by Olivia Drake
“It’s no matter.” Miles paused, considering, calculating. If he hoped to relax her guard, this might be a way to do it. “I’d be happy to share. Cook always sends far too much for one person. I’ve given up trying to convince her to do otherwise.”
Bella sank her teeth into her lower lip. She was likely debating whether or not dining with him constituted something more intimate than paging through a pile of sketches. “I really shouldn’t…”
“On the contrary, you should.” He plucked off the silver dome and revealed several plates heaped with bread and cheese, cold beef and chicken, fruit and cakes. “There. How can you resist such a feast?”
Her hungry gaze flitted over the food. “Well … I didn’t eat much of my dinner tonight.”
“Excellent. I’ll ring for another plate and silverware.”
“Please don’t. I’ll use my fingers.” Sitting down, she broke off a piece of bread, dabbed it in a dish of softened butter, and then added a crumble of cheddar. “It’s how the natives eat in Persia—and Egypt, too, I’m sure. Don’t you remember?”
Miles sat down opposite her. He watched, fascinated, as she popped a bite into her mouth. “I do, though I was never permitted to follow suit,” he said. “Even while living in tents in the desert, my father insisted that every meal be served with fine linens and silver as if we were at a formal dinner back in England.”
As he passed her a starched white serviette, she observed, “I see that you’ve carried on the practice.”
“It is the way things have always been done at Aylwin House.” Miles poured himself a generous splash of wine. “The servants would be aghast if I were to change any of the traditions.”
Watching him pick up his silverware, she said, “Then I dare you to do so. Right now.”
“Do what?”
“Put down that fork and knife, and eat with your fingers like me.” A mischievous smile on her face, she plucked a ripe strawberry from a bowl and nibbled on it. It was clear she didn’t expect he’d really comply.
Miles slowly laid down the implements. He could scarcely tear his gaze from her lips, reddened from berry juice. He wanted to forget about the damn food, take her straight to his bed, and feast on the delicacy of her mouth—along with other delectable parts of her body.
Instead, he wrapped a slice of roast beef in bread and concentrated on eating with his fingers. It felt oddly liberating to shun the rules of a lifetime. Who would have thought he could be tempted into doing so by the irksome little imp who’d once tagged after him in Egypt?
“Why didn’t you finish your dinner?” he asked. “Was it not to your liking?”
She flicked a cautious look at him from beneath her lashes. Had she been in a rush to get to the archives room?
Then she surprised him by saying, “Please don’t think me ungrateful, Your Grace, but English food is … rather bland. It isn’t anything like what I was accustomed to eating in Persia.”
“And what would that be?”
She picked up a chicken leg and tore off a bite, then licked her fingers. “Fresh fruit like figs and dates and pomegranates. Spices like mint and lemon and pepper. Cakes made with honey instead of sugar.”
Bella leaned forward, and his gaze irresistibly followed the shape of her blue-covered bosom against the white linen tablecloth. In a confiding tone, she went on, “If you promise not to tell, I’ll let you in on a secret. It’s something that no society lady would ever admit to doing.”
His mind raced over a dozen possibilities, all of them involving naked bodies and scented oils, or succulent bits of fruit tucked in forbidden places. He took a swig of wine to ease his dry throat. “Go on.”
“Well, then, allow me to confess that I’m an excellent cook,” she said. “Perhaps sometime I could make my favorite dinner for you, khoresht-e bademjan, a lamb stew with aubergine and turmeric. And for dessert, an ice cream with saffron and pistachios. Though I’m not quite certain where one might find such ingredients in London. I used to buy them from vendors in the bazaar.”
Miles wanted that look of dreamy longing on her face to be for him, not cookery. “Do you miss living in Persia?”
Sipping from her wine glass, she glanced out the darkened window. “In some ways, yes. Yet in many others, no, not at all. We only had one servant, so quite a lot of the daily drudgery of housework fell to me. Of course, when my s—” Bella broke off, her wide-eyed gaze cutting back to him as if she’d said something wrong.
“When what?” he prompted.
She shaped her lips into a polite smile. “Nothing. That life is behind me now, Your Grace, and I shan’t bore you by dwelling upon it. But pray be assured that I feel quite pampered at Aylwin House. I have my own maid to fetch hot water, to light the fire, and to make up the bed. I fear I shall be quite spoiled by the time I leave here!”
Miles didn’t want to consider her departure. He was fast growing accustomed to her presence in his house—though surely sexual frustration had to be the root cause of his fascination with her. Hell, he’d make up her bed himself if only she’d let him into it.
Not, of course, that that would ever happen. She had made clear her opinion of his seduction by holding a dagger to his throat.
As he ate, he kept a shrewd eye on her. He still needed to determine why Sir Seymour had left Egypt so precipitously. And that meant persuading her to talk about him. “If you were so busy with chores, how did you find the time to work with your father?”
“In the evenings I would help him with his journals. And once in a while I was able to go with him to the excavation site at Persepolis.”
“Why only once in a while? If you had a servant and lived in a small hut, there can’t have been all that much housework for just you and your father.”
Her gaze turned cool and oddly secretive. “Clearly, you have never run a household, Your Grace,” she said, then pushed back her chair. “Now, it’s getting rather late, and I mustn’t keep you. Shall we look at those sketches?”
Miles suspected she wasn’t telling him everything about her life in Persia. Putting up a barrier to further questions was a tactic he knew well since he’d done the same himself many times. But he decided to let it go for the moment. Better he should encourage her to feel as relaxed and open as she’d been earlier. That way, she might be enticed into confessing her real purpose to lurking in the archives.
And she might lower her guard and flirt with him. He might have another chance to hold her beautiful body in his arms. The very thought sent blood rushing to his loins.
He shifted the candelabra to the edge of the desk where it would shed more light onto them. Then he handed her the stack of sketches as she sat down. Instead of taking the opposite chair, Miles pulled over an ottoman. It allowed him to sit as close as possible to her under the guise of viewing the drawings.
“You remembered the scene in the topmost one,” he said. “You were chasing a frog.”
“Yes, but it was only a fragment of memory, nothing helpful.” After an initial wary glance at him, she became absorbed in turning the pages, studying each pen-and-ink sketch in turn: a whirling dervish in his flying robes, an oasis surrounded by palm trees, a temple with a headless statue of the warrior Pharaoh Ramses II.
Bella passed over those images and a number of others without comment until she arrived at the final drawing in the stack. Her eyes widened. “Look at all the boys riding on camels. Goodness, there are so many of them!”
“It was a race.” Memory transported Miles back to the blinding sun, the hot sand, the exuberant yells of the youths. As if it were yesterday, he could feel the tug of frustrated yearning inside himself. “I remember wanting very badly to join those Bedouin lads.”
“But your father wouldn’t permit you?” Bella guessed.
Her direct gaze made him uncomfortable, as if she could see straight into his soul. He didn’t want her to realize just how much his father’s curt order had crushed him.
He glanced back at the sketch. �
��Aylwin was right to do so. As I’d never ridden a camel, I’d likely have broken my neck.”
Bella raised an eyebrow. “You called him Aylwin? Not … Papa?”
“Of course. He deserved my respect. He—” Miles clenched his teeth. How had she turned this into a discussion of his past? “But enough about me. Don’t you remember anything of that day? You were present in the crowd, watching the race with your parents.”
She slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s all a blank to me. I don’t recall anything about it.”
“You’re certain of that.”
“Yes.” Without warning, she placed her hand on his bare forearm. “I do wish you could have ridden in that race, Miles. But your father surely denied your request out of love. You were his only child and he must have feared to lose you.”
A glut of emotions crowded his throat. Aylwin had feared to lose him, yes. But love? He had been valued as the heir and nothing more.
The warmth of her hand penetrated his skin. It made him want to blurt out things he’d never told anyone. Things best left unsaid. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
“Of course it matters. A father always has a lasting influence on a child’s life. Even a father who is stern and authoritative.”
He stiffened. “I don’t recall describing him that way.”
At his chilly tone, she withdrew her hand. “But you mentioned earlier that he didn’t care much for children. Your exact words were ‘he didn’t suffer prattling brats.’ Did that include you? Did you have angry words with him when he forbade you to join the camel race?”
“No! I told you, I respected him.”
She frowned slightly. “So you’d never quarreled with him? Not ever?”
Her meddlesome questions resurrected the buried memory. Little did she know, he had not dared to stand up to his father except for one fateful time. Now, bitter regret welled up in his chest to choke him. If he hadn’t rebelled, if he’d just been a dutiful son, Aylwin would never have died …
Miles surged to his feet and aimed an icy scowl down at her. “Enough of this inquisition. Since you don’t seem to remember anything useful, this is a waste of my time.”
Her expression rueful, Bella gazed up at him. “Forgive me for prying, Your Grace. I suppose I deserve the Ducal Stare this time.”
“What?”
“The Ducal Stare. You often use it to intimidate people.” Looking not in the least bit intimidated herself, she rose gracefully from the chair. “Might I borrow a candle? I seem to have left mine in the archives.”
Stifling his explosive temper, Miles turned on his heel and stalked to his desk. He cast an irritated glance around the study, but could only lay his hand on the candelabrum. Bollocks! Why the devil were there no more candlesticks within sight? There ought to be at least half a dozen of them!
He stomped back to her side. “I’ll have to walk you to your bedchamber.”
As he started toward the door, she trotted alongside him. “If we go to the archives, I can fetch my own candle and then you won’t need to escort me.”
“No!” He’d be damned if he let her dictate even the smallest matter to him. “I said that I would walk you back, and that’s that. You oughtn’t be wandering the house alone at night, anyway.”
“Why not?”
Their footsteps echoed in the shadowed corridor, hers light and quick as she kept up with his long strides. “You could trip on your skirts and fall down the stairs,” he said darkly. “You could break your neck and no one would even know until morning.”
“Are you accusing me of being clumsy, Your Grace?”
A thread of amusement underlay her words, and her flippancy only fed his ill humor. “Yes, I am,” he snapped. “You dropped a piece of stone on your foot just the other day, did you not?”
She fell silent at that, thank God. He’d had enough of her chatter for one night. He didn’t want to hear another syllable out of her. She might have the softest, sweetest lips he’d ever tasted, but there was nothing soft or sweet about the words she spoke. Every one was tart and impudent and too bold by half.
The Ducal Stare, indeed! He wouldn’t need to use intimidation if Isabella Jones had the sense to keep her nose out of his private affairs. But she always poked and pried until she’d ripped the scab off old wounds. To think that he’d purported to like her presence in his house.
Yet he did. In spite of everything, he wanted her here with him. There was a vitality about Bella that he craved, a warmth that reached to the cold places in his soul. The notion of returning alone to his solitary study held very little appeal.
As they started up the marble steps to the east wing, he cast a sidelong glance at her. She was frowning, her gaze turned downward as if she were lost in thought. Why was she being so quiet?
Had he hurt her feelings?
Remorse edged out his ill temper. He had spoken sharply to her, perhaps too sharply. Since she didn’t know the truth about that fateful event in Egypt, she couldn’t have intended to touch a raw place in him.
“How is your foot?” he asked in a conciliatory tone. “You seem to be walking well enough.”
“My foot? Oh. It’s a little bruised, that’s all.”
She sounded distracted, as if he’d intruded on the mysterious workings of her mind. Since she didn’t seem interested in conversation, Miles had to wonder what occupied her thoughts so thoroughly. It couldn’t be him. Because then she would be smiling at him, flirting like other women or using witty repartee to amuse him.
Instead, Bella seemed oblivious to his presence. Why wasn’t she thinking about him, dammit? It was disconcerting to be ignored. Here they were, alone together at night, in a setting ripe for romance.
But he had no intention of seducing her, Miles reminded himself. He had decided that on the night she’d threatened him with her dagger. Perhaps he should be grateful that she did nothing to tempt him now. He could ill afford to encourage any closeness between them.
After all, he intended to oust her from this house once he found out key information about her father’s departure from Egypt.
Reaching the top of the stairs, they proceeded down the gloomy corridor with its many unoccupied guest chambers. Miles held up the candelabrum, and the light cast a pale nimbus over Bella’s profile, the well-defined cheekbones, the pert little nose, the stubborn chin. And those soft, soft lips that he craved to taste again …
Toward the end of the passageway, she stopped at a closed door. Her bedchamber. He half expected her to go inside without so much as a farewell. After all, she hadn’t uttered a word to him for at least five minutes. It was as if he had ceased to exist for her.
Suddenly she swung to face him. Rich and blue, her eyes lifted to his and held firm. He felt the force of her gaze like a bolt of energy. In that moment he knew that she hadn’t forgotten him at all.
She laced her fingers together in an oddly nervous gesture. Her bosom lifted as she drew a deep breath. “Your Grace, I’ve a confession to make. And I warn you, it won’t be to your liking.”
Chapter 17
So, Bella thought, she had said it. There was no going back. She would have to tell him now.
Without a doubt Miles would be furious. He jealously guarded his privacy, and he would not be happy to learn what she had done. Nevertheless, she must not quail. She knew of no other way to accomplish her objective of persuading him to talk to her about the past.
He cocked a dark eyebrow. At least his mood seemed to have mellowed, she judged. He no longer exhibited the cold anger he’d shown earlier in regard to her impetuous questions about his father. He might rant and rail, but he would overcome his fury about this, too.
She hoped.
With one hand, he held the candelabrum. He placed the other hand high on the door frame, effectively blocking her in the narrow indentation of the door. “A confession,” he mused, studying her face. “Does this have to do with your poking through my files tonight?”
He’d struck close to the mark. But not close enough.
Bella swallowed. “Not tonight. Two nights ago. I borrowed something from you.”
“Borrowed? I know about your dagger.” He frowned. “And I should hope you wouldn’t be so careless as to take a piece of papyrus.”
“Of course not! I know it’s fragile.” He stood close, too close. The hard panel of the door pressed into her spine. “The truth is … I happened upon a packet of letters. I recognized my father’s penmanship on the outside. They were addressed to the Marquess of Ramsgate.”
All amiability vanished from his face. In the candlelight, his expression became as stiff and unforgiving as a funeral mask. “So you took my personal letters, by God. And no doubt you read them, too.”
“Yes. Though I didn’t realize at first that you were Ramsgate. It was only later that I figured it out.” Bella bit her lip. Perhaps an emotional plea could wipe the coldness from his expression. “Please do try to understand, Your Grace. I lost my father less than a year ago, and I couldn’t resist the chance to read his words. I thought the letters might reveal a clue as to why he never told me about our time in Egypt. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“No harm.” Contempt in his tone, Miles walked a few steps away and then turned to face her again. He ran his fingers through his hair, mussing the dark strands. His eyes had never looked so stony. “Those letters were private. Do you ever think before you act?”
His accusatory tone only made her feel worse. On the walk here, she had fretted over the prospect of telling him the truth, arguing with herself, turning coward several times before rallying her courage. She could have kept quiet. He likely wouldn’t have discovered the letters were missing until long after she’d left Aylwin House.
But he deserved to know what had happened. And she hoped it might give her an opening to ask more questions. She sensed an inner pain in him, something connected to his father—and hers. Something that had festered in him all these years. Something more than the fact that Papa had abandoned him in Egypt.
Whatever it was, she yearned to help Miles resolve it. Otherwise, he would spend the rest of his life hating Papa.