"Perhaps, but for all that, his feeling was no less powerful. Then take Marc Antony. At the battle of Actium, he gambled everything to win Cleopatra's kingdom back for her. Why?"

"Does it matter why? Marc Antony was as foolish as Caesar had been. Whatever his feelings, he should never have engaged in the battle. It was a futile attempt."

"Futile? He nearly won."

Before he could reply, a voice spoke from the other end of the room. "Begging your pardon, your grace, but Mr. Richardson says your bath is waiting, and your meal will be ready shortly."

Anthony glanced up to see a footman standing in the doorway. "I shall be along in a moment."

The footman gave a bow, then departed. Anthony returned his attention to the woman opposite him. "In war, Miss Wade, the fact that he nearly won counts for nothing. Marc Antony was a brilliant general, and he should have known he would lose at Actium. Octavian had marshaled all the forces of Rome against him. Reason dictated that he retreat."

"But what makes you think reason had anything to do with it?" she countered. "He loved her, and that power she had over him went beyond his reason."

He made a sound of impatience. "Trust a woman to bring emotion into an intellectual discussion."

"Trust a man to denigrate the power of love."

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. "Love should never conquer reason."

"But it so often does."

"With tragic results."

"For Marc Antony and Cleopatra, perhaps," she was forced to concede. "But not for everyone. Some people can be made quite happy by it."

"In the short term, perhaps."

He could tell his firm resolve in this discussion frustrated her. She lifted her gaze heavenward, clearly frustrated with him. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she cried, "have you never known anyone who was happy in love?"

A memory flashed through Anthony's mind of the night he'd found his father dead, four empty vials of laudanum beside him. "Yes, I have," he answered. "And the results were tragic."

He found he was no longer in the mood for conversation. Abruptly, he stood up and gave her a bow. "Forgive me, but I must have that bath or it will get cold. Good night."

He left her without another word.

First Viola, and all her uncharacteristically romantic talk of love. Now Miss Wade. d.a.m.n it all, love was not everything. Why did women always think that it was?

As much as Daphne had come to enjoy the lush, beautiful countryside of England, it did present its share of problems to excavation work, particularly in the reconstruction of frescoes. In the deserts of Africa, Palestine, and Mesopotamia, sand could be brushed away to reveal an intact, beautifully preserved wall painting, but in England and other damp climates, it was different.

It was bad enough that mud made unearthing the plaster pieces of a fresco a messy, difficult task. The damp soil in which the fragments had lain for sixteen hundred years tended to degrade the plaster itself, making Daphne's job of rea.s.sembling fresco pieces into a complete painting much more difficult. Matching the color and design details of hundreds of crumbling fragments could take days of exasperating work. Some days, she found, were more exasperating than others. This was one of those days.

She had already gone through the baskets of fresco pieces the men had uncovered so far and sorted them into groups by the images painted on them. Now, using a tiny trowel, she was fitting and cementing the pieces back together. Like the floor mosaic she had finished repairing the day before, this piece of the bedchamber wall was painted with an image of Venus. Rea.s.sembling it was a bit like putting together a child's picture puzzle, but the work was much more painstaking.

She was not accustomed to frescoes that crumbled so easily, and the task required all her attention, but she found her mind preferred to wander, taking her back to that very odd evening in the library a few evenings ago, when Anthony had tried to engage her in conversation.

Daphne remembered his words that he had known someone who was happy in love but with tragic results, and she wondered who he had been talking about. Himself, perhaps? That might explain his cynicism about marriage, she supposed, and his cold, logical approach to it. She forced such speculations out of her mind. She did not care whom he married.

Since that evening in the library, he had gone out of his way to thank her for each task she accomplished, added the word please to all his orders, and had an occasional chat with her about the weather and how the cooler temperatures this week must be making her work more pleasant. He sometimes mentioned the events of the day, such as England's current overabundance of governesses, or the dullness of London and its environs during the autumn and winter months. He even had maids come by the antika every hour or so to see if she might like a cup of tea or other refreshment. He often sent workmen in to ask if she needed their a.s.sistance.

As if such things would make her stay. Since more money had not tempted her, he was now trying to prove to her that he was a considerate employer.

She gave a disdainful sniff. He was not a considerate employer. He was selfish and toplofty and had no genuine consideration for the feelings of others. He was cold as well, so cold that he would deliberately, in calculated fashion, pick a wife he would never fall in love with.

Yet, despite all that, she had fancied herself in love with him. Why? Daphne paused in her work, staring into s.p.a.ce, thinking it over. What was it about him that she had loved?

She thought of Cleopatra, and she realized that women were not the only ones who could possess a sort of magical appeal that captivated others. Anthony had it too.

She thought of all the times he had looked at her in a way that made her feel special, singled out for his attention, as if she were the only person in the world at that moment. But it was only for that moment, only when he wanted something he knew was especially difficult or unreasonable, then he could bring out a potent charm that made her want to please him, no matter how hard it might be to accomplish. Once that objective was obtained, he was gone, leaving her dazed and flattered and not realizing he had ordered, not requested, something that would take her hours and hours of hard work.

She knew now that all those times when he had looked straight at her in that special way, he had been looking through her without seeing her at all, his only intent to get what he wanted. And yet, the other day when he had been trying to persuade her to stay, she had felt a momentary temptation to agree, just because he had asked it of her.

Yes, he had an inexplicable alchemy that could make a maid run off to the dairy for fresh b.u.t.ter at two o'clock in the morning without any resentment, that made Mrs. Bennington's breath come faster just because he was talking with her about the state of the roads, that made plain, ordinary Daphne Wade feel like the world's greatest beauty. But it was not real.

She took a deep breath and returned her attention to her work. She was wise to him now, and that magic wasn't going to work on her anymore.

Daphne picked up a flake of plaster about the size of her palm and began smearing wet cement onto the back of the piece with her trowel, but the pressure of such a task was too much for the delicate plaster fragment. It broke apart in her hands, falling between her gloved fingers into pieces and dust, her fourth one of the day, another priceless piece of history ruined.

"Oh, this English mud destroys everything!" she cried, and threw her trowel aside, thoroughly exasperated. It hit the stone floor with a clang. That sound was followed by a low whistle, and Daphne turned her head to find Anthony standing in the doorway of the antika.

"Careful where you throw things, Miss Wade," he said, and bent to pick up her trowel.

"Did I hit you?"

"No," he answered, "but it was a near miss."

Daphne watched him cross the room toward her. She could tell he had not yet started working on the dig with Mr. Bennington, for though he wore no waistcoat or neckcloth, his shirt was immaculate, without a speck of dirt to detract from its snowy whiteness. Daphne was relieved that at least he was wearing it.

She hastily looked away. "I am gratified you are not hurt," she said as he paused by her side.

"Why are you cursing the English mud?" He set her trowel down beside the bowl of cement on the table.

Daphne drew a deep breath and inhaled the sharp scent of lemon soap and, with it, the heavier scent of him. It fl.u.s.tered her, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Did he have to stand so close? "It is nothing," she said and reached for the trowel. "I am feeling rather cross today, that is all."

"Cross? Now, I know I must be dreaming."

She scooped up a dollop of cement. "I do not know what you mean," she said and began to smear the adhesive on one of the small pieces of plaster she had shattered.

"I feel as if I have been lost these past few days in a bizarre sort of dream," he continued, and moved away from her side.

Daphne drew a deep breath of relief, but she could feel his eyes studying her as he circled the table to stand on the opposite side. "It seems you are not quite what I thought you to be," he said, "and I find that a bit disconcerting."

Daphne fitted two pieces of fresco together and did not reply. She lifted her gaze a notch as she waited for the cement to adhere, watching him roll up his sleeves. As the white linen rolled back from his tanned skin, she could see the strain of sinew and muscle in his forearms, and his long, strong fingers. Warmth began radiating out from her midsection, and an image of him without his shirt flashed through her mind. She fought to focus on what he was saying.

"I find that my preconceived ideas about you are falling away, Miss Wade. One by one."

She was human, she was not a machine, and she could not stop herself from asking, "What preconceived ideas are those?"

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. She did not want to hear him utter flattering, false opinions of her because he wanted her to stay and finish his project. She returned her gaze to the plaster pieces in her hands and tried to throw herself back onto solid ground. "Never mind. I do not need to know."

"I shall tell you anyway. I thought you were a meek and mild little miss, willing to run here and there and everywhere to do my bidding."

You also thought I was a stick bug. Daphne did not make that resentful addition aloud, though part of her wanted to make him feel guilt and remorse for what he had said about her when he had not even known she was listening. "You were wrong."

"So I was," he admitted. "I am discovering that you are neither mild nor meek. In fact, Miss Wade, I have discovered that you have a temper, for you have no compunction about throwing tools when you are cross. Nor have you been hesitant to speak your mind of late. You certainly expressed your opinion of me quite eloquently two days ago. All of this after five months of quiet compliancy baffles me, and I cannot help but wonder at the reason for this change in you."

Daphne's entire body tensed at those words, and she vowed he would never find out. It would be too mortifying. She drew a deep breath. "I cannot think what came over me the other day. I do not usually speak so harshly."

"I accept your apology."

Daphne's chin shot up, and she found that he was smiling at her. That alchemy at work. "That was not an apology," she said emphatically. "I never apologize when I am provoked into giving an honest opinion."

Anthony rested his palms on the table and leaned a bit closer to her. Laugh lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, though he did not smile. "Miss Wade, do you not know when you are being teased?"

"You are teasing me?"

"Most a.s.suredly."

She did not want to be teased. It caught her off guard and made disliking him harder to do. He knew it, too. "Do you enjoy teasing people?"

"I am enjoying teasing you at this moment. I confess, I am finding it... intriguing. I might have to do it more often." He straightened away from the table and clasped his hands behind his back. "Dine with me tomorrow evening, Miss Wade."

"Is that a request or a command?"

"It is a request."

She looked away, feeling trapped. She did not want to have dinner with him. She did not want to become better acquainted. "I do not believe it would be proper."

"I shall ask Mr. and Mrs. Bennington as well." Though his face remained grave, the laugh lines were still there, and a glimmer of amus.e.m.e.nt flickered in the hazel depths of his eyes. "I will even say please, if that would persuade you."

Daphne did not want to be persuaded. Still, as he had pointed out a week ago, if they could at least be pleasant to one another, the next three months would be much easier for both of them. "For the sake of civility, I accept your invitation."

"Excellent. We shall break bread together, Miss Wade. If we continue in this fashion, we might even become friends."

Daphne stiffened. "I advise you not to place any wagers on that, your grace."

Chapter 9.

Eviction of tenants was always a difficult matter. It was the one part of his position Anthony truly despised. Most peers left all decisions about such things in the hands of stewards, and he could have chosen to do the same, but to his mind, that was a cowardly way of handling one's responsibilities. He looked across the desk at his steward. "The man is ill. I refuse to believe there are no other options."

Mr. c.o.x, who had been Anthony's land steward for only six months, was not yet cognizant of his master's little eccentricities in dealing with the yearly tenant rents, but he did know the duke preferred honest opinions to tactful evasion, so he spoke plainly. "Your grace has already given him a year gratis. He has not paid his rent for last year, and because he is bedridden, he will be unable to bring in his harvest this year. By allowing him and his family to remain, you are setting a precedent- " "Mr. c.o.x," Anthony cut him off with some impatience, "with the husband so ill he will not be able to bring his crop in and half a dozen children to feed, I am not going to turn them out of their house. There are other options."

c.o.x gave him the resigned look of a good steward. "What is it you wish me to do about this matter?"

"His wife is in health. Have Mrs. Pendergast find work for her and her eldest daughter in the laundry until her husband's on his feet again, and have some of the other tenants watch his younger children. That will suffice as their rent for last year."

"Your grace, the wages of a laundress could not possibly cover-"

"Those are my orders, Mr. c.o.x. Carry them out. A fortnight from now, if he is still in ill health, I want to see some of his fellow tenants bringing his crop in so it does not rot in the ground. Pay them in ale from the brewery. That should make them willing enough to help."

"Very good, sir." c.o.x rose from his chair and departed. Anthony was glad of it, for eviction decisions were finished for another year. He glanced at the window, frowning at the rain pouring down outside. Rain like this played merry h.e.l.l with the excavations.

He thought of Miss Wade throwing her trowel and berating the English mud, and it made him want to laugh. It was so unlike her. Yet, as she had pointed out yesterday, he had been wrong to think her a milk-and-water miss. She was proving to be far more unexpected than that.

He walked to the window, leaned one shoulder against the window frame and looked out. He lowered his gaze to the huge expanse of lawn below, and what he saw confirmed his thoughts. Standing in the middle of the lawn, without even a macintosh and hat to protect her, was Miss Wade, her head tilted back and the rain washing over her.

What was she on about, standing outside in this sort of weather? Though August had been quite warm, September had brought autumn into the air, cooling the temperatures considerably. If she stayed out there in the rain much longer, she'd catch a chill.

Anthony turned away from the window and left his study. Several minutes later, clad in an oilskin cloak and carrying an opened umbrella like any sensible person out in the rain, he was striding across the lawn toward her.

She was in the same place he had seen her from the window, standing between a pair of flower-filled urns in front of the fountain with her head tilted back. She was not wearing her gla.s.ses and her eyes were closed. She stood motionless, hands outstretched, almost as if she were mesmerized by the feel of the rain on her face.

"What are you doing out here, Miss Wade?" he asked.

She opened her eyes at the sound of his voice and straightened to look at him. "Good morning. Did you come out here to join me?"

"G.o.d, no. I came to fetch you." He halted a foot in front of her, holding his umbrella over both of them, observing the smile on her face in puzzlement. What did anyone who was soaking wet on a cool autumn day have to smile about?

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

He felt compelled to point out the obvious. "You are standing out in the rain."

"Yes, I know," she agreed, and to Anthony's amazement, she began to laugh. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"I believe you have gone quite mad, Miss Wade. That is the only explanation for your unaccountable behavior of late." He put a hand on her arm, intending to lead her back to the house.

"No, no." She pulled away from him. "I've not gone mad, I a.s.sure you. I just want to stand out here a little bit longer."

"You are joking."

She shook her head and took a step back, out from under the protection of his umbrella. "I am perfectly serious," she told him as the rain poured down over her in rivulets. Her clothing was soaked and wet tendrils of hair that had escaped from her bun were plastered to her cheeks. "I love rain. Don't you?"

"No, I do not. And neither do you. Were you not cursing the English mud just yesterday?"

She laughed. "Well, yes. I hate the mud because it makes my job more difficult. I do love rain, though. I can see that does not make much sense to you."

"You are correct. If you do not come inside, you will catch cold."

He stepped forward, again trying to protect her with the umbrella and steer her toward the house, but she seemed determined to stay beneath the downpour. Shaking her head in refusal, she began walking backward away from him as he moved toward her. "No, really. Thank you for your concern, but I don't want to go inside. Not yet."

He was still frowning at her, for her smile faded and she stopped evading the protection of his umbrella. "You don't understand," she said. "I have lived in deserts most of my life, with only a few short months in Naples or Rome each year to provide a respite. Do you know what it is like to spend nine months in never-ending heat and drought?"

He shifted the umbrella to his left hand. "No," he answered. "I have never been to a desert."