Seduction - Guilty Pleasures Part 6

Bennington would introduce you to the townspeople."

"How exciting for me. And I suppose in the coming months, you would parade suitable young gentlemen of your acquaintance before me so that I might find a marriage partner?"

He didn't blink an eye. "If you like."

"Oh!" she cried, goaded beyond endurance. "You are the most selfish man I have ever known! If you think I would accept such a ridiculous proposition-"

"I will pay you five hundred pounds."

Daphne blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Stay until my excavations are finished, and I will pay you a bonus of five hundred

pounds."

Daphne sucked in a deep breath. "You are joking. That is an enormous sum."

"It is also a dowry. Many peers are stone broke. Your grandfather, even if he should acknowledge you, may not be in the position to provide you with a dowry, so I have done so. Now, I have offered everything you claim you want. Will you reconsider my offer of a compromise and stay?"

Daphne looked down, staring down at the tops of Anthony's polished black boots. Five hundred pounds was an amount she had never seen in her life before.

What if, despite Viola's influence, her mother's family refused to acknowledge her? What if, G.o.d forbid, her parents had not been married and she was illegitimate? She did not know Viola well enough to rely on her should either of those possibilities come to pa.s.s. What if she once again found herself with nothing and no one?

She thought of that dingy little hotel room in Tangier where she had stayed for eight weeks after her father's death. Papa had left almost no money when he died. She had sold his books and equipment to support herself as long as she could. When she was down to only enough dirham for another week and the letter had come from her grandfather's attorney with an answer that gave her no hope, Daphne had never been more frightened in her life. The only belongings she had left were a small trunk of her clothes and two pa.s.sage billets to England paid by the Duke of Tremore.

It had never occurred to her before those months alone in Tangier just what a frightening place the world could be for a woman who had no family, no money, and no one to whom she could turn for help. She had been only a hair's breadth away from dest.i.tution, and she never wanted to be in such a precarious position again.

Anthony waited, and she could feel his gaze on her as she struggled to make a choice. She resented the complacency with which he had thrown five hundred pounds in her face, certain she would take it. He knew perfectly well that such a sum was a fortune to her and a mere trifle to him.

Perhaps she should accept. It would be far more prudent to throw her injured pride to the wind and take his offer than risk the unknown, uncertain future.

Daphne hardened her resolve, sh.o.r.ed up her pride, and decided just how far she would go. She lifted her chin, looked Anthony in the eye, and said, "Let me give you my version of a compromise, your grace. I will stay until December first, three months instead of one. I will repair and restore as many artifacts for your museum as I can at a reasonable pace. In addition, until I leave, I will a.s.sist you in finding the most qualified person possible to see your project through to completion. In exchange, you will treble my salary for these three months, give me a second day off each week-Thursdays will do nicely-and pay me the stipend of five hundred pounds."

"Only two additional months for triple your wages, five hundred pounds, and another day off in which not to work for it? You must be mad."

"That amount of money is little enough to you. Mad or not, that is my offer."

"Are you certain you do not wish to add some other demands to this compromise? Sat.u.r.day afternoons free to make calls on your friends, perhaps?"

"Since you have asked, I would prefer less sarcasm and a bit more politeness from you. You may be a duke, but I am the granddaughter of a baron, the daughter of a knight, and the friend of a viscountess. I deserve to be treated as a lady, not as a servant."

He tilted his head to one side, studying her. It was as if he was considering whether or not he would gain ground by further bargaining. He must have concluded that she was firm in her resolve, for he nodded in agreement. "Very well. I accept your terms, and I will make every attempt to be more polite. I also feel compelled to give you fair warning."

"Warning?"

"Yes. Until December first, not only will I make every effort to remember my manners, I will do everything I can to change your mind and make you stay until the end of my project."

"I am not your slave. You cannot make me do anything."

"Persuade you, then, if you like that better. I can be very persuasive when I choose." Suddenly, he smiled at her, and that smile was as brilliant as the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "I want you to stay."

Daphne sucked in a deep breath, appreciating the heady power of that smile, appreciating the considerable charm he could wield without a bit of effort, charm that could make any woman want to please him. For the barest moment, she was tempted to soften and agree to stay longer, but she ruthlessly shoved that momentary madness aside. "And I, your grace," she said without emotion, "can be very, very stubborn."

"We are both warned then," he said, still smiling as he bowed to her. Then he turned away and departed.

After he was gone, the potent pleasure his smile had once given her still lingered, along with the sharp, sweet sting of remembrance. He had looked at her in just that same way the first time she had ever met him.

She had been awaiting him in the anteroom off the great hall, awed by the lavish opulence of her surroundings, unable to quite believe anyone actually lived here. Tremore Hall, she'd thought, wasn't a house. It was a palace.

She remembered how the sound of the immense front doors being thrown back had made her jump. The echo of a man's bootheels tapping against the marble floors outside the anteroom had reawakened that sickening knot of fear in her stomach, that fear of being alone and poor and desperate. Dozens of questions had gone through her mind in those few endless seconds as his footsteps had drawn him closer and closer to her. What if he turned her down? What if he threw her out? If she could not convince him to hire her without her father, what would she do?

Then he had walked into the anteroom, and he had frozen her in place because he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, with dark, curling hair, thick-lashed hazel eyes, and a sulky mouth. But those glimmers of boyish softness were overpowered by his other features. There was no softness in the lean, harsh planes of his cheekbones, the long aquiline nose and the implacable line of his jaw. In that first brief glimpse, Daphne knew this was a man who was master of all he surveyed. If Tremore was a palace, this was the prince.

Daphne was of average height, and he was nearly a head taller than she. In his black riding boots, buff trousers, blue velvet coat, and immaculate white linen, with his wide shoulders blocking much of the doorway where he had come to a halt, he was like no man she had ever seen before. Daphne, accustomed all her life to desperately thin, ragged Arabs who looked far older than their years, had never seen anything quite like the Duke of Tremore. His powerful build and demeanor exuded strength, vitality, and power.

As he had walked toward her, Daphne had willed herself not to move. "Well now," he had said in a voice deceptively soft, "Sir Henry's daughter, are you? Where is your father, Miss Wade?"

Daphne had somehow managed to explain what had happened, why she was there without Papa, and why his grace should hire her anyway. Even now, she did not know how she had managed it, for his hazel eyes had narrowed on her so haughtily during her speech that she'd felt as if she were about to be tossed over the palace ramparts.

He had subjected her to a long, hard stare, clearly wondering if her claim had any speck of validity, his skepticism of her abilities a palpable force between them. Who could blame him? She was trying to convince him she was an expert in antiquities and restoration, and a better one than any man he could find. The duke had a right to be skeptical.

In the end, he had not tossed her over the ramparts.

"You are hired, Miss Wade," he had said, holding out his hand to her. She had taken it, so relieved that she had employment and grateful for the opportunity to prove herself and her abilities.

She had looked into his face and had watched him smile at her. That smile, warm as the sun, had transformed him from disdainful prince to charming man. It had rendered her speechless, that smile. It had threatened to buckle her knees, and had sent her heart tumbling in her breast with a chaotic mix. of every emotion she had ever felt, every emotion except the fear that had been tormenting her for months.

Her fear had vanished. With this man, she'd thought, there was nothing to be afraid of. She was safe. She had a place in the world again. That was the moment she had fallen in love with the Duke of Tremore.

But she was wiser now than she had been five months ago, and the echo of infatuation, grat.i.tude, and admiration was gone, like a candle lit, burned for a brief time, and blown out. How foolish she had been.

Daphne returned her attention to her work and told herself that it did not matter how persuasive he tried to be, she was still leaving. He could no longer melt her into a puddle with a smile. The only power he'd ever had over her was his hold on her heart, and that was gone now. There was nothing he could do to make her stay past the first day of December. Nothing on earth.

Anthony liked his days to run smoothly. When in residence at Tremore Hall, it was his custom to keep country hours and a precise schedule. In the mornings, he usually toured various sections of the estate with his land steward, Mr. c.o.x. He then met with his house steward, his secretary, his landscape architect, and other members of his staff, conducting any business that his ducal responsibilities required. He was usually able to spend a few hours working on the excavation before dinner. He dined at six and was in bed by ten.

But during the week that followed Miss Wade's resignation, Anthony found every task he undertook had the irritating tendency to remind him of his predicament with one of the most valuable members of his staff and how to persuade her to remain.

He was reminded of her when Mr. c.o.x explained to him the engineering problems with the new aqueducts and suggested that perhaps Miss Wade might have a suggestion or two about how to fix them, since she knew so much about Roman aqueducts.

He was reminded of her by the post, which contained many letters regarding the museum, including one from Lord Westholme, another member of the Antiquarian Society and one of his partners on the project. Westholme had reminded him of how much everyone in the Society was looking forward to the opening in March.

During his call at the vicarage, the vicar had proven quite tiresome. He would insist on quoting from the story about the rich man and the ewe lamb through their entire visit. Anthony politely declined an invitation to dine at the vicarage.

Miss Wade expected him to be able to find someone to replace her by December 1, but even if he could, he did not want to.

The museum and the reconstruction of the villa here in Hampshire were of immense importance, not only to scholars and historians, but also to show that an appreciation of history should not be limited to the upper cla.s.ses, but should instead be the right of all British people.

He was determined to buy enough time to keep Miss Wade here until March at the very least, and preferably longer. If he had his way, she would stay until the entire villa was done, until the last mosaic pavement was repaired and the last fresco restored, until the last pearl crotalia and the last clay amphora were out of the ground, sketched, cataloged, and on display in his museum in London.

Anthony snapped the reins of his horse, urging Defiance into a gallop on the road home from the village as he once again contemplated the various means he could use to keep her in Hampshire for the next four or five years.

You cannot make me stay.

Oh, yes, by G.o.d, he could, though Miss Wade might be naive enough to a.s.sume otherwise. He had several options from which to choose.

Money would not do the trick. He had tried that, and had soon realized that additional money alone would not be enough to tempt her.

With all the power and influence at his disposal, he could force her to remain by any number of devilish means, but he was not tempted to such a course. He was an honorable gentleman, after all, not the horrid fellow she painted him to be.

No, Viola was right. Keeping Miss Wade in Hampshire would require tactics much smoother than force. By the time he had returned to Tremore Hall, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

Chapter 8.

It was dark by the time Anthony reached the house. He gave orders to Haverstall, the house steward, to have the cook prepare a fresh meal for him and to have Richardson draw him a hot bath. He then inquired as to Miss Wade's whereabouts and was informed that she was in the library.

She was sitting at the far end of the long room, curled up in one of the two big leather chairs by the windows, a book in her hands, her feet tucked beneath her, and a pair of flat-heeled slippers on the floor beside her chair. A candelabra on a nearby table washed a soft glow over her corner of the room.

Anthony started toward her, his own boots making no sound on the thick Turkish carpet. He had never seen her at this hour of the evening, and it startled him that her hair was no longer pulled back in that hideous bun. Instead, it was gathered into a loose, thick braid that lay across her shoulder, honey-brown in the candlelight.

She was so absorbed in her book that she did not even look up as he came closer, a fact which began to irritate him when he stood right in front of her and she could not possibly fail to notice he was there.

Anthony waited several moments for her to acknowledge his presence, but she did not, and he grew tired of waiting. He had never been a patient man. He cleared his throat and spoke. "I would like to speak with you for a few moments. Please," he added, when she did not respond.

She turned a page. "Our compromise was that I would work at a reasonable pace for the remainder of my stay. Since it is now dusk, my working hours are over. Could we please postpone this until morning?"

Yesterday, she would have jumped to do his bidding, like any other person in his employ, and Anthony began to wonder if perhaps he was having a very strange dream, a dream in which Miss Wade was no longer Miss Wade. Overnight, she had transformed into an impudent, recalcitrant sort of creature, who resigned her post without so much as a by-your-leave, dared to dress him down and call him inconsiderate, and who decided for herself what hours she would and would not work when there was so much to be done.

I am not your slave.

He smothered an oath under his breath.

Miss Wade glanced up at the sound. "Did you say something?"

That question made him realize he was just standing here like an idiot, when his purpose was to initiate a conversation. But d.a.m.n it all, she was not cooperating. His plan was to make her life here so appealing that she would want to stay. So far, he did not think he was succeeding.

He watched her return her attention to her book, and he tried again. "I do not want to discuss your work. What is there to discuss? It is always exemplary."

"Thank you," she said as she turned another page, "but if your intention is to flatter me into staying, I would rather you save your breath."

"Miss Wade, can you and I not make peace?" When she did not reply, he added, "After all, you are here for at least the next three months. Therefore-"

"Two months, three weeks, and three days," she could not resist correcting him. "And there is no at least about it."

He refused to be drawn into a petty argument. "And since we have a great deal of work to do, and the pace will become quite stressful, I would like the time that you remain here to be pleasant for both of us. I thought we might start with a bit of conversation."

She hesitated for a long moment, but she did not refuse. Instead, she closed her book and placed it on the table beside her chair. After pulling off her spectacles, she set them aside as well. Then she put her feet on the floor, clasped her hands together in her lap, lifted her face to look up at him, and gave him her undivided attention. The moment she did, he forgot whatever he had been about to say.

She had beautiful eyes. This was the first time he could recall seeing her without those gold-framed spectacles, and it rather startled him what a difference their absence made to her face. Though her eyes appeared dark in the candlelight, he remembered their color from this afternoon-an uncommon lavender shade. Now, without those gla.s.s lenses to distort his view, he could see that her eyes were also large, deeply set, and surrounded by thick brown lashes.

He had never thought there was anything attractive about her, but looking at her now, Anthony was forced to revise his opinion. At this moment, bathed in candlelight, with loose tendrils of hair around her face and those big, almond-shaped eyes looking up at him, she seemed softer than she ever had before. Not pretty, exactly, but not quite so plain, either.

"Your grace?"

Her voice brought his attention back to the reason he was here. He sat down in the chair opposite hers and struggled for something to say, something innocuous and pleasant. "What are you reading?"

"A biography of Cleopatra."

"Indeed?" He glanced at the slim red volume on the table. The gilded t.i.tle stamped on its face glittered in the candlelight. "That particular account of her life is rather an indifferent one. If you really wish to make a study of Cleopatra, there is a much better biography of her somewhere about."

"What is wrong with this one?"

"There is no real historical value to it. It is completely personal."

"Yes, but that is what I wanted. I already know the history surrounding her. I wanted to know more about her as a woman."

"I see."

The ironic note in his voice did not escape her. She bit her lip and looked away. After a moment, she returned her gaze to his and said, "By all accounts, I mean . . . she was not beautiful, but she did have a certain . . . certain . . . well-"

"s.e.xual allure?" he supplied, rather enjoying the way her cheeks tinted a delicate pink at his words. G.o.d, Miss Wade was embarra.s.sed. She was usually as placid as a millpond, but the past two days were making him wonder if beneath her unruffled exterior, there might be a woman after all.

She carried on valiantly, trying to sound quite academic and intellectual on the subject. "That, of course, but she must have had more than that. Something undefinable. A magical, captivating quality."

"Is that what you wish to be, Miss Wade?" he asked. "Magical and captivating?"

She stiffened in her chair, suddenly as p.r.i.c.kly as the outside of a chestnut. "Are you making fun of me?" she asked in her quiet voice.

The question startled him, for he'd had no intention at all of making fun. "No," he answered. "I was not. I was simply curious."

She did not seem to believe him, but she shrugged as if it did not matter and continued, "Caesar knew making Cleopatra his queen would not be a popular decision, but he had planned to do it anyway because he wanted her so much. He was murdered because of his pa.s.sion for her."

"No," Anthony corrected, "Caesar was murdered because he was stupid. His pa.s.sion for a woman was the catalyst of his death."