He lifted his brows.
“I’ve seen your drawings,” she said.
Only the briefest pause betrayed him. “My drawings?”
“Your portfolio.” She gestured inside the room. “They’re supposed to be secret, aren’t they?”
“Not at all.” He waved a hand in denial. “I store that portfolio in my dressing room in my luggage beneath my shirts and cravats because it is happiest there.”
She tilted her head and gave him the you’re-full-of-hilarity look Cyndi always used.
He seemed to be resisting a smile. “Privacy is not, I presume, at a premium in America?”
“Not so much anymore. You’re amazingly talented. Why do you hide it?”
“It’s a distraction,” he said loosely. “A pastime. Nothing of note.”
“Nothing of note? Baloney! They’re fantastic. The series of the fox is breathtaking. Touching. Playful and tender. The sleeping fox was my favorite, and then to be shocked with the last, the dead fox ... Tears sprang to my eyes.”
She stood and squeezed past him to climb back into the room. She went to the dressing chamber and dug out the portfolio again. “Just look.”
“I’ve seen them.” His voice sounded tight. He was leaning against the dressing chamber doorframe, his arms crossed.
She opened to the final image of the fox. “You haven’t done another series of studies like this, have you? If you have, I’d really like to see it.”
He didn’t respond.
“Why the fox?” she asked.
He didn’t want to answer her; his rigid stance made that clear. His arms tightened across his chest.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she said quietly.
“When I was twenty years old, shortly after the carriage accident, I made a particularly fine showing at the Duke of Beaufort’s Hunt. That fox’s tail and paws were my prize.”
“But you didn’t see it as a prize, did you? The study is ultimately tragic. Did you intend it as—”
“My penance.” He loosened his arms, came toward her, and took the portfolio from her hands to set aside. “Now, Miss Cowdrey, enough of that.” His voice was smooth again. “There are more interesting studies to be pursued in my bedchamber at this time of night.”
“I’m sure there are. But I’m not finished talking about your drawings.”
“But I am.” He grasped her arms gently and moved close.
She looked up. “You put great care and attention into them.”
“Yet my attention seems to have strayed.” His thighs brushed hers. His scent of subtle cologne and gorgeous man was just too unbelievably good.
“Why are you trying to change the subject?” she said, breathing like she’d just run three miles.
He bent his head and spoke at her cheek. “I prefer action to words.”
“It seems you prefer images to words, in fact.”
His arms dropped to his sides. “You are tenacious.”
“And you are avoiding an uncomfortable subject. Obviously. Why are you hiding your talent in a box?” It must have something to do with the comic book. She had to know.
For a moment he said nothing. “I think you should leave.”
“I hadn’t planned on staying. But you’ve trapped me against this wall, so unless you expect me to dematerialize right now I’m not going anywhere.”
“Dematerialize.” His voice smiled. His fingertips beneath her chin tilted her face up and his mouth hovered above hers. He set his hands on the wall to either side of her head. “You do say the damnedest things.”
He was all around her, his thighs gently pushing her to the wall, his incredibly hard, muscular chest that she’d touched in the garden so close. She could touch him again if she wanted to. He was inviting her to. And she wanted to a lot.
No rules.
“I’d like to dematerialize with you right now,” she said, because it definitely felt like living.
“Capital idea,” he murmured. He tilted his head so his lips slanted above hers. The briefest brush of his mouth sent a jolt of heat straight through her. He did it again and she heard her own breaths go ragged. He was teasing her. Making her want him more. Trying to distract her.
It was working.
She forced out words. “But only if you tell me why you keep your drawings a secret.”
He stilled.
“It’s time for you to leave, Miss Cowdrey.” He backed away from her. Turning his gaze aside, he gestured toward the door.
Angela sagged. Then she straightened, sucked in her gut, and left.
Lord Everett was not going to help her solve the mystery of her presence in the early nineteenth century. He was obviously the key to it. But she couldn’t force him to believe her. She was on her own now. Just as she’d always been.
Chapter Five
Trent couldn’t avoid it any longer. He must finally acquaint himself with Miss Howell. After a struggle with Henry that morning, the earl had exercised his frustrated anger by railing at Trent for playing least-in-sight whenever Sir Richard and his daughter were about. Trent couldn’t admit that rather than actively trying to avoid the Howells he’d been spending his time trying to find one astoundingly brazen and intoxicatingly lovely American among the dozens of houseguests across the vast estate.
But he knew his duty. It was time to fulfill it. His father’s mistake and Sir Richard’s villainy had left him no choice.
A group of ladies were playing the piano and singing in the drawing room. Not one person in society expected him to enjoy such sedate entertainment, and he couldn’t very well go searching for Miss Cowdrey in Lady Sophronia’s apartments. He had no excuse not to seek out Sir Richard’s daughter.
He found her with her father on the terrace overlooking the gardens. It was lit with lanterns and might have been a fine place for a flirtatious assignation with a lady, except that the lady he wished to flirt with was nowhere to be seen and this one was being forced upon him.
“Sir.” He bowed to Howell.
“My lord,” Sir Richard said with narrowed eyes. “I’m pleased you’ve finally found time to greet your father’s old friend. This is my Jane. Jane, say hello to Lord Everett.”
She had a high brow and eyes that protruded a bit—but takingly, in a style common to the old Dutch painters—complemented by a straight nose and pale skin. The combined effect was not unpleasant. Then she opened her mouth.
“Hello, Lord Everett.” Squeaky and breathless at once. He nearly cringed.
He must simply become accustomed to it.
“I see you are wearing your blue coat tonight,” she said, the squeak pronounced on certain vowels, but now with an affected lisp. “I like the blue one, though your gray coat is quite nice too.”
“Are you interested in fashion, Miss Howell?” Oh, God.
“Oh yes, my lord. It is my entire life,” she said earnestly. “Why, just look at this flounce.” She pointed at her hem. “It’s called a Paris Champignon and it’s ever so popular abroad this year. I had one sewn onto this gown because Cissy Pendleton sewed one onto her pale green muslin gown and I said to myself, ‘Jane Howell, if Cissy Pendleton can sew a Paris Champignon onto pale green muslin then you can sew it onto pale yellow silk.’ What do you think, my lord?”
Trent’s hands were ice cold. “It suits you well, Miss Howell.”
“Oh, I did hope you would think so.” Her protruding eyes bulged a bit more. “But mostly I hoped you would wear your blue coat tonight, or your brown coat, actually, because either would look well with this gown, truly. I was awake almost all night worrying over it, imagining you might wear the gray coat and then I should have worn something entirely different tonight. But you have worn the blue coat after all, and the blue coat is superior to the brown coat, so I am vastly happy. Papa, doesn’t Lord Everett’s coat look well beside my gown?”
Sir Richard patted his daughter’s hand. “Of course, dear. Now I’ll leave you two young ones to chat while I find Lord Ware and discuss matter
s of business.” He slanted Trent another narrow look. Trent understood the threat. He bowed. Sir Richard nodded and walked away.
“What I really hoped to ask you, my lord,” Miss Howell said, “is whether you prefer silk to muslin? Muslin is all the rage in France this year, but I think it horridly common already, don’t you? Papa says if a fabric costs less, then it is more eco-eco- ... not as expensive. But I think if I wear a gown that costs less to have made up, then if the lady sitting beside me at a tea table, for instance, has a gown of more expensive fabric, then I will find myself so agitated that I won’t be able to eat a bite, even if my gown of muslin is of finer quality than her gown of silk, which a lot of muslin is these days, of course, much finer than silk. Wouldn’t you feel the same, my lord?”
Trent’s mouth opened and closed then opened again. Her protruding eyes were fraught.
He replied—he didn’t know what—and she seemed pleased with his response. But as despair burrowed into him, all he could think was that there would be no more garden kisses or moonlit windowsill conversations with a lovely, brazen American. He would be the dependable son, fulfilling expectations, as always. He would save his family’s honor.
o0o
From the edge of the lawn below the terrace, Angela watched Lord Everett approach Sir Richard Howell and his daughter in the lantern light, the brief exchange between the three, and then Sir Richard’s departure. The viscount chuckled at something Miss Howell said and she laid a hand on his arm, and Angela felt like someone was stabbing her ribcage.
Which was ridiculous.
She didn’t own Trenton Ascot. She barely knew him. Just because he’d called to her in the future and she’d nearly drowned coming to him didn’t mean anything.
No. That was a crock. A total lie she had to tell herself so she wouldn’t feel insane jealously every time he spoke with another woman. Yesterday she’d wanted to poke out witty Rosanne Lacy’s eyes just because of the smile he’d given her when they’d passed on the lawn.
Of course it meant something that he was her partner in this mystery. She just didn’t know what yet. It could mean he was somehow wrapped up in Sir Richard’s dirty dealings with Arnaud Chappelle, and this little journey to the past was her ticket to scholarly fame. Or it could mean that the viscount was in trouble with Sir Richard and she, with answers from the future, was the only person who could help him. Or it could mean that this was her fairy godmother’s way of providing her with a really hot fantasy before she had to run home from the ball at midnight. Or it could mean that she and Trenton Ascot were soul mates across time and meant to be together forever. Or it could mean that she was having an elaborate time-traveling schizophrenic episode.
The problem was that Miss Jane Howell was not part of any of the scenarios Angela had come up with to explain her presence in the past.
She needed to speak with Sir Richard. What exactly she would ask him still gave her trouble. She couldn’t reveal the future, and she didn’t think he’d tell her any truths about his criminal past if she asked. But she should start by getting an introduction to him.
Tearing her attention away from the disturbing tableau of lady and lord enjoying each other’s company in the romantic glow of lanterns, Angela walked around the outside of the house in the dark. Sir Richard would either be in the drawing room or on his way to bed. Or he could be in the stables. The men seemed to spend a lot of time there. Apparently one of them had brought a really nice carriage and they were all admiring it.
Men.
On the path to the outbuildings she encountered young Henry Ascot.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
“Hello, Mr. Ascot. Where are you headed at this time of night?” Not off to shut out the world with his MP3 player, thank God.
He was already taller than her and teen-lanky, but he’d gotten his father’s looks—uncompromisingly square brow, dark hair, and brown eyes. Now those eyes glared.
“Have you come from my sister?” he said.
“No. Should I have?”
“I thought you and she were bows.”
“I like her and I think she likes me. But I’m pretty much past the age to run around like she and her friends do.” She wasn’t interested in chasing around all the eligible bachelors at the estate. Only one.
He grunted and crossed his arms exactly like his older brother did when he was uncomfortable.
“Henry—” she said. “May I call you Henry?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to give you some advice and I think we should be friends before I do that.”
He looked wary. “What sort of advice?”
“The sort that’s about women. Girls, actually.”
His brow got stormy. “I don’t care a jot about girls.”
“Hmm. Well if that’s true, you’re wasting a hell of a lot of time following your sister’s friends all over the place playing pranks. Aren’t you?”
A glimmer showed in his glower. She’d bet he’d never heard a lady say “hell.” Angela used the same tactics on her students. She learned colloquialisms common to college-aged kids and sprang them on them when they thought she was being esoteric. It worked every time to get their attention. Now it was working on Henry. He was listening.
“You know,” she said casually, “if I were a younger lady, I think I’d like to be admired by a good-looking young man, even if he was my friend’s brother.”
He dug a toe into the pebbled path and screwed up his face.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she said, “I’d be incredibly irritated if he kept playing pranks on me and my friends. But if he did just the opposite, I might start to think he was all right. Maybe even more than all right.” She shrugged and stepped away. “But if you’d rather torment the girl you like ...”
“Who said I like anybody?”
She halted. “Henry, it’s better to please than displease. Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘You can catch more bees with honey’?”
His frown didn’t let up.
“If you want the girls’ attention,” she said, “why don’t you give them something they like rather than dislike?
His brow cleared. He understood. Then he frowned again. “What do girls like?”
Chiseled jaws. Smoky eyes. Deep kisses in dappled sunlight. Sitting in the dark on a window ledge touching shoulders. Being pressed up against a dressing room wall.
“Flowers,” she said. “Jewelry. Pretty gowns.”
Henry scowled.
“And kittens,” she added on an inspiration.
He perked up. “S’truth?”
“Yes. Definitely.” Every single woman graduate student she knew had cats. Even Cyndi had a cat. Angela was the only unattached woman in Ann Arbor who didn’t have a cat, and that was because her apartment building didn’t allow pets. “You know what? Let’s go find some.” She moved toward the stables. “There’s always a litter of new kittens in a stable, and the duke’s stables are so big there may be more than one.”
She didn’t bother trying the door closest to the house; that, apparently, was where the fancy carriage was. She headed toward the far end, and Henry followed. He caught up with her at the door and tugged it open, then stepped back to allow her to enter before him.
A little bit of pleasure tingled in her chest. Even at fourteen—surly and grouchy—he was a gentleman. She loved this era. No wonder she studied it. She’d lied to Cyndi a little. She’d been looking for honor and decency in the nineteenth century for years. Funny she should finally find it in an adolescent boy.
They discovered kittens, a litter of five soft little wonders of blotched brown and black fur that looked just about old enough to be weaned. In the corner of the empty stall, they tumbled over each other in eagerness to reach Henry’s outstretched fingers.
Angela glanced at the boy beside her. He didn’t look much like his older brother, but his smile was just as genuine.
He stood straight. “I beg your pardon for
being such a noddy back there, Miss Cowdrey.”
“Thank you, Henry. I hope these little critters suit your purpose.”
“May I escort you up to the house?”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Should I wait ‘til the morning to bring her down here?” he asked as they walked toward the mansion that sparkled with candlelight from behind dozens of windows. “Them, that is.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Best to treat her—them like ladies.”
Ahead on the path, the silhouette of a man against the backdrop of the glowing mansion became the silhouette of Trenton Ascot. Angela tried to ignore the achy sizzle of infatuation inside her. She hadn’t been this far gone in years, not since college, and never quite so quickly and acutely with anyone. It felt pathetically unintellectual and devastatingly impractical and good. So good. It felt like living.
“Good evening, Miss Cowdrey.” He approached. He moved his athlete’s body with confident grace, beautiful and utterly masculine. “Henry, I should reprimand you for stealing a march on me with the lady I’ve been searching out all day. But instead I will congratulate you for winning her company. Well done.”
Henry gave his brother a wide grin. “We’ve been to the stables and are just on our way up to the house.”
“The stables?” His attention cut to her. “To look in on your horse again, Miss Cowdrey?” He smiled. Not ironically. Intimately.
“‘Course not, Trent,” his brother said. “We were looking for kittens.”
The viscount nodded. “Naturally.”
“Come on then.” Henry started up the path again. “I’m fagged to death. It’s bed for me.”
“Henry, I should like to steal this lady back from you,” he said in his melty voice. “In fact, I am going to now.”
“Suit yourself. Good night, Miss Cowdrey. And thanks!” He headed toward the house.
At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 34
