Alec turned to a low table and opened a smaller box with velvet-lined compartments. He removed what looked like a telescope lens and fitted it into the hole in the box’s front. He took a rectangular mirror from the velvet box and positioned it in the back half of the camera obscura, slanting it to catch the light from the hole and throw it to the open top of the box. Then he fitted a frame with glass to the camera obscura’s open top.
He gestured to it. “Have a look.”
Alec didn’t move out of the way, so Celia had to step against him to peer down at the frame of glass. The brush of his coat, the warmth of him inside the linen and wool unnerved her, but then she caught sight of what was on the glass.
“Oh.” She drew a happy breath. “How wonderful.”
The glass showed her, upside down, the rooftops of Grosvenor Square and the flow of London beyond them. Lady Flora’s huge house was taller than many of its fellows, and the view from her upper floors was vast.
The camera obscura caught the light of the unusually bright day and cast the image inside, the mirror reflecting it to the top of the box.
Though the image wasn’t as crisp as the world outside, Celia saw its colors and shapes, as well as the brilliant blue of the sky and stark white clouds.
“Now then.” Alec set a piece of very thin paper over the glass. “I saw ye liked painting the city and thought you’d enjoy capturing it precisely. We’ll trace the outlines and then make it into a grand painting.”
“Like Signor Canaletto’s,” Celia said excitedly. “I so admire them. My father bought several of his pictures when he was in Venice. And you’ve seen Lady Flora’s.”
“Aye, he’s fond of the camera obscura. What he does with his tracings is a thing of beauty. I have confidence you could do as well as he.”
Celia raised her head. “Me? Paint like Signor Canaletto? Now you are flattering me, Mr. Finn. I suppose you must do so to keep your students paying your fee.”
Alec looked hurt. “Do ye not trust me to know talent when I see it? But here’s a secret, love—talent isn’t all ye need. Ye have to do the work. So draw, lass.”
Celia took the pencil he handed her. “You know that I am supposed to be learning portraiture.”
“To please your mum, aye. Learn this to please me.”
Celia looked up at Alec’s face so close to hers, his eyes that interesting golden hue. “What about pleasing me?”
“I think this is what ye want too, is it not?”
He saw into the heart of her, how Celia rejoiced at the spread of the world, its many colors and hues, the vastness of it all. How she felt as though she belonged in that vastness, not in the confinement of her father’s houses, no matter how magnificent they might be.
Celia wet her lips and resumed her study of the image on the paper. “It’s a bit difficult to see clearly.”
“For that …” Alec lifted a thick black drape from a chair. “There’s this.”
Celia watched, mystified, as Alec shook out the velvet cloth and settled it over her shoulders. The fabric slithered across her silk bodice and cut the chill in this high room.
She was further warmed as Alec pulled the other end of the cloth around himself, the piece so vast it encompassed them both.
“We cut all other light.” Alec leaned over the camera obscura, pulling the drape high.
The velvet fell forward over the box, enclosing them in a very small tent. In its darkness, the image projected from the lens was clearer, the colors sharper.
Wordlessly Celia began to trace the outline of the buildings, the horizon beyond, the smoke-filled jumble that was London. Bricks, chimneys, and square or stepped rooflines stretched south toward the Thames, steeples poked up here and there—Grosvenor Chapel, St. Martin-in-the-Fields—the blur of Westminster Abbey.
Celia’s pencil outlined them, capturing the strange beauty of London. Her mother could not understand why Celia bothered painting the foggy, dirty city, but Celia found a magic in it, a vibrancy she sensed from high above, one lost when she was on the ground.
Its vibrancy was enhanced by the presence of Alec against her side. Celia longed to know his family name—his clan as they called them, but she did not ask. She had no doubt he would not tell her.
His thigh pressed her skirt, his arm was heavy against hers, and the scent of linen and soap intrigued her—the clean scent of male, unfamiliar to Celia. Her brother, Edward, usually smelled of sweat, hair powder, and the pomander balls he used to keep the odor of London at bay.
Having Alec against her, the light-blocking cloth giving the illusion of privacy, made her heart pound and her blood sear.
“We must look ridiculous from the outside,” she said to hide her nervousness. “A drapery with a skirt and a pair of legs.”
“And two bums poking at the viewer.” Alec’s amusement rumbled. “Worthy of a cartoon, is that.”
Celia imagined it, exaggerated billows for her back end and his, his well-shaped legs in stockings and large shoes, her skirt ballooning twice its size to add to the comedy. That would be all that the picture showed, and the caption would read—The Camera Obscura.
“Shall we draw it?” she asked eagerly.
“And have it printed in newspapers up and down the country?” Alec’s grin was visible in the faint light. “Are ye sure ye can stand the notoriety?”
“It wouldn’t show our faces, only our back ends. I will draw it. You can show it to your daughter when she’s old enough to laugh.”
“I’ll keep it safe ’til then.” Alec’s voice went soft, the light in his eyes warming. “You’ve a good heart, lass.”
“For an Englishwoman?”
“If you like.” He brought his hand up to cup her cheek. Celia jerked, his touch in this confined space startlingly intimate. “Don’t move about so,” he said. “I only want to kiss you.”
Celia swallowed, her chest tightening. “You kissed me yesterday.”
“Aye, but that was to calm myself, to keep my anger from killing me. A soothing kiss. This one is just because I want to.”
Celia’s lips tingled at the remembered sensations of their encounter in the anteroom. “There are different kinds of kisses?”
“That there are, love.” Alec’s mouth was an inch from hers. “There are kisses of anger, and of passion. Kisses of friendship, and love, kisses for a daughter, for a sister, for a mother, even a dad if ye can make him hold still. Kisses for thanks, kisses for peace.”
Celia’s voice slid to a whisper. “Which will this be?”
“I think … friendship, aye? Maybe a little more.”
“Yes,” she said, barely able to speak. “I think I’d like that.”
Alec closed the last breath of space between them and brushed her lips with a soft kiss, a light touch. The next kiss was as light, but the one after that lasted longer.
Celia’s heart pounded as she returned the pressure, or tried to. She lost her balance and fell into him, and the drapery slid down and pooled on the floor at their feet.
Chapter 10
Alec caught Celia as she fell into him in a soft heap, her skirts tangling the leg of the camera obscura’s stand. She began to straighten, to apologize, but Alec pulled her to him, tilted her face to his, and kissed her in the sunshine pouring through the window.
Her lips softened, the protests dying, and she stilled in his arms, her mouth welcoming.
Friendship, he’d said, maybe a little more. But this kiss was for enjoyment, to taste a woman, to feel her taste him in return.
He brushed his thumb over her chin. “A kiss for pleasure.” He slanted his mouth across hers once more, slowly and deliberately. “A kiss for diversion.” Another taste, parting her lips and nibbling the lower one.
“Most diverting, yes,” Celia said softly.
Her eyes closed as she sought his mouth again. She bit down on his lower lip, the merest touch, but it sent a hot spike through Alec’s every nerve.
She had no idea how seductive she was
. Lady Flora had instructed Alec to flirt with her, flatter her, ensnare her trust, but Alec was the one being ensnared.
Celia continued to nibble, becoming more daring. Alec flicked his tongue across her teeth and caught her upper lip between his. She gasped and began to laugh, then the laughter died when Alec turned to her lower lip, pulling it into his mouth to suckle.
Celia’s hands landed on his chest, but not to push him away. Alec felt her breath come faster, her fingers curl on his coat.
He slid his arm around her, drawing her to him, her breasts soft through her fichu. The thin linen, meant to hide her from prying eyes, was a flimsy barrier to his touch. The lace on its edges scratched his fingertips, and her heart hammered behind the fabric.
Alec released her lip then kissed it. Celia’s eyes were half closed, her cap falling, her hair mussed. Beautiful.
She didn’t hang in his arms like a ravished maiden, she stood upright, clinging to him, strong on her feet. Celia brushed his jaw with her finger, smiling when she found his bristly whiskers.
“I thought all Highlanders wore thick beards, to keep warm.”
“Not all,” Alec said. “We lads like to be fashionable, and the fashion is to have nothing on the face.”
Celia moved her fingers to his hair. “It’s also fashionable to shave your head and wear a wig.”
“Aye, well, I can’t bring myself to let a razor anywhere near m’ scalp. Hard enough at m’ throat.”
“I like your hair.” Celia ran fingers through it, gazing at it in wonder, as though she’d never seen a man’s hair before, or touched it. And maybe she hadn’t. These days, if a gentleman didn’t wear a wig, he wore a scull cap over his bald pate.
“My father is bearded,” Alec said. “Maybe that’s why m’ brothers and me shave our faces.”
“You said your father is still alive?”
Alec stiffened. He was to pry information from her, not the other way around. He didn’t believe now that Celia would race to her father and tell him she’d found a Jacobite in Lady Flora’s house—the fact that no one had come to arrest him meant Celia had said nothing thus far. But she might slip in innocent conversation.
“I told you. I lost my family. Culloden killed many a Highlander.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr.— I cannot keep calling you Mr. Finn. That’s not your name, is it?”
“Then call me Alec. My other names are dangerous for you to know.”
Celia shook her head. “I cannot possibly address you by your Christian name. It isn’t done. My mother calls my father Your Grace, and they have been married thirty years.”
Alec’s lips twitched. “What does your father call her?”
“Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him address my mother directly?”
“Ah, that’s sad, that is. But I’m kissing ye, lass. Of course you can use my Christian name when I’m kissing ye—as long as you say it only when we’re alone.”
Celia touched his chest. “Alec.”
Her voice was low, enticing. God help him. “Celia.”
The blush that spread over her face told him no man outside her family had ever addressed her thus. The little smile told him she liked it.
“I will keep your secret.” She rose on tiptoe and touched a light kiss to his mouth. “This is a kiss of promise.”
In more ways than one. Alec needed this woman, and not for having and discarding afterward. Unlike Will, who could move from lady to lady without a qualm or breaking any hearts in the process, Alec couldn’t have a woman only once. If the first time was glorious, the second time would only be better, as he and the lady in question grew to know each other, and what each other liked. He wanted Celia many, many times.
“And this is a kiss of gratitude.” Alec followed it with another warm touch of mouths. “And this because you’re pretty, and I like it when ye say my name.”
“Alec.” Her lips curved into a smile.
Alec kissed her again, taking his time, silence reigning in the room. He stroked her cheek, pulling her closer so that her breasts fit against him. He tasted her mouth, coaxed her tongue to tangle with his, felt her breath warm his cheek, her hand grip the lapel of his coat.
When he drew back, Celia’s lips were parted, moist, her voice breathless. “What sort of kiss was that?”
“Desire,” Alec said in a low voice. “Nothing more.”
“I liked that one.”
Alec smiled at her eagerness, which made his already hard cock go rigid. He kissed her once again, enjoying the soft response of her lips. “This one is because you’ve lightened my heart. Have since ye poured that cold water on my foot.”
“Gracious.” She leaned into him, her fichu crumpling against his coat. “There was no liking in you when you woke that day. But I shall make note that you enjoy such a thing.”
“Never said I wanted you to do it again.”
Celia laughed softly, a sound that wound through Alec and loosened him. He was a fool—she was his enemy’s daughter. But Alec for the first time in nearly a year felt a thread of happiness work its way into his heart.
Lady Flora appeared after the hour was over to announce that Mr. Finn’s next pupil had arrived. Alec had no other pupils, of course—Lady Flora fabricated their existence.
She caught Alec and Celia bent over the camera obscura under the drape, laughing like children as Celia very competently outlined the scene. Alec hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said Celia had talent, more than her parents or Lady Flora understood.
Lady Flora hemmed loudly, and Celia popped out, her face red, but her eyes starry.
Not until Celia was safely away, Alec watching her sedan chair being carried around the square, did Lady Flora berate him.
“You are taking your time,” she said, joining him at the window. “How much have you learned from her?”
Lady Flora’s thick perfume was a sharp contrast to Celia’s clean scent. “Nothing,” Alec had to answer. “Whatever her father knows, he’s not let it slip to his daughter.”
Lady Flora let out an impatient sigh. “You are to make her pry it from him. At least you have gained her trust.”
“Somewhat.” Alec closed the camera obscura—he’d removed the drawing and placed it into Celia’s portfolio before she went—and folded the drape. “She feels sorry for me, anyway.”
“The duke has expressed a wish to meet you, the duchess says.” Lady Flora folded her arms as Alec watched Celia descend from the chair on the other side of the square, gathering her blue and yellow skirts as she sped across the few feet of pavement into her father’s house. “To quiz you about conditions in Ireland. That would be a disaster.”
“Aye.” The Duke of Crenshaw would take one look at Alec and know exactly what he was, maybe even who he was. “I agree, we must prevent such a thing. I’ll have to be ill or exhausted if he decides to call.”
“I will keep the duke at bay,” Lady Flora said with confidence. No doubt she would. Even the powerful Duke of Crenshaw quaked in his boots when Lady Flora gave orders. “Mrs. Reynolds has much to tell you. I asked her to wait until Celia’s lesson was done.”
Alec nodded, curious to learn where Mrs. Reynolds had been and what news she might have. He watched until Celia had gone inside, a footman closing the door, before he turned and followed Lady Flora from the room.
Lady Flora took him to her private sitting room, which held more treasures than a king’s strongroom. A painting by Rembrandt van Rijn held pride of place, a portrait of his model, Hendrickje, with her shift hiked high as she waded through a stream. On the opposite wall was a painting of Lady Flora as a younger woman, stiff-backed, haughty, and impossibly beautiful. She’d been the most sought-after debutante in London.
The room wasn’t crowded but tastefully laid out with a sofa upholstered in silk damask, matching chairs gathered with it so Lady Flora could entertain an intimate group. A clavier stood near the window, positioned so its player could use the light to see the music. A gilded clock
stood on the mantel, gently ticking away time.
Mrs. Reynolds was playing the clavier as they entered, the music floating down the hall to embrace them before the footman opened the door—Lady Flora rarely touched a door handle herself.
The piece Mrs. Reynolds played was lively and complicated, executed with such skill that Alec paused to enjoy it. He dimly remembered music at Kilmorgan Castle when their mother had been alive, in the very brief period he’d known her. Imprinted on his mind was a scene in which his mother played a harpsichord, serene and lost in the music, while his father watched, lost in her. Alec’s father had loved his wife desperately, and had never quite recovered from her death.
The juxtaposition of that memory with Mrs. Reynolds, dark-haired, handsome, her fingers flying on the keyboard, had Alec torn between two worlds.
Lady Flora settled herself on the sofa, stretching one arm across its back as she listened to Mrs. Reynolds. Alec caught his breath as he whirled back to the present—he was in smoky London, hemmed in, relying on a duplicitous Englishwoman for help, carefree boyhood gone.
Lady Flora watched her companion with an expression similar to what Alec’s father had worn while watching his wife. Her face was softened, transformed, the woman of ice becoming a human being for that moment.
Mrs. Reynolds continued to play, her eyes on the music. The beauty of the piece caught at Alec’s heart, the serenity of it like a smile. He saw not Mrs. Reynolds as he listened, but Celia, her eyes sparkling as she beheld the camera obscura, her laughter as they struggled with the drape, the flare of desire when Alec kissed her, her steadiness when she held him.
His heart gave a painful beat. The piece wound to a close, ending on a firm chord. Mrs. Reynolds gracefully lifted her hands from the keyboard and rose from the stool.
“Lovely, my dear,” Lady Flora said. “Your sojourn in Vienna last year was not wasted. Come and sit with us, and tell us all.”
Alec went to Mrs. Reynolds and offered his arm to escort her the ten feet from clavier to sofa. Mrs. Reynolds thanked him and sat down, settling her skirts, which came to rest a half inch from Lady Flora’s.
Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9) Page 10
