Anne Barbour (22 page)

“Actually, the dinner party at your home and Mrs. Strindham’s musicale are the only times he’s dipped into the social swim all year, to my knowledge.”

Hilary’s brows lifted. “Really? Is he that terrified of women?”

Too late, she bit her tongue to stifle the words she knew to be in-excusably forward, but Robert merely laughed.

“I think terrified is too strong a word, but—really. Lady Hilary, if you could see the tricks that have been used to snare him.”

Hilary knew she should bring the subject to a close. She had no business encouraging James’s employee to gossip about him.

“Oh?” she asked interestedly.

Nothing loathe, Robert continued, describing the unending efforts and the devious methods employed by what seemed like half the female population of England to entrap the eligible James Wincanon.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Hilary. Dear Lord, in addition to being convinced his own mother had sold herself in a marriage of convenience, to discover himself the target of every grasping female in the
ton
... No wonder he held such a jaundiced view of her sex.

“It’s all his connections, of course. That is”—Richard amended hastily—”he’s one of the finest men of my acquaintance, and he’s certainly well-looking enough, but if he weren’t related to most of the contents of Debrett’s and worth umpty-thousand pounds a year, I doubt he would cause so much as a flutter among the dovecotes of the
ton
.”

Hilary sighed. “What a sad reflection on the members of my sex.”

Richard stared anxiously at Hilary. “Of course, present company is most decidedly excepted. No one could accuse you of being on the—” He halted abruptly, his face crimson.

Hilary broke into a peal of laughter. “On the hunt for a rich husband? No, I think not. Or any kind of husband at all, for that matter. Mr. James Wincanon is safe from my wiles, Mr. Newhouse.” She grew serious. “Still, he seems a lonely man, and I think he would be the better for a good wife.”

Her heart gave an odd little lurch at these words and she wondered why the thought of James’s possible nuptials to some worthy female of her acquaintance seemed to have lost some of its appeal.

“As to that, ma’am,” replied Richard in a startled tone, “I don’t think—”

He was interrupted by the entrance of Burnside, who bore the intelligence that the doctor had arrived and was now closeted with Mr. Wincanon and, “the patient.”

When James had pushed into the warrior’s chamber some minutes earlier, he had found him in bed, his eyes closed and the footman, Josiah Briggs, who had been assigned as his valet hovering over him in obvious anxiety.

“I removed his coat and breeches—and his breathing seems easier now, sir, but he still won’t be roused.”

James nodded and Briggs, with an air of one relieved to be rid of an onerous responsibility, scurried from the room. James sat down beside Rufus’ bed.

He scrutinized the warrior’s face, Briggs was right, he was pale as death. His breathing, however, seemed normal to James’s untutored ear. James experienced an unnamed sadness. The man on the bed had seen the face of Trajan—and Hadrian, his future emperor. He had strolled in the ancient forum of Rome when it was whole and gleaming with marble. His eyes had squinted against the sun of Boudicca’s Britain and watched the construction of the baths that now lay in ruins beneath the streets of England’s most famous spa.

How must he feel to be a stranger in the land he had decided to make his home? James felt a twinge of shame. He had been so busy plundering Rufus’ mind for his own selfish purposes that he had failed to see him as a man, with wants and aspirations of his own. He had done nothing to put forward a plan to get Rufus back to his Maia.

As though he had spoken his thoughts aloud, Rufus stirred and opened his eyes. He seemed startled to behold James at his bedside.

“Ah, you’re home then, James.” He spoke with some difficulty and his words were slightly slurred.

“Indeed, and I return to find you knocked into horse nails.”

Rufus’ brows lifted and, shaking his head as though clearing the cobwebs from his brain, he struggled to a sitting position. “Me? No such of a thing. I was a little tired—and that fool man you assigned to me has been fluttering over me like a crazed bat, but there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Nonetheless, I’ve sent for a doctor.”

“What?” Rufus threw back his covers and swung his feet over the side of his bed. “I told you—”

“I know what you told me, and I’m sorry to go against your wishes, but there
is
something wrong with you and it’s time we discovered what it is.”

“Bah!” Rufus reached for the dressing gown tossed on the foot of the bed.

Indeed, James was forced to admit that at the moment Rufus seemed in perfect health. His speech had cleared as the conversation progressed, and his eyes sparked in indignation. His gray hair stood up in spikes about his head where he had rubbed it in his perturbation. After stamping about the room for a few moments, nightshirt flapping about his ankles, he returned to seat himself in a chair near the window.

“I don’t like doctors,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I had grasped that fact,” James replied placidly. “However, it won’t hurt to have him examine you.”

Rufus subsided at last, with an air of martyred weariness.

Dr. Meadowes, on his arrival, displayed some displeasure at being summoned so arbitrarily to attend a seemingly robust patient, but made a thorough examination. Later, as Rufus sat in frustrated impatience at being unable to understand the man’s diagnosis, the doctor spoke in suitably grave accents to James.

“Well, I can’t pinpoint a specific ailment. His heartbeat is slower than normal, and so is his breathing. His reflexes are not what they should be. There is some congestion in his lungs, but it does not seem serious. In fact, nothing about his condition seems serious,” he concluded somewhat testily.

“That is good news,” said James heartily. “I do appreciate your coming out on such short notice. I would not have asked, but he seemed in sad straits at the time.”

“Mmpf,” said the doctor, picking up his bag. “Call me if he experiences any more of those episodes you mentioned,” he added grudgingly.

James hastened to the library to apprise Hilary and Richard of Rufus’ seeming recovery. Hilary expressed her pleasure and relief at this news, but now that the crisis was past, James felt the immediate return of the constraint that had fallen over them after the kiss that he still felt burning his lips. He was intensely aware of the awkwardness that stood between him and Hilary like an unwanted guest.

He was unable to account for the impulse that had led him to kiss her. Yet, he knew from the moment he reached to touch the silk of her cheek he’d been helpless against the need to hold her and to press his mouth against the flower softness of hers, and to experience the feel of her against him.

He could not even work up an ounce of regret over his actions, and suspected that if he was not extremely circumspect in his future relationship with the lady, he would be strongly tempted to repeat them. But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? It was becoming more and more difficult to be circumspect when it came to Hilary Merton. Good God, what was he going to do about that? He smiled tentatively at her.

She rose and brushed the skirt of her gown. “I must be going,” she said abruptly.

“Of course.” He hesitated. “The doctor seems to think there is nothing much wrong with Rufus,” James continued, “but I am wondering if you were right in your belief that he may be suffering from some malady induced by his journey through time.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Hilary. “Perhaps—”

But James was plunging on.

“I spoke of a plan earlier—to create an artificial bolt of lightning—to get Rufus back to his own time, but I must confess I haven’t a clear idea of what that plan might involve. I prattled about artificially created lightning, but I’m not particularly knowledgeable in this field of research. I know that such experiments have been performed, but I have no idea how to reproduce them. I—I told you of someone who might help, but”—James sighed— “I’ve made no attempt to contact him.”

Hilary tried to fix him with an austere glance, but he appeared so crestfallen and unwontedly humble, that she forbore to express the disappointment in him she had experienced earlier.

“I have a friend—Cyrus Bender,” continued James, “with whom I attended Oxford. He’s a brilliant scholar, and I am in hopes that...”

He cocked his head and smiled quizzically.

“How would you like to accompany me on an excursion tomorrow morning?”

Hilary lifted her brows.

“I shall send a message to Cyrus Bender to expect us,” he said as he ushered her from the library. “He rarely stirs from home and hearth, so I believe we shall find him in situ. It promises to be fine, so we may take an open carriage.”

Hilary felt herself flush. James was telling her that Emma need not accompany them. She preferred not to consider why she should relish the thought of several hours spent with James unencumbered by her abigail. The fact remained that the idea caused her pulse to quicken.

“That would be very nice,” she replied demurely.

Outside, James assisted Hilary once more into the gig, but when he began to mount the vehicle himself, she lifted her hand.

“No. That is—I think you should stay with Rufus.”

He looked at her for a moment and nodded before gesturing to the groom waiting nearby.

As the gig rattled away down the drive, Jasper loping along behind, Hilary waved briskly in farewell, leaving James to stare after her.

Chapter Nineteen

As the gig made its way through the leafy lane that led to White-leaves, Hilary was wholly preoccupied with what had occurred earlier, both at the villa site and in James’s home.

It was time, she concluded, that she embarked on a serious examination of her feelings for James Wincanon. For all her loudly professed aversion to marriage, she was carrying on like a smitten schoolgirl. She had allowed the man to kiss her—twice—without so much as a “How dare you, sir!” She reveled in his company and the thought of spending a day virtually alone with him sent her into a most unbecoming flutter of anticipation.

She had held to the notion for some time that he was her friend. It was an attractive picture, and she certainly wished to maintain their amity. However, she was forced to admit that a new, disturbing element had crept into their relationship.

And what about James? The first time he had kissed her, it was in a fit of pique. This seemed a strange way for a man to vent his irritation, but as she had reflected before, the ways of a man’s mind were foreign to her. This morning though, his lips had been tender on hers, and she still felt their imprint. What had prompted his actions this time? Despite his prejudices, she might almost believe that James had formed a tendre for her. However, other than that shattering embrace, there had been nothing in his demeanor to so much as hint at any lover-like emotions on his part toward her.

She grimaced. It hardly seemed likely that her physical charms had swept him into a blinding
coup de foudre.

The memory of her wanton response to his kiss swept over her. She squirmed in mortification. Had she fallen in his estimation to the level of the scheming damsels who sought to entrap him?

How was she to face him at their next meeting? What would be his demeanor when they saw each other again?

She spent that interval in like musings, and the next morning, when James appeared in her drawing room at precisely the time appointed for their journey to Gloucester, she searched his face for some sign that the encounter at the villa had left its mark on him. She found nothing but an amused courtesy. She shrugged irritably and ushered James from the house.

As they rattled through the gates of Whiteleaves toward Gloucester, the weather was fine. It was one of those crisp, autumn days that tastes like fine wine on the tongue, and Hilary felt her crotchets dissolve.

James, too, despite—or perhaps because of—the memory of the interlude between himself and the Lady Hilary at the villa, felt especially lighthearted.

“Tell me, my dear,” he said to Hilary, who sent a startled glance at this endearment, “how is it you were able to amass such an astounding amount of information on ancient Britain?”

“Particularly for a female?” she asked pertly, a militant sparkle in her eye.

“Did I say that? No, I did not. In fact, I will take leave to tell you that your knowledge is extraordinary, for a person of either sex.”

Hilary felt the heat rise to her cheeks, pleased despite herself at this encomium.

“I am fortunate that my father supports my efforts. Or, at least, he has never put any obstructions in my path. He allowed me free access to his library, which is probably the most extensive in the county. Then there is Vicar Thomlinson, who taught me Latin. Unfortunately,” she sighed, “whatever knowledge I have acquired has come solely through books. Other than brief trips to other remains discovered in the area, I have never had the opportunity to do any real delving into a Roman site. You, I know have been to Rome— more than once, I think.”

“Yes, I’ve had that pleasure several times. I’ve dug with II Professore Eugenio Battaglia in the Forum Romanum, as well as in Hadrian’s forum. I was fortunate to have visited in a time when the government of the Eternal City had decided to investigate its deteriorating ruins, rather than let them continue crumbling into oblivion.”

“Oh yes,” said Hilary with a laugh. “I remember reading that you were one of a band of renegades apparently dedicated to ‘disturbing those most picturesque remains of a vanished civilization.’ ”

“Mm,” replied James dryly. “Perhaps it would not have vanished quite so rapidly if the citizens of the city had not profited from the countless artists and writers who came to sob over the glory that was Rome. Not to mention the aristocrats who pilfered what was left to build their famed palazzos.”

“What about the discoveries of
insulae
at the foot of the Capitoline Hill?”