She shook her head. “It isn’t the same.”
“The Museum will always be there. This lifestyle—the one you’re living—it isn’t permanent.” Archie leaned across the table. “Your father is an old man, Linley. How much longer do you think he can trek across deserts and crawl through caves?”
Linley looked away, studying the weave of the wicker chair until the tightness in her throat faded. “You’re being awfully cruel today.”
“I don’t mean to be,” Archie said. “I only want to stress the importance of the work you are doing. That we’re all doing. We’re living other people’s dreams, and you want to run off to London! It does not make sense to me.”
“You’re right, of course. I’m such a silly, stupid girl.” She threw her napkin on the table and rose from her seat. “Sometimes I forget how lucky I am.” Without another word, Linley turned and stalked across the grass, brushing shoulders with a gentleman as she passed through the hotel doors. “Pardonnez-moi.”
Patrick stepped aside to let her pass. “I beg your pardon.”
When she heard his voice, Linley spun around to face him. “You’re English?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sorry. I was unaware there were other English guests here. I thought everyone was French.”
“I’ve been mistaken for worse,” Patrick said. He smiled and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon.”
He turned and walked into the garden, leaving Linley staring after him. It seemed there was not only another English guest in the hotel, but a very good-looking English guest at that.
***
Patrick resisted the urge to turn around and get another look at her. But ogling young ladies was still considered rude, even if they were in a French colony, and he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary.
Instead, he sauntered out into the grassy garden, looking as cool and unaffected by his little run-in as any other gentleman would be. But as he passed the table where Miss Talbot-Martin’s breakfast companion sat, Patrick noticed the man scowling at him.
Was he as transparent as all that? Surely not.
Patrick nodded to the gentleman. The gentleman did not nod in return.
He hoped the daughter of the famous Bedford Talbot-Martin was not kept on too short a leash. He’d like an opportunity to meet her, but if she always had that guard dog of a friend patrolling her perimeter, Patrick might be hard pressed.
Luckily, obtaining introductions to pretty young ladies was perhaps the only time his illustrious title ever came in handy. The rest of the time, it was a damned burden. And escaping burdens was exactly the reason he was there.
No doubt people accused him of running. And maybe he was. But he needed to get away from Georgiana and Hereford and their newly wedded bliss, and now there was going to be a baby.
His little sister, whom he practically raised, would soon be a mother.
He was happy for her. Truly, he was. But Patrick couldn’t deny that he was also a little bit jealous. Not because he wanted to be a father, or even to be married, but because once Georgiana was gone, he realized for the first time just how alone he really was.
The home he tried so hard to make happy for her now seemed empty. He rattled through the rooms and haunted the grounds. He sat at the long, polished dining room table and stared at twenty-five empty chairs. At least in the old days, he had Georgiana to talk to. Now he had only the sound of rats scratching in the walls for company.
It was a miserable existence, but one he took seriously. His employees and his tenants needed him. They relied on him. He endured it all for their sakes, and for Georgiana’s sake, because it would crush her to think his unhappiness was somehow her fault.
But, surely, no one could blame him for a few months holiday. The house wouldn’t crumble down without his lonely sighs to fill the empty rooms, and the servants wouldn’t revolt in his absence. Nor would the river run dry, or the crops fail, or his tenants starve through the winter.
It would do Patrick good to get away. He’d been gone for two weeks, and already he found something that sparked excitement in him—Miss Talbot-Martin.
What kind of girl gave up a life of her own to follow her father to the most remote corners of the Earth? And what kind of girl wore riding breeches in public with as little concern as if she were waltzing in some London ballroom?
A free girl, that’s who.
Patrick wanted to talk to her. To experience even a little bit of that freedom for himself. All he needed was a taste of the life she lived, and he would go back home and live out his days as a respectable brother, uncle, neighbor, employer, and landowner.
No one would hear a peep out of him. He swore it.
***