Redeeming the Reclusive Earl - Virginia Heath Page 0,40
bring you much amusement, my lord.’
‘It is such a dreadful name, I feel the near-constant urge to change it.’
‘Agreed. It is dreadful. Rare nowadays—but I am not surprised it is dying out. I should imagine all the other Nithercotts were only too happy to abandon it as soon as an opportunity presented itself. The grooms as well as the brides. Unfortunately, my first name is no better so I am doomed on both counts. Euphemia.’ She pulled a face as she tugged the food parcel from her bag. ‘Euphemia Nithercott... I’ve always hated it. Such a convoluted, tongue-twisting mouthful. No name should require seven whole syllables. Two would be ideal. Perhaps three at a push. Something innocuous which would help me to blend into the background—or at least try to.’ Until she opened her mouth, of course. ‘Like Jane Smith or Anne White. Two instantly forgettable names consisting of two perfectly bland syllables.’
‘Try living with eight.’ He used both his hands to push himself to sit on the edge of the trench. ‘Maximillian Aldersley. The ink runs out on the quill before I can finish my signature, which always makes it look untidy.’
They had that in common, too. ‘Eight is greedy—but Max is nice.’ She lowered herself to sit beside him so they could share the food. ‘That one syllable suits you.’ And now she was sitting much too close. They were almost shoulder to shoulder. She could feel the heat of his body through the soft linen of her shirt. Smell the same comforting aroma of his shaving soap as she had when he had solicitously wrapped her in his coat the other night. Just as it had then, something about it unnerved her and called to her at the same time.
‘Then I give you leave to call me Max. Especially as my lord doesn’t seem to fit any better than my damned skin just yet. It’s too new. Too formal.’
‘Whereas Captain is so very informal.’
‘I do not recall asking you to call me Captain, Miss Nit-picker.’ He tore off a crust of bread and nudged her playfully with his elbow. Something she was pretty certain no one had ever done before. ‘This is the part where you give me leave to call you Euphemia instead...’
‘It’s Effie.’
‘Effie...’ The way he said it, his deep voice lingering softly over the vowels as if testing the sound of it, sent shivers up her spine. ‘I like it.’
Chapter Eleven
Three eight-foot trenches...
‘It’s definitely another post hole.’
Effie was gazing down from the edge of the enormous cavity they were currently working on, studying the darker circles in the mud she had just uncovered with her trowel. This slight discolouration, she proclaimed, came about when the wooden posts which once sat in the holes had decayed and altered the composition of the soil. Max wasn’t inclined to argue and really did not know enough about digging up the past yet to try if he were. To him, mud was mud, but he was prepared to concede that while one dark circle was coincidence, three the exact shape, size and formation might well prove her hypothesis correct.
‘Which leads me to believe this building was either entirely made of wood or, more likely when one considers traditional old English building methods of yore, maybe even wattle and daub. Of course, if that is the case and I am correct in my assumption that this dwelling predates the Roman invasion, it completely contradicts Cassius Dio’s account of the ancient barbarian tribes indigenous to this area, don’t you think?’
‘I think, in order to form an opinion on the fellow, I would first need to know what the blazes Cassius Dio said. Which I don’t, by the way, in case you were wondering. I’ve never even heard of the blighter.’
She smiled and rolled her eyes, totally oblivious to how gorgeous she looked bathed in sunlight. Flecks of copper shimmered in her dark hair where it had escaped its pins. Not that she was really one for pins, preferring to anchor the messy knot to her head with a pencil than spend unnecessary hours ruthlessly taming it with curling irons and fussy styles when she had holes to dig and treasure to find.