The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  Besides, she did want him to finish the portrait. She’d be well able to pay for it once—when—if— she got her inheritance. Richard seemed in no great hurry to consummate their agreement even though she had met his lone condition to their marriage. She smiled to herself. More than met his condition.

  “You have the look of a woman who has been well loved, madame.” The artist’s heavy accent drifted from the other side of the dark room. The silly man was still playing his absurd game of not allowing her to see his face. He was probably quite ugly.

  “Do I,” she said coolly.

  “I gather you have now been kissed.”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Oh, but it is. I can only paint what I see.” He paused. “And I see a woman whose senses have been awakened after a long sleep. Do I not?”

  “You most certainly do not,” she snapped.

  He chuckled. “Your protest does not carry the ring of truth, madame. Whom do you wish to convince: me or yourself?”

  “You.” Did she?

  “Are you so certain?”

  “Yes.” Was she? Wasn’t that truly at the heart of her confusion? Was she afraid to admit her love to Richard because she feared it wasn’t truly love at all but merely desire? Was she afraid that what she felt for him was brought on not by her heart but by his touch? Or were even these arguments in her own mind simply a mask for something else she hadn’t considered at all?

  “Perhaps you should tell me about this man who has put such a look on your lovely face?”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Ah, but how soon you have forgotten.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I am your confidant, am I not?”

  “You are not,” she said firmly.

  “Who else do you have, madame?”

  Who else indeed? Not her friends, not her family. Telling this man her secrets was as foolish as coming here in the first place. Yet here she was, and there was a certain amount of ease and freedom in talking to a faceless stranger in the dark. She’d acknowledged it at the last sitting, and nothing had really changed. She heaved a sigh of her own. “I suppose I am rather confused.”

  “When you were last here, it was your circumstances you found confusing. Now, it is you who are confused?” He clucked his tongue. “That is not a good sign.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She shook her head. “My feelings seem to be all jumbled. I think I love him—”

  “Do you?” Toussaint’s accent eased with the comment, and for a fleeting instant his voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Yes, well, that’s what is so perplexing. Am I truly in love, or is it exactly what you said a moment ago? He makes my senses reel.” She thought for a moment, trying once again to sort it all out within her own mind. “When I am in his arms I can think of nothing but him.”

  “And when you are not?”

  “I can think of nothing but him.” She laughed wryly. “Which still doesn’t answer the question of whether I truly love him or whether I simply want him.”

  “And how does he feel?”

  “I don’t know. One minute I’m certain he must care for me, at least a little, and the next …” She shrugged.

  “You English are so foolish about matters of the heart.” Scorn rang in Toussaint’s voice. “Why do you play such games? Why do you not ask him how he feels?”

  “Because I’m not entirely certain I wish to hear the answer.”

  “Perhaps,” Toussaint paused, “he is confused as well.”

  “Perhaps.” Was it at all possible that Richard’s emotions were as tumultuous as her own? “He does seem to be a man with any number of secrets.”

  “And what is more exciting than a man with secrets, eh, madame?”

  “Or a man whose face is hidden,” she murmured. Why did that thought keep recurring in her life these days?

  “But now I am confused. What difference does it make if it is love you feel for this man or lust?”

  “A great deal, I fear.” She searched for the right words. “If what I feel with him is no different than what I would feel with another man, how can I marry him?”

  “Again, I do not understand. I thought your marriage was only for the purpose of gaining a great fortune.”

  “I thought so too.” The irony of it all struck her as sharply as a physical blow. She’d intended to marry with no thought for love at all. Now, it was the only thing she could think of. Did he love her? Did she love him? She’d married the first time for love, and how could she marry again without it? Nothing, not the legacy, not the plight of needy artists, not even her own longing for independence, was as important.

  Abruptly an overwhelming weariness flooded her. She was tired of trying to sort out her feelings and tired as well of the odd circumstances governing her life. She sat upright, found her shoes, and slipped them on. “I must thank you, though. If nothing else, I do understand a bit more of my own feelings.” She rose to her feet. “You have a great deal of talent, monsieur, and I would very much like to have this portrait. Regardless of whether I marry or not, I’m confident I can find the money to pay you for your work.” She picked up her cloak and started toward the door.

  “Would you care to see it?”

  She paused. “The painting?”

  “It is not yet finished, but you may wish to see what I see when I look at you.”

  “But if I came over there I would no doubt see your face and spoil all your fun,” she said lightly.

  “And that we cannot allow,” he laughed. “Put out the candles nearest you, madame, and I will step back into the shadows.”

  “Very well.” She blew out the candles, then crossed the room and stepped to the other side of the easel.

  A lone candle burned in a holder affixed to the top of the easel, illuminating the painting. Her face stared from the canvas. It was a lovely likeness, yet was this creature captured in paint truly her? Was her smile that mysterious? Her relaxed pose on the chaise, the line of her body, that confident? Her eyes that luminous and serene? Had he captured not who she was but who she wished to be?

  “You’re very good, monsieur,” she said softly.

  “Is this once again how you see my soul?”

  She caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of her eye, and the candle snuffed out. The room plunged into darkness.

  Toussaint’s voice sounded behind her, his tone intense. “It is indeed how I see you.”

  “What are you doing?” she said with a sigh.

  He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders.

  “Nothing more than what you wish.”

  “What I wish?” She shook her head. “I doubt that.”

  “You want to know if it is lust you feel for this man or love.” He drew her against him, and she didn’t have the strength to protest. “What do you feel for me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” He laughed softly. “That too is a lie. When I kiss your neck”—he brushed his lips along the side of her neck, and a shiver rushed through her—“you feel a great deal.”

  Did she? “No, I don’t.”

  “Another lie.”

  “No.” Was it?

  “It is, how do you say, a test, perhaps? Test yourself, ma chérie. If I were to kiss you as you should be kissed, as no man has kissed you before,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “you would know.”

  Without warning, anger filled her. She whirled to face him and glared at his dark figure. “Very well then, monsieur, test me! Kiss me!”

  Without hesitation he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers. Fire shot through her from his touch, and for a moment she was swept away by desire, stark and unrelenting and undeniable. Realization flooded her and caught at her breath and stilled her heart.

  The emotion gripping her now in Touissaint’s arms was exactly like that she felt with Richard. The heat of his embrace, the press of his body, the feel of his lips on hers, was the same. How could two such different men cre
ate the same response within her?

  She wrenched herself out of his grasp. “Good God!” Unreasonable anger surged within her, and without thinking she drew back her hand and cracked it across his face. “So much for your test!”

  “Madame, I—”

  She turned on her heel and groped her way across the room. “And, apparently, Toussaint, I failed!”

  And failed miserably. She found the door, flung it open, and stalked down the stairs toward a waiting Wilkins. She barely glanced at him, nodding sharply for him to follow. She climbed into the hired carriage without a word, and it started off at once.

  She was furious. With Toussaint certainly, but more with herself. If this stranger could do this to her, what did that say of her relationship with Richard? What did it say about her? She was indeed wanton. No better than a common trollop.

  Richard was a good man, an honorable man, and he deserved far more in a wife than a woman who would melt at the foot of any man who so much as kissed her. Although it was an impressive kiss.

  What on earth was she going to do now? She buried her face in her hands and tried to think. A flurry of thoughts crowded her brain, and she couldn’t separate one from the other.

  Still …

  She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes in concentration. She only felt this desire for the artist when she was in his arms. She didn’t long for his touch, didn’t yearn to be with him. Then … wasn’t this nothing more than lust? Didn’t her feelings for Richard go far beyond that?

  She straightened in her seat. Toussaint was as accomplished at seduction as he was at the easel. Everyone knew that. And Richard had been rather versed in that arena as well at one point. Why would anyone in their right mind think the kisses of such men wouldn’t have a devastating effect on her senses? She was, in a very real sense, not terribly experienced, in spite of a bit of hard work and practice.

  Had she passed the test after all? Perhaps it wasn’t only what she felt when she was with Richard that mattered. Perhaps what she felt when she wasn’t with him was equally—no, more—important. She wanted him when she wasn’t in his arms and wanted him for so much more than his touch alone. Hadn’t she already realized that? And if that wasn’t love, well, what in truth was? Now, she simply had to tell him.

  She could ignore Toussaint’s kiss, it was of no real significance. It wasn’t as easy to ignore the persistent question lingering in the back of her mind.

  How could the kisses of two different men be so very much alike?

  Was there ever a man who approached his level when it came to total idiocy and sheer number of mistakes?

  Richard lay on the chaise in the dark studio, his hands laced behind his neck, and stared up at the night sky. And at the moment there was surely not a man as miserable. How could he have done that to her? Any of it? He was the worst sort of cad. He’d placed her in an awkward situation for his own purposes. He’d lied to her, deceived her. Once for pride, once for money, and finally for love, although he doubted Gillian would either note the difference or care. Worse, none of it had really gotten him anywhere.

  The stars above winked in accusation.

  He was no closer to knowing her feelings now than he had been at Effington Hall. Of course, he had managed to find out that she was as hesitant to confront him as he was to talk to her. That, no doubt, was in his favor. A small point, but far better than nothing.

  He stared upward at the stars hoping for inspiration, some new strategy. Preferably brilliant.

  It had been such a delightfully clever plan in the beginning, and he still wasn’t sure when it had all gone awry. He probably should have put an end to it and told her the truth the moment there had no longer been a need for a twofold assault. But by then, too many confusing emotions were muddling his mind. What little mind he seemed to have left.

  There really weren’t many options remaining at this point. He blew a long, resigned breath. He would have to confess and throw himself on her mercy. Tell her everything, from the moment he’d seen his own painting in her house to his impromptu deception at Lady Forester’s masquerade to this ridiculous business tonight.

  He would explain it all, and eventually she would understand. She was as practical in her own way as he was in his. Oh, certainly, at first she would be a bit overset, perhaps even furious, but that would pass. Didn’t it stand to reason that if they shared the same sort of fear over each other’s feelings then surely they shared additional emotions as well? Surely she loved him just as he loved her?

  Her grandmother had said it had taken courage to change his life. Telling Gillian he loved her as well as the rest of it would forge the greatest change of all. And take far more courage than he’d ever dreamed possible.

  Still, she wasn’t entirely innocent. She hadn’t mentioned a word to him about her sittings with Toussaint or about the artist’s advances, although she hadn’t exactly lied.

  He snorted in self-disdain. She’d never donned a disguise to accost him in a garden, never adopted an accent to seduce him. No, perhaps it would be wise not to mention Gillian’s actions. No doubt she wouldn’t equate her relatively minor lies of omission with his very real duplicity.

  He did have to admit, at least to himself, he’d rather enjoyed playing the role of the rakish Frenchman. Toussaint’s manner was very much like his own had once been. It was surprisingly easy to fall into the portrayal. To be, once again, a rogue absorbed by nothing more than his own interests and desires.

  Well, he would pay dearly. Now, he’d do whatever he needed to do to make it right between them. Beg. Plead. Even grovel.

  In truth, how long could it take? Sooner or later she’d probably see the humor in it all. One of the things he loved about her was how easily she laughed. They’d have quite a good laugh together over it. She’d forgive him because she loved him. He just hoped she loved him enough.

  He smiled up at the stars. Of course she loved him. Given her comments, and her confusion, it made sense. How could she not?

  Gillian glanced at the clock on the overmantel once again. Its hands had scarcely moved since the last time she’d checked. Or the time before or the time before that. She suppressed the impulse to snatch it off its perch and see if the damnable thing was still functioning. Besides, it had indeed been working when she’d examined it only a few minutes ago.

  Where was he? She paced the room. Was she doomed to spend the rest of her days waiting for him to make an appearance? According to his note he should have already arrived. Where was he, anyway, and more to the point, exactly what was he up to?

  She could add that to the ever-growing list of items they needed to clear up between them. Not that she thought he was spending his time doing anything less than honorable. She agreed with Emma on that score. Still, it would be nice to know.

  She’d been about to send a missive of her own when his note had arrived, brought once again by the same grubby boy Wilkins was convinced marked the decline of English civilization as they knew it.

  She’d decided on her way home last night that it was past time to resolve all the questions between them. She was fairly confident she understood her own feelings. Now she needed to determine his. It would take rather a lot of courage, though.

  Courage? The thought stopped her in her tracks. She’d never really considered the attribute before. It had, of course, taken a certain amount of courage to approach Richard with her marriage proposal in the first place. And hadn’t it taken courage to continue with her life after Charles’s death? Certainly it had.

  Or was it courage? She drew her brows together in concentration. Didn’t courage imply some risk? Had she ever really chanced anything in her life?

  Marrying Charles had involved no uncertainty. They’d known each other since childhood, and she’d assumed they’d be together forever. After his death she’d gone on, although, when she looked back with the perception born of distance, what choice had she had?

  But had she truly carried on with life?

&nb
sp; Hadn’t she protected herself, protected her heart, at every turn through the years? Hadn’t she used Robin and Kit as convenient escorts and companions who demanded nothing in return? Even her salons had been held with an eye toward introducing patrons to those who could use their help, but she had been nothing more than an intermediary. As much an observer as Richard had always appeared to be.

  She shook her head at the revelation. Gillian had never really reflected on her life before. And she wasn’t at all sure she liked what she saw. Had she lived all these years or simply existed? Perhaps it was time to take a risk. Perhaps, she straightened her shoulders, nothing in life that was worth having was possible without it.

  Voices sounded in the foyer, and she braced herself.

  “Gillian.” Richard appeared in the doorway.

  “Richard.” Her voice was calm, but her heart tripped.

  He strode into the room. She hadn’t seen him since they’d returned to London, yet he didn’t seem at all pleased to see her. It was almost as if he was as nervous about their meeting as she was.

  She didn’t know what to say, where to begin. She stepped to the sideboard and poured him a glass of brandy. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Yes, well.” He ran his fingers through his hair, and at once she realized he was indeed as uneasy as she. Why? “I’ve been thinking …”

  “As have I.” She groaned to herself and took a quick sip of the liquor. They sounded like two complete strangers having a polite conversation about nothing whatsoever.

  “About?”

  “Us?” she prompted.

  “Among other things,” he murmured.

  Was he, too, reluctant to begin? This was getting them nowhere. “It seems to me, we haven’t been entirely honest with each other.”

  “We haven’t?” he said cautiously.

  “No.” She drew a steadying breath.

  “About anything in particular?”