Passionate

by Anthea Lawson

  After dinner the family retired to the drawing room, where the men drank brandy and Richard went to the piano and began to play. It was there that her cousin was his brightest self. He freed the music locked up in the written notes—chords and quarter notes became living things chasing each other, dancing lightly or growling deep somber tones as the mood took him. His youthful awkwardness slipped away as he sat elegantly upright, in mastery of the instrument.

  “Your son plays remarkably well,” Mr. Huntington said to Aunt Mary, when Richard paused to search for another piece of music. He turned to Isabelle. “Do you play also?”

  “Oh no. Unlike Lily with her painting, and Richard with his talent for music—“

  “And father, who can name each and every part of every plant he sees,” added Richard.

  “—I have no talent.”

  “Except a talent for dramatic exaggeration,” Mrs. Hodges said, looking up from her knitting.

  “What about you, Mrs. Hodges?” Mr. Huntington asked.

  “What is your talent?”

  She looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “My talent is for judging character.”

  “And for cheerful excess,” added Lily, shooting the matron a quick smile.

  “Impertinence,” she muttered and bent over her yarn, but not before Lily caught a glint of what might have been a smile in her expression.

  “What of you, Mr. Huntington?” Lily asked, serious now.

  “What is your talent?”

  A wicked humor flashed in his eyes and was gone before the others noticed. She tried not to imagine what talent he had been thinking of. Something unsuitable for discussion in the drawing room, she was sure. Society had its share of rakes. If Mr. Huntington was one, as she now suspected, he could doubtless lay claim to all sorts of unspeakable talents.

  “My talent,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “is for appreciating the talents of others.”

  “Lily,” her uncle said, “I almost forgot. I have had this letter half the day.” He fished in his waistcoat pocket and retrieved a crumpled envelope. “From your parents. I apologize for its condition and for the delay. I’m keeping track of so many things, it’s a wonder I can remember my own name.”

  She took the envelope and smoothed out its creases. Had her parents changed their minds, denying her the expedition after all? Surely Lord Buckley hadn’t arrived home yet.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to read it?” Isabelle asked.

  Lily broke the seal and read, shifting to keep Isabelle from peering over her shoulder.

  “Father tenders his regards. He intends to send a coach to take me back to London.” She did not mention that her visit was to include being presented to Countess Buckley. Apparently the two mothers had already begun to arrange the rest of her life.

  “You won’t be leaving before the ball, I hope,” Isabelle said.

  “No, the coach will arrive Saturday afternoon.”

  “That’s all right then.” Her cousin sank back in her chair.

  “There is to be a dance this Friday at the home of Squire Thomas,” Aunt Mary explained to their guest. “Local society will be there. It presents an excellent opportunity to bid our friends and neighbors farewell. If it were not for the ball, I daresay our departure would be delayed by numerous visits from well-wishers.”

  “You might find it amusing, Huntington,” Uncle Edward said. “Not a London crush, by any means, but the food and drink will be excellent. Thomas is known for his table.”

  “Do come,” Richard said. “I am weary of dancing with my sister and cousin.”

  “And our toes are equally weary of being danced upon by you, brother dear.”

  Mr. Huntington smiled. “I would be pleased to go as your guest, and relieve Richard of his obligations.” His gaze found Lily.

  A curious tingle shot through her when she thought of whirling to the music with Mr. Huntington. She imagined he was an excellent dancer.

  “Lily,” Uncle Edward said. “Will you be finished with the illustrations by Saturday?”

  She took a moment to focus on his words. “Saturday?” Oh, yes, when father was sending the coach. “I have almost completed the paintings. A touch more work on the Anthurium, and I will be finished.”

  “Splendid! I’m sure you have done your usual superb job.”

  “I think you will be pleased.” She looked over to the piano.

  “Richard, now that I am almost done with the botanical work, I was hoping you would sit for me tomorrow. I saw a new style of portraiture at the Royal Academy that I would very much like to try.”

  “I think I promised Isabelle I’d escort her into the village.” He looked pleadingly at his sister. “Didn’t I?”

  Isabelle grinned. “Actually, he did. I have a stunning gown to wear for the ball and need one more fitting. I’m sorry, Lily.”

  “It’s for the best, I suppose.” Lily shook her head in mock disapproval. “Richard does find it a challenge to sit still. You can have him, Isabelle.” She looked pointedly at Mrs. Hodges. “There are other subjects to be had.”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Hodges said. “The trials I endure. Very well, Miss Lily. If you insist, and your aunt doesn’t put me to packing steamer trunks.” She seemed gruffly pleased with the request.

  “After luncheon tomorrow, in the conservatory. I should be ready for you by then.”

  Chapter 5

  Soft light filtered through the brass and cut-glass doors leading to the conservatory. James glimpsed palm fronds and the huge leaves of philodendron inside. When he swung the doors open he was enfolded by moist, scented heat. Vivid memories of his grandfather’s conservatory flooded through him—wet pavers, the potting bench, a huge watering can with flaking green paint.

  Since returning to England, James had often felt the wash of memory as he revisited places he had known as a child, but this was beyond anything he had experienced. He stood for a moment, eyes closed, flooded with light.

  Sir Edward had retired for his afternoon nap, leaving James with a message for Miss Strathmore. It would probably have been wiser to send a servant to deliver the message. The woman was altogether too tempting. It would be better if he kept his mind on his business—he couldn’t afford to offend his host by dallying with the man’s attractive niece. Not that she was a suitable candidate for dalliance in any case.

  Ahead, a brick walkway circled an enormous round planter. Ferns drooped and water cascaded over rocks into a shallow pool. Above him, a huge spiny tree soared two stories, brushing the glass roof and spreading its umbrels over the flowering plants below.

  Skirting the pool, James sighted a figure through the leaves. Miss Strathmore was working at her easel, her back to him. She wore a blue apron tied over her dress, emphasizing her waist and the sensuous curve of her hips. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow revealing slim, strong arms and capable hands.

  He leaned his shoulder against one of the great iron columns that supported the structure and watched her. She appeared completely at ease, humming a tune he did not recognize and working the canvas with quick, precise strokes of her brush. Every now and then she would stop to look at the potted flower sitting amid a jumble of art supplies on a tall table. Her humming would stop. Then she would dab her brush in color and begin painting and humming all over again. The warmth of the greenhouse had brought a glow to her skin, and a strand of hair had escaped the pins. Not a girl in a pretty gown, but a woman, authentic and as beautiful as any of the exotic blooms that surrounded her.

  Miss Strathmore must have sensed his presence. She whirled. “Mr. Huntington. How unexpected.”

  “My apologies if I surprised you. I did not want to interrupt your work.” That work was revealed now on the easel as a rich scarlet flower, its heart-shaped form limned with light.

  She shifted, blocking his view of the painting, and folded her arms. “Is there something you need?”

  “Only to deliver the message that your easel did not arrive.”

&n
bsp; Her frown deepened. “It was supposed to have been delivered two weeks ago. I assure you I will not do business with that firm…Mr. Huntington?”

  His gaze had swept past her to where a sturdy pair of black shoes protruded from behind the table. He raised an eyebrow. “It appears we are not alone.”

  “Of course not. That would be most inappropriate.” She glanced behind the table, her look softening. “Mrs. Hodges—poor dear. The heat of the conservatory makes her drowsy.”

  James peered behind the table. Mrs. Hodges dozed on the chaise lounge, her wide chest rising and falling with each breath.

  “I hate to wake her,” Miss Strathmore said, “but the light will be changing soon. I cannot very well paint a portrait without a subject.”

  He looked down the path toward the doors, then back at Mrs. Hodges. The message was delivered. Now would be the time to make his exit, but he could not simply walk away without offering assistance.

  “Perhaps I could take her place.”

  Miss Strathmore considered him for a moment. “Have you ever sat for a portrait before?”

  “No. But I would do my best. No napping, I promise.”

  She bit her lower lip, apparently of two minds. “Well,” she said at last, “you will have to do.” She pulled a tall stool to a nearby grouping of tree ferns and patted the seat. “Sit here, if you will.”

  James settled himself. It wasn’t as if he had anything pressing to attend to—and she did look fetching in her blue apron.

  Miss Strathmore placed a fresh art board on her easel and straightened her apron. “Are you sitting comfortably?”

  “As comfortable as can be expected.”

  “I would like to paint you in quarter profile. Please turn to the right.”

  He shifted. “Like this?”

  She shook her head. “No, back the other way…Yes, that’s it.”

  She began to sketch, her pencil sweeping in broad, confident arcs, and her gaze becoming direct and appraising. It traveled up and down, lingering, measuring, judging. Her eyes traced his face, stared deeply into his own, followed the line of his chin to his neck, then down along his shoulders.

  James was completely unprepared for the intensity of the painter’s gaze. Coming from a woman of Miss Strathmore’s attractions, it was…disturbing. No lady had ever stared at him so boldly—at least not with innocent intent. He felt uncomfortably warm and wished he had thought to loosen his collar before they began.

  As Miss Strathmore worked she bit her lower lip, or furrowed her brow, and all the while her eyes continued to devour him. Her hand traveled over the board as it willed but her gaze never left him. She breathed deeply as she worked, her focus evident in each fluid movement of her body. As the minutes passed, James found it increasingly difficult to remain still. He tried to ease the tension by looking past her to the foliage that framed and shaded her, but he could not concentrate. Again and again his attention was drawn back to the woman before him.

  She was not a conventional beauty. Her face held too much strength—a stubborn lift to her chin, the high cheekbones softening into the curve of her cheeks, her nose too prominent by current standards. Standards that celebrated the cultivated looks of a pampered flower, not the willful wildness he sensed in Miss Strathmore. And her eyes. He had noted them before, their depths, the way they shifted color like the surface of a tropical sea. A man could lose himself there.

  She set down her pencil and selected a brush. The moment her gaze left him he felt relieved, and oddly abandoned. The respite was short-lived—her attention returned to him almost immediately as she dipped and swirled paint on the palette. She held the paintbrush like a scepter. She was queen here, a queen of color and light, vibrant and passionate. And what would that passion taste like? What would she feel like in his arms? His bed?

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her, and shifted on the stool.

  “Are you still comfortable? We could take a break, if you’d like.”

  “I’m fine.” He opened his eyes and tried to look more at ease.

  “It’s going very well,” she said, then her eyebrows drew together. “Wait. You moved. Try turning to your left a bit more.” She watched him swivel and shook her head. “No, that’s not quite it. One moment.”

  She stared hard at the sketch then moved to stand in front of him, their eyes at a level.

  “I am used to more immobile subjects that I can place at will,” she said. “I think it would be easier if I just…” She reached out and set her hands on his shoulders.

  The pressure of her fingers guided his body to the left. He turned in response, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. She was so close he could smell her fragrance—lavender and linseed oil. His pulse throbbed.

  “Now, tilt your head up a bit…no, not quite so much.”

  “Like this?”

  “Here, let me.”

  She lifted her hand to his chin and raised it with a gentle pressure—as if for a kiss. His gaze dropped to her lips, full, and open. If he leaned forward, just a few inches, he could brush them with his own.

  Her eyes darted to his, and he saw realization seep into her as the artist gave way to the woman. She took a hasty step back, then retreated to her easel.

  James cleared his throat. “Do I have the pose right?”

  “Um. Yes. Well enough. We can break soon. You’ll be able to stand and walk about then.”

  He rather doubted it—his response to her had been tangible and physical. He would require a large frond if he were asked to stand before his yearning had subsided.

  James closed his eyes and summoned up images of the worst field conditions he had endured while serving in the Queen’s army. He would not dwell on the woman before him. He would not watch her eyes as they lingered on his body or recall the smooth touch of her fingertips.

  At last she stepped away from her work. “You are free—for the moment.”

  He stood, twisting at the waist to loosen his tight muscles.

  “It is tiring to keep still,” she said.

  “I ought to be used to it—in the army we were trained to stand immobile and at attention for hours. Though with the amount of starch in our dress uniforms, there really wasn’t much option.”

  She smiled. “I shall have to instruct Richard’s valet to starch him thoroughly before I try painting him again. You are doing splendidly. Would you like some lemonade?” She lifted a carafe from the table beside her and poured two glasses.

  James joined her, noticing how petite she actually was. It surprised him. She gave the impression of being taller, but her head only came up to his shoulder.

  As she handed him the tumbler his fingers brushed against hers. The coolness of the glass contrasted with the warmth of her skin. Miss Strathmore’s eyes widened.

  She took a hasty sip, then set her glass down with a bump on the crowded table. Several brushes rolled off the edge, tumbling to the bricks.

  James went down on one knee to pick them up. He counted two heartbeats, three, before he straightened, offering her the bouquet of brushes.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I seem intent on making an unfavorable impression, don’t I? I assure you, in most circumstances I am perfectly capable of setting down a glass of lemonade.”

  “I do not think you make an unfavorable impression, Miss Strathmore. In fact, I find you extremely…interesting.”

  “Interesting. Of course.” Her lips tightened. “How kind of you.”

  Damn. He hadn’t meant it that way. “Let me say instead that you are talented and pretty. And your eyes are extraordinary.”

  “I have never heard the word interesting defined in quite that way.” She became much occupied with placing the brushes back on the table, but he noted the color creeping into her cheeks.

  James finished his lemonade and searched for a safer topic. “How long does this portrait process take?”

  “Only a little more work today—the light is going.”

  He let o
ut a breath. It would not be so difficult, then.

  “And I’ll need you tomorrow afternoon as well, when the light is better.”

  “I see.” Yet as uncomfortable as it might be, he almost wished the painting would take longer—days, a week even. There was something deucedly compelling about this woman.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He returned to the stool and tried to recapture his earlier pose. One would think that after sitting in the position for more than an hour he would remember how it felt, but Miss Strathmore did not even pick up her brush.

  “More to the left, I think. Your shoulder was even with the edge of the frond.” She came to face him again. James tensed as she lifted her hand. Her touch brushed his skin, lingered against his cheek. Her eyes found his.

  Without thought he caught her fingers and drew her hand to his lips. She gasped and he felt her shiver in response. He drew her forward, and she swayed into him and placed her palm against his chest. Heat burned into him from her touch.

  “Mr. Huntington—”

  He brought her closer and her hand slid up to grasp his shoulder. She was standing between his knees, the curve of her breasts brushing his shirt.

  Mirroring her earlier touch, he set his fingers under her chin and lifted, tilting her face up. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, as sensuous as the heady flowers blooming around them, as enticing and irresistible. With a sense of inevitability, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were as kissable as he had thought—warm and soft. He deepened the kiss, pressing his mouth more firmly over hers to taste her sweetness.

  She let out a sigh. He slipped his arm behind her, splaying his hand over the curve of her back, and she leaned further into his embrace, like a blossom seeking the light. Gods. Fire kindled in him at the press of her breasts against his chest, the speeding of her breath, the smoothness of her skin. He could feel the wild pounding of her heart as he moved his mouth over hers, devouring her with his lips as she had devoured him with her eyes. It was only fair that she be captive to his touch, his mouth, to the wild insistence that had gripped him the moment she had stepped into his arms.