Guilty Series

And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

William Shakespeare

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Hampshire, 1830

N
o one who glanced at Daphne Wade would ever imagine that she had a guilty, secret pleasure. Her countenance was plain, made more so by the spectacles perched on her nose. Her hair was light brown and fashioned into a functional bun at the nape of her neck. All her dresses were varying shades of beige, brown, or gray. Her height was average, and her figure was usually concealed beneath a loose-fitting work apron of heavy canvas. Her voice was low and pleasant to the ear, with nothing strident in its tone to evoke anyone's attention.

No one judging her by her appearance would dream that Miss Daphne Wade had the rather sala
cious habit of staring at her employer's naked chest whenever she had the chance, although most women would have agreed that Anthony Courtland, Duke of Tremore, had a chest worth looking at.

Daphne rested her elbows on the sill of the open window and lifted the brass spyglass. Using the instrument was awkward when she was wearing her spectacles, so she pulled them off. After setting the gold-rimmed pair on the windowsill, she once again raised the spyglass to her eye. Through its lens, she scanned the archaeological site in the distance, searching for Anthony amid the workmen.

She always thought of him by his Christian name. In speech, she called him “your grace,” just as everyone else did, but in her mind and her heart, he was always Anthony.

He was talking with Mr. Bennington, the excavation architect, and Sir Edward Fitzhugh, the duke's closest neighbor and quite the amateur antiquarian himself. The three men stood in a huge pit of excavated ground amid the crumbling stone walls, broken columns, and other remnants of what had once been a Roman villa. At the moment, they appeared to be discussing the mosaic pavements beneath their feet that had been uncovered by the workmen that morning.

The moment she froze the spyglass on Anthony's tall form, she felt that familiar twist of her heart, that addictive mix of pleasure and discomfort. It was a combination that in his presence always tied her tongue and compelled her to withdraw into her
self until she seemed part of the furniture, but when she watched him like this, she always longed to be the subject of his full attention. Love, she thought, should be a pleasant thing, warm and tender, not something that hurt one's heart by its intensity.

Daphne felt that intensity now as she watched him. When in residence at Tremore Hall, he was wont to spend two or three hours each day working alongside Mr. Bennington and the men on the excavation. Sometimes, if she was not on the dig and he found the August afternoon exceptionally warm, Anthony was compelled to remove his shirt. Today was a very warm day.

To Daphne, he almost seemed a part of the Roman excavation around him, for Anthony was one of those rare men who looked like a living statue. With his uncommon height of over six feet, with his broad shoulders and sculpted muscles, he could have been a Roman god carved of marble, were it not for his dark brown hair and tanned skin.

She watched him as the three men continued their discussion of the floor, and she felt that odd, melting sensation that came over her every time she saw him this way, a sensation that somehow made breathing difficult and made her heart race as if she had been running.

Sir Edward bent to move a heavy stone urn that was blocking a portion of the mosaic from their view, but Anthony stopped him and lifted the urn himself. Daphne was delighted by this gallantry, which only served to reinforce her high opinion of
him. A duke he might be, but he wasn't so over-proud that he would stand by and let a much older man like Sir Edward injure himself.

Anthony carried the urn to the cart nearby, placing it beside a crate filled with broken pieces of wine amphorae, bronze statues, fresco fragments, and other discoveries. At the end of the day, the pieces would be taken to the antika, a building nearby where artifacts were stored, until Daphne could repair, sketch and catalog them for Anthony's collection.

The sound of footsteps coming down the corridor toward the library brought Daphne out of her clandestine observations. She pushed the ends of the spyglass together, collapsing it. As she moved away from the window, she shoved the spyglass into the pocket of her skirt. By the time Ella, one of a dozen maids in the duke's employ at Tremore, entered the library, Daphne was seated at her desk with a text on Romano-British pottery open before her, pretending to be hard at work.

“Thought you'd like some tea, Miss Wade,” Ella said, setting the teacup and its saucer on the edge of Daphne's large rosewood desk, beside the stacks of books on Roman antiquities and Latin.

“Thank you, Ella,” she answered, trying to sound absorbed in her book as she turned a page.

The maid turned to leave, saying over her shoulder, “Didn't think you could see a thing, miss, without them spectacles. Seems t'me they don't do you much good sitting over on the windowsill.”

The maid disappeared into the hall and Daphne
lowered her flushed face into the open book before her.
Caught again
.

Still, could anyone blame a plain, quiet, self-contained young woman who spent most of her time buried in ancient artifacts and Latin lexicons for being in love with her employer when he was so utterly splendid?

Daphne straightened in her chair with a sigh and rested one elbow on the desk. Chin in her hand, she stared into space, dreaming of things her rational mind knew could never happen.

He was a duke, Daphne reminded herself, and she worked for him. She had been employed by him for nearly five months now, and he paid her the quite generous salary of forty-eight pounds per annum to repair frescoes and mosaics, to restore antiquities, and create a catalog of the collection for a museum he was building in London. It was a demanding position with a demanding employer, but she was happy. She did every task he required of her not only because that was her job, but also because she was in love with him, and loving him was Daphne's guilty, secret pleasure.

 

Anthony leaned back in the copper bathtub with a contented sigh. God, he was tired, but the work had been worth it. That bedchamber floor he and the men had unearthed earlier in the day had some extraordinary pavements.

They had also found an entire wall of fresco pieces, damaged and crumbling, but also quite erotic. He must remember to tell Marguerite about
them, especially the one depicting the master of the house as if he were the god Priapus, with his penis on one side of a scale and bars of gold on the other. No need to tell Marguerite which side was shown to be heavier. Mistresses always understood that sort of joke.

“Your grace?”

He opened his eyes to find Richardson standing beside the bathtub holding the jar of soap and a fresh pitcher of steaming water. Anthony leaned forward in the tub and allowed his valet to wash his hair, savoring the tangy scent of lemon soap and the pleasure of being rid of a day's worth of dirt and limestone dust.

Once Richardson had finished, Anthony rose and stepped out of the bathtub. He accepted a warm towel from his valet and began to dry his body as Richardson left the dressing room.

Thinking of Marguerite made Anthony realize it had been months since he had last seen the dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty. She had been his mistress for over a year now, but he had scarcely had half a dozen opportunities to visit her. The excavation here at Tremore had been dominating his attention of late and had kept him away from the cottage he provided for her just outside London.

Anthony tossed aside the towel and combed his hands through his still-damp hair as he walked into the bedchamber, where Richardson was waiting for him with fresh linen and a dressing gown of black and gold jacquard silk. He raised his arms and his valet slipped a cambric shirt over his head
as the door opened and a footman entered the bedchamber.

“Lady Hammond is here, your grace,” the servant said with a bow.

“Viola?” Anthony was not expecting his sister, and he glanced over his shoulder at the footman in surprise as his valet began to button his shirt. “When did she arrive?”

“A quarter of an hour ago, sir.”

Anthony muttered an oath, thinking that if Hammond had shamed Viola with another scandal, this time he'd have the fellow's head. “Tell the viscountess I shall be with her in a moment, and have Madeira and port sent up.”

“Very good, sir. Lady Hammond said she would await you in her sitting room.” The servant departed, and Anthony thrust his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown. A few minutes later, he left his own room and headed down the long corridor to his sister's suite at the opposite end, where a footman waited there to open the door to him. He entered his sister's sitting room, stepping into a baroque fantasy of pink velvet, white brocade, and gold leaf that suited Viola's golden blond beauty and lavishly feminine temperament down to the ground.

Anthony's worry that her visit brought bad news was dispelled the moment he caught sight of her, for she immediately began to laugh. The sound made him pause, and a half smile curved his mouth. He was glad to hear her laughing. It was better than listening to her cry over her disgrace of a husband. “What is so amusing?”

“You,” she said, rising from her settee to come toward him. “You look like some decadent Turkish potentate in that dressing gown, with such a frown on your face that I imagined you about to order someone's tongue cut out.”

“No one's tongue,” he answered, taking his sister's outstretched hands into his own. “Hammond's head did come to mind.”

Viola gave him an affectionate kiss on each cheek and turned away. It did not escape Anthony's notice that she would not meet his eyes. “You do not need to do anything so drastic, dear brother,” she told him, returning to her seat on the settee.

“You mean he is finally behaving himself?” Anthony moved to sit on the striped pink and white brocade chair opposite her.

Before she could answer, a maid entered the room, carrying a tray that held port, Madeira, and two glasses. She placed the tray on the table beside Viola and departed.

“You want port, of course,” Viola said, and began to pour the wine.

“He is behaving himself, is he not?” Anthony leaned forward, accepting the glass of port from his sister's hand. “Look at me, Viola, and tell me the truth.”

Viola met his gaze. “The truth is that I wouldn't know. Hammond does not keep me informed of his activities, but I did learn yesterday that his most recent interest seems to be sea bathing.”

Anthony could tell from her voice that nothing
had changed. “Hammond is at Brighton?”

“His arrival, of course, compelled me to depart from there at once.”

Anthony frowned. “You cannot be forever avoiding him, Viola. For good or ill, he is your husband, and you have scarce spent two weeks in his company this past year. The gossip is rampant. Even here in Hampshire, I have heard rumors—”

“Speaking of rumors,” she cut in, “I have been hearing quite a bit of gossip about you of late.” She raised her glass and gave him an inquiring glance. “Can it be that I am soon to have a sister?”

Her words irked Anthony, not because she was asking such a question, but because he did not enjoy being the subject of gossip and speculation.

“Ah,” he said, and took a sip of port. “Word of my recent trip to London reached the seaside pavilions at Brighton, I take it?”

“Did you expect it would not?” she countered, smiling. “The oh-so-eligible Duke of Tremore, a man who never dances at balls, who would not be caught dead at Almack's, who avoids young ladies of impeccable background as if they all have the plague, suddenly takes the ducal emeralds to London to be cleaned. Most of our friends are in agreement that this bodes well for a duchess. Are you finally going to marry? Please tell me yes. Nothing would delight me more than knowing you have found someone to make you happy.”

He studied his sister over the rim of his glass for a moment without speaking. How could any
woman with a husband like Hammond retain any optimism about happiness in marriage? “I am going to wed, yes,” he confirmed.

Viola gave a cry of delight. “How wonderful! I have been going over names in my mind all the way up from Brighton, but I cannot imagine who could have captured your heart when you have been buried here since March. Who is she?”

“Can you not guess? One choice stands high above the rest. Monforth's eldest daughter, Sarah.”

“Ugh!” Viola fell back against the velvet pillows of the settee with a groan. “You cannot be serious.”

“Monforth is a marquess with impeccable connections. Lady Sarah would make an excellent duchess. She is well bred and has a substantial fortune. She is also healthy, gracious, and quite beautiful.”

“And she is as intelligent as a fence post.”

He conceded that with a shrug and reached for his glass. “I don't intend to have intellectual discussions with her,” he said as he took a sip of port, “so what does that matter?”

“Oh, Anthony!” Viola rose and circled the table to sit on the arm of his chair. “Lady Sarah cares nothing for you.”

“And your point?”

“She seems as sweet as honey, but it is a facade,” Viola went on, contempt in her voice. “The only things she really cares about are money and position. You have both, and she would sell her soul to have you.”

“Yes,” he agreed dispassionately, “she would.”

“Then why?” Viola cried. “Why, when you are
in a position to choose from among hundreds of young ladies, would you pick someone as shallow and calculating as Lady Sarah Monforth? She could never make you happy.”

“God, Viola, I am not getting married expecting to be made happy by it. It is the sensible course. I would prefer not to marry at all, but I must secure an heir, and I cannot afford to postpone the inevitable any longer. I am choosing the young lady who is most suited to the role of duchess, a young lady who will make no demands upon me beyond my support.”