The Ruin Of A Rogue (15 page)

He expected a retort but she was too excited to chide him. “Let me see.” She knelt beside the hole, leaning in precariously. “There are other things here. Perhaps we’ve found a rubbish heap.” From her voice he gathered she couldn’t imagine anything more thrilling. He admitted to some excitement himself.

“Careful!” Too late. Scratching at a protruding knob with her fingers, she lost her balance and toppled forward. His body stopped her descent. They ended up in the mud, with her half prone between his bent knees, her arms around his neck.

Her body heat seeped through their damp, filthy garments. Her scent, subtle and costly, pierced the ambient odor of earth and rain and rotting leaves. Her breath was warm on his chin.

“Uh . . .” She interrupted a long, fraught moment and he wondered if she was as stunned and incapable of coherent speech as he was. Was that his heart hammering or hers?

He freed a hand to touch her cheek, pink and tantalizingly smooth, and she shifted a little, stirring his desire. The fact drew a low crack of laughter from him. It was impossible to imagine less propitious circumstances for lovemaking.

“What?” Her lips parted. By God, she was a lovely thing.

“I was thinking how much I’d like to kiss you, and how ridiculous that is.”

“Why?”

“Because we are lying in a mud hole and it’s raining.”

“When did it start?” She made no attempt to break away.

“I don’t know either. So, Anne Brotherton. Shall I kiss you? Shall you kiss me?”

She looked at him for what felt like an age.
Say yes
, he thought, staring at the curve of her mouth.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you like it? Tell me you want a kiss.”

Her silence spoke volumes. She wasn’t reluctant but he could see the wheels turning in her mind. She liked to think things through, and he tucked the fact away as an addition to his dossier on Anne Brotherton.

Her mouth moved. To speak or to kiss? He waited in delicious anticipation.

“Good God! What is going on here?”

He groaned. A perfect moment for a negligent chaperone to make an appearance. Not that Lady Windermere, in a dusty pink ensemble that could have been made in Paris, resembled any duenna he’d previously had to dodge. There could be no guardian dragon less alarming than this pretty young woman, peering through the misty rain into their hole.

“Are you hurt, Anne?”

Anne clambered up, not without kneeing him rather painfully. That took care of that, at least. “Cynthia! I fell into the hypocaust but no harm done.” Marcus winced. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come and see your mosaic for myself. It started raining on the way but luckily I had my umbrella in the carriage. Do you want to come in out of the rain? It’s coming down harder.”

Water flowed off the brim of Anne’s bonnet. “First you must meet Frederick. Our lion. Isn’t he splendid?”

“Lovely, my dear. Can I look at him when it isn’t raining?”

A
nne felt obscurely guilty about driving off in the carriage, leaving Lithgow to trudge home in the rain.

“He was so helpful today,” she told Cynthia. “And he seemed to be truly interested in the villa.”

“I see.”

“He didn’t even make me do any housework. He gave me a holiday to celebrate finding Frederick.”

“What generosity!”

“We want to have a drawing made of him—Frederick, I mean. I have no talent with a pencil. You draw, don’t you?”

“I used to. I wouldn’t mind, if it ever stops raining. Next time could you conduct your excavations in the summer?”

Why was everyone so leery of a little rain? Yes, her cloak was wet through, but it wasn’t as though she would melt, and she never caught cold.

“What I want to know,” Cynthia said, “is what you and Lord Lithgow were doing in that hole.”

“Er, nothing.”

“It looked to me like you were kissing.”

“No.”

Cynthia looked skeptical. “Really? It just happened that you were lying on him with your arms about his neck and your face on his?”

“That’s exactly what happened. I fell in and my face wasn’t on his.” Not quite. “He didn’t kiss me.”

“You sound unhappy about that fact.”

“We talked about it. He asked me if he should kiss me. If we should kiss each other.”

“The wretch! He left it up to you so you couldn’t blame him afterward.”

It was wonderful to have such an understanding friend. “Why couldn’t he have just gone ahead and kissed me instead of making
me
decide?”

Anne pursed her lips and thought about the kiss that wasn’t and the kiss that had been, back in London before she discovered Lithgow’s scoundrelous nature. Why
hadn’t
he seized the opportunity to kiss her? The hours they’d passed together had been so delightful she hadn’t thought ill of him once. He’d been offered the ideal opportunity to take advantage of her when her defenses were weak.

The truth was she wished with all her heart that he had done so. She had really wanted to be kissed and hadn’t wanted to ask because that would have given him the upper hand.

Something was wrong with that thought. If she wanted to be kissed, surely she should have said so? Leaving the decision up to him so that she could blame him was dishonest. Yet making the advance herself put her in a position she wasn’t ready to be in. Shouldn’t be in.

“Do you know something, Cynthia? Dealing with men is complicated.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

Chapter 15

A
s the days passed, Marcus wished he’d seized the moment and kissed her. He didn’t get another chance, and his regret didn’t merely arise from a lost opportunity to advance his plans. Anne Brotherton, in her rough maid’s clothing, her single-minded pursuit of knowledge, and her quirky temper, was getting under his skin. They settled into a routine, Marcus, his little household, and his strangely distinguished guests. Lady Windermere now accompanied Anne every day, ostensibly to make drawings of the objects excavated from the villa, probably because she was taking her chaperone duties more seriously since the muddy hole incident. Travis and Maldon took charge of the laundry and condescended to ameliorate the condition of the household linens and other fabrics. Anne diligently performed her cleaning duties and Lady Windermere turned out to be a talented polisher of furniture.

Marcus spent much of his time with his tenants, helping them make repairs to their cottages to keep out the weather as winter closed in. The drainage of the fields was a continuing cause of concern; completely dry days had ceased.

Whenever it wasn’t actually pouring, Anne insisted on poking around at the villa. Untroubled by cold, wet, and mud, her enthusiasm never flagged. Since the discovery of Frederick he’d stopped feigning indifference to the excavations and would have liked to share them, but the urgent estate work had become important to him.

He returned one afternoon, stripped off his topcoat, and went straight to the study, which Anne had commandeered as the center of operations for archaeological records. It was warm, clean, and smelled of beeswax. A tray of tea waited on a side table.

Anne’s smile at his entrance dealt him a jolt in the chest.

“You’re very wet, my lord.” The my-lord title didn’t annoy him as it did when Travis so addressed him for it felt like a tease. Her hauteur and sarcasm had vanished for the most part, reappearing only occasionally. When she remembered. She’d only addressed him as Marcus that one time.

“And you are quite dry. And remarkably well dressed for a housemaid.”

“Maldon brought a change of clothes for me.”

“And where is Lady Windermere today?”

“She believed the chambermaid at the inn when she told us the curl of her hair was an infallible sign of a deluge.”

“I should think iron gray skies and a stiff wind were sufficient prognostications.”

Anne’s coif, presumably through the ministrations of the impeccable Maldon, was smooth and gleaming without a stray wisp. He’d seen it frizzed, he’d seen it rumpled, and he’d seen it wet. He’d like to see it down.

“I’m surprised she risked leaving you alone with me.”

She ignored the sally save for a telltale blush. “Sit down and I’ll pour you some tea.”

The tapestry-covered armchair, ancient and well-used like all Hinton’s furniture, embraced his weary bones. He settled back and stirred in sugar, trying to recall if he’d ever experienced a moment like this. Himself, a woman, a cup of tea. He’d drunk champagne with countesses and courtesans, served by liveried footmen or, on one occasion, sipped from the navel of an enterprising lady. But a cup of tea on a rainy day with a virtuous woman in his own house? This wasn’t the life of Marcus Lithgow, gamester and rogue. This was what happened to proper gentlemen with estates and families and good reputations.

“What were you doing out in the rain?” she asked.

“Mending a leaking roof.”

“Do you know how?”

“I’m learning. Mostly I stood on the ladder and handed tools to my tenant, Jack Burt, who does know. He has three children and wants to keep them dry this winter. My uncle neglected the cottages and I’m doing my best to make a few improvements. To get a better price when I sell the estate.”

She looked at him curiously, as well she might since he’d refused her offer to buy the place, leaky cottages and all. Why hadn’t he seized the opportunity to present himself in a good light as a conscientious landlord? His statement wasn’t even true. The pinch-faced children shivering in the damp house had been all the incentive he needed to invest a part of his dwindling funds in slates and nails and to pick up a hammer.

“How about you? Did you uncover the furnace yet?”

Anne sat at the desk, picked up a small brush, and rubbed away at a dirt-encrusted object. He observed the care she took not to damage whatever it was that dwelt beneath its coating of dried earth. Behind her she’d cleared a shelf on which was arrayed a growing collection of miscellaneous items disinterred from the villa and painstakingly cleaned.

“I’m very close but I keep finding things. Digging them out without damage takes time.”

“I’m waiting for something extraordinary. A statue of Venus perhaps. Or the head of an emperor. I apologize for the pedestrian nature of Hinton’s Roman inhabitants.”

“Oh no!” she said with charming earnestness. “Of course it would be wonderful to discover a work of art like that, but I like finding bits of pots and strange metal things. Cynthia and I have great fun speculating as to their use while she draws them.”

In comfortable silence he watched her work for a while. Her complexion glowed from outdoor work, enhanced by her dark blue woolen gown whose severity was broken by a crisp white ruffle at the neck. The delicate hands were a little reddened in places.

She caught him looking, put down her brush, and examined her splayed fingers. “I’m afraid I pull off my gloves without thinking. It’s so much easier to reach a dusty corner or prize a stubborn artifact from the ground without them.”

He reached over and took one of the maligned hands, caressing the palm with his thumb. “Still soft.”

“Maldon is in despair. Not even her special cream can keep my skin in the condition she thinks proper,” she babbled. “She has a recipe she refuses to divulge to anyone. I think it contains lemons.”

He replaced his thumb with his mouth. She allowed perhaps five seconds’ contact before pulling away. “Don’t.”

“I was just curious about the secret lotion. It does smell of lemons.”

She shot him a disbelieving look but he thought she was embarrassed more than displeased. She made a play of sitting up very straight in her chair and frowning. “I found a lot of new things today.” She wrinkled her nose. “This is just another piece of broken pottery. But I want to show you what I cleaned before you came in. Very curious.”

Her hand hovered over the litter of muddy lumps on the desk and found the object she wanted. “Do you remember that pendant we saw in the funny shop in London? This is the same shape, with the two spheres at the top of a long cylinder.” She frowned in bafflement. “This form must represent something of significance to the Romans.”

Evidently she was unfamiliar with the cult of Priapus. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, his expression as impassive as though he were playing brag with a cardsharp.

“I wish I had my books with me. I have a volume on classical iconography but never had occasion to study it. It’s a little longer than Mr. Frogsham’s example but definitely the same design.” She ran her forefinger the length of the metal penis. “And rougher too.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably.

“It has the same bulge at the end of the cylinder.”

If she went on like this he was going to have a bulge in his breeches.

Her thumb caressed the ballocks. “Unrefined. Probably the work of a lesser craftsman.”

He was feeling remarkably unrefined himself.

“Did you say something?”

“Not a word,” he mumbled.

“Do you have any idea what this shape means?” She looked at him with clear-eyed innocence and he desperately wanted to kiss her. For a start.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if I think of anything,” he said, dismissing the notion with regret. Visions of stripping off that demure gown danced in his brain. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop himself from excavating
her
treasures. He stood abruptly and set down his teacup. “I’ll leave you now. I need to go up to the attic.”

“It’ll be chilly up there.”

Cold, preferably in a bath, sounded like an excellent plan.

On the way upstairs he asked himself what the hell was the matter. Never miss the opportunity to reel in a mark when the moment is ripe; that was Lewis’s paramount rule and Marcus had always found it effective advice. He should be kissing Anne until she was dizzy. Instead he felt dizzy himself.

He’d put off searching the dark top floor of the manor thinking it unlikely his uncle would hide anything precious in quarters occupied by servants, but he’d had no luck downstairs and there might be something of value up here. Most of the garret bedrooms had been unoccupied for years, judging by the rubbish that had been thrown into them. Who knew what might be hidden among old broken boxes, heaps of discarded furniture, and old-fashioned clothing? Not for the first time Marcus wished he had any idea what he was looking for. He forced himself to undertake a methodical search, and as the light faded he was reasonably sure he’d neither found nor missed anything of value.

At the end of the passage there was a locked door that none of the household keys fit. The stout lock was beyond his powers to pick. Casting about he spotted another door he hadn’t previously noticed. Tucked in a dark corner, it was merely a cupboard. He didn’t find a key but the answer to one mystery: a rusty chain whose presence made no sense. Shaking it produced some satisfying clanking. Thumps and ghoulish cries would be easy for a man—or woman—of ingenuity to manufacture.

Marcus turned back to the locked door with heightened interest. Faint scratches around the lock suggested someone else had attempted to pick it.

A
nne couldn’t imagine her grandfather, or Felix, or even one of her stewards, superior and gently born retainers to a man, standing in the rain to help repair a roof. They had workmen to do that kind of thing. Part of her duty as the heiress, now owner, of Camber was to call on the Brotherton dependents. She found these ceremonial visits awkward. The bowing men and women were obsequious, the children quiet and still as though restrained by inner bonds, and everyone declared themselves honored by the condescension of Miss Brotherton. She always suspected they found her presence a burden. Better to do something helpful like mending a roof.

Marcus had looked weary. And wet. She wished he hadn’t cut his hair because she could envision the longer locks clinging to his skull. She tried not to dwell on it. Or on his thumb and lips caressing her hand. She’d thought he might kiss her. He hadn’t pressed and she wouldn’t have minded being pressed. But she’d been the one to pull away, because she was stupidly shy. If she wanted to be kissed she should be bold enough to ask for it. She raised her fingers to her lips and caught a whiff of lemon.

Shaking off her foolish daze she turned her attention to today’s bounty from the villa. Brushing off the dried mud, she found nothing as interesting as the curious piece she’d shown Marcus. The back of it had two prongs that must be intended to attach to something. A costume ornament of some kind, perhaps. She recalled reading about Roman belt buckles. It was a possibility. What was it made of? Certainly not gold or silver, as might be worn by a man of wealth. It had a greenish tinge. Was it bronze? She missed the great library at Camber. She cradled the piece in her palm, assessing its weight, which told her nothing. Gazing at it she had a notion. An appalling notion.

Though many statues of male figures she’d come across—mostly in books—were damaged, some of them still had intact male organs. Those balls were awfully similar. But the male part—she didn’t know what to call it—was much smaller and looked soft, even when carved from marble or stone.

She sincerely hoped she was wrong because if not Marcus must have known and watched her stroking it. The idea made her hot and flustered, distracting her from her meticulous cataloguing of today’s discoveries. She set them aside for Cynthia to draw and add to the sheaf of neat sketches.

Since the carriage would arrive from Hinton shortly, she’d better go and drag Maldon away from the fascinating company of Travis. Fearing blushes in light of her recent suspicion, she prayed Marcus would still be busy upstairs.

No such luck. However, consideration of male anatomy was displaced by surprise when she met him coming across the hall armed with a large axe.

“Good Lord,” she said, eyeing the shiny, lethal head. “I often seem to meet you carrying dangerous weapons.”

“I’m going to break down a door.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s locked and I can’t find the key.”

“What door?” Not really her business, but as the manor’s only housemaid she took a proprietary interest. “I hope you won’t make a mess that
someone
will have to clean up.”

“It’s in the attic. I want to know what’s on the other side.”

“May I watch? There could be treasure.”

“Or a skeleton.”

“Or a ghost.”

He hesitated. “There’ll be spiders,” he warned. Thankfully there was nothing in his demeanor to refer to the recent and possibly indecent conversation.

“I rely on you to use the axe on them.” Even the giant and vicious specimens that inhabited Hinton Manor would surely fall before such a massive tool.