Page 9 of Two Wars and a Wedding

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. MacHugh, “you heard him mention my father. Georgios Damala.”

“But of course!” Betsy sat up straighter in her chair, nearly upsetting her teacup. “I never saw him so animated as when your father’s letters arrived.”

“They were as like as two drops of water. They had some lively discussions, did they not?”

“They fell out over Odysseus,” Betsy said reminiscently.

“And fell back in again.” Mrs. MacHugh’s eyes met Betsy’s in a moment of perfect mutual comprehension. “Your father sent me a very kind note upon my father’s death. I keep it with me still. I had hoped to thank him if ever he came to Athens.”

Betsy’s throat felt scratchy. “He passed away a year ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I am too.” If her father hadn’t been obligated to chase after her to Northampton in the middle of a frigid February . . . Betsy cleared her throat. “I know he would be glad I’m here. It was always his wish to take part in an excavation.”

“Why did he never do so himself?”

They had planned to sail to Greece together, once Betsy graduated.

Betsy shrugged. “There was just never time, I suppose.”

“And you? You are fulfilling your father’s wishes.” It wasn’t a question.

“And my own,” said Betsy defensively. “If they’ll let me.”

“They?”

Betsy grimaced. “The esteemed director of the American School.”

Mrs. MacHugh looked so sympathetic that Betsy would undoubtedly have said more—much more—but the same servant who had brought her in was hovering at the door, followed closely by a man Betsy had last seen from a rather more prone position.

“Monsieur de Robecourt,” announced the maid, and effaced herself again.

The Frenchman regarded Betsy with mingled surprise and delight.

“Mademoiselle de la Souche.” Betsy didn’t need any translation. Miss Tree Stump, he had called her. “I trip over you again.”

“You didn’t trip over me. I bumped into you.”

Mrs. MacHugh looked from one to the other, intrigued. “I take it you have met?”

“Somewhat forcibly,” said the Frenchman, and Betsy could see the laughter in his eyes despite his grave tone. “But we have not, I think, been properly introduced.”

“An omission which should be remedied.” Mrs. MacHugh rose gracefully from her seat, the silk of her tea gown whispering against the Turkish carpet. “Miss Hayes, may I present to you Monsieur de Robecourt. Monsieur de Robecourt, Miss Hayes.”

Monsieur de Robecourt bent over Betsy’s hand, brushing a kiss across the back. The shocking intimacy of his lips against her bare skin sent a tingle straight up her arm.

Still holding her hand, Monsieur de Robecourt smiled into her eyes, as though they had a shared secret. “Shall we start again, Miss Hayes?”

Something about his voice made it sound like an invitation to forbidden pleasures. Betsy could feel her cheeks go faintly pink. “I will if you will. I promise not to bowl you over this time.”

“I shouldn’t be so sure of that.” With a bow, Monsieur de Robecourt relinquished her hand, and took the seat his hostess indicated. “What was it that you said to poor Rufus to make him look so fatigued?”

Striving to regain her composure, Betsy smoothed her skirt down over her legs. “Nothing the least bit outrageous. I simply asked to be allowed to participate in the excavations in Corinth. You would think I had suggested performing a cancan outside the palace!”

Monsieur de Robecourt raised a brow. “An intriguing prospect. Might anyone attend?”

“Their majesties might have something to say about that,” countered Mrs. MacHugh, struggling to hide her smile.