“YOU DANCE AS if your feet were guided by the wings of the gods themselves.” Mr. Nazzal smiled down at Sidney in his arms.
“What a lovely thing to say, Mr. Nazzal.” Sidney adopted what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. “But I would credit any skill I have to my excellent partner.”
“Then we are of one mind, Mrs. Gordon.” His dark eyes twinkled in a wicked manner, disconcerting and yet distinctly exciting. “I was thinking precisely the same thing.”
“Are all Egyptians so charming?”
He grinned. “Yes.”
She laughed. A few weeks ago, the look in this man’s eyes might have been cause for alarm. But Millicent Forester would never be alarmed by the flirtation of a handsome, engaging Egyptian and neither would Sidney. In spite of the minor problem of losing the ladies in the market, the trip so far had been filled with new experiences and had filled Sidney with confidence as well. Even though she couldn’t take full credit for resolving yesterday’s difficulties, everything had worked out quite nicely. Millicent couldn’t have done a better job herself.
This was a scene straight from one of her stories. The grand, ornate ballroom was decorated in the style of a French king, with doors thrown open to the terraces overlooking the gardens. The stars twinkled in the night sky and a breeze gently wafted through the crowded room. The perfect setting. The dashing, handsome, mysterious gentleman who expertly guided her around the ballroom floor—the perfect minor character. And the heroine had never before in her life felt so, well, perfect.
Her new gown was the latest fashion, the color of sunlight with a daringly low bodice and quite the loveliest thing she had ever worn. A maid provided by the hotel had cleverly fashioned Sidney’s blond hair into a riot of curls at the top of her head and drifting down her back. It was most effective. The mirror in her room said she was, at least tonight, not merely adequate but indeed rather pretty. There was something about not looking average or ordinary and far more than passable that made her feel poised and self-assured, as if anything was possible. As if she could do anything. As if she truly was the heroine of her own story.
Mr. Nazzal guided her through a turn and she followed his lead without difficulty, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to Miss Bicklesham’s for the dancing lessons that she’d never had the opportunity to use until she’d set sail for Egypt. Tonight she had danced nearly every dance. Not yet with Harry but with any number of other interesting gentlemen and once with Daniel—who was in rather a mood tonight and muttered something about camels being the devils of the desert. Whatever he had wanted to talk about earlier was apparently overshadowed by his encounter with camels. It might have been the adventures of the day, or the admiration in her partners’ eyes, or the fact that she was in the ballroom at Shepheard’s and this was exactly as she had envisioned such an evening, but the steps she had mastered a lifetime ago came back to her as if she danced every night of her life.
“I must thank you again for your assistance the other day.” She smiled up at him. “And what luck for Mr. Armstrong, running into an old friend in the process.”
“Not nearly as fortunate as meeting his lovely companions,” Mr. Nazzal said smoothly.
“Tell me, Mr. Nazzal, have you known Mr. Armstrong long?”
“You are in my arms and yet you wish to speak of another man?” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “You wound me deeply, Mrs. Gordon.”
“I doubt that.” She laughed.
“Dare I ask why you wish to know?”
“It’s quite simple really. I know very little about Mr. Armstrong. We only met when we left England.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “One does like to know something about one’s traveling companions. For safety and security, don’t you agree?”
“Excellent point, Mrs. Gordon. In the interest of safety and security, then, I see no harm in telling you what you wish to know. It’s common enough knowledge.” He smiled. “I have known Mr. Armstrong since he first came to Egypt nearly twenty years ago I believe.”
“I see.” So much for the earl’s nephew having visited Egypt only in his youth. And hadn’t Harry admitted he was in Egypt as recently as a year ago? “And did he spend a great deal of time here?”
“Indeed, he was nearly always in Egypt, searching for the relics of the ancients, although he did return to England on occasion through the years.”
“Is he an archeologist or perhaps an Egyptologist?”
“As your Shakespeare said, ‘what’s in a name?’ Anyone who searches for the lost riches of the pharaohs will claim to be an Egyptologist. It sounds so delightfully legitimate.” He thought for a moment. “But in the case of Mr. Armstrong, he has earned that title—both titles—as well as the respect that accompanies it. I don’t believe he’s been accorded that.”
“Oh?”
“Like most men who come to Egypt in their youth, Mr. Armstrong and his friends were lured by the excitement of the hunt, the adventures to be found in the ruins and deserts and tombs, and the possibility of great fortune. But Egypt is a seductive mistress and the spells she weaves are most alluring and nearly irresistible.”
She drew her brows together. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“In the beginning, Mr. Armstrong was little more than a treasure hunter, interested only in the money his finds could bring. But for the last decade, no, longer if I recall, whatever artifacts he has unearthed have gone to museums—mostly here in Egypt—for nominal finder’s fees. His years in Egypt, and his father as well, I believe, changed him.”
“His father?”
“A highly respected scholar of ancient civilizations and an acknowledged expert on Egypt.”
“I see,” she said weakly. Unease twisted her stomach. If she had known what an expert Harry really was right from the beginning she would have... Would have what? Not come to Egypt? Admitted he was right? She’d had no choice if she wanted to continue her writing. And while Harry’s suspicions had obviously not abated, he had apparently not found any real proof as to her deception. Good. If she could pull this whole thing off, perhaps she and Harry could... Where on earth did that come from? Surely she wasn’t starting to care for the man. That would be the height of stupidity. Still, there was something about him... Regardless, this was not the time or the place to think about such nonsense.
“You mentioned his friends. Are they still in Egypt?”
“Mr. Deane returned to London at the same time as Mr. Armstrong.” Mr. Nazzal hesitated. “Mr. Pickering was not so lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was struck by a fever when he and Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Deane were in the Western Desert two years ago. Unfortunately he perished.”
“Oh dear,” Sidney murmured. Harry had said it had been a year since he was last in Egypt. Did Harry leave because of his friend’s death?
“Is there anything else you wish to know?” Amusement curved the Egyptian’s lips.
“Yes.” She braced herself. “It sounds to me as if Mr. Armstrong was rather disreputable in his younger days.”
He chuckled. “No more or less than most men of my acquaintance.”
“What a clever answer, Mr. Nazzal,” she said lightly. “And no answer at all.”
He smiled in a knowing manner.
“Answer me this, then.” Sidney met his gaze directly. “Is he an honest and honorable man?”
“Honesty, my dear Mrs. Gordon—” he led her through a quick turn. “—is as much in the eye of the beholder as is beauty. If one does something that is not by definition honest but does it for a greater good, is he then dishonest? Or is he indeed honorable?”
“An interesting question, Mr. Nazzal.” She thought for a moment. The man just nicely cleared away any minor doubts she might have had about her plans for tonight. “I believe I agree with you.”
“Excellent.” He grinned. The music drew to a close and they slowed to a stop. “I don’t think you and your friends could be in safer hands than Mr. Armstrong’s. If necessary, I would trust him with my very life.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nazzal. What a sterling recommendation.” She smiled. “I shall keep it in mind.”
“And while I regret losing the opportunity to claim another dance later in the evening, I’m afraid I must take my leave.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers.
“I believe this is our dance, Mrs. Gordon.” Harry stepped up behind Mr. Nazzal. He cast the other man a pointed look. “You can let her go now.”
“To my eternal regret.” Mr. Nazzal reluctantly released her hand. “My apologies, Mr. Armstrong. I am putty in the hands of a woman as lovely as she is clever.”
“Why, Mr. Nazzal, you do say the nicest things.” Sidney favored him with her brightest smile.
The Egyptian grinned. “I do hope to see you and the rest of your party again before you leave Egypt.” He turned to Harry. “I have a matter of some importance to attend to. If I might speak to you alone for a moment. With your permission, Mrs. Gordon?”
“Please go on.” She waved him off and pretended to gaze absently around the ballroom, as any insipid, dutiful creature would. Really, men were absurd.
Mr. Nazzal leaned close to Harry and spoke low into his ear. Harry nodded. Mr. Nazzal turned back to her. “My apologies, but I must be off.”
“If you must,” Harry said cordially.
“Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Armstrong.”
Harry chuckled. “I have no doubt of it, Mr. Nazzal.”
Mr. Nazzal nodded and took his leave. The music began and Sidney stepped into Harry’s arms.
“Secrets, Harry?”
“This is a land of secrets, Sidney, ancient and new.”
“What a cunning yet completely useless answer.” And the second one she’d received tonight. Still, she hadn’t expected anything more.
“Have you forgiven me yet?”
“Do you deserve forgiveness?” she said in an offhand manner.
“Absolutely not.”
She laughed. “There is something quite agreeable about a man who admits when he’s wrong.”
“I wasn’t—” he began, then grimaced. “My apologies, then.”
“Accepted.” It wouldn’t serve either of them for her to continue to be annoyed with him. The man had decided not to kiss her for a perfectly logical reason and that was that. Still, one would think logic would be discarded when it came to a kiss.
“I’ve been waiting all night to dance with you,” he said in a disgruntled manner.
“Nonsense. The evening is still young.” She smiled up at him. “And you did not appear to be lacking in partners.”
Harry had quite properly danced with Effie, Gwen and Poppy, who were obviously having a wonderful evening. It had been some time since any of them had shared a dance with a handsome, dashing partner.
“Your friend is quite charming,” she said lightly.
“Nazzal considers it an art. Charm, Sidney,” he added in a scolding manner, “is not always as it seems.”
“Why, Harry.” Delight widened her eyes. “Are you jealous?”
“Yes.”
She grinned. “Good.”
“You look...radiant tonight, Sidney.” Harry stared down at her as if seeing her for the first time, his voice low, almost a caress. Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Goodness, Harry, you’ll quite turn my head with such compliments.” A heretofore unknown breathless note sounded in her voice. No doubt to go along with her rapidly beating heart.
“You seem to be having a fine time.” He gazed into her eyes.
“Aren’t you?” There was that breathlessness again.
“I am now.” He pulled her the tiniest bit closer, admiration or something perhaps even better shone in his eyes. The oddest frisson of anticipation skated up her spine. Why, with very little effort, he could lean in and brush his lips across hers. Right here on the dance floor. Terribly improper and dreadfully scandalous but really quite perfect. Would he?
It was shocking to realize how much she wanted Harry to kiss her here and now but more—she wanted him to see her as something other than a cordial opponent. She’d almost entirely dismissed the idea that he hoped to seduce the truth out of her. He really didn’t strike her as that sort of man. Which meant his flirtation and everything that went along with it was sincere. It was entirely possible the man truly had feelings her.
Not that any affection he might have for her or she might have for him made any difference, of course. If she disproved his charges she would spend the rest of her life living a lie. If he proved his point, she’d be ruined. How could she ever forgive him for that? Still, there was the vaguest idea in the back of her mind about a way to escape the mire she found herself in and perhaps, possibly, a way to an unforeseen future.
“I must confess, I have been waiting to dance with you as well.”
“Have you?” He grinned down at her. “Excellent.”
“We have a great deal to discuss,” she said in an overly prim manner, trying to ignore how truly wonderful—how very perfect—it felt to be in his arms. Pity it would not last.
“Do we?” Amusement sounded in his voice. “And what do we need to discuss?”
“I think you should do it.” She held her breath.
“Do what?”
“Help Mr. Nazzal retrieve the artifact from the American.”
“What?” He stumbled on the next step. “What did you say?”
“Come now, Harry, you heard what I said.”
“Bloody hell.” He quickly steered her to the open doors and out on to the terrace, fairly dragging her past a handful of other people enjoying the refreshing night air, to the shadows at the far end overlooking the gardens. “What did Nazzal say to you?”
“Nothing.” She shook free of his grasp. “Well, nothing of any real significance. He certainly didn’t mention what he had asked of you.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed and he looked as dangerous as he was handsome. She shivered with, well, excitement. “Explain yourself, Sidney. How do you know about this?”
“Oh, you know how these things are.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Very well.” This was exactly the reaction she’d expected, the man really was endearingly predictable. “When I came down to meet the ladies for tea, I stopped at the front desk. I was curious as to whether I had any mail from Mr. Cadwallender. I didn’t by the way.”
“Go on.”
“But the desk clerk said he had a note for you and I said—as we did intend to meet for tea—that I would be happy to deliver it.” She shrugged. “Naturally, I read it.”
“Naturally.”
“You needn’t take that tone. It was simply a folded piece of paper and opened without any effort on my part. I assure you it was quite inadvertent. You really should tell Mr. Nazzal if he wishes communication to be private, he should use an envelope.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” She nodded. “I thought it might be important and I know you had warned me not to trust him although really, Harry, I find him quite agreeable.”
Harry opened his mouth but it did seem best to continue as she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he was going to say.
“So I paid a server to linger about your table and attempt to overhear your conversation.”
“You did what?” His voice rose.
“Do be quiet, Harry. I don’t think you want anyone to hear us.”
“Anyone else you mean,” he said but lowered his voice nonetheless.
“Again, you did warn me not to trust him. And I thought perhaps he was up to something nefarious and you might possibly be in some sort of trouble.” She squared her shoulders. “So, I thought it best to find out what Mr. Nazzal wanted should you disappear into the night and were in need of rescue.”
“From you?”
She ignored the skeptical note in his voice. “At any rate, the server really wasn’t very good. His English was questionable, he didn’t hear everything and he failed to get the American’s name. However.” She grinned in triumph. “I did.”
He stared. “What? How?”
“Well, while there are a number of Americans staying here, most are traveling in groups. Only one fit what we thought a wealthy collector would look like.”
“We?” Harry barely choked out the word.
“Yes, we.” She cast him a pitying look. “Goodness, Harry, I couldn’t possibly sort all this out by myself. I am not nearly that devious. Anyway, we made a few casual inquiries and discovered his name.” She grabbed his hand and led him close to the nearest door. “He’s sitting at the third table from the wall on the right side of the ballroom. His name is Mr. Edgar Wallace.”
Poor Harry looked rather stunned but he obediently peered around the doorway then jerked back as if scalded. “He’s not alone!”
“Exactly according to plan.”
“The old ladies are with him!”
Sidney frowned. “They prefer not to be called old ladies. They’re somewhat sensitive about their age.”
“But—”
“Yes, I know they’re with Mr. Wallace. We made his acquaintance on the terrace at tea.” She shook her head in a chastising manner. “You really should have come to tea, Harry.”
“Apparently.”
“They’ll keep him occupied while we slip into his room—”
“We?” His eyes widened in horror. “All of you?”
“Don’t be absurd. I just said the ladies would keep Mr. Wallace occupied. You do need to pay attention if this is going to work.”
“My apologies,” he snapped. “I’m not used to having plans of this nature dictated to me by a group of old ladies.”
“Not necessary but appreciated.” She waved off his apology. “Understandable really. I can see how you might be somewhat unnerved by all this.”
“Do you think so?”
“Sarcasm, Harry, is not appropriate at the moment. Now, as I was saying, the ladies will keep an eye on Mr. Wallace, and you and I—”
“Absolutely not.” He shook his head. Apparently, the shock of the brilliant plan they had devised had worn off. “You are not going with me.”
“Oh, but I am. This is exactly the sort of thing Mill—that I would have done in my days in Egypt. After all, an important remnant of ancient Egypt is at stake. And my life has been rather dull in recent years. Frankly, I’m running out of adventures to write about.”
“This is not an adventure!”
“Don’t be silly. Of course it is.” She paused. “Do you want to hear the rest of the plan?”
“By all means, continue.”
“There’s really little more to it. We slip into Mr. Wallace’s room—his room is just a few doors down from mine, which I thought most convenient. Oh, and I have a passkey.” She reached into her bodice then hesitated. Harry’s gaze fixed firmly on her hand. “Perhaps you should turn around.”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and turned. “How did you get a passkey?”
“There’s a closet on each floor with cleaning equipment, fresh linens, that sort of thing. Poppy borrowed the key from the closet.” Sidney pulled the key from the top of her corset. Poppy had advised her it was the perfect place to hide small objects should it be necessary to do so. “I find it amazing that a hotel of this quality doesn’t have better security, although in fairness the closet door was locked.”
Harry groaned. “Do I want to know how Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore opened the door?”
“Probably not.” Sidney paused. “Although she didn’t open the door, Effie did. It’s remarkable the skills one picks up over a lifetime. And with nothing more than a hairpin and a buttonhook. Oh, you may turn around now.”
He turned and pinned her with a hard look. “I don’t want you further involved in this.”
“How very gallant of you, Harry, but I am already involved.”
“There is no way in hell I’m going to allow you to accompany me.”
“Really, Harry, your language.” She crossed her arms over her chest and again his gaze flicked to her décolletage. It was remarkably satisfying. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you go without me.”
“This is not open for debate.”
“No, it’s not.” She smiled pleasantly. “First of all, I still have the key in my hand and if you attempt to force it from me, which would be most ungentlemanly, I shall scream as loud as possible, which would draw unwanted attention. Second, I know which room is Mr. Wallace’s and you do not.”
He shrugged. “I daresay I can discover that in a matter of minutes.”
“Without question. However, getting into that room, with me standing outside my door and, I don’t know, singing perhaps might rouse people from their beds to check on the noise.” She grimaced. “You should be aware that my singing is not especially musical. I’m afraid I can’t carry a tune.”
His jaw tightened and he studied her for a long moment. It was all she could do to hold her ground and not give in to the temptation to thrust the key at him and flee. But this was indeed an adventure in the service of a noble cause. Millicent Forester wouldn’t back down. Nor would Sidney Honeywell.
“You have given me no choice.”
“Yes, I know.” She grinned. “Rather brilliant of me, don’t you think?”
“No,” he snapped then heaved a sigh of surrender. “Perhaps.”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” she said with a satisfied nod. “We should get to it, then. I suspect our time is limited.”
“There is more than a touch of larceny in you isn’t there, Mrs. Gordon?” He shook his head. “Apparently, we have more in common than I thought.”
Mrs. Gordon? He must be annoyed. She bit back a grin. No need to rub salt in the wound. “I simply think if one can recover a piece of history, to save it for the future, one should do so.”
“You do realize we are skirting on the edge of illegality?”
“Come now, Harry. I think we’re well beyond skirting. And isn’t that part of the fun?”
“Fun?” He nearly choked on the word.
“Retrieving something that has already been stolen, to return it to where it rightfully belongs, strikes me as nothing less than morally right.”
“You’ve never been in an Egyptian jail, have you Mrs. Gordon?
“Of course not.” She paused. “Well, not yet.”
He started to respond then apparently thought better of it.
“Shall we?” She smiled pleasantly.
He studied her for a moment longer then sighed. “After you.”
They slipped back into the ballroom and casually made their way around the room. Sidney’s gaze met Gwen’s and the older woman gave her a slight nod. They had learned, when they’d met Mr. Wallace at tea, that he was fascinated by stories of exploration in Egypt and other lands. Between Effie, Poppy and Gwen, they had more than enough stories of their husbands’ exploits to regale the American for hours. And he did appear to be completely engrossed in their tales. It struck Sidney that the ladies were engaged in a version of The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, even if Scheherazade was considerably younger than the three lady travelers and Mr. Wallace not at all a handsome king. Still, the stakes, while not as dire as Scheherazade’s, were significant.
They took the lift to the first floor and started toward her room, until the lift and its efficient operator had descended from sight. Her heart thudded with excitement although she did wish Harry hadn’t mentioned Egyptian jails.
“This is his room.” Sidney stopped in front of a suite three doors down from her own. She handed Harry the key.
He frowned. “Are you certain about this? There’s no need for you to go in. You can stay in the hall and warn me if anyone comes.”
“What kind of an adventure would that be?” she said with far more confidence than she felt. It was extremely thoughtful of him to consider that she might be having second thoughts. Regardless, what kind of heroine allowed the hero to venture into the unknown by himself? “Go on, open the door.”
“Very well.” Resignation sounded in his voice and he unlocked the door, allowing her to enter first as he cast another cautious look up and down the corridor. He then closed the door, locked it behind him and flicked on the light. Electricity was certainly convenient. The room had a similar layout to hers although the furniture was not exactly the same. “Any idea where it might be?”
“It’s in the chest of drawers.” She gestured at the large piece of furniture flanking one side of a washstand. “In the drawer with his undergarments and his socks.”
He stared at her. “How the devil do you know that?”
“At tea, one of the ladies said she was concerned about keeping her jewelry in her room and thought perhaps she should leave it in the keeping of the hotel. Mr. Wallace said he always put his valuables in the drawer under his unmentionables as no one ever thought to look there.”
“You are a clever little group, aren’t you?” Harry strode across the room to the chest and opened the top drawer. “Remind me never to cross a determined author and her band of aged miscreants.”
“Do hurry, Harry.” She twisted her hands together. This was more unnerving than she had anticipated. Perhaps she should have waited in the hall after all.
“One minute.” Harry rummaged through the top drawer, quite thoroughly and entirely too slowly.
“Have you found it?”
“You’ll know when I do,” he murmured. Odd, the more confident he sounded, the more nervous she grew. He moved to the second drawer and a moment later he paused. “I think I have it.”
At once her trepidation vanished and she hurried across the room to join him.
He drew out a black sock, weighted down by something in the toe. He slid his hand in, pulled it out and presented the stolen artifact with a flourish and a smile. “The missing medallion of Amenemhat II’s queen consort. Well, possibly, anyway.”
“May I?” She held out her hand.
“Certainly.” He handed it to her then returned the sock to the drawer.
It was heavier than she would have thought but then it was gold and warmed in her hand. The medallion was grayish yellow in color which was to be expected. Ancient gold usually had some silver in it. It was about an inch and a half in diameter and both sides were engraved, with one side’s design looking more complete than the other. How very intriguing.
“Isn’t this interesting.” She tilted it toward the light.
“You read hieroglyphics?” Surprise sounded in his voice.
“Don’t you?” she said absently.
“More or less.” He closed the drawer. “I would say our work here is done.”
“Shouldn’t we look around to see if there are any more of the missing items? I understood this was part of a shipment of antiquities.”
“I do hope you paid that server well,” he said with a huff. “And no. We need to leave.”
“It would only take a minute.”
“If Wallace was in possession of more than the medallion, Nazzal would have told me and ask me to retrieve those as well. Now—” he waved toward the door “—let’s go, shall we?”
“If you’re—”
A knock sounded at the door and they froze.
Her heart skipped a beat and her gaze met Harry’s. He put his finger to his lips.
The knock sounded again. At least it wasn’t Mr. Wallace. He would never knock on his own door.
“It’s the maid to turn down the bed,” she whispered.
Harry nodded toward the wardrobe. “Hide. In there.”
“It’s not nearly big enough for both of us.” She still had the medallion in her hand. Without thinking she slid it between her breasts, tight against her corset.
“Only one thing to do, then.” He grabbed her hand, strode to the bed and yanked back the covers. “Get in.”
“Are you mad?”
“Apparently.”
The distinct sound of a key in the keyhole vanquished her hesitation. She swept the back of her skirt tighter around her and fairly leaped onto the bed, Harry immediately following suit. He pulled the covers up to hide any indication of their clothing, then wrapped his arms around her. In spite of the precarious nature of their situation, and the fear that gripped her, this was not at all unpleasant.
The doorknob turned.
“My apologies,” he whispered, pulled her tighter to him and pressed his lips to hers.
And her world stopped.
Perhaps it was the element of surprise. Or the simple fact that she’d never been kissed before or the sheer terror of discovery. Or more likely it was him. Annoying, sanctimonious, heroic Harry Armstrong.
A squeal sounded from the doorway along with a stream of apologetic Arabic. Sidney barely noticed. Almost at once the door snapped shut.
And yet he didn’t release her and she didn’t push him away. She had never imagined the sheer intimacy of a man’s mouth pressed to hers. The shimmering sense of longing that swept through her and made her insides quiver. Oh, she had considered the idea of being kissed but had long ago accepted if she hadn’t been kissed by the age of thirty-two the chances were good she never would be. Certainly, Millicent Forester had shared the occasional kiss with Richard Weatherly but writing about a kiss was one thing. Experiencing it in real life something else entirely. Something quite remarkable that left the oddest flutter in the pit of her stomach and the strangest ache for something, well, more. At last he drew back and stared in a disconcerted sort of way.
“No apologies necessary, Harry.” She mustered a shaky smile. “You did what needed to be done.”
“Yes, well, we should—”
“Indeed we should.” She forced a brisk note to her voice. “Perhaps if you would release me?”
“Of course.” He shook his head as if to clear it then threw off the covers, slid out of bed and helped her to her feet. They remade the bed as best they could, moving as quickly and silently as possible. There was the distinct possibility the maid might realize at any moment that the couple in bed did not belong in that room.
Sidney stepped to the cheval mirror, adjusted the off-the-shoulder cap-sleeves of her gown and tried to smooth away wrinkles in her skirt. She patted her hair back into place and decided it would do. Harry stepped up behind her and straightened his collar and tie. Her hands stilled and her gaze met his in the mirror. She had no idea what to say. What she should say. And, aside from “kiss me again, Harry,” no idea what she wanted to say. Ridiculous, of course. He had kissed her out of necessity. A kiss he had apologized for in advance. It was nothing more than a ruse. Certainly he had asked to kiss her on board ship but he had not made such a request again. And aside, from that moment in the pyramid, he’d had other chances that he’d squandered as well. Surely a man who wanted to kiss a woman would seize on any opportunity.
Harry looked every bit as flustered as she. Was he also at a loss for words? Because he regretted his actions? Because he didn’t want her to think it was more significant than it was? Or because he too wished for more?
“We should go,” he said abruptly and moved to the door, opened it cautiously and peered into the hall. He opened it wider and waved her through.
“Thank you,” she murmured and stepped past him.
They made their way back to the ballroom in near total silence, awkward and uncomfortable. She had no idea what the man was thinking although he did seem distracted and deep in thought. Sidney too had any number of thoughts crowding her head.
Not the least of which was wondering what it would be like to be kissed by Mr. Harry Armstrong when it wasn’t spurred by necessity but by desire.
And what it might take to find out.