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A wife was a considerable asset to a career diplomat and his superiors had not been reticent in pointing that out to him. It might be an open secret that Lord Quintus Deverall was not his father’s son, but, as the marquess acknowledged him, he was an eligible match for the daughters of the middling aristocracy. As his career developed he knew he would become even more of a catch and he had no hesitation about laying out his ambitions very clearly to a prospective father-in-law.
He was even prepared to be very frank about his desire to cut every link between his father and himself. His sense of self, his pride, his very honour, were tied up in being unambiguously his own man, not the tolerated cuckoo in the marquess’s nest. The older he became, the harder it was to stomach the legal pretence that, as his mother’s husband had not repudiated him at birth, he must be his son. The world was going to have to accept Quintus Deverall, gentleman, on his own terms, as his own man. Nothing else was acceptable.
Now what he needed in his calculated campaign was an intelligent, sophisticated woman with good conversational skills, several languages and complete competence in organising social events at a high level, someone who one day could be an ambassador’s wife. All he needed to do was to get himself back to London without further bullet wounds, a dose of the plague or having his eyes scratched out by a Frenchman’s furious widow and then he would be all set for the new Season.
Lady Caroline Brooke was top of his list. Blonde, as sophisticated as an unmarried lady was allowed to be, a superb organiser and the daughter of a leading light in the government. He had seen her deal with a tricky dinner-party encounter between a Russian grand duke and the Italian count who was sleeping with his wife with both aplomb and tact...
‘Quin?’
He blinked and realised he was gazing absently at Cleo, fitting the piquant heart-shaped face of Lady Caroline, framed by her customary fashionable coiffure, on to the tanned oval of Cleo’s face. If her hair had ever been in the hands of a lady’s maid, let alone a hairdresser, he would be very much surprised. ‘I apologise, I was miles away thinking about the...’ lady I intend courting ‘...about tomorrow. What time must we be stirring?’
‘Dawn,’ Cleo said. ‘Of course.’
He had a pretty good idea that she knew he’d been thinking about another woman, females had that uncanny instinct. Very diplomatic, Quin. Ambassadorial-level tact, that. ‘I’ll clear this away,’ he said and got to his feet. When he returned to England he’d be fully qualified as a kitchen maid.
* * *
Cleo had no problem waking before dawn, not after a night where she had hardly snatched more than a few minutes’ sleep at a time. Her carefully cultivated calm and resignation had completely deserted her. She was excited about returning to Cairo and worried that she could make no firm plans to escape from there and get to England or France. Under that was apprehension about the dangers of the river journey and the lack of privacy as the only woman in a small flotilla of men.
And deep down, beneath those practical concerns as though she had pushed it under a mental rug, was that kiss. That had been no friendly hug, even though she was certain that was how it started. Quin had wanted to comfort her because she was so tired, she had wanted someone to care, someone to hold her. And then that fire had flared between them. She had felt his body stir and harden against hers, as her blood had surged in her veins and her breath had caught in her throat.
Cleo shifted, restless on the hard bed, and rolled over so she could watch for the betraying greyness that signalled the approach of dawn. When she had all but asked for his kiss Quin had not hesitated. Yet he had not snatched at his own satisfaction... What would happen if she got up and went to him now? If she knelt beside his bed and touched his face, bent and pressed her lips to his temple, to the corner of his eyes, to his lips?
Nothing, she told herself as she sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. Quin was not going to make love to her in a tent with her father only a few yards away, any more than she was going to act on these foolish fantasises.
There was movement, a stir in the air, and she saw the wall hangings move as someone brushed past them. Dim light filtered in under the bottom of her door cloth. Quin was up. Cleo tipped her head to one side and followed what he was doing by sound. The pad of leather sandals on the sand, the splash of water. A long silence, then scuffling noises from the area of the hearth, a murmur as he spoke to the donkey.
Cleo threw back the covers and found her robe and sandals, then went out to join him. It was cold still, the world was grey and white coils of mist hung over the river. She shivered and hunched into the robe.
