Page 29 of Dukes for Dessert

“You unearthed it. Needing no shovel.”

“No, indeed,” David said. “It was a bodily blunder.”

Sophie laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the close hole. David’s smile was warm, genuine—happy.

The expression transformed his face, erasing the tired disdain, revealing David the man. Decadence fell away to make him more handsome than ever, never mind the abrasions on his cheeks.

His smile faded as he and Sophie studied each other, but his mask did not drop back into place. Sophie lifted her hand to hover near his hurt face.

David quickly glanced at the opening, which was light again, Uncle having vanished. “He’s gone very quiet up there.”

Sophie jerked her hand away and scrambled to her feet, careful of the mosaic. When she stood up fully, her head reached just above the hole. “Uncle?”

Uncle Lucas had fallen to his knees, his hands pressed together in prayer. A tear trickled from his closed eyes.

“Are you well, Uncle?” Sophie asked softly.

David rose next to her, his body and hers close in the narrow opening. His warmth both comforted and unnerved her.

Uncle Lucas opened his eyes, his face wet, a smile beaming. “I was thanking God for his guidance, and asking forgiveness for being so excited about earthly pleasures.” Uncle climbed to his feet, brushing mud from his knees. “My dear friends, this is a wonderful, wonderful thing. Thank you for making an old man’s dream come true.”

“One bit of floor is a long way from an intact Roman villa,” David told Dr. Pierson as they packed up their tools for the evening.

Pierson had decided to cover the floor again but mark it, placing stones around the edges of the hole so animals or wandering humans would not fall through the pocket of earth as David had.

“Even if I find only this mosaic, I will be happy,” Pierson said with continued good cheer. “I knew I was right.”

“Yes, you were.” David clapped him on the back. Sophie had already headed for the house, her trim form a fine sight moving down the path toward the vicarage. “I have a suggestion. Let me send word to my friend El—the Duchess of Kilmorgan. She’s an amazing photographer. If anyone can capture this floor before it’s damaged by sun, wind, water, or curious antiquities seekers, it is she.”

Pierson’s brows went up. “Eleanor, the woman you wished to marry?”

David waved the objection away. “That was a long time ago. We’re both older and far more sensible. Besides, she’s madly in love with her husband.”

Pierson looked at him in his penetrating way. “What about you?”

“Me?” David attempted a grin. “I do admire Hart and consider him a great friend, but I’m not in love with him, no.”

“You know I meant his wife,” Pierson said without humor.

David gazed at the arches of the ruined abbey in the distance, the evening made bleaker because Sophie had reached the vicarage and gone inside. He preferred to dance around truth because truth could be so exposing, embarrassing, and gut-wrenching, but he was ready to acknowledge things had changed in his life.

“I am no longer in love with Eleanor Ramsay.” He could say it with clarity, because it was true. “As I said, that foolishness was a long time ago. I am now friends with the Duchess of Kilmorgan. She truly is the best photographer in Britain, but no one will admit that because she’s a woman. All smile about her dabbling, more fool they. If you want a good record of this find, invite her.”

“What about Sophie?”

David growled in irritation. “Why are you asking me about all these ladies? What about Sophie? I imagine she will welcome the assistance. I’m obviously useless except by accident.”

He touched the cheek that still smarted from landing on ancient decorative stone. His elbow, knee, and hip didn’t feel sound either, and his new suit was much torn and grimy. Why he’d bothered with the damned thing, he had no idea.

Yes, he did know. He’d wanted Sophie to think him both well turned out and practical-minded. Circumstances had proved him neither.

“You are deuced obtuse sometimes, Fleming,” Pierson surprised him by saying. “I will speak plainly so you will understand. Sophie is forming a tenderness for you, whether I approve or not. It would be awkward for her if the woman you once proposed to pushed her way in to our dig.”

David listened in amazement. “What the devil are you talking about—a tenderness? Sophie wishes me at the bottom of the sea. She’d have left me in that hole, and good riddance, if I hadn’t fortuitously landed on a bit of Roman tile. Besides, Eleanor would never push her way in. In spite of the way she rattles on, she is a perceptive woman. She’ll give all credit to you and Sophie for the floor, snap her photographs, and go home. I suggested her because your books will be treasured forever if you include brilliant photographs to accompany your rather dry prose. But if you want blurred shots from, say, myself, then by all means, keep Eleanor far away.”

David was surprised at his vehemence, and at Pierson’s silence. He wished the world would find something else to talk about besides David’s youthful passions. He had let Eleanor go in his heart some time ago—he would be happy when everyone else caught up.

“I see.” Pierson watched him a while longer, reminding David without words that this man was far wiser than he liked to let on. He at last gave David a terse nod. “I suppose we can write to the duke.”