by Marlowe Mia
He’d been born in Italy, his mother’s homeland. His first memories were of sun-drenched palazzos and the fecund smell of warm Tuscan earth. He’d loved the gentle hills and the round little donkey his grandfather let him ride whenever he could catch the stubborn thing. When his English father came into the earldom and insisted they return to claim his lands, Lucian was excited about traveling to the distant British isle.
But his mother had hated the chunky grey stone of Montford after the warm ochre marble of his grandfather’s graceful villa. She missed the golden quality of light in her homeland. And the damp English weather settled in her delicate Mediterranean chest. Within a short spate of months, Lucian and his father buried her under a leaden English sky.
About the same time his father lost his fortune.
Lucian sometimes liked to imagine that his Italian roots would save them yet. Not only was his grandfather’s miserly stipend keeping them afloat at present, but the ancient Roman relics Lucian had discovered were Montford’s future. The meandering stones poking through the turf at the far end of the meadow had proved to be the capitals of buried upright Doric columns. They were also proof the Italians were here long before his English forebears. His father traced his lineage back only to the Norman conquest. Lucian wondered if he might somehow be connected to Britain by a much longer bloodline on his mother’s side to the Romans who settled Londinium.
And he dreamed of resurrecting the glory of Montford, raising the standard higher than it had ever flown before.
Now, thanks to Blanche, he had access to the funds that would make it all happen.
And other things might happen as well. He’d unearthed a nearly intact statuette of Faunus, the goat-god known as Pan in Greek tradition, that morning. The tip of the figure’s erect penis had broken off, probably a millennium ago, but what remained of the organ was still amusingly outsized. Lucian thought Blanche would enjoy the naughtiness of it and perhaps be willing to exchange even more than kissing lessons for it.
Just the thought of the exotic Blanche set Lucian’s groin aching. For a moment, he wondered if he should take time to change his shirt, but he hated the idea of keeping such an exquisite creature waiting. Besides, she must have known he’d be hard at work and certainly wasn’t expecting to see her this morning. She was supposed to send an agent, after all. Surely she’d forgive a grubby collar and a bit of honest sweat.
The truth was, he could barely restrain himself from breaking into a trot at the thought that she was near.
He hurried to the parlour and found her standing, facing away from the door, gazing out the tall Palladian windows at the overgrown garden. Light-wreathed and ethereal, the golden curls spilling down her back made her seem more angel than temptress. Last night he’d wondered about the colour of her hair beneath her powdered wig, just as he’d puzzled over the colour of her eyes behind the plumed mask. Her scent and the satin feel of her skin were enough to torment his sleep all night. Once she turned to face him, he’d have even more to fuel his dreams.
“Blanche,” he said simply, loving the liquid sound of her name as it poured over his tongue.
“No, milord. Mlle La Tour rarely rises before noon. I, however, am quite rested and ready to start work.” She turned to face him.
“Daisy Drake.”
“Lucian Beaumont,” she returned smoothly. “Now that we have settled the issue of our identities, we can begin. As you can see, I’ve brought the investment you required of Mlle La Tour.”
She waggled her fingers toward a small chest resting on the glass-smooth walnut of the refectory table in the corner. Lucian desperately needed the funds, but he didn’t see how he could accept them by Daisy Drake’s hand.
“Hold a moment.” Now that he thought about it, he chided himself for imagining for an instant that she was Blanche.
Daisy Drake was a good head shorter than the courtesan, and once she spoke, her clipped English bore no resemblance to Blanche’s lilting French. And though the dress she was wearing hugged her form—an exceedingly pleasant arrangement of curves, even though they belonged to Miss Drake instead of Blanche—the gown was the plainest of muslin, a fabric no courtesan would dream of wearing. It had been merely a trick of the light in the parlour that was responsible for his mistake.
That and a longing to see Blanche again that bordered on obsession.
“I didn’t agree to your being here,” he said.
“Really? Then you’ll have to discuss that with Mlle La Tour’s agent. Oh, wait! That would be me.” Daisy folded her hands, fig-leaf fashion.
A deceptively innocent gesture, he thought.
“Blanche has requested that I represent her in this matter,” the infuriating chit explained.
“How on God’s earth do you know a French courtesan?” he demanded.
“Through my great-aunt, Isabella Haversham,” Daisy said sweetly. “Both Blanche and I are staying at Lady Wexford’s home for the Season.”
Of course. He’d totally forgotten the connection between the houses of Wexford and Drake. It was a tenuous, by-marriage sort of relationship, the kind maintained only by people who genuinely liked one another, since no actual blood tie bound them.
Daisy Drake in residence certainly explained how Lady Wexford heard about his project so quickly. Daisy probably put her up to inviting him to that blasted ball, probably urged Blanche to—No, Blanche was not the sort who could be cajoled into doing anything if it didn’t please her. She was too strong-minded for that.
Blanche had no idea of the enmity between Lucian’s father and all things Drake, else she’d never have chosen Daisy as her unlikely representative.
“Clearly, there has been a misunderstanding,” Lucian said, aiming for a more conciliatory tone. “Blanche was supposed to send a gentleman as agent, one who could help with the work.”
“I doubt she mentioned sending a gentleman, since she rarely has but one use for men,” Daisy said with a raised brow. “Blanche says men try to intimidate women in matters of business, so she prefers to trust agents of her own gender to tend to such things.”
“But she said she’d send someone who could help me.” Lucian rubbed the small scar on his chin. “I know you’re handy enough with a pike, but I confess I can’t imagine you with a shovel, Miss Drake.”
“If needs must, I suppose I could manage. As you can see, I’ve dressed in rustic fashion in anticipation of any contingency, but perhaps my talent would be better used in translation. I am quite fluent in Latin and can help you catalogue your finds,” she said airily. “And since you call Mlle La Tour by her given name, you may call me Daisy. It will be easier, since we’ll be working quite closely together.”
“Miss Drake,” he said pointedly, “we will not be doing anything of the sort.”
“Blanche will be most displeased.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “She was quite taken with the notion that I should be her eyes and ears here. She’ll be frightfully put out when I tell her you have rejected the agent of her choosing. I wouldn’t be surprised if she withdraws her funds.”
“Then I’ll find another partner.” He turned to leave.
“Blanche will probably be so upset she’ll refuse to see you,” Daisy predicted.
That stopped him. He needed to see Blanche again, like a starving man craved food. Lucian turned and levelled a stare at the insufferable Miss Drake. “If my father learns you’re on his property, he’ll—”
“What? Have me arrested for trespassing?” She laughed lightly. “Unlikely, since you obviously intend to permit me to join you in your endeavour.”
“Only under duress,” he said icily.
Lucian was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that his father’s hatred for the lord of Dragon Caern was excessive, given the nature of Gabriel Drake’s offense. Other lords had spurned his father’s request for investment in South Sea as well, but the Cornish baron had been Lord Montford’s last hope.
Sometimes, Lucian suspected the earl teetered cl
ose to madness. Fear of seeing his father tumble into that dark abyss was part of what drove Lucian to improve the family fortunes, but it was certainly not something he’d confess to a Drake. Especially not this Drake.
“You don’t understand—” he began.
“I know perfectly well that your father holds an unreasonable grudge against my uncle, but I don’t see why that should extend to our association.”
“We have no association.”
She heaved an annoyed sigh. “I meant our business association, of course.”
The sound of a raised voice echoed down the hall. By the slurred speech and the crash of broken crockery, Lucian suspected his father was already in his cups, and noon still hours away. Lucian strode to the desk and rummaged through the top drawer.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking for a way to alter your appearance,” he said as he finally found the glasses case he sought. The previous owner of the desk had mistakenly left them in it, and Lucian kept them only because sometimes it eased his own eyes to wear them if he read too much late at night. “If my father recognizes you, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I doubt that he will,” Daisy said as he settled the steel frames on her nose, distracting attention from her moss green eyes. She blinked over the rims at him. “After all, you certainly didn’t.”
He decided to ignore that jab. “But he might. Unlike my father, I’m not fixated on your family, and you do have a definite Drake look about you.”
One after another, the Drake girls had assaulted London’s fashionable set, their golden hair and golden fortunes the talk of the town. Lucian remembered hearing that Daisy hadn’t managed to snag a husband, but given her proclivity for maiming and mayhem, perhaps that was understandable.
Some things even a boatload of pirate gold couldn’t smooth over.
A loud crash sounded in the hall. His father was getting closer.
Daisy cast him a slightly cross-eyed look.
“Now, if you’re serious about continuing as Blanche’s agent, you’ll leave the talking to me,” he said under his breath as the earl staggered into the room. “Good morning, Father.”
“Nothing good about it,” Lord Montford said with a snort. He fixed a bleary-eyed glare on Miss Drake. “Who the blazes are you?”
Lucian stepped forward, partially shielding her from his gaze. “This is Miss . . . Clavenhook. Miss Clavenhook from Knightsbridge. She’s come to help with the Latin translations.”
“So, my son’s dragged you into this mad business as well,” the earl said. “Nothing in that field but extra heartache.”
Lucian’s lips drew together in a tight line. This conversation was a vicious little circle with no end. One they had already worn smooth with constant repetition.
“Better put your mind to courting, lad,” Lord Montford said. “That’ll come closer to filling the family coffers than mucking about in the mud. Lady Brumley and her daughter are coming to tea this afternoon. Don’t be forgetting that. I’ll expect you to attend them right sharp.”
His father squinted around him at Daisy, raking his gaze over her form. Lucian sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she’d been prudent enough to dress in a manner that belied her wealth, no ostentatious frippery or jewels.
“You put me in mind of someone, m’dear,” the earl said. “What’s your name again?”
Ignoring Lucian’s warnings, Daisy stepped neatly around him to dip in a low curtsy before his father. “I’m—”
“Miss Clavenhook, my assistant,” Lucian finished for her, pulling her back to his side with a glare that demanded silence.
The earl laughed and chucked her chin. “Assistant, hmm? Didn’t think Latin went with young ladies. No matter. Expect you’re a fair treat without those spectacles.”
He started to reach up to remove them, but Daisy put a hand to the owlish frames.
“Can’t see a thing without them, more’s the pity.” She took Lucian’s arm. “If you’ll excuse us, milord, I believe we have work to do.”
“Quite right.” Lucian steered her toward the door. “Come along . . . Miss Clavenhook.”
“Women have been gifted with a sensual nature, with a capacity for pleasure as acute as any man’s, and an ability to beguile and seduce. To deny this is to deny our birthright as daughters of Eve.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER EIGHT
“So, you did remember, after all.” Daisy triumphantly squeezed Lucian’s arm as they made their way over the uneven ground toward the excavation site. “I was sure you must.”
“Remember what?” He waved away a bluebottle fly that buzzed near them, the insect weaving drunkenly in the sun-splashed midmorning. A small shower might spring up later, but for now, the weather was finer than a Londoner could hope.
However, the fair skies did little to improve his sour mood. Daisy would have to see to that herself.
“Clavenhook,” she said. “That was my name in the play when we were children. Lady Rowena Clavenhook of the—”
“Of the Deadly Pike,” he finished for her, rubbing his chin with a rueful expression.
“No, no, of the Castle Perilous.” She made a small growl of disgust. “Will you never give that a rest? In truth, I think the scar gives you character.”
Daisy revelled in the warmth of his arm beneath her palm. It radiated through the thin fabric of his shirt and up her wrist to send the blood dancing in her veins with an effervescent fizz. “A small flaw like that scar is actually quite becoming. It makes you appear a dangerous man.”
“Or a slow one,” he said with a reluctant grin. “I obviously wasn’t quick enough to get out of your way.”
“Well, it doesn’t appear you’ve been slow here,” she said as they drew near to the Roman site.
Not only was there an impressive excavation pit, Lucian had constructed a long, low shed to house his finds once they were unearthed. The waist-high benches lining both walls groaned beneath the weight of dirt-encrusted objects.
Lucian handed her a small whisk broom and cloth. “Your domain, Lady Rowena. I apologize for the mess. I fear I’ve been less systematic than I should have been. I’ve been so intent on discovering the next tablet I’ve neglected many of the other finds.”
“I’ll need to catalogue it all first.” She eyed the disarray with mild trepidation.
“There’s a small lap desk here somewhere. Please do what you can to bring order to this chaos.” He started to go, but stopped short. “I should warn you that you may find some of the artwork . . . objectionable.”
The lewd little phallic lamp and the exceedingly naughty mosaic flashed through Daisy’s mind. Against her will, she felt her cheeks heat.
“Pray don’t trouble yourself, milord,” she said. “I am not easily shocked.”
“No, I’m sure you’re not,” he agreed with a raised brow. “In fact, as I recall, you possess a healthy curiosity about such things. To that end, I wonder if you’d clean this object first.”
He picked up a little statuette from the bench and placed it in her open palm. It was a representation of the goat-god doing a cloven-hoofed jig, his engorged penis all out of proportion to the rest of him, despite having a bit of the tip missing.
“I plan to take that to Mlle La Tour this evening,” he said. “I think she’ll enjoy it, don’t you?”
Daisy’s heart tripped a beat or two. She was cleaning up this lascivious little bit of antiquity so he could present it to . . . her, in exchange for kissing lessons.
“Blanche will be charmed,” she said.
“Good.” His smile was so blindingly white against his tanned face,
it made Daisy’s eyes water to look at him. She sighed in relief when he turned back toward the pit.
“Oh, and Miss Clavenhook, just so you know,” he called over his shoulder, using her assumed name for the benefit of the boy who labored below in the dirt. “That’s not life-size either.”
Dais
y worked through the rest of the morning, sorting, stacking, and rearranging the odds and ends. She grouped the shards of pottery according to colour, in the hope that later she’d be able to reassemble the bowl or vase or amphora the pieces had once been.
She discovered the portable writing desk beneath a section of a mosaic depicting nymphs and satyrs. Most of the mosaic was damaged beyond repair, but she was able to discern a few body parts represented in the intact sections: there a set of bared breasts, here detailed genitalia of both sexes first in congress and then separate. She found a confusing scene with only male figures and decided not to scrutinize the mosaic further.
She tingled in strange places when she looked at it.
She turned her head surreptitiously to gaze from the shed to where Lucian labored. The day was unseasonably warm, so he and the boy who helped him had removed their shirts. The muscles in his chest and broad back bunched and flattened. His sun-darkened skin glistened with a sheen of male sweat. The sight of Lucian bare-chested sent a flutter through Daisy’s belly. Even stronger tingles settled between her legs. She jerked her gaze back to her lap desk.
She noted each item in her small curlicue handwriting on the fresh paper and found that reducing the pulse-jumping images to mere words helped ease their effect.
Item: one bacchanalian scene with three figures, two male, one female, on black glazed pottery.
Item: one frieze of woman with swan. Limestone.
Reading about Leda dallying with Zeus in the guise of a swan was romantic. Seeing the act depicted so . . . realistically was another thing altogether.
Item: one . . .
Daisy’s quill hovered over the page, dropping a blob or two of ink in her hesitation. There was something different about the next pottery fragment. The detailed ornamentation was just as explicit as the others. A nude young man was reclining on his elbow while a young woman hovered over him, guiding his erect member between her widespread legs. Their gazes were locked on each other.
The man was reaching up one hand to touch the woman’s face. The gesture was so tender; it reverberated with power through the centuries and made Daisy’s breath catch in her throat. She wondered if she’d been laced too tightly that morning.