The captain laughed good-naturedly. “I seem to remember I was all of seven years old when 1 expressed such rash ambitions, Nick. I believe you favored the High Toby over life on the high seas.”
To the earl’s surprise, Lady Sylvia accepted a chair next to his and gazed at him speculatively. “Did you indeed?” she murmured. “How very interesting, my lord. I never would have thought you so bloodthirsty. What do highwaymen wear these days? I have never met one, you see. Not that 1 have ever met a pirate either,” she added with a guileless chuckle that caused Nicholas to smile. “Except for Captain Ransome, of course, and he does not qualify as a real pirate.”
She accompanied this remark with a dazzling smile across the table for the captain, whom Nicholas had a sudden urge to strangle.
“Perhaps you might portray old Nicholas as a highwayman on a flea-bitten old nag and a black patch on one eye,” Jason suggested, casting a devilish grin at his friend.
“I doubt future generations of Morleys would appreciate having
such a flamboyant character hanging in the family gallery,” Lady Marguerite put in gently. “Are we to understand, then, that you have decided to accept his lordship’s commission to paint his portrait, dear?”
Nicholas saw something akin to annoyance flicker in the lady’s gray eyes and wondered if she would deny him again. As quickly as it came, the annoyance disappeared, replaced by a look of pure mischief that made him suddenly wary.
“Perhaps if his lordship would consent to pose as his unfulfilled dream of haunting the hedgerows, Aunt,” she replied with a saucy toss of her bright curls, “I might well do so.”
As Nicholas had anticipated, Jason let out a delighted crack of laughter. “Now, that is something I have to see, old man,” he chortled. “What a splendid pair of ruffians we shall be, forsooth. I dare you to do it, Nicholas.”
Everyone at the table chimed in with words of encouragement until Nicholas felt he could no longer refuse.
“Very well,” he said finally, “when shall we start?”
The conversation became general at that point, with everyone contributing ideas on where a spavined nag might be had, whether a gentleman criminal might conceivably be expected to sport one of Scott’s coats, and whether a suitable tricorne might be found in the trunks in the Longueville attic.
The earl said nothing, contenting himself with watching the animated expressions on Lady Sylvia’s lovely face. Strange, he had not thought of her as beautiful before, but he now saw there was a quiet loveliness to her features that he was beginning to find both soothing and attractive.
Perhaps, he thought, accepting his cup from the lady he was admiring and basking in another dazzling smile, he might entice this English rose to accept his offer by the time his portrait was finished.
The vision of Lady Sylvia in the intimacy of her bedroom made his blood sing in anticipation.
Chapter Twelve
The Dinner Party
“So, tell me, Sylvia, are you happy with the captain’s portrait?”
Sylvia glanced at her aunt, who sat across from her in the chaise that bore them to Longueville Castle. Lady Marguerite was looking radiant in a gown of deep blue edged with Brussels lace at neckline and hem. No pale colors for her aunt, whose gowns were invariably as vivid as her personality.
Beside her aunt, Giovanni held her gloved hand in both of his, and gazed at his beloved with a tenderness that Sylvia still had difficulty associating with a couple whose liaison had lasted twenty years. She often wondered whether the love they shared would have remained as strong had they married. The Italian had recently become more insistent that they formalize their relationship, but Lady Marguerite appeared to be content with the way things were.
She smiled at them. “I believe Captain Ransome makes a very dashing pirate. He was a little dubious when 1 suggested it, but he seems pleased with the results. So, yes, Aunt, I am certainly happy with the portrait.”
“Did the captain not offer to purchase it, dear?”
“Oh, yes,” Sylvia said with a chuckle. “When he saw how dashing he looked in his pirate costume, he immediately made me an offer. I told him, of course, that without a scimitar he was only a make-believe pirate. He absolutely refused to wear one, even had I been able to locate such an exotic weapon in the heart of Cornwall.”
“So you would not sell?” her aunt insisted.
“No. I rather took a fancy to it myself, you see. The captain re
minds me of my brother, John. Did you know that, like John, the captain dreamed of being a pirate when he was a boy? He tells me that the earl wanted to be a highwayman, but only if he could wear his velvet breeches and tailored coats, and ride a blooded horse. No broken-down nags for the heir to Longueville.”
“I should hope not,” her aunt responded with a laugh. “Unlike your happy-go-lucky pirate, who enjoys all the freedom of a younger son, the responsibilities of rank and position have always weighed heavily upon Longueville’s shoulders.”
“No doubt he also enjoys the wealth and power that goes with the rank, Aunt,” Sylvia countered belligerently. “He certainly threw enough of it in my direction when 1 declined to paint his portrait.”
“And why should he not enjoy these small privileges?” Giovanni broke in gently. “You are too harsh, car a mia. The man has not had much happiness in his life. That precious wife of his brought him nothing but trouble.”
Sylvia thought the sculptor would have said more, but she intercepted a quelling glance from her aunt, and he relapsed into silence.
“Yes, indeed, my dear,” her aunt added, deftly diverting the subject, “what Giovanni says is quite true. Nicholas lost his father when he was very young, and since then a series of calamities have dogged the family. First his Cousin Luke fell to his death here at Longueville; then he lost his brother, Stephen, at Talavera after the dreadful business with the countess ...” Her words faded into a sigh.
The Italian raised her ladyship’s fingers and held them tenderly against his cheek. “Do not fret your pretty head with Lord Longueville’s troubles, my love. He is quite capable of handling his own affairs.”
Lady Marguerite seemed unconvinced. “I trust you are right, dearest, and that his lordship has learned that—as our redoubtable Mrs. Violet Rawson would say—all that glitters is not necessarily gold.”
The same thought crossed Sylvia’s mind as they were ushered, twenty minutes later, into the impressive drawing room at Longueville Castle, where the earl and his friend rose to greet the guests.
After they moved into the room, it was Captain Ransome who escorted Lady Sylvia to make her curtsy to the Dowager Countess, who surprised her with a stiff though gracious smile.
“You are in looks tonight, my dear,” the captain murmured under his breath, observing her with open admiration.
Sylvia felt herself blush with pleasure. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed an honest compliment from a gentleman like Captain Ransome. More often than not, she would detect a speculative undertone to any such pleasantry that alerted her to the direction of the gentleman’s thoughts. There was no hint of ulterior motives in the captain’s voice, and Sylvia prepared to relax and enjoy the evening as he settled her on a green brocade settee between Mrs. Hargate and the vicar’s wife.
Mrs. Rawson lost no time in launching into a detailed account of Lila Jones’s salvation from sin and imminent wedding to the father of her unborn child. Since Sylvia had heard all about Tom Daly’s perfidy before, she let her eyes wander about the room, but desisted as soon as she caught the earl’s intense gaze resting upon her for the third time.
Once the party removed to the formal dining room, the remainder of Sylvia’s enthusiasm for the evening quickly dissipated. She found herself seated—quite unexpectedly—beside Lord Longue- ville. Her aunt, who sat across the table on the earl’s right, flashed her a glittering, decidedly smug smile.
“How convenient, darling,” Lady Marguerite cooed, “you will be able to discu
ss the details of his lordship’s portrait without annoying interruptions.”
Sylvia could see where her aunt’s mind was leading her, and blushed to think that the earl might conclude that Sylvia wished for a private tete-a-tete with him.
“I was under the impression that the details had already been agreed upon,” she responded coolly. “His lordship is willing to be portrayed as a highwayman, and I am quite looking forward to the challenge of presenting him as a shady character.”
The earl threw her a quizzical glance. “1 was hoping you would reconsider, my lady,” he said. “I must have been in my cups to consider such an unflattering suggestion. Perhaps we might dispense with the spavined nag you spoke of. I cannot see myself riding such a beast. Besides, I doubt you could find one in this part of Cornwall.”
Sylvia laughed, enjoying his discomfiture. “There you are mistaken, my lord,” she pointed out. “I approached Mr. Gordon only yesterday, and he assures me that he knows just the horse I have in mind. It belongs to a Mr. Dudley of Laurel Farm, one of your own tenants, I believe, my lord. Both horse and master are quite past their prime, Gordon tells me, so the nag seems to be exactly right for the part. I intend to ride over there tomorrow to obtain permission to borrow the horse.”
“I do wish you would choose one from the Longueville stables,” the earl said, his dark eyes fixed on Sylvia’s face, as if willing her to relent. “I am convinced it is mere capriciousness on your part, madam, to punish me for my uncouth behavior during our first unfortunate encounter.”
Sylvia felt herself relax slightly. If the earl wished to cross swords with her, she was more than willing to oblige him, but since she was under no obligation to make a favorable impression, there was no need to give him any quarter. She might even enjoy the challenge of bringing the gentleman down a peg or two.
There were certain advantages, she reminded herself philosophically, to being a female beyond the pale. The lines were more clearly drawn. This was not the London Marriage Mart. Lady Sylvia Sutherland was no innocent young miss whose sole purpose in life was to throw out lures to eligible gentlemen—preferably titled and wealthy. Snaring a husband was no longer one of her options, far less the main reason for her existence.
Regardless of the smug expression her aunt wore at that moment. Regardless of her own secret desires.
To prove that she was comfortable with her husbandless destiny, Sylvia smiled one of her sweet smiles, and was dismayed at the instant flicker of response in the earl’s dark eyes. When his gaze dropped to her lips, Sylvia realized she had made a grave tactical error. The conceited fool imagined she was flirting with him.
“Oh, no, my lord,” Lady Marguerite broke in before Sylvia could gather her wits together. “My niece is rarely capricious, and never vindictive. So you may rest assured that she does not hold that incident against you.”
Sylvia frowned at her aunt Had that devious lady noticed the admiring look in their host’s eyes and concluded that a match was in the making? She felt the need to squash such ridiculous notions irrevocably.
“I fear you are mistaken, Aunt,” she said coolly. “Like many females who find themselves on the shelf, I am often capricious, and quite possibly vindictive, besides any number of other disagreeable qualities.” Ignoring the mortified expression on her aunt’s face, Sylvia turned to the earl and favored him with another charming smile. “My aunt is a prejudiced witness, my lord. She tends to overlook my faults, and I love her for it, of course. But I would not wish her partiality to distort the truth.”
“Rubbish!” Lady Marguerite exclaimed with such vehemence that Mrs. Rawson interrupted her detailed account of the latest scandal in Cury Cross to glare avidly in her direction.
After an awkward pause, the dowager drew the vicar’s wife back to her subject, and the earl returned Sylvia’s smile. She did not trust the mocking twitch on his lips, but for some reason could not tear her gaze away. His next words jerked her mind back from the delicious but indecorous images of the havoc that sensuous mouth might create should it come into contact with her person.
“Perhaps you will enlighten us, my dear,” he said with deceptive smoothness. “Since her ladyship is obviously unaware of these disagreeable qualities you mention, and I confess not to have noticed any. Beyond a tendency to willfulness, of course,” and here his smile broadened. “But in my experience, willfulness is never held as a fault but a privilege in beautiful women. Would you not agree, Lady Marguerite?”
Although he addressed her aunt, the earl’s eyes never left Sylvia’s face, and she felt suddenly quite out of breath, as though she had run across the Lower Meadow, chased by one of Giovanni’s prize Jersey bulls.
The wretch had just called her beautiful! Sylvia could not believe her ears-—did not wish to believe such blatant farradiddle. She knew herself to be passably attractive, but never, by any stretch of the imagination, beautiful. As the earl’s former countess must have been beautiful, she thought with a stab of something like envy. Beautiful enough to drive men to distraction. To drive her own husband to reveal his baser instincts. What had Connan called them? Disgusting appetites? Yes, that was it, and Sylvia was again beset by an irrational desire to know the precise nature of such depravity. In a reckless moment she contemplated his reaction should she demand to know the nature of those disgusting appetites.
The notion of bringing up such a topic at the dowager’s dinner table appealed to her sense of humor, and she stifled a giggle.
“Well?” the earl insisted, his mouth curling at the comers in a singularly seductive smile. “We are all agog to hear you confess your secret peccadilloes, my lady. Surely you are not so heartless as to disappoint us?”
Her aunt was regarding her quizzically from across the table, evidently uneasy with the implications of the earl’s request.
Sylvia was uneasy, too, but refused to let it show. She smiled back and then dipped her spoon in the steaming turtle soup the servant had placed before her.
“Disappointing you, my lord, may be considered one of my lesser crimes. As for my other sins, as you presume to call them, 1 prefer to keep them well hidden for fear of offending Mrs. Raw- son. But of one thing you may be sure, sir,” she added pointedly, “I am indeed heartless, make no mistake about that.”
Hoping that his lordship would take the hint and cease his foolish banter, and wipe that tantalizing smile from his face, Sylvia transferred her attention to the soup.
Chapter Thirteen
Portrait of a Highwayman
Nicholas heard her laughter before he reached the door to the sprawling thatched bam that housed the horses at Whitecliffs. Like everything else about the estate, he had noticed, an air of careless charm hung over the building, belying the unobtrusive efficiency that prevailed beneath the casual surface.
Informality was not something that came easily to the earl. Except with his closest friends, Nicholas much preferred life to follow regular patterns. The comfortable chaos of existence at Whitecliffs had initially offended his sense of order, but as he paused on the threshold of the stables, he was struck by the cheerful atmosphere that greeted him.
His gaze was drawn to the tableau in the center aisle, where Lady Sylvia stood talking to a gray-haired individual with the unmistakable stamp of head groom about him. They seemed to be absorbed in the inspection of a dejected-looking specimen of horseflesh, standing hip-shot between them, his ears hanging limply beside his ugly, box-shaped head. His eyes were closed, and he rocked gently to and fro on knobbly legs, ending in ragged hooves that were badly in need of a trim.
Nicholas groaned aloud as he realized that this equine apparition must be Dudley’s nag, destined to be immortalized on canvas with him.
Lady Sylvia turned her head at his approach and flashed him a cautious smile. It seemed the lady might be having second thoughts about including the nag, who looked quite dead on its feet, in her portrait. Nicholas hoped so, for he did not relish the
prospect of acknowledging any conn
ection, however remote, with this pathetic bag of bones.
“My lord, good morning,” the lady greeted him, her smile warming. “Evans and I are debating what can be done to spruce up your trusty steed a little. The truth is, he turns out to be more decrepit than I had imagined any horse could be. What do you suggest, my lord?”
Nicholas was blunt. “I suggest you take him out and shoot the poor beast,” he replied emphatically. A glance at the groom suggested that Evans agreed with him, but would be unlikely to admit as much in front of his mistress.
“That I shall never allow,” Lady Sylvia responded sharply. “This poor beast you refer to was once the pride and joy of half of Cornwall. Evans tells me that Hercules—that is his name, improbable as it sounds—won every race at fairs all up and down the coast. Made Mr. Dudley a respectable amount of money, or so I hear. Is that not correct, Evans?”
“Indeed it is, milady. Old Hercules made history hereabouts in his time. I would hate to see the old horse put down just because he is getting a little long in the tooth.”
Nicholas felt this latter reproach was directed at him. Perhaps he had misread the groom’s enthusiasm about the nag, in which case the old cadger must be as addle-brained as his mistress.
“I am surprised to hear he has any teeth at all,” he remarked, glowering at the offending nag from beneath lowered brows. ‘The animal is a walking skeleton.”
“If we honor old soldiers for their past glories, surely we should treat a fine old horse with a little respect,” Lady Sylvia said, running a white hand down Hercules’s scrawny neck without eliciting any noticeable response from the dozing animal. “I have instructed Evans to put him on a special diet to bring back a little shine to his coat, at least. Much more we cannot expect.”
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