As You Desire (7 page)

“Oh, but I do see,” Lord Ravenscroft said. “The opportunities open to an … uneducated man are limited in every part of the world.” Something subtle passed between Harry and Blake, and Marta realized that they did not like each other.

Beneath the table, a hand caressed Marta’s knee. Calmly she reached under the cloth and swatted it away. Undeterred, Cal Schmidt winked at her and Marta nearly laughed.

Cal was so impossibly American. A self-confessed neophyte in the game of antiquities collecting, and with apparently no knowledge whatsoever to guide him, Cal had arrived in Cairo a month ago. They’d been introduced shortly thereafter. He was blond, lanky, and rich. Marta could have become fond of him if only—

She looked up, chancing to meet Harry’s gaze. He smiled absently, his gold-flecked blue eyes glinted with humor, and her heart triphammered in her throat. Lord, what a man! There was so much magnetism about him; not only charm, but wit and depth and a generosity that was all the more fascinating
because there was nothing in the least naive about it.

Half a decade ago they’d had a brief, delicious affair. When they’d parted it had been without recriminations. She had assured him that her interest, like his, had been satisfied.

She’d lied.

She’d never really gotten over Harry Braxton. She looked away, unwilling to have him read too much in her expression. A wise woman did not wear her heart on her sleeve.

“Dining room’s awful crowded tonight,” Cal offered into the ensuing lull. “Why’s that?”

“Another of Mr. Cook’s famous Nile Expeditions—fares all-inclusive—must have disembarked,” Simon explained with a sneer. “I swear each year that chap hauls more and more inquisitive old biddies up the Nile. The country is littered with Englishwomen. One can hardly see the pyramids anymore for the bustles swarming them.”

“Surely not all of these people are with Mr. Cook?” Cal asked.

“No,” Harry said. “Only the well-dressed ones. The poorly dressed chaps are archeologists. Assorted nationalities represented.”

“Yes,” Georges said, “and I see one nationality represented that I am sure is looking to declare war—of a personal nature.”

Marta looked over her shoulder. Red-haired Gunter Konrad—a would-be archeological expert—sat behind them, thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. His brow jutted above his nose and his jaw
bulged at the corners as he stared at the back of Harry’s sleek, brown head.

“I think Herr Konrad is upset with you, Harry. You should not have cheat—” Simon glanced at Lord Ravenscroft. “You should not have
maneuvered
him into selling that Middle Kingdom collar of his so cheaply.”

“A man should know the value of what he holds.” Harry took another sip of water. “Besides, I’ve made arrangements to make amends.”

“I say,” Lord Ravenscroft suddenly breathed. “Now, there is a treasure worth coveting. Have you ever seen such a piece of tiny, golden perfection?”

“Gold? Where?” Simon asked, hastily peering about the room.

Georges licked his fingertips, following Lord Ravenscroft’s stare. “Pretty, is she not? That’s Desdemona Carlisle.”

Marta followed the direction of everyone’s gaze to where Miss Carlisle’s progress through the room was marked by a wave of men scurrying to their feet as she passed.

She should have known whom those empty chairs were for. Any party Harry arranged was bound to include Desdemona Carlisle.

“She’s lovely,” Lord Ravenscroft said.

“Oh,” Simon said, finally catching sight of the chit. “Desdemona.” He sank back in his chair, deflated. “Nice girl. Odd. A walking encyclopedia. Knows more about glyphs than any ten men in this room and a dozen or so languages. Grandfather’s an ass.”

“A dozen languages?” Lord Ravenscroft asked. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

“I am not, sir,” Simon said indignantly. “She was an internationally acclaimed prodigy as a child. Written up in all sorts of newspapers and circulars, exhibited at the National Geographic Society conference in ’80.”

“You mean her skills were exhibited,” Harry corrected softly.

“Course,” Simon said. “Caused quite a sensation among the Egyptologists. I attended one of her performances myself.”

“How extraordinary.” Lord Ravenscroft’s gaze had not left the petite woman. “However did she end up here?”

“Orphaned,” Simon replied shortly. “No family left in England so they shipped her off here to live with her grandfather. Poor little girl. Jolly lucky bugger—’scuse me, Mrs. Douglass—but old Bobby Carlisle would probably be living in a hut if not for Desdemona. She quite takes care of her grandfather.”

Marta made herself study the approaching younger woman. Lord Ravenscroft was right; Desdemona was exquisite.

Her hair, twisted in a loose—and unfashionable—knot low on the nape of her neck, gleamed like antique gold. Its color was echoed by her delicate, though unladylike, tan and further augmented by the topaz sheen of her outdated evening gown.

She came quickly through the throng, oblivious to the rapt attention her passing caused. Though she
moved with fluid grace, there was too much impatience and expectation in her pace, as if she were racing forward to meet her most fervent desires. Marta felt old watching her, so delicate, lovely, and quicksilver, her face alight with pleasure. Trailing behind her, her grandfather spied the gleefully smiling countenance of his nemesis, Simon, and scowled.

A few feet away, Desdemona slowed as the men at the table rose. And now, this close, one could see the unexpected and startling duskiness of Desdemona’s nearly black eyes beneath straight dark brows. It was no wonder that if—as rumor had it—she did wander masked among the natives, she did so successfully. Veiled, with a long
chadar
covering her dark blond hair, her eyes alone would lead one to assume she was some exotic Ottoman hybrid.

Reluctantly Marta glanced at Harry. He’d gone quite still. Intensity, so at odds with his usual offhand charm, had crept into his expression. There was a barely perceptible tightening of his shoulders and jaw and a slight forward attitude to his posture … as if he were drawn to Desdemona by some magnetic force he resisted.

But for all his covert anticipation, Harry’s greeting was insouciant. He grinned, the last to rise, shedding the lambent, dangerous aspect of his character, like a lion playing at being a house cat.

Damn, damn, damn
. Marta wanted to shake him. What could he want with this little, sloe-eyed hoyden? She was unfashionable, bizarre, far too vocal in
her opinions, opinionated and restless. She was not nearly woman enough for Harry.

And yet, for all the familiarity Desdemona allowed Harry, as intimate with her as he undoubtedly was, there was a distance—subtle, unfathomable, unspannable—that Harry himself kept between them. Even though, Marta noted miserably, his gaze leapt hotly to bridge that gap and consume the gilt-colored chit. If a man ever looked at her like that, she would follow him to the ends of the earth.

She disliked sitting there, an unwilling, secret observer of such devastating passion. Harry should be looking at
her
like that. Time was running out. She would have to do something and do it soon.

Someday Harry would tire of this odd, cautious courtship and run Desdemona to ground. Only a fool would refuse such a man. And though Marta fervently wished Desdemona was such a fool, she didn’t believe it to be so.

W
hat did Harry mean by watching her like that? Caught for that instant, Desdemona could not help but respond although she recognized that he was purposefully exerting his considerable charms. Although for what reason, she could not imagine. He was far too sure of his masculine desirability. He probably listened outside of doors after he left to see how many times his name was mentioned.

She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing that he affected her with his crooked smile and his welcoming gaze, his skin shaved as smooth as amber, his deep tan emphasized by the cool white of his shirt. She gave her head a fractional shake and stood tiptoe, peeking over his broad shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of his cousin. But her view of Lord Ravenscroft was obstructed, and other than scurry around Harry with the obvious intention of winning a view of the English viscount, she could only await an introduction.

Georges Paget bowed gallantly over her hand and Cal Schmidt greeted her with a broad smile. “A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Carlisle.”

“Miss Desdemona,” Simon said, bowing slightly, “how delightful to see you,” and then, after an overlong pause, he jerked his chin in her grandfather’s direction, “and him.”

“I see you are introducing your relative to Cairo’s more disreputable element, Harry,” Sir Robert said, staring stonily at Simon. “A simple lapse of taste? Or did this brigand foist his company on you?”

“Why, you sanctimonious—”

“Pathetic old war horse—”

“Now, Grandfather,” Desdemona cut in hastily. “How have you been, Colonel Chesterton?”

“Fine. Excellent. Been acquiring antiquities at a rate that makes my head spin.”

Sir Robert’s face colored to an unpleasant mauve shade. Simon and he were embroiled in an ongoing battle to see who could acquire the most relics.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly on that
translation
you did for me last week, m’dear,” Simon went on. His little blue eyes gleamed malevolently. Desdemona could have tipped the old brute over. Her grandfather had expressly forbidden her to act as a translator; the occupation was “unbefitting a Carlisle woman.” Little matter that the household was in part supported by those services.

Sir Robert scowled. “Desdemona, you promised you wouldn’t—”

“I’m afraid I’m to blame,” Harry broke in. “I asked Desdemona to look at some pottery I was in
possession of before, er, Simon came into possession of it.”

“What pottery?” Sir Robert demanded, successfully decoyed. He was vigilantly jealous of anyone else’s acquisitions. “And why doesn’t Harry do his own translations?”

“That would be interesting,” Blake muttered, winning a tense look of dislike from Harry.

“New Kingdom.” Simon grinned like a fat gargoyle. “Glass inlays.”

“That’s very rare, isn’t it?” Cal Schmidt asked.

“Yes,” Marta Douglass purred, and with her breathy, deep assent Desdemona’s self-confidence teetered. Marta, as elegant as an ibis with her long, pale body and deliberate, graceful movements, always made Desdemona feel short and incidental and … inexperienced, as if the older woman were in possession of a mystery she knew Desdemona would never own.

“You are a collector, too, Mrs. Douglass?” Cal asked admiringly.

“Heavens, no. But if one hangs about with hounds, one eventually learns to bark,” Marta said, winning laughter from the gentlemen.

Sir Robert, however, was not to be sidetracked. “Good Lord, Braxton,” he sputtered. “How can you let this … this person steal treasures from your own country whom I, and the museum, represent?”

“My
country?” Harry asked mildly, feigning surprise. “I was under the assumption we were in Egypt, sir.”

Desdemona stifled her laughter behind her hand. He was impossible.

“You know very well what I mean, Braxton.”

“Well, sir, if
my
country were willing to pay as handsomely for purloined treasures as Simon here …”

“My point,” Sir Robert broke in, “is that as historians we must take the long view. The Egyptians can’t afford to look after their national treasures. They can’t even manage their own government—”

“If we gave them the opportunity, instead of allowing those Turkish—” Desdemona began until she saw one of Marta’s pencil-thin brows jump. She felt the rebuke Marta sent out as sharply as if the older woman had slapped her hand.

“It is our obligation,” her grandfather went on, “as the cultural guardians of the world to safeguard Egypt’s treasures for her until the Egyptians can do for themselves.”

“I see,” Georges said, chomping fiercely on his Turkish delight. “Once England decides Egypt is capable of self-government, you’ll simply pack up all their relics and ship them back from London’s museums.” He sneered. “I don’t think so. The British Museum is nothing more than the world’s most successful looter. And you are no less a graverobber than … than … poor Braxton there.”

Poor Braxton?
Desdemona thought in exasperation. Poor Braxton was smiling like a crocodile.

“I think Georges has a point,” Harry said. “Even the prince is not above the odd spot of … grave robbery. At last count he personally owned fifteen
mummies and was giving them away like party favors to various friends.”

“How would you know?” her grandfather asked.

“I sold him his last one.”

Georges burst out laughing, and Cal and Marta sniggered. And this time, in spite of her best efforts, Desdemona could not contain her laughter. Harry’s gaze locked with hers and something intimate and piercing and dangerous moved between them, frightening her with its intensity.

How and why had their relationship suddenly become unclear and unsettling? She was certain she was somehow to blame for Harry’s toying with her. She shouldn’t let him see how he affected her. What a fool she was!