Jacquie D'Alessandro (24 page)

She kept imagining stripping off his clothes, then running her hands over his warm flesh, exploring every muscle and plane. Then Philip returning the favor, slipping her gown from her body, his mouth and hands touching her everywhere, then making love to her with slow, languorous, exquisite care.

The images had danced in her head all night, invading her dreams when she’d managed to doze off. She’d lain in her bed, alone, heart pounding, her body tense with longing and frustration, the flesh between her thighs aching and moist. In the past, whenever such yearnings had gripped her—to experience the passion of a man’s kiss, the feel of his hands on her skin, the sensation of him inside her body—her fantasy lover had been merely a nameless, faceless figment of her imagination. And therefore dismissable.

Philip was no figment of her imagination.

He was a flesh-and-blood man who appealed to her on every level. She liked him. Liked his easy smile and teasing demeanor. The intelligence so evident in his warm brown eyes. His passion for his antiquarian studies. Admired the part of him that had rescued a helpless puppy, and the kindness with which he’d treated Hope. His acceptance and thoughtful understanding of Albert’s affliction. It had not escaped her notice that Philip had assigned Albert tasks that accommodated his disability. Botheration, she even found his stubbornness and flouting of propriety—which was, thank goodness, growing less frequent—no longer overly off-putting. In the short time she’d known him, he’d engaged her sense of humor, her curiosity, her mind, and God help her, her body. If she were looking for a man for herself, she would certainly not need to look any further…

Reality came back with a jarring thump. She was
not
looking for a man for herself. And even if she were, Philip, engaging though he was, was an impossible choice. Why could she not seem to remember that? Thank goodness, after their talk the night of the soiree, he clearly realized that
she
was not that woman, as proved by this evening’s dinner party. He’d abandoned his pursuit of her, gone over the list of young ladies, and found six that interested him. Excellent.

A sensation that felt uncomfortably like a cramp gripped her stomach. Excellent? She was nothing but a bald-faced liar. She wasn’t glad at all. She was miserable and jealous and wanted to hiss at any woman who touched him. The thought of him making love to one of those perfect, young, nubile, blond beauties made her want to scream.

A wave of resentment washed over her, drowning her in its wake. Resentment that she could not allow herself to hope for a relationship with a man like Philip. That she
could not tell him the truth as to why. Resentment that decisions that had been made years ago, that she’d had no hand in making, still ruled her life and would until she drew her last breath. Resentment that she could never be more to him than a mistress. While such an arrangement would satisfy her physically, it would destroy her emotionally, forcing her to give up the respectability she’d fought so hard for, not to mention the pain she’d suffer when their affair ended, as it inevitably would. She knew all too well how such arrangements worked. And the fate that faced a discarded mistress. She couldn’t allow that to happen to her. Not after she’d run so far to avoid it. Never again.

Surely after tonight’s dinner party Philip would make his choice for a bride. As soon as the curse problem was solved, as it certainly would soon be—she refused to believe otherwise—the wedding could take place. All that could happen within a matter of days. Only a matter of days, and then she’d never have to see Philip again. And that was very good. Her heart tried to refute that statement, but her mind flattened her heart’s attempt like an insect. And as for tonight’s dinner party, she’d simply concentrate on her role as matchmaker by ensuring that the conversation remained lively, but she’d otherwise remain in the background.

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened her spine, grateful that she’d managed to realign things into their proper perspective. Especially since they’d almost arrived at the warehouse. “I appreciate you escorting me to the warehouse and helping search through the crates, Albert.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Miss Merrie. ’Specially since it seems like somethin’ evil’s afoot, wot with the robbery and all. Lord Greybourne asked that I be extra careful watchin’ over ye.”

They arrived at the warehouse minutes later. Meredith walked into the vast building, marching through the dust
motes dancing in the warm air, fully intent upon concentrating on the search and ignoring Philip. Her good intentions took a serious jolt when she turned the final corner and found herself staring directly at him.

It appeared he’d been at work for some time, for a film of dust covered his mussed, sun-streaked brown hair, and his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He’d discarded his jacket and cravat, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He looked nothing short of delicious. Dear God, this was going to be an excruciatingly long day.

Over the course of the morning, Meredith immersed herself in cataloging the artifacts, her tension at being in such proximity to Philip tempered by her wonder and delight at the pieces of the past she held in her hands.

About an hour into their work, a gentleman arrived who was introduced to her and Albert as Mr. Edward Binsmore. Meredith recognized the name as that of the gentleman whose wife had died, allegedly as a result of the curse. He appeared tired and drawn, his dark eyes bleak pools of misery, and his palpable sadness kindled her sympathy. Clearly his wife’s death had affected him deeply.

After the introductions, Mr. Binsmore looked around, then frowned. “I thought Andrew would be here.”

“He’s conducting some inquiries to discover who is responsible for the robbery,” Philip said.

“Oh? Has he made any progress?”

“He only started this morning. I’ll let you know if he discovers anything.”

“Good. Speaking of discovering things…I finished cataloging the remaining crates at the museum before coming here.” Mr. Binsmore shook his head. “There was no sign of the missing piece of stone.”

Philip’s jaw tightened. “There’s still hope it may be amongst the remaining crates here. And if not, there’s still
the items on the
Sea Raven,
which is due to dock soon.” He dragged his hand down his face. He looked so worried, Meredith had to fight the urge to go to him, to touch the crinkle between his brows, to enfold him in a commiserating hug.

Work resumed, with Meredith and Albert working on one crate, Philip and Mr. Binsmore on yet another. She could easily identify many of the pieces, as a large percentage of them were recognizable items such as vases, bowls, and goblets. Although it slowed down the process, she couldn’t help but cradle each precious piece in her hands for several seconds, closing her eyes, trying to imagine to whom it had belonged, and what that person’s life in an ancient civilization, in a distant land, had been like.

She froze as her senses suddenly recognized his presence directly behind her.

“I do the same thing,” Philip said softly, walking around so that he faced her. He offered her a lopsided smile that she found far too endearing. “I touch these things and my mind wanders as I try to envision who owned them and what their lives were like.”

Heart thumping, she returned his smile. “I’d just decided the spoon and ladle had belonged to an Egyptian princess who spent her days dressed in fine silks while her every whim was pampered to.”

“Interesting…and intriguing. A silk-clad princess whose every whim is pampered to. Tell me, does that reflect your own desires?”

Heat sluiced through her at the mere mention of desires, especially when the object of hers was looking at her with compelling, dark brown eyes. “I think a small part of every woman secretly dreams of that. Indeed, I’m certain most men also dream of having their every whim pampered to, also.”

He offered her a broad wink. “Especially by a silk-clad princess.”

A genuine laugh escaped her. Then, noticing that Mr. Binsmore was regarding them with a curious expression, she sobered and pointed to an item resting on the corner of the sheet. “I set that aside,” she said, “because I was not certain what it was.”

Crouching down, he picked up a metal instrument shaped very much like a question mark. “This is a strigil. It was used by ancient Greeks and Romans for scraping moisture off their skin after bathing.”

Their eyes met, and something seemed to pass between them. A secret, silent, private message that made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room. She instantly recalled her vivid fantasy of yesterday, of removing his dusty clothing and bathing him, her soap-slick hands gliding over his naked, aroused body. Heat crept up her neck, made all the worse because she knew he saw the flush staining her cheeks.

“The Romans were famous for their warm-water baths, and frequent bathing in the healing waters was an important part of their culture. Therefore, the strigil was a very common bathing utensil. When a person was done bathing, she would run the strigil over her skin like this.” He gently pulled her arm until it was outstretched, rested the curved part of the strigil against her gown, just above her elbow, then slowly scraped the instrument toward her wrist.

“Of course,” he said softly, “you wouldn’t be wearing any clothing, having just come from the bath.” Still holding her hand, he continued, “The strigil was also used to remove oil from the skin. Oil was massaged onto women’s bodies; then, after an hour or so, the strigil removed the excess oil, leaving behind soft, fragrant skin.” As he said
soft, fragrant skin,
his thumb gently caressed the back of her hand.

Looking into his eyes, a myriad of images rolled through her mind. Of him, and her, in ancient Roman
times, naked in the bath. Of him massaging oil over her body. Touching. Kissing. Philip laying her down on the warm tiles…

“Are you imagining them using the strigil?” he murmured in a low voice clearly meant only for her ears. “Picturing them in the bath? Rubbing oil on each other?”

She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Them?” Good heavens, had that throaty sound come from her?

“The people in your imagination. Ancient Romans…or perhaps not?”

There was no mistaking the speculation in his eyes, and she quickly pulled her hand from his and averted her gaze lest he read her true thoughts.

Adopting her most brisk tone, she said, “Thank you for the edifying lesson, Lord Greybourne. I shall check the strigil off on the ledger.” With that, she pointedly applied her attention to the ledger with the zeal a master chef would bestow upon a prized recipe. Risking a quick peek at him from beneath her lashes, she watched him lean down to replace the strigil on the sheet, then walk over to discuss something with Mr. Binsmore.

She breathed out a sigh of relief. Good. He now stood way over there. She could forget all about him and concentrate on her work.

Except she could still hear the low-pitched timbre of his deep voice as he spoke to Mr. Binsmore. Could still feel the warm imprint of his hand where it had held hers. Still feel the lingering tingle where his thumb had caressed her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for this morning and afternoon to end. A humorless sound lodged in her throat. Morning and afternoon to end? Why, yes. So then she could look forward to spending the entire
evening
in his company as well.

By God, she’d been right. This was going to be a
very
long day.

Late that afternoon, Philip called a halt to the work. Everyone was dusty, and tired, and sadly their efforts had not yielded any sign of the missing piece of the Stone of Tears. Forcing aside his discouragement, he wiped his hands on a rag, then approached Goddard.

“A moment of your time?” he said, inclining his head toward the office.

Surprise flashed in Goddard’s eyes, but he nodded. Once the two men entered the office, Philip closed the door. He watched Goddard limp to the center of the room, then turn to face him with a questioning expression. “Well?” the young man asked.

“I’ve learned something I think you might find interesting.”

Goddard’s eyes turned wary, and Philip wondered what secrets he was hiding. “Why do ye think
I’d
find it interestin’?”

“Because it concerns a chimney sweep named Taggert.”

What appeared to be relief flashed in Goddard’s eyes. Interesting. But the emotion was almost instantly replaced with bitterness, followed by a flicker of fear.

“Taggert?” Goddard’s voice resembled a growl. “Only thing of interest I’d want to know about him is that the bastard is dead.”

“He is. Died last year, in debtor’s prison, where he’d spent the final two years of his life.”

All the color seemed to drain from Goddard’s face. “How do ye know this?”

“I asked some questions of the right people.”

“The right people? Only way you and Taggert would have any people in common would have been if he’d stolen from yer fancy friends.”

“It wasn’t my fancy friends I questioned. I found several acquaintances of Taggert’s at a pub near the docks.”

Goddard’s eyes narrowed. “Why were ye askin’ about Taggert?”

“Because I thought you’d want to know. Because if I were you, I’d have wanted, needed to know. I wouldn’t want him always in the back of my mind, wondering if he might someday find me. Or if I might see him on the street. And be tempted to wrap my hands around his neck and kill him on the spot. I didn’t want him to have that power over you. He’s dead, Goddard. He can’t hurt you or any other child ever again.”

Confusion flickered across his face. “How did you know—?”

“Because it’s exactly how I would have felt.”

Goddard’s hands clenched at his sides, and his throat worked. A sheen of moisture glittered in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. “I wanted to know,” he whispered. “But I was terrified to try to find out. Terrified that it might somehow get back to him that someone were askin’ about him, and he’d put it together. Might do somethin’ to hurt Miss Merrie. Or Charlotte or Hope. He were an evil, heartless bastard, and I couldn’t risk that he might touch our lives in any way. But it ate at me, always there in the back of my mind. Was he waitin’ ’round the next corner? Would he recognize me? I wondered…God help me, I wondered.”