Her eyes flared in sudden understanding, and a blush stole up her face, but she did not draw back. “Of course,” she said, and stood perfectly still as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He’d last kissed her the night they became betrothed, but, remembering her unpleasant encounter with Glyndon, he’d kept his salute gentle and undemanding. This time, he drew her to him, close enough to feel the soft contours of her body, to let her feel the harder contours of his. Her upturned lips were sweetness itself, and the scent of roses wafted from her creamy skin.
Roses, not lavender. He forced the thought away and deepened the kiss, letting his tongue just graze the tip of hers in a more intimate caress. Amy made a small, startled sound, but did not pull away. Her body stiffened slightly, however, and James released her at once.
“You—you’ve never kissed me like that before,” Amy said, a little breathlessly.
James felt like a beast to have unsettled her. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
“No, no, it wasn’t that. I did not mind. It was just…different.” She touched her lips, looked up at him with dazed eyes. “It may take some getting used to.”
“You may have as long as you need,” he promised.
“Thank you.” She essayed a tiny smile. “I think I might quite get to like it, in time.”
Relieved, James smiled back at her. “Good. I shall make every effort to see that you do.” He offered his arm again. “Shall we rejoin the others now?”
***
They returned to the house soon after that, and the Tresilians took their leave, John triumphant over having landed a fine lake trout. Amy and Aurelia went upstairs to bathe and change, while James headed for the library to attend to any newly arrived correspondence.
He had just sat down at his desk when Pelham entered, bearing a silver tray on which a single card rested.
“A gentleman called while you were away, my lord,” the butler informed him. “He left his card and said he would return tomorrow, before noon.”
James picked up the card from the tray and froze when he saw the name printed there, even as a part of him wondered why he felt no real surprise.
Captain Philip Mercer. Mercer Shipping.
Tomorrow, before noon. Yes, this was one appointment he would be sure to keep.
Twenty-Four
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation.
—William Shakespeare, King Richard II
Amy peered around the doorway at the lone figure moving about the old schoolroom. However early she’d risen, clearly Mr. Sheridan had been up even earlier. Morning light from the windows shone upon his loose-fitting white shirt and illuminated the comb marks in his overlong brown hair. Despite his casual appearance, his movements were quick and decisive as he rearranged the various furnishings, then repositioned his easel.
Somewhat hesitantly, she cleared her throat, and he turned around at once. “Ah, Miss Newbold. Good morning. Please, come in.”
Amy picked up her trailing skirts and stepped into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Sheridan,” she began. “I’m wearing my Liberty gown.”
“So I see.” Approaching, he studied her from head to toe, his eyes narrowing in thought.
Amy let her skirts fall and held her arms out from her sides so he could see the effect: the heavy overgown of sapphire-blue silk with its brocade collar and long full sleeves, half-open over a high-waisted frock in palest azure. Like a tea gown, aesthetic dress did not require a wealth of petticoats to be worn beneath, and the more daring ladies insisted that corsets weren’t needed either, though Amy did not feel quite daring enough to leave hers off. Not yet, at least.
Sheridan circled her, seeming to take in every stitch with those penetrating green eyes of his. Amy caught the scents of sandalwood and linseed oil as he passed close to her, and her body flushed with unexpected heat beneath its flowing silk draperies.
Good heavens, what was the matter with her? She couldn’t be sickening for something; she’d felt fine when she awoke this morning. Was it James’s kiss, she wondered, that made her so conscious of Mr. Sheridan today? Of how it felt to have a large, warm masculine body so close to hers? That must be it. If James were here, she’d doubtless be having the very same reaction: a sort of pleasant, all-over tingle. Strange how she’d never been so affected during her infatuation with Glyndon. But then, the viscount had never attempted more than a few chaste kisses—not until that horrid encounter in the conservatory! She suppressed a shudder, forcing her thoughts back to the present.
Sheridan had paused in his assessment; much to her surprise, he leaned closer to her and inhaled slowly. “Your scent,” he said, after a moment. “Roses—and jasmine?”
She nodded, disconcerted. “A perfumer in London blended it especially for me.”
“Lovely. Like a summer garden.” His eyes had gone dreamy, even a little unfocused, as if he were savoring a pleasant memory. Then, abruptly, they sharpened into awareness again, and she had the sense of a curtain descending to hide whatever else lay behind those eyes. “A pity that one cannot paint scents, is it not? As to your gown,” he added, tilting his head to one side, “that shade of blue is both apposite and becoming. I see you’ve dressed your hair simply too.”
Amy self-consciously touched the filigreed silver combs that held her chignon in place. “I didn’t think an elaborate style would suit the gown, or the more natural look you recommended.”
“No, you’re quite right, and I commend your aesthetic sense again. Simple is best for what I have in mind. However, if I may?” He reached out, teased a few strands free, just at the brow, so gently that Amy scarcely felt the pull. “The human touch,” he explained, smiling. “That tiny imperfection that makes us flesh and blood, not marble.”
Flesh and blood. Amy had never been more aware of that fact than at this moment. She wondered if she ought to feel offended—just a little—by the liberties he’d taken with her person. And yet she couldn’t quite manage it. Relia hadn’t resisted either, she remembered, when Sheridan had taken her by the chin and studied her face so closely. Relia, who’d used to hate having anyone outside the family looking at her scar. She would not show less self-possession about this than her twin.
Sheridan took a step back and motioned her forward. “Shall we get started, then?”
Amy’s mouth was dry, her pulse unusually rapid, but somehow she managed a reply. “Yes, let’s not waste all this daylight.” Glancing about the room, she noticed the well-padded chaise longue in one corner. “Should I recline, like Cleopatra, on that fainting couch?”
Sheridan smiled. “You can recline, if you wish. It’s a popular position among my models, much preferred to standing.”
“I should think so.” Amy headed over to the chaise longue and sank down upon it, finding it quite comfortable—and a good place on which to regain one’s composure as well.
“Stretch out on it sideways,” Sheridan said, frowning as he surveyed her. “Yes, like that. And then rest your arm—so—on the arm of the chaise. And then your face…” He came up to the chaise, stooped to slip a finger under her chin. “If you will turn it toward me, at just this angle.”
His touch was light, almost clinical, though there was nothing clinical in the response Amy found herself having to it. All the sensation in her body seemed concentrated in that small spot beneath her chin, where the tip of his finger still rested.
How many other women had he touched like this, or regarded with such total concentration? Unnerving to be the sole focus of those intense green eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. Despite her silk draperies, she felt oddly exposed, even a bit…naked.
Flushing at the thought, she moistened her lips. “Should I—should I smile?”
His own lips curved slightly. “Only if you wish to. A forced smile looks dreadful in a portrait, not to mention that a model can find it as hard to maintain an expression as a posture.” He got up from the chaise, strode to
a chair, which he positioned a few feet away, and picked up his sketchbook and pencil. “We’ll start with a few drawings in this position.”
Amy cleared her throat. “Do you need me to be completely silent, or may I talk?”
“Talking is fine, as long as I’m not drawing your mouth at the time.” Sheridan sounded almost absentminded as he folded back a page in his sketchbook and set to work.
Strangely enough, Amy found herself disinclined to talk now. Instead, she watched the progress of Sheridan’s pencil across the page: a few quick, bold strokes—the outline, she guessed—and then slower, more deliberate ones. But she found it more intriguing to watch the artist himself: the absorption on his face, the faint crease between his brows, the way the green of his eyes seemed to deepen in hue as he grew increasingly immersed in his work. He didn’t even seem to notice when a lock of leaf-brown hair, glinting bronze and auburn in the strengthening sunlight, strayed over his forehead. Amy’s fingers wanted to reach out and push it back, but that would have meant her not only breaking her pose, but leaving the chaise altogether, which she suspected Sheridan would not appreciate.
As if he could read her thoughts, he looked up at just that moment, his eyes narrowing like a hunter’s sighting his prey. “Hold still,” he ordered, laying his sketchbook aside.
Too surprised to take umbrage at his peremptory tone, Amy obeyed, watching mesmerized as Sheridan left his chair and approached the chaise. Dropping to one knee, he grasped a voluminous swath of her skirts, began to tweak and drape it in seemingly casual folds over the edge of the chaise. The result was a bit more artistic-looking, Amy decided, craning her neck to study the effect. Sheridan appeared satisfied as well; his expression lightened and he looked up at her with the beginnings of a smile.
“Pardon me, Miss Newbold, I didn’t mean to sound so brusque. I thought it needed a better line,” he explained, gesturing toward her gown.
“That’s quite all right,” Amy assured him, a little breathlessly; his proximity still made her feel unsettled. “I suppose most artists get caught up when it comes to the details.”
“Invariably. ‘Her mantle laps / Over my lady’s wrist too much,’” Sheridan quoted.
“Or ‘Paint / Must never hope to reproduce the faint / Half-flush that dies along her throat,’” Amy added with a triumphant smile of her own.
His brows rose. “You recognize the poem, Miss Newbold?”
“Of course. Oh, Relia’s the one who loves poetry, but I’m partial to your Mr. Browning. He writes about such interesting people. The duke is dreadful, but he’s fascinating too. I think Miss Witherspoon was a little dismayed when I chose to recite ‘My Last Duchess’ for one of our lessons rather than something by Tennyson or Wordsworth,” she added.
Sheridan grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “I don’t doubt she was!”
“And I’ve wanted to visit Italy ever since. Have you been there, Mr. Sheridan?”
“Several times,” he replied. “Ferrara has some magnificent churches and palazzos.”
Amy nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard. And I should like to go to Florence too.”
“Perhaps you shall,” he said, after a moment. “On your wedding trip.”
Her wedding trip. “Yes, of course,” Amy said, feeling suddenly foolish. “Only won’t James feel uncomfortable in Italy, because his parents died there?”
“He might at first,” Sheridan conceded. “But I suspect that his first wish would be to please you, especially if you have your heart set on a honeymoon in Italy.” He got to his feet, brisk and business-like once more. “Shall we continue, then?”
Their brief moment of rapport was gone, leaving Amy oddly bereft; she mustered a smile, trying to regain her equilibrium. “Certainly—this light won’t last forever.” Resuming her pose, she watched as Sheridan returned to his seat and picked up his sketchbook again.
***
“Captain Mercer is here to see you, my lord,” Pelham announced.
James glanced at the clock on the library mantelpiece: just past eleven. “Show him in,” he told the butler, and rose to his feet.
Seconds later, Mercer strode into the room. “Good morning, Lord Trevenan. I am pleased to find you at home today.”
James inclined his head. “I had some business away from the estate yesterday, Captain Mercer. What is it that you wished to discuss?” He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.
Mercer seated himself, as did James. “As it happens, I’ve been occupied in Bristol and then Falmouth for much of this past week. But it occurred to me that we may have some business yet to conduct.”
“Do we?” James kept his tone and expression bland, though he knew well enough what Mercer hoped to attain by this interview.
“I read the announcement of your betrothal in the London papers. My congratulations.”
“Thank you,” James said neutrally, still watching the captain.
“But you see, that impels me to ask whether you are—open to further negotiations.”
James leaned back in his chair. “Regarding Mercer Shipping?”
“Indeed,” Mercer acknowledged. “I am familiar with Adam Newbold’s reputation as a successful businessman; I would assume he has made generous provision for his daughter, on her upcoming marriage to you. Surely with your bride’s dowry, you will not need those shares.”
“I am betrothed, Mercer, but not yet wed,” James reminded him. “My solicitor continues to advise me against selling off my assets for the time being. And as he has guided me unerringly through my change in circumstances, I see no reason to disregard his advice.”
Mercer’s mouth tightened, and James saw again that inimical flash in his eyes that had unnerved him at their first meeting. “I see. Is there a chance you might consider parting with those shares after your wedding?”
“Perhaps—should the terms be favorable,” James replied, refusing to commit himself. “In the meantime, I wonder if we might come to an understanding on a somewhat related matter.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Which is?”
“My late cousin’s activities regarding your company. As it happens, I have made a few inquiries of my own into this affair. And I would hazard a guess that the missing shipment was delivered to your warehouse in Falmouth?”
Mercer’s eyes flared briefly in surprise, then his face closed down again. “Your guess—is accurate, Lord Trevenan.” His tone was as guarded as his face.
James looked his visitor square in the eye. “Let us speak plainly, Captain Mercer. My cousin is dead, and in no position to defend his actions, though I must confess that those actions do not appear in the best light. If he has unlawfully defrauded you of the profit you would have received from your merchandise, then I am willing to recompense you.”
Mercer’s gaze sharpened. “Recompense—”
“I have come to share your concerns about your missing cargo, Mercer,” James continued. “And I am eager to help you recover either the merchandise, or the cost of it. Perhaps you could provide me with an inventory of what was contained in that shipment. That would seem to be a likely starting point.”
“Very well, Lord Trevenan,” Mercer said after a moment. “I appreciate your interest in this matter, and I shall send you the inventory at once.”
“Excellent.” James rose to his feet, signaling the end of the interview. “The sooner we sort out this unpleasant business, the better. Do you not agree?”
Mercer rose as well. “I do, indeed. The shipment contained several valuable goods, including tea and porcelain. Its disappearance has cost my company hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds in profits.”
“I can well imagine. Let me see you out, Captain.”
Mercer paused just inside the doorway. “And perhaps once this matter is settled, we might discuss the question of those shares?”
“Perhaps.” James motioned his visitor to precede him from the library.
Following Mercer into the entrance hall, James decide
d he liked the captain no better than he had on their first meeting, though he could not have explained why. Something about the man still made him uneasy—those cool, overly flat eyes and the perfunctory smile that never warmed them. Gerald might have thought he’d got the upper hand on his business associate, but James suspected Mercer could have turned the tables on his cousin in a heartbeat. Why he hadn’t was no less a mystery than that missing shipment.
The front door opened as they approached it, and three people entered in a burst of laughter and conversation: Mr. Newbold, Andrew, and Aurelia, all wearing riding dress.
“Good morning, Trevenan!” Mr. Newbold greeted him with a jovial smile.
“Good morning, sir. Did you enjoy your ride?” James inquired.
“I did, indeed. You have an excellent stable. Thank you for allowing us the use of it.” Turning his head, Mr. Newbold caught sight of James’s visitor, and his affable expression cooled noticeably. “Ah. Captain—Mercer, isn’t it?”
Astonished, James glanced at Mercer, whose face had gone similarly rigid. “You know each other?” He did not know why he was surprised; his future father-in-law was in shipping too.
“Mr. Newbold and I have met briefly, in New York,” Mercer confirmed, inclining his head toward the older man. “Pray excuse me. I was just taking my leave. Lord Trevenan, I shall send you what you asked, at the first opportunity. Good day.”
“Good day,” James replied, watching the captain depart.
Once the front door had closed behind Mercer, Mr. Newbold turned, frowning, to James. “You have business with this man?”
“Not exactly,” James replied. “Do you, sir?”
“No, and I mean to keep it that way.” Mr. Newbold’s face set in grim lines. “Trust me on this, Trevenan. You don’t want anything to do with Philip Mercer or Mercer Shipping.”
“No, I don’t believe I do,” James assured him. “But Mercer and my late cousin had business dealings of a somewhat suspicious nature, and I’d like to find out just what they were. If there’s anything you can tell me about Mercer or his company, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Waltz With a Stranger Page 30
