And then reality would interfere with her daydreams, as it did now, when John Henry began crying and stomping his feet, tugging on a shovel as he fought with two small girls for possession.
“Would you like me to rescue them?”
The sound of Ian’s voice from behind her so shocked her that she gasped aloud and jumped from the bench, turning quickly to face him, gaping, heart pounding.
He stood leaning against a tree, dressed casually in a cream-colored linen shirt and brown trousers, his arms crossed over his chest, hair tousled from the light breeze.
He smiled at her mischievously, almost . . . intimately, scrutinizing every feature, every curve, as if seeing her for the first time.
Suddenly she felt hot color flood her cheeks, and she crossed her arms over her breasts in mild self-protection.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked defensively, her voice raspy.
He shrugged. “For a time.”
“A time?” She glanced worriedly at John Henry, who had managed to strip the girls of the shovel but now didn’t care about it as he stared curiously at Ian.
“Are you following me?” she asked, looking back into Ian’s eyes.
“A man can’t stroll through the park on a beautiful day?” he countered, pulling himself upright and moving closer to her.
She stood her ground. “Forgive me, your grace, but you weren’t strolling.”
“Ah, quite right, Lady Cheshire,” he agreed as he stopped in front of her. “But I was enjoying the view.”
Her brows rose. “Of the back of my head?”
His smile faded as he lowered his voice. “Of that, and watching my son play in the dirt and flirt with girls for the very first time.”
A certain fear gripped her, causing her to sway on her feet, look nervously over her shoulder toward John Henry again, rub her arms with her palms.
“It’s all right, Viola,” he said soothingly. “I’m not here to interfere.”
“Why are you here?” she asked as her nervousness rose. John Henry began to skip in their direction.
“Last time we spoke you said you were moving to the Continent,” he replied, watching the boy approach. “Is this still a consideration?”
Viola could feel her heart pounding hard in her chest. Her mouth had gone dry as her nerves had caught fire, and every instinct she possessed as a mother told her to grab her son and run. Instead, curiosity won for the moment and she remained composed, licking her lips before replying, “Yes, why?”
Ian nodded, unable to take his eyes off the child as he hopped to her side and wrapped his arms around her thickly skirted legs.
“Well, before you leave,” he said in a rather faraway voice, “you’ll need to address the problem with my formal portrait, Lady Cheshire.”
She stared at him, uncertain, confused, and now, without warning, experiencing the greatest fear in her life she’d sworn to avoid—the moment Ian would meet his son. And she could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Ian raised his gaze, and then his brows, in stark question. “Are you going to introduce us?”
She didn’t know if she should feel manipulated and furious, or thrilled and relieved. But with a mock smile, she replied, “John Henry? May I introduce Lord Chatwin. Use your manners, please.”
The boy peeked out from her skirts. “See porting?”
She playfully rubbed his head, the smile on her face turning to a genuine grin. “He thinks he is.”
Ian looked from one to the other. “Porting?”
“He asked if you’re important.”
“Ah.” Ian held out his hand. “And who are you?”
Shyly, the boy glanced up to her for direction, and with a nod she gently urged him on. “John Henry, Lord Chatwin is a very important gentleman. What are you supposed to do?”
Seconds later the boy put his little hand in Ian’s, shook once, and bowed stiffly. “I’m John Henry Cresswald, Baron Cheshire, and someday I will be porting, too.”
“I see,” Ian muttered, amused. “Well, then, Lord Cheshire, I am very pleased to meet someone of your prestige.”
He looked up at her. “Whas a pesteege?”
Smiling, she clarified, “Pres-tige. To be very prestigious is to be very important.”
John Henry giggled, then released Ian’s hand and flipped his body over, planting his head on the grass to view the world upside down.
Ian looked at her curiously. She shrugged. “He does that, I’m afraid. He’s only just five, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
For several long seconds he gazed starkly into her eyes, until she shook herself and returned to the moment. “So, forgive me, your grace, but what is this about a problem with the portrait?”
Brows furrowed, he drew in a long breath and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, although it’s an excellent likeness, as you said, it seems the colors are completely wrong and . . . not what I had hoped. The hues don’t match the decor of the room in which I’d like to hang it.”
She gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He dropped his gaze to John Henry, watching the boy as he suddenly jumped twice, then ran back to the sandbox.
“I’m sure you realize, Lady Cheshire,” he explained, shifting his attention to her once more, “that I paid a great deal of money for the portrait and expect it to meet with my approval.”
“You—you want me to paint another portrait because you’re dissatisfied with the color hues, shades of which, I might add, you initially approved?”
He shrugged with total innocence. “If that’s what it takes. We could start tomorrow if you like, at say . . . ten o’clock?”
Never in her life had Viola been so utterly outraged by what she considered a direct attempt to bait her. The color was entirely satisfactory, and the portrait as a whole lovely. She’d even considered keeping it for herself and painting him another so that she could have something to glance at when she worked in her studio each day. The only reason she’d decided against such a notion had had as much to do with her own heartache as it had with the knowledge that as John Henry aged, he, and anyone else who happened to catch a glimpse, might wonder at the resemblance. It would simply be too much.
But this ridiculous concern of his seemed nothing more than another tactic to unsettle and wound her. And she’d had about all of the inner turmoil she could take from the Duke of Chatwin.
“Why are you doing this, Ian?” she murmured in a voice low enough that only he could hear.
Smiling faintly, he replied, “I just don’t want you to leave until I’m satisfied that everything between us is settled.”
She hadn’t expected such a quick and honest response. But the unsaid, underlying meaning threading his words vibrated through her, causing her to shiver and stumble over a reply. She wrapped her arms around herself for comfort, tossing a fast glance to her son, who had once again started quarreling loudly with the girls in the sandbox. A well-born lady and her nanny, who was pushing a buggy, stepped past Ian, and he moved to his left, off the path and so close to Viola that she could suddenly feel the heat of his body.
“I think now,” he murmured good-naturedly, “before I risk a scandal by taking you in my arms and kissing you in public, I am going to go to the sandbox and teach my son that I’ve learned it’s much easier to win a lady’s admiration by building her a castle than by fighting and making her cry.”
That said, he winked at her, turned, and walked away.
Made speechless, and flustered to the bone, Viola sat again on the bench and watched in wonder as the Duke of Chatwin took charge of the box and in minutes had the boys and girls together making castles in the sand.
Chapter Twenty-one
They rescued him last night, and although I helped to free him,
doing so made it necessary to expose my sisters and the evils they’ve committed. I have disgraced my family and fear I may remain disowned and alone. With his baby inside of me, I can only hope to find a husband quickly. All of our futures now rest in God’s hands. . . .
He had no idea how to seduce her. Or where, or at what time. He’d been meeting her once a day for the past week for sittings, but she’d been cordial and polite, not particularly eager to take up conversation about informal topics, and certainly unwilling to discuss anything personal between them. So unwilling, in fact, that for nearly the entire time, one or more servants had meandered through her studio—an interruption which, he suspected, had been thoroughly staged.
But each day he sat before her, listening to her talk of trivialities, watching her try to stay focused on her work when he so obviously unnerved her by his presence, he grew more desperate to hold her, make love to her, and show her how without trying at all she had managed to transform his feelings for her. Into what, he wasn’t altogether sure, but he desperately wanted to discover it. He wanted to tell her how just the sound of her voice carried with it an instant blanket of comfort, and the thought of her leaving his life forever sent a wave of dread through him so powerful that it hurt. He had no explanation for this new ray of emotions he’d never experienced before, and he frankly couldn’t put them into words if he tried, but they certainly went beyond lust, and he wasn’t stupid enough to dismiss them. He wasn’t about to throw away something within his grasp simply because he’d for so long been mistaken and thought differently about the woman at the center of it. It was clear that his assumptions about her role in his captivity had been, if not completely wrong, then altered by vague memories and his own misguided craving for revenge.
Yet much could change, had changed, in five years. She had cared for him long ago, but he needed to learn the certainty and depth of her feelings for him now, and the way to that discovery had, until today, eluded him. It had taken him a week of consideration and indecision before deciding on a plan of action. Abducting her again would only prove what hadn’t changed between them, and asking her to simply tell him how she felt would only lead to more evasion, argument, and mistrust. But he’d bet his fortune she wouldn’t be able to hide her feelings if he made love to her.
So tonight, with such a plan in mind, he awaited her arrival at his town house, pacing the floor of his drawing room, his heart thumping hard from anxiousness as he looked again to the clock on the mantel. He’d sent a note requesting a meeting after eight, and it was now nearly half past the hour. He’d chosen the time specifically, wanting to make it late enough to dismiss all but essential servants for the evening. Braetham would greet her, tell her driver to make himself comfortable, then order the rest of the staff to remain below stairs until morning. It was an excellent plan—if she bothered to call on him at all.
Ian strode to the window and gazed out to the driveway beyond. Much of it remained obscured by oak trees and the darkness of night, but after a moment or two of attempting to breathe deeply and contemplate different options for seduction should this one fail, he saw her coach round the corner and pull to a stop next to the stone steps.
Stepping quickly away from the window, he walked to the center of the room and composed himself, waiting with his hands clasped behind his back, feeling surprisingly nervous and worried about his ability to seduce the one woman on earth whose refusal would trouble him indefinitely. He had to make it matter.
Suddenly her footsteps echoed on the marble flooring of his entryway. His mouth went dry and his heartbeat raced, and he faced the opened door as he feigned a calmness he didn’t feel at all.
“Your grace,” Braetham said after a courtesy knock, “Lady Cheshire to see you.”
“Show her in,” Ian replied, his voice remarkably steady.
His butler moved to his right, and seconds later she glided into his drawing room.
Ian’s breath caught when he saw her, looking beautifully polished and seemingly unworried, but he managed to hide his admiration of her figure with a droll smile and a nod. “Lady Cheshire. I’m so glad you could visit on such short notice.”
She raised her brows and managed to appear somewhat amused, if not overly curious. “You said it was important.”
Ian glanced at Braetham, who stood in the doorway looking appropriately staid. “That will be all for now,” Ian informed him.
The man bowed. “Of course, your grace.” Then he turned and shut the door behind him, leaving them alone and enclosed in the silent drawing room.
She glanced around her for the first time, fingering the strings of her tiny reticule in her only display of discomfiture. He eyed her speculatively, noting how lovely she looked in a low-cut, tightly drawn evening gown of bronze satin and pale yellow flounces, her hair upswept in curls. He wished he had a brilliant golden topaz necklace and earrings to give her to complete the picture, then with her on his arm, take her to meet the queen. And by the looks of it, he decided with some humor, such an introduction at court might be faster to accomplish than getting her out of the contraption she was wearing. He couldn’t wait to see her corset—
“Your grace?”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Her lips thinned in annoyance. “I asked if there is something I can do for you this evening?”
Oh, sweetheart . . .
Smiling, he began to walk slowly toward her. “You look lovely tonight,” he remarked offhandedly. “I hope I didn’t pull you away from an important social function.”
“Just dinner,” she said, watching him through slightly narrowed eyes.
“I see.” He waited, and when she didn’t offer anything else, he couldn’t help himself from prying. “With another prospective husband?”
Her suddenly suspicious gaze grazed the length of him. “With Lady Tenby and several of her guests, if you must know.”
He wasn’t about to go so far as to ask about Lady Tenby’s guests, no matter how curious he was to know if she’d been escorted by another gentleman. Hopefully, and with any luck, it wouldn’t matter by morning.
Standing before her now, he looked down into her wary eyes and smiled. “Well, then, I apologize for the interruption, but I am very glad to know you weren’t swallowed up in a long night of meaningless gossip.”
She sighed into her stays. “Ian, why am I here? What is so important it must be discussed tonight?”
He felt a swift, instantaneous panic slice through him. Never in his thirty-one years had he truly felt as if his future rested on the fate of one event, as he did now. It was time to stop his own meaningless chatter and get to the meaningful lovemaking.
“I need to show you something,” he revealed softly.
Her brows furrowed as she scanned each feature of his face. “Show me something? Here?”
“Yes.” He raised his elbow. “Follow me?”
She hesitated for a second or two, then placed her gloved palm gently on his forearm and allowed him to lead her from the drawing room and into the foyer.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they neared the large marble staircase.
He grinned down at her. “Up.”
“Up?”
“To the top floor—”
“Ian, I don’t think—”
“Trust me, Viola,” he urged in a whisper.
She nervously glanced around the silent house, then, without further pause, lifted her skirts with her free hand and began to climb the steps alongside him.
Silently, he led her up to the third landing, then down the long hallway to the closed door at the very last room.
He could sense her growing concern. Part of that, no doubt, stemmed from the lack of obvious help. If she screamed, no one would come to her rescue. He could only hope that soon he would have her screaming from pleasure, in which case she would be
absolutely thankful he’d fairly vacated the house.
“Why do you keep smiling?” she asked suspiciously.
He paused in front of the door. “Smiling?”
“You’re not going to murder me up here, are you?” she shot back flatly.
“Not tonight,” he replied as he reached for the latch and pushed it downward.
Eyeing him askance, unable to hide a wry grin of her own, she walked inside—then stopped short so quickly that her skirts bounced back into his shins.
She stared at the mantel ten feet in front of her, where the first sketch he’d purchased from her hung in all its glorious beauty, lit on both sides by lamplight as the focal point of the entire room.
“This is your bedchamber, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Very quietly, he closed the door behind him, locked it, and stood in front of it to block her exit should she try to run before he had his say.
She glanced to her left, noting his large four-poster bed for several long seconds before twirling around to glare at him.
“It’s a lovely room,” she said in a daring breath of anger. “Why am I here?”
This is the moment. . . .
“I wanted to show you where I’ve chosen to hang your sketch.”
She shook her head minutely, confused. “Why? If I say it’s unattractively displayed above your fireplace, will you give it back to me?”
He chuckled. “Absolutely not. I want it to be the last thing I see before I sleep every night.” Growing serious once more, he added, “It reminds me of you.”
That bold statement made her uncomfortable. She took a step away from him, glancing to the bed, then back again, her features dark and haunted by lamplight.
“Did you bring me here to seduce me, Ian?” she asked softly.
Moment of truth . . .
“I brought you here for much more than that.”
She fidgeted with her reticule strings again, and he reached out to take the small pouch from her, dropping it on the nightstand behind him.
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