Mad About the Man

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Eversley had been one of her most attentive suitors this past Season and his presence here obviously amounted to Claire and Mallory’s rather badly disguised attempt to further the relationship. A little nudge in the right direction, she could hear them saying, and wedding bells would ring.

  She ought to be cross with them. Really, she should. But she knew they only meant well. They just wanted her to be as happily married as they were. If only they would believe her when she said that she wasn’t interested in a husband.

  Not right now.

  Not for a good long while if she had any say in the matter.

  Luckily, her oldest brother, Edward, was in no hurry to get her off his hands, content to let her remain here at home for as many years as she liked.

  The time would come when she needed to marry. Until then, she would have to find ways to avoid the overtures of interested young men, even ones as thoroughly eligible as Lord Eversley.

  “Thank you,” she said in answer to his question, “but I already had tea.”

  “Ah,” he said, linking his hands at his back. “A stroll, then, perhaps? The gardens here at Braebourne are quite splendid, even by lantern light.”

  “Indeed they are. Again, I am afraid I must refuse. Another time perhaps? I have walked a great deal today, you understand, and my feet are far too weary for another outing at present.”

  Her feet were never weary—everyone in the family knew she could beat paths through the fields like a seasoned foot soldier—but Lord Eversley didn’t need to be apprised of that fact. Hopefully none of the others were listening and would give her away.

  Yet apparently someone else was listening. Lettice Waxhaven—another of the London guests, who happened to have made her debut along with Esme this past spring—leaned forward at just that moment, a fierce gleam in her pale blue eyes. “Yes, where were you this afternoon, Lady Esme? We were all of us wondering, what could be so fascinating that you would vanish for the entirety of the afternoon?”

  Esme hid her dislike for the other young woman behind a tight smile. Why her mother and Lettice’s mother had to be old childhood friends who had been unexpectedly reacquainted this Season, she didn’t know. It was because of the renewal of that friendship that Esme found herself far too often in Lettice’s company.

  “I was just out,” Esme said. “Walking and sketching.”

  “Really? Pray tell, what is it you sketch?” Lettice asked as if she were actually interested—which she was clearly not.

  But Esme wasn’t thinking about Lettice’s false sincerity. Instead, she was caught up in memories of the beautiful naked man by the lake and the drawings of him that she’d done while he slept. Suddenly she was grateful for the room’s warmth, since it disguised the flush that crept over her neck and cheeks.

  “Nature,” she answered with a seemingly careless shrug. “Plants and animals. Anything that takes my fancy at the time.”

  And oh my, had the glorious stranger taken her fancy.

  “Lady Esme is quite the accomplished artist,” Lord Eversley said with enthusiasm. “I had the great good fortune to view a few of her watercolors when we were last in Town.” He smiled at her, clearly admiring. “She is a marvel.”

  Lettice’s mouth tightened, her eyes narrowing. It was no secret—at least not to Esme—that Lettice had long ago set her cap at Lord Eversley and that so far he had failed to take notice of her. Esme would have felt sorry for her were Lettice a nicer person.

  Lettice blinked and rearranged her features into a sweet smile, as if realizing that she’d let slip the well-practiced air of kind innocence she wore like a mask. “Oh, I should so like to see your sketches. Perhaps you might show them to us?”

  “Yes, Lady Esme,” Eversley agreed. “I too would greatly enjoy a chance to view your newest work.”

  “Oh, that is most kind,” Esme said, hedging. “But I suspect you would find my efforts disappointing.”

  “Impossible,” Eversley disagreed. “You are too good an artist to ever draw anything that could be deemed disappointing.”

  “You give me far too much credit, Lord Eversley. What I drew today amounts to nothing of importance. Just a few random studies, that’s all.”

  Nude studies of an unforgettable male.

  Sleek limbs corded with muscle.

  A powerful, hair-roughened chest.

  Narrow hips.

  Taut buttocks.

  Impressive genitalia—at least she found it impressive, considering it was the first real, flesh-and-blood set she’d ever seen.

  And his face . . .

  Planes and angles that begged for an artist’s attention, rugged yet refined, bold and unabashed.

  Captivating.

  “Truly, they’re mostly rubbish and I have no wish to offend anyone’s eyes with the viewing,” she said, hoping Eversley would take the hint and let that be the end of it.

  Instead, he persisted. “You are too modest, Lady Esme. Why do you not let me be the judge?”

  “Who is modest?” her brother Lawrence said, joining the conversation. A few others turned their heads to listen as well.

  “Lady Esme,” Eversley explained. “Miss Waxhaven and I are trying to persuade her to show off the sketches she did today, but she is too shy.”

  Leo, Lawrence’s twin, laughed from where he sat next to his wife, Thalia. “Our Esme? Shy about her art? That doesn’t sound likely.”

  “Yes, she’s usually raring to share,” Lord Drake Byron agreed.

  “That’s because even her bad drawings are better than anything the rest of us can do,” Mallory said before she shot a glance over at Grace. “Except for Grace, of course. No offense, Grace, since you are a brilliant artist too.”

  Her sister-in-law smiled. “None taken.” Grace looked at Esme. “Do let us see, dear. I know we would all enjoy a glimpse or two of your latest efforts. I particularly love the landscapes you do.”

  Cheers of agreement and encouragement rose from those gathered.

  Esme’s chest tightened. “No, I couldn’t. Not tonight. Besides, my sketchbook is upstairs. There’s no need for all this bother.”

  “It’s no bother,” Edward said. “We’ll have one of the servants fetch it.” He glanced over at the butler. “Please ask one of the maids to collect Lady Esme’s sketchbook and have it brought here to the drawing room.”

  “Right away, Your Grace.” The servant bowed and exited the room.

  No! Esme wanted to shout.

  But it was too late. Any further protestations on her part would look odd, causing speculation about why she was so adamant that no one see her sketches. When her siblings said that she had never before shown a great deal of modesty concerning her work, they were right.

  This could still work out fine, so long as she didn’t panic. For the most part, her sketchbook contained renderings of birds and animals, field flowers, trees in leaf and the landscapes for which Grace had shown a partiality. The sketches of the man were at the back of the book. So long as she was careful, she could show the innocent drawings in the front—and only those.

  All too soon one of the footmen walked in, her blue clothbound sketchbook in hand.

  She leapt to her feet and hurried across to take it before anyone else could. “Thank you, Jones.”

  Quickly, she clutched the sketchbook against her chest, collecting herself. Then she turned to face the waiting company.

  “Here we are,” she said brightly as she crossed to resume her seat. “Since you all wish to see, why don’t I just hold up the drawings rather than passing the book around?”

  Slowly she cracked open the book, careful to go nowhere near the back pages. She thumbed through, looking quickly for something she hadn’t already shown her family.

  “Ah, here we are,” she said, relieved to have found a new sketch. “I drew this of the hills toward
the village earlier today.”

  Actually, she’d drawn it last week.

  She held up the book, fingers tight on the pages.

  Murmurs of appreciation went around the room.

  “Lovely,” Lady Waxhaven said.

  “Astounding,” Lord Eversley pronounced. “As I said before, you are a marvel, Lady Esme. Show us another.”

  “All right.”

  Bending over the book again, she found a new sketch. This one of her dog Burr lying under a tree.

  She held it up, eliciting more positive remarks and smiles from everyone—everyone, that is, except Lettice Waxhaven, who looked as if she wished she’d never started this.

  That made two of them.

  She showed one more of farmers in the field, then closed the book, holding it on her lap. “There. You have all had your art exhibition for the evening. Now, enough. Please go back to what you were doing before, talking and drinking and enjoying the evening.”

  “Esme is quite right,” Claire said with a broad smile. “Let us make merry. Perhaps a game of cards or some dancing? I should dearly love to hear a tune.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Duchess,” Lettice declared, openly enthusiastic. Her gaze went to Eversley. “Do you dance, my lord?”

  “Indeed,” he said. “Mayhap you could play for us, Miss Waxhaven? You’re quite accomplished on the pianoforte, as I recall.”

  Then he turned to Esme. “Lady Esme, what about you? Would you care to take to the floor?”

  Lettice Waxhaven’s face drained of color.

  Esme actually felt sorry for her—and rather cross with Lord Eversley for being so obtuse. She stood, intending to refuse him. But before she could, Lettice stalked forward and deliberately bumped her shoulder, though Lettice did a good job making it look unintentional.

  The sketchbook flew out of Esme’s grasp, pages fluttering wide before the book spun and landed on the floor.

  She moved quickly to retrieve it, but Lettice Waxhaven’s loud gasp let her know it was already too late. Everyone else was turning and looking, the page with the beautiful naked man lying open for them all to see.

  Breath froze in Esme’s chest and she couldn’t seem to get enough air, her thoughts spinning as she tried to think of an explanation for what she’d drawn.

  “What in Hades’ name is that?” Lawrence said, his voice loud enough that she jumped.

  “I believe we can all see what it is,” Leo answered, his face wearing the identical look of shock and outrage as his identical twin’s. “The only thing I want to know is how we’re going to kill him.”

  “Kill who?” Esme squeaked, suddenly finding her voice.

  Leo’s and Lawrence’s gazes shot to hers, while the rest of their family and friends looked on.

  “Northcote,” Leo said, spitting out the name as if it were a curse.

  “Our neighbor from Cavendish Square,” Lawrence finished.

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