Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Foolish of me, I know.”

  “Very,” Dylan agreed, pausing to look at him between a pair of tall marble statues. He lifted one eyebrow. “Well, out with it, man. Am I to know the identity of the lady fair?”

  “Lady Sarah Monforth.”

  His friend made a sound of disbelief, rolled his eyes, and moved around the statues to pause at a table of bronze and iron weapons. “You jest with me, Tremore. Tell me the truth.”

  “Indeed, I am in earnest. However, she is in Paris until Candlemas, and I have not yet proposed, so I ask you to keep my confidence.”

  “I am too dismayed to do otherwise. Why on earth would you, of all men, choose to chain yourself to a nitwit?”

  “It is a highly desirable alliance.”

  “No doubt. Her name was first on the list.” Dylan picked up a bronze knife and studied it for a moment, then placed it back on the table. “Knowing that you abhor the marriage state as much as I, my guess is that you do this strictly for the heir?”

  Anthony was becoming irritated. He did not need the meddling of his friends in his affairs. “Do you have a point?”

  Dylan looked up and met his gaze. “You will have to bed her,” he said, sounding appalled. “Lady Sarah is one of those beautiful women who haven’t a whit of sensuality.”

  “Spoken like a true hedonist. I am making a sensible marriage.”

  Dylan’s laughter ricocheted around the domed ceiling overhead. “God, Tremore, I wish I could be you. You are so controlled, so disciplined, so determined that all shall be as you will it. I suppose you have already informed God that you will require at least three sons to ensure the Tremore line?”

  Anthony was accustomed to Dylan’s caustic wit, and he refused to be provoked. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

  “And you as well, I confess it. We always manage a great deal of amusement whenever you are in town. What shall we do this time? We could go to Seven Dials and smoke opium. I did that a few days ago, and it was an indescribable experience. I shall be inspired to compose five new concertos because of it.”

  Anthony knew Dylan probably had smoked opium in Seven Dials. It provided just the sort of danger Dylan craved. He was always doing things like that.

  “Or perhaps we should invade the brothels, Tremore, since you have not been so wildly irrational as to fall in love with an actress or elope with the daughter of a chimneysweep since I last saw you. After all, you shall soon marry a woman as erotic as this creature here.” He gestured to the marble statue beside him. “So, shall we go a-whoring tonight?”

  For a moment, Anthony was tempted. Perhaps an interlude with a London courtesan was just what he needed to rid himself of the tense, hungry need that raged through his body. After all, if he were skirt-smitten, a demirep could cure him in less than half an hour. “A delicious idea, Moore,” he admitted to his friend, “but I cannot. I have another engagement.”

  “Do not be tiresome. I have been attempting to work on a new opera, and I have not had a woman for at least a week.”

  Anthony’s hand touched the edge of the fresco laid out on the table and he lowered his face for a closer examination of the fruit bowl. He closed his eyes and caught a hint of gardenia scent. His fancy, he knew. “That long?” he asked, straightening away from the table.

  “What is this other engagement you have? Monforth and his family are in residence in Hertfordshire, I believe, not here in London.” He paused as if considering possibilities, then he smiled. “Ah, the lovely Marguerite, I assume?”

  Those words brought Anthony to his senses, for he realized he had not seen his mistress for over eight months. God, he hadn’t even thought about her.

  “I am not seeing Marguerite,” he said, thinking perhaps he should, for that might return some semblance of order to his distracted mind, but it could not be tonight. “I am having members of the Antiquarian Society to dinner. We have business to discuss regarding the museum. Would you care to join us? I am certain they have never seen anything like you before. I will let you come if you promise not to do anything outrageous such as recite naughty limericks at table.”

  Dylan shuddered. “Sit around drinking port with a group of dry, old archaeologists, and try to behave myself? I think not. I would rather be flogged in a public square or drink insipid lemonade with giggling girls at Almack’s.”

  “You cannot. They banished you. Lady Amelia, two seasons ago. Remember?”

  “Ah, yes, Lady Amelia. I had forgotten that.”

  It was Dylan’s refusal to marry Lady Amelia Snowden after kissing her during a waltz in front of over a hundred people that had compelled Lady Jersey and the other grand dames of Almack’s to forbid him from entering that veritable institution for his entire lifetime. Dylan was not wont to weep over it.

  “It was only because Lady Amelia slapped your face at once that her reputation was saved,” Anthony pointed out. “That kiss would have ruined her otherwise.”

  “I told her to slap me. There was nothing for it. Everyone was staring at us.” Dylan straightened away from the statue and began walking toward the door, the edge of his cloak churning up glimpses of gold silk behind his boot heels. “If you will not come out and chase petticoats with me, I must fend for myself. I believe I shall go to the theater tonight. Abigail Williams is playing in The Rivals. I shall jump down from my box and carry her off the stage.”

  “Really, Moore,” Anthony called after his friend, “do you not think you are taking this mad artist charade a bit too far?”

  “Is it a charade?” Dylan asked, pausing in the doorway to look at him with an odd smile. “I often wonder. Call on me, Tremore, when you wish to do something amusing.”

  Anthony watched his friend vanish through the doorway, and he shook his head. Dylan was a talented, brilliant man, but he seemed to be getting wilder with each passing month. He had not been the same since he’d taken that fall in Hyde Park three years before.

  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 he
r 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.

  When Lady Fitzhugh heard Daphne was leaving for London the following day, intending to travel alone by post, she was horrified. She insisted Daphne celebrate Twelfth Night at Long Meadows, then journey to London a few days later in their carriage, for they were also departing for town, and could easily take her to Chiswick on the way. Daphne accepted their offer. The eve of Twelfth Night was when Anthony came home.

  She was in the antika, occupied with finishing the restoration of one last artifact, a very rare piece of Samarian pottery. Putting the many broken shards of the large vase back together had taken all day and most of the evening. It was nearly midnight when she penciled in one last flourish on the sketch of that vase and wrote its catalog definition at the bottom of the page: Globular vase. Group D: coarse pottery, Fig. 16.2. Samarian ware, with dark-red glaze and barbotine ornament; Hadrianic, second century. Villa of Druscus Aerelius, Wychwood, Hampshire. 1831.

  Daphne stared down at the sketch for a moment. This was the last artifact of Anthony’s Roman villa that she would restore. She might see him in London, she might visit his museum, but this vase represented the end of her time at Tremore Hall, and she suddenly felt an overpowering sense of desolation. There were exciting possibilities in her future, but when she thought of Anthony, she could not summon that excitement.


  The desperate infatuation she had once felt for him had long since disappeared, but another feeling had taken its place, a deeper feeling of respect and friendship. Desire was there, too—had always been there. Desire that still made her soft as butter when she thought of him without his shirt, of how strong his arms were when he had held her, of how intoxicating his kisses had been. It hurt to dwell on those feelings, hurt so deep it felt settled in her soul like a stone. Their time here together, working side by side, dancing, picnicking, bargaining over her time, had been special and wonderful, and the knowledge of her imminent departure seemed almost unbearable.

  A tear blurred the lens of her spectacles and she hastily wiped it away with her handkerchief. She had vowed never to cry over him again, and she was going to keep that vow.

  The fire in the grate had burned down to coals and ash, and Daphne realized how cold the antika had become. She flexed her hands several times, wincing at the ache in them from her day’s work and the cold room. Then she rested her elbows on the table and pushed her fingers beneath her spectacles to rub her tired eyes. Her fingertips were icy and felt soothing against her closed eyelids. She yawned, knowing it was quite late. She should go back to the house and go to bed, for she was leaving for the Fitzhughs’ first thing in the morning.

  The door opened. Daphne looked up as an icy gust of wind blew out the candles on her worktable and stirred the listless coals in the fireplace to life. The fire flared just long enough for her to see who stood in the doorway before dying back once again to a faint red glow.

  It was him. She could see his unmistakable silhouette in the doorway, his wide shoulders a black wall against the silvery winter moonlight behind him. Another shaft of moonlight slashed through the room in front of him, hitting the stone floor of the antika in a windowpane pattern at his feet.

  “I saw you in here.” He paused, expelling a harsh breath, then he added enigmatically, “Everywhere I went.”