Page 57 of Guilty Pleasures

When Lady Fitzhugh heard Daphne was leaving for London the following day, intending to travel alone by post, she was horrified. She insisted Daphne celebrate Twelfth Night at Long Meadows, then journey to London a few days later in their carriage, for they were also departing for town, and could easily take her to Chiswick on the way. Daphne accepted their offer. The eve of Twelfth Night was when Anthony came home.

She was in the antika, occupied with finishing the restoration of one last artifact, a very rare piece of Samarian pottery. Putting the many broken shards of the large vase back together had taken all day and most of the evening. It was nearly midnight when she penciled in one last flourish on the sketch of that vase and wrote its catalog definition at the bottom of the page: Globular vase. Group D: coarse pottery, Fig. 16.2. Samarian ware, with dark-red glaze and barbotine ornament; Hadrianic, second century. Villa of Druscus Aerelius, Wychwood, Hampshire. 1831 .

Daphne stared down at the sketch for a moment. This was the last artifact of Anthony’s Roman villa that she would restore. She might see him in London, she might visit his museum, but this vase represented the end of her time at Tremore Hall, and she suddenly felt an overpowering sense of desolation. There were exciting possibilities in her future, but when she thought of Anthony, she could not summon that excitement.

The desperate infatuation she had once felt for him had long since disappeared, but another feeling had taken its place, a deeper feeling of respect and friendship. Desire was there, too—had always been there. Desire that still made her soft as butter when she thought of him without his shirt, of how strong his arms were when he had held her, of how intoxicating his kisses had been. It hurt to dwell on those feelings, hurt so deep it felt settled in her soul like a stone. Their time here together, working side by side, dancing, picnicking, bargaining over her time, had been special and wonderful, and the knowledge of her imminent departure seemed almost unbearable.

A tear blurred the lens of her spectacles and she hastily wiped it away with her handkerchief. She had vowed never to cry over him again, and she was going to keep that vow.

The fire in the grate had burned down to coals and ash, and Daphne realized how cold the antika had become. She flexed her hands several times, wincing at the ache in them from her day’s work and the cold room. Then she rested her elbows on the table and pushed her fingers beneath her spectacles to rub her tired eyes. Her fingertips were icy and felt soothing against her closed eyelids. She yawned, knowing it was quite late. She should go back to the house and go to bed, for she was leaving for the Fitzhughs’ first thing in the morning.

The door opened. Daphne looked up as an icy gust of wind blew out the candles on her worktable and stirred the listless coals in the fireplace to life. The fire flared just long enough for her to see who stood in the doorway before dying back once again to a faint red glow.

It was him. She could see his unmistakable silhouette in the doorway, his wide shoulders a black wall against the silvery winter moonlight behind him. Another shaft of moonlight slashed through the room in front of him, hitting the stone floor of the antika in a windowpane pattern at his feet.

“I saw you in here.” He paused, expelling a harsh breath, then he added enigmatically, “Everywhere I went.”

Daphne cleared her throat. “You have returned.” Such an inane thing to say, but she could not seem to form the coherence of thought required to say anything more. She rose to her feet as he came inside, hugging herself against the frigid air that came with him.

He shut the door and flattened back against it, his body and his face still in darkness. “And you are still here,” he said wearily. “I did not think you would be. December twenty-third was supposed to be your last day, was it not?”

He had not even intended to say good-bye. Daphne pulled all her emotions into a tight, hard knot of pride. “I am leaving for Long Meadows tomorrow. I will spend Twelfth Night there, then the Fitzhughs shall take me to your sister’s home in Chiswick on their way to town.”

He made no reply, and as the silence grew, so did her emotions. Provoked by his silence, she said, “What, no temptations to make me stay, your grace? No talk of our friendship and my beautiful eyes?” Her voice cracked. “No farewell and good wishes for a faithful member of your staff?”

He shoved away from the door and started toward her, a shadow of black and gray. “God, Daphne, what do you think?” he demanded as he circled the table to stand behind her. “That I am made of stone?”

“Is that not what you think I am made of?” she countered and tried to step around the table, but he would not let her.

His hand came down on her shoulder, and the other touched the side of her face, brushing a tendril of hair back from her cheek. “No, not stone,” he answered, pressing against her back. “I think you are like a truffle.”

“Thank you for comparing me to a mushroom,” she said, unfolding her arms and moving to step the other way.

He put his other hand on her other shoulder to keep her where she was, and his laughter blew warm breath against the side of her face. “Not the vegetable,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “A chocolate truffle. A concoction of soft, sweet, delicious things hidden inside a hard, paperboard box.” He lowered his hands to reach for hers. “A frozen truffle, I fear. Your hands feel like ice.”

The heat of his body behind her was making her warm. She wanted to be cold.

“Let me warm you.” He let go of her hands and turned her around. He reached up and took away her spectacles. Folding the pair, he put them in the pocket of her apron. He cupped her face in his hands, then he bent his head, and kissed her, but she turned her face away.

“I tried to stay away,” he said, pressing quick kisses to her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her chin. “Because if I came back to say good-bye, I would not be able to stop myself from doing this. Daphne, you have been like a shadow beside me for six long weeks, and everywhere I went, I could see you. I am not made of stone. I am just a man, and God help me, I cannot stop wanting you. Do not torture me anymore.” His tongue ran across the crease of her lips. “Kiss me back.”

Her lips parted beneath his, and she closed her eyes, groaning into his mouth. So long. He had been away so long, and she had forgotten how it felt to have his mouth on hers.

She seized the folds of his cloak in her fists, pulling him closer. In response, he deepened the kiss, tasting her with his tongue. She wrapped one arm around his neck, and tangled the fingers of her other hand in the thick, short strands of his hair.

He broke the kiss, pulling back to look at her, his expression in the moonlight strangely resolute. “Say my name,” he ordered, lowering his hands to tug at the ties of her apron. He pulled the bows apart two at a time. “Anthony.”

“Stop giving me orders, duke,” she said, rising up on her toes to recapture his mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”

He pulled the pieces of her apron away and tossed them over her head onto the table behind her.

She heard a rocking sound, followed by a shattering crash, and she knew he had just smashed that priceless ancient vase to smithereens. Her last day’s work wasted. She began to laugh against his mouth. “You broke it.”

“What was it?” he asked, tearing away from her kiss to bury his face against the side of her neck.

“Samarian vase,” she gasped, “made at Trier. Priceless.”

He jerked at the ribbon of his cloak, and the heavy garment slid from his shoulders to land on the floor. “I shall mourn the loss tomorrow.” He pressed kisses against her throat. “Say it.”

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