Page 11 of Guilty Pleasures

Viola shot him a look that told him she did not find his dry comment amusing. “Not everyone chooses a wife as you do, Anthony, picking the one least likely to win your heart. Nor does everyone who falls in love end up unhappy. I should like to see Daphne have a season in London, have a romance of her own, and make a sensible and affectionate marriage to an honorable gentleman of good character who will love her and provide for her.”

He felt compelled to mention the obvious. “I do not see why you wish to embark upon such a futile exercise. Women like Miss Wade are not made for romance, and they do not marry.”

“Anthony, what an extraordinary remark. What on earth can you mean by it?”

“I mean, the girl hasn’t a romantic bone in her body. If she had a dowry, or if her connection to this baron were established, her prospects for matrimony would be better, but without them, you are embarking on a hopeless business. One only has to look at the girl to know that.”

“I do not know it, and I have looked at her quite a bit in the last day or two. I should imagine any number of well-bred young men would find her quite charming.”

“Charming? With that horrible bun she wears and those dreary clothes, the girl’s as noticeable as a stick insect on a twig. She is so much a part of the background, I doubt any man would even see her unless she were standing a foot in front of him, and even then, he would forget her the moment she was out of his line of vision. I know I do.”

Viola stiffened. “I did not realize that a woman’s physical beauty was the only quality that made her worthy of a man’s attention,” she said coldly.

Anthony felt the sting in those words. “I did not mean it that way.”

“What did you mean?”

“Her face never changes expression, and you never know what she is thinking or feeling. Unless she is talking about artifacts, the girl cannot even carry on a conversation.”

He saw Viola staring at him in dismay, but he went on, “When she does manage to get out a few words, she cannot seem to string them together without stammering. In truth, I do not know what came over her. The first day she was here, she talked well enough, but she has scarcely said a word since then. Taken all in all, she is the most insignificant creature I have ever met.”

“Yet she is so important to your excavations that she cannot leave. Therefore, she must have some desirable qualities.”

“She is intelligent, I grant you that, and excels at her work. She can translate Latin, Greek, and I do not know how many other ancient languages. She is an excellent mosaicist and restorer. She draws well. But those attributes hardly qualify her for matrimony. She has no dowry, no connections but a mythical baron, and no feminine appeal to make up for those deficiencies.”

“She knows me, and if her grandfather is a baron, then she has two connections, at least. If we can find her grandfather, he might provide her with a dowry. As to her other so-called deficiencies, that is only your opinion. You see her as just another person employed by you, like Mr. Cox, or Mr. Bennington, or one of the servants. I doubt you have once looked at her as a woman.”

“Miss Wade is not a woman. She is a machine. An efficient, well-ordered machine. She is never ill, she never makes mistakes. You know, I do not think I have ever heard her laugh.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd. I heard her laugh only this morning.”

“I never have.” Anthony paused, trying to think how to describe Miss Wade to Viola from a man’s point of view. “When looking for a wife, a gentleman would not want a machine. He would want a woman with some womanly attributes. Miss Wade, unfortunately, has none. It is rather pathetic, really.”

“I had no idea that you see her in such an unfavorable light,” Viola said slowly.

“I believe any other man would share my opinion about the girl.”

“Will you stop calling her a girl?” Viola countered with some irritation. “She is twenty-four. She is a woman.”

Anthony thought of the shapeless apron that concealed any womanly shape Miss Wade might possess. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. Everything you have mentioned is a flaw of upbringing, not character or beauty. I think Daphne could be quite pretty, with some proper advice from me. She has lovely eyes and a beautiful complexion. A bit too tanned for fashion, but surprisingly light if one considers she has lived so much of her life in the desert. She has a nice smile, she is intelligent and well-read, and I can assure you, that though she might be a rather serious young woman, and is perhaps a bit shy, she is quite capable of laughing.”

“You had better find her connections, then, for plain, shy, serious young ladies who fade into the wallpaper do not catch husbands otherwise. They become spinsters. An unfortunate dictum, but true.”

Viola gave him a cold stare that told him more clearly than words what she thought of his opinion, and he felt a hint of self-reproach. Perhaps he was being harsh, but really, Daphne Wade was as drab as an English February. He decided it would be wise to give no further opinions on the subject. “It hardly matters, so let us not argue. The girl is not going anywhere until my museum and excavations are finished.”

A stick insect on a twig.

Daphne felt frozen, her hand still poised to push open the door leading into the music room. The door was slightly ajar, and the conversation she had overheard hung in the air like the acrid smell of smoke that lingered after a fire.

No feminine appeal.

She stared down at the wax-coated wooden tablet in her other hand, her mind blank. Upon her soul, she could not remember now why she had been so excited to find Anthony and show this to him the very moment she had finished translating it. She couldn’t even remember what it said.

Hugging the tablet to her chest, she turned away from the door and ran, unaware of where she was going, unable to force the coherent thought of a destination to the forefront of her mind. She was too dazed to think, too numb to feel, but she could hear, over and over again, the carelessly brutal opinion of her uttered by the man she adored.

Miss Wade isn’t a woman. She’s a machine. It’s rather pathetic, really.

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