Читать книгу Awakening The Shy Miss - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Dimitri strolled promptly down Evie’s drive at half-past one the next day, admiring the haphazard compilation of bricks and time that was the Milhams’ house. Definitely Elizabethan, he concluded, in its initial construction. He could make out the symmetry of the era in the roofline. He squinted up against the sun to take a more professional interest in the house. An archaeologist was part-historian, part-architect and part-expert in a host of other subjects as well. He picked out a few themes with his keen eye. There was a nod to early Georgian in the pediment above the front door.

That pediment was likely the most recent addition to the house’s eclectic architecture. From the state of the front gardens, the latest generation hadn’t paid much attention to the external state of the house. He strode along a gravel drive where flowers grew in wild anarchy alongside, having long ago given up any adherence to the limits of the beds they’d been planted in. There were no boundaries here, none of the order of the organised, ornamental gardens of Kuban, modelled on the tamed excellence of Versailles. There were no pruned hedges or carefully shaped bushes. Yet, the look suited the place much better. Many back home would disagree with him, would give such wild nature a disparaging glance. He found it charming, a peaceful haven. He wondered what the Kuban nobility would do if he replicated such a style at his home.

The housekeeper answered his knock and he stepped inside, his senses taking it all in with the astute eye of an archaeologist trained to look for patterns and behaviours: books stacked on consoles in the hallway, books lining shelves in every room the housekeeper took him past, some books lying open. The interior matching the exterior perfectly. The occupants of this house had far more important priorities than landscaping. They lived an internal life of the mind.

‘I’ll let Miss Milham know you’re here.’ The housekeeper left him in a cheery yellow sitting room, where more books populated the walls and a small, cosy cluster of furniture upholstered in yellow-and-rose chintz resided in the wide bow of the windows.

A housekeeper. Dimitri smiled at her departure. No stodgy butlers here. A housekeeper had received a Prince of Kuban and had no true notion of who had just walked into the house. He liked the novelty of that anonymity. Everyone fussed over him as if he were more special than the next man. But here, in the Milhams’ household, he sensed he might be able to move past that. Andrew’s words drifted back to him: She’s not rich enough. The Milhams did not keep a full complement of staff, perhaps for multiple reasons. Perhaps it was financial, or perhaps they understood every servant was another responsibility, one more acquired burden, an anchor against freedom. Dependents were both a blessing and a curse.

‘You came.’

He turned, catching the sound of surprise in Evie’s voice. She looked cool and fresh in a white summer muslin sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Blue was definitely her colour. It brought out the auburn highlights in her hair, turning it more chestnut than brown. They’d not been obvious at the assembly. Dimitri smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ He spoke the words without thinking, the teasing, flirtatious response coming easily to his practised wit. This was how urbane princes interacted with women. He was curious as to how Evie Milham would respond. How would his hypothesis play out now that they were alone, away from a crowd where she felt self-conscious? He told himself it was no more than simply his usual ‘excavation’ of a person, of taking their measure, yet a part of him was on edge, wanting her to make a certain response, wanting her to come alive for him.

She blushed a little, but she did not shrink from being direct. ‘I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I feared May pushed the appointment on you.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ He was touched. She’d been advocating for him. She’d been trying to protect him. It was a very small protection to be sure. In a life spent protecting others he simply wasn’t used to it being the other way around. ‘Many people would not hesitate to use any means necessary to capture a prince’s time.’ He probed carefully. It was true. One woman had followed him to the privy and locked the door.

‘I think you’ll find I’m not like most people.’ Another sort of woman would have made the line into a not so cleverly veiled invitation. Not Miss Milham. Was that a warning? A hint of regret? Why ever would she want to be like others?

He was counting on her assessment to be correct. ‘I find the “usual” holds little fascination for me.’ His own voice was low, issuing a private invitation of his own, his eyes holding hers, daring her not to look away. He should not wish for such a thing. Nothing but trouble could come from it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it anyway. Come to life for me, Evie Milham. I know you’re in there. Don’t be afraid.

There it was. Her steady gaze, her answer. She did not look away. He gestured to the wall of books, looking for a subject to put her at ease. Now that he had her this far, he didn’t want her intimidated. ‘Have you read all of these?’

‘Some.’

He was going to have to work harder. He wanted to assure her his title meant nothing. He was as ordinary as the next man, at least he wanted to be. No one needed to stand on ceremony with him. He’d never get to know her secrets otherwise, secrets he had no business knowing, no need to know.

‘Which ones? Which ones have you read?’ He grinned. It was a preposterous question. There were over a hundred books right in front of him. He plucked a book at random from the shelf. ‘How about this one? A History of the West Country by Pieter von Alpers? He’s not even a good Englishman from the sounds of his name.’ The comment made her laugh and that was what he intended.

‘He’s Dutch.’ Evie smiled, letting it light her face. ‘Sometimes it helps to see one’s own history through the eyes of another. My father says it brings new perspective. But, no, I haven’t read that one.’

She was starting to relax. He could see now that she wasn’t shy as he’d first thought, but merely wary. This was a learned behaviour, acquired at some point. This was her attempt to protect herself. From what? From whom? He tucked the new piece of information away.

Evie ran her hand over the book spines on the shelves, coming to stop on one of them. ‘I’ve read this one.’ She handed it to him. ‘He has an especially interesting interpretation of early Saxon history.’ He smiled appreciatively. Evie Milham was a historian. How intriguing. He didn’t meet many women who were or who would admit to it.

‘Like father like daughter? I’d like to meet your father some time. I could use a local historian’s help on my project. I was surprised Andrew didn’t include him in the initial circle of investors for the site. By the way, is he joining us today?’ Was anyone joining them? He could hardly believe someone wasn’t chaperoning and yet it appeared the Milhams’ casual approach to living extended to their daughter, who was apparently allowed to meet men unattended. He thought it seemed somehow disrespectful of them to leave her alone no matter how honourable his intentions were.

‘Are you worried for your reputation?’ There was a shade of worry in her eyes that was entirely sincere. Other women would have delivered the line with a flirty laugh. He knew plenty of those women. But Evie Milham was not one of them. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Shall I call someone?’ She was flustered again and it was his fault. In an attempt to honour her, he’d managed to insult her.

Dimitri chuckled, trying to put her at ease. He’d not meant to upset her any more than he’d meant to insult her. ‘Are you worried for yours?’

‘You’re here to view a tapestry, not ravish me.’ Evie scoffed. He heard the hint of sorrow, or was that resignation, again?

‘Are you sure about that?’ he teased, although he wasn’t sure it was entirely a joke on his part. Evie Milham was ravish-worthy, with her glorious hair and that carefully guarded smile, especially when she wasn’t doubting herself, when she was letting her real self out to play as she had when they’d discussed the history books.

She smiled, but there was a shadow in her eyes now. ‘I’ve had years to be quite sure of that, Your Highness.’ He understood. She thought he was embarrassed to be alone with her, maybe even ashamed to be seen with her. The realisation gave him pause. Where had she ever acquired such a belief about herself? Was this where the wariness came from? He would have to work harder to put her at ease, to convince her she had nothing to fear from him.

‘Call me Dimitri. Please,’ he urged, refusing to remark on that shadow for fear she would see any encouragement he offered as pity. ‘We’re a thousand miles from Kuban. I hardly feel like a prince this far from home.’ He liked it that way. The further from Kuban he got, the easier it was to forget he was a prince, the easier it was to live simply, to be a man only, not a title he’d acquired by an accident of birth. If only others felt that way too. Unfortunately, they were all too keen to remind him of the chasm that separated him from other men.

Evie took the invitation as he’d hoped. ‘All right, then, Dimitri, the tapestry is this way.’ She led them through a warren of hallways to a gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. The tapestry was easy to spot. It was of considerable size and hung in the centre of the left wall in a large glass frame. Even with the glass protecting it, Dimitri could tell it was of fine and authentic quality. He stepped towards it, unable to resist doing anything else, drawn to the vibrant hues of blue, red and orange. ‘This is remarkably well preserved...’ he breathed in real appreciation, letting his eyes roam the story of the tapestry. ‘Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Yes, my father has spent considerable amounts of time researching it. He’s in the final stages of writing a book about the tapestry,’ Evie offered. He stared at it a while longer, asking questions, before turning his attention to other artefacts in the room. The gallery was a repository of history. There were other, smaller, tapestries hanging from the walls, unprotected. He wandered over to one depicting a unicorn set against a blue-flowered field.

‘This one is quite fine as well. Is it of some import?’ He wondered why it wasn’t under glass too. It seemed familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before.

Evie shook her head. ‘No. It’s one of mine. It’s merely a copy of a famous French tapestry.’

Dimitri peered closer, studying the stitches. ‘You did this? It is marvellously well made.’

Evie shrugged off the praise. ‘I drew the pattern from a piece of art. I like to work with cloth, sewing, weaving. I draw my own patterns.’ That was interesting indeed; a historian and a seamstress, although that seemed too menial of a word for what she’d done here, and an artist. Evie Milham was a trove of hidden talents.

He spied a framed collection of ink work hanging on the wall. ‘Are these some of your patterns?’

‘Yes. I drew them for one of my father’s books, but he liked some of them so much he wanted to frame them.’ Evie blushed. ‘A father’s prerogative, I suppose. Some would say he’s biased.’

Dimitri looked closer. The work was exquisitely done, meticulous and clean. ‘I don’t think he’s biased at all.’ An idea came to him. He could use someone with a decent artistic eye at the site.

They strolled the perimeter of the room, he asking questions and Evie answering, each answer a revelation. Evie Milham might appear to be somewhat quiet and unassuming, but beneath that exterior, there was much of her waiting to be unwrapped, waiting to be discovered. She was knowledgeable about history, able to answer his questions with impressive intellect; she could replicate medieval tapestries with an expert’s skill; she was sensitive to others’ feelings, perhaps too much so.

Did she make a habit of casting herself in the subordinate role in conversation? He’d seen it at the assembly. She’d put herself forward when Andrew had failed to introduce her, but the moment she perceived she was an interloper, she’d withdrawn, content to defer to the wishes of others. But today he’d applied considerable skill in drawing her out, in making her an equal in the discussion, and she had blossomed. He could not remember enjoying a conversation this much. There was no pressure to perform, to be the Prince. He had only to be himself.

They passed out into the gardens off the gallery and into the sun. There was more order to these gardens than the ones in front of the house, probably because these gardens were designed to show off statuary. Most of the statuary were broken. There wasn’t a whole statue among them, but that only reinforced their authenticity. ‘Shards my father has picked up over a lifetime,’ Evie explained with a rueful smile. ‘These are from Italy, from his Grand Tour twenty-eight years ago.’ She gestured to a twin set of partial busts.

Dimitri made noises of suitable impressment. He was more interested in how the sun caught Evie’s hair, the auburn flame of it flickering in the smooth brown depths. The statues couldn’t compete. Her hair was beautiful, even coiled in a tight braid that wound neatly about her head. He imagined for a moment undoing that braid and combing his fingers through it. Undone, her hair would be long, and straight, the smoothness of it falling through his fingers like Chinese silk. It made him wonder what Evie Milham would be like undone in other ways. What other secrets lay beneath her unassuming exterior? What would she reveal to the man who uncovered those secrets? What would she discover about herself? He felt a flicker of regret that he couldn’t be that man.

‘Miss.’ The housekeeper caught up to them on the gravel path, breaking his attention on Evie’s hair. The woman was huffing from the exertion. ‘Mr Adair is here, shall I send him out?’

Evie’s face split into a smile. ‘He can join us. Please, bring some lemonade and the little cakes Cook baked this morning, if it’s not too much trouble. The lemon seed are his favourite.’

Evie’s gaze moved to a point over his shoulder, her smile widening, lighting up her whole face. Dimitri didn’t need to turn to know it was Andrew striding down the path. A fierce little spark of competitive maleness lit in him. He wanted that smile for himself, not for Andrew, who didn’t want it, and didn’t appreciate it. His friend’s boldness bordered on arrogant. Andrew hadn’t waited for permission to join them. He’d assumed he’d be welcomed and the presumption was irrationally annoying. Why did he care if Andrew joined them?

They sat for lemonade and cakes at a table under a shade tree and Dimitri knew why he cared. Evie, who had become relaxed during their tour of the gallery, had suddenly become self-conscious and tense, too eager to please: Was the lemonade sweet enough? The cakes fresh enough? The whole while, Andrew took the demure obsequiousness as his due, oblivious to Evie’s efforts once more.

‘I must get the recipe from your cook.’ Dimitri reached for another lemon seed cake, easily his fourth. ‘These are delicious.’

‘Too simple for the court of Kuban, though.’ Andrew threw out the thoughtless insult and helped himself to a fifth cake. ‘Can you imagine these plain little things on a tea tray along with those frosted delicacies of yours?’ Andrew glanced over at Evie, the first real look he’d given her since he arrived. ‘You haven’t seen a tea until you’ve had tea Kubanian style.’

Dimitri watched Evie brighten at the comment directed at her, willing to overlook the insult delivered to the cakes Andrew claimed to prefer and which she’d especially thought of serving on his behalf. Didn’t she see the comment wasn’t for her benefit, but for Andrew’s? This was a chance for Andrew to show off. His suspicion was confirmed when Andrew launched into a detailed description of the one time he’d experienced a Kubanian tea at Dimitri’s apartments in Naples where they’d met.

Evie listened, enrapt. Dimitri wanted to kick Andrew. Andrew had adopted quite the superior attitude since they’d arrived in Sussex. It was not something that had stood out to him in their travels.

‘Is that how you met? Over tea?’ Evie turned her attention his direction, playing the polite hostess who recognised one guest had dominated the conversation for too long. ‘I had no idea Andrew had made it as far as Kuban.’

‘He didn’t,’ Dimitri put in quickly. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to disabuse her of the notion that Andrew had been to the remote Russian kingdom in the steppes. In fact, Andrew had not strayed from the conventional path that made up every Englishman’s Grand Tour. ‘We met in Naples. I was hosting a gathering for expatriates around Europe to celebrate work I’d completed at Herculaneum. My team and I had uncovered a mosaic destroyed by the eruption of Vesuvius. We spent that spring restoring it.’

‘Wonderful stuff. What the Prince was doing in Herculaneum rekindled my love for ancient history.’ Andrew leaned forward, ready to take up the reins of conversation again.

Evie smiled. ‘My father would enjoy hearing about your experiences.’

Andrew cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘Ancient history, Evie, not medieval. There’s quite a difference. Centuries, in fact.’ His tone bordered on patronising as he laughed. Was Evie going to sit there and let his remark go unchallenged? Of course she was. She wasn’t going to pick an argument with the object of her affections.

Dimitri couldn’t help himself. After all, Andrew wasn’t the object of his affections. ‘I think she knows the difference, Andrew. Miss Milham and I were having the most enjoyable afternoon. She showed me the Arthur tapestry and some that she’s done as well. Miss Milham is very talented and exceedingly knowledgeable on several subjects.’

Andrew’s gaze fixed on him, sharp with curiosity. ‘Ah, the tapestry. I remember now. I had wondered why you’d come.’

Dimitri heard the veiled slander—that Evie alone couldn’t possibly be attraction enough. He hoped Evie hadn’t heard it. It would hurt her. Perhaps it was remarks like that which had led to her self-consciousness. Such remarks were nothing to him, but she had not cut her social teeth in a royal court. He met Andrew’s gaze with his own, unwavering, his sense of protectiveness rising instinctively on Evie’s behalf. ‘Well, then you have your answer. I am still looking for mine. What exactly brings you here this afternoon?’

* * *

What had just happened? Evie glanced from Andrew to Dimitri. Were they fighting over her? It was too preposterous to believe; the golden-haired Andrew Adair and a Russian prince, sparring over her while they sipped lemonade in the garden. It was ridiculous in the extreme and yet she wasn’t sure what else to make of it. Oh, how she wished Beatrice and May were here! They would know for certain.

‘More lemonade?’ Evie groped for something to say that would relieve the tension. She was not equipped to handle such a situation. She passed around the dwindling tray of cakes to give herself something to do. Dimitri took two, Andrew took three, shooting the Prince a triumphant look designed to make a point. At this rate, the two of them were going to eat themselves sick. She gingerly picked up the threads of the original conversation. ‘You met in Naples, and then what?’

‘The Prince made a fortune on the mosaic, selling it to a museum in Naples,’ Andrew supplied drily. ‘He was moving on to Greece, to a temple excavation on the peninsula. I was intrigued so I tagged along. We did the temple and another small dig near Athens, then worked our way home.’ Andrew sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach with smug victory. ‘I told him about our local Roman villa, which has never quite got off the ground in terms of a full excavation, and the rest is history.’ He laughed at his joke. The tension eased and Evie was almost convinced she’d imagined it to begin with. The visit concluded amiably, the gentlemen polishing off the last cakes and the remainder of the lemonade before rising to leave.

The Prince bowed over her hand as he had at the assembly room. She was struck once more by the intensity of his gaze and the heat generated by his touch. It still didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself, but silly as it was, she liked how her stomach fluttered when he touched her. ‘I was wondering, Miss Milham, if you would consider helping on the villa excavation? You mentioned you draw your own tapestry patterns and I need someone to do a catalogue of drawings for any artefacts we might uncover.’

Her pulse sped up at the prospect, flattered that he’d acknowledged her skills. What an honour, an honour far beyond any she’d ever expected. For a moment she couldn’t find any words. She settled on ‘I would like that very much.’ When he touched her, looked at her with those dark eyes, spoke to her in that low voice with its dentalised ‘th’s and hard ‘r’s, she felt like a princess. Almost.

‘Come to the site tomorrow.’ He released her hand with a smile and the magic was gone. She was once more merely Evie Milham, plain and quiet, the sort who admired men on their pedestals, not one who was put up on a pedestal of her own. She certainly wasn’t the sort of girl those men fought over. Not the sort of girl a prince would pay serious attentions to, but for a moment she had been.