During the three weeks that followed, her dance lessons with Anthony were confined to the strict form of a proper young lady and gentleman, their bodies the correct distance apart as they waltzed. Daphne discovered that Anthony was right. If she kept her head up and talked with him, she did not stumble nearly as much, even if their conversations were mundane enough to be heard by the strictest chaperone. She could not help making the rueful observation that bargains over kisses were much more intriguing. But when he left for his estate in Surrey on matters of business, she appreciated that mundane conversation with Anthony was far more entertaining than his absence.
While he was away, Daphne’s thoughts returned again and again to tea at the Fitzhughs‘. Sometimes, when she was working in the library, she would find an excuse to stop for a stroll through the long gallery, looking at the family portraits in a new light now that she knew more about the people in them. She lingered longest over the ones of Anthony as a boy, thinking of how he had been forced to lock his father away, her heart aching for him.
She had plenty of work to occupy her time, and her days got busier, but her evenings got lonelier the longer he was away. Foolish, she knew, to miss a man who had once declared her to be a machine. Yet, in an odd way, they had become friends, and as the week passed, as she pieced mosaics, pottery, and frescoes, Daphne found herself looking out the windows of the antika every time she heard the sound of wheels, hoping it was his carriage passing by on its way to the house.
During her nights, there were times when she lay in bed, thinking of him, even touching her lips now and again with the tips of her fingers just as he had done, hearing his low voice proposing bargains for kisses, and she found it hard to sleep—so hard that there were actually moments when she thought of changing her mind. But every time she did, Daphne pulled the covers over her head with a groan and berated herself for such nonsense. He was getting married, and staying here was only a recipe for heartache and disaster.
One week after his departure, Daphne’s thoughts were so preoccupied with him that she could not linger in bed, and she got up and dressed even though it was barely dawn. Work was better than lying here torturing herself, unable to go back to sleep. The sooner Christmas arrived, the better, she thought, nibbling on a scone from the kitchens as she walked down to the antika on a cold October morning.
When Daphne entered the antika, she heard someone moving about in the second storage room, and when she entered that room, she found Mr. Bennington had arrived before her. She was surprised to see him, for they never began work at this hour. He paused as she entered the room, and he was clearly just as surprised as she.
“Good day to you, Miss Wade.” He pulled off his hat and bowed, but Daphne noticed at once that there was some constraint in his greeting and his manner. “I did not think you would be up and about at the crack of dawn.”
“I woke early.” She frowned, glancing in puzzlement at one of the shelves behind him, a shelf that yesterday had been empty and was now filled with half a dozen bushel baskets of fresco pieces. The ground was now frozen, and she thought she already had all the fresco remnants. “Where did all of those come from?” she asked in surprise, gesturing to the row of baskets behind him.
Mr. Bennington shifted his weight, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, these were uncovered weeks ago. His grace had them stored in a room at the hall, but he asked me to bring them down this morning. He wants me to take them to town this morning, along with all the rest you and I have done while he’s been away.”
Daphne’s heart gave a foolish leap at those words. “The duke is back?”
“Yes. Arrived late last night.”
She bit her lip and looked away, far happier at that news than she should be. After a moment, she returned her attention to the architect, her emotions well in hand. “But why is his grace having you take these down to London? Does he not wish me to repair and sketch them?”
Why, the man actually blushed. “I believe his grace intends these to be part of a private collection at his London house. He intends to hire someone at a later date to restore them in London. They are not for the museum, which is the truly important work, and you have far too much to do as it is.”
Daphne understood at once. She bit down on her lip and tried not to laugh. “I am relieved to hear that I will not need to bother with them,” she answered, trying to look convincingly grateful. “You are right that the museum work is far more important than his grace’s private collections. On that note, I believe I shall get started with my duties.”
She left him to his stock-taking and returned to the workroom. She began a sketch of the assembled fresco of Orpheus that was on her worktable against the wall, and she smiled to herself. Mr. Bennington was behaving so much like her father. Sometimes, men were so silly.
The architect had barely departed from the antika and headed to the house for breakfast before Daphne returned to the storage room to have a peek at the mysterious fresco pieces. She pulled a plaster fragment out of one of the baskets, and it was enough to confirm her suspicions. It was one of the erotic ones.
The assembled wall painting would probably contain nothing that she hadn’t seen before, and yet Daphne began assembling fragments on an empty space of shelf beside the basket with a curiosity that was anything but intellectual.
After a few minutes, she had enough of the wall painting assembled to see the main image. As far as Roman frescoes went, this image of a naked couple engaged in the act of lovemaking was not anything out of the common way. The woman was on top, her legs spread wide over the man’s hips, his hand cupping her breast. A commonplace pose, but Daphne stared at the painting, feeling warmth spreading through her body, the warmth she felt every single time she had wondered what Anthony’s kiss felt like, every time she had studied his naked chest through a spyglass, every time he had touched her.
I shall give you back your spectacles if you kiss me.
But she hadn’t kissed him. The sense of satisfaction she had felt that evening at having outwitted him had long since departed. Now, as she stared at the image on the shelf in front of her, she knew she should have just done it. Just wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. She could have satisfied her curiosity on the subject of Anthony’s kiss once and for all, and she hadn’t done it. Three weeks of dancing lessons, night after night they had been alone together, and he had been so proper and distant, so gentlemanlike, never hinting by word or deed that he even remembered wanting her to kiss him.
She was leaving in only a few weeks, and she knew she would probably never have another chance to kiss a man like him. She felt an unabashed sense of regret, and she vowed that if the chance ever came again, she was not going to let it slip away.
She stared at the painting, thinking of Anthony, and she lifted her hand to touch her mouth with the tips of her fingers, just as she had done countless times during the past few weeks. She closed her eyes and imagined far more. A kiss, a touch, his hand on her breast.
The sound of the door opening made her jump, and all her pleasurable speculations vanished as she turned around. Through the storage room doorway, she could see Anthony as he walked into the antika. He caught sight of her, and came to a halt. After a moment, he shut the front door and came toward her.
Careless of her not to have shut the storage room door, she realized, knowing there was no way to hide the pieces now.
“Good morning,” she said as he entered the storage room, trying to look nonchalant. “I heard you had returned.”
“Last evening.” He crossed the room, and Daphne’s stomach felt as if it were full of butterflies by the time he halted in front of her.
She cleared her throat and hoped she wasn’t blushing, hoped her body shielded the fresco from his view. “Did you have a nice journey?”
He leaned sideways, and one side of his mouth curved in that one-sided smile of his. “You were not supposed to see these,” he commented as he straightened and looked at her. “Mr. Bennington was very particular about that.”
“Yes, I am sure he was,” she answered, looking straight into Anthony’s chin. “But I am a professional antiquarian.”
“I believe Mr. Bennington was thinking of you as a young lady, not as an antiquarian.”
