Bella and the Beast (7 page)

“Excuse me,” she said rigidly.

She marched behind a tall granite statue. In relative privacy, she drew up the saggy stocking and refastened the garters beneath the voluminous petticoats. Residual anger made her fingers clumsy. Aylwin had gained the best of her several times already, with her bonnet, with his peek under her skirts, and with the dagger.

But now it was her turn. She would make him dance to
her
tune. Even if it meant swallowing her pride and—heaven forbid—charming him.

The gravelly sound of Aylwin's voice came from beyond the stone behemoth. “So, Miss Jones, where have you been all these years?”

“Been?” she asked over her shoulder while struggling with one of the ties.

“Your parents left Egypt rather abruptly. It was right after the death of my father. Where did you go?”

“I'm afraid I couldn't say, I was too young to remember.” Bella strove for a mild, conversational tone—only for the purpose of her ruse. “We traveled a lot since Papa was very interested in studying ancient civilizations.”

“Tell me where you traveled.”

“Here and there through Asia and the Near East. My childhood was spent roaming in caravans, camping under the stars, visiting many archaeological sites. And then…”

Then the twins had been born and Mama had died and the family had stopped wandering like vagabonds. They had settled in the mountains of southern Persia near the ruins of Persepolis because even Papa had been forced to admit that it would be unwise to transport two infants on long expeditions through harsh and perilous territory.

“And then…?” Aylwin prompted from the other side of the effigy.

Bella swallowed the lump in her throat. She must not reveal that she had a sister and brother living in Oxford under the watchful care of a neighbor, Mrs. Norris. The less the duke knew of her personal life, the better. She would never subject her siblings to his tyrannical nature.

Besides, she didn't want to complicate the story that Lady Milford had advised her to tell. Bella had come to Aylwin House for a specific reason. In order to achieve that purpose, it would be necessary to weave a few falsehoods and half-truths into the tapestry of her tale.

The time had come to hoodwink the duke.

 

Chapter 6

Impatient for Isabella Jones to reveal more of her past, Miles shifted from one foot to the other. The statue of Horus blocked his view of her. Only the edge of her gown could be seen as she bent over to finish tying her garters. What the devil was taking her so long?

He should have done the task himself.

Miles imagined sliding his hands beneath her skirts, this time all the way up to her thighs and beyond. She had a passionate nature, given her reaction to his seizure of her dagger. How enjoyable it would be to make a game out of tying the garters, caressing her smooth skin with its strangely erotic tattoos, reaching higher to brush her moist folds as if by accident, then using bolder strokes to make her cry out in ecstasy …

As heat clenched his loins, he pushed the fantasy from his mind. Lust was a pointless distraction. He wasn't stupid enough to bed a spinster lady, not even one who'd had such an eccentric upbringing. All he wanted from Miss Jones was information about Sir Seymour. To understand why the scoundrel had left Egypt in such a damnable hurry.

Miles had never been able to shake the uneasy notion that foul play had been involved, that someone had paid those grave robbers to kill his father. But if Sir Seymour had been the culprit, what had the fellow gained from it?

He had taken nothing of value when he'd fled into the night with his family. Miles might have been only thirteen at the time, but he'd known the excavation site inside and out. Every artifact had been engraved in his memory. And he hadn't been aware of any quarrel between the two men.

A knot tightened inside him. No, the only quarrel had been between Miles and his father …

At that moment, Bella Jones stepped out from behind the stone statue. A ray of sunlight made her blue eyes luminous and gilded a few golden strands in her otherwise mousy brown hair. As she took a deep breath, her bosom lifted, drawing his attention again to its shapeliness.

“You wished to know what happened to me next,” she said, her voice somber. “Last year, Papa died of a fever in Persia. I'd always kept busy as his assistant by transcribing his notes and organizing his papers. But after his death, I lacked the means to live on my own.”

Surprise pricked Miles. “Your father left you nothing?”

“Very little, I'm afraid. You see, we'd always managed to scrape by through selling a few small antiquities here and there, earning just enough to live on.” She bit her lip, glancing out the window before returning her gaze to him. “With Papa gone, that was no longer possible. The local officials wouldn't allow a mere woman to engage in trade. And so, having nowhere else to go, I returned here to England in the hopes of securing employment. This is, after all, my birthplace.”

“Have you no family to take you in?”

“None—either they are dead or they want nothing to do with a woman who grew up among foreigners. They're strangers to me, anyway. I'd much prefer to earn my own way.”

No wonder she'd carried a dagger for protection. But Miles didn't want to think about her dire circumstances. Her life was no concern of his. All he cared about was information. “It was imprudent of Sir Seymour not to build a nest egg by selling more artifacts. There's a fortune to be made in the antiquities market.”

Her lips pursed at the criticism of her father, Bella Jones trailed her fingertips over the statue of Horus. It was the only hint of the fierce woman behind the spinsterish façade. “With all due respect, Your Grace, not everyone has the means to bring such relics as these back to England where they fetch higher sums. My father sold to dealers for much lesser amounts. He was quite happy to do so, for he preferred to study ancient civilizations, not profit from them. And…”

“And?”

“And knowing one of those dealers has been quite helpful to me.” She dipped her chin and gave him a wide-eyed look. “You see, upon my arrival in London, I went to visit a colleague of my father's, an antiquarian whom we'd met overseas. Mr. Smithers mentioned that he'd recently made your acquaintance.”

Miles felt an unpleasant jolt. A dark-haired man with weathered reddish features and flashy garb, Smithers had called here out of the blue three days ago and had talked Miles's ear off before he'd finally ejected the fellow from the house. “You know that windbag? He visited me under false pretenses by claiming to have several rare Egyptian items for sale. Then he tried to sell me a box of commonplace scarabs.”

“Did he? Perhaps he didn't realize you're a premier collector.” She tilted her head to one side. “I must confess, Mr. Smithers is the one who suggested that I come here to Aylwin House. He knew that Papa had once worked with your father many years ago. He also told me that you were interested in hiring a curator.”

“Bollocks,” Miles scoffed. “Forgive me, Miss Jones, but I'm afraid you have it all wrong. Smithers had the cheek to declare that I
needed
help. It was his idea, not mine.”

She took a step closer, lacing her fingers together at her waist. “But surely there must be some truth to his observation, Your Grace. You've a great many artifacts, not just here in this room but elsewhere in the house, too. I saw them as I was—”

“Sneaking through the corridors?”

“I had to speak to you, Your Grace,” she said firmly. “I couldn't take the risk of being turned away without an audience. Because you see,
I
would like to apply for the post of curator.”

Miles's jaw dropped. So that was her game. He had suspected from the start that she had an ulterior motive in calling on him. She'd been far too determined to prove her identity. He had expected her to play on her father's connection to his family and beg for an artifact or two, something that she could sell for money on which to live.

But this? Surely there could be no fate worse than hiring a talkative, meddlesome female who would distract him from his work. A woman who gazed at him with the biggest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

Irked by that direct stare, he prowled back and forth. “I'm sorry, but Smithers misled you. There
is
no job of curator to fill. I've always worked alone.”

She fell into step beside him. “Have you organized all these artifacts? Do you have a complete written description of every piece in the house? Have you made a copy of the symbols carved on each relic? Those are all tasks that I can accomplish on your behalf.”

He hadn't completed those chores and it would be useful to have them done—not that he intended to tell her so. “Don't be ridiculous. Employing you is out of the question. What do you even know about Egyptian history?”

“I know quite a lot about other ancient civilizations. That will give me a unique perspective. The rest I can learn.” She stopped pacing and folded her arms. “Besides, I acquired many useful skills while assisting my father at his work. I know how to keep catalogues. I can copy paperwork and organize your writings. And I promise to be as quiet as a mouse. You'll hardly even know that I'm here. If it pleases you, I'll work in a different room so that I won't disturb you.”

He bit back a harsh laugh. Bella Jones would disturb him all right. One look into those lapis lazuli eyes foretold trouble. He needed to eradicate the feel of her soft skin and shapely legs from his mind. His every instinct warned him to eject her from his house at once.

And yet … he had not completed his investigation into Sir Seymour. Miles itched to question her further, to pursue additional information about her father. There might be some nugget of truth that could be coaxed from her memory, something that would close the door on that terrible night once and for all.

Something that would ease the weight of his own guilt.

Her hand came down on his sleeve, a light touch that jolted him nonetheless. “Please, Your Grace, I shall be the most dedicated servant on your staff. At least allow me a trial period of a fortnight in which I might prove myself—”

“Fine,” he growled, stepping back so that her hand dropped from his forearm. “A fortnight and then I'll reassess your usefulness.” That ought to be time enough to find out what he needed—and then he would send her packing.

Her lips curved into a pretty smile that lit up her face. “Thank you, sir. You won't be sorry, truly you won't.”

He was already sorry. Especially when his gaze dipped to the shadowed valley between the mounds of her breasts. “Run along and see Witheridge,” he said gruffly. “You can't work while dressed like that. You'll need the proper garb.” Hopefully, a drab costume that covered her up to the chin.

“Witheridge?”

“The housekeeper.” He gave an impatient wave of his hand. “And don't return to this chamber until tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

Miss Jones nodded and made a move to depart, then turned back. “Might I … stay here at Aylwin House? A small room in the servants' quarters would be sufficient. It would be so much more convenient for working, you see.”

She held her head high, and it struck Miles that she likely didn't have a place to live. Dammit! He didn't want her here as a permanent fixture, underfoot at all hours, disrupting the peace that allowed him to focus on his work.

He clenched his jaw. “Tell Witheridge to put you in the east wing. Now for pity's sake, get out and leave me alone!”

His thundering delivery didn't appear to dismay Miss Jones in the least. Instead, she merely gave him that bright-eyed smile again and curtsied almost as an afterthought before turning around to make her retreat through the maze of artifacts.

Miles moodily watched until she disappeared through the arched doorway. Then he glanced down at the hieroglyph he'd been working on earlier, but found that he had lost the concentration required to solve it. Rather, he craved to unravel the mystery of Isabella Jones.

He had sensed all along that she was maneuvering him to her own purposes. And he now understood why. She was destitute and in need of employment. Nevertheless, he despised being manipulated—especially by a woman.

Perhaps the crux of his irritability was that she stirred his desires. Several weeks had passed since he had visited a certain discreet house in Covent Garden where he could take his pick from a host of nameless beauties. He should go there again. Very soon.

Yet he would prefer to bed Isabella Jones.

Not that
she
was any great beauty. But she had a bold vitality that gave her charm. Blue eyes big enough to drown a man. And slim, tattooed legs that lent her an aura of the exotic. How he had relished stroking her soft skin, tracing the delicate patterns that made her unique from any other woman he'd ever known. He had wanted to slide his hand higher, to explore her hidden depths …

Miles raked his fingers through his hair. Seduction was out of the question. One didn't seduce virgins—and she was certainly that. The shock on her face when he had touched her leg had not been feigned. For that reason alone, he needed to purge her from his thoughts.

It was a difficult task when the signs of her presence lingered here. That damned bonnet still dangled atop the statue of Sekhmet, the lion-faced goddess of war. He could still detect a trace of her feminine scent, something light and intoxicating, alien to the familiar odors of dust and ancient stone. He plucked the dagger from the top of the granite stela and balanced it in his hand. From the carving on the ivory hilt, it appeared to be Persian.

Miles tossed it down onto his papers. The weapon would have to be secured someplace safe. He didn't put it past Isabella Jones to slide the blade between his ribs in a fit of anger over a grievance.