Surely after tonight’s dinner party Philip would make his choice for a bride. As soon as the curse problem was solved, as it certainly would soon be-she refused to believe otherwise-the wedding could take place. All that could happen within a matter of days. Only a matter of days, and then she’d never have to see Philip again. And that was very good. Her heart tried to refute that statement, but her mind flattened her heart’s attempt like an insect. And as for tonight’s dinner party, she’d simply concentrate on her role as matchmaker by ensuring that the conversation remained lively, but she’d otherwise remain in the background.
Drawing a deep breath, she straightened her spine, grateful that she’d managed to realign things into their proper perspective. Especially since they’d almost arrived at the warehouse. “I appreciate you escorting me to the warehouse and helping search through the crates, Albert.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Miss Merrie. ‘Specially since it seems like somethin’ evil’s afoot, wot with the robbery and all. Lord Greybourne asked that I be extra careful watchin‘ over ye.”
They arrived at the warehouse minutes later. Meredith walked into the vast building, marching through the dust motes dancing in the warm air, fully intent upon concentrating on the search and ignoring Philip. Her good intentions took a serious jolt when she turned the final corner and found herself staring directly at him.
It appeared he’d been at work for some time, for a film of dust covered his mussed, sun-streaked brown hair, and his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He’d discarded his jacket and cravat, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He looked nothing short of delicious. Dear God, this was going to be an excruciatingly long day.
Over the course of the morning, Meredith immersed herself in cataloging the artifacts, her tension at being in such proximity to Philip tempered by her wonder and delight at the pieces of the past she held in her hands.
About an hour into their work, a gentleman arrived who was introduced to her and Albert as Mr. Edward Binsmore. Meredith recognized the name as that of the gentleman whose wife had died, allegedly as a result of the curse. He appeared tired and drawn, his dark eyes bleak pools of misery, and his palpable sadness kindled her sympathy. Clearly his wife’s death had affected him deeply.
After the introductions, Mr. Binsmore looked around, then frowned. “I thought Andrew would be here.”
“He’s conducting some inquiries to discover who is responsible for the robbery,” Philip said.
“Oh? Has he made any progress?”
“He only started this morning. I’ll let you know if he discovers anything.”
“Good. Speaking of discovering things… I finished cataloging the remaining crates at the museum before coming here.” Mr. Binsmore shook his head. “There was no sign of the missing piece of stone.”
Philip’s jaw tightened. “There’s still hope it may be amongst the remaining crates here. And if not, there’s still the items on the Sea Raven, which is due to dock soon.” He dragged his hand down his face. He looked so worried, Meredith had to fight the urge to go to him, to touch the crinkle between his brows, to enfold him in a commiserating hug.
Work resumed, with Meredith and Albert working on one crate, Philip and Mr. Binsmore on yet another. She could easily identify many of the pieces, as a large percentage of them were recognizable items such as vases, bowls, and goblets. Although it slowed down the process, she couldn’t help but cradle each precious piece in her hands for several seconds, closing her eyes, trying to imagine to whom it had belonged, and what that person’s life in an ancient civilization, in a distant land, had been like.
She froze as her senses suddenly recognized his presence directly behind her.
“I do the same thing,” Philip said softly, walking around so that he faced her. He offered her a lopsided smile that she found far too endearing. “I touch these things and my mind wanders as I try to envision who owned them and what their lives were like.”
Heart thumping, she returned his smile. “I’d just decided the spoon and ladle had belonged to an Egyptian princess who spent her days dressed in fine silks while her every whim was pampered to.”
“Interesting… and intriguing. A silk-clad princess whose every whim is pampered to. Tell me, does that reflect your own desires?”
Heat sluiced through her at the mere mention of desires, especially when the object of hers was looking at her with compelling, dark brown eyes. “I think a small part of every woman secretly dreams of that. Indeed, I’m certain most men also dream of having their every whim pampered to, also.”
He offered her a broad wink. “Especially by a silk-clad princess.”
A genuine laugh escaped her. Then, noticing that Mr. Binsmore was regarding them with a curious expression, she sobered and pointed to an item resting on the corner of the sheet. “I set that aside,” she said, “because I was not certain what it was.”
Crouching down, he picked up a metal instrument shaped very much like a question mark. “This is a strigil. It was used by ancient Greeks and Romans for scraping moisture off their skin after bathing.”
Their eyes met, and something seemed to pass between them. A secret, silent, private message that made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room. She instantly recalled her vivid fantasy of yesterday, of removing his dusty clothing and bathing him, her soap-slick hands gliding over his naked, aroused body. Heat crept up her neck, made all the worse because she knew he saw the flush staining her cheeks.
“The Romans were famous for their warm-water baths, and frequent bathing in the healing waters was an important part of their culture. Therefore, the strigil was a very common bathing utensil. When a person was done bathing, she would run the strigil over her skin like this.” He gently pulled her arm until it was outstretched, rested the curved part of the strigil against her gown, just above her elbow, then slowly scraped the instrument toward her wrist.
“Of course,” he said softly, “you wouldn’t be wearing any clothing, having just come from the bath.” Still holding her hand, he continued, “The strigil was also used to remove oil from the skin. Oil was massaged onto women’s bodies; then, after an hour or so, the strigil removed the excess oil, leaving behind soft, fragrant skin.” As he said soft, fragrant skin, his thumb gently caressed the back of her hand.
Looking into his eyes, a myriad of images rolled through her mind. Of him, and her, in ancient Roman times, naked in the bath. Of him massaging oil over her body. Touching. Kissing. Philip laying her down on the warm tiles…
“Are you imagining them using the strigil?” he murmured in a low voice clearly meant only for her ears. “Picturing them in the bath? Rubbing oil on each other?”
She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Them?” Good heavens, had that throaty sound come from her?
“The people in your imagination. Ancient Romans… or perhaps not?”
There was no mistaking the speculation in his eyes, and she quickly pulled her hand from his and averted her gaze lest he read her true thoughts.
Adopting her most brisk tone, she said, “Thank you for the edifying lesson, Lord Greybourne. I shall check the strigil off on the ledger.” With that, she pointedly applied her attention to the ledger with the zeal a master chef would bestow upon a prized recipe. Risking a quick peek at him from beneath her lashes, she watched him lean down to replace the strigil on the sheet, then walk over to discuss something with Mr. Binsmore.