Guilty Series by Laura Lee Guhrke Page B

be making her work more pleasant. He sometimes mentioned the events of the day, such as England’s current overabundance of governesses, or the dullness of London and its environs during the autumn and winter months. He even had maids come by the antika every hour or so to see if she might like a cup of tea or other refreshment. He often sent workmen in to ask if she needed their assistance.
    As if such things would make her stay. Since more money had not tempted her, he was now trying to prove to her that he was a considerate employer.
    She gave a disdainful sniff. He was not a considerate employer. He was selfish and toplofty and hadno genuine consideration for the feelings of others. He was cold as well, so cold that he would deliberately, in calculated fashion, pick a wife he would never fall in love with.
    Yet, despite all that, she had fancied herself in love with him. Why? Daphne paused in her work, staring into space, thinking it over. What was it about him that she had loved?
    She thought of Cleopatra, and she realized that women were not the only ones who could possess a sort of magical appeal that captivated others. Anthony had it too.
    She thought of all the times he had looked at her in a way that made her feel special, singled out for his attention, as if she were the only person in the world at that moment. But it was only for that moment, only when he wanted something he knew was especially difficult or unreasonable, then he could bring out a potent charm that made her want to please him, no matter how hard it might be to accomplish. Once that objective was obtained, he was gone, leaving her dazed and flattered and not realizing he had ordered, not requested, something that would take her hours and hours of hard work.
    She knew now that all those times when he had looked straight at her in that special way, he had been looking through her without seeing her at all, his only intent to get what he wanted. And yet, the other day when he had been trying to persuade her to stay, she had felt a momentary temptation to agree, just because he had asked it of her.
    Yes, he had an inexplicable alchemy that couldmake a maid run off to the dairy for fresh butter at two o’clock in the morning without any resentment, that made Mrs. Bennington’s breath come faster just because he was talking with her about the state of the roads, that made plain, ordinary Daphne Wade feel like the world’s greatest beauty. But it was not real.
    She took a deep breath and returned her attention to her work. She was wise to him now, and that magic wasn’t going to work on her anymore.
    Daphne picked up a flake of plaster about the size of her palm and began smearing wet cement onto the back of the piece with her trowel, but the pressure of such a task was too much for the delicate plaster fragment. It broke apart in her hands, falling between her gloved fingers into pieces and dust, her fourth one of the day, another priceless piece of history ruined.
    â€œOh, this English mud destroys everything!” she cried, and threw her trowel aside, thoroughly exasperated. It hit the stone floor with a clang. That sound was followed by a low whistle, and Daphne turned her head to find Anthony standing in the doorway of the antika.
    â€œCareful where you throw things, Miss Wade,” he said, and bent to pick up her trowel.
    â€œDid I hit you?”
    â€œNo,” he answered, “but it was a near miss.”
    Daphne watched him cross the room toward her. She could tell he had not yet started working on the dig with Mr. Bennington, for though he wore no waistcoat or neck-cloth, his shirt was immaculate,without a speck of dirt to detract from its snowy whiteness. Daphne was relieved that at least he was wearing it.
    She hastily looked away. “I am gratified you are not hurt,” she said as he paused by her side.
    â€œWhy are you cursing the English mud?” He set her trowel down beside the bowl of cement on