lord Ravenscroft looking about the room. As soon as he saw her, an appreciative smile lit his face. She allowed herself to feel warmed by his interest. He may not be Bertie Cecil, but he was undoubtedly as close as she would ever come to finding him in the flesh. Certainly closer than Harry.

She lifted her chin and turned to Braxton. “How
dare you tell Gunter I wanted to go somewhere with him, Harry?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Diz. It was an invitation to a polka, not a brothel. Your grandfather was planning to go. I was going to go. It was for luncheon. Nothing could be more innocuous. I simply told Gunter what he wanted to hear … at a very opportune moment. Just before he was going to hit me. It saved me a sore jaw.

“And as soon as I realized that you really did not want to go with him, I intervened, didn’t I? I’d never let anyone, anything, ever—” He broke off. “If you can only approve of actions ruled by rote rather than reason, you’ll never approve of me. I am what I am, Diz.”

She barely heard his words, being too incensed with his actions. “You shouldn’t have promised anything in the first place!”

“How was I to know you’d take such strident exception to spending a few hours stomping around with that great oaf in order to save me from a few potential bruises? He wants to hurt me.”

“Someone always wants to hurt you, Harry,” Desdemona muttered. Blake rose and Harry drew out her dining chair.

“True,” Harry said under his breath, bending near as he pushed her chair back in, “but only one has thus far succeeded.”