Anthony pushed thoughts of Dylan out of his mind and looked down once again at the fresco in front of him. He traced his finger along a serpentine crack amid the faded grapes, a thin, hairline crack repaired with precise and painstaking skill.
He would never want anything enough that its loss would drive him beyond reason. Never.
He jerked his hand back from the wall painting. When he left London, he would go to Hertfordshire and see Sarah. It was time to make their engagement official.
“No, no,” Elizabeth said, laughing as she grasped Daphne’s shoulders and turned her around. “You moved the wrong way.”
“So I did,” Daphne admitted, laughing. “Oh, dear, I shall never be proficient at this quadrille business,” she confessed as she resumed the dance, concentrating on the figures Anthony had taught her. The music was provided by three violins in the corner instead of a tiny musical box, Elizabeth was her partner instead of Anthony, and the other couples were not imaginary. Twenty-two young girls having their lessons were moving with them in the steps of a country dance.
Though she had once been horrified by the thought of learning a new skill in front of people, her lessons with Anthony had given her enough confidence that at least now she could laugh at herself when she made a mistake. When she had mentioned to Elizabeth her lack of experience with country dancing three weeks ago, and her desire to practice, the girl had insisted they spend her next few Thursday mornings at the assembly rooms.
“Do not become discouraged, Daphne,” Lady Fitzhugh called to her from her chair beside the wall, when Daphne once again turned the wrong way. “Dancing well takes practice. Anne and Elizabeth began receiving instruction in these very assembly rooms when they were just ten years old. You are doing quite nicely, dear.”
“It’s true, you know,” Elizabeth said as they lined up with the other girls for a new dance. “By the time you join us in London, you will be quite fine. You dance better than you think.”
Anthony had said the same, but moving in the same steps with other people present made her errors much more noticeable to her. Oddly enough, she did not care quite so much. Anthony had helped her gain a bit of self-confidence.
She did not want to think of Anthony, and she forced herself to say something. “Are you still leaving after Twelfth Night?” she asked as she clasped Elizabeth’s hand and they turned in a moulinet .
“Yes, and I am so thrilled to be going. And to think you will be there when we arrive. Oh, Daphne, we will have such a wonderful time of it!”
Daphne tried to summon the same enthusiasm for London that Elizabeth had, but she could not manage it. As she moved about the floor with the others, she tried to concentrate on the steps, but her mind stubbornly clung to thoughts of her favorite dance partner.
He had been gone nearly a month, and there was still no word of when he would return. He might not come back until after she had gone. Any day might bring news of his engagement. She might never see him again. Three months ago, she would have been heartily glad to go. Now, she felt quite gloomy at the prospect.
She had tried to forget those passionate moments between them, but she could not forget. She had occupied herself with work, she had spent her Sunday afternoons and her Thursdays out with the Fitzhugh family, and Elizabeth had helped her to choose new gowns from Mrs. Avery to take with her to London. She had kept herself busy during all her waking hours, but Anthony stole into her thoughts every time she picked up an artifact, every time she came to the assembly rooms for lessons in dance, every time she walked in the rain.
Somehow, despite all her efforts to dislike him, she had been unable to sustain her animosity. Somehow, during the twelve weeks that had passed since she had first given him her resignation, her wounded pride had been healed. Somehow, a genuine camaraderie had sprung up between them as they had danced and flirted and laughed together. Somehow, he had made her feel beautiful and interesting as he had asked about her travels and touched her. Somehow, he had even become her friend. But having a friend who could set her afire with a kiss was a dangerous thing indeed. Especially when he was a duke and he intended to marry someone named Lady Sarah, a woman who was no doubt quite suited to being a duchess.
Anthony sat in his carriage by the roadside, staring at the rain-washed stone walls and lighted windows of Monforth House in the distance, but he did not order his coachman to go through the gates. He remained there for over an hour, listening to the droplets of sleet hitting the carriage roof on a gloomy, cold December afternoon.
He thought of Sarah, of her stunning beauty, her mercenary heart, and her understanding of the obligations and responsibilities that would come with being a duchess. She would be absolutely perfect for the role. Dylan was right, of course. There was not a hint of the sensual within her. Anthony had kissed her twice, and he knew that suggesting she do anything more venturesome than stare at the ceiling would send her for her vinaigrette and make her think him a barbaric husband. But that was why married men, as well as single ones, had mistresses.
He thought briefly of Marguerite. Not even once during the entire time he had been in Town had he gone to see her, and he could not understand why, for his body was raging with a hungry, almost desperate need.
He thought about his responsibilities. To marry well, to ensure that he had at least one son, to make the future as secure as possible for his descendants, were the primary duties of his life. He had postponed them as long as he could.
He thought about the additional power a marquess’s daughter brought to his heirs, the additional connections both of them would gain from the alliance, and all the other reasons why marrying Sarah was a good idea. She would have him, there was no doubt of it. The vows would barely be uttered before she would have the Tremore emeralds around her neck and in her hair. She was exactly the sort of wife a duke had to have, and the sort of woman who would never demand anything of his soul.
He sat there as gray twilight began to settle over Monforth House, and he felt the burden of his rank more than he ever had before. He listened to the drumming of icy water on the roof, still not quite understanding why anyone would stand out in the pouring rain—even when it was August—and actually enjoy it.
It was dark. Anthony ordered his coachman to turn the carriage around and return to London, and he did not understand himself at all.
Chapter 19
Daphne vowed she was not going to count the days since Anthony had left, and she kept that vow. She did not look out the window every time she heard the rattle of wheels pass by the antika. She did not ask Mr. Bennington if there was any word of when his grace would return. She did not go to the north wing or walk in the conservatory.
None of that prevented her from missing him, missing verbal duels and midnight dances, bargains and kisses. She kept reminding herself that it did no good to miss him, for she was leaving. She kept repeating the words she had overheard him say about her, hoping that would be the antidote to missing him, but it did not work. Those words had ceased to evoke resentment.
Determined not to miss him, Daphne immersed herself in work. The storage rooms of the antika still had plenty of antiquities yet to be worked on, she attended two assemblies with the Fitzhugh ladies, and there was always plenty of reading to occupy the remainder of her free time—books on the peerage, publications of current fashions, a study of English politics, even a text from the local bookshop on what a young woman needed to know if she took up a post as governess. Daphne studiously avoided the society papers. She did not want to read speculations of Anthony and his future bride.
By Anthony’s orders, his master of the stables taught her to ride a horse. Given her expertise with camels, it took only a few days for her to become comfortable with it, though she thought the sidesaddle a ridiculous device.
The holiday season came. Mr. and Mrs. Bennington went to their nephew’s home in Wiltshire for Christmas, and Lady Fitzhugh invited Daphne to attend the holiday amusements at Long Meadows. She accepted, and wrote again to Viola, informing the viscountess of her decision to remain in Hampshire just a few more days. She had never experienced a true English Christmas, and going to the Fitzhughs’ for the festivities appealed to her. She had become very fond of the Fitzhugh family during the last few months, and they had come to treat her almost as one of their own.
For her first English Christmas, Daphne ate foods as exotic to her as they were commonplace to her hosts. She was doubtful regarding the roast boar’s head, but she loved the plum pudding, hard sauce, and wassail.
The Benningtons came back to Tremore Hall in time to give her their farewells and best wishes. Mr. Cox paid her the stipend of five hundred pounds. By January 5, there was no reason for her to remain in Hampshire. It was time to leave.
