He wasn’t bad looking actually, with skin more deeply tanned than was usual for an Englishman, and dark hair curling at his nape. His suit was a plain, buff linen with a number of pockets in the jacket, the upper buttons of his shirt were open and he had a green kerchief loosely knotted at his neck. He certainly wouldn’t be allowed in the dining room dressed like that.
And a shave wouldn’t be a bad idea.
The stubble across his jaw would soon have the makings of a proper beard.
“Mint tea, perhaps.” He was still there, still talking. “Although a gin fizz is more efficacious, I find.”
“I’m not in distress, I don’t require tea, and I don’t accept alcoholic beverages from strange men. Nor am I lonely. If you’d be so kind, I’d appreciate you clearing off.” Being so rude didn’t come naturally to her, but Onora wasn’t in the mood for…whatever this was.
Can’t a person have a few minutes to themselves without being set upon!
Did her dress have something to do with it? In fuchsia pink, with a swag of chiffon across the bodice and no more than a flutter of feminine ruffles at each shoulder, it likely made her look more approachable than she was feeling.
To her annoyance, the rogue smiled, albeit sheepishly. “I admit, I’m the one who’s lonely.” Without being invited, he sat down. “Things haven’t been going my way, and I came over here to cheer myself up, since you’re rather pretty—or you mightbe if you weren’t scowling.”
Was she scowling? She supposed she was.
Good!
Onora did her utmost to scowl harder.
“Excuse me. I must join my fiancé.” He’d given her no choice but to leave.
Moving across the terrace, other people’s laughter drifted across to her and she felt a stab of envy. How nice, to be so carefree.
When did I last feel like that?
Not that her life was so awful. She was very fond of her aunts. Fond too, of those she’d become friendly with at Lady Margaret Hall. She’d enjoyed her time there, except that she’d always felt slightly set apart, knowing what awaited her at the end.
For goodness’ sake! Do snap out of this! You’re not some forlorn heroine in a Greek tragedy, being dragged off for sacrifice to a sea monster, nor are you being forced to marry an ogre against your will. Seton is everything a woman could wish for and, though you’re still getting to know one another, there’s every indication you’re compatible.
Certainly he’d been attentive since their arrival, meeting them in Alexandria no less, and accompanying them down to Cairo. Moreover, their correspondence in the years since her father’s death had been regular, a letter penned by Lord Seton on the first of every month. She’d often had trouble thinking what to write back but no matter the brevity or frivolity of her replies, his own had been steadfast.
She was rounding the balustrade when she saw the very man before her, in full evening dress and waiting on the upper step, looking every inch the refined English gentleman, with his jet hair slicked back, revealing a flash of white at each temple.
He looked down. “Your aunt said you’d come out for a breath of air. Not feeling unwell, I hope.”
“Not at all, but thank you for coming to find me.” Onora managed a smile.
“I’m pleased to hear that, my dear, and how fetching you look, though that shade of pink is a bold choice.”
He offeredhis arm though remained where he was, obliging her to mount the steps to come alongside. As she slipped her hand through, she looked back to where she’d been sitting.
The table was empty, the impertinent stranger nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 2
The following morning
What in hell am I doing here?
Casting an eye over the foyer of the hotel, Jack didn’t know whether to laugh or shudder. The place resembled some sort of absurd Orientalist fantasy, with its lotus-topped columns, Moorish tiles and arches, huge great coppered lamps, and potted palms. Best of all were the twin ebony statues flanking the staircase, in all their bare-breasted glory. Mind you, watching the reactions of hotel patrons—particularlyfemale guests— approaching the shameless display was the most entertainment he’d had in ages.
It almost made up for how disillusioned he was feeling—about the dig, about his future within the field of Egyptian archaeology, and about life in general. He wasn’t one for admitting failure, no matter how badly things were going, but if his prospects didn’t start looking up soon, he was going to have to change path, possibly even returning to London—and that would bring with it a whole other set of problems.
Not that his father would see it that way. He’d probably be delighted, having his wayward son brought to heel. He’d find some soul-crushingly tedious job for him at the British Museum, down in the basement, cataloguing items that no one was interested in or, worse still, sifting through boxes of pottery fragments to see if enough of them could be pieced together to create something decent.
His brother would be equally smug, lordingit over him with his stuffy but respectable position in academia, telling him that, if he worked extremely hard and proved himself reliable, he might have a chance of acquiring some minor lecturing placement at one of the provincial establishments.
