Guilty Series (19 page)

“Yes, and I am so thrilled to be going. And to think you will be there when we arrive. Oh, Daphne, we will have such a wonderful time of it!”

Daphne tried to summon the same enthusiasm for London that Elizabeth had, but she could not manage it. As she moved about the floor with the others, she tried to concentrate on the steps, but her mind stubbornly clung to thoughts of her favorite dance partner.

He had been gone nearly a month, and there was still no word of when he would return. He might not come back until after she had gone. Any day might bring news of his engagement. She might never see him again. Three months ago, she would have been heartily glad to go. Now, she felt quite gloomy at the prospect.

She had tried to forget those passionate moments between them, but she could not forget. She had occupied herself with work, she had spent her Sunday afternoons and her Thursdays out with the Fitzhugh family, and Elizabeth had helped her to
choose new gowns from Mrs. Avery to take with her to London. She had kept herself busy during all her waking hours, but Anthony stole into her thoughts every time she picked up an artifact, every time she came to the assembly rooms for lessons in dance, every time she walked in the rain.

Somehow, despite all her efforts to dislike him, she had been unable to sustain her animosity. Somehow, during the twelve weeks that had passed since she had first given him her resignation, her wounded pride had been healed. Somehow, a genuine camaraderie had sprung up between them as they had danced and flirted and laughed together. Somehow, he had made her feel beautiful and interesting as he had asked about her travels and touched her. Somehow, he had even become her friend. But having a friend who could set her afire with a kiss was a dangerous thing indeed. Especially when he was a duke and he intended to marry someone named Lady Sarah, a woman who was no doubt quite suited to being a duchess.

 

Anthony sat in his carriage by the roadside, staring at the rain-washed stone walls and lighted windows of Monforth House in the distance, but he did not order his coachman to go through the gates. He remained there for over an hour, listening to the droplets of sleet hitting the carriage roof on a gloomy, cold December afternoon.

He thought of Sarah, of her stunning beauty, her mercenary heart, and her understanding of the obligations and responsibilities that would come with
being a duchess. She would be absolutely perfect for the role. Dylan was right, of course. There was not a hint of the sensual within her. Anthony had kissed her twice, and he knew that suggesting she do anything more venturesome than stare at the ceiling would send her for her vinaigrette and make her think him a barbaric husband. But that was why married men, as well as single ones, had mistresses.

He thought briefly of Marguerite. Not even once during the entire time he had been in Town had he gone to see her, and he could not understand why, for his body was raging with a hungry, almost desperate need.

He thought about his responsibilities. To marry well, to ensure that he had at least one son, to make the future as secure as possible for his descendants, were the primary duties of his life. He had postponed them as long as he could.

He thought about the additional power a marquess's daughter brought to his heirs, the additional connections both of them would gain from the alliance, and all the other reasons why marrying Sarah was a good idea. She would have him, there was no doubt of it. The vows would barely be uttered before she would have the Tremore emeralds around her neck and in her hair. She was exactly the sort of wife a duke had to have, and the sort of woman who would never demand anything of his soul.

He sat there as gray twilight began to settle over Monforth House, and he felt the burden of his rank more than he ever had before. He listened to the
drumming of icy water on the roof, still not quite understanding why anyone would stand out in the pouring rain—even when it was August—and actually enjoy it.

It was dark. Anthony ordered his coachman to turn the carriage around and return to London, and he did not understand himself at all.

D
aphne vowed she was not going to count the days since Anthony had left, and she kept that vow. She did not look out the window every time she heard the rattle of wheels pass by the antika. She did not ask Mr. Bennington if there was any word of when his grace would return. She did not go to the north wing or walk in the conservatory.

None of that prevented her from missing him, missing verbal duels and midnight dances, bargains and kisses. She kept reminding herself that it did no good to miss him, for she was leaving. She kept repeating the words she had overheard him say about her, hoping that would be the antidote to missing him, but it did not work. Those words had ceased to evoke resentment.

Determined not to miss him, Daphne immersed herself in work. The storage rooms of the antika still had plenty of antiquities yet to be worked on, she attended two assemblies with the Fitzhugh ladies, and there was always plenty of reading to occupy the remainder of her free time—books on the peerage, publications of current fashions, a study of English politics, even a text from the local bookshop on what a young woman needed to know if she took up a post as governess. Daphne studiously avoided the society papers. She did not want to read speculations of Anthony and his future bride.

By Anthony's orders, his master of the stables taught her to ride a horse. Given her expertise with camels, it took only a few days for her to become comfortable with it, though she thought the sidesaddle a ridiculous device.

The holiday season came. Mr. and Mrs. Bennington went to their nephew's home in Wiltshire for Christmas, and Lady Fitzhugh invited Daphne to attend the holiday amusements at Long Meadows. She accepted, and wrote again to Viola, informing the viscountess of her decision to remain in Hampshire just a few more days. She had never experienced a true English Christmas, and going to the Fitzhughs' for the festivities appealed to her. She had become very fond of the Fitzhugh family during the last few months, and they had come to treat her almost as one of their own.

For her first English Christmas, Daphne ate foods as exotic to her as they were commonplace to
her hosts. She was doubtful regarding the roast boar's head, but she loved the plum pudding, hard sauce, and wassail.

The Benningtons came back to Tremore Hall in time to give her their farewells and best wishes. Mr. Cox paid her the stipend of five hundred pounds. By January 5, there was no reason for her to remain in Hampshire. It was time to leave.

When Lady Fitzhugh heard Daphne was leaving for London the following day, intending to travel alone by post, she was horrified. She insisted Daphne celebrate Twelfth Night at Long Meadows, then journey to London a few days later in their carriage, for they were also departing for town, and could easily take her to Chiswick on the way. Daphne accepted their offer. The eve of Twelfth Night was when Anthony came home.

She was in the antika, occupied with finishing the restoration of one last artifact, a very rare piece of Samarian pottery. Putting the many broken shards of the large vase back together had taken all day and most of the evening. It was nearly midnight when she penciled in one last flourish on the sketch of that vase and wrote its catalog definition at the bottom of the page:
Globular vase. Group D: coarse pottery, Fig. 16.2. Samarian ware, with dark-red glaze and barbotine ornament; Hadrianic, second century. Villa of Druscus Aerelius, Wychwood, Hampshire. 1831.

Daphne stared down at the sketch for a moment. This was the last artifact of Anthony's Roman villa that she would restore. She might see him in Lon
don, she might visit his museum, but this vase represented the end of her time at Tremore Hall, and she suddenly felt an overpowering sense of desolation. There were exciting possibilities in her future, but when she thought of Anthony, she could not summon that excitement.

The desperate infatuation she had once felt for him had long since disappeared, but another feeling had taken its place, a deeper feeling of respect and friendship. Desire was there, too—had always been there. Desire that still made her soft as butter when she thought of him without his shirt, of how strong his arms were when he had held her, of how intoxicating his kisses had been. It hurt to dwell on those feelings, hurt so deep it felt settled in her soul like a stone. Their time here together, working side by side, dancing, picnicking, bargaining over her time, had been special and wonderful, and the knowledge of her imminent departure seemed almost unbearable.

A tear blurred the lens of her spectacles and she hastily wiped it away with her handkerchief. She had vowed never to cry over him again, and she was going to keep that vow.

The fire in the grate had burned down to coals and ash, and Daphne realized how cold the antika had become. She flexed her hands several times, wincing at the ache in them from her day's work and the cold room. Then she rested her elbows on the table and pushed her fingers beneath her spectacles to rub her tired eyes. Her fingertips were icy and felt soothing against her closed eyelids. She yawned, knowing it was quite late. She should go
back to the house and go to bed, for she was leaving for the Fitzhughs' first thing in the morning.

The door opened. Daphne looked up as an icy gust of wind blew out the candles on her worktable and stirred the listless coals in the fireplace to life. The fire flared just long enough for her to see who stood in the doorway before dying back once again to a faint red glow.

It was him. She could see his unmistakable silhouette in the doorway, his wide shoulders a black wall against the silvery winter moonlight behind him. Another shaft of moonlight slashed through the room in front of him, hitting the stone floor of the antika in a windowpane pattern at his feet.

“I saw you in here.” He paused, expelling a harsh breath, then he added enigmatically, “Everywhere I went.”

Daphne cleared her throat. “You have returned.” Such an inane thing to say, but she could not seem to form the coherence of thought required to say anything more. She rose to her feet as he came inside, hugging herself against the frigid air that came with him.

He shut the door and flattened back against it, his body and his face still in darkness. “And you are still here,” he said wearily. “I did not think you would be. December twenty-third was supposed to be your last day, was it not?”

He had not even intended to say good-bye. Daphne pulled all her emotions into a tight, hard knot of pride. “I am leaving for Long Meadows tomorrow. I will spend Twelfth Night there, then the
Fitzhughs shall take me to your sister's home in Chiswick on their way to town.”

He made no reply, and as the silence grew, so did her emotions. Provoked by his silence, she said, “What, no temptations to make me stay, your grace? No talk of our friendship and my beautiful eyes?” Her voice cracked. “No farewell and good wishes for a faithful member of your staff?”

He shoved away from the door and started toward her, a shadow of black and gray. “God, Daphne, what do you think?” he demanded as he circled the table to stand behind her. “That I am made of stone?”

“Is that not what you think I am made of?” she countered and tried to step around the table, but he would not let her.

His hand came down on her shoulder, and the other touched the side of her face, brushing a tendril of hair back from her cheek. “No, not stone,” he answered, pressing against her back. “I think you are like a truffle.”

“Thank you for comparing me to a mushroom,” she said, unfolding her arms and moving to step the other way.

He put his other hand on her other shoulder to keep her where she was, and his laughter blew warm breath against the side of her face. “Not the vegetable,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “A chocolate truffle. A concoction of soft, sweet, delicious things hidden inside a hard, paperboard box.” He lowered his hands to reach for hers. “A frozen truffle, I fear. Your hands feel like ice.”

The heat of his body behind her was making her warm. She wanted to be cold.

“Let me warm you.” He let go of her hands and turned her around. He reached up and took away her spectacles. Folding the pair, he put them in the pocket of her apron. He cupped her face in his hands, then he bent his head, and kissed her, but she turned her face away.

“I tried to stay away,” he said, pressing quick kisses to her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her chin. “Because if I came back to say good-bye, I would not be able to stop myself from doing this. Daphne, you have been like a shadow beside me for six long weeks, and everywhere I went, I could see you. I am not made of stone. I am just a man, and God help me, I cannot stop wanting you. Do not torture me anymore.” His tongue ran across the crease of her lips. “Kiss me back.”

Her lips parted beneath his, and she closed her eyes, groaning into his mouth. So long. He had been away so long, and she had forgotten how it felt to have his mouth on hers.

She seized the folds of his cloak in her fists, pulling him closer. In response, he deepened the kiss, tasting her with his tongue. She wrapped one arm around his neck, and tangled the fingers of her other hand in the thick, short strands of his hair.

He broke the kiss, pulling back to look at her, his expression in the moonlight strangely resolute. “Say my name,” he ordered, lowering his hands to tug at the ties of her apron. He pulled the bows apart two at a time. “Anthony.”

“Stop giving me orders, duke,” she said, rising up on her toes to recapture his mouth. “Don't ruin it.”

He pulled the pieces of her apron away and tossed them over her head onto the table behind her.

She heard a rocking sound, followed by a shattering crash, and she knew he had just smashed that priceless ancient vase to smithereens. Her last day's work wasted. She began to laugh against his mouth. “You broke it.”

“What was it?” he asked, tearing away from her kiss to bury his face against the side of her neck.

“Samarian vase,” she gasped, “made at Trier. Priceless.”

He jerked at the ribbon of his cloak, and the heavy garment slid from his shoulders to land on the floor. “I shall mourn the loss tomorrow.” He pressed kisses against her throat. “Say it.”

Daphne ran her hands along his torso, savoring the hard muscles beneath his clothes, feeling the excitement of all their past bargains. “And if I do, what do you offer me in exchange, your grace?”

“What do you want?”

She thought of that fresco, of that man and woman, his hand on her breast, their bodies locked together, and she decided it was time for her to start being honest with herself about what she felt and what she wanted. “The same thing you do,” she answered and reached for his cravat, but her inexperienced fingers could not loosen the tight, intricate knot.

“Let me do it.” He made short work of the neck
cloth, and it fluttered to the floor. He removed his waistcoat, then pulled off his shirt.

Daphne stared at him. No view through a spyglass, this. She reached out to touch his chest, and found that he was not cold beneath her hands. His muscles were hard like stone, but warm. He did not move, but she could feel his gaze on her face as she studied him in the silver light and traced with her fingers every line and shadowed contour she had so often drawn with her pencil. She flattened her palms against the chiseled muscles of his abdomen and leaned forward to press a kiss to his breastbone.

He stifled a groan and grasped her wrists. “Enough,” he said. “Now, say it.”

She did not want to. Oddly enough, it seemed too intimate, even as she kissed his naked chest, she did not want to say his name and evoke all the feelings of her lovesick former self. This moment was no fantasy view through a spyglass. This was real, and the feelings coursing through her body spoke of desire, not love, not even infatuation. Her body ached for him. She lifted her gaze to his. Wordless, she reached for his hand, held it in her own, touched it to her breast.

Anthony opened his hand over her, and she made a faint sound of surprise. Oh, the exquisite sweetness of it, spreading through her body like warm honey. He shaped and cradled her breast against his palm, and that warmth became a desperate longing that made her ache. She leaned into his hand, wanting more.

She did not get it. He pulled away, but before she could protest this abandonment, she felt his hands at her bodice, and he was undoing the buttons of her dress.

When they were unfastened, Anthony tugged the edges of her dress down her arms and pressed kisses to her neck just above the low neckline of her chemise. “My name,” he said against her skin. “I will have you say it.”

She knew they were about to engage in the most intimate thing a man and woman could do, but she could still not bring herself to say his name. She shook her head and put her hands on his hips, pulling him closer.

He brushed his fingertips back and forth over the bare skin at the tops of her breasts, and Daphne moaned, reaching behind her to grasp the edge of the table as her knees began to give way. He pulled back the edges of her gown, then unbuttoned her chemise, baring her breasts fully to the cool air, then covering them with the warmth of his hands.

Daphne could hear herself making inarticulate sounds as he shaped her breasts in his hands, each caress of his fingers making her burn with need, a need that made her arch closer to him. She rocked her hips against his thighs, and the contact sent shafts of pleasure through her body.

The contact seemed to spark something in him. He slid the gown and chemise back from her shoulders, then reached down, grasping folds of her skirt and petticoat in his fists and pulling them up around her waist. Cold caressed her bare legs
above her stockings, and his hands burned against her bare buttocks as he lifted her onto the table.

She felt the shape of his phallus hard and aroused against the outside of her knee as his fingertips glided along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

“Yes, yes,” she moaned instead of his name, leaning back, resting her weight on her hands, his feather-light touch making her hips jerk in response. The sanded surface of the table felt like satin beneath her. Her dress strained against her arms, the braid edging cutting sharply into her skin, but she did not care.