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"The information I leave, as always, to you. As to patience—only point me to the port, Henry, and I shall wait there, patiently as Job, though it take a twelvemonth."
***
Was it not enough that he'd done three years' penance in vile climates among villains whose treacheries made his own attempted "crime" a mere boyish prank by comparison? Was it not enough he'd been nearly murdered some dozen tunes? Apparently, the Furies were not done tormenting him. He must now spend all his waking hours with one of the most desirable women he'd ever met—and have to keep his hands to himself the whole blessed time.
The Devil himself must have fashioned her to make men demented. Small wonder that Dhimitri, perceiving Mr. Burnham's profound and incomprehensible want of interest, had tried to carry her off. Even the jaded Mr. Trevelyan would like to carry her off to some private place.
The Devil, surely, had designed her long-legged slenderness, so exquisitely curved, and woven her dark chestnut curls to glint copper in the bright sun. He'd sculpted the soft, full lips; and then, for Old Nick hadn't any conscience at all, he'd drawn those startling green eyes with their flecks of gold like speckled sunlight in a cool forest. Nor was that yet enough. She must move with sensuous, provocative grace and speak in that husky, intimate timbre. Even her unfashionably tanned skin must seem the palest golden silk, rising to a warm rose in her cheeks. All that, and Basil could do no more than look.
For one, she was the daughter of a gentleman. For another, she was obviously innocent; and for a third—and this carried by far the greatest weight—she was Aunt Clem's goddaughter. He wouldn't even have to compromise Miss Ashmore to be forced into marriage. She had only to become infatuated with him and confide it to Aunt Clem, and his bachelor days would be over. He needed to repeat this lecture to himself often as the days passed, for she made him very...restless.
Basil was not used to resisting temptation of any kind. When in his life had he lusted in vain? But then, when had he ever lusted after a gently bred virgin? Never. His problem was simply that he'd been too long without feminine companionship and wasn't used to controlling himself.
Still, they must keep up a show for the Argus-eyed Dhimitri. Therefore, Mr. Trevelyan was forced to sit very close to Miss Ashmore when they ate their modest meals. He must, certainly, engage her in conversation, though it only made him more restless. The more he talked to her, the more he wanted to talk to her.
It was partly because she was well-educated and articulate. But there was something else, too, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. More than once he'd heard her render her intellectual Papa speechless with frustration after one of her exercises in twisted logic. What truly surprised Basil, however, was that he found himself, more often than he liked, at point rum plus.
Though he didn't mean to flirt with her and knew it was dangerous, sometimes he'd forget about Aunt Clem and the life of idle dissipation awaiting him in England. He'd lapse into his coaxing ways, and she'd seem to respond as sweetly as he wished—until he realised that her tender glances and soft words were a precise imitation of his own. Every time, instead of taking offence, he'd end up laughing at himself and, in the next minute, making the most candid confessions.
Afterwards, when he thought about it, he felt uneasy. He wasn't used to being managed and objected to it on principle. Yet while it was happening it was, well, so refreshing. Anyhow, he reassured himself, it was a good idea to be candid with her. Knowing what he was, she'd be intelligent enough to keep on her guard against him.
Though it was only about forty miles or so from Gjirokastra to Saranda, the poor roads made it a journey of several days. As the time passed, Sir Charles grew more and more frustrated. The infatuation showed no signs of diminishing. On the contrary, his daughter and Trevelyan had too much to say to each other. They talked constantly, starting at breakfast and not leaving off until they retired for the night. Sir Charles would have preferred to keep them apart, but with Dhimitri present he didn't dare. Even Gjergi, who had spoken with the rejected swain at length, warned the baronet. Dhimitri had given the girl up only because he was convinced that she and Basil were fated to be together. It was kismet.
Kismet, indeed. Well, they were a pair, those two, with their glib answers to everything. It would serve them right to be shackled to each other for the rest of their days. Looking now at Randolph—who rode along calmly, quite oblivious to the various tensions and counter tensions of the party—the baronet remembered the debt he owed and decided to drop his assistant a hint.
In response, the conscientious Mr. Burnham, who'd rarely troubled to say more than two words a day to Miss Ashmore, began obediently to seek her out for conversation.
On the third afternoon of their journey, Mr. Trevelyan remarked to Miss Ashmore on this strange development as they sat, a little apart from the others, eating grapes.
She chuckled at this, and said, "He's courting me, Mr. Trevelyan. Can’t you see? Papa must have told him to do it—and probably has hinted what to say, as well."
"You laugh, Miss Ashmore? I'm shocked. Still, with three men breaking their hearts over you, what else would a cruel girl like yourself do?"
"Three hearts? But you told me only yesterday you hadn't any heart at all."
"I never said any such thing."
"You implied it when you spoke of Almacks."
"I said only that I was looking forward to the experience."
"Yes, but you said it in such a self-satisfied way that I knew you were picturing all the lovely young ladies wanting you to notice them."
"You make me sound a perfect coxcomb. What a cruel construction to put on my innocent remarks."
"Then you mustn't let your eyes glitter so wickedly when you speak of such things, Mr. Trevelyan. I can quite read your mind."
For half an instant, he believed she could. He went on amiably to insist he did have a heart. "True, it's very small and very hard. Nonetheless, it exists and may, therefore, be broken."
"Well, I wish you wouldn't break it just yet, or between that and the other two you tease me of, we shall leave a deal of rubble behind us."
"Point taken, Miss Ashmore. I shall refrain from littering this lovely landscape. Still, I do worry that Mr. Burnham will steal you out from under my nose."
"Do you worry, poor man? But you're young and resilient. I daresay you could reconcile yourself to the loss quickly enough."
He immediately looked such a picture of wounded innocence that she nearly choked on the grape she'd popped into her mouth. She looked at him in wonder. "I declare you were meant for the stage. However do you manage those expressions?"
"Practise, my dear," he answered, with an odd little smile. "Practise."
According to Mr. Burnham, who was dutifully, if not altogether effectively, attempting to distract Alexandra from her Other Fiancé, Mr. Trevelyan also had considerable practise in deceit.
As they left Delvina and began their descent to the plain of Vurqu, Randolph had—in the politest way—replaced his rival at Miss Ashmore's side. A tad annoyed to see Basil give way so easily and go on so amicably to join her Papa—with whom he was now engaged in lively conversation—Alexandra gave Mr. Burnham a dazzling smile and asked him what he meant.
He was not in the habit of eliciting warm acknowledgement from Miss Ashmore. When she regarded him at all, and when he noticed, both of which were rare happenings, she did so mainly with profound weariness. So taken aback was he by this display of warmth that he smiled automatically in return.
It occurred to Alexandra that he wasn't a bad-looking man. Randolph's clear blue eyes, when not glazed over in their customary scholarly abstraction, were, at least, honest ones. You could believe what you saw there.
"I only hope he will not deceive you," said Randolph, coloring slightly.
"What makes you think he will, Randolph? I thought you'd never met him before."
He hesitated briefly then admitted that he hadn't.
"Then to what do you ascribe
your concern?"
"I shouldn't have brought it up. I'd rather not speak ill of a man behind his back."
