by Dayna Quince
He could barely speak, barely breathe, when he’d caught sight of her. Roderick had thought he’d inhaled a bug yesterday when she’d entered the drawing room. He'd managed to carry on conversations with her sisters, pretending to laugh about Roderick's devious plot to get the gentlemen there, but he was only hiding the truth.
He was scared of her, scared of all that she made him feel, and he hadn't even talked to her. This morning would be different. If he wanted to paint her, to paint a likeness anything close to her, he'd have to converse with her.
He needed to hear her voice, her laugh, to watch her face as she stared at the ocean or smiled at an amusing quip. He wanted to see her in different light, partial shadow, full shadow, full sun. To see the shades of her skin, her blush, her frown, the variations of her smile.
She didn’t smile that often, he noticed. She was comfortable with her sisters and other women, but when men drew near, she stiffened, stepping back and shrinking into herself.
The last party he’d tried to stay away from her. There was no point in coming to know a woman he couldn’t have. But then the night of the ball, when he’d discovered her alone on the tiered balcony, he couldn’t resist just one dance.
And that had led to a kiss that still tormented him.
A kiss he could still feel if he closed his eyes and concentrated.
But because he could never be anything more to her than an acquaintance, he was determined to draw her and paint her—a secret painting he would keep for himself, so he would always have something to remember her by.
Not that he was likely to forget her, but memories faded. Paintings did not.
He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, giving them a firm tug. The button of his left sleeve flew off, shooting across the room, clattering over the wood floor and sliding under the bed. He cursed, glaring down at his sleeve and the little tethers of thread that had once held the button in place.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled.
He didn't need this right now. He supposed one of the castle maids could sew it on for him if he could reach it under the bed. He snarled at his reflection and inspected the other button but it was firmly attached. He changed his jacket and stepped into his boots, shoving his foot down until it nestled in and then checked his appearance one more time in the mirror.
Perfection.
People usually accepted what they saw at first glance, especially when what they saw was what they wanted to see.
Him. An urbane gentleman, a rake, a wealthy titled lord with a handsome face and money.
It didn't matter what was underneath. It didn't matter what he could be hiding when the outside was so shiny and pleasing to look at.
Luc glared at his appearance.
He was nothing more than a bloody magician, a showman. But if he wanted to see his brother go to Harrow, as Luc had as a boy, with the same dignity and legacy of every Viscount Luckfeld before him, he had to keep pretending no matter how much he loathed it.
And then there was his sister, Daphne. Where had the years gone? She was already seventeen. She should have debuted this year as most of her friends did, but he didn't have the money for a come out ball and a slew of new dresses. She hadn't said anything, but Luc suspected she knew what dire straits they were in. Bloody smart girl. Too perceptive, too intelligent. She deserved so much more, and he wanted to give it to her. But thanks to his father's horrendous level of debt he couldn't, so he had to continue the charade and find himself an heiress who could give his brother and sister the life they deserved.
Oh the sweet irony.
Roderick, for whatever scheming reason, had invited him here as a potential match to one of these nine impoverished sisters. He supposed that meant his masquerade was quite successful. No one knew the truth about his finances or lack thereof, and he prayed they never would.
Luc straightened. He had to abandon his foul mood. He checked his appearance once more and went down to breakfast. Arriving in the breakfast parlor, he filled himself a plate. Cage was doing the same but with a deep frown. He quickly scanned the room, spying Miss Jeanette sitting at the table with her sister Georgie. He couldn’t explain what she did to him, but his whole body erupted with sensation, his neck growing hot, his stomach floating, his hands tingling. He yanked his gaze away and grabbed a plate, returning his focus to Cage.
"You're in a temper," Luc said.
Cage's jaw clenched. "No. Not at all."
Luc inspected him. Cage was wound tighter than a pugilist’s hand before a fight.
What the devil was the matter with him?
"Are you still fuming about Andrew's sleight of hand?" Luc asked. "I find it amusing. Town has been boring without him."
"I hadn't noticed," Cage replied.
Luc leaned closer. "Are you missing someone?" He’d heard rumors that a certain heiress had taken an interest in Cage, something Luc could only pray for. But he'd met Lady Henrietta and she had no interest beyond Cage. Typical. The man’s taller than average height, muscular build, thick dark hair, and brown eyes made most women swoon. "I have it on good authority that wedding bells are in your future."
Cage dropped a sausage, splattering his coat sleeve with juices. "Don't even say it."
"The irresistible heiress, they call her. Charmed beyond measure is how she put it, when she spoke of meeting you."
Cage grimaced. "Then you've met Lady Henrietta?"
Luc cocked his head. "I have."
Cage faced him. "Are you interested?"
"Not in the least. Even if I was, she is clearly smitten." Or he would have tried his hardest to turn her affections toward himself. Lady Henrietta had money and influence. She could bring his sister into society with style.
"Well, I am not," Cage muttered.
Luc resisted the urge to shake the man. "Then you best guard your back for she looked intent. I suppose that's why you're here?"
Cage nodded. "Warning noted."
"Then why aren't you more relieved? I've seen a lamb go to slaughter with more enthusiasm."
The only reason Luc had given Roderick's invitation a second glance was because he couldn’t stop thinking about Jeanette Marsden. Until he finished his portrait of her, his obsession would not cease. And once completed it was likely he would never again see the warm-bodied, flushing goddess herself, but at least he would have a portrait to look at.
But not if he couldn't bloody speak to her. And he must explain the kiss. Somehow.
Cage leaned closer to him, his gaze starting to the side of." Andrews tricked us. He means to marry one of us to these women."
Luc snorted. "I'm not concerned."
"You're not?"
Luc shrugged. "Little country mice are nowhere near as conniving as a marriage-minded mama. Your bachelorhood is safe as long as you keep your weasel in your breeches."
Now it was Cage's turn to snort.
They both finished filling their plates and took seats at the table. Miss Jeanette was not in his sight, but there was more time for gawking at her he reminded himself. He had all day to analyze every freckle, every blush, every pigment of her hair.
He dug into his food and picked up a paper to read the latest news from London. He skimmed the headlines, but nothing caught his fancy or provided enough distraction. Even though he couldn't let his gaze follow his thoughts, in his mind he pictured Miss Jeanette. Her hair was almost as black as a raven's wing, coiled into a neat bun not precisely on the top of her head but toward the back of her crown. He wondered how many pins it took to keep it in place. Her hair seemed thick, as if he could wrap it around his wrist like a rope, and achingly soft and silky. He envisioned diving his hand into her hair and pins scattering everywhere. The soft tink as they clattered to the floor ignored. He stole another kiss, this time taking his time, kissing her deeply and slowly.
He imagined her hair would smell clean, not perfumed or powdered, but of simple soap and water dried by the fire. He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and visualizing what
that scent would smell like. Little wisps ran along the edge of her hairline over her smooth porcelain brow. Her skin appeared untouched by the sun.
He'd never seen eyes like hers, a kind of soft brown—coffee with too much milk. They had a dreamy quality. She was miles away even when looking straight at a person. Did she daydream?
Did she dream of him?
That night of the ball, before he’d kissed her, those spellbinding eyes of hers had been part of his downfall. It wasn’t what he felt when he looked in them, he was used to managing desire and lust.
It was the reflection he saw of himself that terrified him.
A man he didn’t recognize.
He could see her hopes, her dreams, and they’d featured him. The man he was supposed to be, the man she needed him to be. The man who kissed her.
But that man wasn’t real.
And he couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her.
He didn't know much about the Marsden clan, but he knew their situation was desperate. As desperate as his. Their father had mismanaged their estate, and the income was barely enough to keep them above water. They had no tenants and only a small herd of sheep. Maybe a handful of goats and chickens at most. Certainly not enough to support nine children. But what did he know?
This late viscount had been tightfisted with the accounting of the Luckfeld holdings. He hid everything from Luc. It wasn’t until after his death, Luc became aware of how deceitful he’d been. Everything that wasn’t entailed had been lost in gambling, all profitable lands that had turned significant income. All that was left were the entailed properties, an orchard in York that was left to rot, and Luckfeld House, which sat empty of furnishings after Luc had to sell everything. Then there was Luckfeld terrace, their London home. Any room that not in use had also been stripped and anything of value sold. It was the only way to keep creditors off his back.
She couldn’t possibly know that because no one knew it, beyond his secretary and his creditors, who remained tightlipped on the weight of his promises to repay them.
He snapped his paper, refocusing on the pages. He couldn't let himself get mired in his thoughts.
Though he couldn’t be the man who would sweep her off her feet and rescue her from poverty, he was determined to know her.
But he would not kiss her again.
That had been a mistake.
He would have to explain himself, using his reputation as a rake as an excuse. She’d hopefully forgive him for the liberty.
He knew he was playing with fire, but he was also experienced enough to know that if he didn’t indulge this infatuation, it would only grow. Forbidden fruit was the most tempting, and Jeanette Marsden made his mouth water. So instead of pursing her for a dalliance, as he would usually do with conquests, he would satisfy his hunger on paper, studying her and sketching her as much as he could during the party, and then he’d paint her once he returned to London. No one would ever know. The painting would be for him alone, a keepsake of the woman who, if life was different, might have been his.
Cage caught his attention, only because the man was staring like a lunatic at Miss Georgette.
Luc stuck his elbow in his side.
Cage turn to glare at him. Luckily, most of the guests had moved on to the drawing room to await the schedule for the day's events. Only he and Cage, Miss Georgette, and Miss Jeanette were still present at the breakfast table
"You’re bloody staring at her," Luc whispered. Not just staring. Wafts of heat were coming from his head. Was the man insane?
"Weasel in breeches, remember?"
It was the mantra he’d repeated to himself since arriving.
"I remember," Cage whispered between clenched teeth. "But have you noticed there is something different about her?"
Luc frowned. He'd spoken to Miss Georgette yesterday. She was amusing and unique. If there was something different about her, it had to be the air of masculinity she had. Luc had pondered it yesterday before he caught sight of Miss Jeanette and lost all train of thought.
"If by different do you mean…Gemma Wiseman different?"
Cage frowned. "I don't follow."
Luc shook his head. Sometimes Cage was denser than a burnt biscuit.
"She takes all clientele but prefers…"
A veritable buffet of emotions and thoughts filtered across Cage’s face.
"There you go." Luc clapped him on the back as he stood. Cage followed and they made their way out of the breakfast room to the drawing room. They should have waited for the ladies, but there were talking quietly to each other. Luc hurried Cage away. He didn't want to have to worry about Cage when he had his own plans for this party.
They entered the drawing room and the new Duchess of Selbourne, Violet, announced that their first event of the day would be a lovely stroll on the beach. They exited the castle, the breeze off the water threatening the position of his top hat.
Cage still walked beside him, brooding. They really ought to be lending their arms to the ladies, but Cage didn’t need the reminder. Perhaps he needed space from them instead. He’d been out of sorts since he arrived with Luc yesterday. Cage had a way with women most men envied, so this new side of him was quite odd.
Luc issued one last warning, though friendlier than the one before.
“So she’s got you tied in knots?” Luc could certainly relate to that.
He grunted.
“Why don’t you try being yourself, charming, friendly, and see what occurs? At the very least you, won’t be bored and you’ll help her.” That was what Luc planned to do.
Miss Jeanette was shy, which wouldn’t help her in finding a husband. He could bolster her confidence with his attention and make her next foray into the marriage mart easier. He didn’t enjoy the thought of another man wooing her, but he had to accept it. That man couldn’t be him. He would have to marry too, as soon as possible if he wanted his sister to debut next year and his brother to start school. He peeked back at her.
“How can I help her?” Cage asked.
“You’ll be good practice for her,” Luc suggested. “They’ve all been hidden up here, far from society. I certainly can’t marry any of them, but I can help them be more comfortable the next time they have the opportunity to attend a social function. We’re the leading strings. Next time they’ll ride on their own.”
Cage glared at him.
Luc shrugged, baffled by his friend’s response. “Or continue to be sour grapes. It’s up to you.”
Luc dropped back to where Miss Jeanette and Miss Georgette trailed behind them. He’d waited long enough. Cage could brood on his own. Luc hadn’t been his best self yesterday, and he had to make up for it today. He had to get her away from her sisters, and anyone who could overhear, but without them actually being alone. He put on his best smile.
“How remiss of me to leave two beautiful women without an escort,” he said.
Miss Jeanette smiled, her eyes lighting up in a way that made his stomach drop. Was she thinking of their kiss? He really must explain that kiss. If she kept looking at him like this, as if he could give her the world, he’d lose himself again and…kiss her.
“Thank you, Lord Luckfeld,” she said.
“Yes, whatever would we do without an arm to hold us erect,” Miss Georgette replied dryly.
Lord Luckfeld winked at her. “I’m aware you have no need of me, Miss Georgette, but please amuse me for my own ego. I’m useless without a woman to pretend she has need of me.”
Both women laughed, but it was Miss Jeanette’s, light and soft like harp strings, that made his stomach muscles tighten.
Miss Georgette grinned at him. “Very well, for you, I will pretend to be weak and dainty.”
“I am forever grateful,” he returned. He realized he liked her, whatever her inclination toward men was. She had an openness he could appreciate, and a warmth not easily found in London. The sisters all had it in subtle ways, but Miss Georgette radiated it. Was this what was throwing Cage
for a spin?
“What are house parties in London like?” she asked him, leaning on his arm, the warmth of her body seeping through his clothes. Did she intend to do that? Was it an invitation? His first instinct was to tug her closer, returning the flirtation, if it was indeed flirting. But he wouldn’t expect it from an innocent like her.
“I’ve never attended a house party in London, per se, most occur in the country,” he answered, swallowing the urge to say something with a bit of innuendo.
She bit her lip. “Oh, I must sound like an—”
“Charming, you sound charming, and I’ll not accept any other adjective,” he assured her. And damn anyone who made her feel otherwise. He wasn’t an aggressive man. He preferred less confrontational exercise. Fencing yes, there was a grace to it, but not boxing. He was larger than a typical gentleman because his physical regimen consisted of strenuous lifting. But he’d come to blows with anyone who made this woman feel anything less than complete joy.
His jaw tightened. He forced himself to think of something pleasant. Kissing—no! He must not think of kissing.
He cleared his throat. “The two are incomparable.” Much like you and every other woman in the world. “But London has its diversions. The parks are spectacular, and the history, the museums well worth a visit. But there are small things about London that I would miss should I never return.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Gunther’s ices. No one makes them quite like Gunther’s.”
She sighed with longing. “I would so love to see it and taste it.”
He wanted to groan. He’d love to show her and see her and taste her.
He rolled back those thoughts and chained them up. He couldn’t lose his head.
He swallowed. “Perhaps one day you will. Who knows what the future will hold?”
They reached the bluff, the cooler air coming from the water necessary to calm his heated blood. They paused at the top, having to go down the trail to the beach single file. He considered the women on each arm.
“Neither of us need help, but if you must, please help Jeanette,” Miss Georgette offered.
Jeanie blushed but happily accepted his arm again. He nodded in thanks to Miss Georgette. He went over the edge first, her grip moving from his arm to his hand.
