She glanced at the artist, who ignored the interruption and was busy applying paint to canvas in a haphazard manner.
“I should have known this was your next adventure,” Cameron said sharply. The artist threw him a condescending look and Cam gasped. “You!”
Lucy’s gaze shifted between the two men. “Do you know each other?”
The artist shrugged.
“Of course I know him! Bloody hell, if you were so determined to be painted sans clothing you could have found a genuine artist!”
“I assure you, monsieur, I am quite genuine,” the Frenchman said under his breath, not bothering to pull his attention away from his painting. “And very, very good.”
Lucy grinned.
“I hope you paint better than you bake!” Cameron snapped.
“I do not bake,” the man muttered.
Lucy stared. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you managed to find the one Frenchman who can bake as well as slap paint on a canvas.” Cameron crossed his arms over his chest. “At least I hope you are getting your money’s worth!”
Lucy shook her head in confusion. “What?”
“The resemblance, mademoiselle,” the artist pointed out. “You noted it yourself.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, of course.” Lucy sighed. “Allow me to introduce Monsieur Jean-Philippe Vadeboncoeur—”
“Vad-eh-bon-kehr, mademoiselle,” the artist said in a long-suffering tone. “Vad-eh-bon-kehr.”
Lucy grimaced. “My apologies. Jean-Philippe is François’ brother.”
“He certainly looks like the chef !” Although now that Cam had a better look at him, he realized the artist was a bit older. And probably much more experienced at the seduction of young women.
“I have two other brothers as well, monsieur.” Vadeboncoeur stepped back from his work, studied the canvas, then continued to dab. “We bear a striking resemblance to each other and to our father.” He glanced at Lucy and a wicked smile shone in his eyes, then his attention returned to his work. “My mother says it is most convenient.”
Lucy choked back a laugh.
“This time, Miss Merryweather, you have gone too far!” Cameron huffed. “And please do me the courtesy of putting some clothing on.”
“Englishmen.” Jean-Philippe sniffed.
“I am more than suitably clothed, given the situation. And I quite like this.” Lucy glanced down at the robe. “It’s no worse than the sari.”
“That’s not saying much!” Cam couldn’t remember the last time prurient interest had dueled with honor and honor had won. “Good Lord, Lucy.” He strode toward her, shrugging off his coat. He wrapped it around her, jerking her closer to him in the process. “That’s not much better but . . . but . . .” His gaze locked with hers. His hands still gripped his coat and he stared down at her. He hadn’t realized just how intimate their position was. There was nothing between him and that delicious body of hers but the merest sigh of silk that clung to every curve, molded against her, and whispered upon her skin.
She stared up at him, the oddest look in her eyes. Of recognition or realization or awareness. As if she too knew the sudden and unrepentant longing, the ache of desire that surged through him, twisting his stomach and wrapping around his soul.
“I am nearly finished with you, mademoiselle,” Vadeboncoeur said.
The moment between them shattered and they jerked away from each other as if one or the other of them was ablaze.
Lucy cleared her throat. “Oh?”
“I will soon have all that I need of you.” The artist picked up a rag and wiped his brush, his gaze still focused on the painting. “A few hours, no more.”
“Are you nearly finished then?” she said.
He scoffed and gestured at the work. “No, no, there is much still to be done. The plants, the leaves, the way the light filters through the window and dances on the foliage and caresses the skin. But I will soon have enough to continue without you.” He nodded. “Such brilliance leaves me weary and parched. I must refresh myself. I shall be no more than a few minutes, then we will continue. Monsieur.” He nodded at Cameron, then strode out of the conservatory in search of refreshment.
“His English is better than his brother’s,” Cam noted. But like his brother, he too had the look of a god. A god somewhat older and probably more experienced and no doubt extremely skilled at—
“Why are you here?” Lucy asked the moment Vadeboncoeur disappeared from sight.
He drew a deep breath. “I came to apologize.”
“And yet your attitude today is precisely the same as it was two days ago.”
“Yes, well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Damn it, Lucy.” He ran his hand through his hair. “This isn’t some little lark, some silly antic. That man saw you naked!”
“Oh, he did not.” She paused. “Not much of me, anyway.”
“Have you no modesty?”
“I have a great deal of modesty. Why, I am probably the most modest person I know.” She huffed. “Let me tell you, Cameron Fairchild, it’s not particularly easy to pose without clothing. It takes a great deal of courage.”
He stared. “Courage?”
She nodded. “Yes, courage. At least in the beginning. But after a while . . .”
His eyes narrowed. “After a while?”
“After a while one realizes the artist is not really looking at you.”
“Come now.” He scoffed. “No man in his right mind would not be looking at you, naked, if given the chance.”
“Why, thank you, but that’s not what I mean.” She thought for a moment. “He certainly looked at me but with no more salacious interest than he would give a bowl of oranges or a vase of flowers. Once you realize that you are simply a subject like any other”—she raised a shoulder in a casual shrug—“then any sense of embarrassment goes away.”
“How delightful for you.” He glared. Had she no idea of the seriousness of all this? “Do you realize this is the sort of thing that destroys a woman’s reputation?”
“Only if people know about it and no one ever will. Besides, women pose for paintings all the time.”
“Well-bred, respectable, young women do not pose for paintings without their clothes on!”
She cast him an annoyingly wicked smile. “Which is what makes it an adventure.”
“Which is what makes it scandalous!”
“Nonsense.” She waved off his objection. “Scandal is in the eye of the beholder. Besides, I intend to keep the painting, not have it displayed in a gallery.”
“Which doesn’t mean no one will ever see it!”
“Which means no one will see it unless I wish them to. And even if they do, it will make no difference.” She paused. “Would you like to see it?”
He would like nothing better. “Absolutely not.”
“Come now, Mr. Fairchild, don’t be so stuffy. It’s art after all.” She strode over to the easel and studied the painting. “I think it’s quite extraordinary. Or at least it will be when it’s finished.” She glanced at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to see it?”
“No!” Yes!
Her attention returned to the portrait. “Even now there’s something about it that’s quite, oh . . . provocative.”
“To say the least!”
“I should tell you that I chose Jean-Philippe because of his artistic style.” She continued to inspect the work. “François had told me his brother was an artist, and yesterday Jean-Philippe came by to show me some of his work.” She glanced at Cam. “You would have known that if you had been here.”
He stared. “You told me not to come back.”
“And yet here you are.”
He hesitated. “Taking off your clothes is not the only thing that requires courage.”
“I had already decided to forgive you. You can’t help who you are, no man can. I have brothers, you know. It’s
the very nature of your gender to be arrogant and overbearing and somewhat asinine.” She returned to her perusal of the painting. “In that you are no different than any other man.”
He stared. “Thank you?”
“Jean-Philippe considers himself something of an impressionist. Although he feels his work is progressing further beyond the mere depiction of a subject than even the impressionists went. Or something like that. It was a bit difficult to understand exactly what he meant; he did tend to go on and on, until I saw his work. That’s when I decided he was the only artist I could trust for this.”
“Trust?”
She pulled her gaze from the painting. “Are you certain you don’t want to see it?”
“Oh, very well.” He blew a resigned breath and joined her.
For a long moment he could do nothing but stare at Vadeboncoeur’s interpretation of a partially nude Lucy.
“He’s calling it American Dreamer, which doesn’t seem entirely accurate. I’ve always thought of myself as rather practical and sensible. But it does look a bit like a dream at that.” She glanced at him. “I can’t read your mind and for once your thoughts don’t show on your face. Tell me, what do you think?”
“I’m not sure what to think,” he said slowly. It was not at all what he expected.
The canvas was covered with dabs and dashes and dots of paint in what looked like a random manner. He took a step back, then another. The shapes took form the farther back he stood. It was definitely a woman in a lush, tropical setting, but it was indeed no more than an impression, a feeling perhaps of beauty and serenity and sensuality. It was obviously unfinished but was already most evocative, reminiscent of the works of a Monet or a Renoir, but not as refined and yet striking in a raw, abstract sort of way. More a vision than a truth, a dream more than reality.
“It’s unique,” he said at last.
“It is at that.” She laughed. “When Jean-Philippe visited yesterday he showed me two works. One was a portrait, nicely done and quite realistic. He says one has to do what one must to pay one’s bills. The second was the same woman painted in this style. He paints portraits to make a living. This . . .” She nodded at the painting. “This is the work of his soul. This is where his passion is.”
Cam nodded. “And this is what you wanted?”
“What I wanted was to cross off Great-aunt Lucinda’s desire to be painted without clothing. But I am not stupid, Cameron.”
“I never thought you were.”
“I realize the dangers inherent in pursuing this quest of mine. I have no desire for scandal to ruin the rest of my life. You’ve said nothing on that topic that I have not thought of myself.”
“Again, my apologies for not giving you the credit due you.”
“Now that was sincere.” She smiled and returned her gaze to the canvas. “In her journal, Lucinda thought it would be a great adventure to be immortalized forever as art as long as one’s features were suitably disguised.”
“That you have achieved.”
“And better yet, I like it, very much.” She considered it thoughtfully. “It strikes me as, oh, I don’t know, pure emotion if you will, captured in color and movement. A fanciful idea, I suppose.”
“Not at all.” The more he studied the work, the more it called to him. “It strikes me in much the same way. It’s all light and shadow, variations of hues and shades and makes no sense when examined too closely. But step back and you get a, well, an impression of something remarkable.”
She raised a brow. “Then you do like it?”
“God help me, I do.” He grinned. “So.” He adopted a casual manner. “Now that you can cross this off your list, what do you plan next?”
“I have been giving that, and you, a great deal of thought.” She stepped away from the painting and drifted aimlessly along the path encircling the palm.
“You have been giving me a great deal of thought?” He wasn’t sure if that was good or very bad.
“I have.” She nodded. “While I have acknowledged that you cannot help your attitude when it comes to women, because we are so weak and fragile and lacking in intelligence.”
“I never said—”
She pinned him with a hard look.
It was no use arguing with her, especially when she was more than a little right. He sighed. “I did come to apologize.”
“And?”
“And, well, apparently, I will have to continue to apologize.”
“Will you?”
“You said it yourself—it’s in my nature. Because as much as you don’t think you need someone to watch over you, I am certain you do. Which reminds me.” He glanced around the conservatory. “Where is Albert? I expected him to be nipping at my heels the moment I stepped foot in here.”
She sighed. “He doesn’t seem to like Jean-Philippe, so he’s confined to my rooms for now.”
“Good dog,” he murmured. “And where is your cohort in scandal?”
“If you mean Miss West, she was here until shortly before you arrived. Then I sent her off on an errand.”
“Dare I ask what kind of errand?”
“You can ask, but half the fun of any adventure is the element of surprise,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
He ignored her. “What I’m attempting to say is that I suspect I will continue to annoy you because, in what I believe is your best interest, I will continue to try to make you see reason when it comes to these regrets of your great-aunt’s. And I shall do so in my arrogant, high-handed manner.”
“I expect nothing less.” She leaned over to inspect a large tropical blossom. A hibiscus, he thought.
“You may throw me out as many times as you want but I shall continue to return.”
She nodded. “Because it’s your job.”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Oh?” She moved to another plant and rubbed a velvety leaf between two fingers.
He trailed after her. “And because we’ve become friends.”
“There is that,” she said under her breath, and continued to wander slowly from one plant to the next, making her way around the palm in the center of the room.
“And because, well, I . . . I like you.”
She smiled.
He drew a deep breath. “I like you a great deal, Lucy.”
She bent to take a sniff of an elegant blossom he couldn’t identify. “Go on”
He could use a little encouragement but apparently that was not going to happen. “It’s because I like you that I think this course you’re set upon is . . . well, you know my thoughts on that.”
“Indeed I do.”
“I want only the best for you.” The oddest note of desperation sounded in his voice. “If you have any feelings for me—”
“Feelings?” Lucy straightened, her eyes wide.
He grimaced. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No, no, it’s quite all right.” She waved off his apology. “I was simply surprised, that’s all.” She moved to the chaise and sank down onto it, casting him a weak smile. “Actually, this is exactly what I was thinking about. Well, not exactly this, but something like this. Or perhaps not at all. Although—”
Good Lord, the woman was babbling. He’d never seen her babble before. It was rather endearing. Obviously, she was taken aback by his comment.
“—somewhat, I think. Your wanting what’s best, that is. And the truly charming, if overbearing, compulsion you have to make certain I am, well, protected, I suppose. Of course, some of that is your job but”—she drew a steadying breath—“at this point, it appears there is only one sensible thing to do.”
“You’ll give up this absurd quest?” Had the woman at last come to her senses?
She stared at him. “Two things then.”
He narrowed his eyes and sat on the chaise beside her. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“If you’re so concerned about what sort of mischief I might become embroiled in, perhaps you should
help me accomplish the items on my list rather than leaving me to my own devices.” She smiled in an innocent manner, but a note of triumph rang in her voice.
“Help you?” He stared for a long moment. He was right. She did have a diabolical mind. “You want me to assist you to do what I don’t think you should be doing at all?”
“I thought it was a brilliant idea.”
“Brilliant isn’t the word I would use.” Still, it was not a bad idea. If he was the one to plan how to accomplish the remaining items on her list, she certainly couldn’t go off on these little adventures without him. It would, in fact, make his life easier.
“Unless of course, you’d prefer not to.” She shrugged “Or you’re not up to the task.”
He raised a brow. “Is that a challenge?”
She smiled in a smug manner. “It would appear so.”
“I’m more than up to the task,” he warned.
“One can only hope.” She grinned and held out her hand. “Then we have an agreement?”
“We do at that. You have my word I will do everything I can to assist you in your absurd quest.”
She laughed.
He took her hand and for a moment wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and knew if he did, he might not let her go. His gaze met hers. “There is a great deal I need to say to you, Lucy.”
“Is it important?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t think this is the time.” She paused. “I have something I wish to say to you as well. But this is not the time for that either.”
“Why not?”
“If we are going to discuss important matters, then I would much prefer to do so fully dressed.”
He laughed. “Would you?”
“I would.” She nodded. “I feel entirely too, well, free I suppose, without my usual layer upon layer of clothing.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid that sensation of liberty would not serve me well in a discussion of important matters. I am beginning to suspect women are made to wear garments like corsets in the first place to restrict our sense of freedom. It’s awfully difficult to do anything improper in a corset.”
The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress Page 17
