Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Wouldn’t he?

  “Did you paint at Ardsmoore?” Anything to get his mind off lush lips and a silken neck.

  Her gaze darted to him and then back. His question must have startled her.

  She shook her head.

  “Miss Winton, you may speak. And breathe,” he added.

  Her eyes flicked to his again. “We were never allowed drawing materials.” She barely moved her mouth.

  “Yes, there! Look at me just like that.” She had thought to hide from him, looking out the west window, but he wanted her eyes directly on the viewer. “Good God, what kind of education is my father providing where a young lady does not draw?”

  He could see her hesitate, unsure if the question was rhetorical.

  “Paper was too dear, much less paints or even crayons.” She frowned at his growing pile of discarded sketches. “Students’ chalks and slates were collected each evening and locked in a drawer. Any drawings or writings would be erased at day’s end.”

  “That is a shame.”

  “Not if you saw my drawings.”

  Finally, a small jest! “And your writing? What did you write?” He tossed another sheet next to the other four.

  “Stories mostly.”

  “Ah, ah, keep looking at me and forget about the paper. If you must, you can save it to squirrel away.” Her gaze, once again, met his. “Stories about?”

  She wanted to look away, but was too obedient not to follow directions. “Otherworldly creatures.”

  “Like Mr. Beauchamp’s tales?”

  She bit her lip. Not a smile yet, but perhaps the prelude to one. “No. No egg-shaped heads and dissected brains floating in aspic.”

  “What then?” He would not let her off the hook.

  She fidgeted and then resumed the exact pose. “I wrote of a fairy world where the folk had magical powers.”

  “So your stories were autobiographical.”

  Her lips firmed to a straight line. “You are teasing me.”

  “No. No, I am not.” How could he, when he had felt her magic, her fey, healing hands. But Miss Anne Winton was used to making herself small. An insignificant, bit of gray to fill out a shadow. Did she ever ask herself if she liked this role? Did she ever yearn for something more?

  Despite her drab feathers, this woman was color, all color. He wanted to show her what he saw. To see herself in glorious color.

  He ripped another sheet off, but this time he did not crumple it up.

  “Since we will have no Bible readings, to pass the time you will entertain me with your stories.”

  ****

  Why would he want to paint her?

  The question had persisted for three days now. Three days of him seemingly fascinated with her. Always frustrated when their time was up. Why?

  And how could she continue to squelch her feelings when every time he looked at her—and he constantly looked at her—this heavy throbbing inside pulled her toward him. What was worse, she would swear he felt it too.

  It was time to take a look for herself.

  She had stolen a few glances at herself in Lady Tippit’s mirror over these last few weeks, but never studied her face. Truth be told, she was frightened of what she might see.

  She approached the mirror now as if it was something to vanquish and sat before she turned coward.

  Not so bad.

  An ordinary woman stared back from the mirror. Certainly no one worthy of paint, to be immortalized for centuries to come. Would some young girl, far into the future, gaze upon Anne’s portrait and see her secrets? What would be revealed within James Drake’s brush strokes and choice of colors?

  Tilting her head one way and then the other, she explored all angles. Common brown eyes—well, maybe they had a bit of green in them—yes, a ring of green at the edge and flecks of yellow. More golden than yellow. Not the slightest curl to her hair. Or lashes, for that matter. The black fringe only making her eyes look bigger. An owl.

  She shouldn’t frown so much. She must remember that.

  Her fingers brushed over her cheeks and across her jaw…pale skin. The girls at Ardsmoore had envied her skin. Yes, smooth.

  She tried out a smile, but her lips were stiff and it looked more like a grimace than an expression of mirth. She hated her smile.

  Should she take down her hair? Was there time? No, that would have to wait.

  Her hand had drifted to the high neck of her gown.

  You must not frown.

  She slipped one button free, then two and three buttons, enough to expose her throat. More pale skin and bones. A few more buttons and the tops of her breasts appeared. Then another few, until the nipples showed under her worn chemise. The old ribbon had a knot in it, no tantalizing bow to tempt traveling hands. Perhaps she would ask Lady Tippit for a replacement. Her ladyship had scads of ribbons squirreled away here and there.

  She pulled at the neck until her left breast popped out.

  The skin was very white here and her breast, though not overly large, was high and round. She supposed it was pretty. Her finger brushed the peaked nipple. A hiss escaped her mouth as the flesh drew into an even tighter bud. The woman in the mirror flushed, her mouth parted, her eyes half-closed. Heavens, this wanton could not be the same frowning owl of only moments before.

  Would he see her this way? See her as beautiful?

  The humming within her had not dissipated. At night her hands traveled over her body despite her brain’s admonishments. Something vital was missing. She had a terrible feeling the elusive release she craved was something only he could provide. Hours in his company, three sleepless nights and mounting frustration had eroded her will to resist him.

  He had not repeated their kiss. He teased and shouted orders, paced before his easel, and demanded more stories, but he never came near her.

  She quickly buttoned herself up.

  ****

  Lord Devlin was waiting, hands on his hips, paint brush clenched in a fist.

  “You’re late,” he barked. “And flushed. Are you ill?”

  Anne touched the line of buttons on her bodice; no, all done up. Could he tell what she had been doing? She had made sure her hair was tidy and thought her color had subsided before coming to him. Just one of his moods.

  “Mrs. Nester had a difficult night. She is nearing her time. And she has had a letter from her husband.”

  “Humph, that would explain her frayed nerves. Archibald Nester, from the little I know, is an ambitious cur. No doubt having a wife who is mad is not helping his political aspirations. She pays for that, I’ll warrant.”

  He had adjusted the screen. It now completely hid Ivo and his animals. She heard a snuffled snore.

  “Ivo had a long night as well.” His lordship smiled his pirate grin.

  Unsure what to do, she crossed to her chair.

  He whipped the cover off the painting. Thus far he had not let her see. And she was not a cheater. An artist should have his say in these matters. Besides, it was almost better not to look. To be faced with her image—how he saw her—would be perilous. Better to have a fantasy. At least for now.

  “Is it progressing?” she said, just to fill the silence.

  He snapped his brush against his thigh. “So eager to end our sessions?”

  Lud, he was peevish today. She would not favor him with an answer. Instead she settled herself into position.

  He worked in silence for a good long while. The only sound an occasional snore from behind the screen.

  Expressions rolled over his beautiful face like passing weather. Always something new to see. Another fantasy wove its way into her thoughts as she imagined him catching her eye, flinging his brush away, and then rushing to pull a beautiful, new, robin’s-egg-blue ribbon from her suddenly pristine silken chemise…

  “This isn’t working.” He flung his brush but did not rush to her. Instead he began pacing.

  Now used to his artistic tantrums, she took advantage of the break and rolled her neck imagin
ing his lips there.

  “Take your hair down.”

  Jerked out of her fantasy, she snapped to attention. “I will never get it back up properly.”

  “Good. Perhaps it will cover some of that sack of a dress you insist on wearing.”

  He knew very well she only owned two dresses and this was her best.

  He paced like Mr. Harlow whilst in the throes of a passionate sermon. But instead of edifying words, the only sound came from his chain punctuating each step as it clanked against the stone floor.

  Very well, she would let her hair down. Really, men could be children at times. She pulled the first pin and slid it into her pocket. By the second, he had stopped dead and stood watching her as if something crucial might be lost if he moved. It finally dawned on her thick brain in the middle of removing the third that she had his entire attention. Of course that knowledge made her fumble the fourth. As she scrambled to pick it up, her hair fell in a rush, the ends brushing the rug.

  “I have been aching to see that since I knocked your bonnet off in the great hall the first day you came.”

  He was so close, nearly face to face with her. Taking the pin from her shaking fingers, his hands framed her face and then brushed over her head, searching for more pins. When he found them all, he released her hair. It fell heavy and swinging down her back and over her breasts.

  Wishing to hide or to savor this moment, she closed her eyes. He smelled of linseed oil and cloves. And something else that was deep and earthy, as if he had just sprung from the ground.

  His hand brushed her skirt. She blinked. He dipped into her pocket and then dropped the pins. The bone of his knuckle hovered next to her thigh. Only one thinnish petticoat between them.

  She would slip her hand in with his and then lift her mouth—

  He jerked the delicious heat away and then yanked her to her feet.

  “Stop looking at me that way, for God’s sake. How am I to concentrate on anything?”

  Stupid tears pricked at her eyes. So foolish, persisting in the belief that his smallest gesture might be one of seduction. Steeling herself she met his gaze.

  His breath came fast, and the hand he had just withdrawn from her clenched white with tension. Not just in anger, but something else as well.

  She would find out what the something was. Insolent and stubborn, Mrs. Abbot had called her. Her knees still bore the scars from being made to kneel on sharp stones from morning prayers until tea. Lord Devlin would find out his Owl, as he called her, could be tenacious as a hawk when she truly wanted something.

  “Sit down. Quickly.”

  She did so. But not quickly.

  “Lie back in the chair. Yes… No! Don’t touch your hair. Now drape yourself over the chair’s arms. Yes, exactly, your head back like that. Now, lick your lips and look at me.”

  She loved these orders. He exuded power in giving them, but she had learnt a valuable lesson today.

  She had a bit of power as well.

  Waiting until his full attention was back on her, only then did she lick her lips and arch her back ever so slightly.

  “Yes. All right.” His Adams Apple bobbed in his neck. “Now you may resume your story. I think we left off yesterday just when the Troll-Lord was about to remove Cristabelle’s wings. And don’t skimp on the details. You know how I like seeing everything.”

  “My stories are no longer free.” His gaze snapped to meet hers. “But I am prepared to trade you for the next installment.” Flirting with disaster she was. Not only her position here at Ballencrieff, but something more dire, her heart. So be it. She would suffer the consequences of both.

  His eyes were entirely fixed on her lips. His chain clanked against the bare floor. “A trade?” He flicked his paintbrush against his open palm. “It would appear, Miss Owl, you are learning the ways of the world. Very well, I am open to a fair trade. What would you have of me?”

  She sat up straighter, struggling to maintain her new-found power. “A kiss.”

  His brush dropped to the floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hell and damnation, wasn’t he supposed to be the one seducing her?

  Little Miss Prim sat placid as a potted plant after firing her cannon shot directly at his guts.

  Step up to the wicket, man, and take her.

  But Anne Winton was not his usual model. If she was unchaste, he was the Pope. A virgin from her endearingly furrowed brows to her ugly cracked boots.

  “Perhaps you are no longer desirous of a story?” Her low whisper sent another round at him. But this time the volley hit his heart.

  “Oh, I am desirous, never you fear. But let a man get his feet under him first before you completely fell him with your feminine wiles.” He bent to pick up his paintbrush, but really the action only served to give him a moment to gather himself. When he rose, she had also risen.

  He stepped toward her. She answered with her own step forward.

  Three feet separated him from those lips.

  He licked his. She bit hers.

  Ludicrous to be so nervous. In a last rush, he filled the space between them. Devil be damned, he could never play the saint.

  ****

  She is just a little brown owl, he told himself again and again. But each day he looked forward to her unraveling her hair along with her tale of the fairy-woman, Christobelle and her hapless Prince Gallant. Each day he could not wait to pick up his brushes attempting to capture just a shred of her magic. Each day he rewarded himself with a kiss—a benediction on their time together.

  His eager Owl wanted more. More than his rather chaste kisses. Hell, he wanted more, but somehow he could not compromise her further as if his ardor would somehow blight her. His bloody chivalry did him no good—certainly gave his plan no help. But still he continued to push her away at the end of their sessions. She would frown and bite her lip. Then resigned, she’d take up her diary and furiously scribble pages of notes.

  Scoundrel that he was, he tried to read them once but could not decipher her crammed writing.

  He would go back to cleaning his brushes, or sketch, or sometimes play cards with Ivo. Anything to prolong their time together.

  ****

  June, 30th (after 6th painting session.)

  Anne paused over her private journal, the one she hid away. Not trusting the servants. Here she recorded her most secret thoughts, ideas and observations.

  D is fractious today. He has finally stopped pacing and settled down to playing games of solitaire.

  Painting seemed to go well enough, (though he asked again if I had another gown to wear.) His kiss was hurried today (still nothing beyond.) And he pushed me away as if I were some tormentor. Even my story did not please him. He took issue with Cristabelle. He did not like her new dilemma, to betray the king of the fairies. Perhaps it brings up bad—

  Her pen jumped and ink spattered as his fist banged the table they shared. She waited until all was again calm.

  —memories for him. (Apparently he is not winning at solitaire.)

  Ivo sits in his corner still trying to teach Blackie that Pocket is a friend and not dinner. I wish D had just a bit of Ivo’s patience.

  She closed her eyes and stretched her cramped fingers, then took up her pen again.

  D continues to be plagued by blinding headaches. Perhaps they are his memories that press at his brain. I cannot—

  “You asked me why I painted devils.” A tower of cards stood before him, his eyes loomed just above the tallest tier.

  Afraid if she so much as breathed, his structure would topple, she froze. How had he accomplished this so quickly? The man was either still and concentrated as a monk at prayers, or as aimless as a squirrel with a lost nut.

  He flicked over the next card on the pile. The Knave of Hearts.

  Doctor Hives’ assertion that silence encouraged talk had proven true, so she lay her pen down and waited.

  “The truth is I don’t know why. I can’t remember. One day I was fine—wel
l, not precisely fine, but well enough—and the next…it was as if my brain had broken. Whole memories gone.” He stared at the face card as if it might speak. “I woke up tied to a bed in my father’s house.”

  The night the young girl died. Supposedly murdered by Lord Devlin.

  “They filled me full of drugs, bled me, purged me—all manner of things, trying to adjust my humors. It didn’t help. Finally, I was too much of an embarrassment—Austin’s marriage to negotiate and all that folderol. Evidently I needed a place to—rusticate, and my father kindly provided one. The duke is rife with good will for all his little charities and projects. Now, I am one of them. Here I have been for ten months, six days and.” He looked out the window. “I know not how many hours.”

  He seemed to have lost his thread of thought.

  “You have no recollection of what happened?” she nudged.

  He blinked and then shook his head. “Austin has told me—apparently he was there that day—but I block it out every time. Hives says I am the one who must remember. But my memory is like this house of cards. Images stack up one on top of each other, building toward…something.” He carefully set the Jack to form the roof on his growing tower. “And suddenly a devil slips in between the cervices and—” He connected his thumb with his middle finger and flicked. His tower came tumbling down.

  “I cannot put a face to these demons.” He swept the cards into a ragged stack. “And if I try to push back, to lock the door on their creeping poison, they only rush in faster.”

  Laying his palms open, she placed hers on top of his willing her calm to flow into him. “Lor—James, I would like to help you see your devils. I believe it is the only way through. The drugs only mask them, twisting them so you cannot not recognize and conquer them. You are strong enough now. You will not break. I will not let you.”

  His gaze searched hers. “What did you say?”

  “I will not let you break.”

  “No, before.”

  “James?”

  He nodded. “No one calls me that. Except that you did.”

  Yes, when he had kissed her. “Is it so wrong? You call me Anne.”

  “That is true.” He gave her a half-smile.

  “Then I will call you James.”