“The red, then.” He nodded. “I understand and support your moral and courageous decision.” He stood as if the matter were settled and moved to his table, arranging his tools and the sealed pigment jars, gathering some blank papers and looking for charcoal.
“Th-thank you, Mr. Hastings.” She’d been outmaneuvered and they both knew it, and her modest blush in defeat almost made him forgo his small victory.
Oh, God, I’m already in danger of being besotted with this woman. Please just let me paint her and be done.
Chapter
8
Eleanor took off her bonnet inside the inn’s entryway and made her way up the stairs, her steps lighter than the day before. Her first day under Mr. Hastings’s scrutiny had proven that her fears were unfounded. There had been no leering or unseemly innuendos. He’d asked permission each and every time he wished to approach her or touch her to make an adjustment. And those touches were … fleeting, gentle, and never inappropriate.
She almost felt guilty for how exhilarated she was and how she’d forgotten to worry about being vain. He’d made it all too easy. She’d sat on that divan and never noticed the time. Instead, she’d been distracted by Josiah’s hands as he sketched and the quick turns of their conversation. He’d sat several feet from the edge of the dais, and just as promised, looked at her as much as he wished.
It was his study of her that had proven to be the most challenging part of the day. She’d never had a man look at her as he did—and the strange heat in his gaze had kept even her toes warm in the chill of the studio. It was more than admiration. It was what she imagined worship would be if she allowed herself to conjure the wanton thought. After all, practical and independent women didn’t encourage such whimsy.
Or enjoy the unexpected benefit of being able to study him in return as much as she wished. Josiah Hastings only became more handsome the longer a woman looked, so she’d done her best not to linger on his face too much. But the temptation was very real when he’d knelt next to the divan for a while to start a new sketch, close enough for her to absorb every detail of his delightful male form.
It’s wicked for a man to look like that—like some refined yet rugged hermit. We’re in the heart of London, and he looks like he’s walked out of the Welsh wilds.
He’d worked until his fingers were black from his charcoal sticks and the winter light began to fade. He’d been lost in it, she suspected, until he’d finally noticed that the brazier had gone out and she was shivering a little. Then there was a flurry of apologies and he was bundling her up in her coat and scarf while his very grumpy Mr. Escher saw about hailing a carriage downstairs. And then Josiah escorted her down with assurances that they would begin again in the morning and offered one last reminder for her to bring the dress.
She reached her apartment door and pulled out from her coat pocket the key that Mrs. Clay had provided her, only to realize that it was already unlocked.
I locked it most carefully this morning!
A flare of alarm made her cautious as she pushed open the door and peered in for whatever intruder might be lurking or poised for attack.
A familiar blond head popped up from behind the chairs in front of the fireplace and Eleanor couldn’t catch the yelp of surprise at the sight of him, but did her best to recover quickly and give him a smile of assurance. After all, here was Mrs. Clay’s dear boy, and she didn’t want him to think her rude or unfeeling.
“Oh! My chaperone! I wasn’t able to formally say hello last night to the very famous Tally I’ve heard so much about.”
He was small for his age, if Mrs. Clay had placed him rightly at twelve, but his cheeks were rosy and full and his blue eyes shone with health, so she had no doubt that his size couldn’t be blamed on a lack of nutrition or care. He came to attention like a little soldier, but there was no fear in him. She had less of an impression of a little rabbit and more of a small house elf caught in the act.
He gestured to the coal bucket, demonstrating how empty it now was, and then pointed to the bellpull and then himself, all the while smiling before turning back to finish his task.
She began to take off her coat and then nearly fell over when someone burst into the room.
“Miss Beckett? Are you all right?”
It was the largest man she’d ever seen, and if Tally hadn’t just surprised her, she was sure she’d have fainted dead away. He was nearly seven feet in height, and lean with broad shoulders, a muscular giant, as intimidating a presence as any she’d encountered. But a practical woman could only put up with so much in an evening, and Eleanor Beckett gripped her coat in front of her like a shield. “I am fine! I was merely startled by—I didn’t expect to meet young Master Clay over there.”
“Oh.” Michael Rutherford took an immediate step backward, retreating almost as quickly as he’d intruded. “Yes … Tally is … pardon me. So sorry to have …” And the door was closed behind him before she could even think of a thing to say.
Tally popped back up, oblivious to the brief drama behind him, merrily picking up the rag he’d used to kneel on to protect the carpets while he worked, and then bowed.
“Yes, thank you!” She spoke as clearly as she could, wondering if it made any difference at all. “Mrs. Clay said you were the man of the house. Thank you for the coal.”
He nodded, then bowed again before leaving without making a sound.
For a moment, it was all she could do to sit down to catch her breath. But once her heartbeat slowed to a steadier pace, Eleanor decided that there was no time like the present if she wanted to repair things with her neighbor—and make sure the man wasn’t prone to rushing in every time she stubbed her toes or Tally startled her.
She smoothed back her hair as she went out her door and crossed over to Mr. Rutherford’s. Two firm knocks seemed appropriate to her, and she was rewarded quickly when he opened the door, his expression a little sheepish as he looked down at her apologetically. The giant wasn’t nearly as frightening as she took in more details of her would-be protector. His hair was salt-and-peppered unruly curls, but he wasn’t ancient at all. Rugged as granite, his dark eyes reflected nothing but humility at being called out for his misbehavior.
“May I help you, Miss Beckett?”
“I had eventually intended to ask Mrs. Clay to introduce us, as we are neighbors, Mr. Rutherford, but—since we seem to have just met, I couldn’t let you retain a wrong impression of me. I didn’t mean to seem ungracious at your attempted … rescue.”
“Not at all. I was the one … You obviously didn’t need a rescue.”
“But you thought I did, didn’t you?” she asked, a little puzzled. “Are you always so—quick to think of danger, sir?”
“A soldier’s terrible habit,” he conceded. “I’ll strive to improve. I was out in the hall and had just come up the stairs when I saw that your door was ajar. Naturally when you cried out—I didn’t stop to think.”
“That was very chivalrous of you, Mr. Rutherford. But I hope you understand that I cannot be nervous about you taking it upon yourself to fight off invisible assassins if I prick a finger while sewing. May I—ask you to refrain from any future intrusions?”
He practically shrank in front of her into a very small, guilty child, nodding miserably. “Yes, miss.”
A new thought occurred to her. “Has Mr. Hastings asked you to keep an eye out, or rather an ear out for trouble on my behalf, Mr. Rutherford?”
He paused. “Hastings may have said something about—I’m no bodyguard, Miss Beckett.”
“I see. Well, that’s good and since I’m not in need of one, Mr. Rutherford, you should be relieved. I hope you’ll take your ease now that I’ve made it clear that I can take care of myself, sir.”
He nodded in solemn awe. “I believe you can, Miss Beckett. I truly believe you can.”
“Good night, then.” With the awkward business out of the way, Eleanor relaxed. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Rutherford.”
“Ple
asure. Thank you.” His expression was delightfully befuddled as he shut the door, and she almost starting laughing as she returned to her rooms.
Independence has its rewards. Apparently, I’m braver than I thought!
She closed and locked her door with a smile, marveling at her own cheekiness.
Michael Rutherford stared at the solid surface of his closed door for a few minutes and tried to absorb what had just happened. Hastings’s little beauty had just given him prim and fair warning that she’d missed nothing of his friend’s arrangements.
Not that I helped by nearly breaking her door down. …
I only hope Josiah has an inkling of what he’s gotten into, because by the looks of it, that woman’s not going to put up with any nonsense.
I think you’ve got a tigress by the tail, friend.
And you might not be able to let go—and survive to tell the tale—if you’re not careful.
Chapter
9
Josiah looked at the red dress that Eleanor was holding gingerly out in front of her and instantly knew he’d made the right choice. The color was just as he’d remembered it, rich and ripe.
“Women with red hair usually avoid these colors, Mr. Hastings,” she explained, absentmindedly stroking the soft velvet. “I’ll look like a tomato in it.”
“You won’t.” He walked over to the door and opened it to lean out and ring the bell he’d set on a table in the hallway, just outside. The building wasn’t designed with a residence in mind, so there weren’t bellpulls to allow him to get Escher’s attention. Normally, he’d have just yelled down the stairwell, but he knew better than to demonstrate such rustic skills in front of the refined sensibilities of his lovely model. “I am not painting tomatoes today.”
She laughed. “What a relief!”
“Miss Beckett, I loathe bringing up the subject of money, but it can hardly be inappropriate if I give you a modest advance on your sitting fee. You cannot be impoverished and without liberty to buy whatever your heart desires before—”
“No, Mr. Hastings. You are already paying for my room and board, and no matter what you say, it is a generosity that I am not accustomed to receiving. An advance would seem …”
“Fair?” he supplied mischievously, well aware she wasn’t about to concede anything. “Ridiculously overdue?”
“Unnecessary. As you described them at dinner, the terms of my employment were very clear and I don’t wish to muddle things. Please, Mr. Hastings, I have everything I need, and as I said before, I cannot allow you to provide for anything else.” She blushed, a beautiful pink forcing his retreat from the battlefield. “A woman must adhere to her principles.”
He bowed playfully but looked at her with a new respect. “As you wish.”
“You rang?” Escher asked breathlessly as he came through the door, one hand on the small of his back.
“Can you ask your wife if she’ll meet Miss Beckett downstairs and help the lady change her dress?” Josiah asked.
The man’s facial expression was truly comical in his shock. “My wife? She’ll not say no, but … there’s no telling what else she’ll say to that, sir.”
“Thank you, Escher. I’m sure we can weather the storm. If you’ll just ask her and tell her I’d be ever so grateful. …”
“Will do.” The houseman turned and left to carry out the orders and Josiah watched him go, fully aware that stirring Rita from her kitchen was like luring a bear out of its cave midwinter. Not always wise, but there was no other way.
“Miss Beckett. I’ll walk you downstairs and Mrs. Escher will come up and help you change. Then when you’re ready, you can just come back to the studio where I’ll be waiting.” He held out his arm. “Does that sound acceptable?”
It wasn’t an arbitrary question. The shy lady had yet to remove her gloves, and Josiah knew that it was a bit unsettling to discuss changing her clothes as the first order of business.
“Yes, although, I hate to cause trouble.” She put a hand around his elbow and allowed him to escort her out. “From the way Mr. Escher was looking at you—”
“Don’t pay that any attention. I know the Eschers may not be the most polished people in the world, but for all the growls and misplaced courtesies, I trust them both and they’ve become an odd kind of family for me. Just don’t take anything Rita says to heart, and you’ll be fine.” He walked her down the stairs, secretly enjoying the heat of her hands through the cloth of his shirt and coat sleeve. He kept a free hand on the banister to make sure he didn’t lose his balance and spoil the moment. “She’s as sweet as a kitten when you get to know her.”
Miss Beckett didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue so he decided that would suffice for now. Reaching the landing outside the doors to his rooms on the fourth floor, he heard the telltale faint sounds of pots banging and raised voices below before continuing inside.
“And here we are.” He opened the doors, glad he’d remembered to have the curtains drawn so that the room appeared more cheerful. “My home, such as it is.”
Unlike the unfinished attic floor above, the salon was tastefully furnished and outfitted to rival any manse in London. Even so, he knew that there was a vacant feel to the apartment because he spent so little time in its rooms.
Original art from his peers graced his walls, as well as a few works of his own, but he could hardly see them anymore, so her exclamations and sighs of approval were a good reminder that he’d once had a keen eye for setting out rooms. Now the layout of the room had far more to do with clear pathways and minimized clutter than comfort or care. The fourth floor had been beautifully renovated using his architectural designs and ambitious sketches. When they’d come back to England, he’d enthusiastically embraced change, intending to quietly thumb his nose at his life in exile. Before India, even with empty pockets, he’d always been welcome in many elite circles because of his heritage and because it was fashionable to have at least one or two artistic acquaintances who shocked and inspired good gossip. He’d spanned both worlds and enjoyed the game, even as he’d struggled to pay his tailors.
But he’d dreamt of having a place of his own without feeling like a trained monkey or a poor relative expected to earn an invitation by providing entertainment and witty conversation.
So when his adventures with the Jaded had ultimately lined his pockets, Josiah had built a luxurious home in an unlikely place, with the very latest in gas fixtures and indoor plumbing. His plans had even grandly included guest rooms, a music salon, and a small ballroom. He’d had visions of the parties and gatherings he would hold, turning this odd factory into a creative draw to the Ton, where artists and art lovers could mingle and enjoy a mutually beneficial association.
Then when his eyes had started to fail, he’d modified those plans very quickly and abandoned the rest of the renovation and construction on the other floors. His “hidden” mansion had transformed into a sanctuary from the world instead of a showplace to bring the world to his doorstep.
Hell, I don’t even think I’ve ever had anyone up here—besides the Jaded—and they never needed an invitation, so I’m not sure if they count as guests.
The temptation to offer her a tour of the house and earn her approval was very strong. But he damped it down. He didn’t want it to look like boasting or shameless self-promotion; and to what purpose? To feel like he had more worth in her eyes?
If wealth made a man more worthy or honorable, it would be a world of poets and kings, wouldn’t it? But I don’t think Eleanor Beckett is the kind of woman to bat an eye at a man’s wallet or think more of him for showing off his assets.
She relinquished his arm and circled the room in a slow, graceful stroll. At last, she returned to him. “You continue to surprise, Mr. Hastings.”
“It’s just a room.”
She laughed. “If you insist!”
“It’s a reception area and a salon. I once—had ambitions to be more social.”
“But no more?”
/> He shook his head. “Ambitions change. It’s just a room.” He walked over to the inside doors leading to the hallway. “There is a guest room this way that you may use to change your dress. The third door down on the left. I’ll send Mrs. Escher in to you as soon as she comes up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hastings.”
He deliberately hung back, newly aware of the delightful Miss Beckett’s sensitivities and adherence to etiquette. He didn’t think she’d appreciate his very male presence within twenty feet of a doorway that led into a bedchamber. Ironically, the thought immediately evoked the image of his own large, empty bed and how remarkable she would look lying across it. Josiah caught himself before a hundred more erotic scenes flooded his mind, and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to guarantee a redirection of his concentration to matters at hand. “You’re welcome, Miss Beckett.”
He turned back, already aware of the echo of Mrs. Escher’s boot heels on the stairs as he moved to intercept her in the vestibule. “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Escher!”
“I ain’t no ladies’ maid,” she gruffly announced, “but I suppose I could lend a hand if there’s buttons.”
“You are an angel, Mrs. Escher.”
The words prompted the portly bulldog of a woman to turn into a giggling schoolgirl. “And you’re a trickster to say such things!”
“I sent her to the blue guest room and told her you would follow. Thank you, Mrs. Escher.”
She waved him off, bustling through the doorway to the hall, and he waited until he heard her brisk knock and the guest room door closing behind her before making his way back up to the studio.
Whatever her objections to the red dress, there’ll be no dissuading Rita from her mission, but I just hope Miss Beckett isn’t bruised in the process. …
Passion Wears Pearls Page 9
