It must be time for her dance lesson. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, which showed the time as quarter to eight, but perhaps the clock was slow. She set her book aside and followed the footman out of the library. He picked up a lit candelabra he had placed on a table outside the door and proceeded to lead her up a set of stairs to the top floor, and all the way across the house to the north wing. Anthony had found a place that was indeed far away from any sort of audience.
During the nearly six months she had been at Tremore Hall, Daphne’s life had been limited to a small part of the immense ducal house and she had given herself little time to explore the rest. As a result, she was completely lost by the time she and the footman reached a door at the end of a long corridor. Oldham opened the door for her to enter and stepped aside.
Anthony was waiting for her, standing beside the fireplace in an empty room. He bowed to her as she came in, and he nodded to Oldham to depart. By the light of the fire as well as the four lit wall sconces in the corners, she could tell this room had not been used for a long time. The floor was covered with a layer of dust, and the heavy draperies of robin’s-egg blue that covered the windows seemed as if they had not been taken down for a good shaking in years. The only object in the entire room was an intricately carved wooden box on the mantelpiece.
“I have never been in this part of the house,” she said as she looked around. “What is this place?”
“This is the children’s wing.”
“But it is so far from the other rooms.”
He gave her a look she could not explain, a bit of both cynicism and humor. “I do not think Tremore Hall was originally built with children in mind. The fashion has long been to keep children well out of the way.”
“A poor fashion, in my opinion.” She looked around. “Was this your room as a boy?”
“Yes.”
She tried to imagine him as a child, but it was not easy. She looked at the wall and the purple chalk marks on the cream-colored paint. She smiled and traced a line with her finger. “A map of the Roman empire?”
“Well, an attempt at one. Not perfect, but good enough for Parliament, as my mother was wont to say.”
He had never mentioned his parents. “What was your mother like?”
Anthony looked past her as if remembering. “She was one of the most extraordinary people I have ever known, and yet I doubt I could explain why in any satisfactory way. She was always busy with the many duties of a duchess—and those duties can be overwhelming—but she made time for my sister and myself every day, going over our lessons with tutors, making sure the cook prepared our favorite desserts, thoughtful little things like that. Viola and I both adored her. I was only nine when she died, but I remember that everyone who knew her felt the same.” He looked at her. “So, are you ready to begin learning to dance?”
“Yes, of course.” She glanced around again, puzzled. “What about musicians?”
He pointed to the wooden box on the mantel beside him. “Given our conversation this morning, and your desire to avoid an audience, I thought perhaps you would prefer this to a group of violinists.”
A musical box. Daphne walked slowly over to his side, staring at the carved walnut object on the mantel. She wanted so much to hate him for what he had said about her, why was he making it so hard?
She ran her finger along the polished silver trim of the box. “I had a musical bird when I was a little girl,” she said, “but when Papa and I left Crete it would not sing anymore. Too much sand and dust in Mesopotamia, I think.” Turning her head, she looked at him and found he was watching her. “Thank you, your grace. This was very considerate of you.”
Anthony looked away. “Not at all,” he said, and cleared his throat almost as if he were embarrassed. “I suppose we should begin. The first thing you need to know—”
He broke off as he turned toward her. His gaze made a slow perusal from the neckline of her dress, over her apron, down to the sturdy brown boots on her feet, and she was sure he was likening her to a brown mantis, or making some other equally unflattering comparison. But when he spoke, his words were not at all what she expected.
“Take it off.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The apron, Miss Wade. Remove it, I beg of you.” When she did not move, he stepped closer and brought his hands to her sides. Before she could stop him, he was pulling at the ties that held the front and back of the apron together. Shocked, Daphne started to move away, but his grip tightened on the strings, preventing her escape.
“Do not move,” he ordered as he pulled at the first two bows, untying them. “I am ridding you of this, for I vow it is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.”
“I believe please was supposed to become part of your vocabulary,” she shot back. “And my apron may be ugly, but is also a very practical garment.”
“It is atrocious.” He bent down slightly to unfasten the second set of ties, then the third. “You are a woman, Miss Wade. Why should you wish to hide the fact behind a suit of canvas armor?”
There was more than irritation in the question. There was genuine bewilderment as well. When he straightened, the candlelight caught on gold lights in his brown hair and softened the lean planes of his cheekbones. For an instant, she remembered the man she had thought him to be—a man she had fashioned out of her imagination, a man who was not only a sort of prince, but also a kind and thoughtful man. Now she saw something in his face, something that reminded her of that day in the rain, and she suddenly realized what it was. He was looking at her, and he was not seeing a stick insect. He was not seeing a person in his employ, not a servant, not a machine. He was seeing a woman.
Daphne felt her countenance freeze into the safe, placid lines she had always used as a mask to hide her feelings from him, a mask she had thought would protect her from heartbreak, but it had not protected her at all. Heartbreak had already come and gone, there was nothing to hide now, so why did she care how he looked at her? She shouldn’t. But she did.
He lifted his hands to her shoulders to undo the last two sets of ties, then he took a step back, pulling the two pieces of canvas away with him. He held them up, eyeing them with distaste. “I believe I shall burn this thing.”
“You will not! I wear that to protect my clothes.”
“If you had clothes worth protecting, I could see your point.”
