Page 35 of Guilty Pleasures

“You should know the answer to that,” he countered, plucking a hairpin from her grasp and pushing it into place. “It frightens you.”

“It does not.”

“Oh, yes it does.”

“Don’t be absurd. Love does not frighten me.”

“Really?” He lowered one hand to grasp her chin in his fingers. He lifted her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Why do you insist on donning that apron, never removing your spectacles, wearing dresses in the most drab colors imaginable, and fashioning your hair in the most unflattering style invented by womankind? You are hiding from something.”

Daphne realized he had neatly turned the tables on her, putting her on the defensive without revealing anything of himself, and she wished she had never asked him the question. She jerked her chin out of his grasp and lowered her gaze to his perfectly tied cravat. “I am a sensible person. I dress to suit what I do.”

“How convenient, if one wishes to fade away and become unnoticeable.”

Like a stick insect on a twig.

Repeating those words in her mind was like a kick in the stomach. Her mind flashed through all the times her feelings for him had compelled her to withdraw into herself, to be so afraid of her own emotions and his certain rejection of what she felt that she had tried to become invisible. Repeating the pattern of her whole life. Knowing she would always be leaving for the next project, the next set of acquaintances, the next good-bye.

No wonder she had been so hurt. His opinion might have been unkind, but it had the ring of truth. True or no, she would die before admitting anything of the sort to him. “I am not afraid of love,” she lied. “If I were, I certainly would not be considering the idea of a husband.”

Anthony did not reply, and he did not look at her, but he was standing so close that even without her glasses, she could see every feature of his face in perfect focus. His brows were drawn together as if this task were the most important thing in the world to him. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, the dark lashes above and below nearly tangling together.

He shoved the last hairpin in place and lowered his arms. As he stepped back to survey his handiwork, Daphne felt that horrid ache of vulnerability. Fading into the wallpaper was so much safer than being noticed.

His lips tightened. If he said one horrid thing, just one, their bargain was off. His museum and her future could both go to the devil.

“Much better, Miss Wade.” He broke off and took a deep breath. “You look . . . very pretty.”

There was something in those words, or perhaps in the almost unsteady note of his voice as he said them, that caught at her heart, that made her want to believe he meant more by it than he really did, but she would not delude herself ever again to think he set any store by her. “Two compliments in one evening? I am astonished at your sudden propensity to flatter me.”

“I never flatter anyone. I give my opinions honestly.” He pulled her spectacles out of his pocket and held them out to her. “If you really wish to find a husband, Miss Wade, stop hiding your lights under a bushel. We shall then see if a husband is what you really want.”

She took the pair of spectacles from his hand, and the moment she did, he took a step back from her. “We have gotten well away from your dance lesson.”

The idea of dancing with him just now was unbearable to her dazed senses. She was already raw from his touch and his words and his razor-sharp perceptions of her deepest fears. “Perhaps we should postpone this until tomorrow night,” she suggested.

To her surprise, he agreed. “Very well.” He took another step back from her, bowed, and turned away. “In the morning, I shall wish to meet with you,” he said over his shoulder, “and begin taking an inventory of those artifacts which you have ready for me to have taken to London. Please be in the antika at ten o’clock.”

Daphne stared at his back as he walked away, still feeling the tingle of his touch against her neck, and he was halfway to the door before his words sank into her consciousness. “Tomorrow is Thursday, your grace,” she called after him. “My day out, if you remember our bargain.”

“I do.” He paused in the doorway, turning to look at her. “We shall meet on Friday. Enjoy yourself, Miss Wade.”

With that, he departed.

Daphne remained where she was, staring at the empty doorway, bemused. He was the most unpredictable man. One day, she was a stick insect, and the next, she had beautiful eyes. Just when she was starting to loathe him, he did something nice, and just when she was starting to like him, he did something to remind her of all the reasons she should hate him.

Daphne reached up to touch her neck, still tingling from the brush of his fingertips, and she was forced to admit that even though she no longer cared about having his good opinion, she could not find it in her heart to hate him.

Chapter 13

During the entire six months she had been at Tremore Hall, Daphne had seldom had opportunities to explore the house and its environs or go into the village. She had Sundays free, of course, and always rode into Wychwood for early service with the Benningtons, but she had never taken time away from her duties to visit the village shops or appreciate the beauty of Anthony’s estate.

Now that she had Thursdays out as well as Sundays, Daphne decided to walk into the village for a bit of shopping. She wanted to spend a little of the thirty-two pounds she had earned since her arrival, her first step toward less work and more play.

She set a leisurely pace, enjoying the charming beauty of thatch-roofed cottages, ancient oaks, and the stunning reds and golds of autumn as she walked the road into Wychwood. She could not help comparing the scenery here in Hampshire to the date palms, sand, and scrub of North Africa, the red cliffs of Petra, and the hills of Crete, hills covered with the green of rosemary and the pink and white of dittany. Each place had its own attractive qualities, but Daphne found the English countryside more beautiful than anywhere else she had lived. She doubted she would get tired of the English weather, but if she ever did, all she would have to think of was Mesopotamia in a sandstorm, and rain would seem wonderful again.

Thinking of rain brought Anthony’s face to mind, and her own realization last night that he had looked at her in a new way. Like a woman. She remembered the touch of his fingertips on her skin, and his words about how a woman’s hair could be a man’s obsession. That triggered again that hot, aching hunger in her body, just like the lovesick girl who had gazed at his naked chest through a spyglass. She could not really blame herself for that. After all, it was rather a stunning thing when a handsome man you had adored finally noticed you, even when it was too late. Even when it did not mean anything.

Perhaps he did believe she had beautiful eyes, perhaps he had come to see her as more than a machine, but Daphne knew he was far more concerned with his museum than with her. She pushed thoughts of Anthony firmly out of her mind and quickened her steps into the village.

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