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Item:
One clay lamp
after the
fashion of an erect phallus
-from the
Manifest of Roman Oddities,
found
near London, England
3rd
July, in the Year of Our Lord 1731
Chapter One
“Hmm! I
wonder if that’s life-sized,” Miss Daisy Drake murmured. She leaned
down to inspect the ancient lamp on display in the corridor outside
the Society of Antiquaries lecture hall. Talking to herself was a
bad habit, she knew, but since none of her friends shared her
interest in antiquities, she often found herself without companions
on this sort of outing.
“Of course,
it would be on the most inaccessible shelf in the display case.”
Solely to vex her, she suspected. Daisy scrunched down to get a
better look at it.
The clay
lamp was only about four inches long, but in other respects, so far
as Daisy knew, was perfectly life-like. The terracotta scrotum
served admirably for an oil cruse, but even though she knew the
ancients decorated their homes with such unseemly things, she still
wondered about how the lamp worked. She opened her small valise and
drew out paper, quill and inkpot in order to take a few notes.
“Where does the flame come out?”
“Right where
one would expect,” a masculine voice sounded near her.
Daisy’s
spine snapped suddenly upright. The crown of her head clipped his
chin with a thwack and she bit her tongue.
“Jupiter!”
One of her hands flew to her throbbing mouth, the other to the top
of her head where her cunning little hat was smashed beyond
recognition. Her sheaf of papers fluttered to the polished oak floor
like maple leaves. The small inkwell flew into the air and landed
squarely on the white lawn of the man’s shirtfront.
“Oh, I’m so
dreadfully sorry.” Daisy dabbed at the stain with her hanky and only
succeeded in spreading it down his waistcoat. A black blob dribbled
onto his fawn-colored breeches. She decided not to chase that stain
with her handkerchief.
At least,
thank heaven, plastering the man with ink covered her unmaidenly
interest in that lewd little lamp. It was clearly a mistake to come
to the museum today, but the topic under discussion at the Society
of Antiquaries was the possible discovery of an ancient Roman
treasure. The lure of an adventure drew her like a lemming to the
sea.
“How clumsy
of me!” She made the additional mistake of looking up at the man.
Her mouth gaped like a cod.
Lucian,
she almost said aloud. When she saw no trace of recognition in his
dark eyes, she drew her lips closed by sheer strength of will.
He’d grown
into himself since she’d seen him last. His fine, straight nose was
no longer out of proportion to the rest of his face. As he rubbed
his square jaw, Daisy saw that the little scar on his chin was still
visible, a neat triangle of pale, smooth skin. She’d recognize that
anywhere.
After all,
she’d given it to him.
His dark
hair was hidden beneath a dandy’s wig. Oh, she hoped to heaven he
hadn’t taken to shaving his head as some did. Daisy’s Uncle Gabriel
was a dogged opponent of the fashion. Said it was nothing but French
foppery. Since Uncle Gabriel’s opinions were only slightly less
authoritative than a papal bull, the aversion to wigs had rubbed
off. Besides, hiding a head of hair like Lucian’s was a sacrilege.
Or ought to be.
An ebony
wisp escaped near his left ear.
Good.
Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. His dark mane was one of Lucian’s
finest points, after all. Not that there weren’t plenty of others.
His lips
twitched in a half smile.
“An
interesting piece, isn’t it?” He was still the same old Lucian.
Still direct, even at the expense of propriety. He wasn’t going to
play the gentleman and pretend he hadn’t caught her ogling that
Roman phallus.
“Indeed.”
She met his gaze directly, determined to make him understand her
interest was purely intellectual. “Obviously a cultic object of some
sort. It is certainly a curiosity.”
“It is
gratifying to find a young lady who is . . . curious.”
Daisy lifted
her chin in what she hoped was a confident manner. “Of course, I’m
curious. Such items make one wonder what the people who used it were
like.”
“I suspect
the ancients were more like us than we want to admit. People have
been born into this world with the same wants and needs since Eden.
Though I’ll grant you, our taste in home decoration has changed,” he
said with a laugh.
“Actually, I
read a treatise only last week on the new fashion of tassels. The
writer felt they were merely phallic symbols in subtle form.”
“Hmph. I
shall never look at a tassel the same way again.”
His eyes
narrowed in speculation. Daisy hoped he might show some sign of
remembering her, but it had been more than a decade since they’d
met. She’d been a flat-chested ten-year-old and he’d been a haughty
woman-hater of twelve. With soulful eyes and a blinding smile.
Now he
turned that charming smile on her without a hint of recognition in
his intense gaze. “You must possess an unusual library.”
The library
Daisy frequented most often belonged to Isabella Haversham, her
great-aunt. Isabella had once been a famous courtesan. But even now
that she was a married lady—the wife of an earl, no less—she still
entertained philosophers and artists and “free thinkers” with
regularity. Lady Wexford might be tainted with scandal’s brush, but
an evening in her company was far more diverting than squirming
through the tortured clavichord recitals that took place in other
parlors around the city.
Daisy
wangled an invitation to Isabella’s soirees as often as she could.
For that reason, as well as her great-aunt’s library, Daisy
suspected her education was considerably broader than most young
women her age.
“Innocence
and ignorance need not forever clasp hands,” Isabella was fond of
saying.
Daisy looked
pointedly back at the lamp. There was no use denying she’d been
studying it before. She might as well put a bold face on it.
“I was
wondering if there is any kind of mark on that lamp,” Daisy said.
“One that might indicate who the maker was.”
“He left no
mark,” Lucian said.
“He? So you
believe a man fashioned it?”
“Men were
generally the artisans in antiquity,” he said with confidence.
“Hmm. That
surprises me,” she said with wide eyes. “I can’t imagine a man
wanting to set one of those alight.”
Lucian
coughed out a laugh. “But you can see where a woman might have
reason to.”
“Certainly.
Male domination of nearly every field of endeavor springs to mind.”
As well as possession of the memory of a gnat, she added
silently. “But the lamp poses a host of questions.”
“Ah, yes,
and you raised an intriguing one.” One of his dark brows arched, a
reminder that he’d overheard her. “I’d be happy to help you discover
the answer.”
Was he
suggesting something improper? If he was, it would serve him right
if she gave him another scar.
“You owe me
no further assistance. Not after I ruined your shirt. And your
waistcoat. And your—” She shouldn’t have allowed her gaze to travel
the ink’s path down the front of his breeches. For a moment, she
imagined an appendage shaped like the lamp affixed to his groin and
felt her cheeks heat. To cover her embarrassment, she sank to the
floor to retrieve her scattered notes.
“Think
nothing of it.” His voice was no longer the adolescent squeak she
remembered. “I should be more careful where I put my jaw. I do hope
you have not suffered an injury to your head.”
The way his
deep baritone rumbled through her, the fact that she even had a head
temporarily escaped her notice.
“Please,
allow me.” Lucian set down the valise he’d been carrying and knelt
beside her. He helped her reassemble her pages. Then he offered his
hand to help her up and she took it.
Had someone
loosed a jar of June bugs in her belly?
“Thank you,
my lord,” she murmured, for lord he was.
Lucian
Ignacio de Castenello Beaumont. Son and heir of Ellery Beaumont,
Earl of Montford. Daisy assumed Lucian was now styling himself
Viscount Rutland, one of his father’s lesser titles, since the earl
was still very much alive.
But Daisy
remembered Lucian as ‘Iggy.’
His ears had
turned an alarming shade of red when she called him that. ‘Iggy’ was
not dignified, he’d complained. As if a skinny, dirty-kneed
twelve-year-old was capable of anything remotely like dignity.
But Lucian
was no longer twelve. He was a man. And the last time Daisy heard
his name bandied about in Polite Society, the sober matron doing the
talking lowered her voice, but the words “reclusive rake” and
“wastrel” were unmistakably used.
Neither of
which did anything to slow her racing heart, Daisy admitted with a
sigh.
She accepted
the stack of papers from him, casting about in her mind for the
right thing to say. “There’s no salvaging your ensemble, I fear.
Please permit me to have a new suit of clothing made for you.”
She could
afford to be generous. After all, she’d discovered the family
fortune beneath the stones of Dragon Caern Castle just when other
members of the nobility were losing theirs in the South Sea stock
swindle.
“I wouldn’t
hear of it,” he assured her smoothly, though she knew Lucian’s
father had invested heavily in the failed company. Perhaps his
mother’s family was still solvent. She’d been a noblewoman in her
homeland. All vestiges of Lucian’s Italian accent were now gone.
Daisy thought that a terrible shame.
“I’ve been
meaning to retire this suit in any case,” he informed her. “The
style is tres passé, n’est-ce pas?”
That
would be a pity since the cut of that green frockcoat does wonderful
things for his shoulders and as for those bree— Daisy caught
herself before her thoughts completely ran away with her, but lost
her fight with the urge to flick her gaze to where his breeches
molded to his thighs.
He caught
the direction of her gaze and an amused grin tilted his lips. “My!
You are a keen observer, aren’t you?”
“Forgive me.
Ruining your suit has upset me,” she said, her cheeks flaming. “I’m
acting like some pudding-headed debutant.” Instead she was
‘firmly-on-the-shelf’ spinster of one and twenty.
“If you were
a debutant, I’d have remembered you,” he said.
Daisy
doubted it. Especially since he showed no signs of recognizing her
yet. Surely she bore some resemblance to the young girl who followed
him about like a puppy so many years ago. His family had only spent
a week in residence at Dragon Caern, but it had been the most
frustrating, most splendid, most memorable week of her young life.
“However, if
you want my advice,” he continued, “your chances of remaining
unmarried will decrease if you try not to douse every man you meet
with ink.”
“Perhaps
remaining unmarried is my choice.” She frowned until she noticed the
way he flashed his teeth at her, clearly teasing. Lucian was the
sort of man a woman might forgive anything so long as he smiled at
her.
Daisy bit
her lip to keep from babbling further. A guilty blush heated her
cheeks. She sidled away from the case where the phallic lamp was on
display.
Lucian
looked around the nearly deserted exhibit hall. “It seems there is
no way for us to be properly introduced, but perhaps you will allow
me the honor of giving you my name.”
Final proof
that he truly didn’t recognize her. Her belly spiraled downward in
disappointment.
How was it
possible that she could carry his image in her head for all these
years while he completely forgot that Daisy Elizabeth Drake even
existed? Bristling with indignation, she took another step backward
to put more distance between them.
Before she
could remind him that he should already know her name (and quite
well, thank you very much!) the door behind her swung open and
whacked her soundly on the bottom. She stumbled forward and he
caught her in his arms.
She was
pressed tight against him, suddenly engulfed in his masculine scent,
a clean whiff of sandalwood and soap. Beneath her splayed fingers,
the musculature in his chest was rock hard. Her breath caught in her
throat.
“Are you
injured, Miss?” he asked.
“Only my
pride.” Daisy pushed slightly against him as a signal he should
release her. She wasn’t about to admit that her derrière throbbed.
“No, I fear
we have another casualty,” he said.
Daisy
followed his gaze to her décolletage where some of the ink from his
shirt and waistcoat had been transferred. Part of the stain marred
her pale blue stomacher and part darkened the mound of her breast
that rose above it.
“Pity. An
alabaster bosom such as yours should never wear black.” He drew a
fingertip along the froth of lace at the neckline she’d always
thought of as modest, but never would again. “Alas, I forgot my
handkerchief this morning or I should return the favor and try to
wipe it off.”
The thought
of his hand on her skin with only a thin layer of cloth between them
made her belly quiver.
“There you
are, Rutland.” A monocled gentleman peeked around the door and waved
Lucian over with urgency. ”We’ve been waiting for you.”
Daisy
startled and jumped away from Lucian. She recognized the gentleman
as Sir Alistair Fitzhugh, head of the Society of Antiquaries. She’d
petitioned for admission several times only to have Sir Alistair
black-ball her membership on account of her gender. The man cast a
quick dismissive gaze over her and turned back to Lord Rutland.
A baron’s
niece counts for very little when measured against a viscount, she
supposed.
Fitzhugh’s
monocle popped out and dangled from its silver chain when he noticed
the large, oddly-shaped ink stain on Lucian’s clothing. “Good God,
man, what’s happened to you?”
“It was—“
Daisy began.
“My fault
entirely,” Lucian finished for her. “I will be in directly,
Fitzhugh.”
Lucian
turned back to Daisy. “Perhaps once I’ve delivered my presentation—“
“Hold a
moment,” she interrupted, stunned. She’d expected an Oxford don type
would be leading the discussion. “You’re the speaker?”
He nodded
with a wry grin. “When I’m allowed to be.”
She covered
her mouth with her fingertips. When had Lucian become an expert in
Roman antiquities? Or more specifically, lost Roman treasure.
“As I was
saying, I hope we may continue our discussion at a later time. I’d
enjoy learning what else such a charming young lady finds . . .
curious in these dry halls.” He retrieved his valise, made an
elegant leg and shot her a wicked grin. “And for your information,
the answer is no.”
“No?” Her
brows nearly met in a puzzled frown.
“It's not
life-sized.”
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