Wedding of the Season (20 page)

“All right,” he capitulated. “That’s all bunkum. Honor has nothing to do with it.”

He glanced at the drawing room windows again, then unfolded his arms and leaned closer to her. “I want you. I want you as much as I ever did. I’ve spent six years lying to myself about it, and I just can’t find the will to lie anymore. Now I’ve got a second chance with you—”

“You do not have a second chance!”

“And I’m taking it,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I want to win you back. I want you in my arms, in my bed, in my life.”

Heat was flooding her face and spreading through her body as he spoke. Her lips tingled under his heated gaze, and without thinking, she licked them nervously.

His gaze lowered to her mouth, and for a heart-stopping second, she thought he was going to kiss her, right there in full view of whoever might be looking through the doorway, but he didn’t, and when he straightened away from her, she didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Now you know my entire diabolical plan,” he said. “Are you going to accept my offer of employment or not?”

“If I don’t?”

He gave her an apologetic look. “I really don’t want to have to resort to kidnapping.”

She made a sound of exasperation and looked away, staring out at the ocean, grateful for the breeze to cool her heated skin. “What would my wages be?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Three shillings per drawing.”

“Five.”

He didn’t even bother to quibble. “All right. Five.”

She bit her lip. She shouldn’t even be considering this. On the one hand, he was offering her the perfect opportunity to do what she wanted, namely, take control of her own future. On the other hand, she didn’t trust him an inch. Worse, she didn’t trust herself.

“What’s wrong, Beatrix?” he asked as she remained silent. “Are you afraid I’ll wear you down until you just can’t resist me anymore?”

Beatrix turned to face him, lifting her chin a notch. “Not at all,” she said with dignity.

“Good. Then you’ll do it?”

She couldn’t really tell in this light, but she just knew there was a challenging glint in his eyes, daring her. She felt as if she were standing up on Angel’s Head again, looking down at a thirty-foot drop—dizzy, excited, and scared. “Yes,” she said before she lost her nerve, knowing she was probably out of her mind. “Yes, I will.”

Chapter Thirteen

W
ill stared at her, not quite able to believe what he’d just heard. “You’ll do this? Seriously?”

“Yes. If I truly want to control my own destiny, I have to start somewhere. It would be silly to refuse a perfect opportunity.” She made a face. “Even if you’re the one providing it.”

He gave a laugh, confounded. When she’d walked into the drawing room and announced she wanted to become an illustrator, it was a heaven-sent opportunity, but he’d never expected her to agree. After all, he’d told her the absolute, unvarnished truth about his intentions, admitting it was all a ploy to win her over. The fact that she was agreeing to it gave Will a spark of hope he hadn’t felt for years.

“All right, then,” he said with another laugh, trying to think how to proceed. “We’ll . . . umm . . . we’ll start straightaway. It’s only fifteen miles to Sunderland by road, so tomorrow I’ll borrow Marlowe’s carriage for the day, my manservant and I will go down there, and I’ll select some artifacts to bring back. That way, we can begin working on the catalog together the day after.”

“It seems as if you’re going to a great deal of trouble, carting artifacts up here. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just wait until we return home? It’s only three weeks.”

“Exactly.” He darted a glance at the open door to the drawing room, discerned that no one was watching them, and before she could protest, he planted a quick kiss on her mouth. “I don’t want to give you any time to change your mind.”

B
y the time he returned from Sunderland the following evening, it was close to midnight, the house was dark, and everyone was in bed. He slept late the next morning and missed sitting down to breakfast with the others, but when he came downstairs, the warming dishes were still on the sideboard, and he helped himself to scrambled eggs, bacon, and kidneys, and inquired of Marlowe’s butler as to Beatrix’s whereabouts.

“Lady Beatrix,” the butler informed him, “is in the gazebo with Lady Danbury.”

“Thank you, Jackson. Would you tell my valet to fetch my dispatch case, quill, ink, and one of the crates we brought from Sunderland Park down to the gazebo? And have Cook make a Turkish coffee for me as usual and bring it to me there, if you please.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and started off to perform these errands, but Will stopped him again.

“And Jackson, also have Lady Beatrix’s maid bring her sketchbook and drawing pencils down there as well.”

“I believe Lady Beatrix has those items with her already, sir.”

“Excellent.” Will went outside and took the path partway down the cliff to the gazebo, where Beatrix was seated with her aunt.

She did indeed have her sketchbook, but she wasn’t using it. It was on the tea table along with a box of her drawing pencils, and she and Eugenia were at the rail of the gazebo, watching the beach below.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said as he mounted the steps. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

Both of them turned, but it was Eugenia who spoke first. “Ah, Sunderland. You must have returned last night after all.”

“We did, Aunt Gennie. We were delayed several hours by a broken carriage wheel, and by the time we arrived, it was very late.”

He turned to Beatrix and gestured to her sketchbook. “I see you’re ready to begin work.”

“Yes,” she said in some surprise. “If you are.”

“I am. I’m having Aman bring some of the artifacts here, if you don’t mind?” He turned to Eugenia. “Trix has very kindly agreed to do some drawings for me.”

She beamed at him. “Yes, of your Egyptian treasures, I understand. Most exciting.”

“Sir?”

He turned to see Aman approaching with a crate in his hands, balancing a silver desk set on top and carrying Will’s Moroccan leather dispatch case slung over his shoulder. Behind him, a kitchen maid in gray muslin dress, white apron, and cap carried his coffee on a salver.

“Good morning, Aman. Set everything on the table, and then you may go.” He turned to the maid as his valet came up the steps, and Beatrix moved her sketchbook and pencils to make way for the crate.

“How you can drink that foul beverage is beyond understanding, dear Sunderland,” Eugenia said, breaking into his thoughts. When he turned around, she leaned forward to peer doubtfully into his cup. “It looks like tar, not coffee.”

“It’s Turkish coffee, Auntie,” Beatrix explained. “Since Sunderland and I are spending the day working, perhaps you would prefer to go down to the beach and join the others?”

“Of course, of course,” Eugenia said, smiling happily at them both. “You two young things enjoy yourselves. But remember,” she added, wagging a finger at them, “I can see you from down below.”

Beatrix groaned, but Will couldn’t help laughing as Eugenia trundled off.

“See?” he told her when Eugenia was out of earshot. “I told you she wouldn’t mind if you did sketching for wages as long as it’s for me.”

“Only because she’s now convinced we’re a hairsbreadth from being engaged. Honestly,” she added in exasperation, “if I ever do manage to actually marry someone, I think Eugenia will be more radiant than the bride!”

“Not if you marry me. On our wedding day, you’ll be so radiantly happy, you’ll probably throw your arms around my neck and kiss me senseless the minute the vicar’s finished. It will shock everyone in Stafford St. Mary.”

“You have such a vivid imagination. Now,” she added, gesturing to the crate before he could pursue the topic any further, “why don’t you show me what you want me to draw?”

“Very businesslike of you, Trix.” He lifted the lid off the wooden crate, carefully rummaged through the straw and pulled out a plain, square wooden box. “I think we should start with something beautiful, don’t you?”

“That’s your idea of something beautiful?” she asked, eyeing the box with doubt as he placed it on the table.

“It is, actually.” When he lifted the lid to display the contents, he heard her sharp intake of breath at the sight of the band of gold, lapis, carnelian, and turquoise.

“What a lovely bracelet!” she exclaimed.

“It’s an amulet, actually, worn around the upper arm.” He pulled it from its velvet-lined case and held it out to her.

She reached out and took it gingerly, giving him a wry look. “Very wise of you to begin with the jewels,” she murmured.

“What better way to captivate a woman’s interest?”

As she studied it, he moved to stand behind her and leaned down. “That’s history you’re holding in your hands, you know.” He reached over her shoulder, running his finger over the tiny, inlaid jewels. “This belonged to a woman named Moabset who lived approximately five thousand years ago.”

“Do you know anything else about her?”

“Quite a bit, actually.” He breathed in the scent of gardenia, and he knew if he turned his head, his lips would brush the soft skin of her cheek, but he appreciated that they were in full view from the beach below, and he knew from memory that despite her dithery manner, Eugenia had eyes like a hawk.

He straightened and forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “Her tomb had been raided, and most of the contents were gone, but somehow the thieves missed this.”

“Left it behind by accident, possibly?” she guessed, turning to look up at him with a smile. “After all, if you’re carrying out booty by the armful, you could easily drop something like this.”

“Possibly. It was the only piece of jewelry in the tomb, but from an archaeologist’s point of view, it was a treasure trove. There was a great deal of pottery, some clay tablets, other things like that, which told us quite a bit about her. Pottery shards, wall paintings, and tablets always tell us far more than the gold and jewels ever could. We found her sarcophagus, too, by the way, and her mummified remains. It was very exciting.”

“Exciting?” She considered that for a moment, then she nodded. “Perhaps it would be exciting,” she conceded, carefully studying the amulet. “But it’s also a bit macabre, don’t you think? No wonder you liked reading Edgar Allan Poe as a boy.”

“Trix, every boy likes Poe.”

She wrinkled up her nose with distaste, making a face at him. “I can’t think why.”

“Trix, ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ is a ripping good story, and you know it.”

She gave a laugh. “I still remember the night you read that aloud. We’d all snuck out and gone down to Phoebe’s Cove. You, me, Paul, Julie, Phoebe, and Vivian. We had a bathe, and ate sandwiches, and made a fire in the pixy cave. And you read ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ to us.”

“ ‘I heard many things in hell,’ ” he quoted and gave a diabolical laugh. “ ‘How, then, am I mad?’ ”

“Oh, stop!” she cried, laughing with him even as she shivered. “I was never so scared in my life! Even Paul jumped out of his skin when you shouted out the part about ripping up the floorboards to find the beating heart at the end. He was more scared than any of us, I think.”

Will grinned. “He’ll never admit it.”

“Probably not.” She placed the amulet back in the jewel case and reached for her sketchbook and drawing pencil. “Is that why you find archaeology so fascinating? Because you like digging up tombs?”

“No, it’s because I love watching history unfold in front of me. An archaeological site is all the layers of a civilization accumulated one on top of another, and we uncover them from the bottom up. It’s important work because it’s uncovering people’s lives. That’s history.”

“I remember how you dug up that barrow when we were children. I know how it’s done. But—” She broke off and looked away, tapping her drawing pencil against the table for a moment. Then she stopped and looked at him again. “What about what’s here in England?” She gestured to their surroundings. “Our lands, our estates, have sustained our families for centuries. That’s history, too, isn’t it?”

He thought about that for a moment, trying to find a way to explain. “But that’s a history we already know because we’ve lived it ourselves.”

“What you’re really saying is that England bores you.”

He heard the suddenly flat tone of her voice, and he knew he wasn’t doing himself any favors by admitting the truth, but if they were ever going to find common ground, they had to start with honesty. “In a way, yes, it does.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no adventure in it, no sense of discovery. At an archaeological site, you’re unearthing an entire community, layer by layer, generation by generation.”

“We have generations, too, Will,” she said gently, gesturing behind her to the beach below where the children were playing. “And I think their future is more important than anyone else’s past. However fascinating Moabset’s life might have been and how exciting it might be to uncover it, I don’t think any of that is as exciting or as important as watching one’s own children grow up.”

“I don’t disagree with you about that, Beatrix. I never have.”

She frowned a little, looking down at her pencil. “What about giving your children a home? A secure future? Isn’t that important?”

“Of course.”

“Then why did you spend your entire inheritance on an excavation in Egypt?” She looked up with accusing eyes. “For what purpose?”

He stared at her, the implications sinking in. “You think I’ve been irresponsible.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

That hurt, like a wound in his chest. “You think if I’d put my inheritance into Sunderland that would have been better?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on at once, “Landed aristocracy is a dying breed, Trix. They need to earn or marry the money to keep their estates solvent. The examples are all around you. Marlowe, who went into publishing. Your cousin, who married an American heiress—”

“What?” She looked at him in shocked disbelief. “Paul didn’t marry Susanna for her money.”

“I’m not saying he did, but the fact is, to keep up Danbury he would have needed to obtain money from
somewhere
. These estates don’t pay for themselves anymore. If I had sunk my inheritance into Sunderland, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. The money might have taken a little longer to be gone, but it would still have been wasted.”

“I know land rents alone aren’t enough to maintain an estate. I understand that. But why couldn’t you have used your money to do something here at home?”

“Like what?” He shrugged. “I could have invested my inheritance in something else, stocks or industry, but those aren’t sure things, either, you know. I could peg away at an ordinary job in the City, but what’s a duke qualified to do?” He leaned forward, knowing he had to make her understand his point of view on this. “I know you feel that by putting my inheritance into archaeology, I made an unwise investment in my future, but I don’t agree. That’s why finding the tomb of Tutankhamen is so important to me. When I find Tut—”

“If you find him.”

“No,” he countered stubbornly, “
when
I find Tut, I’ll have a secured income for the rest of my life. Books, articles, lectures. And I’d easily be able to find sponsors for future excavations.”

“So you intend to be an archaeologist forever, then?”

Something in the question, in the way she asked it, with a tinge of both disappointment and resignation, made him feel defensive. “Why not? If I have to earn a living, why not earn it doing something I love?”