by Jess Russell
“We all have our dreams, Lord Devlin. One cannot simply bide one’s time and wait for providence to grant them. One must use one’s wits and available resources to achieve one’s dreams.”
Nothing to say. At the moment his dreams seemed as dead as poor Penny.
“We are prepared to put this episode aside and allow you to complete the painting. But it is time you gave us something as well.”
A standard opening. “Tit for tat? Or should I say, cat?” Hives remained stoic. “Very well, I would expect nothing less,” he answered with a similar move. “I will be on my best behavior, and you will get your masterpiece. Are we finished here?” The sweet stench of death lingered filling him with a nearly poisoning panic.
“Not quite, Lord Devlin.” Hives pushed a sheet of foolscap across the table.
“What is this?” He recognized his father’s secretary Tally’s neat script.
His head jerked to meet Hives’ cold gaze. The doctor’s upper lip protruded as his chin receded farther into the folds of his cravat. Dev grabbed the papers.
Miss Phyllis Thornton? Daughter of Mr. Gavin Thornton. The name meant nothing. He read further. As soon as the marquess is found compos mentis by the duke’s experts, the betrothal will be fixed and Lord Devlin and Miss Thornton will marry by special license that very day. He flipped to the next page. There it was, the marriage settlement contract.
Checkmate.
The pain in his head flared as he stood, flinging the papers away and the chair sideways. Hives reached for the bell. Dev fisted his hands, his nails digging into the flesh. He found himself at the window and jerked open the draperies, inhaling deeply despite the window being firmly shut. There were no bars here. The glass would break in an instant he could be running across that palette of verdigris and violet that colored the Scottish moors.
But to what end? Beautiful as they were, they were death traps. He’d found that out the hard way in his first week. The Hall, perched on a crag, was surrounded by sucking bogs. Besides, Hives’ thugs would be on him within a few moments. Even now, he could see the doctor reflected in the glass, bell in hand, poised to summon help.
His forehead met the chill of the glass. Dear Christ, he was so tired of terrifying people. Tired of being manhandled with no say in his life. Tired of being denied such simple pleasures as choosing his own clothes, what he ate, walking in the sun. Being touched with love… Kissed…
And now, he could not even choose his own wife. Forced to tie himself to a stranger who would, in all likelihood, be terrified of him, simply to secure the bloody succession.
The phantom of Phyllis Thornton was soon replaced by Anne Winton’s face.
His Owl. He would much rather Anne Winton as his bride.
Like a piece of a missing puzzle, always there but never tried, a plan formed. Why not? Why not use her schoolgirl infatuation to tie her to him? As his wife she would have the authority to remove him from Ballencrieff. She might hate him for it, but she would never leave him to languish in this hellish place, of that he was sure.
Anne as his bride… He would not delude himself he could love her as she ought to be loved, he had long ago resigned himself to an empty marriage, but his body certainly wanted her with a desperation he had never known.
Outside a wind blew, ruffling the heather into silver sheets.
Of course, it wouldn’t come to marriage. He was going to pass his father’s test and be free of Ballencrieff without ruining Miss Anne Winton. But plans were never sure. How did Hives put it, available resources? Right.
Hot guilt crept along his neck. He shook it off. After all, if it came to it, she would benefit from his plan as well. Being a marchioness was nothing to sneeze at.
So, for now he would play their game, but he would have an ace up his sleeve. And by all the fires of hell, he would not be shackled to Miss Phyllis Thornton.
He still had some power. Spy or not he would make sure when the chips fell, Anne Winton would end up on his side. She was half in love with him already. It wouldn’t take much more to tip the scales. And by God, he would enjoy tipping them.
“I will sign this farce of a betrothal, but you must give me something as well.” He laid out his stipulations, and Hives slipped into expression number two but then nodded.
What was Mr. Herbert Spencer’s assertion? Survival of the fittest?
Dev took up the pen and scrawled his name on the contract.
****
Anne dug her fingernail into the flesh of her palm. Macready had left Hives’ office with a sick smile on his face and a sack that stunk. Shortly after, she heard a crash from within. Hobbs jumped to open the door but was never summoned.
Moments slid by. Had Lord Devlin told the doctor of her brazen behavior? A crescent of blood marred her hand, and she swiped it away. Finally the door opened and Hobbs jerked forward to escort Lord Devlin. She caught his gaze but could tell nothing from his guarded eyes.
“Miss Winton?” Hives was waiting. “Come.”
She entered the office, shutting the door behind her.
“Well? What have you to tell me?”
What a fool she was to think no one had seen her running from the marquess’ room. What utter folly to risk her place here at Ballencrieff for a mere schoolgirl fantasy.
“I—” A notebook lay on Hives’ desk. Her heart jumped. Her private diary and patient notebooks looked much the same.
“Miss Winton, you will answer me.”
She reached for the book. “Lady Tippit continues to—”
He intercepted her, placing his hand over the journal. “Not Lady Tippit, Miss Winton. I have more pressing problems than her ladyship’s penchant for lewd displays. What of Lord Devlin?”
“Lord Devlin?” Her mind raced over the words she had written last night when she could not sleep. Try as I might, I cannot let go of this new awakening. He invades my dreams, my very being. I must put this attraction behind me.
“You disappoint, Miss Winton. I thought I could trust you to report everything to me.”
She took a breath. “Doctor Hives, I assure you whatever Lord Devlin told you, it was my fault—”
“Shocking is the word that comes to mind.”
“Again, sir, you must not blame—”
“Weeks, weeks have passed and this is the result? There has been no progress.”
“Progress…?”
“Am I surrounded by incompetents? The Marquess’—the famed James Drake’s new masterpiece.”
James…his Christian name. The name she had whispered last evening in her desperation.
“Miss Winton, what of the painting?”
The painting? A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She turned it into a cough. He did not know. She was safe. For now.
The doctor thrust her notebook at her in disgust. “What has he been doing? Answer me!”
Not her diary. Only her patient notebook. She pressed the groove where her nail had cut into her palm.
“Lord Austin has been gone a great deal of the time. I have tried to provide a routine despite—”
“It has been nearly four weeks, Miss Winton. Over three since he has gotten his precious light.”
What was there to say? She knew naught about making a portrait.
“I went up to the North Tower yesterday when everyone was at the fair. I could not believe the lack of progress. And now I have been informed that Lord Austin is leaving. Again. He does not know when he may return.”
Good. Then she would not have to see the marquess. At least not until Lord Austin returned. Perhaps by then she would have recovered some sanity.
Doctor Hives gripped the arms of his chair. “I did not like this painting idea in the first place. And now it seems it will sink me. Miss Winton, are you aware that the duke expects his son to be “fixed” in a little over two months?”
“Fixed?”
“Yes, his father will listen to testimony and hear his son’s plea for release in exactly eight and a half weeks.
The painting must be finished by then. And it must be brilliant. Lord Austin has been assuring his father this portrait will be ocular proof that the marquess has recovered his wits and his morals. If I am not successful, the duke will retract his bonus. I have risked—worked too hard and too long to have that be a possibility, Miss Winton.”
“I will do anything in my power to help, Doctor.”
“Well, it seems you must. I like this proposition even less, but Lord Devlin says he cannot paint if he is not inspired. His exact words were, ‘I am an artist, not a trained monkey’.”
She firmed her lips quashing the smile that threatened to overtake them.
“He even went so far as to say, he could not paint a man. It seems absurd, but there it is. However, I do know he cannot paint a subject who is never here to sit for him.” He snorted and shook his head. “Worse it appears he cannot paint at all.” He wheeled on her. “Your duties with Lady Tippit and Mrs. Nester will be further curtailed. You will report to the North Tower each day just after prayers.”
“Doctor Hives?” She did not understand.
“You will be Lord Devlin’s new subject.”
Chapter Eleven
Dev persuaded Ivo to take his growing menagerie to the far corner of the tower. The giant had wept bitterly over the death of Penny, but Cook had given him a white kitten of his very own. This newest recruit had a spot on his nose very like the boot-shape of Italy. Dev suggested Gattino for a name, but Ivo had looked at him like he was barmy, and said his name could only be Blackie. Apparently, when first discovered, the animal had been covered in soot.
Hunkering down in his corner, Ivo was at the delicate ask of introducing his mouse, Pocket, to this new kitten. The keeper was proving to be very conscientious in the care of his pets. Dev included. He must remember to thank Austin when he next deigned to pay a visit.
What time was it? The light was perfect, clear and diffused. She wouldn’t be late, would she? God, he felt like a popped champagne cork, one he was trying to shove back in its bottle.
He heard nothing, but somehow Miss Winton had slipped in silent as a cat in the midst of his frenetic fussing. The most celebrated Paris Opera dancers moved like clods compared to this woman.
She hovered just inside the door, her hand grasping the knob as if it were a lifeline. When Austin sat for his portrait, Anne had gone directly to the small chair by the fire—her spot. This new situation had her flummoxed. Had she noted Ivo’s new out-of-the-way position? If so, she said nothing.
This girl-woman would enter a wild animal’s cage if she thought she might help the beast. Didn’t she know he could devour her? Tear her to pieces and leave her in ruins? What she knew of the ways of the world would fill a nut shell with space left over for Ivo’s mouse to take a nap.
Still, he had to be careful. One of his stipulations for signing that sham of a betrothal was no interference from Hives, no coming up to check on his progress, and no probing questions. Of course, Miss Owl was supposed to be Hives’ eyes and ears, but he would take care of that. Soon she would have some secrets of her own. And if exposed—well, he hoped it would not come to that.
He gestured for her to come into the light where he had painstakingly set up a rather ornate chair upholstered in cream velvet. A scarlet paisley, draped over its back, would be the perfect foil to her coloring. Earlier he’d had Ivo sit in it so he could get the position just right. Likely a wasted effort. Miss Winton was no more than a quarter of the giant’s size and as pale as his keeper was beechnut brown.
“Good morning.” He could not quite bring himself to call her Miss Winton. Not after whispering Anne in her ear and against her neck and lips. “Or is it afternoon? Never can see the sun in this God forsaken land, and I’m allowed no time-piece. Might use it to harm myself. Or others.”
She stared at him as if he were—well a lunatic.
And what did he expect after assaulting her with his kisses? And then there was poor Penny. Did she believe him capable of performing such a grisly act on a preg—
Dev shook his head hard. No, not now.
“Sit,” he barked. “Please.”
She smoothed the skirts of her gown, a habit, he was learning, when she was nervous.
Good, that made two of them.
His fingers itched to begin. Ideas crowded his mind with shapes and light. With possibilities. This new portrait would kill two birds with one stone, fulfilling his desire to capture this extraordinary woman, even as he made her a staunch ally. His savior both physically and mentally.
But he had to play this just right or risk her flying the nest, straight back to Hives.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she glanced toward Ivo, now on his belly arranging a tower of small boxes, his tongue out and working as hard as his hands.
She turned back and stared straight ahead of her.
Damn it. Was she so frightened of him? “Must you look as if you are in the tooth drawer’s chair?”
She half popped up off her seat, and then sat and smoothed her bloody skirts again.
“It was a joke about the watch. You must know that.”
“The watch?”
“Yes, harming someone with a blasted watch. A joke.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I did not see it as a joke. My mind is—occupied elsewhere.”
“Anne, I had nothing to do with butchering that unfortunate cat—”
“No.” She cut him off. “I cannot believe someone… No, you could not have.” She made this pronouncement as if the possibility had never entered her mind.
“Then tell me, what has your mind in such a tangle?”
Ah, a blush, smoothing skirts and even a dip of her chin.
“Come now, it can’t be so bad. Did you break old Lady Tippit’s mirror? Has Cook forgotten your birthday? Don’t tell me Macready is bothering you? By God I’ll—”
“I have heard you are used to painting the most beautiful women in England.”
His frazzled nerves collapsed in a limp heap where he did a mental jig on them. “Don’t forget the Continent as well.” She was not afraid of him. She was afraid she was not enough.
True, Anne Winton was no rounded, blonde, blued-eyed miss, the current fashion. She would never fall so neatly into a category. A diamond of the first water? No. She was far too unusual for that title.
This woman was a study in contrasts. The strong line of her often-furrowed brow fighting to claim dominion over her luminous, sable-colored eyes. Her lips, too red and too full, her nose too long, its tip turning down just the barest fraction, and finally, her chin, too sharp. All these features cast within a canvas too pale for such stark abundance. Most people would look at her embarrassment of riches and dismiss her as plain. If pressed, those same cretins would say her eyes were her best feature. But they did not know how to look at this woman, how to appreciate her rare beauty.
She was a subject worthy of a masterpiece. He saw it within her. But how to make the rest of the world see what he saw? How to capture all facets of her? Her pain, her stillness, her wisdom. Her sensuality.
Only a fool would underestimate this woman. And by the look of her, the world was full of fools. She trod so carefully, as if conscious of the perils of stepping outside some unseen boundary. The way she ducked her head, held her hands in her lap, deferring to those around her. It mesmerized him and made him angry, all at the same time. Yet she displayed no arts, or guile, no manipulation. What kind of life had she endured that kept her so watchful, so inside herself, so contained?
Well, not always contained…
Seduction knocked her off her plate well enough. He bit back a smile. That blush, so transparent on her white skin, would flood her neck and cheeks and her eyes would blink in astonished confusion.
Oh, yes, he enjoyed Anne Winton off balance.
Holding his pencil out in front of his, he closed one eye and sighted her figure. Now able to ogle her to his heart’s content. She would assume he was working and not simply looking his
fill. He made sure his little frown was fixed in place—his disguise.
“Could you turn more to your left—toward the light? Your whole body. Yes! There. Now move your hand to the back of the chair and lean into the corner. I want you to use the whole chair.”
She took direction well. Lithe as a panther, this one. He would swear her tiny frame lengthened to drape itself over this lump of furniture. She managed to make the lavish Rocco chair look cheap and gaudy. He would have to change it. Or perhaps the contrast would work?
“Yes, just there.” His breath came fast, like the huffing of some green boy dallying in his first haystack.
A small scar marred the underside of her chin. Must have split it open one fine day chasing chickens, or keeling over from boredom while at prayers. Or any number of provincial scenarios. He wanted to trace it with his lips.
Jesus. His hands were shaking. He was getting ahead of himself. Too high on possibilities, when she could fly back to Hives with tales.
An owl. Only a useful owl.
She would learn she could not cow him with those soul-searching eyes. He was immune to such tricks. Yet another lie. His bloody cock stiff as a harrier sensing a fox. Would that his brain was half as responsive. He tore off a sheet of paper and then wadded it up, throwing it across the room. He might have saved his theatrics for all the attention she paid him. Devilish minx.
Charcoal lines flew across the page, capturing the shape of her head, long neck and shoulders, then the curve of her back against the cream cushion, the sweep of her skirts over her legs and down to her crossed ankles. He whipped off the page to unearth a new one.
This next part required a bit of self-control. In the past he would have simply put down his crayon and had a go at the lass. They’d always been more than willing.
But Anne Winton was no flirtatious doxy looking for a tumble. Even a fool could see the girl had chaste written all over her.
Hands off. Well, at least until he needed her. If the other day was any indication, poor lass would drop like a blown rose. Hell, he would still have to call a halt just as he had yesterday.
