"Suggestion? What suggestion?"

Daphne held up the letter in her hand and began to read from it. " *If we are to see you begin moving in society, you must learn to dance, dear Daphne. I realize that attending dance lessons with the little girls on Sat.u.r.day mornings at the a.s.sembly rooms in Wychwood might be a bit awkward for you. Please consider my well-meant advice and ask my brother for a.s.sistance. Though he does not often go to b.a.l.l.s nowadays, he is an excellent dancer. I am certain he would not be so ungracious that he would refuse to teach you the waltz and a few quadrilles.'" She looked up, making a sound of disbelief rather like a sneezing kitten. "As if you would agree to teach me anything."

Anthony saw nothing silly about it at all. In fact, he thought the suggestion an excellent one and quite in keeping with his own intentions. Here was a way to keep Daphne at Tremore Hall a bit longer, a way that was fair and beneficial to both of them. He began to smile.

She pounced on his pleased expression at once. "You see?" she said, pointing at him with the letter in an accusing fashion. "My ignorance of these matters and the possible consequence of my being a social failure no doubt fill you with overwhelming glee. I am sure you are looking forward to watching me make the most complete fool of myself on a ballroom floor, thinking disgrace will force me back here to finish your artifacts."

"Do not think so ill of me as that. I would like you to finish your work here because you choose to do so, not because you were forced to it."

She folded the letter and put it in the pocket of her ap.r.o.n. "I do not believe you."

"With the amount of power and influence I possess, if I wanted to force you to remain here until my villa was completely finished, I could do so, baron's granddaughter or no. I have many faults, Miss Wade, but taking pleasure in someone's social embarra.s.sments is not among them. You have already expressed your dislike of me quite frankly. Do not go on to impugn my honor as a gentleman."

She looked away, then back again. "I did not mean to insult you. However I cannot help but question your motives."

No one had questioned Anthony's motives since he had become a duke at the age of twelve, and he seldom felt the need to explain them. In this case, however, he knew it was important that he do so.

"I mean what I say, Miss Wade. You intend to leave, and I intend to do all I can to persuade you to stay, but I am a man of honor. If I cannot succeed in my objective by fair and honest means, I would prefer to fail, even if my museum is delayed indefinitely as a result." As he spoke, Anthony saw a perfect opportunity to further that objective, and he went on, "In light of your distrust, I should like to prove it to you."

"How?"

"Contrary to your low opinion of me, I have no desire to see you disgraced, and I should be happy to adopt Viola's suggestion and teach you to dance." Before she could get over her astonishment enough to reply, he added, "In exchange for more of your time here, of course."

"Hmm. I don't suppose you could simply offer to do this without expecting something in return, could you?"

"No. But you must admit I am not making any attempt to deceive you."

"How honorable of you." She looked up at him, her arms folded, her head tilted to one side. "How many dances?" she asked in a brisk, no-nonsense fashion. "How much time?"

Anthony felt as if he were negotiating the terms of a business venture. So he was, really. "Country dance is complicated, and a young lady of fashion needs to know many figures. I will give you dancing lessons each evening, teaching you the waltz, and the most common figures of country dance, if you stay until March first."

"I will stay until December fifteenth."

"Two weeks? That is not nearly enough to be a fair offer. I am not particularly fond of dancing, and two weeks is not worth my while. Twelve might be."

She tapped the letter against her arm, studying him, and he could tell that her desire to make a good show in London was at war with her enmity for him, an enmity which he still found baffling, but which he was determined to rectify if it would persuade her to stay longer. He waited for her answer.

To his surprise, the fear of social failure was not enough to tempt her for long. She shook her head in refusal. "I will offer you three weeks. December twenty-first."

"February first."

"It hardly does me any good to take dancing lessons from you so that I may attend a ball, only to miss that ball because of the lessons. Three weeks."

Anthony would take whatever he could get. "You are a hard bargainer, Miss Wade, but I will accede to your terms. December twenty-first, it is. We shall meet at eight o'clock tonight in the ballroom. I shall arrange for musicians and tell Mrs. Bennington."

"Mrs. Bennington? Does she have to be there?"

He looked at her in puzzlement. "Why should she not be? She is your chaperone."

"Only in the most general sense. It is not as if you and I have never been alone." She gestured to her surroundings. "We are alone now." She shifted her weight, glanced away, looked back at him again. "I would rather not have an audience."

Anthony was becoming curious. Surely Miss Wade could not have some sort of romantic purpose in view. After all, she did not even like him. Now that he had seen her in the rain, he rather wished she did. But he set aside his baser nature and said, "You would still have an audience. We will need musicians."

Her cheeks tinged pink. "I understand that musicians will be needed. That cannot be helped, I suppose. But Mrs. Bennington is a different matter."

Anthony could not make this out at all. In the face of his obvious bewilderment, she went on, "It is just that whatever I undertake, I seek to do it as well as possible."

Anthony knew her work was usually flawless, and he understood at once what she meant. "What you are saying is that you do not wish to do anything in front of people unless you can do it faultlessly?"

"Well... yes."

"Miss Wade, you are far too severe upon yourself. No one can do every single thing without flaw."

"Yes, I know, but..." She paused, bit her lip and looked away. After a moment, she drew a deep breath, and let it out on a sigh. "The truth is, I have a horrible fear of being laughed at," she confessed in a small voice, returning her gaze to his. "Until I become at least somewhat proficient at dancing, I should prefer not to have an audience."

Anthony looked at her-the smoothness of her countenance that never gave anything away, the discretion in her that never revealed a secret, this need to do things perfectly. He felt another flash of anger. What sort of upbringing had she had, that she should reach the age of four and twenty without any ability to like herself and laugh at her foibles? He could almost understand Sir Henry taking her out into the wilds of Africa because of his work, but not the emotional neglect such a life had inflicted on her. The more he learned about her, the more tarnished Anthony's respect for her father became. "I will see you make mistakes," he pointed out, his voice gentle.

"That is different. I do not care what you think."

He gave a shout of laughter. "Now that I can well believe. Very well, Miss Wade, we shall keep your lessons to ourselves. There are plenty of places in a house this size where a duke, his pupil, and a quartet of violinists can hide. I will find one."

"Thank you." She nodded, and moved as if to walk past him and depart, but Anthony spoke again, bringing her to a halt. "In addition to dancing, could I tempt you to stay longer with lessons in etiquette?"

"No, thank you." She took two steps sideways, then walked past him.

He turned, his gaze following her. "Why not?"

Daphne paused and looked at him over one shoulder. "I have already found four books on matters of etiquette in your library."

Anthony laughed, watching as she walked out of the room. He was beginning to enjoy this battle with Miss Wade. He had lost on his attempt to buy more time with lessons in etiquette, but if he paid close attention, other opportunities would present themselves. If he kept his wits about him, his museum just might be opened on schedule after all.

Chapter 12.

After dinner that evening, while she was working in the library, a footman came in search of her. "Miss Wade?" he asked from the doorway.

Daphne looked up from the Romano-British tablet she was translating. "Yes, Oldham?"

"His grace sent me for you."

It must be time for her dance lesson. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, which showed the time as quarter to eight, but perhaps the clock was slow. She set her book aside and followed the footman out of the library. He picked up a lit candelabra he had placed on a table outside the door and proceeded to lead her up a set of stairs to the top floor, and all the way across the house to the north wing. Anthony had found a place that was indeed far away from any sort of audience.

During the nearly six months she had been at Tremore Hall, Daphne's life had been limited to a small part of the immense ducal house and she had given herself little time to explore the rest. As a result, she was completely lost by the time she and the footman reached a door at the end of a long corridor. Oldham opened the door for her to enter and stepped aside.

Anthony was waiting for her, standing beside the fireplace in an empty room. He bowed to her as she came in, and he nodded to Oldham to depart. By the light of the fire as well as the four lit wall sconces in the corners, she could tell this room had not been used for a long time. The floor was covered with a layer of dust, and the heavy draperies of robin's-egg blue that covered the windows seemed as if they had not been taken down for a good shaking in years. The only object in the entire room was an intricately carved wooden box on the mantelpiece.

"I have never been in this part of the house," she said as she looked around. "What is this place?"

"This is the children's wing."

"But it is so far from the other rooms."

He gave her a look she could not explain, a bit of both cynicism and humor. "I do not think Tremore Hall was originally built with children in mind. The fashion has long been to keep children well out of the way."

"A poor fashion, in my opinion." She looked around. "Was this your room as a boy?"

"Yes."

She tried to imagine him as a child, but it was not easy. She looked at the wall and the purple chalk marks on the cream-colored paint. She smiled and traced a line with her finger. "A map of the Roman empire?"

"Well, an attempt at one. Not perfect, but good enough for Parliament, as my mother was wont to say."

He had never mentioned his parents. "What was your mother like?"

Anthony looked past her as if remembering. "She was one of the most extraordinary people I have ever known, and yet I doubt I could explain why in any satisfactory way. She was always busy with the many duties of a d.u.c.h.ess-and those duties can be overwhelming-but she made time for my sister and myself every day, going over our lessons with tutors, making sure the cook prepared our favorite desserts, thoughtful little things like that. Viola and I both adored her. I was only nine when she died, but I remember that everyone who knew her felt the same." He looked at her. "So, are you ready to begin learning to dance?"

"Yes, of course." She glanced around again, puzzled. "What about musicians?"

He pointed to the wooden box on the mantel beside him. "Given our conversation this morning, and your desire to avoid an audience, I thought perhaps you would prefer this to a group of violinists."

A musical box. Daphne walked slowly over to his side, staring at the carved walnut object on the mantel. She wanted so much to hate him for what he had said about her, why was he making it so hard?

She ran her finger along the polished silver trim of the box. "I had a musical bird when I was a little girl," she said, "but when Papa and I left Crete it would not sing anymore. Too much sand and dust in Mesopotamia, I think." Turning her head, she looked at him and found he was watching her. "Thank you, your grace. This was very considerate of you."

Anthony looked away. "Not at all," he said, and cleared his throat almost as if he were embarra.s.sed. "I suppose we should begin. The first thing you need to know-"

He broke off as he turned toward her. His gaze made a slow perusal from the neckline of her dress, over her ap.r.o.n, down to the st.u.r.dy brown boots on her feet, and she was sure he was likening her to a brown mantis, or making some other equally unflattering comparison. But when he spoke, his words were not at all what she expected.

"Take it off."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The ap.r.o.n, Miss Wade. Remove it, I beg of you." When she did not move, he stepped closer and brought his hands to her sides. Before she could stop him, he was pulling at the ties that held the front and back of the ap.r.o.n together. Shocked, Daphne started to move away, but his grip tightened on the strings, preventing her escape.

"Do not move," he ordered as he pulled at the first two bows, untying them. "I am ridding you of this, for I vow it is the ugliest thing I have ever seen."

"I believe please was supposed to become part of your vocabulary," she shot back. "And my ap.r.o.n may be ugly, but is also a very practical garment."

"It is atrocious." He bent down slightly to unfasten the second set of ties, then the third. "You are a woman, Miss Wade. Why should you wish to hide the fact behind a suit of canvas armor?"

There was more than irritation in the question. There was genuine bewilderment as well. When he straightened, the candlelight caught on gold lights in his brown hair and softened the lean planes of his cheekbones. For an instant, she remembered the man she had thought him to be-a man she had fashioned out of her imagination, a man who was not only a sort of prince, but also a kind and thoughtful man. Now she saw something in his face, something that reminded her of that day in the rain, and she suddenly realized what it was. He was looking at her, and he was not seeing a stick insect. He was not seeing a person in his employ, not a servant, not a machine. He was seeing a woman.

Daphne felt her countenance freeze into the safe, placid lines she had always used as a mask to hide her feelings from him, a mask she had thought would protect her from heartbreak, but it had not protected her at all. Heartbreak had already come and gone, there was nothing to hide now, so why did she care how he looked at her? She shouldn't. But she did.

He lifted his hands to her shoulders to undo the last two sets of ties, then he took a step back, pulling the two pieces of canvas away with him. He held them up, eyeing them with distaste. "I believe I shall burn this thing."

"You will not! I wear that to protect my clothes."

"If you had clothes worth protecting, I could see your point."

She ignored that. "It belongs to me, and you have no right to destroy anything of mine."

"Miss Wade, I do not ever want to see this garment again unless you are working. Please," he added as he tossed the two pieces of her now dismantled ap.r.o.n toward a corner of the room.

She was not fooled into thinking that word made it a request, but she did not argue. She hoped they could just get on with the business at hand, but he did not seem inclined to do so. Instead, he reached out and jerked off her spectacles.

Daphne gave a cry of outraged protest, but of course, he ignored it. He folded the gla.s.ses and put them in the pocket of his jacket, then took another look at her face. "Much better."

"Give them back."

"Miss Wade," he interrupted, "you have beautiful eyes. To distort them behind a pair of thick gla.s.s lenses is a shame at any time. When you are with a gentleman, it is unpardonable."

How many times had she wished he would notice something, anything, about her? She was fully aware that any compliments he gave her now were empty ones. He wanted her time, and if compliments would get him more of it, he would tell her she was as alluring and captivating as Cleopatra had ever been. Daphne held out her hand. "Give me back my spectacles."

"Do not the rules of please and thank you apply to you as well as to me? I just paid you a compliment, Miss Wade."

"Thank you. I want my spectacles back, if you please."

"You are not going to be wearing them to Covington's ball. I promise I shall give them back to you when we are finished here." He lifted his hands to her neck.

Daphne gasped as his fingertips brushed against her skin, too startled to continue arguing with him. "Now what are you doing?" She reached up to pull his hands away, but her efforts were futile.

"That bun is almost as hideous as the ap.r.o.n," he answered as he began removing pins from her hair, the pads of his thumbs brushing against the sides of her neck. "Since we are alone and there is no one here to stop me, I am ridding you of it. I have wanted to do this for days."

As her hair came down, Daphne felt her sense of control unraveling. She could have pulled away, but that would imply that she was affected by what he was doing, and she forced herself to remain still. "And you always get what you want, of course."

"Not always. If I did, you would be staying. Hold these."

Daphne looked down and took the pins from him. She could not believe she was letting him do this, but the feel of his hands in her hair was so delicious, she could not bring herself to pull away. No man had ever touched her so intimately before. "How do you know how to dress a woman's hair?" she asked, trying to distract herself from those dangerous feelings.

"I don't." He raked his hands upward through her hair, twisting her tresses into a pile atop her head. Holding her hair in place with one hand, he took a pin from her with the other and pushed it into place. "I am making this up as I go along."

"But if it isn't pinned right, it could come tumbling back down."

He looked at her between his upraised arms and gave her a wicked grin. "G.o.d, I hope so."

Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she spoke again. "I cannot imagine why you are concerning yourself with something as trivial as my hair."

"To a man, a woman's hair is never trivial. Imagining a woman with her hair down, imagining how it looks loose around her shoulders, how it feels in his hands or spread across his pillows, can become a man's obsession." He paused to look at her, curling a loose tendril of hair at her ear around his finger, his knuckles brushing her cheek. "I know it has been mine on occasion."

Waves of heat flooded through her body at his words and his touch as the image of her hair spread across his pillows flashed across her mind, followed immediately by horror at the very thought of such a thing. She reminded herself of his contempt and her pain, throwing the chilling water of reality on the hot, inexplicable hunger flaring inside her, a hunger she could see reflected in the intensity of his gaze.

Daphne forced herself not to look away. "The outside of a woman is your first priority, then?" she asked as if they were discussing the weather. "Are all men concerned only with the package rather than the goods within?"