Samantha watched the scene blossom under his pencil. She imagined sitting in his studio as he drew her face. It was tempting, so tempting, but… “I don’t think it would be wise to let my likeness be painted.”
“No one will recognize you. It will be quite small, I promise to obscure your features. But…” His gaze roved over her face, fascinated and eager. “You’re exactly the sort of model I hoped to find. I would consider it more than ample repayment for anything I’ve done for you.”
This time Samantha didn’t bother contemplating what her father would think. She was so far beyond the pale, it hardly mattered. Perhaps she would never go home, and would simply flit about the shadows of London. At the moment it sounded far more appealing than anything that required her to face the earl.
She took a deep breath. “Lord George—”
“Gray,” he said. “Please.”
Somehow that felt more intimate than calling him by his proper title. “Gray,” she said softly. “Thank you. I accept.”
Chapter Seven
Gray knew Mrs. Willis would extract a pound of flesh—in pounds sterling—for his wild offer to Samantha. His landlady would put the most rapacious moneylender to shame. He’d taken the rooms in her house because of the excellent light in the large topmost room, which made an ideal studio, and because it was very convenient to the Strand, which bustled with artistic life and supply shops. His apartments on the floor below, nothing more than a bedroom and a sitting room, were functional, and his rent included dinner if he wished it. It was the perfect situation for a bachelor artist, but now he’d gone and upset the whole arrangement by promising indefinite shelter to a well-born young woman of nebulous history.
He didn’t care. He could no more turn out Samantha than he could give up painting. The stark, frozen look on her face when she’d turned and walked out of the coaching yard had shocked him and made him want to commit assault on the person who had so terrified her. Not that he had any idea who that was; he’d gone after her the moment she turned, and had snatched only a quick searching glance back at the busy yard. It could have been any of a dozen people, but it didn’t really matter.
Her story only confirmed his suspicion. By now Gray had put together enough to make him feel very protective toward her. She was a lady, groomed to make an advantageous match; the thought of marrying a man she didn’t know well was probably not foreign to her, and yet she’d run away, and then lost her nerve even after declaring she was ready to go home and face it. He could think of a few so-called eligible gentlemen who fit her description of cruel and mad, but he had a harder time thinking of a peer, or even a gentleman, who would willingly wed a daughter to any of them. Perhaps her father was banking on a wealthy husband for her, to save his own fortunes. Gray made a mental note to ask his mother if she knew anyone near Richmond who fit that description.
Back in Stanhope Street, he left Samantha in the parlor and went directly to find Mrs. Willis. It was always best to catch her off guard; she’d extort her price, but on no account was she going to refuse.
It took some doing, with several mentions of Samantha’s genteel background and appeals to Mrs. Willis’s sense of Christian charity, but in the end she agreed Samantha could stay for an extra guinea a week. Since that was far more than Gray’s own rent, he argued successfully that it would include both breakfast and dinner every day, so Samantha wouldn’t need to leave the house if she didn’t want to, and for Mrs. Willis to procure suitable clothing for his guest.
He was thankful, however, that it was nearly quarter day when his father would pay his allowance. He’d spent liberally on canvases and paints recently, and this was going to cost him dearly. Then he dismissed the thought of money and went to tell Samantha.
“All settled,” he said, letting himself into the parlor.
She smiled nervously. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself…”
“There’s no pianoforte, but you could draw to your heart’s delight.” He hesitated, then threw caution to the wind. “You could also help in the studio, if you’ve a mind to do it. I have no catalog of my work, and it would be helpful to have one.”
Her face brightened, and he thought he’d never seen anyone so lovely. Her eyes glowed like polished jade, and her smile did terrible things to Gray’s sense of honor. “I would be delighted,” she said shyly.
“Excellent!” Even though he’d never spent two minutes worrying about a catalog of his paintings, Gray beamed as if she’d just solved his greatest worry in life. “I may never want you to leave, if you make yourself that useful.”
A flush of color came into her cheeks and she gave him a glance that brimmed with teasing. “Perhaps I’ll make a terrible mess of it. You may lock me out after the first day.”
Gray scoffed. “Impossible. I did say I haven’t got any catalog right now, didn’t I? You can’t do worse than that.”
Now her eyes sparkled, and she lifted her chin, still smiling, as if taking on a challenge. “I’ll do my best.”
Life in Stanhope Street was nothing like life at Stratford Court. Mrs. Willis was as keen-eyed as the housekeeper in Richmond, but far more voluble. Her voice rang up and down the stairs of the neat little house from morning till night as she bickered with the cook, who only came in the afternoons; chattered with the handful of other ladies who came to gossip under the guise of being a ladies’ sewing society; and chastised Jenny for a variety of sins, from leaving a dust rag in sight to forgetting to black the grates in her sitting room. She seemed to keep a keen ear out for the sound of Gray’s footsteps, which would always send her running after him, calling out for him to stop a moment. Samantha soon understood why he closed himself into his studio most days, even going so far as to post a notice on the door at one point: Silence requested.
Of course she was also aware that her presence had evicted him from his apartment and left him nowhere to go but the painting studio. Within an hour of telling her she could stay as long as she pleased, he had packed all his possessions and carted them up the stairs, leaving the bedroom and sitting room to her. Stealing wildly curious glances at her the whole while, Jenny gave the apartment a cursory cleaning, and from them on Samantha was part of the household.
The next day Mrs. Willis brought in a pair of dresses, plainer and sturdier than anything in her wardrobe at home, and presented them proudly to her. Feeling as though she had entered a very strange dream, Samantha tried them both on, for it was clear she couldn’t wear her frock of glazed pink muslin much longer. Even washed and mended it was beginning to look shabby, and her maid at home would be aghast if she saw it.
“Well, it’s too long, but Jenny can take that up,” fussed Mrs. Willis over the striped blue dress. The other one, pale yellow with green flowers, needed to be taken in as well, so soon Jenny came in with a box of sewing supplies.
“Thank you for helping me,” Samantha told her.
“’Tis my pleasure,” said Jenny frankly, pinning up the hem where Mrs. Willis had marked it. “Mending’s a vast deal better than blacking grates, and I forgot to do the one in Aunt Tansy’s sitting room again.” She said the last in a whisper. “As if it needs blacking every day! I’m sure she only puts me to it so I won’t have a moment to m’self. ‘Idleness is wickedness,’” she said, imitating her aunt’s breathy manner of speaking. “As if I would know! Never a pause from morning until night.” She shook her head and bit off a length of thread.
“I could help,” Samantha offered after a few minutes. She’d only done embroidery, never stitching her own clothing, but Jenny was sewing a rather lackadaisical seam, and she was sure she could do better than that.
“If’n you want.” The girl handed over the blue dress, the needle still dangling from the thread.
Samantha spread it over her lap and set to work. A creak overhead made her look up, but no other sound came from the studio upstairs. Gray hadn’t appeared all day, and she didn’t have the nerve to knock and interrupt him.
&nbs
p; “So it is true you’ve run away from home to avoid a terrible marriage?”
She flinched at Jenny’s bold, eager question. “What makes you think that?”
“I overheard Aunt Tansy tellin’ Mrs. Johnson who lives next door. Everyone’ll be quite rabid to know all about you, miss.” Jenny’s eyes shone as she sat forward. “Is’t true?”
Samantha concentrated on her stitches. Did everyone know? “Something like it.”
“I knew it,” breathed the girl in excitement. “It’s just like The Romance of the Forest! Is he very evil, the man you’re supposed to marry?”
Instinctively Samantha began to deny it, thought again of Lord Philip shooting out a horse’s legs one by one, and said nothing.
“And Lord George saved you from him.” Jenny sighed happily. “Right noble, don’t you think?”
Samantha gave her a stern glance. “He’s been very kind to me, particularly for being a stranger.”
“Aye, he’s a kind one,” Jenny agreed. “He gave me a crown for that bonnet you took the other day, even though it were two years old and not even my best. He told me not to tell Aunt Tansy, for she’d want half.” She looked up. “Is that how it works with gentry? You marry whosomever your pa chooses?”
Samantha didn’t know how it was in other families, but in hers… “Yes.”
“Can’t you refuse?” Jenny’s eyebrows went up at Samantha’s quick shake of the head. “Blimey. What if you fancy another gent? If’n you run off with someone else, your pa couldn’t make you marry the other one.”
Samantha almost smiled at the girl’s eager embrace of the idea—which had occurred to her, more than once. Unfortunately she didn’t fancy another gent, nor even know one who would consider defying the Earl of Stratford to elope with her. “A dramatic solution.”
The girl shrugged. “Beddin’ someone else would do near the same, aye?”
Now Samantha was shocked. “Jenny! Mrs. Willis would be appalled.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Aunt Tansy’s appalled by everythin’ I do and say; ’t’ain’t hard to rile her temper. Besides…” She slid a little closer, her dark eyes shining. “Ain’t you thought of it?”
Samantha thought her eyes must be about to fall from her head. How on earth could this girl—who couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen—talk about such things? “Certainly not!” she whispered indignantly.
“Not even with yon gentleman?” Jenny grinned, her eyes flickering upward toward the studio. “He admires you something fierce, he does. Not even a kiss?”
“No!”
Jenny tipped her head back, a knowing look creeping over her face. “Oh, on account o’ being a proper lady? My mum says proper ladies don’t know aught about men and bedding until they marry. Is’t true?”
The color in her cheeks was probably answer enough, but Samantha still added a repressive, “Yes.”
“And you be not curious? He’s a right handsome lad, that Lord George.” Jenny seemed more perplexed than anything, as if she couldn’t understand how anyone could be immune to Gray’s appeal. “If’n he tried to kiss me, I’d let him.”
She made a horrified sound before she could stop herself. “Has he—?”
Jenny made a face. “Not a bit. Nor would Aunt Tansy allow it anyway. She’d scour my hide if she caught me smiling at him, she’d never get another tenant to pay like he does… But you,” she exclaimed with relish. “You’re a lady, and he’s a gent. ’T’ain’t wrong for you to look at him.”
“Jenny,” said Samantha, breathing hard as she tried to fend off the thought of Gray kissing her, “you shouldn’t speak so. It’s immodest and indelicate.”
The girl snickered. “Immodest! You ought to read Fifty Ways. Lady Constance could open your eyes, she could.” She leaned forward. “You ain’t read it, ’ave you? Fiendishly scandalous. You don’t look the scandalous type of lady.”
“No,” said Samantha, but not without a small hesitation. Just being here was a scandal for her, but she had a feeling Jenny meant something far more wicked. Lucy Walgrave had whispered about something called 50 Ways to Sin once, but Samantha had never dared ask more.
“You must!” Jenny bounded out of her chair, mending forgotten. “I’ll fetch it.”
Still blushing furiously, Samantha bent her head over the dress. She had broken so many rules of decency already, it could hardly matter if she breached one more.
And there was one point of truth in Jenny’s chatter. Bedding someone would ruin her irreparably as a bride, for Lord Philip or anyone of his class.
She ducked her head, unable to believe such thoughts were running through her mind. She was a lady, raised properly and respectably. Her sole duty in life was to marry well and bear children of unimpeachable lineage. Lord Philip might be mad and dangerous, but he was from the same society, and his father was well known for his pride. It was highly likely neither of them would want her if she weren’t a virgin still…
“Here!” Jenny slipped back into the room, startling her so badly she sent the needle right into her finger. “Deliciously wicked,” the maid whispered in excitement. “Oh Lor’, how I wish I could do half the things!”
“What is it?” Pressing her wounded finger with her thumb, Samantha took the simple pamphlet.
“You’ll know soon enough.” Looking superior, Jenny retrieved her mending and went back to work.
With a worried look at the door, Samantha slowly set down the dress and opened the pamphlet. The very first paragraph made her eyes widen. “Jenny! This is indecent!”
“O’ course it is! I overheard Aunt Tansy and Mrs. Barber talking about it over their tea one day. Nipped out as soon as I could to find it myself. Read on, it gets better,” she urged. “That’s the first one, but I got most of ’em collected, you can borrow as many as you like.”
She should put the wicked thing away, and yet her eyes strayed back to the pamphlet. Before she knew it, she had reached the end; it was only a few pages long, though so full of shocking things it made her face burn and her skin feel tight. Good heavens. She wasn’t completely ignorant of how a man bedded a woman, but she’d never heard it described this way, as if the woman might enjoy it, even crave it. For a moment she pictured herself lying back, reaching for a lover, her body burning for his touch, and the lover who loomed over her, eyes dark with hunger, hands cupping her face, touching her body….
…Was Lord George Churchill-Gray.
Samantha slapped the pamphlet closed and thrust it back at Jenny. “Very imaginative,” she managed to choke out.
Jenny giggled again, sliding the story into her apron pocket. “D’ you want more?”
“No!”
“No?” The girl looked astonished. “There’s a powerful one, where she takes a gentleman into the cloakroom at the theater, and the newest story is even better—a gent ties her to the bed with scarlet ribbons, oh my, that one…”
Samantha sat like a statue, trying and failing to divert her mind from the idea. Tied down? How was that pleasurable? Lord George’s laughing eyes kept drifting across her mind, and a shudder went through her as she recalled the feel of his arms around her, holding her easily against his chest; of his arm about her waist, cradling her protectively against him; of his fingers on her face, swearing he would help her avoid whatever had sent her running… She cleared her throat. “Well…”
Jenny looked up, a grin lurking on her lips.
“Perhaps one more,” Samantha whispered, and knew that this was how the serpent had led Eve astray.
Chapter Eight
Gray soon became convinced that saving Samantha was the cleverest thing he’d done in years.
It was true that he had to sleep on the ridiculous chaise in the studio, which could in no way be called comfortable. All his possessions were also jumbled in a heap in the corner of the studio, in danger of being spattered with paint and mineral spirits. And Mrs. Willis now regarded it as her right to speak to him each and every day about something or other, despi
te the extortionate rent he was paying and his extensive efforts to avoid her.
But every time he felt a pang for the way things used to be, he would catch sight of Samantha, and his heart would give a little sigh of delight. For all that he knew she was a lady and a guest at the moment, she offered to help around the house; he’d seen her sewing and mending, and every time the landlady chased him down, Mrs. Willis assured him she was faultlessly polite and charming. The thought of her being given to a man who terrified her made him feel capable of murder.
The crowning moment of victory, though, came when Samantha knocked on the studio door. “Mrs. Willis has gone out,” she said as soon as he opened it. “And Jenny. No sooner did Mrs. Willis leave than she shot out the back of the house, calling back something about an errand. If you would like me to begin your catalog, I am ready.”
“At last, my prayers answered.” He threw open the door and extended his arm. “Please come in, my lady.”
He caught a whiff of roses as she passed. It was the same scent as Mrs. Willis’s soap, but somehow it smelled far more alluring on Samantha than on his landlady. “Let me get you some ink and a pen… I’ve never done a catalog but I’m sure there’s something suitable lying about…” He rummaged around and produced a notebook, and a moment later a sharpened pencil. “This will serve for now.”
He didn’t really care much for having a catalog. Every picture he had ever crafted existed in minute detail in his memory. But he was keenly interested in finding something that would excuse Samantha spending hours near him, and if he ended up with a list of his paintings in her handwriting, so much the better.
She accepted the book and pencil, her brow clear and untroubled. “I’m sure it will. I promise to be as quiet as I can, to avoid interrupting your work.”
A Study in Scandal (Scandalous) Page 7
