"Persuasion?"

"Temptation. If I can tempt you with the fruits of my garden of Eden, you might stay." He gestured to a grove of figs nearby. "Would you care to see the pa.s.sion fruit?"

Daphne followed him through the jungle of trees to a trellis on the other side that was tangled with a lush

growth of vines. "This is called pa.s.sion fruit?" she asked as they paused before the trellis.

She studied the plant for a moment, then said, "I think something with such a name should look more extraordinary than this."

"The vine may be unremarkable, but when it blooms, the flower is lovely. It signifies

devotion."

She turned toward him with a quizzical look. "Apples for temptation. Pineapples for welcome.

Pa.s.sion flower for devotion. Do all plants signify a sentiment, then?"

"Many of them do. Have you never read Le Langage des Fleurs?""The language of flowers," she murmured."You speak French?""Of course. In Morocco, most people do not understand English, so I learned French.""How many languages do you speak, Miss Wade?""Heavens, I don't know. Let me see. French, Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, Farsi, and Arabic," she listed, counting on her fingers. "So, in addition to English, that makes

seven."

"Extraordinary," he said, looking at her in amazement. "I must confess, Latin and French were all I could manage, even with a slew of childhood tutors and a Cambridge education. Miss Wade, you have awed me."

Daphne felt a momentary glow of pleasure at the compliment, but she quickly snuffed it out. "I do not know this language of flowers. Do flowers truly have their own language?"

"They do. It has been put into a book, Le Langage des Fleurs, by Madame Charlotte de la Tour. It is quite the fashion to convey one's sentiments with flowers, and several other books have been written, expanding on her original text, enabling a bouquet to serve as an entire letter."

"What a beautiful way to express one's feelings. I should love to receive something like that."

He bent down and pulled a spray of tiny pink blossoms from a potted plant at the foot of the trellis, then straightened and presented it to her. She took it, too surprised to do otherwise.

"It has a lovely scent," she said, holding it to her nose. What is it?"

"Your namesake. Daphne odora."

"What does it signify?" Looking up, she added, laughing, "Do not tell me something awful, for I should hate that."

"Never fear, for it is quite the opposite." He took the spray of flowers from her hand, and Daphne caught her breath as he reached behind her head and tucked the tiny bouquet into the bun at the nape of her neck. "It means, *I would not have you otherwise.'"

She released her breath in a rush and turned away. Desperate for something to say, she gestured to the trellis. "But pa.s.sion flower means devotion, and that does not make sense to me. Should not a pa.s.sion flower convey pa.s.sion?"

"Ah, but the fruit is where the pa.s.sion is, Miss Wade. Intoxicating and delicious. Like pa.s.sion itself."

A rush of intense warmth came over her, and she turned away before he could see that she was actually blushing. "One day I shall have to try them," she said, and resumed walking.

He fell in step beside her. "They are not in season now, but if you stay, you can enjoy them for breakfast in a few months-"

"No, thank you." She heard the breathlessness in her own voice, and tried to cover it by teasing. "Your grace, this will not do," she told him with mock sternness. "I shall not be led astray by exotic breakfast bribes."

"Then I shall keep my dates and figs to myself."

"Yes, please, for I have had enough of those to last a lifetime. They tempt me not at all."

"I wish I knew what would tempt you, Miss Wade."

Daphne did not answer as they circled to the other side of the conservatory. Nothing he had could tempt her. Not now. Not ever.

Daphne drew in a sharp breath at that stern reminder to herself and caught a scent so delightful that she came to an abrupt halt and stared at the source, a tall, fat shrub with the most beautiful snow-white flowers she had ever seen. "Oh, my," she whispered, reaching out to touch the velvety petal of one blossom as she inhaled that exquisite fragrance. "It is like heaven just to stand here."

He looked at her, smiling. "You do like flowers, don't you? Especially scented ones."

She breathed in again. "What are these?"

"Gardenias."

"Mmm." She closed her eyes. "I have never smelled anything so divine in my

life."

"Secret love."

"What?" she squeaked, feeling as if she had just been hit with a spray of icy water. She

opened her eyes, but she could not look at the man beside her. "I-" She cleared her throat, staring straight ahead. "I beg your pardon?"

"Gardenias signify a confession of secret love." She would like that sort of flower, she thought. With an exasperated sigh, she turned away and resumed walking toward the center of the conservatory, where the Benningtons were seated, waiting for them.

"Have I said something to vex you?" he asked beside her.

"Not at all." She forced a laugh. "It is just that sometimes I can be very, very foolish." "You? I do not believe it. I have never seen you make a mistake of any kind, Miss Wade. I cannot imagine you the fool."

She is never ill. She never makes a mistake. She is a machine.

"I was in love once," she blurted out before she even knew what she was saying.

"Everyone plays the fool in love."

"I suppose so."

There was a strange note in his voice she did not understand, and she looked over at him as he added, "I have not experienced that myself."

"You have never been in love?"

"Only in my dreams, Miss Wade."

His answer was so glib and offhand that she stopped walking and gave his back a rueful stare as he

continued toward the Benningtons. "That makes two of us," she murmured under her breath as she pulled the spray of daphne flowers from her hair.

Chapter 11.

Anthony had always been a disciplined man. Whether he was orating his views in the House of Lords, or discussing his estates with one of his stewards, or conducting any of the dozens of other matters inevitable to his position, he never allowed himself to be hampered by distractions of any sort, least of all a woman.

However, during the fortnight that followed Miss Wade's escapade in the rain and his dinner with her, Anthony found it hard to concentrate. Though he avoided her, the image of her remained fixed in his mind as if carved in stone, and desire returned to taunt him at the most inopportune and inexplicable moments.

He put his preoccupation down to shock-the shock of discovering that for the last five months he'd had a woman living in his home who had the body of a G.o.ddess, and he hadn't even noticed.

Anthony watched as half a dozen workmen lowered the huge slab of tessellated floor onto the hypocaust of the villa, but he was not paying any attention to what they were doing. Beside him, he could hear Mr. Bennington barking orders to the men, but the words were lost on him.

He had not even noticed.

Not until a rainstorm and a soaking-wet dress had awakened him to the truth. All through their dinner together that evening, he had been unable to stop staring at her, knowing the luscious curves beneath the plain, pinkish-gray thing she had worn to that meal. Now it seemed as obvious as an elephant in the drawing room, but the beauty of Daphne Wade's body had completely escaped him for over five months. He had always been able to appreciate a sight like that. How could he have missed it?

Perhaps it was because she was in his employ. He had never allowed himself the indulgence of noticing any of the women who worked for him, especially one who made no effort to make herself noticed.

Or perhaps he had been working too hard. The pressure of fulfilling his obligation to the Antiquarian Society was wearing on him. He had not enjoyed the pleasures of a woman's body since the London season.

Anthony shifted his weight restlessly from one foot to the other, and he wondered if her legs were as long as they had seemed beneath the drenched cotton fabric, or if that had only been his imagination.

"Your grace?"

"Hmm?" Anthony jerked himself out of his reverie to find Mr. Bennington looking at him.

The older man's bushy eyebrows bunched together in a frown. "Are you well?" he asked. "You have been quite preoccupied of late, your grace, if I may be so bold as to say it."

Anthony drew a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. "I am perfectly well, Mr. Bennington," he answered. "Carry on."

He knew he could not allow himself to be distracted by any l.u.s.ty speculations. His museum, his excavation-those were what mattered right now, and he would not let momentary desire for any woman have control of him. Even if she did have the body of a G.o.ddess.

He turned away and started to the stables, thinking to take Defiance out to the downs at the southeast section of the estate and let the gelding go at a dead run until both of them were exhausted.

He had barely taken half a dozen steps toward the stables before Anthony veered away from his destination and he found his steps carrying him to the antika instead. He had been avoiding her for two weeks and allowing his own imagination to torment him. Perhaps that was causing this annoying preoccupation with her. One more look, and he would be cured. Just one more look at her without that d.a.m.nable ap.r.o.n to get in the way, and he would be satisfied on the subject and able to forget it.

She was in the antika, but his secret purpose in seeking her out was defeated at once. The ap.r.o.n had returned, effectively shielding the shape of the woman beneath it, and Anthony took some comfort in that. No other man in the world would have been able to discern the full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and shapely hips beneath that loose-fitting, box-shaped monstrosity of a garment. It was a perfect suit of armor, he thought, as he paused in the doorway. Or chast.i.ty belt.

It was, of course, quite suited to the work she did, but why she was wearing it now was a mystery, for she was not working. Instead, she was standing close to the center of the room, reading a letter.

"If you begin to avoid working during the day as well as the evenings, Miss Wade, I shall have made a very bad bargain," he said as he entered the room. He watched her look up, and the almost frantic expression on her usually impa.s.sive face brought him to an abrupt halt several feet away from her. "What's amiss?" he asked.

"I have here a letter from your sister."

"And how is a letter from Viola making you look as if Doomsday is upon us?"

"I had written to her explaining that I am remaining here until December first."

"And?"

"She says that though London is rather dull in December, she has heard that the Marquess of Covington intends to give a ball at his home there on December 31, in honor of his grandmother's seventy-fifth birthday, and she will be sure I am included in the invitation."

"And?"

She turned away without replying and walked to the window. "I had forgotten all about dancing when I agreed to stay two more months," she muttered as if to herself. "What was I thinking? I could always say no to the Covington ball, I suppose, but I cannot say no to every ball."

"Miss Wade, I am all at sea. Why should a ball be cause for such distress? I thought you wanted the amus.e.m.e.nts of good society."

She looked at him as if he were the densest of creatures. "I don't know how to dance!"

"Ah." His gaze followed her as she paced to the other side of the room. "You have quite a problem. Moving in society will be difficult enough when you have not been raised in it. Dancing, I am afraid, is de rigeur for all young ladies."

She groaned.

"You could always stay here," he could not resist pointing out.

"Of course that is what you would say. You are quite pleased about my distress, I am sure. Which is why Lady Hammond's suggestion is so preposterous."