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“It should indeed,” Willie murmured and returned her gaze to the last names on her list—D. Montague, R. Richfield and daughter. She did hope they would arrive soon. Leaving behind three members of their party on the first day did not bode well for the rest of the trip. She glanced up and scanned the platform.
Americans didn’t look particularly different, although she did believe they walked with a certain spring to their step, as if the world truly were their oyster. She spotted a woman coming in her direction, a definite air of determination about her. She was accompanied by two young women, probably her daughters. Willie adopted her most welcoming smile.
The woman gave her no more than cursory glance as she walked by. And wasn’t that rude? Even if she wasn’t D. Montague or R. Richfield she could have at least acknowledged Willie’s presence in that vague, polite manner acceptable for a casual encounter. Goodness, the manners of some people simply—
“Lady Bascombe?” A decidedly English voice said.
Willie turned and smiled. “Yes?”
“Oh good, I was hoping it was you.” An attractive dark-haired woman, perhaps a decade older than Willie, smiled expectantly. A young woman stood behind her, also dark haired and quite pretty with a resigned look on her face.
“It most definitely is me.” Willie drew her brows together in confusion. “I do apologize but have we met?”
“Once but it was a long time ago and I daresay you probably won’t remember as I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been reminded.”
“Oh well...” Willie shook her head. “I am sorry but you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Of course I do, and it’s terribly rude of me. I just said you wouldn’t remember me and now I’m expecting you to do just that. Obviously it’s now my turn to apologize to you.” She smiled. “I’m Lady Richfield and this is my daughter, Lady Harriet Blake.”
“You’re not American?” Willie stared.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“I see. I had no idea. I was told the tour was comprised of American ladies and their daughters so I wasn’t expecting a fellow countryman.” She glanced at her list of names. “Your names are registered simply as R. Richfield and daughter, which I fear is due to the extreme efficiency of Miss Granville of the Lady Travelers Society.”
“Ah yes, the American. She met us at the front of the station and arranged for our bags to be taken care of.” Lady Bascombe lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “Do you think all Americans are that efficient?”
Willie’s thoughts flashed to the ladies already in the train car. “Oh, I doubt it.”
“Good.” Lady Richfield nodded. “I have never been the least bit efficient and I frankly find myself somewhat suspicious of those women who are.”
Willie grinned. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“So...” Lady Richfield glanced around. “Should we be getting on board?”
“Yes, of course. Everyone else has arrived with the exception—” Willie checked her list “—of D. Montague. I thought she was part of your party but she’s not with you?”
“D. Montague should be here any moment.” A slightly wicked spark shone in Lady Harriet’s eyes. “So this tour is for mothers and daughters? Only mothers and daughters?”
“I don’t believe it was restricted to mothers and daughters,” Willie said slowly, “but it is my understanding that our members are made up only of mothers and daughters. And aside from museums and galleries, the itinerary includes a number of things females tend to enjoy that men merely tolerate—shopping and theater and gardens and the like.”
“That’s what I thought,” Lady Harriet said in an overly sweet manner.
“Harriet, dear girl, why don’t you go on and find our seats.” A firm note sounded in Lady Richfield’s voice. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter. She was not especially eager to come on the tour.”
“But, Mother, I have changed my mind. I now see how very wrong I was.” An innocent smile curved the girl’s lips.
Lady Richfield’s eyes narrowed. “No more than two days ago you were moaning about how your life was over if you were forced to leave London.”
“Any number of things can change in two days, Mother. I came to the realization that opportunities like this don’t often come along. The chance to go to Paris as well as Venice? Why, it would be quite silly of me not to go. Besides, we’ll be gone less than a month. Goodness, Mother, my life can’t possibly be over because I’m gone a mere month.” Lady Harriet cast her mother a chastising look.
Suspicion colored Lady Richfield’s eyes. “I believe that was my point.”
“And now I agree with you. You should be happy, Mother.”
“And yet...” Lady Richfield studied her daughter.
Lady Harriet stepped up into the car and glanced down at them with a satisfied grin. A bit too satisfied. This was another young woman who would bear watching. “I think this is going to be a grand adventure. Truly an experience to remember.”
“As do I, Lady Harriet,” Willie said with an encouraging nod.
“Oh, do call her Harriet. Use of a title might be awkward with the American girls.” Lady Richfield pulled her gaze from the car door. “Do you have daughters, Lady Bascombe?”
“I’m afraid not. Someday perhaps.”
“Yes, well, the idea of daughters someday sounds delightful when someday is very far off. But then someday arrives and you’re living with this clever, subtly deceitful creature whose greatest joy in life is outwitting you because she thinks you are the enemy of all she wants in life. Oh, and she’s certain you’re stupid, as well,” Lady Richfield added wryly.
Willie grinned. “Surely not.”
“Life with a daughter is a challenge.” Lady Richfield straightened her shoulders. “Fortunately, I quite enjoy a challenge.”
Willie laughed.
Lady Richfield chuckled. “And you must call me Rosalind. After all, we are going to be spending a great deal of time in one another’s company.”
“Excellent. And I am Wilhelmina but most people call me Willie as Wilhelmina is rather a mouthful.” She wrinkled her nose. “And, as I have been told by the younger members of our party, a bit antiquated, as well.”
“They are nothing if not painfully blunt,” Rosalind observed.
“I remember all too well.” Willie frowned and glanced at her list again. “I do wish your D. Montague would appear. Am I to assume she is English, as well?”
“Oh, definitely English.”
“I would hate to leave her behind. And while we do have a private car, the train will leave when expected.”
“Yes, well...” Rosalind drew a deep breath. “About D. Montague. You should know—”
“That I am quite looking forward to this.” A tall, dashing gentleman with dark hair, equally dark eyes and an impressive air of refined elegance about him—no doubt assisted by excellent, quality tailoring—stepped up beside Rosalind. He carried a black leather traveling valise, the kind used for documents by solicitors and men of business. “You must be Lady Bascombe.”
Surely she’d met a man with shoulders that delightfully broad before? And certainly she knew any number who had dimples bracketing the corners of their perfectly shaped lips beneath a sharp straight nose that was just a touch Roman. Without thinking, Willie extended her hand. “I am.”
He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. The oddest shiver ran through her. “I am delighted to meet you.”
She mustered a weak smile. “And you are?”
“Forgive me. Where was my head? Roz?” He directed his words to Rosalind but kept his gaze locked on Willie’s. “Do be so kind as to introduce me.”
Good Lord. The most unnerving thought flashed through her mind. Was this intriguing specimen of the male gender here to accompany Rosalind? Was this trip to be some sort of romantic liaison on their part? And in front of her daughter? Not to mention the other girls. While Americans were reputed to be less unyielding about any number of things, Willie was fairly certain Jane and Marian would both be shocked by this. As free-spirited as Willie had always considered herself, this she could not allow.
“Yes, of course. Allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Montague.” Rosalind cleared her throat. “My brother.”
“Your what?” Relief swept through her. Only because she would not have to take the moral high ground—which she wasn’t sure anyone would believe—and not because of the wicked sparkle dancing in his eyes. And the way he looked at her as if she were something rather remarkable. Men had looked at her in similar ways before, of course, but it had always been much more lascivious. And she had been married. And it had been a very long time since.
“Her brother.” He grinned. “We’ve been told there’s a certain family resemblance.”
“When we were children perhaps.” Rosalind scoffed. “Fortunately, we have grown out of it.”
“And your name is Dante?” For whatever reason she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from his. Nor did she want to. “As in the nine circles of hell?”
He chuckled. “My mother had a passion for literary names. You’re familiar with Dante’s Divine Comedy, then?”
An endless, fourteenth-century epic poem that was forced down the throats of unsuspecting schoolgirls in the name of classics while they did their best to avoid it? The sort of thing a girl might only skim in order to answer the most basic questions about it? She forced a light laugh. “Who isn’t?”
“Excellent. I look forward to discussing it with you.”
“You can let go of her hand now,” Rosalind said pointedly.
Willie pulled her hand from his. “That does sound like fun.”
“I expect this tour to be a great deal of fun, as well.” Mr. Montague continued to study her as if he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. It was at once flattering and a bit unnerving.
“I’m curious, Mr. Montague.”
“Dante, please.” There were those dimples again. “We’re going to be together every day for the next month after all.”
“Regardless, we have only just met. It would be far too improper and not at all the way to begin an adventure like this.” Oh Lord. Why couldn’t the man have had a name like Horacio or Ebenezer. Why did he have to have the name of an Italian poet?
And where on earth had this voice of propriety of hers come from? Why, she had never been the least bit concerned about rules before. It was no doubt his fault. This man, this Dante, might be very, very dangerous. Or he could be a great deal of fun. She wasn’t sure she was ready for fun and certainly not for danger. Her previous life had had entirely too much of both—or the illusion of both—and had, in hindsight, been exhausting. Although she would admit there were frequent moments when she missed it.
“Might I ask why you decided to join a tour directed at ladies and their daughters?”
“Well, I—”
“In truth, this whole thing was my brother’s idea,” Rosalind answered. “He is paying for our entire trip. The dear man.”
“It was a gift,” Dante said quickly. “And most deserved.”
“It was a bribe.” Rosalind smirked. “Also most deserved.”
“And as I was at loose ends, with nothing pressing to keep me in London at the moment—”
“Alas my dear brother has not yet found himself a wife.” Rosalind heaved a long-suffering sigh.
Dante shot her a sharp look then continued. “I thought it might be nice to accompany my dear, dear sister and her charming daughter.”
“How very...thoughtful of you.” And indeed it did appear quite thoughtful although one couldn’t help but wonder at the undercurrents ebbing between brother and sister and exactly what Dante’s bribe was for. And wouldn’t that be interesting to find out?
“And then when I discovered you were to be one of the travelers, well, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the legendary Wilhelmina Bascombe.”
“How indeed.” She forced a light laugh. Legendary? What utter rubbish. She did have a certain reputation—at least she used to—but it had been two years since she’d done anything at all let alone anything legendary.
“I believe we should probably get on board,” Mr. Montague said to his sister then turned to Willie. “Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured.
Dante assisted his sister up the steps. She said something quietly into his ear then glanced back at Willie and smiled. He turned to Willie and took her hand to help her into the car. It wasn’t really necessary. But it was quite nice.
“I cannot tell you how delighted I am that I decided to come along,” he said in a low voice behind her.
A frisson of something that might have been delight—or worse, anticipation—ran up her spine. She ignored it.
It had been a long time since she’d felt any sort of attraction to a man. Certainly it was not unexpected that she would do so at some point. She had been a widow for two years after all and even at the age of thirty she did not consider herself old. Nor did she have any desire to spend the rest of her life alone.
But Willie had met any number of dashing, charming, handsome men before. George was dashing and handsome and charming. Her next husband was going to be sensible and rational and practical. A man who had more on his mind than the next ball or rout or hunt. At the very least, a man who was aware of his responsibilities and lived up to them. A man who paid his bills.
No, she was finished with men who were impulsive and wanted nothing more than to enjoy everything life had to offer. The next time she married she wanted a bit of moderation.
A man who put entirely too much effort into charming a woman—even if he was nice to his sister—was not to be trusted. Legendary indeed. Besides, a man who had the name and the charm of an Italian poet and the looks of a Roman god was the last thing she needed or wanted.
Even if she suspected he might well be irresistible.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u33f4f0c1-27d4-556d-9e12-6991395af571)
“WELL?” DANTE SAID in an aside to his sister, his gaze on Lady Bascombe at the far end of the car. She sat at a table studying a large map and papers that no doubt had to do with the tour, looking shockingly efficient. If there was one word that was not in the dossier he had been given on Wilhelmina Bascombe it was efficient. “How was that for charming?”
“Quite good, Dante. I scarcely recognized you.” Roz directed her words to him but kept her gaze on the ladies’ magazine she paged through. “Not the least bit stuffy. One would think you’d been practicing.”
He bit back a grin. He hadn’t attempted to flirt in longer than he could remember, and he was never especially accomplished at it as he’d always thought it rather silly. But it was somewhat like riding a horse again when one hadn’t ridden for some time. And oddly enough, it was surprisingly enjoyable.
The rest of their party was scattered about the spacious car, having divided according to age. Mrs. Corby and Mrs. Henderson had settled near the midsection of the car apparently ascertaining mutual acquaintances although Mrs. Corby didn’t seem to be saying nearly as much as Mrs. Henderson. The four girls were seated as far away from their mothers as possible and appeared to have already forged a friendship. Or more likely an alliance against a common enemy.
“Do you intend to marry her?” Roz said coolly.
“What?”
“Do keep your voice down, brother, if you don’t wish for everyone to hear.”
“Shock will do that to a man,” he said sharply but lowered his voice nonetheless. “No, of course I don’t intend to marry her. Don’t be absurd. We’ve just met.”
“You are protesting entirely too much, Dante.” She turned a page. “I was only going to note that the level of your charm might be entirely too, oh, extreme if your purpose is anything short of marriage or seduction.”
“Good Lord, Roz.” He stared. “My purpose is neither seduction nor marriage. My sole purpose is reclaiming the Portinari. And you are the one who told me to be charming.”
“I did not suggest you sweep her off her feet.”
“I’m not trying to sweep her off her feet.” Admittedly, he was making an effort beyond anything he had done in recent years. Nor was it the least bit difficult. He imagined any number of men found flirtation with the lovely Lady Bascombe to be easy if not natural. He’d been intrigued before but in person she was, well, more than he had anticipated. There was something about the unexpected look of intelligence in her blue eyes coupled with a delightful smile, a fine figure and an air of utter confidence that belied everything he had learned about the irresponsible, impulsive, madcap Willie Bascombe. It was very nearly irresistible. Not to him, of course. He was not—nor could be ever be—interested in her as anything other than a means to the Portinari. But he could certainly understand why other men might find her compelling.
“No?” Roz turned another page.
