Page 7 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
As if appraising the truth of it, he surveyed her head to toe.
Rosamund suppressed a scowl. No doubt, he'd be thinking she looked an utter fright, but at least she was properly attired.
Besides having been walking with his shirt unfastened, Mr. It’s-Yourself-That’s-The-Problem also had his sleeves rolled back to the elbow, and his trousers legs similarly turned up. His feet were bare, half sunk in the sand.
From above, there was a sharp yap, as if the third member of their gathering was put out at being ignored. The next moment, Rosamund caught a flash of white shooting down the cliff. Reaching a point somewhat level with their heads, the bundle of fur flung himself through the air, landing in the vicinity of the canvas bag.
In two twitches of a tail, Pom Pom had his nose inside.
“Naughty Pom—Hector! Naughty Hector! Stop that!” Though she’d felt obliged to act the "helpless woman", Rosamund wasn’t having him think her utterly frivolous. She knew her Greek history and myths, even if she’d only read them in translation.
“My sandwich!” The young man’s attention was promptly very much on his lunch, clutched in Pom Pom’s jaws and disappearing into the nearest cave.
Chapter 3
The young man took chase,uttering an expletive inappropriate for the ears of a lady. Definitely not a monk. She was certain they weren’t allowed to swear like that.
From the cavern came an echoing, gleeful bark.
By the time Rosamund had caught up, it appeared the battle had been won. Inside, it was decidedly dark but there was light enough to see Pom Pom standing atop a slice of bread.
A lettuce leaf appeared to have been sampled and spat out. The rest of the contents had been received with greater appreciation.
“I sure am sorry.” Rosamund attempted to appear contrite. “I’m still training him in how to behave.”
“He’s just a pup having fun. Not enough of that in life generally, I tend to think.” The man extended his hand. “Benedict Studborne. Pleased to meet you.”
Rosamund returned his shake firmly. “Miss Burnell.”
The puppy snuffled about before selecting a spot for some vigorous digging.
Rosamund couldn’t help feeling rather awkward. She mightn’t be up on the finer points of English etiquette, but she was pretty sure that being in such a secluded spot with a man one didn’t know wasn’t good form.
He didn’t seem the sort to get fresh, but you never knew…
Not that she was defenceless. She’d seen enough fist-fights among the men who worked the oil fields to know how to throw a punch.
At least it was cooler in here, though the tang of seaweed was rather potent.
Remembering the shells she’d put in her pocket, she drew them out. “I was collecting these from a rockpool when Hector took off up the cliffs.” She displayed them across her open palms.
“They’ll make an interesting arrangement for painting.” She was thinking on her feet, but there was some truth in it. She’d used her watercolours to capture the beach landscape at various times of day. Only now did it occur to her that the shells themselves would make a worthwhile subject.
“You’ve some sting winkles there, and some common whelks. Being carnivorous, the whelks bore into the shells of other creatures to suck out the soft molluscs inside.” He prodded them with a finger. “I’ve a feeling some of these are still alive.”
Rosamund wasn’t generally squeamish but the notion of having a handful of predator snails was too much. Hastily, she tipped them into a trench of water by the cave wall and wiped her hands on the back of her skirts.
“Best to turn them upside down and check next time—or keep to treasure hunting on the upper sands. Less likely to find live ones there.” He took off his spectacles, polishing the lenses with his handkerchief.
Yes. He truly did have nice eyes, thought Rosamund.
“You seem to know a great deal.”
He gave a small shrug. “Fossils are more my thing, but you have to make a study of one to be knowledgeable in the other. Did you know that limpets can live up to fifteen years? They graze on algae but always return to their own little groove, which they make for themselves in the rock.”
“True homebodies, huh?” Rosamund couldn’t help but smile, though something about the idea of limpets finding their way back to the same anchoring spot where they felt secure and comfortable brought a pang about her heart.
One way or another, it was what everyone did, wasn’t it? One spent one’s entire life searching for that sort of place.
