A Love That Never Tires (3 page)

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry. I was unaware there were other English guests here. I thought everyone was French.”

“I’ve been mistaken for worse,” Patrick said. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon.”

He turned and walked into the garden, leaving Linley staring after him. It seemed there was not only another English guest in the hotel, but a very good-looking English guest at that.

***

Patrick resisted the urge to turn around and get another look at her. But ogling young ladies was still considered rude, even if they were in a French colony, and he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary.

Instead, he sauntered out into the grassy garden, looking as cool and unaffected by his little run-in as any other gentleman would be. But as he passed the table where Miss Talbot-Martin’s breakfast companion sat, Patrick noticed the man scowling at him.

Was he as transparent as all that? Surely not.

Patrick nodded to the gentleman. The gentleman did not nod in return.

He hoped the daughter of the famous Bedford Talbot-Martin was not kept on too short a leash. He’d like an opportunity to meet her, but if she always had that guard dog of a friend patrolling her perimeter, Patrick might be hard pressed.

Luckily, obtaining introductions to pretty young ladies was perhaps the only time his illustrious title ever came in handy. The rest of the time, it was a damned burden. And escaping burdens was exactly the reason he was there.

No doubt people accused him of running. And maybe he was. But he needed to get away from Georgiana and Hereford and their newly wedded bliss, and now there was going to be a baby.

His little sister, whom he practically raised, would soon be a mother.

He was happy for her. Truly, he was. But Patrick couldn’t deny that he was also a little bit jealous. Not because he wanted to be a father, or even to be married, but because once Georgiana was gone, he realized for the first time just how alone he really was.

The home he tried so hard to make happy for her now seemed empty. He rattled through the rooms and haunted the grounds. He sat at the long, polished dining room table and stared at twenty-five empty chairs. At least in the old days, he had Georgiana to talk to. Now he had only the sound of rats scratching in the walls for company.

It was a miserable existence, but one he took seriously. His employees and his tenants needed him. They relied on him. He endured it all for their sakes, and for Georgiana’s sake, because it would crush her to think his unhappiness was somehow her fault.

But, surely, no one could blame him for a few months holiday. The house wouldn’t crumble down without his lonely sighs to fill the empty rooms, and the servants wouldn’t revolt in his absence. Nor would the river run dry, or the crops fail, or his tenants starve through the winter.

It would do Patrick good to get away. He’d been gone for two weeks, and already he found something that sparked excitement in him—Miss Talbot-Martin.

What kind of girl gave up a life of her own to follow her father to the most remote corners of the Earth? And what kind of girl wore riding breeches in public with as little concern as if she were waltzing in some London ballroom?

A free girl, that’s who.

Patrick wanted to talk to her. To experience even a little bit of that freedom for himself. All he needed was a taste of the life she lived, and he would go back home and live out his days as a respectable brother, uncle, neighbor, employer, and landowner.

No one would hear a peep out of him. He swore it.

***

Linley scrambled upstairs to her bedroom and poked her head between the curtains. The window overlooked the garden below. If she was careful, she could spy down onto the breakfasters without being noticed.

She saw Archie picking at the
croissant
she left unfinished on her plate, and as she scanned the other tables, she spotted her Englishman seated beneath the shade of a date palm. The tree hid most of him from view, but she could see enough to know he wasn’t thinking about breakfast.

The menu lay in front of him, untouched. Either he was a man who already knew what he wanted or he was a man too preoccupied to bother.

Linley hoped it was a little bit of both, because she liked her men to have a mind, but she also liked for them to have an appetite.

Or rather, she thought she would if she ever knew a man to have.

Archie, Reginald, and Schoville did not count. They were more like brothers than anything else. And Linley’s world was so small that she hardly ever came across a gentleman worth more than just a passing glance.

But this English fellow, he was something quite different.

She watched as he removed his straw hat and sat it on the table. Without it, his hair was the color of rich, brown coffee, but his skin was white as milk. He would not be able to withstand the heat of the Moroccan sun for long, even in mid-morning. Linley counted the seconds until he slipped the hat back on his head, and when he did, she smiled to herself.

“You see,” she whispered. “I already know you.”

Perhaps he was her man to have. And if not her man, then at least good practice for when the real one came along. At the very least, he could be a friend.

Linley wanted a friend—someone who did not think in terms of the Stone Age, and the Bronze Age, and the Iron Age. Or belong to the Royal Archaeological Institute. Or have even ever heard of the Royal Archaeological Institute.

But what did regular Englishmen think of?

She had no idea.

He could teach her! He could probably teach her things not even Archie or Reginald knew, and Reginald, being one of Lord Bredgebury’s sons, knew more about ‘real’ life than anyone she knew. It never crossed her mind that this Englishman might not know anything worth learning. He
must
know everything about the world—he looked so much a part of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Linley sat alone in the hotel garden. She toyed with the beading of her gown, humming along to the music flowing through the open windows above. Dinner ended hours ago. Her father had retired to his rooms, and the rest of the men escaped to the bar—part of the boys club that, no matter how hard Linley tried, she would never be a part of.

Shouts of laughter echoed from the balcony above as two gentlemen stepped out for a cigarette in the balmy night air. The wives of these men sat in the dining room or milled about the hotel lobby, perhaps exchanging decorating ideas for the villas they would have when the
ville nouvelle
was completed.

“Excuse me…” a voice said. “May I join you?”

Linley turned her attention to the speaker. It was the Englishman from before, only he wore black evening clothes instead of white flannels.

She blinked up at him for a moment, a little stunned, and then, recovering herself, motioned to the wicker chaise beside her.

Patrick sat down and handed her one of the two liquor glasses in his hands. “I thought you might like a drink,” he said. “It’s brandy and soda-water.”

“Thank you,” Linley replied, taking it from him.

Easing back into the chair and stretching out his legs, Patrick took a long swallow from his glass. “Isn’t it rather cruel of your friends to abandon you? Especially on such a beautiful night as this.”

“I don’t mind. They’re stuck with me for the rest of the year, so they may as well enjoy themselves while they can.” In one fluid movement, she angled toward him and held out her slender hand. “I’m Linley Talbot-Martin.”

Normally, Patrick would have introduced himself as Lord Kyre, but for some reason, at that exact moment, those two words brought a bad taste to his mouth. “Patrick Wolford,” he finally said, extending his hand.

“All right then, Mr. Wolford,” she said. “What brings you to Morocco?”

“A shipwreck, actually. I was on my way to South Africa when we were forced to put in here. I had figured I’d try my hand at the big game this year instead of following the country house circuit.”

Linley took a sip of her brandy. “Are you a sporting man?”

“I like to shoot as much as the next fellow.”

“Well, if you were planning to shoot in South Africa, then you were going about it all wrong,” she informed him. “It’s too crowded there. The best hunting has moved further north.”

“Do you know much about Africa?”

Linley choked back a laugh. “I know more about Africa than you. Obviously.”

Patrick laughed, too. “Then forgive me for not consulting you first, Miss Talbot-Martin.”

“I will, but only because you didn’t know me before.”

“And now?” he asked. “I suppose there can be no excuses after tonight.”

Linley’s face grew warm, although she wasn’t sure exactly why.
She pressed the side of her liquor glass to her face and neck, as if the condensation dripping down her fingers could cool her.

She was not usually awkward and inarticulate, but as Linley sat in the hotel garden surrounded by not only the scent of orange trees in blossom, but also the crisp aroma of this man’s starched shirt and hair tonic, she could not think of one clever thing to say.

She downed the rest of her brandy instead.

Watching her carefully, Patrick did the same. “
He who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.
”

“What?”

He smiled and waved her off. “Never mind.”

“Were you quoting someone?”

“I was.”

She cocked her head. “Whom?”

“Dr. Johnson.”

As she studied him in the moonlight, Linley realized she was staring into the eyes of a man with a brain behind them. He was certainly a man who quoted Dr. Johnson at random, which meant he must be well read, at the very least.

No one she knew read Dr. Johnson.

And no one she knew would’ve bothered to quote him if they did.

“Are you an admirer of his?” Linley asked.

“He was a very wise man,” Patrick said. He paused for a moment and stared into his liquor glass. “My father thought reading his letters would do me some good.”

“And did it?”

He grinned. “It taught me a great deal about my father.”

Linley couldn’t help but laugh. Perhaps it was just the brandy working its magic, but Mr. Wolford appeared so charming, so unaffected. It seemed he was not just a handsome, intelligent man, but also a very nice one.

“I hope you don’t think me too forward,” he said. “Approaching you like this.”

She smiled. “Oh, no. It saved me the trouble.”

“You were going to approach me?”

“I wanted to apologize for barreling into you earlier,” Linley said. “Catching me in the middle of a tantrum is hardly the first impression I hope for.”

Patrick laughed. “You needn’t worry. My impression was formed long before that.”

“How? You don’t know me.”

“I know a little. Which makes me want to know more.”

She frowned. “You think me a curiosity.”

“I am curious about you, Miss Talbot-Martin. I fully admit to that.”

“Then you’ll be disappointed,” she warned. “I’m not nearly as exciting as people make me out to be.”

He smiled over at her. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Oh, the exterior is fascinating, to be sure—Archaeologist’s daughter, world traveler,” Linley explained. “But beneath all that, I’m just a typical girl.”

“I think you’re rather complex. I’d be a fool not to know you further.”

Suddenly, Linley noticed that the garden had grown quieter over the course of their conversation. All the ladies had gone indoors and, except for the ruckus on the balcony above, most of the lights were out in the hotel. She wanted to sit with Patrick all night, but the brandy had gone to her head, and she knew she should get some rest.

“Then proceed at your own peril, Mr. Wolford,” she said. “I’m going into the
souk
tomorrow. You should join me.”

“The
souk?
Is that what I had to fight through to get here?”

She nodded.

“And you’re going out alone?”

“Only if you do not come with me.”

Patrick imagined the young woman being jostled about in the chaos, and of all the dangers that lay beyond the protective hotel gates. “After breakfast?” he asked.

“I’ll meet you here.” Linley stood up, handing him her empty liquor glass. “Thank you again for the drink.”

***

The next morning, Patrick flipped his gold watch open, noted the time, then shifted in his seat and returned the watch to his pocket. Almost ten o’clock. He debated whether to wait any longer or return to his room and count his losses when Linley stepped through the French doors and into the garden.

“You’re late,” he said, rising politely.

Her white linen suit shone crisp and bright in the morning sun as she crossed the lawn and held out her hand to him. “Or one could argue you are quite early.” She smiled as she said this, scattering the dark spatter of freckles across her face. They seemed more pronounced in the daylight, even under the shade of her enormous straw hat. “It all depends on one’s definition of breakfast.”

Patrick smiled, too, taking her small hand in his. “Yes, well, I suppose we should have chosen a more specific time.”

Linley nodded. “Shall we get on with it?”

“By all means,” he said. “Lead the way.”

They walked through the hotel gates and across the square. The cafés were already full of patrons drinking mint tea and coffee, the pleasant aromas infiltrating the open air, beckoning passersby to stop in for a cup. Patrick lingered for a moment, breathing in the fragrant mixture of spicy Arabic coffee and heady green tea.

Linley slowed her pace to allow him to catch up. There would be plenty of time for the cafés, but she was eager to reach the
souk
. She led him through an alleyway shaded by reed screens. High above, laundry lines crisscrossed the narrow opening of blue sky. They descended down a curved stone staircase, delving deeper into the city. At the bottom of the steps, a group of young Moroccan boys pressed their backs against the wall to let them pass, and then disappeared down the long corridor of brightly colored buildings.

“I cannot believe your father would allow you to venture here your own,” Patrick said, struggling to keep track of which way they came and in what direction they were headed.