Guilty Series (15 page)

“Of course.” She set aside her sketchbook and her pencil, then folded her legs beneath her, tucking her feet under her hips and out of his view, which was probably a good thing.

She placed the picnic basket between them and opened it. Anthony leaned back on his hands and watched as she laid out their meal of roast chicken, apples, cheese, bread and butter. “No wine?” he asked. “Miss Wade, a picnic should always have wine.”

“Not necessarily.” She pulled a bottle of cider and a glass out of the basket. She pushed up the metal clip of the bottle that held the stopper in place. “If our picnic were in Palestine,” she added, as she poured cider into the glass, “you would not have wine.”

“Nor cider.”

“True.” She held out the half-empty cider bottle to him.

He stared at the bottle in her hand, but he did not move to take it. “I wish we were in Palestine,” he said abruptly.

“Do you? Why?”

“I should like to see it, along with all the other places you have been. Egypt, Syria, Morocco.” Even saying the names stirred something inside him, a longing he had often felt but never acknowledged, and he surprised himself by confessing, “God, how I envy you.”

She stared at him, seeming just as surprised as he by his admission. “You envy me?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward and took the bottle from her hand. “You have ridden camels, you have lived in tents amid Roman ruins, and you have had the opportunity to be part of excavations throughout the Mediterranean crescent. What a romantic, adventurous life. Is it so hard to believe that I would envy you?”

“Well, yes,” she said with a half laugh, and gestured to the lush scenery all around them. “You are a duke. You have all that life can offer.”

“So it would seem.” He took a swallow of cider, then set the bottle on the short grass at the edge of the blanket. He leaned back again on his hands, staring up at the monument to idleness that stood behind her. “There is one thing you have that I lack, the one thing I long for more than anything else because it the one thing I can never have.”

“What is that?”

“Freedom.”

She shook her head, uncomprehending as she pulled the loaf of bread toward her and reached for a knife from the basket. “You have money and power. If one has those, one can do anything.”

“Perhaps it seems that way, but it is not true. I may have the means to do whatever I please, but I do not have the opportunity.”

“I do not understand.”

He met her gaze. “My father died when I was twelve, and I became the Duke of Tremore. My uncle served as my guardian and fulfilled my actual duties until I was sixteen, but from the day my father died, I established the power of my position. I made all the decisions, and it was I who told my uncle what was to be done, not the other way around.”

“At the age of twelve? But you were a boy.”

“I had known all my life that I would be the duke, and that someday I would be required to step into that position. Even at twelve I was old enough to appreciate power and what it means. I could, perhaps, have taken the easy road and done all manner of enjoyable things, such as travel, but I knew my estates were the core of my life, and I felt they deserved my full attention. I never took the Grand Tour. I have never been out of Britain in my life.” He gave her a slight smile. “So I am forced to be an armchair traveler. I will never see Rome or any of the many other fascinating places of the world.”

“But why do you not go now?” she asked as she
began to slice bread. “You could afford to go anywhere on earth if you wished to do so, and surely a few months away would not go amiss.”

“I can never seem to find the time. Being a duke is an enormous job, Miss Wade. The tasks and duties are demanding and endless.”

“And you say I am too severe and sensible!”

He conceded the point with a nod. “Perhaps I was speaking as much to myself as to you, for my excavation is the only indulgence I allow myself.”

She stopped slicing bread. “I see now why the excavation is so important to you,” she said softly. “It is your Grand Tour.”

“Yes.”

Daphne set the slices of bread aside and returned half a loaf to the basket. She then pulled out a wedge of cheese. “Tell me more about what it is like to be a duke,” she said as she began to pare off slices of Cheddar.

“It is not a romantic adventure,” he said. “It can feel like a prison. It can also feel like heaven. Most of the time, it is tedious and trivial and deadly dull. It has compensations, good ones—wealth, power, and prestige.”

“And influence. To think of all the good things one can do with money. If you could see the poverty I have seen—”

“I should hate it and be angered by it, for waste and futility always anger me, and there would be nothing I could do to truly alleviate it. If I gave all my money away, the world would still be just as full of poor people, sad to say.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose it would.”

“I do what I can. There are charities, and they are one of the greatest responsibilities I have. Politics, too, of course. And tenants. Then there is the constant scrutiny and the never-ending struggle for privacy.”

“When I was in the village today, I met Sir Edward's wife and daughters, and they were talking with Mrs. Bennington about you. They said you were a very private man.”

His insides tightened, for they had probably discussed him at length. His father's illness and death were always a favorite topic of gossip and speculation. “I have no doubt they told you quite a bit more than that, Miss Wade.”

“Not very much, and in what they did tell me, there was no spite or malice, if that is what you imply.”

Anthony gave a humorless laugh. “It was probably a short conversation, then.” He glanced at her and found that she had stopped slicing cheese. She was watching him with that solemn face, no different than usual, and yet, he could feel censure in her silence, censure and a hint of sadness. “I do not like gossip, Miss Wade,” he felt compelled to say. “I do not like my life, my family, and every move I make to be the subject of discussion. I take a great deal of trouble to give gossips little to talk about.”

“Yet you have accused me of being secretive and mysterious and giving nothing away. Perhaps, despite the difference in our rank and position, we are not so very different after all.”

She spoke as if she were surprised by her own words. “Yes,” he admitted, just as surprised as she. “I suppose we are.”

“As to gossip about you, you might be relieved to know that all of it was kindly meant. You were described as a very handsome man, as well as a good and kind landlord. The main criticisms leveled at you were given by Sir Edward's daughters and were limited to three. You are somewhat intimidating, you do not give enough parties for the local gentry, and you never attend the assemblies in Wychwood. They agreed that if you ever spoke with one of them during their strolls in your park or if you ever asked either of them to dance at an assembly, their reaction would be to faint dead away.”

“I am gratified that I make young ladies swoon. Another of a duke's many duties.”

“Do you not find their adoration to be a compliment?”

There was reproof behind that cool, soft voice, and he felt defensive again. “They do not even know me. My rank, my wealth, and perhaps my appearance allow them to build my life into some sort of fantasy, a fantasy in which they believe they should like to take part.”

Daphne bit her lip as if she were holding back a sharp reply. She looked away and said, “It might be a fantasy, but it is a harmless one.”

Anthony sensed that was not what she had wanted to say, and he would have given a great deal to hear the words she held back. He waited, but she said nothing more.

He stared into the distance, down into the brilliant autumn scenery of the land he owned. “You are right. I admit it freely. Their attentions are harmless, and a true compliment to me.” He looked over at the woman beside him. “I should do well to remember that.”

“Yes,” she replied, looking back at him. “You should.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Why is it that when I am with you, Miss Wade, I can never feel myself to be quite as arrogant a fellow as you have declared me to be? Quite the opposite, in fact, for with you I often feel the humbling effects of having been put in my place.”

“I had no idea that my comments should have such an impact upon you.”

“They do, for I am coming to have a high regard for your opinion. Please do not interpret my lack of enthusiasm for the attentions of Sir Edward's daughters to mean I am a callous man. But there are times when the duties of my position can be a great burden. As the daughters of a knight, the Miss Fitzhughs have no true comprehension how great a burden that position can be.”

“I understand what you mean,” she said, lowering her head to stare at the knife in her hand. “But one could also look upon such a life as a great comfort.”

“I do not take my position for granted, I assure you. I fully understand and appreciate how fortune of birth has given me all the physical comforts of life, as well as the ability to indulge in all manner of luxuries.”

“It is far more than that,” she replied, sudden passion in her voice. “You have a place in the world, your grace, and you know what it is. That is a very comforting thing.”

She did not move, but her sudden intensity startled him. In the past, he had taken her impassivity to mean she was not a person of deep feeling. Now, after a month of closer inspection, he was beginning to understand that the opposite was closer to the truth. Her fingers were curled around the knife in her hand so tightly that her knuckles were white. There was a great deal of passion there. It all lay beneath the surface.

“You have no idea how it feels to not quite belong anywhere,” she went on with an odd little catch in her voice. “To have no roots that tie you to a place and give you purpose. It is I who envy you.”

“It is understandable to feel rootless when you have had no home of your own.” He could see her hand start to shake, and he tipped her chin up, wanting to see her eyes, even if it was a view through her spectacles. “You shall find your place one day, Miss Wade. Everyone does, eventually.”

“I hope so, your grace.”

He ran the tips of his fingers across her lower lip. “Tell me,” he said before he could stop himself, “how does a woman who has lived most of her life in the desert manage to have skin as soft as velvet?”

Her mouth opened against his fingertips. “I—” She stopped, drew a deep breath, let it out in a puff of air against his fingers. “I worked under a tent, always.”

“Did you?” He traced the outline of her mouth. So, so soft.

“Yes, and wore a hat, and a veil, too, much of the time.”

Her sang-froid was admirable. Only a slight, momentary quiver in her jaw told him she was at all affected by what he was doing. All that passion just under the surface. What would happen if it were ever allowed to come out?

“Do you know,” he mused, running his fingertip along the line of her jaw, “almost no one calls me by my name? Your grace, or Tremore, but only Viola calls me Anthony. Even amongst my friends, and there are few I trust enough to call them friends, my rank is always an inevitable barrier. Even they do not call me by my name.”

He touched the tiny mole at the corner of her jaw, and her hand moved as if to push his hand away, but stilled in the air, hesitant.

What would it take, he wondered, for her to let down her guard? He had always prided himself on his own self-control, but she was a master at it. “If we were friends, Miss Wade, would you call me Anthony?”

She turned her face away. “I do not think that would be appropriate. I would…I would rather not.”

He moved closer. If he kissed her, the dam might break, something might snap, all that passion might come out. He cupped her cheek to turn her face toward him.

“Do you want us to be friends, your grace?” she asked.

“I do. Believe me, I do.” He could feel her desire and her apprehension in the rigid tendons of her neck beneath her ear, in the shallowness of her breathing. He bent his head.

“Do friends take such advantage as this?” she asked, her words more effective at stopping him than a slap across the face.

Anthony froze, his lips an inch from hers, his fingertips against her neck. He pulled back a bit and studied her profile in the dappled sunlight that filtered between the leaves of the chestnut tree. For the first time since he was a boy, he felt the agony of uncertainty.

He had no personal experience with virgins. He'd been sixteen when he had chosen his first mistress. In the thirteen years that had passed since then, he had provided himself with quite a few female companions. He also enjoyed the pleasures of London demireps on occasions when he went to Town. But of all the women he had intimately touched in his life, not one had been a virgin.

Desire had nothing to do with experience, and he felt Daphne's desire as much as his own, but she was in his employ, and at this moment, she seemed so very vulnerable, almost fragile. If he pushed, he could win a kiss, at least. But honor, which dictated everything in Anthony's life, dictated his decision now.

He sucked in a deep breath, summoning the iron will that had made his reason the master of his
emotions since he was a child, and let her go.

He told himself the entire incident was innocuous. There was no harm in simply touching a woman. No harm at all. Nonetheless, he moved a safer distance away from her, and they finished their meal in silence on opposite corners of the blanket.

D
aphne did not know quite what to expect from her first real dance lesson, but she had thought it would begin with dancing. She was proven wrong at once.

“You want me to what?” she asked, staring at Anthony in astonishment.

“Walk.” He took her arm and ushered her through the doorway to the long corridor outside his childhood room.

“Silly of me,” she murmured, “but I thought I was going to learn to dance.”

“You will, but first I want to study you as you walk.”

That was the last thing Daphne wanted, but when he clasped his hands behind him and started
down the long corridor, she fell in step beside him. “To dance well, Miss Wade,” he added, “you must walk well. Dancing, especially the sedate steps of a quadrille, is little more than walking to music.”

They had barely taken a dozen steps before Anthony came to a stop. Daphne paused beside him. “Why did you stop?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he turned toward her and pressed one palm against her diaphragm and the other against the base of her spine. She sucked in a deep, startled gasp at the contact, but he did not appear to notice, for he pressed his palms into her body with the pragmatic comment, “Remember to keep your back straight. Tonight you are not the antiquarian bending over a table of bronze tools or scanning the ground for pieces of clay pots. You are a young lady of fashion out for a leisurely stroll.”

He let his hands fall away, but the warmth of his touch lingered as he continued walking down the corridor, and she felt anything but the proper young lady. She resumed walking as well, but her heart was pounding in her chest as if she had been running.

She was not used to being touched, she told herself. That was all. He had touched her several times now, and the unbelievable pleasure of it always took her by surprise. Just the memory of the odd, melting sensation he could evoke when his fingertips grazed her cheek or he laid his palm against her back set her nerves on edge, for she did not want to feel that way. Not about him.

They strolled up and down the long length of the
room countless times, their conversation minimal but for an occasional word of correction from him. Chin up, shoulders back, slow down.

She did not look at him, and in her peripheral vision, he was a blur along the edge of her glasses, but she could feel him watching her. When it seemed as if they had traveled the length of the corridor a thousand times, he stopped her.

“Excellent, Miss Wade,” he said, as they returned to the room where they had begun. “You have a certain natural grace. No doubt you will dance well. But I advise you to wear stays. It will aid you in maintaining perfect posture. Besides, if you do not wear them, I fear you will shock your partner when he puts his hand on your waist for a waltz.”

He walked to the fireplace, reached for the musical box on the mantel, and began to wind the key. “Just do not fall into the silly habit some women have of lacing them too tightly, or you will faint on the ballroom floor.”

“Is it proper for you to be mentioning my undergarments?” she countered with as much dignity as she could command.

He paused in his task and met her gaze. “I believe I was mentioning your lack of one,” he said gravely, but one corner of his mouth lifted in a teasing half smile. She had seen that smile a few times, and she was actually coming to like it. She found herself smiling back.

He set the box back on the mantel, and the music began to play.

“The waltz is a very simple dance,” he said as he
returned to stand in front of her. He took her right hand in his left, and put his other hand on her waist. Daphne felt herself tensing at once.

“Relax, Miss Wade.”

“I am quite relaxed,” she lied.

“Are you? Your body tells me something different.” He loosened their clasped hands until their fingers were barely laced together, then he rocked their hands in a slow, circular motion. “Do not make yourself uneasy. I am not going to make any further attempts to ravish you. At least,” he amended, “not at this moment. Relax.”

Daphne wanted to do so, but the idea of being ravished by him now or at any other moment made her feel strange, as if she had taken a second glass of wine at dinner. She remembered their picnic that afternoon, and how he had almost kissed her. Now, she was acutely aware of his hand against her waist, and she had to fight the impulse to shy away. All of a sudden, the room felt too warm for dancing.

“When you waltz,” Anthony went on, not seeming to notice the blush in her cheeks, “the first thing to remember is proper distance. You stand about one foot from your partner, just as we are now. Put your hand on my shoulder.”

She did, her hand hesitating an inch away for a moment before coming to rest on the crisp wool of his dark green jacket. Against her palm, she could feel the hard muscles of his shoulder. The sight of him without his shirt flashed across her mind to torture her again. She knew every chiseled contour of his chest, for she had not only drawn each of
them in charcoal, but etched them on her mind. Heat pooled in her midsection, and she forced herself to focus on what he was saying.

“The second thing to remember about dancing is that I lead and you follow. Your body goes where mine tells it to go.”

“I think I would prefer it the other way round.”

“Would you?” he murmured. “An interesting notion, Miss Wade. Perhaps one day, I will let you.” He lifted her hand in his, the palm of his other hand warm against her side. “The waltz is a dance with very simple steps and a cadence of one-two-three. Like this.”

He started to move, pulling her with him, but she looked down at their feet, and he brought her to a halt at once. “The third thing to remember is to look at me, Miss Wade, not at the floor.”

“But what if I tread on your feet?”

“I am certain I shall survive it. Do not worry about making mistakes. After all, it is only me who is watching, and you do not care what I think.” He began moving again, and she moved with him as he counted in time with the pinging melody of the musical box. “One-two-three,” he said, leading her in a swirling pattern around the ballroom floor. “One-two-three.”

She felt quite clumsy, pulled around the room this way, but even with all the times she stumbled over his feet and brought them to a halt, he did not express a hint of impatience. He simply made her try again. And again.

“You are doing very well, truly,” he assured her
as he rewound the musical box for their third waltz. “I knew you would dance well.”

“You are a good teacher,” she confessed as he returned to where she stood in the center of the room. “I just wish I did not feel so horribly awkward.”

“That requires practice.” He lifted her hand in his again, and they began to move in the steps of the dance, with Anthony reminding her to look at him every time she began to lower her chin as they danced.

“I keep thinking the only way to prevent myself from treading on your feet is to look down,” she confessed. “But despite my efforts, I fear your feet will be black and blue before this evening is over.”

“Then you should be very appreciative of the sacrifice I am making on your behalf.”

She looked at him with mock sympathy. “Poor man. How you must be suffering. Although it could be worse, I daresay. I could be very stout.”

His hand tightened at her waist. “That would be a shame,” he murmured, his gaze meeting hers, “but you would still have those incredible eyes.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs and she nearly stumbled again. “You dance well yourself,” she said, veering the subject away from herself. She did not want him to pay her compliments, for she could not believe they were sincere. “Why do you dislike it?”

“In truth, it is not dancing itself I dislike. It is the consequences of it I abhor, so I have come to dislike it.”

“What do you mean? What consequences?”

“The same consequence that impels me to avoid young ladies who swoon. Being a wealthy duke who is also a bachelor makes me the object of intense scrutiny at a ball. Every move I make is observed, dissected, and published in the society papers for all to read. If I engage a lady for a dance, the matrons begin circulating rumors about us all around the ballroom before the dance is over. If I enjoy her company enough to dance with her a second time, I am madly in love, and by the third dance, the wedding is a foregone conclusion.”

“That would be maddening.”

“It is worse for the poor young lady in question, for the gossip is never favorable toward her. No matter her beauty, sweetness of temper, and suitability, no woman with whom I am linked can compare with the daughter of whichever matron is doing the talking.”

She laughed. “I suppose that is inevitable.”

“Yes, which is why I rarely dance.”

“Well, since no one is here to observe and gossip, you should be able to enjoy yourself tonight.”

“I am.” He intertwined their fingers more tightly. “I am enjoying myself very much indeed.”

Before Daphne could think of a reply, the music began to slow, grinding down until it stopped, and Anthony brought her to a halt as well. His right hand slid away from her waist, but he retained her other hand in his grasp. “Not a single misstep,” he pointed out.

“You are right,” she said in some surprise. “I forgot to worry about making a mistake.”

“Exactly so.” He gestured to the side of the room. “After a dance is over, I escort you back to your place.” He suited the action to the word, leading her to one side of the room as if they were truly at a ball. He let her go, took a step back from her and bowed. She suspected an answering bow was required of her, and she crossed one ankle behind the other and dipped a short curtsy.

“No, no, Miss Wade,” he said, smiling. “You must give a deeper bow than that to me. I am a duke, after all. A knee almost to the floor is expected.”

She dropped down again in a deeper curtsy. “You are just loving this, aren't you?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, as she straightened again. He looked at her mouth and his smile vanished. “After all, you did chastise me quite severely today for taking advantage of our friendship, and I must take my revenge where I can.”

She had not felt severe at all. Her words that afternoon had been a desperate, last-ditch defense, for she had actually thought he intended to kiss her. Worse, she had hoped he would. “I did no such thing.”

“I do not want another quarrel with you, so I will not start one. Although I feel compelled to point out that a young lady should never, ever contradict a duke.”

“There are ever so many rules, are there not?” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice. “I have read all your etiquette books, and I still feel quite intimidated. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes.” He took a step closer to her. “As I told
you before, a young lady of fashion would never wear her spectacles to a ball.” He reached out, and ignoring her sound of protest, he removed the pair of eyeglasses from her face. “Try to wear these as little as possible. Accustom yourself to going without them if you can.”

“I read that a young lady is expected to acknowledge her acquaintances. How am I to do that if I cannot see them?”

She reached for the pair of eyeglasses, but he stretched his arm out and back, keeping them out of her reach. She stood up on the tips of her toes, but even then, it did no good, for he was so much taller than she. Daphne knew she could not risk jumping up to grab the pair, for they might get broken. She lowered her heels back to the floor, put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Are we going to have another argument about this?”

“No.” Anthony folded the pair of spectacles and put them in the pocket of his jacket. “Because I am not giving them back until our lesson is over. This time, I want you to dance without wearing them.”

“But I can't see anything.”

He pulled her close. “Can you see me?”

She looked into his eyes, eyes with all the deep, rich colors of English moss—green and brown and gold. “Yes, but—”

“Good, for your partner is the one you should be looking at.” He stepped back, once again trying to lead her to the center of the room, but she pulled her hand out of his grasp and did not move.

She hated not having her eyeglasses on. Outside of about a fifteen-foot radius, everything was blurry, and that always left her feeling very vulnerable. She bit her lip and glanced at his pocket, wondering.

Anthony read her intent at once and shook his head. “I advise you not to try.”

She did it anyway, reaching for the pocket at his hip, but before she could get her fingers underneath the flap, his hand closed over her wrist. “I warned you,” he said as he pushed her hand outward, away from his pocket, “and you ignored my warning. You should never ignore a duke. We hate that.”

Daphne's heart began to thud in her chest. He let her go, but he did not move away. She knew she should step back, move away, leave the room. She stayed where she was, almost as if she were under some sort of spell. What would it be like if he kissed her?

It was not until he moved to close the remaining distance between them that she slid one foot backward, then another, then another. He followed, still keeping less than a few scant inches of distance between them. It was not until her back hit the wall behind her and Anthony brought his arms up on either side of her that she came to her senses. With a glance from side to side, she realized that he had very neatly trapped her.

“Go,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He flattened his palms against the wall. “Run, Miss Wade. If you can.”

Daphne looked up into his face, and in the hazel depths of his eyes, she saw something relentless and challenging, but though she felt her insides quivering, it was not with fear.

“You could get your spectacles back quite easily if you wanted to, you know.”