She experienced a moment of ambiguity toward the man, and not for the first time. He treated her amiably enough, but she could not shake the feeling that there was more to the earl than appearances suggested. Tonight and on the previous occasion they had met, some underlying . . . she didn’t know . . . tension, perhaps . . . seemed to strain his nobleman’s poise, as though he were walking on ice and afraid of falling. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. . . .
Catching her gaze and apparently realizing he’d been caught smirking at her mother’s foible, his smile tilted apologetically. He pushed away from the hearth and helped both Nora and his sister to their feet. ‘‘I believe congratulations are in order.’’
He continued holding Nora’s hand after his sister drifted to her husband’s side. He raised it to his lips, and then leaned to whisper in her ear, ‘‘I’m very happy about this match, Miss Thorngoode. I believe you’ll do Gray a world of good. And God knows he deserves a turn for the better.’’
She should merely have thanked him. Instead, she listened in a sort of dreamlike, detached mortification as words darted from her tongue, words spawned by the many humiliations she’d suffered since that afternoon on Marshall Street. ‘‘Are you mocking me, my lord?’’
Eyes gone wide, the earl flinched as if she’d smacked him, yet he did not, as she might have expected, drop her hand. ‘‘Good heavens, no, Miss Thorngoode. I assure you I am sincere.’’ The appearance of a grin, broad, disarming and utterly forgiving, sent a wave of confusion to singe her cheeks. She began stammering an apology, but he waved it off. ‘‘Come, and I’ll show how sincere I am.’’
A glass of champagne was pressed into her hand. As the others gathered around, everyone raised their glasses. Sir Grayson took up his proper position beside her. Once again deprived of any clear view of him, she yet became very much aware of him—keenly aware that he stood nearly a head taller than she, that his arm, broad and muscular inside his expensive coat, nearly touched her bare shoulder, and that even with no physical contact his presence seemed to engulf her. He smelled of something sharp, clean and vitally masculine.
The Earl of Wycliffe’s eyes twinkled in the lamplight. ‘‘It has been my good fortune,’’ he began, ‘‘to have been blessed with the dearest of elder sisters, who never balked at pinching my ear from time to time as the need arose.’’ This raised a titter of laughter. ‘‘I’ve also been fortunate in having a brother. Not of the blood, perhaps, but if our boyhood penchant for mischief wasn’t conceived of the same spirit, then I am utterly at a loss to explain it.’’
This heralded a few more chuckles. The earl raised his glass. ‘‘To the best of friends, who has these many years been a brother to me, and to his lovely bride-to-be, whom I am most honored to welcome as a sister . . . a sister in spirit, and in our shared regard for this boorish lout she has so graciously consented to marry. Remember, Miss Thorngoode, the occasional pinch to the ear will help keep the old boy honest. I wish you both health, happiness, and a lifetime of contentment together.’’
At those words, the earl rose immeasurably in Nora’s estimate. Yet the toast dragged her spirits lower than ever, for his warm sentiments and easy humor could not be farther from the truth of this marriage, and no amount of pretending could change the facts.
Beside her, Sir Grayson stood stiffly, ill at ease, uttering correct phrases and occasionally raising a hand to her elbow with as much show of affection as he could apparently muster. That made her sadder still.
With a false smile she sipped her champagne and accepted congratulations, which lent her just the opportunity she needed to sidestep, turn, and finally study the man who would be her husband.
She very nearly wished she hadn’t. Her pulse quickened, trounced, would have made her giddy even without the champagne. Grayson Lowell was . . . startling. All bold planes and sharp contours. Handsome, certainly, but with a rugged severity that rivaled Papa’s, though softened by youth and privilege. His was a face that made her yearn for paints and canvas, for to an artist, it is the flaws in beauty that fascinate and inspire.
A peculiar rippling caressed her insides. Earlier, standing in his flowing black cloak on the front steps of Wycliffe House, he had seemed not quite of this world. A creature of darkness, of secrets and mysteries. She sensed those things now—intensely—in the set of his mouth and in the shadows beneath eyes that were pale blue and as stark as moonlight.
Oh, do stop it! With an inner shake she looked away and pretended to smile at whatever Lady Belinda’s husband, Lord Albert, had just said.
So her affianced possessed interesting looks and a brooding sort of charm. That was no reason to let her imagination run rampant; no reason, surely, to lose sight of her goals. She had a plan, and at the very first opportunity she intended sharing the details of that plan with Sir Grayson. In the meantime, however . . .
‘‘Dinner is served.’’
Nora found herself seated across the table from him. Lord Albert occupied the seat to her right, her father the one on her left. The earl and his sister presided from the head and foot of the table, while Nora’s mother sat across the table, to Sir Grayson’s right.
Even as she attempted to consume a respectable portion of her capon with gooseberry sauce, Nora’s fingers persisted in curling delicately around her fork, anticipating the feel of her brush and planning exactly what strokes would capture the energy that lurked beneath Grayson Lowell’s exterior. Or were mere paint, canvas and her fledgling skills equal to the task?
‘‘I understand you are an artist, Miss Thorngoode.’’
Her fork clattered to her plate in response to Lord Albert’s offhand remark. An immediate silence descended, strained and heavy—the art gallery all over again. Grayson Lowell choked while sipping his wine, sputtering a few ruby droplets onto the table linen.
Was Lord Albert joking? Taunting? Condemning her for the fallen woman she was reputed to be? Then again, she’d jumped to the same conclusion only moments ago with the Earl of Wycliffe, who had happily proved her wrong.
She stole a swift glance around the table, meeting expressions of shock and disbelief. Her father’s eyes smoldered dangerously. But Lord Albert’s affable face revealed nothing more menacing than polite interest. Nora’s spiraling pulse drifted slowly back to earth.
Across the table, her mother cleared her throat and treated the earl to a fawning look. ‘‘Tell me, your grace, do you summer in London or at one of your many country estates?’’
Before Lord Wycliffe could bite back a smirk, Nora reached a decision and turned to her supper companion. ‘‘As a matter of fact, Lord Albert, I am an artist. A painter, specifically.’’
‘‘How stupendous. Watercolors, I presume? I do believe landscapes are always a popular subject for ladies. Is that not so?’’
‘‘I do occasionally dabble in watercolors, but I much prefer oils. They are bolder. More substantial. And I’ve a passion for both landscapes and portraits.’’
Great good heavens, what made her dare use the word passion? A wave of scarlet crept over her mother’s face, while beneath the table she felt the gentle but distinct pressure of her father’s foot on hers.
At the cool touch of Sir Grayson’s speculative gaze, she felt a moment’s uncertainty, a wish to end the conversation immediately, as her mother had tried to do. Oh, but why should she feel ashamed to admit the truth? Why shouldn’t she speak of her one true love— possibly the only love she’d ever know?
‘‘Ah, yes indeed. Portraits.’’ Lord Albert dabbed his lips with his napkin. ‘‘I myself am a huge admirer of Gainsborough. Whom do you emulate, Miss Thorngoode, if I may be so bold as to ask?’’
‘‘I don’t know that I emulate anyone,’’ she said with a modest chuckle. ‘‘But I especially admire the works of Joseph Mallord William Turner.’’
‘‘Turner,’’ the Earl of Wycliffe repeated. ‘‘I must confess I’m not certain I understand his work, Miss Thorngoode. With his muddled colors and indis
tinct forms, I sometimes think I could manage it myself.’’
Nora nodded. ‘‘Yes, he makes it all look easy, doesn’t he, when in fact it’s a brilliant technique. One I strive to master . . . though with limited success, I must confess.’’
‘‘Ahem.’’ Mama’s throat clearing was followed by several loud coughs and an emphatic glare.
Nora glowered back as another awkward hush blanketed the table. Good heavens, it wasn’t as if she had initiated the conversation, and surely even Mama couldn’t expect her to be rude to their hosts.
Lady Belinda settled the matter. ‘‘Perhaps you’d care to elaborate further, Miss Thorngoode, on what it is Mr. Turner does so well.’’
‘‘Of course. You see, Turner focuses his attention on the emotion of his subject, rather than on particular details.’’
‘‘Ah, but how does one relate to emotion,’’ Lord Albert interrupted, ‘‘without the details to enlighten one?’’
‘‘My lord, have you never experienced an overwhelming sensation—deep down inside—that could not quite be expressed in words? Through color and composition, Mr. Turner conveys the overall mood of his subject to create an emotional response within the viewer.
‘‘Because he leaves so much to the imagination, each viewer’s response will be uniquely his own. In effect, there are two artistic processes at work—that of the painter’s perspective and that of the viewer’s interpretation.’’
She paused, astonished to discover the others at rapt attention. Even her parents. Sir Grayson was leaning forward over his plate too, his compelling features locked in such probing intensity that she experienced the beginnings of a blush and a most disconcerting tingle.
In that instant she decided his eyes were not merely blue, but a hue that inspired poets to scramble for new metaphors and had artists mixing and remixing their palettes for just the right intensity. Yet those eyes were not beautiful, not in a typical sense. An icy edge prevented it, a steely quality that nearly made one flinch.
She quickly looked away.
‘‘That is what Turner achieves in his paintings,’’ she concluded, annoyed at the slight tremor in her voice. ‘‘The result is ingenious. Miraculous, really.’’
‘‘I, for one, shall certainly view all paintings from an entirely new perspective from now on,’’ Lord Albert declared. ‘‘Thank you indeed, Miss Thorngoode.’’
‘‘Not that Honora intends to continue her little hobby,’’ her mother said with a nervous titter, ‘‘what with the responsibilities of being a new wife and all.’’
Nora’s mouth hung open. Despite Mama’s insistence that she never take up her brushes again, that painting had been the source of all her troubles, she positively had no intention of relinquishing her principal source of solace and personal pride.
Bother anyone who might think her rude and head-strong, this was one argument from which she would not back down. Not now, not ever. She gathered breath to say so. . . .
‘‘If Miss Thorngoode wishes to paint after we are married, I certainly have no objection.’’
Her mouth remained open, her eyes agape. For the span of a single breathless heartbeat she wished to throw her arms around her betrothed and bestow endless kisses upon him for supporting her in her greatest aspiration. But the truth lurked in the indifferent cast of his handsome features, the aloof tone of his voice. Even the way he spoke her name, Miss Thorngoode, held a stiff-lipped hint of distaste.
He simply didn’t care what she did. She assumed she could paint or go to the devil and not particularly affect Sir Grayson’s day.
She acknowledged him with a quietly begrudging ‘‘Thank you.’’
Another silence drifted over the group, punctuated by the clink of silverware against porcelain as they finished supper.
Lady Belinda suddenly looked up. ‘‘Why, Chad, we must show Miss Thorngoode the Holbein.’’ She turned to Nora with an animated smile. ‘‘You must see it immediately after supper. It is a portrait of one of our ancestors, Lady Cecilia Francis, who was a lady-in-waiting to Princess Mary Tudor when she became the Duchess of Suffolk. We consider it one of the Wycliffe treasures. Don’t we, Chad?’’
An eager ooh slipped from Nora’s lips. She experienced that lift of heart that so often occurred in relation to her ‘‘little hobby,’’ as her mother had put it, whether resulting from viewing a masterpiece or reaching a new level of proficiency in her own work.
The earl raised his wineglass and swirled the rich claret. ‘‘I’m afraid Miss Thorngoode is to be disappointed.’’
‘‘Disappointed?’’ Belinda blinked. ‘‘What ever do you mean?’’
‘‘It isn’t here. Not presently.’’
Nora’s anticipation drained in a shoulder-slumping sigh.
‘‘Where on earth is it?’’
Lady Belinda was not the only person taken aback by the earl’s disclosure. Gawking at his friend, Sir Grayson held his fork aloft as if to spear his closest neighbor, in this case Nora’s mother, whose blank expression declared her complete ignorance of what a Holbein might possibly be. Apparently, the portrait being anywhere but in this house was a singularly peculiar event.
‘‘It’s out on loan.’’ The Earl of Wycliffe set his wineglass down and brushed at imaginary crumbs on the tablecloth. ‘‘For an exhibit.’’
‘‘Exhibit,’’ his sister repeated.
‘‘Yes. In Oxford.’’
‘‘Oxford.’’ It seemed Lady Belinda could do nothing but echo her brother’s replies.
‘‘Precisely. We’ll get it back, of course, when the exhibit concludes.’’ The earl offered what Nora supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile. Beneath it lurked a ghost of uncertainty, clearly visible to Nora and, she was certain, to Lady Belinda. He sipped his wine, and when he looked up again his stony expression declared the subject closed.
Lady Belinda exchanged a look with Sir Grayson. He merely shrugged, apparently dismissing the matter as none of his business, which of course it wasn’t.
He directed a second shrug to Nora and she wondered what the gesture was meant to convey. Empathy? Or indifference? But what could he know of it? To be able to study a masterpiece, truly study it without well-meaning attendants interfering with ‘‘helpful’’ information about the painting, as if she, a woman, could have no sense of an artwork’s importance. Or worse, standing behind her, clearing their throats to remind her she should move on and allow other patrons a look.
Oh, this itinerant Holbein constituted a missed opportunity of vast proportions.
The conversation drifted to other matters as the servants served dessert, and Sir Grayson spared her not another glance. No, he entered into a lively conversation with Lady Belinda, all traces of his former apathy vanishing from his expression. More than that, his stark eyes sparked each time Lady Belinda laughed or simply smiled, or when she briefly laid her hand on his coat sleeve.
Watching them, a burning sensation crept through her. Good heavens . . . jealousy? No. Resentment. Yes, for having to marry against her wishes, for finding herself saddled with an arrogant, disinterested creature of darkness who may or may not have murdered his brother, despite Papa’s claims.
Oh, may Signore Alessio’s oils harden to rock and his canvases crumble to dust for the fate to which he’d consigned her!
Chapter 3
Grayson experienced diffiiculty in rising from his friend’s dining table upon conclusion of the meal, a predicament due to another and quite persistent rising that he attributed to Miss Honora Thorngoode’s influence.
They didn’t call her the Painted Paramour for no reason, for the woman was nothing if not bottled sensuality steaming for escape. A passion for portraits indeed. With her talk of overwhelming sensations and unique responses, she’d all but likened art to physical intimacy in a way that made his blood simmer, his appetites yearn.
Though she maintained her innocence throughout, he couldn’t help wondering if the famed Signore Alessio had been the vict
im, snared in a carnal web of Miss Thorngoode’s making.
He had tried seeking refuge in a conversation with Belinda, pretending to hang on her every word while his gaze shifted countless times against his will to Miss Thorngoode. To her pretty mouth, her delicate bosom, those graceful arms he’d very much like to feel wrapped around him.
Hence his present difficulty, and blast the other men for so blithely leaping to their feet and dispensing with the tradition of port and cigars following supper. That might have given him sufficient time to collect his composure and tame the beast even now straining for a good thrust or two with the lady in question.
But the women were about to stand, and that left him no choice. He eased to his feet, buttoning his coat and attempting to smooth it as well as he could, considering.
‘‘Sir Grayson, there is a small matter I should like to discuss.’’
He discovered her standing at his shoulder. His pulse spiked, though not so much due to her proximity as the fragrance she bore with her, sweet, heady, with a hint of something spicy. He couldn’t name the scent. He knew only that it danced through him like finger-tips over harp strings.
‘‘I thought perhaps the terrace . . .’’ She gestured toward the French doors at the far end of the room. ‘‘If you would.’’
‘‘A moment alone—a splendid idea.’’ Mrs. Thorngoode beamed, displaying a decidedly crooked front tooth. ‘‘You poor dears have barely exchanged a word all evening. Come. In the interest of propriety, I shall serve as your chaperone.’’
With a giggle the woman fluttered her hand at her husband, who stood waiting to return with the others to the drawing room. ‘‘Go on, go on. These children have some settling to do between them and they certainly have no need of an audience.’’ She cupped her hand over her mouth as if to muffle her next words, spoken nonetheless as audibly as the rest. ‘‘Don’t worry, Zachy, I shall be close at hand.’’
Willingly enough, Grayson followed the Paramour across the room. He was curious, really, as to what she could possibly wish to speak with him about. Theirs was a simple transaction, with little left to haggle over as far as he could see.
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