How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

She pinched him hard. Very hard.

“Ouch!”

“You are not going to leave me out of things again,” she said, emotion tightening her throat. She felt helpless enough as it was. She wouldn’t fail Henry.

And a traitorous part of her heart did not want Conall to fail her. Sham engagement or not.

“I won’t,” he said softly, and it took her a moment to realize he wasn’t responding to her fleeting wish but to her spoken demand.

“I am too used to being left out,” she said. “Discounted. So, I’ll know if you do, Conall.”

He caught the truth of it, the weight behind her statement. His hand slid down her arm, fingers squeezing hers. It was no longer a fleeting flirting touch. It was serious, firm. A promise. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She narrowed her eyes. “I am going to magnanimously assume that you have not found a forgery you were ferreting away for a secret consult.”

“No.”

“Good, then I might not have to hide your body in one of the barrows.”

He didn’t look particularly concerned to be threatened with murder, rather amused. Impressed. Fond.

Damn the man.

“I only thought to be prepared and waste no time once we find it. I’ve people combing London collections though I understand, of course, that thanks to you and the duke, the vast majority of all Egyptian artifacts in this country will be right here in this house.”

“True,” she said, with no small amount of pride. “So, let’s at it, shall we?”

Ancient Egypt trulyhad arrived and taken up residence in the duke’s ballroom. With a bit of sand on the ground, they might have thought themselves transported. A giant sphinx towered in one corner, watching with an enigmatic smile. Meg had completed a mural of papyrus reed, ibis birds, with the pyramids in the distance.

There were dozens and dozens of items sitting in crates, waiting for Persephone to sort them; a painted hand mirror, a blue tambourine, bone-handled daggers and swords, a funerary barge carved of wood and painted green and complete with a replica of a mummy, a priest with his head shaved, and several attendants. A small box filled with flies made of gold. “These are curious,” Conall remarked.

“They were awarded to soldiers who had done well in battle,” Persephone explained. She gave a small gasp which made him think of a hundred things he could do to her to elicit the sound again. Starting with the inside of her left knee.

“These are shabti figures,” she said softly, stroking one of the painted figures.

The look of longing on her face, the sweep of her fingers, made him think of the previous night again. He hardened instantly. He knew how those fingers felt, stroking him as though he were as fascinating as her Egyptian artifacts. He fought the urge to shift from foot to foot like a green lad. It took concentrated effort to focus on what she was saying. She was in her element, standing with confidence, cheeks pink with pleasure, eyes shining. He wanted to hire an artist to paint her exactly like this.

He wanted her to look at him just like that.

“Aristocrats and priests and priestesses didn’t want to have to work the fields or sweep the floors in the afterlife,” she was explaining. “So, they made replicas of servants and prayed to Osiris to bring them to life to do their chores.” She tore her gaze away, caught his expression and misread it entirely. “I apologize. I know I go on and the duke is the only one with the stomach to listen.” She gave a small self-deprecating laugh that kindled a rage inside his chest. The world at large, even her own world of antiquarians, had created that laugh.

“I’m interested in anything that interests you, Persephone.”

The pink in her cheeks deepened, reminding him of the pink elsewhere on her body.

He forced himself to nod to a squat ugly statue. “Who’s this fellow?”

She circled the statue thoughtfully. The open jaws offered rows of heavy sharp teeth. “A guardian of some sort, possibly.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Have you ever seen a hippopotamus in your travels?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“They are quite ferocious. Enough that the Goddess of childbirth, Taweret, also has the head of a hippopotamus.”

She continued to move through the ballroom, checking boxes, stopping to admire artifacts, nodding to familiar faces. John, the footman, stood stoically to the side, eyes alert. Conall had confirmed with the duke that John was indeed more than the average footman. Conall took note of the other footmen, the villagers who had agreed to work for the duke, the goddaughters trailing in and out to investigate. Nothing seemed out of place.

Until Persephone said his name.

“Conall,” she said quietly. He turned his head, saw the fiery glitter in her eyes.