"It is so hot in summer that the air shimmers over the horizon in waves, so hot it's hard to breathe. The heat makes your skin feel stretched so tight over your bones that it hurts." She closed her eyes and rubbed her wet cheeks with the tips of her fingers as if in remembrance of the hot desert sun. "And all you feel is your own sweat turning the dust on your face to caked mud. Your mouth is dry, and you keep licking your lips over and over, but it doesn't help. They are so chapped and dry."

Anthony lowered his gaze to her mouth, watching as she ran the tips of her fingers back and forth over her moist, parted lips. Though they may have been chapped in the desert, there was nothing but softness to them now.

l.u.s.t hit him with such unexpected force that he could not move.

"Sand blows all the time," she went on as he watched the tip of her finger slide down over her chin and along the column of her throat. His throat went as dry as her desert.

"The sand blows in every direction and rubs your skin like sandpaper. All your clothes have to be drab colors that hide the dirt. There's so little water, you can only bathe once a week, and it is never a full bath, just a tin pail of water, soap if the supply caravan has come through, and a sponge."

He tried to say something, anything, but he made the mistake of looking down, and the thought of any sort of reply vanished from his mind. For once, she was not wearing that ap.r.o.n of hers and her beige cotton dress was plastered to her form, molding to every curve of her body, the rain making the cotton fabric seem almost transparent. She seemed blissfully unaware of the view he had of her, the round fullness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the cotton layers of her clothing, the deep dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the fold of wet fabric between her thighs. And her legs. G.o.d. How long were they?

This was Miss Wade, he reminded himself. Not a G.o.ddess by any means. And yet, he could see for himself that she had a body like one. Never in a thousand years would he have dreamed that such a luscious shape was concealed beneath that horrid ap.r.o.n and drab cotton.

Anthony tore his gaze away from her rain soaked form to stare instead at the stone image that graced the top of a fountain beyond her left shoulder. A satyr, he realized as the thick heaviness of l.u.s.t surged through his body. How appropriate.

She worked for him, he reminded himself, and there were rules about that sort of thing. He returned his gaze to her face and tried to focus on what she was saying as he strove to regain his control.

"All my life, whenever I have had the chance, I go walking in the rain, because I love it so. The rain here in England is especially nice, because it is so gentle and misty and your gardens are beautiful. The first morning after I arrived here in March, I went for a walk around the estate, just breathing in the fragrance of wet gra.s.s and damp leaves. It was lovely." She let out her breath in a deep sigh. "Oh, you just don't know how it feels to be here when you have lived in dry, hot climates all your life."

Anthony could not form a coherent word of reply. In some vague, dim part of his consciousness, he could appreciate what she meant, and he could imagine how hard it would be for anyone, especially a woman, to live as she had. A flash of anger at her father went through him at the idea of any honorable man subjecting his daughter to such hardships. But for the most part, Anthony could not do much in the way of thinking. Standing in front of him was a woman he had never seen before, a woman whose body was a hidden treasure, a woman whose eyes were the exact shade of the larkspur still blooming in the stone urn beside her, a woman who thought sodden gra.s.s and leaves were fragrant. A woman whose innocent pleasure in getting soaked by a rainstorm was proving as erotic to him as any aphrodisiac could be.

With all the discipline he possessed, Anthony set his jaw and reminded himself of his position and hers. "Pray, is this going to become a habit with you?"

She blinked, whether from the water flowing over her face or the sudden hardness in his voice it was impossible to tell. "Is what going to become a habit?" she asked. "Standing in the rain?"

"Enjoying yourself instead of doing the work for which I am paying you, and paying dearly, I might add."

"What has put you into a fit of temper?" she asked with some asperity. Then, before he could answer, she held up her hand to halt any reply he might have made. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"No," he said, his voice sounding oddly strangled to his own ears, "indeed, you do not."

"But since you asked about my work," she went on, "I was working. I was doing research on pottery fragments in the library, but the rain started, and I could not resist the opportunity- "

"To drown yourself, yes, I know," he interrupted, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on her face. Even that was not helping, however, for when he reached out and pushed a tendril of hair away from her face, he could not seem to pull his hand away. The skin of her cheek felt warm and satiny beneath his fingers. How? he wondered. How did a woman who had lived in deserts all her life have skin as soft and fine as this? He touched his fingers to her lips as she had done. How could her lips be so velvety as this?

She was looking at him, her eyes wide with shock, but in their depths, there was also something else, something that reflected what he was feeling. Yes, desire was in her eyes and in the rapid wisp of her breath against his fingers. It was in the way she stood so still, tense and poised like a deer about to flee. If he slid his hand down, he would feel her heart pounding as hard as his own.

His hand moved an inch in that direction before he yanked it back.

"Come inside," he said. "You are soaked through, and could very well catch a chill. I know this climate better than you do, and I will not have you becoming ill when we have a great deal of work to do."

To Anthony's relief, she did not argue. Holding the umbrella over both of them, he escorted her back to the house. Inside, he handed the dripping umbrella and the dripping Miss Wade over to an astonished Mrs. Pendergast. "A hot bath and a small gla.s.s of brandy for Miss Wade," he ordered.

Turning to Daphne, he said, "Next time you want to feel like you are washing away the desert, or whatever, please take a bath indoors. I hope we may still expect your presence at dinner tonight?"

"Of course," she said, managing to sound dignified despite the fact that she was forming pools of water on the white marble floor.

"Good. I will see you this evening." He turned away without another word and started back to his study. He reminded himself that Daphne Wade was a woman in his employ, a young, innocent woman. A woman he had barely noticed and had certainly never desired. Until now.

Now, he thought of her in soaking beige cotton, and he could not rid himself of the hot, smothering desire that coursed through his body, nor the image of the satyr's face mocking him for it.

Chapter 10.

At first, Anthony's prediction that breaking bread together might make them friends did not seem likely to come true.

For one thing, the dining room seemed absurdly grand for any man having only three guests to dinner, even if he was a duke. The gold- and silver-patterned ceiling thirty feet above their heads, the long dining table and the chairs of crimson velvet, the columns of white marble, the gilt-edged mirrors and paintings of winged cherubs did not induce a comfortable and relaxed atmosphere, at least not to Daphne.

Second, there was the food. Two different kinds of soup from which to choose, one cold and one hot. Then three selections of fish, followed by two courses of four meats each, one an enormous joint of beef he carved himself. It was all beautifully presented, and what she sampled was delicious, but to Daphne, it seemed an extraordinary waste, since only four people could not consume even a tenth of it.

She was accustomed to dining at a dust-covered folding table in a tent, or at a modest Italian pensione, where she, her father, and any other British men involved in the current excavation discussed Roman history and antiquities over every meal.

Third, there was her host. His conversation with all three of them was amiable, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennington were able to return his pleasantries with ease, but she could not. His manner, particularly toward her, was all consideration and regard.

Daphne knew that Anthony's a.s.siduous attention was just another part of his campaign to keep her in Hampshire. She also knew how charming he could be, but that charm was seldom directed at her and never in a social situation. She had no idea how to respond, especially since she knew what he truly thought of her.

Aside from his concern for her enjoyment of the meal, he also had the curious notion to make a study of her person. Whenever she looked up from her food, she found him watching her, with a strange sort of intensity she could not define.

She did not look any different than usual. She had taken off her gla.s.ses and donned the only nice dress she had, a mauvish-gray muslin frock that must be at least half a dozen years out of fashion, and she had no illusions that either of those trifling changes would cause Anthony to deem her anything worth staring at. She could only think his disconcerting scrutiny was a result of her morning walk in the rain. He had accused her of having lost her mind, after all.

By the time the desserts arrived, she could not help remarking on it. "Mrs. Bennington," she said, looking at the older woman across the table, "his grace studies me most intently this evening, do you not think so? He examines me as if I were an artifact."

"Heavens, dear!" Mrs. Bennington exclaimed, a hint of reproof behind her little laugh as she glanced uneasily toward the duke and back again to her. "You should not describe yourself in such a way. Artifact, indeed."

Anthony picked up his gla.s.s of wine and leaned back in his chair at the head of the table. His lashes lowered as his gaze raked over her with the leisure of a well-fed lion. "But Mrs. Bennington, I might describe her that way myself, for artifacts are rare and mysterious things, intriguing and difficult to interpret. One so often draws erroneous conclusions about them."

Daphne's hand tightened around the serviette in her lap. What was he saying? she thought wildly. That she was not an unnoticeable stick insect after all? She forced herself to unclench her fist and pick up her wine gla.s.s. "You believe I am a mystery, your grace?"

"I do, Miss Wade."

"I cannot think why." She took a sip of claret and set her gla.s.s back down. "I a.s.sure you, I am no great mystery at all."

"Miss Wade, I believe the duke has a point," put in Mr. Bennington from her other side. "Why, Mrs. Bennington and I have often discussed that very thing ever since your resignation."

"I know you were surprised, but-"

"Surprised?" Mrs. Bennington interjected. "Bless us, it was astonishing. Not that we blame you, of course, for wishing to go to Lady Hammond. Such a treat for you, dear, and no question you deserve it. But we had no idea you were such a great friend of the viscountess. So you see, his grace is quite correct that you are mysterious. Close as an oyster."

Daphne did not know what to say. She had never thought of herself as either mysterious or secretive.

"So you see?" the older woman went on when she did not reply. "Even now, you tell us nothing. If you were a bit more forthcoming with others, it would not go amiss, dear. One never knows what you think and feel."

"Can't expect the young dandies in London to be able to read your mind, you know," Mr. Bennington added with a chuckle.

"Not dandies, dear," his wife corrected. "That term is quite out of date. Beaux, they are called nowadays."

"Since we have all agreed that Miss Wade is a mystery," Anthony put in, "shall we allow her to choose what our entertainment shall be, now that dinner is over? Then we may draw conclusions about her from what she chooses." He set aside his gla.s.s of wine, leaned forward in his chair, and looked at Daphne as if her opinion were of the gravest importance. "What shall it be, Miss Wade?"

"You must help me, your grace," she said, smiling sweetly at him. "You are so thoughtful and considerate that I am sure you have prepared several amus.e.m.e.nts for us. You must tell me what they are."

"A very deft and clever answer," he said, laughing. "It flatters me, buys you time, and tells none of us more about you. Very well, I shall give you choices. If you would like music, I can summon musicians for you. Or would you prefer poetry?"

"Do not choose poetry, Miss Wade, I beg of you," Mr. Bennington said. "I shall fall asleep."

"No, Mr. Bennington," Anthony admonished him. "Do not say such things. I should be happy to recite Byron or Sh.e.l.ley or Keats for Miss Wade myself if that is what she wants. Her wish is my command."

Daphne did not want to hear him talk that way, as if he meant such an outlandish thing. And she could not bear the idea of hearing him reciting romantic lines of Byron to her. She stood up and cast aside her serviette. "I believe I should like to see your conservatory, your grace, for Mrs. Bennington has told me it is quite the most breathtaking thing, and I have had no chance to see for myself if that is so."

"A walk in the hothouse it is," Anthony agreed, rising to his feet with the others.

"Haverstall, send a footman ahead to have the conservatory lit."

"Very good, sir."

The house steward signaled for a footman as Anthony turned toward the door, offering his arm to Daphne. "Shall we go?"

She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they left the dining room, Mr. and Mrs. Bennington behind them, a footman racing ahead to obey the duke's instructions.

They strolled down the long corridor toward the conservatory at a much slower pace than the footman. Neither of them spoke, but she could feel him watching her out of the corner of her eye. She stared straight ahead, compelled to give nothing away, but they had not quite reached their destination when she had to ask the obvious question. "What conclusions do you draw from my choice of entertainment?"

"That you are fond of flowers?"

Despite herself, she laughed at how pat his answer and how ruefully he said it. "You see, I am not so mysterious, am I?" she countered. "All women are fond of flowers."

"I like hearing you laugh."

Her insides took a tumble, and she almost stopped walking but recovered herself just in time. She did not reply, and they continued toward the conservatory without speaking.

He broke the silence between them just as they reached the conservatory. "I must confess, Miss Wade, that taking a turn around the hothouse was not what I was hoping you would suggest."

"And what had you hoped for?"

"Twenty questions," he murmured as they walked inside the conservatory. "But only if I could ask them of you."

She pulled her spectacles from the pocket of her skirt and put them on. "Not in a thousand years," she said primly, and turned away for a look at the indoor garden around them.

Like all the other rooms at Tremore Hall, this one was enormous. At least fifty feet long, its ceiling was composed entirely of octagonal gla.s.s panes. Three of the walls were gla.s.s as well, braced every eight feet by stone columns. Arches curved overhead, attaching those columns to another set of identical ones that ran down the center rather like a Roman forum. The gla.s.s reflected light from sconces that lined the wall of the house. Additional light was provided by various candelabra set atop tall stone pillars placed throughout the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennington started strolling toward one side of the building, and Daphne moved to the center, Anthony beside her as she studied her surroundings. There were lemon trees, which she recognized at once, and there were also date palms and towering fig trees that reminded her of Palestine. There were three different fountains, several statues, and plenty of stone benches so one could sit and enjoy the serene environment. Flowers in brilliant colors bloomed everywhere. Some she recognized, some she had never seen before.

"Is it not as magnificent as I told you, Daphne?" called Mrs. Bennington from somewhere behind a grove of trees and palms.

"It is," she agreed, and paused in the center of the vast expanse, staring at the arches overhead and the many panes of gla.s.s above them. "I have never seen anything like this before," she added, and returned her attention to the man standing nearby. "I am awed, your grace. Truly awed."

He smiled at her, and she caught her breath. Like the sun coming out. "From you, who has seen so much of the world, that is the highest of compliments. Thank you."

Daphne took another look around, spinning in a slow circle, then she faced him again. "It is so very English, is it not?"

He laughed, and she looked at him in bewilderment, unable to figure out what he found so amusing.

"Miss Wade, you are surrounded by Greek statues, Italian lemon trees, bonsai in the custom of Nippon, and pineapples from the Sandwich Islands. How much less English can it be?"

Daphne couldn't help smiling back at him. "Well, it is very English. No one I ever knew in Italy had a lemon tree inside the house, and the date palms in Palestine are so scrawny compared with these. And what on earth is a bonsai?"

He pointed to a stone planter near her feet. She gave a cry of delight and knelt down for a closer look. "Why, these are miniature apple trees, with apples on them!" Looking up at him, she asked, "Are they really apples?"

"See for yourself." Anthony knelt beside her, plucked off one of the cherry-size fruits, and pressed it to her mouth. She hesitated only a moment, then parted her lips. "Apples mean temptation, you know," he said as she took the fruit into her mouth.

Daphne almost swallowed the miniature apple whole at the touch of his fingers against her lips. He had touched her just this way earlier in the garden, and just as before, her whole body felt suddenly warm, as if a delightful wave of the Aegean Sea had washed over her. She wanted to stay here forever. She wanted to run away as fast as she could.

In the end, she did neither. She rose to her feet, striving to maintain her most impa.s.sive expression as she chewed and swallowed the fruit. "They are indeed apples," she finally said, keeping her voice devoid of any of the turbulent feeling rushing through her. "Just as I said. Very English."

She turned away and found that in front of her was a raised flower bed of the strangest-looking plants she had ever seen. Each was composed of a cl.u.s.ter of long, upright leaves, with one stem coming out of the center that was capped with some sort of fruit. "How very odd they look," she said to Anthony over one shoulder. "What are they?"

"Pineapples. They are given as a gesture of welcome. Have you ever eaten one?"

When she shook her head, he lifted his hand, and a footman appeared out of nowhere. "Cut a pineapple for Miss Wade," he said, and before she could protest, the servant snapped one of the strange, p.r.i.c.kly fruits from its stalk. "Take it to the kitchens, please, and tell them to serve it to Miss Wade with her breakfast tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." The footman bowed and vanished with the pineapple as Anthony returned his attention to her.

"If you are fond of the taste," he said, "feel free to have one any time you like during the remainder of your stay."

She did not want Anthony to do things for her. That was never what she had wanted, and it was too late

now to make a difference anyway. "Thank you," she murmured. "That is very kind of you, your grace."

"Contrary to certain reports, I have been known to be kind on occasion." Laugh lines

appeared at the corners of his eyes, though he did not smile. "But I confess I am not being kind just now."

"Yes, I know, and it is not going to work."

He tried to look innocent. "What is not going to work?"

"This blatant attempt to trick me into staying with charm and-and other such tactics."

"I know you are far too intelligent to be fooled by charm or trickery, Miss Wade. Can we not just say I am using the only weapon I have?"