by Lara Temple
He didn’t answer. She could hear her breath in the silence and the soft swish of Inky’s tail on the floor beneath the desk, rhythmic and soothing.
Lucas went to the sofa, dropping on to it with a thump and linking his hands behind his head. ‘I’m doing it again,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘Falling into line. Do you know I reached the rank of major in the army?’
‘No, I didn’t. That didn’t appear in the gossip columns. It is very impressive.’
‘Is it? None of the skills I acquired commanding hardened soldiers seem to amount to much around here. I win more battles going head to head with my uncle and hardened politicians than I do with you. You might not have been able to control your wayward parents, but I would warrant you are very used to getting precisely what you want from everyone else.’
‘Hardly everything.’
‘I would damn well hope not. Very well. Keep the letters for now. Just don’t... Never mind. Keep them.’
He picked up the document he had been reading, but after a moment he put it down again.
‘You are right, we were lucky. Up to a point. Those letters tell you nothing of my parents’ life before we left the Sinclair household. Believe me, you wouldn’t have liked my mother’s voice then. My grandfather was a vicious bastard and my uncle John, the eldest of that mixed brood, was even worse. They didn’t dare touch Oswald because...well, they just didn’t and no one touched my aunt Celia because she was the jewel in the crown, at least until they sold her to a neighbouring lord for a respectable title, but my father was treated like dirt because he wasn’t the spitting image of the Sinful Sinclairs.’
He laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. When he continued his voice was as hard and cold as a diamond.
‘His nickname was Howard the Coward. That’s what they called him to his face, every day. My grandfather would ask me—where’s Howard the Coward hiding today? Up to his tricks with that papist bitch of his? That was what he called my mother because my maternal grandmother was a Catholic. Until they left.’
His eyes fixed on hers with the same taunting humour that she knew now was nothing more than a cloak over his pain.
‘Why did your parents leave?’
‘When I was ten my uncle, who is no doubt having a grand time in hell, tried to rape my mother while drunk. She beat him off and my father challenged him to a duel, but even drunk my uncle got the better of him. When my father recovered he went to work for his friend Buxted in Boston, hoping we could follow once he was settled there. That never happened, obviously. Ironically, my grandfather and uncle were killed in a fire in their hunting lodge in Leicestershire so my father should already have been on his way back to England to claim the estate when the duel took place.’
Inky crept up and buffed at his legs, and he stroked her.
‘Once I was old enough to think clearly about it I realised his taste of freedom was too much for my father, but he lacked the experience to cope with his late foray into Sinful Sinclairs’ antics. So before you go idealising other people’s lives I suggest you scrape the surface a little. You can’t drape a silk cloak over a tub of offal and expect it not to reek to high heaven.’ He rubbed his face and stood. ‘Hell. I know it is still early, but I need a drink. Do you want some?’
She joined him by the sideboard, wishing it was acceptable to put her arms around him. Foolish. He wouldn’t accept her comfort. She touched his sleeve instead.
‘I’m sorry I brought it all back. You probably don’t believe me, but I really am. I don’t want to hurt more people.’
He handed her a glass. This time he had been more generous. ‘I’m not blaming you. No one is forcing me to come here.’
‘Then why do you?’
He raised his glass. ‘Because I want to bed you.’
By some miracle only a few drops sloshed over the rim of her cup on to the carpet. She took a step back, her heart beating like a fist battering to escape her chest.
‘Do you mean you are doing all this just so you can bed me?’
‘And if I am?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? Because I’m not... You cannot possibly... You spent hours alone with me and not done a single thing that would give credit to that statement. Not since that kiss. If this is a joke, it isn’t amusing.’
‘If it were a joke, it still wouldn’t be amusing. Despite my well-deserved reputation I draw the line at seducing virgins. Let us just call this...an exercise in self-restraint. Abstinence is supposed to be good for the soul and mine could use some cleansing. Stop backing up, you’ll trip over Inky. I’m not about to pounce on you.’
‘I’m not worried you will pounce on me. I think this is another tactic to distract me from the letters and my investigation. You’re trying to scare me off.’
His mouth twisted and he put down his glass.
‘You are hell on a man’s vanity, Olivia. That is my cue to leave.’
‘I didn’t mean...’
He raised a hand and she fell quiet, her heart thumping painfully, her cheeks stinging with heat.
‘I will tell you where and when to meet me tomorrow. Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘I have been to Greece, my dear Miss Silverdale, and I assure you the marbles are in much better hands here in the museum than back there suffering the ravages of time and weather, not to mention possible pillagers.’
‘Apparently they have not survived the ravages of pillagers, Lord Westerby, since they are here in the museum rather than back where they survived some two thousand years of time and weather...’
‘Oh, there you are, Olivia,’ Elspeth called cheerfully from behind them. ‘Do come and look at a lovely urn I have found. I declare I have never seen such exquisite detail; it has given me a marvellous idea for an evening gown. Please excuse us for a few moments, gentlemen.’
Olivia was only too grateful to be drawn away. When they were safely at the other end of the large gallery she sighed.
‘I know, I know. It is merely that he is so very certain of himself. I hate it when people don’t even wonder if they might be wrong.’
‘Dear me. Do you?’
Olivia grinned at Elspeth’s tart response. ‘I am not as opinionated as Lord Westerby.’
‘You might not be as opinionated, but you are far more stubborn. Now behave. You have done exemplarily well for the past hour. One more hour and we shall be done. Is it so very painful?’
‘No, of course not. I love it here. Could we return, just the two of us, at some point? I would love to see everything without the accompanying lectures as Lord Westerby and Lord Barnstable try to outdo themselves in proving their erudition and improving mine.’
‘Of course we may. Now, stroll with me while your temper cools.’
‘Where are the Ladies Barnstable and Westerby and the others?’
‘Resting their weary feet and gossiping on the benches in the small gallery over there. Another group has wandered off to see the Elgin Marbles again. I think they are happy to leave you to the devices of their sons, but I thought it best to come see how you fared.’
‘Thank you for rescuing me. I shall take advantage to seek the withdrawing rooms. You needn’t come with me.’
She did not wait for her cousin’s response, but hurried away. She needed a moment purely alone so she wandered towards the Townley Gallery. She wanted to see the bust of Ramses without receiving another lecture from her hosts.
‘That is the oldest ruse in the book,’ a voice purred behind her and she barely had time to turn before a hand closed on her arm, firmly turning her back to face the large reddish-brown carved granite head and torso of the Egyptian pharaoh. ‘No, don’t turn. This way we are merely two casual viewers of this marvellous specimen of Egyptian hist
ory.’
‘What ruse?’ she asked, her heart hammering so hard at the surprise of Lucas’s appearance she was certain it could be heard in the hush of the gallery.
‘The visit to the withdrawing room while the matrons doze on the benches and the men pontificate on the importance of pillaging the treasures of other cultures. You should know better than to argue with people like Barnstable and Westerby. You are more likely to convince our rotund Prince to become a Methodist priest than dislodge those barnacles from their sense of superiority.’
‘Were you spying again, Lord Sinclair?’
‘Hardly. I went by Brook Street to inform you we have a meeting with the widow this afternoon and that you are to have your carriage stop just north of Putney Bridge at five o’clock. When your butler said you were still at the museum I decided to deliver the details of our meeting in person. Something tells me your cousin would not approve of my leaving you another note with details of an assignation which any industrious servant could open.’
‘Probably not,’ she admitted. ‘She is rather sensitive about my dealings.’
‘I sympathise. Ramses the Second was an impressive-looking fellow, no?’
He indicated the statue and she forced her attention to the pharaoh.
‘He looks far too nice for a man with such a dubious reputation.’
‘Most rulers who are remembered tend to have dubious reputations if they are not to leave history indifferent. Having seen some of his larger legacies in Egypt, I can imagine he had to exert quite a bit of force to achieve what he did and made a few enemies into the bargain.’
‘You have been to Egypt as well?’
He smiled at the awe in her voice. ‘We spent many winters there after we moved to Venice. A cousin of mine is a famous antiquarian. Is Egypt also on your list?’
‘Should it be?’
‘Certainly. After Venice, though.’
She shook her head at the absurdity. ‘Neither is likely, unfortunately.’
He remained silent for a moment, then indicated the bust. ‘So. What do you think of the human god and almighty ruler of the two Egypts?’
She turned back to Ramses. ‘He looks rather...sweet.’
‘Sweet,’ he repeated with an edge of disgust.
‘Well, he does. The way his mouth curves just a little. It’s in the eyes, as well.’
‘For heaven’s sake, this man was considered an actual god. He ruled one of the most powerful empires ever to exist and built some of the most enduring monuments ever constructed. I doubt he would have achieved that by being sweet.’
‘But he didn’t build them, did he? He must have had scores or hundreds or even thousands of minions to do that. My ancestors didn’t personally mine the ores that made us wealthy. They paid others to do it. At least I hope they did.’
‘Precisely. And those people weren’t persuaded to risk their lives in the mines because your ancestors were sweet.’
‘True. If you saw any of their portraits the last word you would associate with them is sweet—they look like they might have set the Vandals and Goths running for their mothers. But Ramses would be different, wouldn’t he? If he was regarded as a god, he would want people to consider him a father figure, someone they would want to love and who would love them in turn. I amend my assessment—he looks benevolent, not sweet. Is that more acceptable, my lord? Is that the only reason you came? Have you learnt something new?’
He sighed. ‘Do you ever lower it?’
‘Lower what?’
‘That lance you tout about with you to tilt at windmills. For once put aside your knight’s quest and accept this moment is nothing more than what is called “a visit to a museum” and serves no other purpose but to entertain and perhaps to educate. In that light I will show some of my favourite pieces which are luckily at the opposite end of the galleries from the Barnstables and the Westerbys.’
‘I must return soon or Elspeth will be concerned.’
‘Tell her you became lost.’
She smiled. ‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’
‘I could say the same of you. This way...’
Olivia didn’t resist as he guided her towards a series of marble statues. With each amazing creation they passed her mind slowed, emptying of concerns. There were beautiful reliefs of men and animals in silvery marble, statues of women draped in marble gowns of exquisite detail that must have taken years to execute, a host of Roman busts with milky-blank eyes and serious expressions, as if blinded and depressed by being frozen in time.
And it was quiet. Not the quiet of Spinner Street or the hush of the moors in winter, but a silence that amplified the images of a hundred worlds and tales that stretched out from each work of anonymous art.
‘We don’t know their names,’ she blurted out.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The people who created these. Can you imagine? Men, and perhaps even women, with such amazing talent and yet we have no memory of who they were. Invisible people.’
‘Are they? These men, and perhaps women as you say, were probably valued very highly for their skills at the time. You didn’t trust just anyone with your chunks of precious marble and with the decoration of your temples. If you believe in ghosts, imagine what they would feel if they saw people basking in the beauty of their creations thousands of years after their death.’
‘Well, I don’t believe in ghosts any more than you do. But you are probably right; they were unlikely to qualify as invisible.’
‘You often hark back to invisibility though I have no idea why. You are one of the least invisible people I know, Olivia Silverdale.’
‘You needn’t say it with such exasperation, Lord...’
She stopped, her words fading at the sight of a life-sized statue of a naked man clasping a discus poised before the throw, every muscle sculpted into frozen tension. His left hand was resting on the side of his right knee and was missing a finger and somehow that loss made the whole more magnificent and even reassuring, that the two thousand years that passed this statue by cost it only a finger. Like many of the other statues, it was positioned to provide some cover of modesty, but in this case it failed utterly. She stared in amazement at the full-scale depiction of a beautiful, naked male. She held her breath, half-expecting all that tension to be released in a flinging of the discus and then it would straighten and turn to present itself in all its naked glory.
‘I don’t understand society in the least,’ she said at last, her voice hushed in the silence of the gallery. ‘My godmother was once offended because Colin rolled up his sleeves in my presence when we had to rescue Twitch from a bog, yet this is perfectly acceptable? I distinctly saw a matron with two very young women in the previous gallery.’
Lucas inspected the statue, his hand curving over her forearm as if to pull her away, but he didn’t.
‘No doubt she will shield their eyes as they approach, while she looks her fill, of course. For some reason society is less exacting about its expectations from history than it is from its members; another example of hypocrisy and at least this is one we should be grateful for. This statue is called a discobolus. Do you like it?’
‘It is amazing. I wonder if the sculptor’s model looked quite so magnificent or whether he, or she, embellished. I could almost believe his skin would be warm if I touched it.’
‘Why don’t you try? There is no one in the room but us at present. Be daring.’
Be daring.
‘You are quite mad.’
‘In a sense. Go ahead. It is only stone, after all. He won’t bite. Or kick.’
Looking at the sinewy stretch of calf and thigh, the corded tension of the arm and the ridged surface of its chest, she tried to repeat those words. It is only stone. Be daring. Any other thoughts would be fanciful.
Be daring.
S
he shrugged and extended her hand, intending to touch only the cold marble pedestal. For some reason she reached the ankle bone and it was cold and hard as expected, but instead of drawing away, her fingers clung to the marble, trailing upwards. The glassy grain rasped against her finger pads and without warning another image interposed itself into the space between her and the discus thrower. It was a fictitious image because she could not have seen it or anything like it. It was not the statue, but Lucas. Except his skin was warm and as her hand lingered there the heat expanded through her like burgeoning fire, making it hard to breathe. She watched in utter bemusement as her fingers moved up the statue’s calf, tracing the bulge of muscle, then up over the thigh...
Lucas’s abrupt move caught her off balance. Suddenly she was two steps away from the discus thrower, Lucas’s arms pulling her back firmly against him, her body outlined by his, her bottom pressed hard against his thighs. She felt the soft brush of his lips against the side of her neck just below the ribbon securing her bonnet, his arms close around her breasts and waist, holding her for an agonising second that sent all the heat inwards like raging furies closing in on their prey. Then she was free and he was inspecting the melancholy bust of a woman bursting out of a flower.
She stood there as the room reasserted itself, only moving when an elderly couple she had seen earlier drifted in and, as they caught sight of the discus thrower, hurried through rather precipitously.
‘You are a menace, Miss Silverdale,’ Lucas said without turning.
‘You told me to touch it,’ she replied, as annoyed with him as she was with herself and her unaccountable reaction.
‘I said touch it, not make love to the blasted thing. You’re worse than Pygmalion; at least he only mooned over his statue. At least I think that’s all he did, my Ovid is rusty. Come, you should find your chaperon before I forget again that we are in a public space.’