Page 76 of Guilty Pleasures

Afterward, he stilled on top of her, his hands sliding beneath her back as he watched her open her eyes.

“My goodness,” she whispered, trying to catch her breath. “No wonder the Romans painted all those frescoes.”

He laughed, the sound ringing through the room loud enough that it probably woke the dozing footmen out in the corridor. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him.

Her hair fell all around his face and he kissed her, not knowing if this woman made him feel more like a Roman god or the greatest lover in all of England. Either was more than he had ever dreamed of.

Chapter 26

“And that is how we came to be in Morocco,” she summed up. She had been lying here beside him, naked, with the sheets flung back, giving him a detailed account of her life as if she were a travelogue. It was not the most romantic aftermath to lovemaking, she supposed, but it was so nice to lie here beside him and watch his face watching hers with such avid interest.

“I envy you your travels, Daphne,” he said after a moment, “but I do not understand your father. What was he thinking? Wandering around the deserts of Africa, with you working your fingers to the bone. That should not be a permanent life for anyone, especially for a woman. I cannot help but condemn your father’s thoughtlessness.”

“No, no, you do not understand. He was not so thoughtless as you think, Anthony. It was my insistence to remain.” She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “Papa wanted me to have a better life. He wanted me to go to England, he wanted to reunite me with my mother’s family, but his letters, like mine, were rebuffed. The baron had disowned my mother, even going so far as to pretend she was dead, and he would not be moved to relent. Papa suggested sending me here for school, but I refused to leave him, and I could not allow him to give up his work and come here with me. He was so lost when my mother died, he needed me so desperately. I would not leave him, I could not. So we stayed together, and I assisted him. I loved him, and I helped him. His work and I were his purpose in life, and both of us were happy.”

“Your father was stronger than mine,” he said, turning his head to stare at the ceiling. “Perhaps because he had you.”

She rose up on her arm. Resting her weight on her elbow and her cheek in her hand, she looked at him. “Your father had you, Anthony, and your sister.”

“I sent Viola to relations in Cornwall.” He turned his head to look at her. “I was not enough to ease his pain.”

“I doubt that.” Daphne reached out to touch his cheek, wishing he would open up to her about himself. “What happened to your father?”

He sat up, rolled his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. “Dawn will be here soon. I should take you back.”

Daphne watched him, her heart aching. “Why will you not tell me about this? I should not care if he had gone mad, if that is the reason you keep silent—”

“You should get dressed,” he interrupted, bending down to retrieve his linen. “If the servants at Russell Square wake up and find you have gone missing, everyone will know where you are. Or they will think we have eloped.”

Daphne did not move. “Why won’t you tell me about him?”

“Because I do not want to discuss it, Daphne,” he said as he dressed. “Ever.”

She got out of bed and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He felt as rigid as a statue. “Anthony,” she whispered, staring at his back. “You press me at every turn to be more forthcoming about myself, to share what I feel and think and believe, yet you refuse to do so with me. I find it as hard as you to talk about my deepest feelings, but I have done so with you. Somehow, you have become my dearest friend. Despite all my efforts to keep you from seeing my many insecurities, you pull them out of me. I think that is because deep down, under all my fears, I want you to know who I am. I have come to trust you more than I have ever trusted anyone.”

He did not move. He did not reply.

She pressed her lips to his back, feeling the fine weave of his linen shirt against her mouth and the hard muscles of his body beneath. She let her arms fall away, and she took a step back. “Anthony,” she said to his back, “I know you are a very private person, but you want me to be your wife. I have opened my heart to you more than once, told you things I would die before revealing to anyone else. If you cannot open up to me and do the same, even if it is only a little bit at a time, we have no chance of happiness. I love you, but until you can begin to share yourself with me, I will not marry you.”

He did not reply, but she knew that was not out of coldness. It was out of fear, fear just like hers. She got dressed without another word, and the carriage ride back to Russell Square was silent. It seemed there was nothing more to say.

Daphne did not go to the museum opening on the following day. Instead, she went out with Elizabeth and Anne to make calls, and their talk and laughter was a welcome distraction.

When they returned to the house just before six o’clock, Mary had barely opened the door for them before Lady Fitzhugh came out of the drawing room above with a cry of delight.

“My dears, I am so glad you are back.” She came rushing down the stairs, a happy smile on her face. Her daughters and Daphne paused in the vestibule, stunned that the normally sedate Lady Fitzhugh was actually running down the stairs.

“Mama!” cried Elizabeth. “What has happened?”

“Something good,” Anne put in. “How you are smiling, Mama!”

Lady Fitzhugh pointed to the calling-card table behind them, and all three of the younger women turned around.

On the silver tray atop the table was a single, thornless red rose. Beside it was Anthony’s card.

“Another flower for Daphne,” Anne said, laughing. “This is the reason you have a smile on your face as wide as the Thames, Mama? Because of a rose?”

“It’s a thornless rose,” Elizabeth said ecstatically. “And it’s red. Oh, Daphne, at last!”

---