Page 20 of Guilty Pleasures

“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? Saturday 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, gratitude, 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. Cox. 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. Cox 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.

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