Page 14 of Dukes for Dessert

A staid, organized, quiet existence. The only strong drink David consumed was a small glass of wine at supper and one goblet of brandy as he and Pierson conversed after Sophie went to bed.

Four days of gazing at Sophie across the breakfast table, carrying her tools to the dig, watching her and Pierson play draughts in the evenings and Sophie nearly always winning. Pierson played like a shark, so her victory meant something.

Days of being near Sophie and not near. He’d touched her in the cold field, the satin softness of her skin coming through his thin gloves. She’d stood very still, like a wild animal giving him leave to touch her.

Four agonizing days of keeping himself away from her, pretending to view her as the niece of his old friend, a sweet young lady forbidden to a man like David.

This would kill him.

Pierson was correct that Sophie wasn’t the usual sort of woman David chased. David had liaisons with the most elite courtesans in the world, ladies who were companions to kings. Or, aristocrats’ wives, bored with the endless round of balls, plays, masquerades, and musicales, their husbands off with their own mistresses. They sought David for amusement and diversion.

Sophie, with her sleek black hair and fine green eyes, her gentle manners and spirited banter, was far too pristine for the likes of David Fleming. Her husband might have decided to ruin her, but in truth, Sophie was a well-bred and virtuous young woman, the sort mothers pulled quickly out of David’s path.

He had to sit near her every night, walk with her every day, and keep his hands—and his craving, and his words—to himself.

David told himself that he wanted her for the novelty of it. Perhaps because he was isolated here, and she was the only female company in view. He was lonely, and Sophie was pretty and agreeable.

But it was nothing pretty and agreeable that made David wake in the night in his tiny room, hot and hard, stifling a groan. Sophie was beautiful, like a naiad—ethereal and elusive. She had wit as well as knowledge—she’d read more books than David had even heard of. She easily matched David’s barbed speeches with retorts that put him in his place. He was enchanted.

More than that—he’d wake in a sweat from erotic dreams where Sophie surrounded him, her long hair spilling across his bare chest and aroused cock. The groans that dragged from his mouth came from frustration, desire, and brutal yearning.

He’d throw off the blankets and try to revive himself by plunging hands and face in a basin of cold water. In the morning he’d descend, eyes burning and skin itching, and there she’d be across the breakfast table, chewing toast and smiling serenely at him.

He had to leave.

David decided on the fourth day that it would be his last. He’d return to London, deal with Griffin and his prosecution, humbly asking Hart for assistance if necessary. That and apologize to Eleanor for not responding to her summons. He’d now recovered sufficiently to face her.

“Shall we try here?” Sophie said when they reached their now-familiar trench that morning, gesturing with her trowel.

The earth was pockmarked with holes, as though all the ground-dwelling animals in Shropshire had dug their burrows in one place. The deepest holes had been made by David, he taking out his frustrations by driving his shovel into the soft dirt.

He swung his spade from his shoulder and pounded it into the ground where Sophie indicated. If only she didn’t have such lovely hands even her thick gardening gloves couldn’t hide.

“Not so hard,” Pierson admonished as he passed them on the way to his trench. “Roman craftsmen built these villas with care, not for you to destroy with your carelessness. Flinders Petrie advocates slow exposure, sifting each layer and recording what is found with precision.”

“Yes, Uncle,” David said, so meekly that Sophie laughed at him. He loved her laugh.

Pierson ignored him and returned to his trench.

“He works so hard,” Sophie said as David resumed digging, more moderately this time. “I hope he finds something, one day.”

“He has a bee in his bonnet,” David said. “But he’s no fool. There must be something buried here, even if it isn’t a Roman villa.”

“Wouldn’t it be fine to uncover it for him? Whatever it is?” Sophie knelt and started carefully troweling through the hole David had begun. “It might take some time, but time is something I have in abundance. I believe I shall grow old looking after Uncle, helping him turn up bits of the past.”

David didn’t answer, his breath not working well. He ceased digging and leaned on the spade. “I’m leaving for London in the morning,” he announced abruptly.

Sophie’s eyes widened. She wore her white fur cap pulled down over her ears, black curls protruding from beneath it in a most fetching manner.

“Leaving?”

David nodded, ignoring the lump in his throat. “I have barristers to consult, charges of attempted murder to thwart. Well, one charge. The irony is that I’m innocent of this one.”

Sophie stared at him without blinking, then she rose to her feet, wind catching at her skirt. “When will you return?”

David hesitated. “I don’t know if I will.”

“Oh.”