Every Whispered Word (13 page)

“There is more there, Elliott,” Camelia insisted. “I know you got discouraged after Father died, which is why you decided to pursue establishing your exporting business instead. I don't blame you for that.”

“My leaving Africa was not just a case of being discouraged, Camelia,” Elliott objected. “You more than anyone know I loved living and working at Pumulani, regardless of how much or how little we found. I went to Africa by choice, against my entire family's objections, because I loved archaeology, and because I believed in your father and wanted to learn from him. And the years I spent there were incredible. Unfortunately, my own father's death has left me with other responsibilities—responsibilities which I simply cannot meet without a steady source of income. Our lives have changed, Camelia.” He gently laid his hand over her arm as they walked. “And even though it is difficult, we must accept those changes and move on.”

“I truly believe there is something vital waiting to be discovered at Pumulani, Elliott,” Camelia told him earnestly. “If I can just hold on long enough, I will find it.”

“The best thing you could hope for is to find diamonds there,” he mused. “Then the De Beers Company would offer you even more for the land than they already have. As it is, they are just trying to acquire as much land around the Kimberley mine as they can, as a way of protecting their interests.” He paused a moment before quietly adding, “You really ought to give their offer serious consideration.”

“I will never sell to the De Beers Company, or to any other of the mining companies,” Camelia vowed. “That land is a precious archaeological link to the past, which must be protected and preserved. I will not permit anyone to start digging and blasting away at it with dynamite until it is a great, ugly pit, like the horrible hole they have made at Kimberley.”

“But what if we have already exhausted the site?” Elliott argued. “I know your father dreamed there was a great burial chamber to be found there, but there is no evidence to suggest such a chamber actually exists, and even if it did, it probably only holds a few disintegrating bones and some broken pieces of shell. It isn't worth bankrupting your entire life for such a find, Camelia.” His voice softened as he moved closer to her. “It isn't worth giving up your chance for a real home, with a husband and children, here in England.”

“England is not my home,” Camelia protested. They had wandered into one of the pretty hedged “rooms” in the garden, and Camelia now found herself with a dense wall of green at her back. “Africa is.”

“England could be your home,” Elliott insisted, his voice low and coaxing. “I know you find it strange here, but eventually you would learn to like it. And I promise you, I would do everything within my power to make you happy, if you would only let me.” He reached out and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer.

“In all the years we have known each other, I don't think I have ever seen you so sad, Camelia, and it pains me. All I want is for you to be happy again—the way you used to be when I would bring you a new book from Cape Town, or a special dagger that you had never seen before.”

Camelia gave him a wistful smile. “It isn't that simple anymore, Elliott. I'm not that same carefree young girl who can be distracted for hours with a new book or knife—even if it comes from you. I'm an archaeologist in charge of a flooded dig in the middle of South Africa, with dozens of workers dependent upon me for their livelihood, and a score of debts that I am fighting to keep from swallowing up everything I own.”

“Then let me help you find a way out of this mess,” Elliott pleaded. “I know once you set your mind to something you hate to let go—you've always been that way, and I've always admired you for it—but it hurts me to see you struggling so to keep your father's dream alive.”

“It is my dream also, Elliott,” Camelia reminded him. “My father and I shared the same vision.”

“Your father was a man—however much you hate to hear it, it was different for him. You cannot spend your life living in filthy, dust-filled tents in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dozens of natives, scratching away at the ground looking for bones and stone tools. You belong here, in London, living in a magnificent home, raising children and playing hostess to the cream of British society.”

“Somehow I don't think the cream of British society would appreciate my attempts to play hostess,” she countered. “I'd serve them all a heavy supper of roasted antelope and plantain pudding, all the while arguing that humans come from apes while Oscar, Harriet, and Rupert leapt, flew, and slithered over and under the dining room table. I doubt anyone would want to visit me after that!” She laughed.

“Then they are all fools.” Elliott reached out and brushed a wayward lock of hair off her cheek.

Camelia regarded him in confusion. His fingers lingered upon her skin, his touch gentle, yet filled with a masculine possessiveness she had never sensed in him before. In that instant she was aware of something shifting between them, quietly yet absolutely.

Holding her gaze steady, Elliott began to lower his head toward hers. “You belong with me, Camelia.” His lips were barely brushing against her mouth as he huskily finished, “You always have.”

Camelia stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding like a trapped bird against the tightly corseted cage of her ribs. Elliott's lips pressed against her mouth, warm, firm, dry. His hands were resting upon her shoulders, his hold tender but insistent. There was restraint in the kiss, she could sense that even as he increased the pressure of his mouth slightly, trying to elicit some sort of response from her.

A swirl of emotions eddied through her. Elliott was an old and beloved friend, who had been a part of her life since she was thirteen years old. From the moment he had arrived in Africa as a handsome young man of twenty-one, Camelia had adored him. Filled with energy, intelligence, and determination, Elliott had seemed wonderfully independent and daring to Camelia—a viscount's son who had brazenly defied his father's wishes and left England to pursue his love of archaeology. For years a flame of innocent desire and admiration had burned brightly for him in her utterly inexperienced heart. There had even been a brief moment in which she had fantasized about one day marrying him. But Camelia was not a little girl anymore. She was a woman, and her feelings for Elliott had long ago faded into a warm and comfortable friendship. Elliott was part of her family. She cared for him deeply, but she didn't belong to him. She didn't belong to anyone.

Did he really believe she could leave Africa and live in England with him as his wife?

His kiss grew harder and more insistent.

The evening air was suddenly thick and hot, just as the air in the ballroom had been stifling. It was always like that in London. Elliott would put her in a dark, dusty, velvet-choked house, in which she would be expected to raise children and manage servants and make decisions on ridiculous, impossible things like draperies and menus and gowns. He would never let her return to Africa, except perhaps for a brief visit every few years, and after she had children, he would likely put an end to even that. She couldn't do it, she realized, feeling as if she couldn't breathe. She knew nothing of children and fashion and entertaining, but she knew enough about herself to know that she would wither and die if she were forced to stay in England and play the role of some man's wife. She flattened her hands against his chest, trying to push away from him, but he misunderstood her touch and drew her closer, his mouth opening as he deepened his kiss.

“Sorry to interrupt,” drawled a low, faintly mocking voice. “I didn't realize you were engaged.”

Startled, Camelia shoved herself away from Elliott and stumbled back, to see Simon regarding her with what appeared to be amusement.

“Mr. Kent,” she managed breathlessly, trying hard not to sound like a woman who had just been in the throes of some sort of romantic kiss.

Simon studied her, taking in the scarlet swath of her evening gown, which dipped tantalizingly low around the ivory skin of her shoulders. Her sun-streaked hair was drifting in playful strands along the column of her neck and into the pale swell of her breasts, leading him to wonder if she ever managed to secure it properly with pins, or if there was something particular about those silky strands that simply defied constraint. Her mouth was drawn into an embarrassed coral line, the lips flushed but not swollen, suggesting that whatever had been taking place between her and Wickham had not been going on for very long.

He felt a stab of satisfaction that he had interrupted them, although he couldn't imagine why that should make any difference to him. After all, Lady Camelia was a grown woman, who was certainly entitled to make her own decisions about whom she kissed. Nevertheless, the anticipation he had felt as he had rushed over to the Archaeological Society's ball to find her had been shattered, leaving him feeling hollow and a bit irritated.

“What the devil are you doing here, Kent?” demanded Elliott, annoyed that his moment alone with Camelia had been ruined.

“I have some drawings for you to look at, Lady Camelia,” Simon said, his gaze still fixed on her. “I thought you would want to see them as quickly as possible.”

Camelia stared back at him, transfixed. Simon was taller than Elliott, she realized, somewhat surprised that she had not noticed this before. He was dressed in a wrinkled day coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and although he had actually managed to wrap a tie around his neck, it was hopelessly floppy and uneven, suggesting that he had put it on in a great hurry, as a last minute addition to his utterly rumpled ensemble. The loose waves of his red-gold hair were curling slightly against his shoulders, which seemed far broader than Camelia had previously realized, and while his trousers seemed to be of a good fabric and cut, they had long ago lost whatever pressing they might once have enjoyed. His strong, lean hands were gloveless and generously ink-stained, indicating that he had been working for hours upon the sheaf of papers he held, and some of the ink had seeped into the white of his shirt cuffs. A powerful, relaxed confidence emanated from him as he stood there staring at her, which was rather extraordinary given the inappropriateness of his attire and the fact that he was completely disheveled. It was clear that Simon Kent didn't particularly care what people thought about what he was wearing.

“You can't just come charging in here because you happen to want to see Lady Camelia,” Elliott informed him tersely. “This party is only for people with invitations.”

“I'm sure I probably had an invitation, somewhere,” Simon reflected, shrugging. “It must have been lost in the fire. I'm afraid my house burned down a few nights ago. Surely you must have heard about that?”

“But you aren't dressed properly,” Elliott pointed out, wholly uninterested at that moment in Kent's problems. “Guests are required to wear evening clothes.”

“I'm sorry, Wickhip, but I'm afraid I don't have time to stay and dance,” Simon returned amiably. “I just need to have a word with Lady Camelia, and then I'll leave both of you to get back to doing whatever it was you were doing.”

“We weren't doing anything,” Camelia hastily assured him, embarrassed but also profoundly grateful that Simon had arrived when he did. “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”

Moonlight was spilling over her in a veil of silvery light, turning her sun-kissed skin into the palest silk. Her eyes were like two glittering pools of green, and although she was trying her best to appear calm, Simon could see anxiety swirling within their celadon depths.

What the hell are you doing with a dull, pompous lobcock like Wickham, when you are so full of fire?
he wondered.

He could see she was embarrassed, which was understandable given the fact that he had come upon them at such an inopportune moment. What he couldn't understand was why she had been in Wickham's arms to begin with. He supposed the viscount was handsome enough in a flat, unremarkable sort of way—the kind of standardized male beauty that he had seen glorified countless times in paintings and sculptures. Simon could certainly appreciate that most women would find Lord Wickham appealing, with his sandy brown hair and his elegantly chiseled features, and his painstakingly pressed and relentlessly fashionable clothing. But Camelia was not like most women. She was a woman of unique curiosity and determination, who had dedicated her life to studying the world around her, and presumably analyzing and assessing the most infinitesimal of details.

Could she really not see that beneath those rigorously tailored clothes and painfully polished boots, Lord Wickham was a posturing, arrogant idiot?

“I have been working on some sketches for your pump, Lady Camelia.” Dismissing Wickham, Simon moved toward a stone bench and spread a series of wrinkled sheets upon it. “Although I have some ideas about how it will have to be adapted, I need you to tell me more about the density of the soil that mixes with the water, the amount and size of the rocks we are likely to encounter, and the availability of fuel for the pump—”

“Really, Kent, I'm afraid I must protest,” Elliott interrupted. “Lady Camelia is here this evening to enjoy a social event, not to conduct some sort of business meeting with you. This is entirely inappropriate.”

“Forgive me, Wickhip—”

“It's Wickham,” Elliott corrected in a taut voice.

“If you prefer,” Simon said agreeably. “Lady Camelia and I are partners in an archaeological project, and she told me that time was of the greatest essence in this matter. She assured me I could speak to her about any questions or concerns at any time, day or night.”

“I hardly think she meant you were to track her down at a private party and corner her in the garden,” Elliott retorted.