by Gina Conkle
He moved closer and inspected the background foliage. More fruit, ethereal silhouettes, hidden behind leaves. So like a woman, layers of revelation and hidden depths.
“How did she do that?” he whispered and looked over at the other uncovered paintings along the wall.
Some were quite traditional. Others brought to mind a different feel, something primal. His eyes were drawn to the tantalizing Chinese pear tree. That center fruit still looked very much to him like a woman’s nude bottom. The side of his mouth quirked at the possibility that the image could be a self-portrait of sorts.
There’s only one way to confirm that.
He grinned yet, something else bedeviled him. The distinct foreground, what was at the surface, was obvious.
“What we see, what I see is evident, yet only surface.” He smiled. “Ah, Lydia, the remaining treasures need to be searched out and wooed by the patient beholder. You and I are much more than what the outside world sees.”
One needed to take a longer look to find and plumb those rich depths. The dark-haired woman sleeping upstairs taught him as much. This painting was her siren call. To him.
Edward let loose a peal of laughter, whole and round, that bounced around the ballroom as euphoria filled him. He was like a blind man newly sighted. Candles wobbled and dripped wax on the floor.
What he felt was primal, passionate, and pure. Like Lydia. Yes, Lydia was the best kind of pure. Honest and refreshing with enticing mystery. Her art reflected her, and she reflected her art.
Truth, like an alluring woman, sat right before his eyes.
Seventeen
When we have gold, we are in fear.
When we have none, we are in danger.
—English Proverb
No matter the woman, from scullery maid to lofty queen, sex leveled her playing field. Hadn’t that always been the case from the most ancient of times? Oh, some of the fairer sex held a trove of talents, others wealth and keen minds, but the one consistent line through the fabric of time was sex and sensuality. Women wielded so much power, much more than men, in the give and take of sensual pursuits. Then, why, why, why after only one kiss to her knee was she considering tossing all and sundry to the wind?
Stay or go? That was the question.
There was no delicate way to put this as she pushed off the answer to the last possible moment. Avoidance remained a coward’s path, and Lydia ran headlong down it with both eyes shut, like some kind of fool. For two days she embraced indecision, and peace of mind was the cost, with discomfort her reward. Lud, but the pressure was horrid.
But what an intoxicating kiss. To her knee. And there were Edward’s caresses to consider. Why did his touch fan flames wherever his fingers skimmed flesh? Just thinking about where his hand had touched caused a minor shiver.
She closed her eyes and let the headiness play out in her mind. The surprise: images of laughing and talking, trading quips and barbs with his lordship came to the fore. Was this really about the lure of sex? Of gold? Art? Or something else?
When Lydia opened her eyes, the bristles of her new ox-hair paintbrush fanned the canvas, smearing blobs of paint. Canvas stretched that morning, and already the painting had turned to a messy disaster. Like her. Lines failed to form, shapes didn’t mesh. Two agonizing days had crawled by with tossing and turning over her ladyship’s offer, when she should have slept. Misery and melancholy claimed her when she should have been wide awake and vibrant about her future. Today, by sunset when the countess returned, she had to decide: stay or go.
Lady Elizabeth’s scandalous offer tempted her in ways she couldn’t fathom.
At the same time, the offer reviled her in ways she was just beginning to probe.
The primary reason to leave was her art; the singular reason to stay was a man.
Why did Edward have to come to her room last night with his honest, sensual appeal that touched her to the core? She was certain his lordship was knocked back a step or two, as well, by that nocturnal visit. Oh, he had to be as affected as her by the surprising closeness that had filled the room, encircling them on the settee. His body had responded to the novel caresses they’d exchanged.
Strange, though they were hardly sexual, her body craved him. Her hoyden’s mouth quirked sidewise, recalling the way he’d tried to hide his arousal by poking at the fire; she was glad he shared some discomfort from their unique situation.
At the moment, the tempting man was sweating in one of his silliest pursuits: Edward participated in a jump-rope race against Jonas Bacon. Both grown men had spent more than an hour practicing swordsmanship, fencing mostly with short swords. They worked to best the other at one feat of athleticism after another, laughing their way through the ballroom. In the current competition, Sanford Shipping’s man of business lagged far behind the fleet-footed earl, who whipped his rope in a frantic race to reach one hundred jumps before Mr. Bacon.
“…ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!” Edward crowed his victory, dropping the long hemp rope as he raised both fists high.
His chest heaved under the sweat-dampened shirt. He gave her a bold smile and a bow, playing to his attentive audience of one. Linen clung to both men’s torsos, since both had claimed with her presence in the ballroom, they would honor propriety and keep their shirts on. She glanced over the top of her new, larger canvas at the boyish display. When she looked back at the canvas, her brush had smeared a new arc of muddied color: this was nothing like the exotic specimen she’d seen, the butterfly bush it was called, beginning to bloom in the greenhouse.
She exhaled long and rubbed her rag so hard across the canvas that the easel’s legs rattled and scraped the floor.
“Why the glum face?” Edward walked toward her, wiping a towel across his nape. He breathed heavily from his unusual sprint. “I thought you’d be euphoric with my mother gone. No countess lessons today.”
He managed a wide smile that showed nice even teeth. With moisture dotting his hairline, his queue near undone, and shirt untucked, Edward looked more like a laborer ending his day than any nobleman. How could she let a man throw her off this much?
“Perhaps like you, I wish to work uninterrupted.” She dropped the rag to her feet and took a step back to contemplate how she’d rework this piece.
Lydia dabbed and mixed a shade of onyx and blue and red, trying to achieve the perfect purplish hue, but even her palette had become a disarray of smeared colors. She bristled at his lightheartedness. How could he smile and be so at ease? Of course, his world was ordered and known; hers was the one thrown into disorder and uncertainty. Part of her was tempted right then to spill the news of his mother’s offer, just to relieve the pressure.
“Ah, we’ve reached an understanding then on the importance of work, my work at least,” he said with a teasing wink while moving around to see the latest project. “I’ll have you know I’ve once again become an astute pupil of Aristotle.”
“And what exactly have you learned?” she asked, cranky and out of sorts.
“That I’m attracted to a distinct and brilliant woman.”
Her lips parted. Why did he have to say wonderful things like that and look incredibly handsome and appealing? The soft way he said those words was as effective as his touch, though at the moment he kept his hands to himself. Edward gave her his brash smile, and the scarred skin creased handsomely, as did the unscarred cheek. What woman in her right mind could turn away from him? Her brush hung midair, thick with purple, and she cleared her throat, trying for prim control.
“Somehow, I can’t think Aristotle said that.” She licked her lips, all of her warm and muddled.
That fuzzy sensation in her head from mulling over the countess’s proposal melted under his stimulating presence. The corners of his eyes creased with a deeper smile. Edward looked very satisfied with the effect his compliment had on her.
“No, I came to that conclusion on my own.” He clasped his arms across his chest, taking a glimpse at her latest work. His head c
anted to the left and then the right as he examined the purplish mess. “But he did say that art consists of bringing something into existence, and that impresses me about you. I never quite thought of art that way.”
“Because you never thought about art at all,” she chided gently, but her heart swelled under his second compliment. “Does my painting something or someone make the subject more real to you?”
“Says the teacher to her student.” He grinned and moved closer to her.
His gaze went from her current, unformed painting to the Chinese pear tree painting that sat alone near the workbench. His lordship’s arms moved loosely in front of him as he wiped the rag once more over his face and neck.
“I can’t figure it all out yet. But I’m getting there.” He glanced back at the sensual fruit and grinned. “Want to know another conclusion?”
“Please.” Lydia coached herself to keep calm under the onslaught of unexpected charm.
“The month-long mandate is too long.” His eyes sparked with new light that had nothing to do with art appreciation.
Her sharp, involuntary intake of breath was quiet and heard only between them. Lydia studied her palette and schooled herself to regain composure before meeting his newly smoldering gaze.
“You’re full of surprises today, my lord—”
“Edward, remember?”
“Of course. Edward. What brought about the hastening of our bargain?” she asked, trying to regain equilibrium. “Surely not Aristotle. I don’t think he wrote a single romantic word, did he?”
His topaz eyes darkened. “No, I’m swayed by simple biology.”
Her heart dropped. She kept a semblance of a smile frozen on her face. “And here I thought you were going to wax on about being smitten with me.”
His molten gaze lowered to the practical neckline of her smock and then a little lower, where the swells of her breasts pressed against the coarse fabric.
“A few things have developed between us. Something mutual.” The line of his mouth flattened. “But, Lydia, tell me you’re not developing any affection for me. I’ll only disappoint.”
Could he have added another stone to her pile of confusion and discontent? She gave him her best nonchalant toss of her head and paid attention to her palette, dipping her brush into who knows what color.
“Of course, not. Our original agreement was very clear as to what was expected. And you have been more than generous with me.” Both her shoulders shrugged tightly then dropped. “We have the good fortune to enjoy certain attraction. And that works in our favor.”
“Good. Because I notified my solicitor that we should move matters along…late next week, I think?”
“Next week?” she yelped.
He balled the rag in his hand and called out, “Jonas, put this with the other rags, will you?”
He tossed the cloth at Jonas, who caught it handily on his way to the pile of swords. The Colonial, his massive chest working hard to grab deep breaths, picked up a pitcher and tipped it over. Empty.
“I’ll see about more water.” The way his clear blue eyes assessed her and Edward, Lydia needed to hide. His skills of perception were well-honed for a rough man of business.
As Jonas left the room, the countess’s proposition rang in her head, but the sound of it was as flat and unappealing as the alternative—a passionate if emotionless marriage. Then Edward dropped another offering at her feet.
“I may have been too optimistic with my timeline. Beside, all the better to help your mother. You could write her today and let her know. That’ll be a tremendous relief to her.” His tanned face glowed with the kind offer.
Lydia glanced at the floor and grimaced at the bald fact that she’d forgotten all about her mother’s welfare, so concerned with her own wants these two days. She jabbed the ox-hair brush, thick with purple, on the canvas.
“She’d like that news very much,” she murmured, not able to look him in the eye.
Edward stood near her shoulder, perusing the progress of this painting and trying to keep their earlier agreeable connection. For a man who didn’t like social discourse, he sought her out often enough.
“Of course, this means you cannot escape countess lessons.” He said the words with an amused thread in his voice. “We’ve all the more reason now we’re speeding things up.”
His words stirred her hair, and a tantalizing shiver grazed the shell of her ear. Edward’s fingers brushed back strands that had fallen loose from their pins. Her paintbrush halted under the unexpected touch. Like a cat purring from a tender stroke, her head tipped toward his caressing hand. Lydia’s body shivered under the voluminous smock.
“I suppose this means you no longer doubt me,” she said quietly, trying to keep some composure while her brush dabbed here and there.
His long fingers stroked and played with wisps of hair that had come loose around her collar, lulling her with gentle movement. His hand slid to her shoulder and then slipped lower, trailing warm pressure down her spine. Her brush slipped on what was supposed to be a petal, and purple flared.
“I was wrong that first night,” he said, his lips grazing her ear. “I know it in my bones I can trust you.”
A bolt like lightning in a dark sky shot through her. She gave up on the pretense of painting but didn’t move. Sensual quivers shook her body, spreading across her buttocks, the globes of which clenched. All of her thrummed like a plucked instrument to the man teasing and stroking her so skillfully from behind. His touch, his words made her long for more, but that gift he gave—his trust. What was more potent to her?
“And then there is this attraction between us,” he said, tracing one side of her face. “But there is one other serious proposition I have for you. About your art.”
Somber reason intruded. Her neck stiff, Lydia tilted her head forward a fraction, away from the earl’s drugging presence. She needed a clear head.
“What about it?”
“When I wrote my solicitor about our wedding next week, I mentioned your wish to sell your art and—”
She yelped from a surge of excitement, and swung around to face him. She had read him all wrong. He would support and promote selling her art. With palette in one hand and paintbrush in the other, Lydia flung her arms around him and set her cheek to his chest.
“Thank you, Edward. You’ve no idea what this means to me,” she cried.
His calloused hands gripped her forearms and carefully peeled her from him. “I welcome overtures of appreciation, but wait until you hear all that I have to say.”
The cultured, factual tone of his voice didn’t bode well, reminding her of stodgy requirements that always got in the way of what she wanted. Her arms hung at her sides. She waited for the latest ruling that would affect her life. Edward’s face bore that serious barrister’s expression, the same one he’d worn after he caught her snooping in his room.
“I get the feeling this doesn’t go well for me.” Lydia glanced down at her palette and brush, and the desire to paint diminished. “I’d better put these away.”
Edward followed her to the worktable. “It’s not all that bad. I asked him to look into the inner workings of the art world.” Edward set both hands on his hips. “I want to support you, but the Countess of Greenwich is a position of some esteem and expectation. Miss Lydia Montgomery may turn Britain’s art world on its ear, but the Countess of Greenwich? That’s a different matter.”
She rubbed a cloth vigorously over her hands. “So that’s it? My art’s on the shelf if I marry you.”
“If?” His eyebrows slammed together, and that sharp line between his eyebrows appeared. “We already have that one resolved, don’t we?” he asked sharply.
She slapped the rag on the bench. “Of course we do.”
“Good. I only beg your patience while my solicitor sorts this out. You’ve waited this long, a few more months won’t matter, will it?”
She wanted to toss his words back at him, but something worse began to happen. She
refused to look him in the eye.
“I guess not.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen to her anymore. Hot, horrible tears formed; how long since she’d last cried? The prickling pain pinched the insides of her eyes, pushing, pushing until the first determined tears spilled.
When would this ever happen for her?
Lydia dipped her head and rubbed her forehead, hiding the wetness filling her eyes. This was not a resolved matter. And as scalding tears came one after another, she remembered the last time she wept: right after she saw Nate, her erstwhile farmer of four years ago.
She’d been politely asked by her mother to leave Somerset right after the Duchess caught her with Nate, but brimming with joy, she ran to the village public house where her handsome farmer waited. She was onto a better, different path. When Lydia, full of smiles, pushed open the door, his gorgeous eyes sparkled at her over the shoulder of a tawdry doxy giggling in his lap. He shrugged and mouthed: sorry, luv.
And that was that.
Her dark-haired farmer would never know the painful destruction he’d meted out in her life. She ran out the door before he witnessed scalding tears of humiliation. Lydia packed herself off to Wickersham, swearing never to cry in front of a man again, which was easy when keeping them at a distance. But Edward was not satisfied with being shut out; he was determined to witness her shame. His hand tipped up her chin.
“Lydia, what’s this all about?” His palm grazed her cheek, brushing the damp streaks. “I know you want this badly, but wait. Please wait, and all will be resolved.”
Edward was a watery blur, his features distorted. His fingers slipped into her hair, and something about her must have touched a caring nerve, because he groaned and drew her into his arms. Once he kissed her forehead, all fragile threads of control broke.
And how good it felt to have a man hold her with the simple gift of his tender care.
His hands cradled her head, his fingers kneading her scalp in gentle touches. Strong, sculpted lips pressed her forehead, her temple, her high cheekbone, sliding along inches of skin until meeting her lips, open and ready for him. Her tears salted their kisses. The surprise of that contact exploded the air around them. Edward pressed her, or she pressed Edward, so tight, limb to limb, fitting curves and planes together. The buttons of his placket ground into her abdomen as both tried for as much contact with the other.
