As Esme dipped her hands into the basin of water, her thoughts turned again to the mysterious naked man at the lake and the drawing of him that now resided in her sketchbook.
A warm flush rose on her skin, together with a tiny secret smile. He truly had been . . . magnificent. Better than any of the Greek statues she’d ever seen.
But her interest in him had been strictly artistic, she assured herself. She was an artist and he had been her chosen subject. If he happened to be pleasingly shaped, and if she happened to have taken extra care in her rendering of certain intriguing body parts, well, she had only been doing justice to the artwork, nothing more.
Even so, she was grateful he hadn’t realized that she’d drawn him. Some people didn’t like having their likenesses sketched—although considering that he’d been swimming naked, he didn’t strike her as the bashful type.
Thank heavens, though, for Burr. For a few seconds, when she’d been turning to leave, she’d feared that her accidental Adonis had spotted her. But Burr had dashed out and diverted his attention so that he hadn’t known she was there.
Picking up the bar of honey-scented soap, she lathered her hands and began to wash. As she did, she speculated again on who he might be. Certainly no one who lived in the neighborhood; she would have remembered a man like him. So why did she have the strangest feeling she’d seen him somewhere before? For the life of her, she couldn’t place him.
Oh well, it would come to her eventually—or not. She wasn’t going to concern herself. After all, it wasn’t as if their paths were likely ever to cross again.
Just then, Grumblethorpe came back into the room with Esme’s evening gown and silk slippers in hand. Realizing she had no further time to ruminate, Esme began to bathe in earnest.
In far less time than one might have imagined, Esme stood clean, elegantly coiffed and attired in an evening gown of demure white silk—presentable for company once again.
She’d hoped with the Season over, she might be able to put all the entertaining behind her for the year. But then Claire had decided to host one of her autumn country parties, inviting the usual gathering of friends and family, in addition to a few new acquaintances from London.
Esme sighed inwardly, wishing she could spend a quiet evening with just the family, then retire early with a good book.
Instead, she straightened her shoulders, fixed a smile on her lips and headed downstairs.
• • •
“Might I have the pleasure of procuring a beverage for you, Lady Esme?”
Esme glanced up from where she sat on the end of the long drawing room sofa and into the eager gray eyes of Lord Eversley.
Only minutes before, the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies after dinner, strolling in on a wave of companionable talk and the faint lingering aromas of cigar smoke and port wine.
Esme had been half listening to the other women’s discussion of the latest fashions when Lord Eversley approached and made her a very elegant bow.
He’d been seated next to her at dinner; she’d found his conversation both pleasant and interesting. He was an attractive man, personable, well-mannered and intelligent. He was also heir to an earldom and a fortune that was impressive even by her own family’s standards.
In short, he was everything any sane young woman could want in a husband.
So why wasn’t she falling under his spell?
She couldn’t even claim the excuse of disliking him; she liked him quite well. He was nice. He had a good sense of humor, and as a friend, she had no quarrel with his company.
But marriage?
Instinctively she knew there should be something more—a spark, a flicker of passion, to say nothing of love. And that, above all else, was the problem. Perfect as he was, he simply wasn’t the man for her.
Yet out of all her suitors during this year’s London Season, Eversley had been the most attentive. She’d done her best not to encourage him. She had even tried a time or two to actively discourage him. But if he had one fault, it was his bone-deep streak of stubbornness. Which, she supposed, accounted for his decision to accept Claire’s invitation to come to Braebourne for a fortnight of shooting and entertainment.
As for her sister-in-law Claire and her sister, Mallory, and their rather badly disguised attempt to further a relationship between her and Eversley . . .
She ought to be cross with them; really she should.
But she knew they only meant well. She could hear them now, whispering as coconspirators. But she so clearly likes him. We all like him; even Ned approves. The only thing those two need is a gentle nudge, a bit of time on their own, and the wedding bells will be ringing.
And that was the trouble.
Claire and Mallory were happily married—as were all her siblings now except her brother Lawrence, who just laughed and shook his head whenever anyone brought up the subject of matrimony. All any of them wanted was for her to be happily married too.
Which was sweet in one way and exasperating in another. If only the lot of them would believe her when she said that she wasn’t interested in a husband.
Not right now at least, and not for a good long while, if she had any say in the matter.
Luckily, her oldest brother, Edward—despite his approval of Eversley—was in no hurry to get her off his hands. He’d assured her before the Season had even begun that she was to take her time and marry only when, and if, she wished. He was quite content to let her remain at home for as many years as she liked.
Someday, she knew, the time would come when she would need to marry. Until then, she would have to find ways to avoid the overtures of interested young men, especially the thoroughly eligible and clearly determined Lord Eversley.
She smiled and nodded toward her nearly empty teacup. “Thank you, Lord Eversley, for your kind offer, but I am very well refreshed at present.”
“Ah,” he said, linking his hands behind his back while he took a moment to regroup. Suddenly his eyes brightened. “A walk, then, perhaps? The gardens here at Braebourne are quite splendid, even by lantern light.”
There it was, alone in the gardens. She wasn’t falling for that trick.
“Indeed the gardens are lovely. But again, I must refuse. Another time perhaps? I have walked a great deal today, you understand, and my feet are far too weary for another outing tonight.”
Her feet were never weary—everyone in the family knew she could beat paths through the fields like a seasoned foot soldier—but Lord Eversley didn’t need to be apprised of that fact. Hopefully none of her family was listening and would decide to give her away.
Yet apparently someone else was listening.
Lettice Waxhaven—another of the London guests, who happened to have made her debut along with Esme this past spring—leaned forward, a fierce gleam in her pale blue eyes. “Yes, where were you this afternoon, Lady Esme? We were all of us wondering what could be so fascinating that you would vanish for the entirety of the afternoon.”
Esme hid her dislike for the other young woman behind a tight smile. Why her mother and Lettice’s mother had to be old childhood friends who had been unexpectedly reacquainted this Season, she didn’t for the life of her know. But owing to the renewal of that friendship, Esme found herself far too often in Lettice’s company.
“I was just out,” Esme said. “Walking and sketching.”
“Really? Pray tell, what is it you sketch?” Lettice asked as if she were actually interested—which Esme knew she was not.
But quite without warning, she was caught up in unbidden memories of the lake and the drawing she had done of the naked sleeping man. She blinked, grateful for the room’s warmth, since it disguised the flush stealing over her neck and cheeks.
“Nature,” she answered with a seemingly careless shrug. “Plants and animals. Anything that takes my fancy at the time.”
And,
oh my, had the glorious stranger taken her fancy.
“Lady Esme is quite the accomplished artist,” Lord Eversley said with enthusiasm. “I had the great good fortune to view a few of her watercolors when we were last in Town.” He smiled at her with clear admiration. “She is a marvel.”
Lettice’s mouth tightened, her eyes narrowing. It was no secret—at least not to Esme—that Lettice had long ago set her cap at Lord Eversley and that so far he had failed to take notice of her. Esme would have felt sorry for her were she a nicer person.
After a moment, Lettice rearranged her features into a sweet smile, as if realizing she’d let a glimpse of her real personality show instead of the usual falsely pleasant mask she wore. “Oh, I should so like to see your sketches. Perhaps you might show them to us?”
“Yes, Lady Esme,” Eversley agreed. “I too would greatly enjoy a chance to view your newest work.”
“That is most kind,” Esme said, hedging. “But I suspect you would find my efforts disappointing.”
“Impossible,” Eversley disagreed. “You are too good an artist to ever draw anything that could be termed disappointing.”
“You give me far too much credit, Lord Eversley. What I drew today amounts to nothing of importance. Just a few random studies; that’s all.”
A nude study of an unforgettable male.
Sleek limbs corded with muscle.
A powerful hair-roughened chest.
Narrow hips.
Taut buttocks.
And his face . . .
Planes and angles that begged for an artist’s attention, rugged yet refined, bold and brilliant.
Captivating.
“Truly, they’re mostly rubbish, and I have no wish to offend anyone’s eyes with the viewing,” she said, hoping Eversley would take the hint and let that be the end of it.
Instead, he persisted. “You are far too modest, Lady Esme. Why do you not let me be the judge?”
“Who is modest?” her brother Lawrence said, turning his head to join the conversation. A few of the others looked around as well.
“Lady Esme,” Eversley explained. “Miss Waxhaven and I are trying to persuade her to show off the sketches she did today, but she is too shy.”
Leo, Lawrence’s twin, laughed from where he sat next to his wife, Thalia. “Our Esme? Shy about her art? That doesn’t sound likely.”
“Yes, she’s usually raring to share,” Lord Drake Byron agreed.
“That’s because even her bad drawings are better than anything the rest of us can do,” Mallory said before she shot a glance over at Grace. “Except for Grace, of course. No offense, Grace, since you are a brilliant artist too.”
Her sister-in-law smiled. “None taken.” Grace looked at Esme. “Do let us see, dear. I know we would all enjoy a glimpse or two of your latest efforts. I particularly love the landscapes you do.”
Cheers of agreement and encouragement rose from those gathered in the room.
Esme’s chest tightened. “No, I couldn’t. Not tonight. Besides, my sketchbook is upstairs. It’s far too much bother to retrieve it right now.”
“It’s no bother,” Edward said. “We’ll have one of the servants fetch it.” He glanced over at the butler. “Croft, please ask one of the maids to collect Lady Esme’s sketchbook and have it brought here to the drawing room.”
“Right away, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and exited the room.
No! Esme wanted to shout and wave her arms to call Croft back.
But it was too late. Any further protestations on her part would look odd, drawing speculation about why she was so adamant that no one see her sketches. When her siblings said that she had never before shown a great deal of modesty concerning her work, they were right.
Still, this could all turn out fine, so long as she didn’t panic. In the main, her sketchbook contained renderings of birds and animals, field flowers, trees in leaf, and the landscapes for which Grace had shown a partiality. The sketch of the man was at the back of the book. So long as she was careful, she could show only the innocent drawings in the front.
All too soon one of the footmen walked in, her blue clothbound sketchbook in hand. She leapt to her feet and hurried across to take it before anyone else could. “Thank you, Joseph.”
Quickly, she clutched the sketchbook against her chest, collecting herself. Then she turned to face the waiting company.
“Here we are,” she said brightly as she crossed to resume her seat. “Since you all wish to see, why don’t I just hold up the drawings rather than passing the book around?”
Slowly she cracked open the binding, careful to go nowhere near the back pages. She thumbed through, looking quickly for something she hadn’t already shown her family.
“Ah, here we are,” she said, relieved to have found a new sketch. “I drew this of the hills toward the village earlier today.”
Actually, she’d drawn it the previous week.
She held up the book, fingers tight on the pages.
Murmurs of appreciation went around the room.
“Lovely,” Lady Waxhaven said.
“Astounding,” Lord Eversley pronounced. “As I said before, you are a marvel, Lady Esme. Show us another.”
“All right.”
Bending over the book again, she found another new sketch, this one of her dog Burr lying under a tree.
She held it up, eliciting more positive remarks and smiles. From everyone except Lettice Waxhaven, that is. Lettice’s innocent mask had slipped again, her eyes filled with a bitterness that made her look as if she wished she’d never started this.
Well, that makes two of us, Esme thought.
Esme showed them one last sketch of farmers working in the fields, then closed the book, holding it on her lap. “There, you have all had your art exhibition for the evening. Now, enough about me. Please go back to whatever you were doing before, talking and drinking and enjoying the evening.”
“Thank you, dear, for sharing your beautiful drawings with everyone. But Esme is right,” Claire said with a broad smile. “Let us make merry. Perhaps a game of cards or some dancing? I should dearly love to hear a tune.”
“That sounds wonderful, Duchess,” Lettice declared, openly enthusiastic. Her gaze went to Eversley. “Do you enjoy music, my lord?”
“Indeed,” he said. “Mayhap you could play for us, Miss Waxhaven? You’re quite accomplished on the pianoforte as I recall.” Then he turned to Esme. “Lady Esme, what about you? Would you care to take to the floor?”
Lettice Waxhaven’s face drained of color.
Esme actually did feel sorry for her—and rather cross with Lord Eversley for being so obtuse. She stood, intending to refuse him. But before she could, Lettice stalked forward and deliberately bumped into her shoulder, though Lettice did a good job making it look unintentional.
The sketchbook flew out of Esme’s grasp, pages fluttering wide before the book spun and skidded to a halt on the floor.
She bent quickly to retrieve it, but Lettice Waxhaven’s loud gasp let her know it was already too late. Everyone else was turning and looking too.
Breath froze in her chest, her thoughts tumbling wildly one over the other as she tried to think exactly how to explain the page with the gloriously bare, unforgettably gorgeous male specimen lying open for all to see.
“What in the nine circles of Hell is that?” Lawrence said, his voice so loud she jumped.
“I believe we can all see what it is,” Leo answered, his face wearing the identical look of shock and dawning outrage as his twin’s. “The only thing I want to know is how we’re going to kill him.”
“Kill who?” Esme squeaked, suddenly finding her voice.
Leo and Lawrence’s gazes swung her way, while the rest of their family and friends looked on.
“Northcote.” Leo said the name like
it was a curse.
“Our neighbor from Cavendish Square,” Lawrence finished.
Chapter 3
Gabriel poured himself a fresh brandy and leaned back in his chair. After taking a swallow of the alcohol, which left a fiery tang in his mouth and throat, he returned to his reading.
A fire crackled in the library hearth. The comfortably masculine, book-lined room was scented with a mixture of leather, parchment, woodsmoke and lavender.
Earlier, he’d considered venturing out to see what female sport might be had in the nearby village. But in spite of his admittedly strong sexual appetites, he’d come here for several days of rustication, not with the intention of trolling the local taverns in search of fresh bedmates.
He could find that sort of company anywhere, and lately he’d begun to grow bored with women who were easily had. Frankly, he was bored even with the ones who weren’t so easily had.
Naive virgins were strictly off-limits, of course, since they always expected a ring to accompany any deflowering, and he had no intention of falling prey to matrimonial shackles.
As for virtuous widows and repressed wives, now, they could be interesting game, especially the ones who needed a bit of coaxing before surrendering to the lustful desires they claimed not to have. Such women had long been a favorite hunting ground of his.
But recently, even they were leaving him cold.
Perhaps after years of determined debauchery, he was becoming jaded. A few of his former paramours had even accused him of cruelty, claiming he’d ruthlessly seduced them only to cast them aside with barely a backward glance.
But he felt no remorse. He believed in pleasure for pleasure’s sake and always left his partners thoroughly satisfied; there were never any complaints when it came to the sex itself. It was only later that matters sometimes grew unpleasant, particularly with the ones who fancied themselves in love.
They weren’t, of course; love was a delusion, a kind of temporary insanity that polluted the brain and the bloodstream, ravaging its unwitting victims like a disease until the fever eventually broke.
Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square Page 2
