His gaze moved to her mouth, lingered there. "What are you offering?"

Daphne licked her lips, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. "Three days," she

whispered. "You may have three more days."

"Three days? You are a miser, Miss Wade."

She had to stick to her guns. She had to be strong. "Three days. No more."

"A week."

"Three days."

"No, then. What else do you have to offer?"

He bent his head, moving closer, just a little bit closer. This time, she was going to let him kiss her, and

she felt again that wild surge of excitement and antic.i.p.ation, remembering all the times she had watched

him through a spygla.s.s, dreaming, wondering what his kiss felt like. It was certainly living up to her daydreams so far, for her knees were weak and her insides shaky, but she would die rather than give him an inkling of how she felt.

She flattened back against the wall behind her, trying to gain a bit more distance between them and catch her breath, but it did her no good. Her own past imaginings still rose up to taunt her, of all the times she had imagined his lips gently brushing hers, of a sweet word of affection or regard. Just the thought of those things was enough to hurt, but she still wanted him to kiss her. Heaven help her, she did. She was a fool.

Anthony lowered his head just a fraction more, and she reminded herself that this was a game, his game. Because of that, she was the one who would lose. d.a.m.n him for playing with her like this. d.a.m.n herself, for this time, she could not even summon the will to turn her face away.

"I shall give you back your spectacles, if-" He stopped, his lips only a few inches from her own. "If you kiss me."

From sheer desperation to escape him and the sensations he was evoking in her, Daphne raised up on her toes and pressed her lips to one corner of his mouth in a lightning-quick move. "There," she said, lowering her heels back to the floor. "Now give them back."

"No, no, I must object to your definition of a kiss. That was not a kiss. It was a peck on the cheek."

"I say it was a kiss."

"I say it was not, and I believe I know more about kissing than you do."

Daphne stiffened. "Do not laugh at me."

"Laugh?" He shook his head. "I am not laughing. Indeed, I am in no mood to laugh just now, especially not at you. I am attempting to hide the strain you are putting on me at this moment."

She gave a huff of disbelief. "Rot."

"It is true. I am exerting a great deal of gentlemanly effort to not capitulate and kiss you first."

"Gentlemanly? Trapping a young lady against a wall and attempting blackmail to kiss her is hardly gentlemanly."

"I am not even touching you. This is hardly blackmail, for you know full well I will give your spectacles back to you in the end. As for being trapped, you are in no such position. If you wish to leave, then go. I will not stop you."

"I-" She stopped, swallowed hard, and did not move. "I do not think this is a game at all."

"But it is. We are engaged in a power struggle, you and I. Do you not see how much power you could have over me?"

She felt so out of her depth with him. "The only thing I see is that if we are playing a game, it is by your rules."

"On the contrary, the rules are in your favor, for as a gentleman, I am not actually permitted to kiss you, and you can torment me forever with the unspoken promise of one."

She tilted her head, slanting a speculative look at him, and she wondered if that was really true, or if he was being deliberately provoking. He claimed that women had enormous power over men, but she had never felt any power over him. Quite the reverse, in fact. Turning the tables was too tempting to resist, and Daphne decided to test his claim.

She licked her lips again, and this time, it was she who moved closer. "You mean like this?" she whispered, concentrating on getting one thing out of this situation, knowing there was only one way to win this game of his. "Am I tormenting you?"

"You are a very quick study, Miss Wade." He was rigidly still.

"Was that a compliment to my intelligence, your grace? I am flattered."

"Right now, I must confess that your intelligence is the last thing I am thinking of. Shallow of me, but there it is. Are you going to kiss me or not?"

"There is no need." It was Daphne's turn to smile as she pulled back and held up her hand between them. The metal and gla.s.s of her spectacles glinted in the candlelight.

Never had anything pleased her more than the astonishment on his face. Before he could recover enough from the shock to retaliate by claiming his kiss, she ducked beneath his arm and moved well out of reach. Facing him, she put her eyegla.s.ses back on, feeling the sweet satisfaction of having the upper hand for once. "I believe I have won this game, your grace."

With that, she turned around and departed.

"Only the first round, Miss Wade," he called after her, his laughter following her out the door. "Only the first round."

Chapter 16.

As she had agreed, Daphne took tea that Sunday with the Benningtons at the home of Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh. As expected, talk about their most eminent neighbor was the order of the day.

Mrs. Bennington opened the topic. "Yesterday, I received an exciting piece of news regarding his grace. My very good friend, Margaret Treves, lives in London, and she has just written to tell me everyone is talking of the duke's visit there six weeks ago." She leaned forward in her chair, her plump cheeks flushing with the excitement of being the first to impart gossip. "He was said to have brought the ducal emeralds with him to Bond Street to be reset. That can only mean one thing, of course."

"Yes," Anne put in, "the society papers have been talking of it for weeks, speculating on who his choice might be. Most agree that Lady Sarah Monforth would be the most sensible."

The affirmation of what she had overheard in the music room caused Daphne to pinch the handle of her teacup so tightly that her fingers began to ache.

"Ah, yes, the Marquess of Monforth's eldest daughter," said Lady Fitzhugh. "Yes, she would be very suitable, though I would not have thought her to be quite his type."

"A beautiful woman is always a man's type," said Sir Edward, earning such a look from his wife that he said no more.

Daphne closed her eyes for a brief moment, remembering Viola's words that night in the music room.

You are the Duke of Tremore and should marry high for duty's sake, even if your choice is without love and affection.

Daphne had known for some time that he would marry Lady Sarah Monforth, and she felt a flash of anger with him. He was marrying that lady for duty's sake. He did not love her.

Daphne opened her eyes, shoved away her anger, and put her cup gently back in its saucer. It was not her business.

"Did your friend know any of the details?" Lady Fitzhugh asked Mrs. Bennington. "The duke should marry, for he is twenty-nine years now but has an engagement been announced?"

"No announcement, but alas, I know nothing more than that, Lady Fitzhugh."

"Well, he will choose someone suitable, I am sure."

"Oh, I hope not!" Elizabeth cried. "Someone unsuitable would be much more exciting."

"Elizabeth!" Lady Fitzhugh remonstrated sharply.

Her daughter was undeterred. "But Lady Sarah is said to be deadly dull."

"Elizabeth," Sir Edward put in, "it is not our practice to criticize his choice of wife."

"Well, I suppose you are right. My only wish is that he would attend our local a.s.semblies. Our cousin Charlotte has told me that Lord and Lady Snowden, as well as their son and daughter, attend at least three or four of the a.s.semblies in their village in Dorset each year. Why, oh, why can our dear duke not do the same? Papa sees him at agricultural shows and race meetings, but I have lived in Wychwood all my life and seldom see him except at the yearly fete."

"He does not seem to care much for local society," Mrs. Bennington agreed, "but that is hardly uncommon for a duke."

"True," Lady Fitzhugh said. "The old duke took a very great interest in local affairs, but not every peer shares that interest, you know. And if the current duke does not, it is both acceptable and understandable."

"But Mama," Elizabeth replied, "isn't it strange that he is so rarely in residence here? He's never given a country-house party for any lords and ladies, nor even a hunting party, and that is odd, especially for the ducal estate, do you not think?"

"His obligations weigh heavy upon him, to be sure," Sir Edward put in, and shot a pointed glance at his daughter. "Perhaps when he comes back to Tremore Hall, his intent is to rest in privacy and solitude, not gad about the countryside."

Lady Fitzhugh sighed. "I hope he does intend to marry soon, for it would be most agreeable to have a d.u.c.h.ess in residence. His mother was a beautiful woman, and so very kind. When she was alive, things were so lively up at the hall. All sorts of elegant and obliging people coming and going, and two fetes a year instead of one. Such a generous woman. The old duke was shattered when she died. I still remember how he wept at her funeral like a child. The son stood there, so stoic and stiff-lipped, without a word. It was more heartbreaking than the father's tears, really."

Daphne bit her lip and looked down into her teacup. That would be like Anthony, she realized. He would be the sort to just stand there, grieving inside, refusing to show it. She understood. Like herself, he prided himself on control of his emotions.

"Poor man!" said Mrs. Bennington. "It is not surprising he does not spend much time here. Difficult memories, I daresay."

"Very difficult," agreed Anne. "I should feel the same. Can you imagine anything more horrible than having your mother die and your father go mad?"

Shocked, Daphne stared at the girl, unable to quite believe what she had heard.

"Anne!" Lady Fitzhugh said sternly. "The old duke had just lost his wife, poor man, and it was grief made him so strange, nothing more. He did not go mad."

"Some of the servants at the hall say he did talk to himself," Mrs. Bennington said. "He used to roam the corridors at night and call for the d.u.c.h.ess. He'd talk to the servants about her as if she were still alive. They say the old duke took a horsewhip to a groom who dared to say to his face that the d.u.c.h.ess was dead. The son finally had to lock his father up somewhere in the house. Only time the boy ever wept, so they say. After that, it was he who ran the estates, and he was only a child."

Oh, G.o.d. Daphne thought of the boy he had been and how that boy must have had the courage of a lion. She thought of the man, of his need for privacy and his hatred of gossip. She stared down at the teacup in her hand, and something inside her snapped. She set her teacup back into its saucer with a clang. "I do not think we should talk about such things!" she cried. "He has lost both his parents. A man's pain and grief should be private, not bandied about in this fashion."

Lady Fitzhugh turned to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "You are quite right to chastise us, my dear. We shall not speak of it again."

Daphne did not reply. The conversation veered tactfully to other topics, but she paid little attention. She thought of her own father, who had grieved his wife's death with great pain, but whose work and child had been solace enough to see him through. Anthony's father had given in to his grief and had lost his grip on reality, leaving his children to fend for themselves.

Love should never conquer reason.

Now she understood what he had meant about the tragic consequences of love and why he thought it a terrible and frightening thing. Oh, Anthony.

"Miss Wade," Elizabeth asked, breaking into her thoughts, "you must tell us all about your travels."

Daphne took a deep breath, grateful for the change of subject. "What would you like to know, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Heaps of things. Do the Africans really tear out the hearts of Europeans and eat them?"

"No," she answered, trying to smile. "But the lions do."

During the three weeks that followed, her dance lessons with Anthony were confined to the strict form of a proper young lady and gentleman, their bodies the correct distance apart as they waltzed. Daphne discovered that Anthony was right. If she kept her head up and talked with him, she did not stumble nearly as much, even if their conversations were mundane enough to be heard by the strictest chaperone. She could not help making the rueful observation that bargains over kisses were much more intriguing. But when he left for his estate in Surrey on matters of business, she appreciated that mundane conversation with Anthony was far more entertaining than his absence.

While he was away, Daphne's thoughts returned again and again to tea at the Fitzhughs*. Sometimes, when she was working in the library, she would find an excuse to stop for a stroll through the long gallery, looking at the family portraits in a new light now that she knew more about the people in them. She lingered longest over the ones of Anthony as a boy, thinking of how he had been forced to lock his father away, her heart aching for him.

She had plenty of work to occupy her time, and her days got busier, but her evenings got lonelier the longer he was away. Foolish, she knew, to miss a man who had once declared her to be a machine. Yet, in an odd way, they had become friends, and as the week pa.s.sed, as she pieced mosaics, pottery, and frescoes, Daphne found herself looking out the windows of the antika every time she heard the sound of wheels, hoping it was his carriage pa.s.sing by on its way to the house.

During her nights, there were times when she lay in bed, thinking of him, even touching her lips now and again with the tips of her fingers just as he had done, hearing his low voice proposing bargains for kisses, and she found it hard to sleep-so hard that there were actually moments when she thought of changing her mind. But every time she did, Daphne pulled the covers over her head with a groan and berated herself for such nonsense. He was getting married, and staying here was only a recipe for heartache and disaster.

One week after his departure, Daphne's thoughts were so preoccupied with him that she could not linger in bed, and she got up and dressed even though it was barely dawn. Work was better than lying here torturing herself, unable to go back to sleep. The sooner Christmas arrived, the better, she thought, nibbling on a scone from the kitchens as she walked down to the antika on a cold October morning.

When Daphne entered the antika, she heard someone moving about in the second storage room, and when she entered that room, she found Mr. Bennington had arrived before her. She was surprised to see him, for they never began work at this hour. He paused as she entered the room, and he was clearly just as surprised as she.

"Good day to you, Miss Wade." He pulled off his hat and bowed, but Daphne noticed at once that there was some constraint in his greeting and his manner. "I did not think you would be up and about at the crack of dawn."

"I woke early." She frowned, glancing in puzzlement at one of the shelves behind him, a shelf that yesterday had been empty and was now filled with half a dozen bushel baskets of fresco pieces. The ground was now frozen, and she thought she already had all the fresco remnants. "Where did all of those come from?" she asked in surprise, gesturing to the row of baskets behind him.

Mr. Bennington shifted his weight, looking very uncomfortable. "Oh, these were uncovered weeks ago. His grace had them stored in a room at the hall, but he asked me to bring them down this morning. He wants me to take them to town this morning, along with all the rest you and I have done while he's been away."

Daphne's heart gave a foolish leap at those words. "The duke is back?"

"Yes. Arrived late last night."

She bit her lip and looked away, far happier at that news than she should be. After a moment, she returned her attention to the architect, her emotions well in hand. "But why is his grace having you take these down to London? Does he not wish me to repair and sketch them?"

Why, the man actually blushed. "I believe his grace intends these to be part of a private collection at his London house. He intends to hire someone at a later date to restore them in London. They are not for the museum, which is the truly important work, and you have far too much to do as it is."

Daphne understood at once. She bit down on her lip and tried not to laugh. "I am relieved to hear that I will not need to bother with them," she answered, trying to look convincingly grateful. "You are right that the museum work is far more important than his grace's private collections. On that note, I believe I shall get started with my duties."

She left him to his stock-taking and returned to the workroom. She began a sketch of the a.s.sembled fresco of Orpheus that was on her worktable against the wall, and she smiled to herself. Mr. Bennington was behaving so much like her father. Sometimes, men were so silly.

The architect had barely departed from the antika and headed to the house for breakfast before Daphne returned to the storage room to have a peek at the mysterious fresco pieces. She pulled a plaster fragment out of one of the baskets, and it was enough to confirm her suspicions. It was one of the erotic ones.

The a.s.sembled wall painting would probably contain nothing that she hadn't seen before, and yet Daphne began a.s.sembling fragments on an empty s.p.a.ce of shelf beside the basket with a curiosity that was anything but intellectual.

After a few minutes, she had enough of the wall painting a.s.sembled to see the main image. As far as Roman frescoes went, this image of a naked couple engaged in the act of lovemaking was not anything out of the common way. The woman was on top, her legs spread wide over the man's hips, his hand cupping her breast. A commonplace pose, but Daphne stared at the painting, feeling warmth spreading through her body, the warmth she felt every single time she had wondered what Anthony's kiss felt like, every time she had studied his naked chest through a spygla.s.s, every time he had touched her.