her white lily perfume on his skin.
Why, why, had he kissed her? Why had she kissed him? He had understood it far better when she had knocked him senseless with the Alabaster Goddess. He deserved no less. But now he wanted her to be safe, to listen to his warnings and stay out of his way.
Well, that was not all he wanted. Their little scene here, as well as what had happened at Acropolis House, clearly demonstrated that. He wanted Clio in his bed, in his arms, all her passion his at last. Her long legs wrapped around his hips, her head thrown back in a tangle of auburn hair as she cried out his name.
But their kisses could change nothing.
Edward strode toward his horse. As he caught up the reins, he saw the glint of sunlight on Clio’s spectacles. They lay in the dirt, apparently lost when she had stormed away. He picked them up carefully, holding them up to the light. The lenses were strong, but not hugely so; the ground glass magnified the limestone walls only a bit, showing up the old cracks and pits. So, she did need them for the close, painstaking work she did, but she was not blind without them. Perhaps they were a sort of armour, as well. Something to hide behind.
He tucked them carefully inside his coat, and swung up into the saddle. Well, surely she would need them back again. Very soon.
Chapter Five
Earth with its wide roads gaped, and then over the Nysian field the lord and All-receiver, the many-named son of Kronos, sprang out upon her with his immortal horses…
Clio groaned, and slammed the book shut, pushing it away from her. Perhaps that particular one of the Homeric Hymns, the tale of Hades and Persephone, was not the best choice of reading material this afternoon.
She rubbed her hand over her aching head. In truth, she doubted she could concentrate on anything at all, even so much as a fashion paper. Her thoughts kept turning, leaping, back to the farmhouse, to Averton and his appearance there. As sudden and shocking as if he had ‘sprung out upon her with his immortal horses’.
She had crept back to try to find her spectacles, peering from over the rocky ridge of the hills to be sure he was gone. And so he was, not a trace of him remaining at all. Perhaps she had just imagined him after all? Perhaps he, and his kisses, were the product of sunstroke. Of overwork and exhaustion.
Yet as she tiptoed closer, she saw the marks of horse’s hoofs in the dirt. And her spectacles were gone.
She had hurriedly secured the site, putting away the tarpaulin and tools, and had run home for a quiet afternoon of study. Or so she’d hoped.
Clio could not fathom what had come over her. Kissing Averton? Touching him! Not wanting it all to end, even as every ounce of her good sense screamed at her to get away from him. The man who was rumoured to be a terrible libertine, who respected no wishes not his own, who took every shameful advantage of his exalted rank. Who was, worst of all, a hoarder of antiquities!
Yet she had kissed him. And wanted so much more.
Clio groaned, dropping her head to the hard, polished surface of the desk. If only she could leave this place, this island she loved with such fervour, which had been her refuge until today. She could go back to England, to see how her younger sisters fared at Chase Lodge. She could—
No. The Chase Muses were no cowards. She might not possess the reckless, headlong courage of Thalia, who swam icy lakes and scaled mountains without a care, or the rare grace of Calliope. But she had to be strong, to stand her ground. Even in the face of Averton. Who would work on the farmhouse if she left? Who would discover its secrets?
The Duke himself, probably. He had seemed rather interested in the site that morning, before he realised she was there. And that she could not allow.
Clio pushed herself up from her chair, walking over to the window as she stretched her aching shoulders. She gazed down at their little patch of garden, at the road that led around the cathedral and out to the square. It was quiet in Santa Lucia now, the shops closed for the afternoon siesta as a warm, sunny somnolence settled over the place. Her father sat beneath the shade of their almond tree, reading with Lady Rushworth and Cory, but they were the only living things to be seen.
Clio thought about going for a rest herself, crawling under the brocade blanket of the chaise in her chamber and forgetting the Duke in sleep. But she dismissed the notion. Afternoon sleep was always feverish for her, bringing strange dreams. He would surely appear there, and she didn’t want to see what would happen.
Yet neither could she read and study. She was too restless, too scattered.
There was a knock at the library door, and Clio turned toward it, eager for fresh distraction. ‘Come in!’
It was Thalia who peeped around the threshold. She had changed her classical Antigone robes and veil for a stylish blue-dotted white muslin dress and blue spencer, a chip-straw bonnet with pink ribbons tucked under her arm. With her golden curls swept up and bound with more pink ribbons, her wide blue eyes and creamy skin, she looked the perfect porcelain shepherdess. The angelic beauty.
Many men had been fooled by her pretty, innocent façade—and had been sorry when they discovered the warrior-woman beneath. She often declared she was far too busy to marry, and Clio was inclined to believe her. Where could she find her match, a man with the power and the trickery of Zeus, the golden looks of Apollo, the strength of Hercules?
Thalia, with all her adventurous ‘projects’, was endlessly diverting, always entertaining, and sometimes exhausting. Today, though, Clio was entirely glad of her company.
‘Are you working?’ Thalia asked. She hurried over to the desk, rifling curiously through the books and papers.
‘I was,’ Clio answered. She leaned back against the windowsill, her arms crossed at her waist, watching as Thalia examined first one title, then another. ‘But I can’t seem to concentrate for some reason.’
‘Me, neither. I think it’s the heat. Rosa says summer is coming on, and soon the sun will burn everything brown.’
‘I hope not yet! I need to finish the farmhouse cellar first.’
‘And I’ll have to perform my play. If it is too hot, no one will want to sit on those stone seats and watch.’
‘Except for every young swain in town! They would happily sit and watch you for hours. They’re all achingly in love with you, you know.’
Thalia made a dismissive wave of her hand, tossing the book she held back to the desk. ‘A whole village full of men, English and Italian both, and not one with a jot of interesting conversation in him! They just want to sit and stare like a pack of half-wits.’
Clio laughed. ‘And send flowers, and serenade outside your window.’
‘I haven’t time for such things.’
‘One day you will have to make time. So shall we all, I expect.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Now that Calliope is married, everyone will expect you and me to be next.’
Thalia shook her head. ‘Father doesn’t care if we marry or not! He’s too busy with his villa and mosaics to worry about such trifles.’
Clio
