looked short and somewhat ordinary, yet he stepped up to a lavishly inlaid marble podium and welcomed them with generous and open arms.
‘The best way to properly see the collection is in small groups,’ he announced. ‘We will split up. Besides myself, we are fortunate to have several experts among us. They will be happy, I am sure, to share their knowledge and thus enhance your own enjoyment of the treasures on display. There will be plenty of time to see everything before we gather back here …’ he gestured ‘… in the gallery, to hear our notable speakers and enjoy a light repast.’
Good-natured chaos ensued as people began to separate into groups. Lily took advantage of the confusion. She slipped behind a gilded pillar, anxious for a quiet moment to recover and take it all in.
This was it—what she had been anticipating, hoping for, when she came to London. Not the riches that surrounded her, but the happy exuberance and simple joy to be found in sharing them, their history and the grand idea that they somehow connected every single person here.
Heart pounding, she leaned against the cool marble and peeked out into the crowd. Her eye unerringly went to Jack Alden, as it had done foolishly, repeatedly, all morning.
Why now? she wanted to cry at him. Why now, when she had reached her decision to stay away, made her resolution to avoid him, did he abruptly turn himself into the exact thing she hadn’t acknowledged that she was looking for?
He’d had every right to be angry at her perfidy in inviting along Minerva and her fiancé, the Bartleighs, and a few others besides, to his outing. But he’d acted quite the opposite. He had taken off his hat, thrown back his head and laughed heartily at the sight of her entourage and she had been captivated by the sight of the breeze wafting through his dark hair and the green sparkle of amusement in his eyes. Even as she’d stared, he’d replaced his hat, and given her a jaunty salute, making her wonder if he’d guessed at the reason behind her strategy.
Nor had he objected when she had climbed up with Minerva to ride in Mr Brookin’s flashy demi-landau. Instead, he had welcomed the Bartleighs into his own vehicle and, from what she could see, had spent the drive out chatting and charming them completely.
Now he gathered her friends into a group and then he raised his head and ran a searching gaze about the room.
‘Lily Beecham?’ he called. ‘Miss Beecham must join us as well.’
The others echoed his cry. Lily breathed deep. There was no help for it. All she could do was join the group and avoid Jack Alden as best she could.
This, it turned out, was no easy task. In fact, she thought at one point that it just might be the hardest thing she had ever tried to do.
Gone was Jack Alden’s veneer of cool reserve. Not once did she catch even a hint of worldly cynicism. Instead, he led their group on a private, informative, highly entertaining tour. The Anglo-Saxon antiquities on display throughout the house were fascinating and it seemed he knew something about every piece. He explained the incised decorations on a disc brooch, and pointed out the faint remains of tinning on a Saxon wrist clasp. He spoke at length and with enthusiasm about the theories regarding the Alfred jewel and the possibility that more might exist. He showed himself to be knowledgeable and passionate.
And nigh irresistible.
Lily was unceasingly aware of him all day. She felt attuned to his every clever remark and deep, husky laugh. She grew warmer every time she noticed that his relaxed manner only emphasised the strength of his form and his long-limbed grace. All day she watched him and her body hummed, head to toe, with a heated, shivering awareness.
And yet she forced herself to behave with complete indifference. She did not meet his eye, kept at least two others between them at all times, permitted herself only a distant smile so many times when what she really wished was to laugh out loud.
It was torture.
By the time the papers were read, the speeches given and the lavish spread of food consumed, Lily’s head was aching. She was tired of fighting to keep her gaze from straying to wherever Jack Alden stood. When Mr Keller, another of the scholars invited to speak today, asked her to stroll with him through the famous gardens, she allowed herself one last fleeting glimpse, and then she took the other man’s arm and allowed him to lead her away.
Jack Alden stood poised on the brink of madness. Ahead loomed naught but the chaotic pit and behind him lurked Lily Beecham, one tiny hand placed squarely at his back, urging him forwards to his doom.
He could not believe that it had happened again. He’d come with a plan and a purpose. He’d visualised how he would proceed. He’d anticipated and prepared for her every response. Except, it appeared, for this one.
She blended right in to the atmosphere of Chester House, as if she was meant to stroll amongst the beauties of the ages and enrich them with her own special appeal. He’d half-expected that. He’d expected her to be lively and vivacious. He’d hoped she’d be caught up in his own attempt at charm and charisma.
He’d been at least partly right. Good God—her allure was a nearly palpable thing. She had every man here in her thrall. But something had gone missing. She seemed interested, happy—and utterly indifferent to him.
Jack knew that he did not possess the renowned charm of his brother, but he exerted himself powerfully and did his best to channel Charles’s effortless likeability—to no avail.
And just like that, all of his careful planning, and reason and logic, too, flew right out of the proverbial window. He could swear he heard his father’s mocking laughter mixed in with the gaiety of the company. Her complete lack of interest triggered something alarming inside of him. He felt hot and reckless, and uncertain as well, as if he would do anything to get her to look at him the way she had at their first, eventful meeting.
He had a limited supply of self-control left, and it took every ounce of it to stay calm, act the perfect host, and exude amiability and unconcern. When he saw Keller take her into the gardens he breathed deep, squelched the urge to roar like an enraged bull, politely excused himself from his companions and followed.
He found them in the middle of the gardens, where a large, flat lawn had been created. The two of them strolled slowly along the western edge, admiring the border of alternating stone urns and cypress trees. At least, the girl appeared to be admiring them. Keller’s attention was focused somewhere else altogether.
‘There you are, Keller,’ he called. ‘Lord Bradington is looking for you, old man.’
‘How nice,’ Keller responded. His eyes never strayed from Lily Beecham’s lithe shape.
‘Yes, he’s debating the dating on that collection of gold, die-struck belt mounts in the library. Apparently someone is arguing that they might be Viking-made.’
‘What?’ Now Keller’s head came up and he looked back towards the house. ‘That cannot be right. No, no. Those were clearly manufactured by early Saxons.’
‘Someone’s convinced Bradington otherwise. He’s already talking of changing the placard and moving them in with the other Viking artefacts.’
‘That will not do!’ Keller exclaimed. He looked with regret at the girl. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Beecham, but I will have to go back and remedy this. Shall you accompany me?’
‘No, you go in,’ Jack interjected. ‘Miss Beecham has hardly
