A Love That Never Tires (Linley & Patrick #1)

By Allyson Jeleyne

Linley Talbot-Martin is a girl who likes to get her hands dirty. As the daughter of a famous archaeologist, she’s been everywhere and seen everything—except London. But when the time comes to trade her jodhpurs and work boots for silk gowns and kid gloves, she may be in over her head.

Even though she can out-ride, out-shoot, and outsmart any girl in London society, Linley is destined to be the failure of the season. No one she meets cares about ancient pottery or lost Buddhist texts, and fundraising efforts for future expeditions keep coming up short. If the Talbot-Martin team doesn’t find money soon, they will be out of a job, and Linley will lose everything she holds dear.

Patrick Wolford, Marquess of Kyre (pronounced ‘Keer’), is a man who knows his place. Well-connected and respected, he is everything everyone expects him to be, but beneath his façade, he is as neglected and crumbling as the family estate. Now the strain of keeping up appearances is taking its toll. The smart thing would be to marry the heiress nipping at his heels and be done with it, but when he meets Linley Talbot-Martin, who dares to shake up his seemingly proper world, he must choose between the life he’s always known and one he never dared to dream of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allyson Jeleyne
• Release date: Feb 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990894629

Allyson Jeleyne

Allyson Jeleyne is a writer of bold, passionate historical romance featuring kind heroes, complex heroines, and (sometimes) steamy love. Her characters are adventurers, entrepreneurs, heiresses, prostitutes, peeresses, and, most importantly, survivors.She earned an interdisciplinary studies degree in Creative Writing and Journalism while also studying British history & literature in her spare time. When not writing, she enjoys traveling and checking things off her bucket list.She makes her home in the South Carolina lowcountry with her beloved dog, Dollie Madison (2005-2022).

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Morocco, 1913

For the first time in a thousand years, sunlight warmed the walls of the palace, and Linley Talbot-Martin was the first person to see it. The sleeves of her damp linen blouse were rolled up to her elbows. It may have once been white, but now carried the permanent yellow tinge of sweat. She hadn’t bathed in days, water being too scarce to waste, but if she were filthy and sweaty, so was everyone else.

Come down, Papa! she called through the opening above her head. You must see this!

A man lowered himself down the length of rope. He too was dirt caked, and red sand dusted his white beard, turning it almost pink. Bedford Talbot-Martin was one of the world’s foremost archaeologists. That same red sand had worked its way into his heart, and now flowed through the veins of his only child. If he was the face of their operation, Linley was its driving force.

I’ll have someone send word to Schoville, she said, studying the faded paint of the intricately carved walls. He’ll be sorry he missed all this. But first, we need photographs of everything, measurements, detailed renderings…

Linley’s mind leapt into action before the dust settled on the floor of the ruins. Members of their team spilled in through the hole of blinding light cut into the ceiling. There were archaeologists, artists, and hired laborers, as well as representatives from the French government kind enough to allow the Talbot-Martin team to carry out research deep into French territory.

While her father busied himself studying the treasure of well-preserved artifacts, Linley organized and recorded everything to be boxed up and taken back to the museum. If they worked as efficiently as possible, they might be on their way by the next afternoon. It was better to move quickly, staying one step ahead of bandits and looters who always threatened the success of a find such as this.

"Ne pas toucher, s'il vous plait!" Linley called out to one of the government officials as he reached out to run his fingers along a delicate piece of pottery.

The man jerked his hand back.

Mr. Talbot-Martin turned around to face his daughter. Were you talking to me, Button?

No, Papa, she said. To one of the Frenchmen.

Her father nodded and resumed his work, leaving Linley to hers. At twenty, she had been part of the team longer than anyone. She may not have had an Oxford education, instead she received all her learning in the field. To the men, she was more than just their employer’s daughter, she was an equal in terms of knowledge and experience.

Linley dusted her hands on her khaki jodhpurs and hoisted herself through the opening in the ceiling. Topside, miles of red sand and rock rolled onto hills and dipped into valleys before melting with the harsh blue of the sky. It was hard to believe the palace once sat above all this, and that a thousand years of shifting sands almost erased it from the earth.

The tents of their camp glared white in the sun, and Linley shielded her eyes until they adjusted to the brightness. She listened to the men speaking in Arabic, the pawing of the camels tied into their corral, and the squeaking of the pulleys as each container of precious ancient pottery was hoisted from one world into another.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a sunburned face smiling down at her.

We were right all along, Linley! he said. Everyone said it couldn’t be done, but by God, we’ve done it!

The man was Archie Gwynne, an archaeologist who studied under Flinders Petrie before joining her father’s team. Although he was in his early forties, she regarded him as one of her dearest friends.

Before we celebrate, I have to send word to Schoville, she said. He’ll need to prepare everything at Rabat or none of this will ever make it to the museum. Linley raked her brown hair from across her forehead as a fresh barrage of sand pelted down on her. Can you spare a Berber and a camel?

I suppose so.

She walked to the nearest tent and pulled back the flap.

Archie followed her inside, watching as she fished through a chest for paper and a pen. I’m afraid you’ll also need to ask him for more money.

Linley’s head jerked up. More money? Are we running short?

We’re always running short.

After word of all this gets out, we’ll be turning investors away.

Archie put his hands in his dusty trouser pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. Schoville will have to write them for an advance, or I’m afraid we’ll all be sitting home on our laurels without a job.

You won’t be out of a job, Archie. Any team would love to snatch you up, Linley said as she scrawled the letter. Same goes for Reginald, too. And, of course, Papa could take a position teaching at a university.

And where would that leave you?

Me? I suppose I’d go with Papa. When she finished the letter, she handed it over to him. Dispatch a rider. There’s no need to have him return, we’ll be in Rabat before he can make it back.

Archie nodded and was out the door. Alone for the first time since she woke up, Linley took a moment to catch her breath. The temperature inside the tent was stifling, but its canvas walls shaded her from the relentless sun. In less than forty-eight hours, there would be no trace of the excavation except the reference markers placed by the French government. The Talbot-Martins and their caravan would be on their way back to civilization—at least until their next expedition.

Hopefully there would be another expedition. She recalled the disheartening conversation with Archie. What would they do if there were no more money? Linley had never known any other life but this one. She never went to school, although she was better educated than many English girls her age. She never played with other children, trading hoops and dolls for picks and shovels. She also never had a mother, which probably had a great deal to do with all that.

Mrs. Talbot-Martin died before Linley could remember, and with nowhere else to place his young daughter, her father brought her along with him to India. From there they traveled throughout the world.

In truth, Linley never thought about her mother. She didn’t know why she thought of her now, especially with so much work to be done. She was no good to anyone standing around with her head in the clouds.

Satisfied that Schoville would receive her letter in plenty of time, Linley walked out of the tent to join her father and the rest of the team. But instead of finding them all hard at work, she emerged to drawn weapons and angry shouts.

Someone grabbed her by the arm.

It was her father. Button, it appears we have been duped, he said. The two French government representatives have just informed me that we will be going back to Rabat empty handed.

What?

I’m afraid the artifacts will be taken to Paris by French archaeologists who are on their way as we speak. So gather your things, they have spared us the camels.

***

Linley, her father, and the rest of their team watched as the French archaeologists confiscated months of work and research, as well as all the catalogues taken that day. The containers were loaded into the backs of automobiles. Without so much as a nod, the French left with everything the Talbot-Martin team had worked so hard to find.

Bloody hell! Archie said, slamming his wide-brimmed leather hat onto the sand. Bloody, bloody hell!

Mr. Talbot-Martin patted him on his shoulder. You can curse all you like, but it will not get our things back.

Do you realize what we have lost? he cried. This will set us back months!

Indeed, the old man said. But there isn’t much we can do about it now. No doubt they consider this their revenge for the Capitulation of Alexandria—though why they expect us to pay for the sins of our forefathers, I cannot understand…

Ignoring them both, Linley walked over to one of the camels and dragged its head down. The rest of its body followed, allowing her to climb onto its back. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on spending another night in this desert, she said as the camel lumbered back onto its feet. If we hurry, we can make it back to Rabat in time for dinner.

The team had nothing else to lose, and the prospect of a hot bath and a good meal seemed to be the only beacon of hope in an otherwise disastrous day. They steered their camels in the direction of the Atlantic, following the tracks of the French motorcars back to the capital.

It was well after dark when a distress flare lit up the purple-black sky only a few hundred yards over the sand hills. Linley and the others shielded their eyes from the bright white glare, watching as it burst, fizzled, and finally sputtered down to earth around them.

What do you make of that? Archie asked, pulling his camel to a stop.

The Talbot-Martin team paused to listen, straining to hear anything at all over the braying of their camels. In the distance, the unmistakable pop of gunfire caused the animals to fuss and paw. Linley held tight to the reins of her mount as it twisted around and threatened to bolt.

Camels were dodgy, unpredictable creatures. Sometimes they hardly reacted at all, other times—like that exact moment—they became ill-mannered and angry. It roared and tossed its head. It showed its horrid yellow teeth and nipped at the flank of its nearest neighbor.

Two more gunshots snapped through the air. Linley’s camel jerked its ears toward the sound, stopping its ruckus long enough for her to get the beast under control.

Breathless, she turned to her father.

Probably the French, he explained. Lord knows what they’ve come upon at this hour.

The four camels pawed the sand, impatient as their riders contemplated whether to investigate the situation further. On one hand, it was dangerous to dally in the desert for too long. It would be hours still before they reached Rabat, and, should they be waylaid, the team did not have enough supplies to make it through the night.

But on the other hand, it would be sweet revenge indeed to watch the French get what they deserved.

The team urged their camels into a gallop, racing toward the origin of the signal. More gunshots popped in the distance. Another flare lit up the sky. The Talbot-Martin team reached the crest of a dune and pulled their animals to a skidding stop.

Below, the despicable French tangled with a band of angry Berbers. One of the automobiles lay overturned. The other was surrounded by a circle of camels and kaftan-clad riders. Terrified archaeologists clung to the crates of catalogues and artifacts while outnumbered soldiers tried in vain to defend them.

The French were no match for the Berbers—not in the desert, not in the dark.

The Talbot-Martin team slid from their camels and dropped to the sand. They lay on their bellies, just out of sight, but with a perfect view of the commotion below.

Linley shivered in her thin linen blouse. The desert was not a hospitable place, night or day. A girl could freeze to death just as easily as she could get heatstroke.

She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

A few feet away, Archie and her father whispered to each other. Reginald Bourne, the third member of their team, slowly loaded his pistol. The camels snorted. The wind whipped up little currents of sand, stinging their eyes.

No one noticed the figure creeping toward them in the darkness.

Something reached out and grabbed Linley’s ankle. She started to kick. She stifled the urge to scream and flipped over onto her back to face the attacker, her hand reaching for the knife stashed in her boot.

It’s me, the shadow hissed. Schoville.

Linley blew out the breath she’d been holding. Christ!

He flopped down beside her. I couldn’t get your attention. God knows I couldn’t make any noise. If those Frogs knew we were here, we’d be in for it, to be sure.

She blinked at him. What?

Those Frenchies, he said, pointing down the hill. If they caught us.

Linley followed the direction of his finger, all the way to the besieged archeologists and the band of attackers. "Don’t tell me we are behind this."

Your Berber messenger ran into some very curious Frenchmen on his way to town, he explained. I had quite a hunch about them, and it turns out I was right.

A misplaced gunshot rang out and a bullet thumped into the sand only a few feet from where the team lay hidden. Linley, Schoville, and the others recoiled, covering their faces.

When the moment of danger passed, he continued, I employed a caravan of Berbers and staged an ambush. If the French government suspects the natives, they won’t come after us.

Linley grinned. Sometimes Schoville could be brilliant. One had to be, in their line of work. The Talbot-Martin team rarely resorted to violence or bribery. They carried weapons, but only as means of protection, and never seemed to carry enough money. Instead, they relied on their ability to outsmart their adversaries. Always staying one step ahead of the game. Always slightly out of reach.

From across the sand, her father frowned. As happy as he was to get his crates back, tangling with those double-crossing French was much too risky. The last thing we need is more trouble from the French government.

Don’t worry, Schoville said, watching the Berbers disappear into a cloud of dust. Our re-stolen crates will be on the first steamer back to England. The evidence will be long gone before anyone suspects it was us.

CHAPTER TWO

Patrick had never heard of Rabat before he stepped off the steamship, but when one’s boat is sinking on its way to South Africa, one is glad for any spot of dry land.

We are sorry, my lord, the ship’s captain explained. But it will take a few days to make the necessary repairs.

Inhaling the pungent aromas of the open-air fish market in the height of the Moroccan mid-day sun, Patrick held his white handkerchief to his face. You mean I am stuck here?

Only for a few days.

What am I to do until then? he asked.

The captain looked around the docks. The last thing he needed was a member of the aristocracy complaining to the home office about inadequate accommodations. But with a piston blown clean through a cylinder, and the ship bleeding steam, he couldn’t possibly risk anyone’s safety by keeping them onboard.

I know a hotel nearby, the captain said. It’s nothing fancy, but it is clean.

Who will see to my luggage?

The captain sighed. I’ll see to it personally, my lord.

From the docks, they waded through throngs of Arabs and Berbers. The streets were narrow and filthy. Sun bleached, mud brick walls corralled hundreds of people in the marketplace that afternoon. Low arches and tattered carpets blocked out the heat of the sun, but even for someone accustomed to the bustle of London, Patrick felt confined.

Old men in robes called out to him to buy olives and dates. Women with their faces hidden behind black veils pressed bolts of colorful woven cloth against his chest. They spoke bad French because he was a white man, but Patrick could only pick out pieces of it all in the chaos.

Do we have far to go? he asked the Captain.

Not much farther, my lord.

The other passengers from the ship, mostly women and children on their way to join their husbands and fathers in the African colonies, pushed at Patrick from behind, trying to hurry him out of the market.

A sharp right turn brought them down an even narrower alley, but to their relief, it soon opened into a large square. There were other white men and a few women there. They sipped tea at low, round tables shielded from the sun by umbrellas and wide-brimmed hats. Further beyond them was a gate, which opened up to the hôtel courtyard.

The walk from the docks had taken him straight through the heart of the Old Town. Now he stood on the threshold of the Ville Nouvelle—the ‘new city’. As the porters led him up the carved granite staircase, Patrick realized the ship’s captain had been wise to suggest this place. Instead of lanterns, the hotel glowed with electric light. There was running water, and all the other modern conveniences an Englishman would be accustomed to. Truly, it was an oasis of the familiar in a place more foreign to him than anywhere he’d ever traveled.

Once upstairs in his room, Patrick pulled off his straw panama hat and tossed it on the bed. Raking his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, he drew a few bracing breaths.

What ever made him decide to go to Africa? Miserable place, Africa. He should have stayed home in Kyre where he belonged. Now he would be stuck until the ship was repaired, and God only knew how long that would take.

At least his room had an ocean view. He threw open the windows and leaned over the ledge, breathing in the fresh salt air. Under his window, a palm tree rustled in the breeze. Patrick reached out to touch the stiff green fronds. He had only seen trees like these in someone’s hothouse, or potted in some grand hotel foyer. Never in nature. It occurred to him just how far from home he really was. If he wrote to his family, he doubted they could even find him on a map.

It was both a frightening and comforting prospect.

But wasn’t the point of a holiday to get away from it all? He’d certainly accomplished the away part. Now if he could only manage to enjoy himself…

Patrick wished he’d thought to bring some books—they would have helped to pass the time. But he never expected to be sitting idly in a damned hotel room. When he planned this trip, he fully intended to have a rifle in one hand and field glasses in the other, wreaking havoc on the African wildlife. Yet, here he was, with nothing to do but stare out the window at the ocean for the foreseeable future.

He was a disgrace to bored aristocrats everywhere. He couldn’t even loaf about properly.

Behind him, two young Arab porters entered the room, dragging his trunks in one by one. When the boys finished, they turned to him and held out their hands. Patrick blinked down at their little brown faces. It seemed these children wanted a tip. As if he would give them any money before they finished bringing in the rest of his luggage!

Where is the other trunk? he asked.

The tallest boy pointed to the one at his feet.

No, Patrick said. Not that one. The other one.

Again, the boy pointed.

Patrick sighed. There were three. He held up his fingers and counted them off. One. Two. Three.

The boys stared at him blankly.

No English, I suppose, he said, suddenly remembering he was in French Morocco. "Française?"

The boys smiled and nodded.

Où est mon autre malle? Patrick asked.

The two boys looked at each other and shrugged. "Nous ne savons pas, monsieur," the taller one said.

Clearly, they did not know anything about another trunk. For all Patrick knew, it could have been left aboard that damned sinking ship.

***

I seem to be missing a trunk.

The hotel desk clerk turned to face him. "Monsieur?"

I had three—two large and one small, Patrick explained. Your porters only delivered two.

"Désolé, monsieur. It must have been sent to the wrong room."

I’m very keen on getting it back. You see, it has my evening clothes in it and without them, I cannot go to dinner.

"Oui, monsieur. I’m certain it will turn up as soon as the recipients realize a mistake has been made."

"It’s a brown Vuitton. Quite large. Monogrammed with the initials P. W."

P.W., the clerk repeated. "Oui."

Usually I would have my man look after this sort of thing, Patrick said. But I didn’t see much use for a valet in Africa.

The man nodded in sympathy.

So, you understand my predicament. If you could help me find my missing trunk, I would be grateful, Patrick said. Perhaps you could send your porters to look in the other rooms, or—

Just over the hotel clerk’s shoulder, Patrick watched a young woman walk through the foyer. He assumed she was a woman because she wore her tangled brown hair tied back with a ribbon. But she was small enough to be an Eton schoolboy and, in fact, it seemed she was wearing one’s breeches.

Ah, the clerk said, noticing Patrick’s fascination with her. "We have asked the mademoiselle not to walk through the hotel dressed like that. But she has been here so long and always pays her bill on time, it is hard to press the issue."

Who is she?

I do not know her name, but her father is Bedford Talbot-Martin.

The explorer? he asked.

"Oui."

Patrick studied her more closely. Miss Talbot-Martin was quite thin, with remarkably long, slender arms. Despite her small stature, she carried herself well—cool, detached, and confident, but without the arrogance of many women he knew in London.

In fact, if Patrick had not seen her wearing those ridiculous jodhpurs, he would have sworn she was a ballerina in some traveling company.

Instead, she looked like a stablehand from a second-rate American circus.

Patrick had certainly never seen a grown woman prancing about in gentlemen’s riding breeches before. Although, he doubted whether anyone in his limited circle of acquaintance would ever dare to be so bold.

Miss Talbot-Martin was bold. There was no doubt about that.

She was also very tanned—more so than from a few hours on a boat deck or an afternoon on the beach. Clearly, the young woman spent a great deal of time in the elements. It made sense that her father would be an explorer, and that she would go and do as she pleased. That she would wear jodhpurs in public without caring what other people thought of her.

And it made sense that she would walk right past Patrick without even noticing him. Because a girl like that did not have to notice anyone. They were all too busy noticing her.

Even if she weren’t dressed so dramatically, there was just something about her. Some wild, honey-eyed recklessness. Like a horse he instinctively knew would bolt the moment he reached out to touch it. But one he would touch anyway, because it was worth the risk. Because he admired its spirit.

He admired Miss Talbot-Martin’s spirit. He knew that without even meeting her.

As Patrick watched her disappear up the stairs, he hardly even noticed the small Arab boy pulling on his sleeve.

And he hardly heard the hotel clerk speaking. "Monsieur," the man said.

Patrick turned toward him. What?

Your trunk, the clerk repeated. It has been found and brought up to your room.

They both looked at Patrick expectantly. As if finding his trunk was the most amazing thing that could have happened to him. Perhaps it would have been, if they had found it a moment earlier. Now Patrick realized he no longer cared.

CHAPTER THREE

After seeing Schoville and the crates off to London, Linley took breakfast in the hotel garden. She sat in a wicker basket chair, eating croissants with fresh jam and drinking orange juice. French breakfasts were better than their heavy English counterparts, and she always looked forward to spending time in a French colony.

It suddenly crossed her mind as odd that, as an English girl, she’d been around the world, been to almost all of the British colonies, but not to England itself. Never been to London. Never seen the British Museum, even though her livelihood depended on it.

Penny for your thoughts, Archie said, strolling across the lawn and taking the chair across from her.

I was thinking that I’ve never been to London.

And you’re all the better for it. He poured himself a glass of orange juice before continuing, Besides, you have no business there.

But Schoville goes, and Reginald goes. Even you and Papa go, Linley said. I want to see the British Museum.

You practically have seen the British Museum—one piece at a time.

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 with. 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.

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 what.

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.

***

Linley scrambled upstairs to her bedroom and poked her head between the curtains. The window overlooked the garden below. If she was careful, she could spy down onto the breakfasters without being noticed.

She saw Archie picking at the croissant she left unfinished on her plate, and as she scanned the other tables, she spotted her Englishman seated beneath the shade of a date palm. The tree hid most of him from view, but she could see enough to know he wasn’t thinking about breakfast.

The menu lay in front of him, untouched. Either he was a man who already knew what he wanted or he was a man too preoccupied to bother.

Linley hoped it was a little bit of both, because she liked her men to have a mind, but she also liked them to have an appetite.

Or rather, she thought she would if she ever knew a man to have.

Archie, Reginald, and Schoville did not count. They were more like brothers than anything else. And Linley’s world was so small that she hardly ever came across a gentleman worth more than just a passing glance.

But this English fellow was something quite different.

She watched as he removed his straw hat and sat it on the table. Without it, his hair was the color of rich, brown coffee, but his skin was white as milk. He would not be able to withstand the heat of the Moroccan sun for long, even in mid-morning. Linley counted the seconds until he slipped the hat back on his head, and when he did, she smiled to herself.

You see, she whispered. I already know you.

Perhaps he was her man to have. If not her man, then at least good practice for when the real one came along. At the very least, he could be a friend.

Linley wanted a friend—someone who did