but he seemed to loom; he seemed so much taller when they stood this close, and his chest so much broader when it was right before her eyes. Her skirts murmured against her legs, caressed by his robe. She became aware that her lips were parted, all the better to help her breathe, so she closed them. He glanced at her mouth, back at her eyes.
That body had lain on top of her own, their bodies had been joined—briefly, uncomfortably, but joined all the same. It seemed impossible and yet…
“I never kissed you,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t forgiven me for our wedding night.”
“As you said.” Her voice came out husky so she cleared her throat. “It’s best that way.”
“Yes. It’s best that way.”
He glanced back at her mouth, swayed slightly, then looked up and straightened away from her.
“You are highly disruptive. Camilla.”
“Then we have that in common. Jeremiah.”
She edged away from him and out the door, on knees that ought not be so weak, feeling breathless and confused and more than a little disrupted.
Chapter 5
The British Museum was laughing at her, for it turned out to be full of bare-chested, muscular men.
Cassandra hurried through the exhibition rooms, seeking her grandmother, but finding only near-naked gods and warriors. They adorned the ceiling of the entrance hall, soaring two stories above her head. They crowded the galleries, too busy flexing their marble muscles to notice they’d forgotten their breeches. They hung on the walls, etched in intricate detail, down to the last fascinatingly male curve and ridge.
She was staring at one such sketch—a muscular Saint Sebastian, naked but for a loincloth and pierced with arrows—when a clerk approached to offer his help.
As the clerk had considerately kept his clothes on, Cassandra was able to tell him that she sought the Duchess of Sherbourne. Fortunately, the duchess did not pass anywhere unnoticed, and he escorted Cassandra up a broad staircase lined with ornate wrought-iron rails and through a series of galleries housing antiquities and natural curiosities, before leaving her in a room overlooking the gardens, brightly lit thanks to a row of huge, arched windows.
In the room were a dozen or so large wooden crates, each as high as her elbows, their tops pried off and packing straw spilling out onto the floor. Her grandmother stood by one wall, surveying the space.
“There you are, Cassandra, my dear.” The duchess waved her over. “Do come look at these.”
The duchess, the same height as Cassandra but slimmer, wore a stylish olive-green gown with a matching turban over her thick white curls, fastened with a large circular silver pin. Her green eyes were bright and her face, lined in only the most dignified of ways, was alert.
“You’re looking well, Grandmother,” Cassandra said with a bob.
“So are you, my dear.” Her grandmother favored Cassandra’s russet morning gown with an approving nod. “You have more of your father in you than I recalled. I’m glad you could meet me here. Sir Arthur is planning the layout of his exhibition and he particularly asked for my advice. Are you familiar with the work of Sir Arthur Kenyon? He is a leader in his field.” She stroked her chalcedony necklace, smiled, and stepped toward the nearest wooden crate. “Come. You will be astonished by this.”
Cassandra most certainly would be astonished. She would be whatever her grandmother wanted her to be, if it helped Lucy.
So long as “this” was not any form of naked man.
With a smile, she obediently stepped up to the crate and peered over the edge at…
A rock.
It was big and square and white—impressively so, on all three counts—but still a rock.
On the other side of the crate, her grandmother stared at the stone, her hand pressed to her throat. “Isn’t that simply marvelous?”
Cassandra kept smiling and looked harder at the rock. She noticed that its edges were chiseled with patterns: ridges and scrolls and possibly…a pig? Good. Pigs were fascinating; she could discuss them for hours. But, no. Not a pig. Just a pig-like chip in a scroll.
“Sir Arthur brought it from Greece himself,” the duchess said breathily. “’Tis part of an ancient temple, he says. Sir Arthur maintains that classical statues and buildings were painted in bright colors, though most scholars insist he is wrong and that the unadorned marble is the most pleasing and authentic. A fierce dispute is brewing in the Society of Antiquaries.”
Cassandra pictured a group of old men throwing big white rocks at each other. “That sounds fascinating,” she said.