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 lust 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 grass 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 grass 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 glass 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 assiduous 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 glasses 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.”
