Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

“I need to keep a distance,” she said.

“It’s a bit late for that,” he said.

“I know it is hypocritical,” she said, “but I must try to maintain an appearance of decorum. For Miles’s sake.”

He kissed her forehead. “If he finds out, will he have my liver on a spit? Will he insist upon pistols at twenty paces?”

She pulled away and sat up. “Good grief! A duel? Over me? If he even contemplated anything so deranged — But no, he would not be so idiotish.” She wrestled her bodice back into position, and turned her back to him. “Do me up, please,” she said. “I can hardly call for Leena.”

Reluctantly Rupert sat up. Reluctantly, he fastened the garment.

“Have you spoken to Nafisah?” she said.

“Can we talk about Nafisah later?” he said. “We’re not done talking about us.”

She turned back to him. “Please don’t,” she said. “We can’t continue this. I don’t regret what I’ve done. But the rest of the world will never understand, and the rest of the world is what Miles must contend with. I cannot embarrass him. I could not live with myself if I did. You can have no idea what he’s done for me. Without him, I should have gone mad.”

“He’s taken care of you,” Rupert said.

“Far beyond what most brothers would do for their sisters.”

“Then I shouldn’t wish to injure him for the world,” Rupert said. He pulled on his shirt. He wished wisdom were a garment, that he might put it on so easily. He’d been so happy for a time. Now he was unhappy and growing unhappier by the minute. He had to leave. He would have to sleep alone this night.

He was not a monster. He did have self-control. He didn’t wish to disgrace her. He didn’t wish to shame the brother she loved, the brother who’d protected her from who knew what.

It shouldn’t be so hard to leave. It shouldn’t be so hard to tell himself they’d find her brother in the next few days. They’d rescue him or die trying. And if they died, it would be over. And if they succeeded, it would all be over between Daphne Pembroke and Rupert Carsington.

He’d never expected matters to end any differently, and he’d never had any trouble with endings.

He’d had other women.

When it was time to go, he went.

Whether it was his decision or — on the very rare occasion — hers, he said good-bye graciously and kindly. With gratitude, perhaps. Never with regret.

He told himself this day had brought more than he’d dared hope for. He’d come to the cabin on family business.

He’d come on behalf of the lovesick boy who’d looked at him with that pathetically hopeful expression.

“I’d better settle the matter I came to settle,” Rupert said. “Otherwise it will be obvious to everyone what we were doing here with the door closed.”

“Yusef wishes to marry Nafisah, it appears,” she said, rising up on her knees and twitching her skirts back into place.

“Yes, but he’s very young. Fourteen, I think.”

“Most Egyptian boys his age have a wife,” she said. “I believe his countrymen employ the principle that it’s better to marry than to burn. Fathers usually provide wives for their sons by puberty.”

Rupert frowned. He’d never thought of marriage in that way. Well, he didn’t need to, did he? The English didn’t keep their women hidden behind veils or shut up in harems.

“It’s easy enough to do, if she’s agreeable,” Daphne said. “A maiden’s marriage is as elaborate an affair as the family can afford. For widows and divorced women, the business is much simpler. I made some notes on the subject. I intend to write a paper on several aspects of modern Egyptian culture.”

She pushed the cushion they’d lain upon back against the cabin wall. She crawled over the divan and rummaged in a small chest in a corner of the cabin. While she searched, he gazed at her handsomely rounded backside. He suppressed a sigh.

She took out a notebook like the one in which she’d drawn the cartouches. She flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Quite simple. The woman says to the man, ‘I give myself up to thee.’ This is usually done before witnesses, but they are not necessary. The dowry is a fraction of that for a virgin. Naturally, I should provide a generous dowry, so that is not an issue.” She looked up from the notebook. “It only remains for the girl to agree.”

“That’s all?” he said. “ ‘I give myself up to thee’? No banns? No license? No parson?”

“We might give them a fête,” Daphne said. “It’s a good excuse for a celebration.”

He rose. “Yes, well, I’d better find out what Nafisah thinks of the prospective bridegroom, then.”

“Send her to me,” Daphne said.

“No, no, I’ll use Tom as interpreter,” he said. “They want me to do it. I’m the father.”

“The father?”

He gave a distracted nod and went out.

HE RETURNED FIVE minutes later.

Daphne had not had time to put her feelings in order. She’d barely had time to wash herself. She hastily dabbed her face with the towel so that he wouldn’t know the wet was from tears.

Making love with him again had only made everything worse. She knew it had to be the last time, but she wasn’t done with him. She wasn’t ready for it to be over.

She was acting like a romantic, emotional schoolgirl. It was as though the ten years since her first blind infatuation had never happened.

But it had, and she needed to remember what had happened, every miserable detail, all the consequences of trusting feelings.

Thus she counseled herself, but when he was near, it was very difficult to be logical and sensible.

He stood in the doorway, his head tipped to one side.

“We could marry,” he said.

She took the towel away from her face and clutched it to her stomach. She said nothing. She couldn’t have heard aright.

“We could marry,” he said. “The way you said. You’re a widow.”

Her heart was a great pickaxe inside her chest: one heavy blow after another. Something would break, something vital.

“Marry?” she said. “Did you hit your head on the way out?”

He smiled. “You see? That’s one of the things I like about you. Your sense of humor.”

“I have no sense of humor,” she said.

“Maybe you don’t notice because your mind is so tak

en up with scholarly matters,” he said.

“No, the trouble is, you don’t know the real Daphne,” she said. “You think I’m dashing and interesting, but I’m not. Circumstances have forced me to behave differently. But as soon as everything returns to normal, I shall revert to the unamusing and unamiable person I really am.”

“You believed you were unwomanly, recollect,” he said. “You can’t judge yourself by a fussy old man’s standards.”

“You don’t understand!” she cried. “I have no hobbies. I have no other interests. I eat, drink, and breathe lost languages. My idea of a grand time is counting the number of hieroglyphic signs on the Rosetta Stone. One thousand four hundred nineteen. The corresponding Greek text has four hundred eighty-six words. Would you like to hear the conclusion I draw from these figures?”

“Of course,” he said. “I love to listen to you talk.”

“Even when you don’t understand it.”

“Is it necessary?” he said. “Do you understand cricket? The finer points of boxing?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“My mother has said that it’s often better for a husband and wife not to understand each other too well,” he said. “A little mystery keeps a marriage more interesting, she says.”

“With you and me it is more than a little mystery,” Daphne said. “We have nothing in common.”

His dark eyebrows went up.

“Lust doesn’t count,” she said. “It is no basis for a union that must last a lifetime. We are not Egyptians. We cannot divorce with a handful of words, and without disgrace. I can’t, at any rate.”

He appeared to think this over. Then, “You’re telling me the answer is no, in other words,” he said.

“It’s for the best,” she said. She tried desperately to remember what one ought to say in such circumstances. She must have read about it somewhere. “I fear we should not suit…over the long term. But thank you for making the offer. It was…kind.”

“Kind,” he repeated. He gave a short laugh and left.

BY NIGHTFALL, DAPHNE had herself in hand. It was not as though she had any choice. The wedding business quickly occupied everybody.