Chapter 4
“I would say I shouldn’t be so rude, but as you say, it does seem to be in my nature,” Lord Peterboro offered ruefully. “I’m often speaking my mind before I’ve considered the effect.” He smiled, a deliciously, self-deprecating smile. “There is a reason I’m short of funds for my work.”
She blinked, absolutely amazed at the turn of their conversation. Olivia had gracefully wandered off, having moved from the fresco to observing the necklaces collected from some dig in Italy, placed rather haphazardly together. She seemed completely oblivious, uninterested even, in their conversation.
Andromeda lifted her chin, deciding to make no pretense about their exchange. “Just because something is yer nature, doesna mean ye should make no attempt to overcome it.”
A faint glimmer of admiration shone in his wickedly intelligent eyes. “I have heard this sentiment before.”
“From someone ye cared about?” she prompted, surprised he would admit such a thing.
He looked away for a moment then admitted, “Yes.”
His wife.
It had to be. Who else could it be?
Neither of them spoke as to the identity of the person. But, in her estimation, it could be no other person. She doubted a man as gruff as he could bear such intimate censure, especially at such short acquaintance.
He suddenly pivoted away from her, clasping his hands behind his back in that manly way men took to when choosing not to address something unpleasant. “They’ve organized this all wrong, you know. They’ve got all the city states mixed up and jewelry shouldn’t be with frescos. And do you see those pots over there? Where are the shards?” he asked gruffly.
He scowled. Then fairly booming with displeasure, he said, “There are always shards. No doubt, they’ve cast them into a bin. There is a great receptacle of beautiful artifacts somewhere tossed out because they weren’t perfect to these absolutely idiotic sops.”
She pressed her lips together. Andromeda realized that the rant of words and their sudden intensity were an attempt to cover the depth of his emotions. But she also understood them.
Suddenly, it struck her. Lord Peterboro was, in fact, a lover of imperfection. A lover of what was rather than what could be. A lover of that which was beneath the surface. A lover of that which was opposed to the norm. After all, he’d left the army, he’d married a foreigner, and here he was extolling the beauty of broken things.
Her heart softened to him. How could it not? Many would loathe the brusque, blunt man. But she found she could not.
It had been tempting to admire his exploits but also find him absolutely impossible. Someone with whom she could have no conversation or acquaintance given his volatility. Now, she realized he was only mostly impossible. And that? That made him a singular and desirable companion, indeed.
And who wasn’t a little impossible in their own way?
“You stare, Lady Gateshead,” he prompted, unclasping his hands and facing her.
She nearly stepped back at the power and directness of his gaze. “Do I?”
“You do,” he confirmed.
She straightened. She had not been contemplating the power of his back, the length of his legs, nor the raven’s wing darkness of his hair. Indeed, not. No. She’d merely contemplated his temperament, not the irrefutable superiority of his physical person.
None of that mattered, in any case. He was a good deal of trouble.
She drew in a deep breath then rushed, “I was simply recalling what ye said about the Egyptians ye had met. That they kenned the antiquities well.”
He stared at her warily, as if she were setting up some sort of trap or that she couldn’t genuinely be interested in such a thing.
But she was.
“Lord Peterboro?”
At last, he nodded. “Many would have you believe that the villagers barely notice the temples and monuments. That all they do is graze their goats in the ruins.”
Snorting, he bounced, veritably bounced on his booted feet. “It’s complete balderdash. Many of the men know where the ancient tombs lay. They could take us to hundreds of them on any given day and not miss by a stone’s throw. Some truly believe they shouldn’t disturb the ancient ones. Others will use this as a way to extract a better price for the items that they have collected.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Yes, I think you do.” He gazed at her with approval now. But then he frowned. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
She shook her head, feeling rather amazed at his ability to be entirely absorbed by his passion one moment and absolutely furious the next. “Alas, I am no’ given the power of fortune telling.”
He eyes flashed as he smiled brittlely. “The Egyptians have been ruled by Empires for thousands of years. And they know that now that their world has been discovered by Europeans, a vast horde will descend upon them and strip their treasures from their lands. They’re simply getting what they can out of it. And. . . Keeping many sites a secret.”
“How very sad, really,” she breathed. She looked to the artifacts about them that had been taken from their home soil. “I suppose ye mean they fear what was done by Lord Elgin.”
He stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “By God, woman, you do understand me. That is exactly what I mean.”
She chose not to take offense at the implication that he previously thought her a stupid person. He really did have the worst manners. So, she licked her lips and explained, “Many people oppose the transport of the marbles from Greece.”
“Not enough,” he gritted.
“Lord Byron is almost rabid on the subject,” she informed him. She had heard the poet speak most determinedly about it.
“Lord Byron is just rabid,” he barked. “I met him abroad as well. Very intelligent but half-mad I think. Something’s not right in his head. A devil one moment, fine the next. But at least he actually truly got to know the Greeks. That Child Harold book.” He shuddered. “Sentimental nonsense. But still, Byron isn’t a coward like Brinkley. Nor does he have any interest in hurting the peoples that inspire his work.”
“Also unlike Brinkley,” she observed.
His dark brows rose. “I’m surprised you see it this way.”
“Why?” she challenged. “Are ye always predisposed to think ill of people?”
His brow furrowed. “Well—”
“Ye have a most unfortunate opinion of ladies as well, dinna ye?”
“I confess it,” he replied, having the good grace to meet her gaze as he said it. “Most of them, in my experience, are absolutely loathsome, thrusting tea at one as they demand titillating details of one’s personal life and the natives one has become close to.”
His wife again. How terrible it must be to have a beloved spouse treated as an exotic curiosity. And from the way his shoulders, his proud, broad, Herculean shoulders, bent ever so slightly, it was obvious that it was no easy thing, missing his wife.
She didn’t miss her spouse at all.
It was remarkable to see his grief. Even now. In a museum hall. Worse, his own country wouldn’t respect the memory of the woman he had clearly loved.
She could only imagine too well how many of the ladies of the ton had acted and spoken on such a matter. It was true that there were some men who had married Quadroons from the West Indies who were heiresses. But it was exceptionally uncommon to see such a marriage as Peterboro’s.
“I do think ye have been having tea with the wrong ladies,” she said gently. Much to her shock and lack of propriety, she reached out and touched his arm.
He whipped his gaze back to her then down to where her fingertips touched his arm. “Do you, indeed?”
“Oh, aye.” Carefully, she withdrew her touch, knowing it would be a mistake to overdo her sympathy with a man such as he. “Ye see, myself and the Duchess over there, we should never thrust tea at ye and request titillating details.”
“You do not approve of gossip?” he challenged, his face not as disdainful as before. Oh no. He had the look of a little boy about him now. Lost. Sad. Adrift.
“It all depends,” she informed him, unwilling to paint herself with a saint’s brush.
A dry laugh tumbled past his lips. “There are degrees?”
“Certainly,” she confirmed with exaggerated zeal, hoping to lighten his heart. “For instance, we might admire someone and gossip about whether they spend several hours at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
He arched a brow. “How strange.”
“Do ye?” she asked abruptly, eyeing him.
Shaking his head, he queried, “Do I what?”
Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Spend time at Gentleman Jackson’s?”
“Are you attempting to prove you’re not like the others by this odd line of questioning?”
“I dinna need to prove it, Lord Peterboro,” she sallied confidently. “I simply am. I always have been. I hope to be always. I’ve had great inspiration, ye ken. My mother was a bolter.”
His gaze rounded. “You almost sound proud.”
“If ye’d kenned my father, ye would be.” Good God, her poor mother. It wasn’t often that children were happy to see their mother abandon them. But she and Angus had been greatly relieved when their mother had fled the Highlands for Italy. With the groom.
At least they had known their mother was no longer fearful of a fall down the stairs or a particularly destructive blow to the belly.
Peterboro shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps, I can direct your attention to the rather beautiful if oddly compiled group of Roman and early Greek oil lamps.”
“I do apologize,” she rushed, realizing that, perhaps, it was her turn to have gone a shade too far. After all, one didn’t speak of bolting mothers and deeply unpleasant fathers at such very short occasion. “I didna mean to be rude. It is just so very easy to speak sense to ye.”
An awkward laugh emitted from him. “I suppose I can say nothing of rudeness. If I am happy to make others uncomfortable, I can endure your question about Gentleman Jackson’s. And I’m honored that I induce the desire to speak sense and confide such intimacies with me. But why do you ask about Gentleman Jackson’s? I find I must know.”
The easy and kind reply lifted her spirits and took her thoughts away from the unpleasant past. “Well, if ye must ken why I asked, I am most curious as to how all the Greek fellows obtained their physiques. Ye seem to have a similar one and I assumed ye took a great deal of exercise. They did, did they no’? All those games.”
“Yes.” He flushed. Positively flushed and he cleared his throat. “That’s correct. And I do take a great deal of exercise. Life wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t. I’d go barking mad if I wasn’t doing something with my body most of the day.”
“Oh, I quite agree. I walk five miles every day, myself. It is the only way I have no’ gone the way of Lady Macbeth.”
He gaped at her.
“If I dinna, I become terribly morose,” she explained. “I far prefer walking in the Highlands. Nothing terribly demanding here in London, but one must do what one must.”
“Ladies are not encouraged to—”
“Are we back to this? What ladies do?” She tsked. “I despair of ye. Indeed, I do. Ye see, I have had the good fortune to be born to a family which was no’ particularly interested in what ladies are supposed to do.” She grimaced. “In fact, the worst mistake I ever made was in attempting to do what other ladies do.”
He nodded, silent. “The well-trod path has little scope.”
“It can be exceptionally suffocating.” She wondered if she dared. A smile tilted her lips, thinking of her brother’s commentary this morning.
She nodded to one of the pots. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” he asked, blinking.
Her lips twitched as she took her courage in hand.
“That they grappled, sans apparel?” she whispered. “It seems most dangerous given the male anatomy.”
He choked.
“I take that as a yes.”
“And before you can ask if I do such a thing,” he thundered. “I assure you I do not.”
“Good.” She nodded succinctly. “I should hate to hear of an accident.”
A strangled note of exasperation mixed with admiration emanated from him. “Lady Gateshead, you are quite disconcerting in your discourse. Do you usually engage in such. . . Conversation?”
“Only with a very few people,” she assured. “Ye seemed like ye’d fit amongst them.”
“Amongst those that discuss the fashions of grappling?” he extrapolated dryly.
“Of those who say what they think and dinna flinch from their curiosity because it is inappropriate.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “You’ve the right of it there, I suppose.”
Smiling up at him, she replied, “I thought it the case.”
A slow smile tilted his lips as if he were truly beginning to enjoy her oddities. “Do you wish a tour then?”
“Very much so,” she proclaimed. For she did. She’d come here to be better educated to not make a fool of herself before men like Peterboro. No doubt, he’d give the best information. “I think ye shall tell me a great deal of interesting things. Things which Lord Babbington would leave out, to spare my female fragility.”
“Oh?” he asked, his voice a trifle strained. “Do you think he’d worry for the duchess?”
Hearing her title mentioned, Olivia looked up from her studied view of a beaten gold cuff. “Oh, I cause worry amongst men wherever I go. But any sort of repair or repentance is far too late. I am beyond help. And I find I must sit for a few moments. You two carry on.” She shooed them with her red kid glove. “I shall be fine here, gazing at the fellows wrestling on the pots.”
Lord Peterboro looked as if he had been thrust into a mad dream. Yet he was handling it rather well. “You did not mislead me, Lady Gateshead. You and the duchess are, indeed, not to be lumped in with other ladies.”
“I would never lie to ye, sir,” she said, barely able to contain her laughter. But then she said in all seriousness, “Please tell me about Amazons. I find the idea rather fascinating.”
He gazed down at her, then a very pleased smile pulled at his lips. “Do you like to read?”
“Of course.”
He bent and whispered in her ear. “I have a book for you.”
“That is the most delicious phrase in the world.” And the feel of him whispering against her ear? It sent a shimmy of the most mystifying emotion through her body. ’Twas as if her entire being had come to life.
“I must admit, it is one of my favorite phrases, too.”
And so, feeling a good deal sprightlier than when the morning had begun, Andromeda followed Lord Peterboro further into the strongly cluttered rooms of the British Museum and deeper into the strangest relationship with a man she’d ever known.