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there. As sudden and shocking as if he had ‘sprung out upon her with his immortal horses’.
    She had crept back to try to find her spectacles, peering from over the rocky ridge of the hills to be sure he was gone. And so he was, not a trace of him remaining at all. Perhaps she had just imagined him after all? Perhaps he, and his kisses, were the product of sunstroke. Of overwork and exhaustion.
    Yet as she tiptoed closer, she saw the marks of horse’s hoofs in the dirt. And her spectacles were gone.
    She had hurriedly secured the site, putting away the tarpaulin and tools, and had run home for a quiet afternoon of study. Or so she’d hoped.
    Clio could not fathom what had come over her. Kissing Averton? Touching him! Not wanting it all to end, even as every ounce of her good sense screamed at her to get away from him. The man who was rumoured to be a terrible libertine, who respected no wishes not his own, who took every shameful advantage of his exalted rank. Who was, worst of all, a hoarder of antiquities!
    Yet she had kissed him. And wanted so much more.
    Clio groaned, dropping her head to the hard, polished surface of the desk. If only she could leave this place, this island she loved with such fervour, which had been her refuge until today. She could go back to England, to see how her younger sisters fared at Chase Lodge. She could—
    No. The Chase Muses were no cowards. She might not possess the reckless, headlong courage of Thalia, who swam icy lakes and scaled mountains without a care, or the rare grace of Calliope. But she had to be strong, to stand her ground. Even in the face of Averton. Who would work on the farmhouse if she left? Who would discover its secrets?
    The Duke himself, probably. He had seemed rather interested in the site that morning, before he realised she was there. And that she could not allow.
    Clio pushed herself up from her chair, walking over to the window as she stretched her aching shoulders. She gazed down at their little patch of garden, at the road that led around the cathedral and out to the square. It was quiet in Santa Lucia now, the shops closed for the afternoon siesta as a warm, sunny somnolence settled over the place. Her father sat beneath the shade of their almond tree, readingwith Lady Rushworth and Cory, but they were the only living things to be seen.
    Clio thought about going for a rest herself, crawling under the brocade blanket of the chaise in her chamber and forgetting the Duke in sleep. But she dismissed the notion. Afternoon sleep was always feverish for her, bringing strange dreams. He would surely appear there , and she didn’t want to see what would happen.
    Yet neither could she read and study. She was too restless, too scattered.
    There was a knock at the library door, and Clio turned toward it, eager for fresh distraction. ‘Come in!’
    It was Thalia who peeped around the threshold. She had changed her classical Antigone robes and veil for a stylish blue-dotted white muslin dress and blue spencer, a chip-straw bonnet with pink ribbons tucked under her arm. With her golden curls swept up and bound with more pink ribbons, her wide blue eyes and creamy skin, she looked the perfect porcelain shepherdess. The angelic beauty.
    Many men had been fooled by her pretty, innocent façade—and had been sorry when they discovered the warrior-woman beneath. She often declared she was far too busy to marry, and Clio was inclined to believe her. Where could she find her match, a man with the power and the trickery of Zeus, the golden looks of Apollo, the strength of Hercules?
    Thalia, with all her adventurous ‘projects’, was endlessly diverting, always entertaining, and sometimes exhausting. Today, though, Clio was entirely glad of her company.
    ‘Are you working?’ Thalia asked. She hurried over to the desk, rifling curiously through the books and papers.
    ‘I was,’ Clio answered. She leaned back against the windowsill, her arms crossed at her waist, watching as