“I cannot work if you do not stay in one spot,” he murmured.
“Sorry.” She settled back into position. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not scared of him specifically, at least I don’t think I am. What I mean to say is he’s not the kind of man who beats children or kicks dogs—”
“Hah! I knew there would be dogs.”
She ignored him. “He’s an honorable man. A good man.”
“A good man?” Toussaint scoffed. “How tedious. And how boring.”
“Not at all,” she said staunchly.
“If he is so good”—Toussaint said the word as if it were obscene—“then what are you afraid of?”
“I only wish I knew.”
He didn’t respond, and she wondered if he was mulling over his words or working.
“Toussaint?”
“You are a widow, are you not?”
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
“Then it is not the act of love that frightens you.”
Of course not.” Indignation colored her tone. “I am an adult. I have been married, and I am well aware of what transpires between a man and a woman.”
“But, if rumor is correct, you have not been free with your favors since the death of your husband.”
She stifled a sharp reply, annoyed as much by the accuracy of ton gossip as his temerity in repeating it. She kept her voice cool and slightly amused. “Your impertinence is not quite as charming as you’ve been led to believe.”
“Ah, but again you lie, madame.” He chuckled. “If you did not enjoy my insolent nature you would have left long ago.”
“I could very well leave now.” And she should probably do just that.
“You could.” A shrug sounded in his voice. “But you will not.”
“Why on earth not?” Of course she could.
“You admitted it yourself. I am the only one you have to confide in. In addition, we have neither solved your problem nor finished your portrait. In fact, we have scarcely begun on both.”
“I doubt you can resolve my dilemma. Particularly since I am not at all certain precisely what it is.”
“Then perhaps your fear is indeed of the act of love.” He paused. “Or love itself.”
Irritation washed through her. “Nonsense. On both counts.” She sat up, found her shoes beside the chaise, and slipped them on. “But I think I’ve had quite enough for one night, and I shall indeed take my leave.”
“Because you cannot face the truth.”
She stood. “And what truth is that?”
“You plan to marry a man who has never taken you in his arms. Never swept aside your sensibilities with his touch, his caress. Never so much as kissed you as a woman like yourself should be kissed.”
“I never said he hasn’t kissed me,” she snapped.
“Has he?”
“That’s none of your concern. This discussion has gotten completely out of hand.” She started toward the door.
“Perhaps you are afraid when he does, you will feel nothing?”
She sucked in a hard breath. Was he right? Was that what she was so afraid of? No. The very idea was ridiculous. The one and only thing she knew at this point was that when Richard finally did kiss her she would feel a great deal. “That’s quite enough. This conversation is at an end.”
She stalked across the room, snatched her cloak from the chair, stepped to the door, and yanked it open. At once his footsteps echoed hers. His hand reached from behind her and slammed the door shut. She gasped, and he gripped her shoulders and held her still.
His voice sounded beside her ear. “Do not turn, ma chérie—”
“I’m not your—”
“Listen to me.” His tone was low and intense.
She tried to break away, but he held her tight.
“Let me go.”
“You are a lovely woman who has been without a man too long.”
“I’ll scream if you don’t release me at once.”
“I would love to hear you scream.” He held her firmly against him. “You need a man who will make you cry out with pleasure. Who will claim not just your body but your soul.”
“No!”
“And that, my dear madame, is what you fear.”
“It is not!” Was it?
No? Then why are you not afraid of me? We are together, alone, in the night.”
“I don’t know.” But even now, held tightly to him, she wasn’t afraid, when she probably should have been.
“Don’t you? I could have you now. Here. And you would not resist.” His lips brushed against her ear.
“I would!” Would she?
You do not fear my touch. I know it. I feel it in the way your body molds against mine.” He shifted behind her, and she could feel him hard and lean and strong. “You know it as well.”
“I know nothing of the sort.” But he was right: she wasn’t at all scared.
“Why are you not afraid?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why?”
“I don’t—” Her blood pounded in her ears. “Because you pose no threat to my heart!” she blurted, stunned by her own admission.
“Are you so certain?” He brushed his lips against her neck and she stiffened but couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
“Yes.” His body was hot against her back and, in an odd way, welcoming, and even, somehow, familiar.
“Why? Because I am not a good man? Because I am not on your silly list? Because you run no risk of caring for me?” His voice softened, whispering against her neck. A shiver ran through her. “Because I am not the kind of man who would take his time to seduce you.”
“You’re not?” she whispered. What was happening to her?
“I would not waste one precious moment with you on such nonsense.” He nuzzled the curve where her neck met her shoulder, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“I have to go,” she murmured. It was obviously lust surging through her. Nothing more than that. Plain and simply physical need. By God, Toussaint was right: it had been far too long since she’d been with a man. “You have to stop. Now.”
“Why? You are not yet married. Not even betrothed.” He slipped the sheer fabric of her gown down her arm, bared her shoulder, and kissed it until she marveled she could still stand.
Part of her mind cried out in protest, ignored by her traitorous body that screamed for more. Much more. In another moment, any denial, any objection would be futile.
He lessened his grip and ran his hands along her arms, and she shuddered with the realization that for the first time since her husband’s death she wanted a man in her bed. And at the moment, she wanted this man. This faceless, anonymous stranger who triggered sensations she hadn’t known she’d missed, hadn’t known she’d wanted, until now.
“No!” With the last vestige of resistance in a mind weakened by numbing desire, she jerked out of his arms, yanked open the door, and flew down the stairs.
His confident voice followed her. “You will return, madame.”
“No,” she called over her shoulder.
Why not?
She paused and turned to stare at the still open door. She had nothing to fear but her own lustful desire, and that she could surely curb. She squared her shoulders. Why not indeed? “Perhaps. But only for the portrait. Nothing more.”
She swiveled and started back down the stairs, pulling her cloak on over her shoulders as she went. Wilkins stared up at her as if she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had.
Toussaint’s laughter echoed in the stairwell. “We shall see, madame, we shall see.”
Richard closed the door and grinned. That had certainly gone well. He started toward Gillian’s portrait. Very well indeed. His step slowed, and his grin faded. Perhaps too well?
He sank down on the stool before the canvas and stared at the rough charcoal drawing. What in the hell had really happened tonight? He ran his fingers through his hair impatiently and recounted the events of the evenin
g.
It had started out well enough, although he’d thought all was lost when she’d spoken to him in French. Damnation, why hadn’t he paid more attention to his studies years ago and learned the blasted language? Still, he’d managed to recover nicely. He grinned at the thought of her indignation when he’d slandered her accent.
Gillian had been a good subject once she’d agreed to keep quiet, providing him with more than enough time to sketch her form lying on the chaise. Indeed, with every line the excitement of a work in progress, a work he knew would be his best, had grown within him. It had proceeded extremely well as long as he’d been immersed in what he was doing, as long as he’d viewed her as nothing more than a model.
But the moment he’d started on her face, he was lost. He’d studied her for a time, stared at her, without her noticing that the quiet sound of charcoal against canvas had ceased. Of course, he had arranged the room to make certain he would remain in the shadows and she would see him as nothing more than a silhouette. Even so, it had been apparent by her expression that she’d no longer been aware of her surroundings. Of where she was or who she was with.
He’d wondered at the time, or perhaps hoped, he was what was on her mind. If he was the one who had put that dreamlike expression in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. If when she’d parted her lips and licked them slowly, she had been thinking of him. It had been all he could do to keep from racing across the room to take her in his arms.
He swallowed hard and stared at the face on the canvas. Quick, unfinished strokes of black that hinted at what was to come.
He’d managed to keep himself in control and had even succeeded in sustaining that silly accent. Who would have thought an accent adopted for a brief meeting in a garden would be so difficult to maintain during an hour in a studio? He’d nearly forgotten it altogether in those final moments at the door.
He picked up the charcoal and started to work, refining the vaguely formed image. He didn’t need her here to continue: her face was as vivid in his mind as if she stood before him.
Those final moments at the door.
Whatever had possessed him to follow her? To hold her so tight against him that he could feel every curve of her body through that scandalous wisp of a dress. Feel as well the warmth of her skin. Each breath she took. The beating of her heart.
What would have happened then if she hadn’t pulled away? He’d wanted her with an intensity that even now shocked him, and he knew she’d wanted him as well. And that too was shocking. She’d wanted him? Or was it Toussaint she’d wanted?
She certainly hadn’t withdrawn from Toussaint’s arms. No, there had been no fear in her manner when Toussaint had embraced her. In fact, while not entirely eager, her resistance had been minimal at best. Annoyance tightened his grip, and his strokes on the canvas were hard and swift.
Was it that nonsense about her heart, about love that made the difference? Surely she didn’t want love from Richard? From him? Blast it all, she was right, this was damned confusing. Her behavior. His reaction. And just who was reacting to whom?
With Toussaint there was no question of love. Was that why with Toussaint she had nothing to fear? No reason to retreat or withdraw?
Still, a little fear wouldn’t be uncalled for. A bit of resistance would be only proper. Hell, the woman was practically putty in his arms. Or Toussaint’s arms.
He blew out a long breath. Well, that was his plan, wasn’t it? His so-called two-prong attack? What woman could resist both the advances of an English earl and a French artist? It was as clever as any military strategy ever devised by Wellington or Napoleon.
No, his plan was still sound. Should she surrender to Toussaint, it would only serve to prove to her that she had nothing to fear from him, from Richard. Prove that she could share his bed without losing her heart.
He drew his brows together in irritation. Is that what he wanted? Of course. He had no interest in love. Oh, he’d started to care for her and certainly seemed to think about nothing else but her, and the idea of her inheritance was no longer as important as it had been, but love? Hardly.
Once again the English were battling the French, and surely once again the English would win. He ignored the nagging thought that, once again, it could be a long and bloody war.
Chapter 10
Gillian wondered just how improper it would be to send her guests home and Emma to her room so she could at last be alone with Richard.
She surveyed the small group now gathered in her parlor. Richard and Robin stood debating the merits of the latest actions of Parliament. Emma sat on a nearby settee dividing her attention between the political discussion and Kit beside her. Thus far the evening had gone surprisingly well, all things considered.
Oh, certainly Robin had been of no help, politely challenging everything Richard said, whether he was commenting on the current state of governmental affairs or the fine spring weather. Fortunately, Kit had been far too busy gazing wide-eyed at Emma to join in Robin’s sport.
From the moment Kit had walked in the door, he’d been unable to keep his eyes off the girl. Of course, she did look quite fetching with her hair properly dressed and wearing the gown Gillian had loaned her. Emma’s own clothes had been her mother’s and were sadly out of fashion. Gillian had thought Richard would need to come up with at least a few pounds to clothe his sister appropriately, but as she and Gillian were of a similar size and height it might not be necessary.
In point of fact, if the purpose of any season, no matter how modest, was to find a husband, Emma might well have achieved that already, if Gillian were to judge by Kit’s manner and the dazed look in his eye. Gillian was at once delighted by the development and, oddly, just a wee bit annoyed.
Emma was accepting Kit’s attentions with an air of cool amusement. Gillian couldn’t help but be impressed. Richard’s sister may well be straight from the country, but she had all the poise of a young woman with several seasons to her credit. When it came to matters of the heart and the art of flirtation, Emma had nearly as much natural talent as she did for painting.
They’d set up a studio of sorts earlier in the day, and Emma had already thrown herself into her work. Gillian wondered if she should bring the girl to her next sitting with Toussaint to observe his work. Besides, Emma’s presence would serve more than one purpose.
Richard did not appear to notice the unexpected attraction between his sister and Kit. No, for the first time since she’d come to know him, he was living up to his public reputation. He was rather abrupt tonight, reluctant to make conversation and continually cast her the most annoying looks, as if he was trying to see inside her. Why, the man was positively brooding. Given last night’s sitting with Toussaint and Gillian’s intentions toward Richard this evening, it was most unnerving.
She’d thought about the encounter with the artist all day, dismissing the feelings she’d experienced at the end of the evening as nothing more than a physical response to the embrace of a man skilled in seduction. Still, it was hard to ignore them completely. She’d never considered herself prone to passion, and to have such reactions to a man whose face she’d never seen was disturbing.
But what truly preyed on her mind were her admissions. Was she indeed afraid of losing her heart to Richard? Was she afraid of what she might feel in his arms? In their few brief encounters she’d already felt a great deal.
But what if it was nothing more than the same physical longing she’d experienced with Toussaint? What if she wasn’t afraid of losing her heart but afraid of not losing it? Afraid of feeling nothing at all beyond desire? If she was going to marry the man, it was past time to find out. Regardless of what was at stake, could she spend the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love?
“Robin,” she said abruptly, “I do hate to call an end to this lovely evening, but it is getting rather late.”
A wry smile lifted the corners of Richard’s mouth. It was neither late nor, in truth, had it been all that lovely.
&
nbsp; Robin looked at her with an assessing eye. “Very well. Kit?”
“It doesn’t seem late to me,” Kit murmured, his gaze never leaving Emma.
Emma rose to her feet, and Kit stood at once. “Lady Gillian is right. It has been an exceedingly long day.” She held out her hand.
Kit took it and favored it with a lingering kiss. Gillian tried not to grin. “I do hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
Emma blushed.
Robin rolled his eyes and started toward the door. “Come along then, Kit.” Kit followed reluctantly. Robin stopped and directed a pointed stare at Richard. “Are you coming, Shelbrooke?”
“In a moment,” Gillian said quickly. “We have some matters to discuss.”
Richard raised a brow. “Apparently not, Weston.”
Robin’s eyes narrowed. He studied Gillian thoughtfully, then nodded. “I see. I will bid you good evening then.” He turned and stalked from the room.
“Good evening.” Kit cast a last longing look at Emma and trailed after Robin. Wilkins’s voice was heard in the hall, followed a moment later by the sound of the door opening and closing.
Emma’s gaze met Gillian’s. There was an attractive flush in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. “He certainly is a pleasant gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Pleasant?” Richard snorted. “He’s a flirtatious rake and you’d be well advised to keep your distance.”
“Richard!” Emma’s eyes widened.
“Nonsense,” Gillian snapped. “He’s somewhat high spirited, but he’s quite honorable, very nice, and one of my dearest friends. In addition, he has a respectable fortune and title and would make Emma an excellent match.”
“An excellent match?” Richard’s brows drew together.
“Do you think so?” Emma said in a dreamy manner.
“I do indeed.” Gillian nodded and smiled. “And I have never seen him look at a woman like this before. I think it’s an excellent start.”
“It’s not a start.” Richard’s voice rose. “It’s not a start at all. It’s an end. I have no intention of allowing my sister to have anything more to do with the man.”
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