Seduction - Guilty Pleasures Part 2

"Really?" Daphne paused, unable to resist giving the viscountess a look of feigned astonishment over the rims of her spectacles. "I did not realize one needed vows and a ceremony for the actual children to begin arriving."

The other woman gave a smothered half laugh. "A wicked observation, Miss Wade. In society, such a statement would make people think you quite shocking."

"Wicked perhaps, but also sensible. If children are the goal, then love between the partners would ensure plenty of them."

To Daphne's surprise, the other woman's smile faded and her expression became almost melancholy. "Yes, I suppose it would," she agreed, then shook her head. "But let us continue our discussion of marriage. Aside from children, there are other practical considerations, do you not agree? Family alliances. The acc.u.mulation of wealth. To gain greater position and power in society. There are many people who feel those are more important than love when choosing a marriage partner."

"What purpose do those considerations serve if one is unhappy? I would think that to marry without love would bring a lifetime of pain."

The countess drew in her breath so sharply that Daphne was startled. She once again looked up. "Lady Hammond, are you unwell?"

"No, no." The other woman lifted her hand in a gesture of rea.s.surance. "I am quite well. It is just that love itself can bring its own measure of pain, Miss Wade."

Daphne paused, her fingers tightening around the brush in her hand as she looked into the other woman's eyes. "Yes," she admitted, "I suppose it can, if one is not loved in return. But surely the joy of the experience is worth the pain."

"Is it?" Lady Hammond murmured, and her lips twisted into an ironic sort of smile. Her gaze moved past Daphne as if she were staring into a far distant landscape. "I wonder."

Daphne felt a sudden empathy for the other woman. "So do I," she admitted, "but it did sound quite n.o.ble and poetic when I said it."

The two women looked at each other and both of them began to laugh.

"I knew the moment we met I was going to like you," the viscountess exclaimed, still laughing. "We must become friends."

Daphne smiled back, both pleased and touched by the suggestion. "I should like that, Lady Hammond. I have not had much opportunity to make friends, having moved about so much in my life."

"You must call me Viola, and I shall call you Daphne. Flower names, you see? We already have something in common."

"But not a love for clay pots."

"No. In that respect, you are much more like Anthony, though what the two of you find so fascinating about shards of pottery baffles me."

"Well, it is the pottery that truly reveals the history of a site-"

"No, no!" Viola held up one hand, stopping her. "I have heard this all before. I was running away from it a few moments ago, remember?"

"So you were. Very well, I shall not impose a discussion of Samarian ware, cream ware, and buff ware upon you."

"Good, for I should much rather hear about you. Sir Edward told me you were born on the island of Crete?"

Daphne could not help being flattered. She was so seldom the object of anyone's attention. "Yes. My father was excavating at Knossos. I do not remember much about the excavation. I do remember how hot and dry it was. My mother often described to me the meadows and woods of England. It sounded like paradise to me."

"Both your parents were English?"

"Oh, yes. They met when he was in England to give a lecture on his findings at Knossos. He had been made a Knight of the Bath and was in London to receive the accolade. After a whirlwind courts.h.i.+p, they eloped and returned to Crete together."

"And what of the rest of your family?"

"I..." She hesitated, then said, "My father was an orphan."

"And your mother's family?"

Daphne stilled, the brush in her hand pressing against the mosaic so hard that its bristles were nearly flat. The mention of her mother's family brought back the memory of that horrible day in Tangier and the letter she had received from a London attorney two months after her father's death.

Thank you for your inquiry to Lord Durand regarding a certain Lady Wade, whom you have declared to be the wife of Sir Henry Wade and formerly Miss Jane Durand, daughter of his lords.h.i.+p. Your declaration is impossible, for the Honorable Miss Durand remained unmarried until she died at her father's estate in Durham, in 1805, when she was but twenty years of age. There is no possibility whatsoever that she could be your mother, and Lord Durand regrets that he can be of no a.s.sistance to you in this matter. Any further attempts to gain money or protection from his lords.h.i.+p shall be futile.

Remembering that letter brought back all the fear she had felt then, the sick knot of fear that came with knowing she was all alone, her money running out, no one to help her and nothing of value left to sell. Nothing but a pa.s.sage to England.

Daphne shoved memories of that day in Tangier out of her mind. She did not want to discuss her mother's family or the shame of being unacknowledged and unwanted. "Mama never talked of her relations."

"She must have said something to you."

Pressed, Daphne admitted, "I know that my grandfather was a baron, but I know almost nothing else. My mother died when I was eight, and my father and I never discussed it."

"A baron. Do you know his name, at least, or where he lived?"

"No," she lied.

"But this is shocking! What manner of father leaves his daughter without family, means, or protection upon his death, and does not even tell her the names of her connections?"

"My father was not so harsh as you imply!" Daphne cried, compelled to defend her parent. "He was a vigorous man, and he could not know he was going to die so suddenly. He was the most loving father anyone could have, and you insult me by saying otherwise."

Viola fell silent. After a moment, she said, "You are correct to scold me, Miss Wade. I am quite chastened. My only excuse is that it makes me heated to see a young lady left so unprotected and made to work, but it was not my business to inquire into your affairs. Please accept my apology."

She did indeed seem contrite, and Daphne relented. "Of course."

"Did you remain on Crete after your mother's death?"

"No, we left the island only a few months later. Papa could not remain there. Too many memories. He was heartbroken when Mama died."

"And did his grief obsess him?" Viola asked, a strange note of hardness entering her voice. "They were happy, but when she died, did he abandon his duties, ignore his children? Did his grief drive out his sanity?"

Daphne was astonished by this sudden, strange turn in the conversation. "What odd questions you ask! He grieved, of course, but never so much that he abandoned his duties. He never ignored me, nor lost his sanity."

The other woman shook her head as if coming out of a private reverie. "I confess I was thinking of someone else. I am so sorry. Where did you go when you left Crete?"

"Palestine. We have also excavated at Petra, Syria, Mesopotamia, Tunis, and Morocco. Large excavations usually take many years, but after my mother's death, my father was never able to settle in one place for very long."

"But what of society and company?"

"I have not had much of that. An occasional dinner with friends of Papa's in Rome, but that is all."

"No parties? No b.a.l.l.s?"

"I'm afraid not." Daphne shook her head, smiling. "I do not even know how to dance. There is not much demand for b.a.l.l.s in the midst of the desert. I am more accustomed to the company of donkeys, camels, Arabs, and stuffy old antiquarians."

"Your life has been a fascinating one, Daphne, but there are so many pleasures you have missed."

"Perhaps, but I have loved every moment of my life. I do miss my father, but I think he would have liked it that I came to England after he died. He wanted me to see it. That is why he finally agreed to the duke's offer to come here."

"Have you seen London?"

"No. I traveled by spice caravan from Marrakesh to Tangier, then a s.h.i.+p to Portsmouth, and straight on to Tremore Hall from there."

"A spice caravan!" Viola burst out laughing.

Daphne looked at her in puzzlement. "Did I say something amusing?"

Still laughing, the other woman shook her head. "Amusing? Oh, Daphne! You say the most extraordinary things in the most matter-of-fact way, as if traveling by caravans is quite commonplace."

"Well, it is commonplace," Daphne said, laughing with her. "Although perhaps not here in Hamps.h.i.+re."

The other woman's amus.e.m.e.nt faded away and she looked at Daphne thoughtfully. "Morocco, Palestine, Crete. I cannot help but think you find Tremore Hall quite dull in comparison?"

"Oh, no! To me, living here is luxury beyond belief. I must confess that I find sleeping on a feather mattress far better than a canvas cot in a stone hut or desert tent."

"Heavens, I imagine any woman would! You like it here, then?"

"I do. When I reached England, I had the odd feeling I had come home, though I had never been here before. Everything in England is so fresh and green, so beautiful after all the arid deserts in which I have lived. It was all my mother said it was. I do not ever want to leave."

"And what do you think of the estate?"

"I have not seen much of it, I'm afraid. I have been so busy with the excavation work, I have not had a chance to explore, although I have walked through the gardens on occasion. It is a splendid property, but a bit intimidating when you first arrive."

"Yes," Viola agreed. "I know what you mean. When I was a girl, I had been at boarding school in France for several years, and when I came home, I was struck by just how intimidating it was. I had forgotten. Anthony will not let me change a thing, though. Family history and all that."

"I can see his point."

"You would, Daphne, for you also see the point of clay pots. If it were your home, you would be like Anthony, no doubt, and refuse to redecorate a thing."

Daphne caught her breath at the sudden wave of longing that swept through her at the other woman's offhand comment, but she shoved that feeling aside at once. This was not her home. She did not have a home. "I would change one thing," she replied, forcing lightness into her voice. "I would remove those hideous gargoyle finials from the main staircase and consign them to a dustbin."

"They are awful. When I was a little girl, they gave me nightmares. Perhaps when Anthony marries, his d.u.c.h.ess will have them tossed into a dustbin so their children are not frightened."

An image of Anthony and his d.u.c.h.ess with their children came into Daphne's mind, and she banished it at once, tucking her chin to hide her expression.

"I am sure you wish to marry, Daphne," Viola said, breaking into her thoughts.

"I..." She took a deep breath and bent down beside the table to dip the brush in the pail again. "I had not thought about it," she said as she straightened. She resumed her task and did not look at the woman opposite her. "It is unlikely to happen."

"Why do you say that?"

"I recognize that I am a plain woman, and rather on the shelf at twenty-four. I have little opportunity to make new acquaintances. And, if I did marry, it would only be for a deep, true, and lasting love. So, you see," she added, glancing up with a little laugh, "the odds are against me."

Viola did not reply, but Daphne could feel her new friend's gaze on her as she returned her attention to her work, and it was a long time before the other woman broke the silence.

"It is a shame you've not seen London."

Daphne looked up, startled by the change of subject. "I would like to, one day. Do you and your husband live there?"

"It depends on the time of year," Viola answered. "I spend my autumn and winter at Enderby, our estate in Chiswick, which is just outside London, while Hammond stays at Hammond Park in Northumberland. In the spring, we lease a town house for the season together. In the summer, I go to Brighton and Hammond returns to Northumberland. It is an arrangement that suits both of us quite well, for we are only required to spend a few months together each year, and that is enough for the sake of appearances."

Daphne was rather shocked, but she did not show it. She also felt a wave of compa.s.sion for her new friend. "I see," she murmured.

"I make Enderby quite lively in winter," Viola went on, a brittle sort of brightness coming into her voice. "I give many house parties and surround myself with company, for I do not like being lonely-" She broke off and gave a half laugh. "Listen to me, sounding so self-pitying. I am quite ashamed of myself. My only excuse is that you are a very good listener, Daphne."

"There is no shame in being lonely," Daphne said gently. "I, too, know what that is like. For much of my life, I have lived in desert tents miles from anywhere, places where I was the only Englishwoman within fifty miles. Papa and I stayed in Rome during the winter, and while he spent his time with other scholars and antiquarians, I would wander about the libraries and museums, reading anything about England I could find. History, politics, society, customs. I should love to see London one day."

"Oh, Daphne, I wish I could show it to you! It is the most exciting city. I should love it if you could come with me when I go to Enderby. You would be such good company for me, and Chiswick is only an hour's ride from London. Why, if you stayed for the season, you could come into town with us, and I could introduce you into society. We might be able to find your mother's family."

"That is impossible," Daphne answered. Anthony was here, and she could not imagine leaving Tremore Hall for a long time to come. "I have far too much to do."

"Anthony's museum opens in March. Could you not come after that?"

"No, for I will still need to carry on with excavations here even after the museum opens. I doubt we will be completely finished for at least five years."

"I understand, but it is such a shame." Suddenly, Viola gave a cry of vexation. "Oh dear, I must go back. If my brother discovers I have run away from this excavation of his, he will be so disappointed in me. He is always trying to persuade me to intellectual pursuits."

Viola started for the door, but turned in the doorway to look at her one more time. "By the way, Daphne, beauty does not mean a thing, you know."

Daphne watched as her new friend vanished through the doorway, and she smiled a bit ruefully. "Beautiful women always say that," she murmured to the empty doorway.

Chapter 4.

Anthony leaned one hip against the pianoforte, studying Viola's expression in the candlelight as she stared into s.p.a.ce and tapped out a soft melody on the keys. He did not fail to observe the half smile that curved her lips. "You look quite pleased with herself," he said, "and whenever you look like that, I begin to worry. What are you thinking about?"

"Venus," she answered, and looked up at the man standing beside her.

His eyebrows rose at such an oblique answer. "The G.o.ddess of love? What makes you think of Venus?"

"Did she ever arrange marriages between mortals?"

His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Are you planning to fight my marriage to Lady Sarah and arrange for me a better one? Pray desist, Viola, for you know my feelings on this."

"No, no." Viola stopped playing long enough to wave one hand carelessly in his direction, then resumed her music. "You have made your choice, and I know when it is futile to attempt to change your mind. I suppose," she added with a sigh, "that when one looks at it in a prudential light, it is the best decision for you. You are the Duke of Tremore, after all, and should marry high for duty's sake, even if your choice is without love and affection. No, I have moved on to arranging a possible match for someone else, a match that provides me a far better chance of success. Daphne's."

"Daphne?" He frowned. "I do not recall-"

"Miss Wade."

He stared at Viola as a vague vision came to his mind of brown hair raked back in a bun, spectacles, dreary dresses covered by heavy work ap.r.o.ns, and an inability to speak without stammering.

"You intend to arrange a marriage for Miss Wade?" he asked, astonished.