“That’s a lovely thing to say,” she murmured. “Thank you, your grace.”
He continued to watch her, and she held his gaze steadily, her smile polite as she waited for his next move, her heart pounding so hard that she could feel it in her chest.
“You are a widow,” he stated seconds later, “and Fairbourne tells me this is your first season out of mourning.”
“That’s true. My husband died nearly four years ago.”
“I see.” Turning, he faced the garden below and leaned over a bit, resting his forearms on the railing, interlocking his fingers in front of him. “What did your husband think of your artistic talent?”
She blinked. “My talent?”
Shrugging a shoulder, he replied, “Did he encourage you to pursue it as a profession?”
His line of questioning concerned her, and she shook herself mentally, prepared to be as vague as possible. “I wouldn’t say he thought of it as a profession, your grace,” she answered carefully. “But then he died not long after we were married, at which time it became a moot point.”
“And since that time you’ve acquired quite a name for yourself and are considered one of the best portrait artists in London, are you not?”
He already knew that, but she decided against reminding him. “I am, though there are several others who are also very good.”
Looking back into her eyes, he asked, “How much do you charge for each portrait?”
“That depends,” she replied honestly. “There are various fees involved, and each situation is different, from the simple to the complex.”
He studied her for a moment. “And how do these . . . situations differ exactly?”
“Well,” she explained through a long exhale, “my time is generally what charges are based upon, although I also consider how many sittings might be needed, if the subject is a child or adult, how many individuals are in the portrait, how large the painting is to be, cost of supplies, traveling expenses, and the financial situation of the buyer.”
His brows rose. “The financial situation of the buyer?”
She shouldn’t have revealed that. Fidgeting a little, she said vaguely, “I try to be accommodating when I can be. Some people are less fortunate than others, even in the gentry, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Indeed I am,” he readily agreed, dropping his deep voice to just above a whisper. “And in what manner do the less fortunate gentlemen repay you for your . . . accommodating talent, Lady Cheshire?”
Her eyes widened a fraction at the suggestiveness of the question. Heat suffused her, creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, though she held her ground, refusing to look away or cower from embarrassment, since he probably couldn’t see how she flushed in dim lighting.
With a slight tilt of her chin, she returned, “Sometimes their wives bake me pie, your grace.”
Very slowly his mouth curved up into a grin. “You work for pie, madam?”
His handsome features, caught up in genuine amusement, nearly made her heart stop.
“Cherry is my favorite.”
“Is it.”
“But I also enjoy blueberry and apple,” she added rather mischievously. “Sometimes, if the portrait is very large and time consuming, I demand one pie each in all three flavors to satisfy the debt.”
He almost laughed; she could see him fighting it as his gaze brushed over her face again, taking in each feature, from the curls in her hair, to the tiny pearl earrings that dangled at her lobes, to her lips when she licked them from sudden nervousness.
He turned to face her fully once more, his smile fading as he took a step toward her, close enough that his shins brushed her gown.
“I’m assuming your husband left you with a satisfactory estate, then, since you can work for pie,” he maintained, his expression and manner unreadable.
Trepidation filled her anew. He was close enough to touch, to smell a trace of his fine cologne, to sense a hidden meaning in the dark depths of his eyes.
She swallowed, attempting to remain composed. “Forgive me, your grace, but I’m—I’m not certain what my taste in pie or my husband’s estate has to do with—”
“Us?” he finished for her in a whisper.
She wasn’t going to say that, and it stunned her thoroughly that he did. He entranced her utterly.
He smiled again, slyly. “If I am to commission work from you, Lady Cheshire, I need to know more about you, and just how accommodating you can actually be.”
She didn’t know how to take that statement at all. But she was quite certain she didn’t want to paint his portrait. Every second in his presence increased the danger of being discovered. And right now he was acting far too . . . familiar.
She took a step away from him and opened her fan, swishing it in front of her face, immensely thankful she hadn’t given it back to Isabella. “As I mentioned before, your grace, I’m not certain I’ll have time to begin a new project.”
Thoughtfully, he said, “I have learned that time is indeed precious. You are a widow, so I’m sure you understand that better than anyone.”
Her fanning slowed. “Of course.”
Shifting his gaze toward the garden, he expounded. “I don’t attend many formal functions, Lady Cheshire. I prefer to keep residence at my country estate due to . . . an unfortunate ordeal that changed me when it nearly took my life in the winter of fifty-two.”
Under her assumption that he had no idea of her involvement, the shock of hearing him mention his kidnapping made her sway on her feet. Instinctively, she reached out to wrap her palm around the railing at her side.
“The ton revel in gossip, as I know you’re aware,” he continued, his voice growing somber. “For just that reason I’ve stayed away from the city as much as possible these last few years, refusing to offer myself to my peers as a spectacle, or worse, a subject of pity.”
He paused as a laughing couple strolled by them, then straightened and turned to face her again. He took a step closer, though he clasped his hands behind his back to stand formally erect, his dark countenance unreadable as he regarded her closely.
Viola shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Your grace, I’m not sure—”
“Lady Cheshire, several months ago I inherited a new title through my mother’s Scottish ancestral line,” he cut in with ease. “Unusual, to be sure, and although it was not unknown to me, I was not expecting it so soon. However, with this title came the acceptance that I must finally do my duty and marry. That’s why I’ve come to London for the season.”
Her mouth dropped open a shade. “You’re here to choose a wife?”
“I need an heir, madam.”
Viola nodded as if in complete understanding of his plight, though suddenly experiencing anew every vibrant, tumultuous emotion she’d ever felt for him bubble to the surface, heating her face and muddling her rational thinking.
“You—have you a lady in mind, sir?” she asked in a near whisper.
He frowned, shaking his head. “Not at the moment, but the season has only just begun.”
An odd relief swept over her, and she quashed it at once. “I see.”
Seconds later, he asked, “Do you have any acquaintances you’d recommend for an introduction?”
If she hadn’t been so befuddled by this entire confrontation she would probably have taken offense at his question. He hadn’t wanted to dance with her, but he had no trouble asking her for advice regarding other ladies to pursue? Viola shook herself. Such thought was irrelevant. Whom he chose to court was none of her business. Frankly, she had a far greater concern at the moment—like doing what she could to assuage him, then getting away fast, before he recalled their former encounters.
“I’m sure there are many ladies to choose from, your grace
,” she replied matter-of-factly, standing tall and fanning herself again. “I’m also certain any one of them would be proud to be your duchess.”
He smiled again, crookedly. “Such a formal response, Lady Cheshire.”
She had no idea how to take that remark, so she ignored it. “Perhaps you should tell me what you’d like from me, your grace.”
He watched her silently for several long seconds, then replied, “I would like you to paint my ducal portrait for me to give to my bride as a wedding gift, then later hang in the halls of Chatwin. Of course I will pay you well for your time and the final product.” He leaned over a little to add, “I don’t bake, so it’ll have to be payment in the bland and ordinary form of a banknote.”
She almost laughed at the incredibly silly thought of a baking duke. Clearing her throat, she replied, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll need to—”
“Check your calendar, yes, I know,” he cut in again, still amused. Then, reaching into his coat pocket, he removed his card and handed it to her. “Please let me know if you’re available as soon as possible. If not you, I’ll have to commission work elsewhere.”
She glanced to his card but couldn’t read it in the darkness. “I’ll send word, your grace.”
He bowed slightly. “Until then, Lady Cheshire.”
She looked back into his eyes, and for the briefest moment a current passed between them. His dark gaze raked her figure for a final time, and then, with a nod, he stepped past her, heading back toward the ballroom.
Viola nearly collapsed on the spot. It took her several minutes before she dared return to the festivities herself, and when she managed it, her emotions got the best of her as she caught him dancing with Anna Tildare, a beautiful smile planted on his handsome, masculine face.
Head held high, she went searching for Lady Tenby and made her excuses, leaving the party before ten, the brightness and excitement she’d felt when she’d arrived all but dimmed to a dull ache of regrets.
Chapter Three
I sat beside him today, for a long while, hoping to comfort, but he never knew I was there. . . .
Ian stood in his bedroom, straightening his cravat, then smoothing his sleeves as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. She had accepted his offer, and in just minutes, he’d be on his way to her town house to discuss the fees and details of the portrait she would paint. He intended to be late, to keep her waiting on purpose, not only to increase her uneasiness but also because he wanted to clarify every detail in his mind before this final masquerade began in full.
She was nothing like he expected, or remembered. True, his memory of her remained hazy at best, intermittent and appearing more in his dreams and nightmares than in his thoughts. But it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d be something other than the timid girl he vaguely recalled, that she might have matured into a woman other than his vision of the despondent young widow who grew fat from laziness, tended her child, and kept to herself.
Her sophistication had surprised him immediately. Even as she’d fully gratified his five-year wait to confront her by nearly fainting in shock at the sight of him, he’d still felt a twinge of dismay course through him when he’d caught his first glimpse of her. Although only twenty-three, she exuded an elegance, a cultured loveliness, of someone ten years older. To be honest with himself, he now conceded the fact that in a relatively short time she’d transformed herself magnificently, from the shy, plain village girl to the confident and stunning widow of high society. And everything about his initial reaction to her last night infuriated him.
Admittedly, he’d been taken aback by her beauty, caught up in striking hazel eyes, shiny dark hair curled into a mass upon her head, flawless fair skin, and swirls of brilliant red that covered her body appropriately yet hugged each curve to perfection, only hinting at the treasure beneath the silk. Fairbourne had warned him, calling her something of an enchantress, but he’d ignored a notion that hadn’t fit his memory. Still, he’d managed to conceal his amazement well. At his weakest moment he’d almost kissed her, feeling a quick and troublesome urge to pull her close and enjoy a few minutes of mutual desire. But he’d stopped himself by remembering who she was and why he had come to her. There would be plenty of time for a deliberate seduction if he chose to bed her, and moving too fast could be dangerous. He wouldn’t be so careless to forget that again.
Ian stared at himself in the mirror, neither happy nor unhappy with his appearance. His once handsome demeanor had been replaced long ago by cold cynicism. At thirty-one, he was a fully grown man, experienced in most everything that mattered, yet yearning for a contentment of body and peace of mind that remained obscure. His purpose for the last five years had been about healing terrifying wounds and overcoming a bitterness more difficult than most men of his position should ever contemplate, but thus far he had failed. His heart had slowly hardened as his hopes for any sort of vindication had dwindled, and with it a dream for lifelong happiness, however fanciful, had died. Even his twin sister had distanced herself from him these last few years as he’d pursued his demons relentlessly, to no avail.
But everything had changed eleven months ago when he’d unexpectedly inherited a distinguished, formidable title, and all the wealth, land, and power that came with it. He suddenly had the ability and means to reshape his destiny. And it all centered around a calculated, slow, and meticulously designed ruin of the former Viola Bennington-Jones. She remained the only person to have escaped justice for the wrongs committed him five years ago when, after having him knocked unconscious, her two sisters had dragged him into a centuries-old dungeon, chained him to a wall, drugged him repeatedly, and eventually left him for dead. And although Viola, the youngest of the three, had been innocent of the initial kidnapping and the plot to hold him for ransom, she’d been there from time to time as he’d awakened from his drugged stupor, hearing her soothing voice, recalling . . . a certain warmth, even vague impressions of her face and form as she’d tried to console him. Yet all her meager efforts at providing some kind of comfort had meant nothing when she’d refused to free him or summon help. In essence, she had left him there to die. Both of her sisters had received judgment—one through suicide, the other through prison—but Viola had denied to the authorities that she’d known anything about it, had lied to escape paying for the crime of inaction. In the end, there had been no solid proof she’d been involved in, or even witness to, the event. It had become the word of a girl against those spoken by him, an earl with influence but who had been so incapacitated and frequently delirious that he’d had no idea how much time had passed until he’d been told. She’d disappeared soon after his rescue, leaving town to escape the scandal and reinvent herself, marrying well above her station, succeeding as an artist, and living a life of ease even as he’d suffered from nightmares and an inner pain she could never possibly imagine. Now all of that was about to change, to his satisfaction, and her well-deserved detriment.
The unexpected attraction he felt for her troubled him, though. It was the only part of his plan he hadn’t anticipated, and he would fight it. Teasing her, seducing and bedding her as he must would be acceptable; caring for one small strand of hair on her head would be nothing short of embracing the indignities she’d witnessed and forced him to suffer for five horrifying weeks. He would never forget how she’d passively allowed and observed his keen humiliation then, and if it cost him his soul, she would pay for it now.
Ian reached for his jacket and donned it, smoothing the silk as he adjusted the collar. Then, devoid of guilt, his mind centered and controlled for the meeting ahead, he turned and walked from his bedchamber.
Viola paced her parlor, staring at the rose-colored carpeting, reminding herself every so often to relax, to think. If she used her head, she would get through the dreadful ordeal to come with her composure intact and her future safe. She refused to accept anything less, and had decided hours ago that she w
ould do what she must to avoid a confrontation that could cost her son everything. His good reputation was all that mattered to her in the end.
A sense of alarm had been building throughout the day as she’d awaited their appointed meeting time of two o’clock. After a fitful night’s sleep, she’d spent the morning in discussion with servants, writing letters, and making careful plans to send John Henry away to stay with her late husband’s sister Minerva. At half past one, she headed downstairs to await her guest, nearly sick with anxiousness as she attempted to control her restless thoughts. She’d made arrangements for tea to be served at his arrival, but now, after waiting by herself for three quarters of an hour, most of her nervousness had been replaced by irritation at his delay. That was probably a good thing.
Aside from the formalities, she had no idea what they might discuss, though the fear raged that he’d reopen the wound of his captivity in the dungeon in intimate and gross elaboration. That he didn’t seem to recall her involvement was surely a blessing, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t remember over time, or that he wasn’t lying outright and knew exactly who she was, pursuing this formal business association with her for nefarious reasons. She kept mulling over their conversation on the balcony, trying to interpret what might have been unique inflections in his tone or hidden meanings in his words. And although his mild sexual suggestions left her a little rattled, the only thing she could recall that disturbed her were his questions regarding her husband’s estate and her profession.
True, she made a modest income from the selling of proper portraits, but it was Victor Bartlett-James, her secret persona, who’d taken London by storm five years ago with the auction of the first charcoal drawings of lovers embraced in carnal acts. Her husband had insisted on taking charge and developing a career of sorts for her, enlarging his purse by selling her lascivious art, only asking that she continue the pretense for their mutual financial benefit. He had been an impoverished noble when they’d met, but he had married her, taking her away from the nightmare in which she had been living, and for that reason alone she’d agreed to the risk. For their combined efforts, she now had not only a title and a son but also a sizable and debt-free estate for him to inherit.
The Duke's Captive Page 3
