At first, Anthony’s prediction that breaking bread together might make them friends did not seem likely to come true.
For one thing, the dining room seemed absurdly grand for any man having only three guests to dinner, even if he was a duke. The gold-and silver-patterned ceiling thirty feet above their heads, the long dining table and the chairs of crimson velvet, the columns of white marble, the gilt-edged mirrors and paintings of winged cherubs did not induce a comfortable and relaxed atmosphere, at least not to Daphne.
Second, there was the food. Two different kinds of soup from which to choose, one cold and one hot. Then three selections of fish, followed by two courses of four meats each, one an enormous joint of beef he carved himself. It was all beautifully presented, and what she sampled was delicious, but to Daphne, it seemed an extraordinary waste, since only four people could not consume even a tenth of it.
She was accustomed to dining at a dust-covered folding table in a tent, or at a modest Italian pensione, where she, her father, and any other British men involved in the current excavation discussed Roman history and antiquities over every meal.
Third, there was her host. His conversation with all three of them was amiable, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennington were able to return his pleasantries with ease, but she could not. His manner, particularly toward her, was all consideration and regard.
Daphne knew that Anthony’s assiduous attention was just another part of his campaign to keep her in Hampshire. She also knew how charming he could be, but that charm was seldom directed at her and never in a social situation. She had no idea how to respond, especially since she knew what he truly thought of her.
Aside from his concern for her enjoyment of the meal, he also had the curious notion to make a study of her person. Whenever she looked up from her food, she found him watching her, with a strange sort of intensity she could not define.
She did not look any different than usual. She had taken off her glasses and donned the only nice dress she had, a mauvish-gray muslin frock that must be at least half a dozen years out of fashion, and she had no illusions that either of those trifling changes would cause Anthony to deem her anything worth staring at. She could only think his disconcerting scrutiny was a result of her morning walk in the rain. He had accused her of having lost her mind, after all.
By the time the desserts arrived, she could not help remarking on it. “Mrs. Bennington,” she said, looking at the older woman across the table, “his grace studies me most intently this evening, do you not think so? He examines me as if I were an artifact.”
“Heavens, dear!” Mrs. Bennington exclaimed, a hint of reproof behind her little laugh as she glanced uneasily toward the duke and back again to her. “You should not describe yourself in such a way. Artifact, indeed.”
Anthony picked up his glass of wine and leaned back in his chair at the head of the table. His lashes lowered as his gaze raked over her with the leisure of a well-fed lion. “But Mrs. Bennington, I might describe her that way myself, for artifacts are rare and mysterious things, intriguing and difficult to interpret. One so often draws erroneous conclusions about them.”
Daphne’s hand tightened around the serviette in her lap. What was he saying? she thought wildly. That she was not an unnoticeable stick insect after all? She forced herself to unclench her fist and pick up her wine glass. “You believe I am a mystery, your grace?”
“I do, Miss Wade.”
“I cannot think why.” She took a sip of claret and set her glass back down. “I assure you, I am no great mystery at all.”
“Miss Wade, I believe the duke has a point,” put in Mr. Bennington from her other side. “Why, Mrs. Bennington and I have often discussed that very thing ever since your resignation.”
“I know you were surprised, but—”
“Surprised?” Mrs. Bennington interjected. “Bless us, it was astonishing. Not that we blame you, of course, for wishing to go to Lady Hammond. Such a treat for you, dear, and no question you deserve it. But we had no idea you were such a great friend of the viscountess. So you see, his grace is quite correct that you are mysterious. Close as an oyster.”
Daphne did not know what to say. She had never thought of herself as either mysterious or secretive.
“So you see?” the older woman went on when she did not reply. “Even now, you tell us nothing. If you were a bit more forthcoming with others, it would not go amiss, dear. One never knows what you think and feel.”
“Can’t expect the young dandies in London to be able to read your mind, you know,” Mr. Bennington added with a chuckle.
“Not dandies, dear,” his wife corrected. “That term is quite out of date. Beaux, they are called nowadays.”
“Since we have all agreed that Miss Wade is a mystery,” Anthony put in, “shall we allow her to choose what our entertainment shall be, now that dinner is over? Then we may draw conclusions about her from what she chooses.” He set aside his glass of wine, leaned forward in his chair, and looked at Daphne as if her opinion were of the gravest importance. “What shall it be, Miss Wade?”
“You must help me, your grace,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. “You are so thoughtful and considerate that I am sure you have prepared several amusements for us. You must tell me what they are.”
“A very deft and clever answer,” he said, laughing. “It flatters me, buys you time, and tells none of us more about you. Very well, I shall give you choices. If you would like music, I can summon musicians for you. Or would you prefer poetry?”
“Do not choose poetry, Miss Wade, I beg of you,” Mr. Bennington said. “I shall fall asleep.”
“No, Mr. Bennington,” Anthony admonished him. “Do not say such things. I should be happy to recite Byron or Shelley or Keats for Miss Wade myself if that is what she wants. Her wish is my command.”
Daphne did not want to hear him talk that way, as if he meant such an outlandish thing. And she could not bear the idea of hearing him reciting romantic lines of Byron to her. She stood up and cast aside her serviette. “I believe I should like to see your conservatory, your grace, for Mrs. Bennington has told me it is quite the most breathtaking thing, and I have had no chance to see for myself if that is so.”
“A walk in the hothouse it is,” Anthony agreed, rising to his feet with the others. “Haverstall, send a footman ahead to have the conservatory lit.”
“Very good, sir.”
The house steward signaled for a footman as Anthony turned toward the door, offering his arm to Daphne. “Shall we go?”
She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they left the dining room, Mr. and Mrs. Bennington behind them, a footman racing ahead to obey the duke’s instructions.
They strolled down the long corridor toward the conservatory at a much slower pace than the footman. Neither of them spoke, but she could feel him watching her out of the corner of her eye. She stared straight ahead, compelled to give nothing away, but they had not quite reached their destination when she had to ask the obvious question. “What conclusions do you draw from my choice of entertainment?”
“That you are fond of flowers?”
Despite herself, she laughed at how pat his answer and how ruefully he said it. “You see, I am not so mysterious, am I?” she countered. “All women are fond of flowers.”
“I like hearing you laugh.”
Her insides took a tumble, and she almost stopped walking but recovered herself just in time. She did not reply, and they continued toward the conservatory without speaking.
He broke the silence between them just as they reached the conservatory. “I must confess, Miss Wade, that taking a turn around the hothouse was not what I was hoping you would suggest.”
“And what had you hoped for?”
“Twenty questions,” he murmured as they walked inside the conservatory. “But only if I could ask them of you.”
She pulled her spectacles from the pocket of her skirt and put them on. “Not in a thousand years,” she said primly, and turned away for a look at the indoor garden around them.
Like all the other rooms at Tremore Hall, this one was enormous. At least fifty feet long, its ceiling was composed entirely of octagonal glass panes. Three of the walls were glass as well, braced every eight feet by stone columns. Arches curved overhead, attaching those columns to another set of identical ones that ran down the center rather like a Roman forum. The glass reflected light from sconces that lined the wall of the house. Additional light was provided by various candelabra set atop tall stone pillars placed throughout the room.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennington started strolling toward one side of the building, and Daphne moved to the center, Anthony beside her as she studied her surroundings. There were lemon trees, which she recognized at once, and there were also date palms and towering fig trees that reminded her of Palestine. There were three different fountains, several statues, and plenty of stone benches so one could sit and enjoy the serene environment. Flowers in brilliant colors bloomed everywhere. Some she recognized, some she had never seen before.
“Is it not as magnificent as I told you, Daphne?” called Mrs. Bennington from somewhere behind a grove of trees and palms.
“It is,” she agreed, and paused in the center of the vast expanse, staring at the arches overhead and the many panes of glass above them. “I have never seen anything like this before,” she added, and returned her attention to the man standing nearby. “I am awed, your grace. Truly awed.”
He smiled at her, and she caught her breath. Like the sun coming out. “From you, who has seen so much of the world, that is the highest of compliments. Thank you.”
Daphne took another look around, spinning in a slow circle, then she faced him again. “It is so very English, is it not?”
He laughed, and she looked at him in bewilderment, unable to figure out what he found so amusing.
“Miss Wade, you are surrounded by Greek statues, Italian lemon trees, bonsai in the custom of Nippon, and pineapples from the Sandwich Islands. How much less English can it be?”
Daphne couldn’t help smiling back at him. “Well, it is very English. No one I ever knew in Italy had a lemon tree inside the house, and the date palms in Palestine are so scrawny compared with these. And what on earth is a bonsai?”
He pointed to a stone planter near her feet. She gave a cry of delight and knelt down for a closer look. “Why, these are miniature apple trees, with apples on them!” Looking up at him, she asked, “Are they really apples?”
“See for yourself.” Anthony knelt beside her, plucked off one of the cherry-size fruits, and pressed it to her mouth. She hesitated only a moment, then parted her lips. “Apples mean temptation, you know,” he said as she took the fruit into her mouth.
Daphne almost swallowed the miniature apple whole at the touch of his fingers against her lips. He had touched her just this way earlier in the garden, and just as before, her whole body felt suddenly warm, as if a delightful wave of the Aegean Sea had washed over her. She wanted to stay here forever. She wanted to run away as fast as she could.
In the end, she did neither. She rose to her feet, striving to maintain her most impassive expression as she chewed and swallowed the fruit. “They are indeed apples,” she finally said, keeping her voice devoid of any of the turbulent feeling rushing through her. “Just as I said. Very English.”
She turned away and found that in front of her was a raised flower bed of the strangest-looking plants she had ever seen. Each was composed of a cluster of long, upright leaves, with one stem coming out of the center that was capped with some sort of fruit. “How very odd they look,” she said to Anthony over one shoulder. “What are they?”
“Pineapples. They are given as a gesture of welcome. Have you ever eaten one?”
When she shook her head, he lifted his hand, and a footman appeared out of nowhere. “Cut a pineapple for Miss Wade,” he said, and before she could protest, the servant snapped one of the strange, prickly fruits from its stalk. “Take it to the kitchens, please, and tell them to serve it to Miss Wade with her breakfast tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman bowed and vanished with the pineapple as Anthony returned his attention to her.
“If you are fond of the taste,” he said, “feel free to have one any time you like during the remainder of your stay.”
She did not want Anthony to do things for her. That was never what she had wanted, and it was too late now to make a difference anyway. “Thank you,” she murmured. “That is very kind of you, your grace.”
“Contrary to certain reports, I have been known to be kind on occasion.” Laugh lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, though he did not smile. “But I confess I am not being kind just now.”
“Yes, I know, and it is not going to work.”
He tried to look innocent. “What is not going to work?”
“This blatant attempt to trick me into staying with charm and—and other such tactics.”
“I know you are far too intelligent to be fooled by charm or trickery, Miss Wade. Can we not just say I am using the only weapon I have?”
“Persuasion?”
“Temptation. If I can tempt you with the fruits of my garden of Eden, you might stay.” He gestured to a grove of figs nearby. “Would you care to see the passion fruit?”
Daphne followed him through the jungle of trees to a trellis on the other side that was tangled with a lush growth of vines. “This is called passion fruit?” she asked as they paused before the trellis. She studied the plant for a moment, then said, “I think something with such a name should look more extraordinary than this.”
“The vine may be unremarkable, but when it blooms, the flower is lovely. It signifies devotion.”
She turned toward him with a quizzical look. “Apples for temptation. Pineapples for welcome. Passionflower for devotion. Do all plants signify a sentiment, then?”
“Many of them do. Have you never read Le Langage des Fleurs?”
“The language of flowers,” she murmured.
“You speak French?”
“Of course. In Morocco, most people do not understand English, so I learned French.”
“How many languages do you speak, Miss Wade?”
“Heavens, I don’t know. Let me see. French, Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, Farsi, and Arabic,” she listed, counting on her fingers. “So, in addition to English, that makes seven.”
“Extraordinary,” he said, looking at her in amazement. “I must confess, Latin and French were all I could manage, even with a slew of childhood tutors and a Cambridge education. Miss Wade, you have awed me.”
Daphne felt a momentary glow of pleasure at the compliment, but she quickly snuffed it out. “I do not know this language of flowers. Do flowers truly have their own language?”
“They do. It has been put into a book, Le Langage des Fleurs, by Madame Charlotte de la Tour. It is quite the fashion to convey one’s sentiments with flowers, and several other books have been written, expanding on her original text, enabling a bouquet to serve as an entire letter.”
“What a beautiful way to express one’s feelings. I should love to receive something like that.”
He bent down and pulled a spray of tiny pink blossoms from a potted plant at the foot of the trellis, then straightened and presented it to her. She took it, too surprised to do otherwise.
“It has a lovely scent,” she said, holding it to her nose. What is it?”
“Your namesake. Daphne odora.”
“What does it signify?” Looking up, she added, laughing, “Do not tell me something awful, for I should hate that.”
“Never fear, for it is quite the opposite.” He took the spray of flowers from her hand, and Daphne caught her breath as he reached behind her head and tucked the tiny bouquet into the bun at the nape of her neck. “It means, ‘I would not have you otherwise.’”
She released her breath in a rush and turned away. Desperate for something to say, she gestured to the trellis. “But passionflower means devotion, and that does not make sense to me. Should not a passionflower convey passion?”
“Ah, but the fruit is where the passion is, Miss Wade. Intoxicating and delicious. Like passion itself.”
A rush of intense warmth came over her, and she turned away before he could see that she was actually blushing. “One day I shall have to try them,” she said, and resumed walking.
He fell in step beside her. “They are not in season now, but if you stay, you can enjoy them for breakfast in a few months—”
“No, thank you.” She heard the breathlessness in her own voice, and tried to cover it by teasing. “Your grace, this will not do,” she told him with mock sternness. “I shall not be led astray by exotic breakfast bribes.”
“Then I shall keep my dates and figs to myself.”
“Yes, please, for I have had enough of those to last a lifetime. They tempt me not at all.”
“I wish I knew what would tempt you, Miss Wade.”
Daphne did not answer as they circled to the other side of the conservatory. Nothing he had could tempt her. Not now. Not ever.
Daphne drew in a sharp breath at that stern reminder to herself and caught a scent so delightful that she came to an abrupt halt and stared at the source, a tall, fat shrub with the most beautiful snow-white flowers she had ever seen. “Oh, my,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the velvety petal of one blossom as she inhaled that exquisite fragrance. “It is like heaven just to stand here.”
He looked at her, smiling. “You do like flowers, don’t you? Especially scented ones.”
She breathed in again. “What are these?”
“Gardenias.”
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes. “I have never smelled anything so divine in my life.”
“Secret love.”
“What?” she squeaked, feeling as if she had just been hit with a spray of icy water. She opened her eyes, but she could not look at the man beside her. “I—” She cleared her throat, staring straight ahead. “I beg your pardon?”
“Gardenias signify a confession of secret love.”
She would like that sort of flower, she thought. With an exasperated sigh, she turned away and resumed walking toward the center of the conservatory, where the Benningtons were seated, waiting for them.
“Have I said something to vex you?” he asked beside her.
“Not at all.” She forced a laugh. “It is just that sometimes I can be very, very foolish.”
“You? I do not believe it. I have never seen you make a mistake of any kind, Miss Wade. I cannot imagine you the fool.”
She is never ill. She never makes a mistake. She is a machine.
“I was in love once,” she blurted out before she even knew what she was saying. “Everyone plays the fool in love.”
“I suppose so.”
There was a strange note in his voice she did not understand, and she looked over at him as he added, “I have not experienced that myself.”
“You have never been in love?”
“Only in my dreams, Miss Wade.”
His answer was so glib and offhand that she stopped walking and gave his back a rueful stare as he continued toward the Benningtons. “That makes two of us,” she murmured under her breath as she pulled the spray of daphne flowers from her hair.