Engraved (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  Every pore tightened. A knot formed in her stomach. “An offer?” She knew all about his offers.

  “Regarding a certain painting from my father’s private collection.” Another slight smile thinned his lips, this one not wide enough to show his teeth.

  “I see.” He might be five years older, but he was still, clearly, a brat.

  “I thought perhaps you’d have an interest in buying it from me. If you do, I’m willing to discuss the price.”

  She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of all this, feeling nerves like a schoolgirl. Like a virgin on her wedding night.

  The knot squeezed another inch tighter and almost left her breathless.

  Suddenly remembering Peter standing behind her in the narrow hall, she motioned for Adam Blackwood to enter. What else could she do? But she didn’t close the front door.

  First she must deal with Peter. “Excuse me,” she muttered, turning away to fumble in the little box on the console table. Taking out a roll of notes, she pressed them quickly into young Peter’s grimy hand and whispered in his equally grimy ear.

  The boy looked up at her skeptically. “But that nag’s ten to one, ma’am.”

  She cringed inwardly, eyelids fluttering briefly shut. “Just do as I ask. Go quickly.” If he didn’t put some wind in his sails the boy would never get to Middleton in time to place the bet. With a shrug, Peter took her money and ran out, shooting the newcomer one last, curious glance.

  Before she could speak again, Adam reached back with one hand and closed the door behind the disappearing boy. His gaze trailed over her shoulder into the dim hall beyond. “May we talk in the parlor?”

  She had to think quickly. Evangeline had already seen some of what fate had in store for them and, apparently, so had he. She should know better than to fight it by now, but still, that contrary spirit inside her wouldn’t be silenced. He was too young. He was over-filled with arrogance. She’d had enough scandal in her life, enough ups and downs. At thirty-five, she was beyond all that. It was her dearest hope now to lead a quiet life.

  Fate and Adam Blackwood clearly had other plans.

  “I’m afraid I cannot invite you in,” she managed finally. “My husband is at home.”

  His lips turned up at one corner. She watched a lump in his cheek where he swept his tongue and then he said, “No he isn’t.”

  “Who isn’t what?” She’d bluster her way through it with more lies if needed.

  “Your husband isn’t home, Mrs. Phillips.” One eyebrow quirked. “He’s dead. You’ve been widowed two years and six months, have just put away your mourning black, and you live alone.”

  She swallowed, felt her face warm.

  His eyelashes swept downward hiding a glimmer of amusement. “Now, may I come in and discuss my price?”

  * * * *

  The moment he saw her standing in the doorway Adam felt that familiar pang deep in his gut, settling into the heaviness of desire. She looked no older today than she did in her portrait, just, perhaps, a little more tired. His father had written only his model’s first names on the back of the canvas, but he knew her at once, of course, and then Mrs. Murray, gathering her scandalized courage to glance at the painting, only from the neck up, had immediately exclaimed, “Why, that’s Lady Boswell.” Then she sniffed. “Lady indeed!”

  He’d known Lina only as the village doctor’s wife, so it was something of a further shock to hear of a previous husband with a title. Fortunately, Mrs. Murray could always be counted on when it came to lurid gossip.

  “Lord Boswell, so they said, married her for her money. She was from America, you know, one of those rich tycoon’s daughters. He used her money to pay off all his debts and then he died, leaving her practically penniless. She was his second wife and he had a son from the first marriage. The son, of course, inherited what was left and threw her out on her ear. Mr. Randolph took pity on the widow and paid her to keep house for him until she left to marry again. That’s when he hired me.”

  Adam, looking at the painting, was certain pity played absolutely no role in his father’s decision to keep the lovely, young widow under his roof.

  Why had he never known her history before? Because he hadn’t been interested to know. All he’d cared about was the present and how soon she would submit to him, his mind set on only one aim. Perhaps she was right, then, to call him a silly boy.

  As Mrs. Murray chatted onward, his thoughts returned continually to one subject. It burned in him, fierce and unrelenting.

  She was his father’s mistress all along.

  It was all a front, all a lie. The demure doctor’s wife feigning concern for propriety, lecturing him about restraint and finding someone his own age. Ha! His father must have been sixty when she was with him. Adam and his brothers were away at school and would never have known. How long had it continued? Mrs. Murray claimed she never came back after her marriage to Dr. Phillips, but who knew if that was the case? Mrs. Murray wasn’t at the house all day and night. His father could easily have conducted an affair in secret. As for Evangeline, she was a woman and, as such, deceit came naturally to her.

  “I’m a respectable, married woman, faithful to my husband. I’m not one of your casual trollops. I must ask you never to pursue me again and compromise me. I’m not that sort of woman, Mr. Adam Blackwood.”

  Liar, liar, liar!

  Here he had his proof in oil paint. A woman with a body like hers was made for one purpose. She wasn’t the innocent flower she claimed to be. Oh, he would get her back for that.

  Thus, he went to confront her. At least, that was his first idea in coming to the small stone and thatch cottage where she hid herself away. But now, this close again to the real woman after so long with only the fantasy image, he was no longer certain of his purpose.

  Her eyes were guarded, just as he remembered them. When her remote, indifferent gaze, rather than meet his eye, wandered over the honeysuckle around her door, he knew she would never give any of her secrets away freely.

  He’d have to pry them out then, like a naughty child’s confessions.

  Liar!

  She led the way to her parlor, shoulders braced, head up, her stride all business, no nonsense. But she couldn’t keep him from admiring the gentle sway of her hips under her bustle and the deep slope from shoulders to corseted waist. Her creator was certainly a skilled architect. Adam was envious of that talent. If only he could emulate those angles and curves in his next design, but nothing would ever compete with the real thing. He stared at her hair, neatly arranged and pinned up. Had he not seen the painting, he would never know there was so much of it to be set free. She hid it well.

  Deceiver.

  “Surely you’re not betting on racehorses, Mrs. Phillips?” He affected a disapproving tone as they entered the cozy, south-facing parlor. “A respectable, proper lady like yourself?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Blackwood.” Still, she kept her back to him, standing by a table under the window. “That’s illegal unless one is at the racetrack.”

  On the table a newspaper lay open. Before he could confirm it was the Newmarket racing page, she folded it quickly away. “Now, what is it you wanted, Mr. Blackwood? I don’t believe you came here looking for criminal activity or to inspect my morals?”

  He cleared his throat. “About my father.”

  She said nothing.

  “You never saw my father again after you left his employ?” Lie to me again, woman. He wanted to stay angry with her.

  “No. My husband didn’t care for me go there, and eventually Mr. Randolph Blackwood stopped seeing visitors altogether, so I heard. Shut himself away in his house.” She swung around to face him, hands folded neatly before her. “Not even his sons visited.” There was a smug, accusatory gleam in her brandy-filled eyes.

  “I have a full life in London,” he mumbled, setting his hat on the chintz chair beside the fire. “It was never easy to get away.” He wondered why he felt the urge to explain himself, or his re
lationship with his father, to this woman. Pausing to gather his thoughts, he checked his pocket watch again. It was just noon. Perfect. He liked his hours squared neatly away. “I always thought, or I was led to believe, that your husband came to The Grange to confront my father about me. To accuse me of attempted seduction. Now I see the truth. It wasn’t me your husband was angry about. He knew about you and my father.” He wanted to hear her confess they’d been lovers. Then she’d be obliged to drop her pious act.

  “Me and your father?” She smiled, icily polite.

  “That you kept not only his house clean when you worked there, but his bed warm for him.” He tasted bile in his throat. “And you let me believe you were such a prim and proper lady.” Tucking his watch back inside his waistcoat, he added casually, “Apparently the act was only for my benefit, because all the time you were fucking my father.”

  He’d hoped to shock her, but to his surprise she kept her composure and her cold smile. One might almost think she’d expected him to show up on her doorstep. “I must ask you to mind what you say in this house, Mr. Blackwood. Out of respect for my husband, who stands behind you.”

  He spun around, his heart skipping a beat.

  “On the mantle,” she added softly. “In the willow-patterned urn.”

  And then she laughed. It was the same sound he’d heard the day before in his father’s library as he stood at the window and felt her hands around his eyes. Guess who?

  He turned again to look at her, his anger mounting. “Did you?”

  “Did I what? Bear in mind that words beginning with ‘f’ and ending abruptly with a ‘k’ are hardly suitable parlor talk for a young man who wants to convince the entire world he’s an adult.”

  She spoke to him as if she was his nanny. It was deliberate, of course. Five years ago she might have prodded his hot temper enough, but not now. He was determined to stay calm, controlled, at least until he had her where he wanted her. Then all bets, all restraints, were off.

  “Did you…” he ground his teeth, “…share my father’s bed?”

  “I don’t believe you’re entitled to ask such an impertinent question.”

  “Incorrect, Mrs. Phillips. I’m very much entitled and you will tell me.”

  “How dare you!”

  “How dare I? Let’s just say, this time I have something you want, something to bargain with.”

  Her eyes widened, a squall of gold flecks flickering and spinning. Then she blinked, turned her gaze to the carpet, and breathed a frustrated sigh.

  “You want that painting,” he added, “you’ll pay me for it.”

  * * * *

  Evangeline raised her lashes and looked at him, trying to figure out what was so different. Had he grown a few more inches? Were his shoulders broader than she remembered? Perhaps she’d never looked at him for too long before today.

  The arrogant cub strolled around her small parlor, picking up books and china ornaments, examining each in a casual, proprietary manner, much the same way he assessed her.

  “Very well. How much?” She lifted her chin. “I’ll pay your dratted ransom.”

  “Yes.” He put his hands behind his back and swiveled on his heels to face her. “You will. If I can be persuaded to part with it, of course. I’ve acquired a considerable fondness for it already.”

  Now he was making her angry. “How much?” she repeated.

  “I’m afraid it will be very expensive.”

  “No doubt.”

  He walked away from her, turning his back. “When did you stop seeing my father?”

  Nervously touching her hair, she worried it might come undone. He had an unfortunate capability of loosening her parts merely by looking at her. “You have it all wrong. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t ever like that.” She could barely get her words straight, too irritated by his brash impudence.

  In the back of the house she heard Mary humming as she pottered about. It must be almost luncheon.

  Adam Blackwood heard her too and went very still. “You have a house maid?”

  “Yes.” How inconvenient for him, she thought gladly, to find she wasn’t alone after all.

  But his manner was flippant. “Get rid of her for an hour or two.”

  Rage kindled, tone sickly sweet, Evangeline replied, “I most certainly will not.”

  “Unless you want me to show that portrait to everyone in this village. I think the church hall would be the ideal venue, don’t you?”

  Her heart almost stopped. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” He paused, swept one hand across his lips. “Now get rid of the maid.”

  Control being wrenched from her hands, she was furious. “No!”

  “Then I will.” He strode to the door.

  She was there before him. “Stop.”

  He did. Surprisingly.

  “I would rather she not know you’re here.” Shaking her head, she tried to catch her breath. He had her trapped. Suddenly, his hand was under her chin, strong fingers cupped around it, he lifted her face.

  “Give her the rest of the day off.” His cadence softened, but it was no less menacing. “She’s not to come back until the morning.”

  Her body tensed. “I thought you said an hour or two.”

  “Changed my mind. These price negotiations could take a while.” He lowered his head until his lips touched her brow, then her nose, then her trembling mouth. “You do want that painting back, don’t you?”

  “We can’t. You can’t,” she whined. “Your carriage…”

  “Returned to The Grange after it dropped me at the crossroads. I walked from there.”

  “But Peter, he’ll return with my winnings later.”

  He laughed huskily. “So sure you’ll win?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. Those kind of visions didn’t come to her often, but when they did, she took advantage. Why not? Someone would win the money. Better it be in her pocket than in theirs. Dr. Phillips was a frugal gentleman, one might even say he was a skinflint, and had saved a tidy amount in the bank. But, having been destitute once before, Lina liked to make her own money by telling fortunes and reading cards. Occasionally that income was supplemented with a little illicit dabbling in the races. She considered it her only vice and surely every soul had one. That was what made them human, rather than saint.

  “What will he do if you don’t answer the door?”

  “I…I suppose he’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “There. Problem solved.”

  She groaned softly. “But I can’t trust him all night with my money in his hands, especially if he has a few pint pots at his father’s tavern.”

  “Trust me, if he cheats you out of a penny, he’ll answer to me.”

  Desperate, she sought for some other reason why he couldn’t stay, but he wouldn’t even let her think. Leaning over her, his hand still around her chin, his breath cooling her brow, he said, “Let me be plain, Mrs. Phillips. I want to spend the night in bed with you.”

  Want, want, want! Like any other spoiled child, she thought irritably. “But if someone should see you leaving in the morning…”

  “They won’t. I know what I’m doing.”

  Lashes lowered, she watched his lips. “Oh? You’ve had much practice at this?” Blackmail must come second nature to a man like him, she thought churlishly. Not that he could need it often for matters like this. Most women probably fell at his feet the moment he crooked his finger in their direction. Why he bothered pursuing her so intently when he might, with far less effort and suffering fewer thorns in his prideful skin, have any other woman to whom he took a fancy remained a mystery to her.

  “Don’t ask me about my lovers,” he laid down his words as if each one was heavy, straining his shoulders, “and I won’t ask about all yours.”

  She never should have let him in. The moment she saw it in the cards, she should have packed her things and left. But where would she go? She was tired, angry, confused. And she was lonely.

 
He didn’t kiss her. His mouth brushed hers, his breath moistening her anxious lips. Leaving her waiting, knowing what was to come.

  It was inevitable. Five years ago she’d sent him away and he’d gone tail between his legs. But this time it was different. Adam Blackwood was in charge, in control of himself. He was no more a boy rushing in like a bull, and he wasn’t going anywhere at her command. Silky, wanton heat pulsed through her generated by the merest touch of his fingertips against her cheek, the lingering velvet teasing of his mouth, and the fact that he didn’t kiss her when she knew he wanted to.

  And she wanted him to.

  At her age, after two dreadful, empty marriages, she deserved a little stolen excitement, surely. As long as it was discreet. He had incredibly strong hands, imbued with the ability to soothe her panicking thoughts, even as they warned of their dangerous capability.

  “I wasn’t your father’s lover,” she said, needing to explain.

  He didn’t believe her. She saw the scorn in his midnight gaze. Adam Blackwood wanted to think the worst of her for some reason. “Your maid,” he reminded her coolly.

  So she swallowed her protest and went out to find Mary. Anticipation rattled and sparked through her body. She barely made it down the flagged passage to the kitchen at the back of the house because she already saw those hands unlacing her corset, his fingers closing around her hardened nipples. Her face was burning.

  There was nothing she could do. He was blackmailing her, wasn’t he? What else could one expect from a Blackwood? She absolutely hated him and would never forgive him for this.