What A Lord Wants

by Harrington, Anna

  Kit nodded. “Ellsworth. I didn’t realize that you and the Winslows were acquainted.”

  “Miss Winslow showed an interest in art when we met at the Hawthorne ball.”

  “Did she?” Kit cast her a curious glance, and she covered the flushing in her cheeks by taking a long sip of champagne.

  “So I extended a personal invitation to her and her family. And here you are.” Dom’s mouth tightened, yet she didn’t dare let herself consider that he might be jealous at seeing her talking with Kit. “All of you.”

  She choked on the champagne. Perhaps it was jealousy, after all.

  Dom exchanged quick greetings with the rest of the group. Then he focused his attention back on her, and she lost the battle to keep from blushing.

  “I’m glad you were able to attend the preview, Miss Winslow.” The intensity in his chocolate-brown eyes made her shiver. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Very much.” She smiled through her nervousness, aware of the curious looks from her friends and family. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  “Of course.” Then a small pause, barely perceptible, but she noticed—heaven help her, she noticed everything about this man. “Have you visited the Old Masters gallery yet?”

  She knew exactly what he was asking, and it wasn’t at all about paintings. He wanted to speak with her alone. Although she sensed irritation at her still simmering inside him, there was none of the anger of their parting. Thank God.

  “Not yet.” Then, unable to refuse the opportunity to be in his company again, no matter how fleeting, she admitted, “But I’d like to.”

  “It would be my pleasure to show it to you.” He held out his gloved hand. “May I?”

  With a nod, she let him place her hand on his arm and lead her away. With every step, she was aware of the stares that followed them, first from her family and friends, and then from the other patrons in the gallery. Just as she was aware of the tension inside Dom as he strolled slowly beside her.

  “Christopher Carlisle,” he ground out, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “Are you and he…?”

  “Friends? Yes.” She tilted her head coyly to slide him a long, sideways glance, as if she didn’t understand what he was asking. “Distant relations by marriage? Yes.” She was rewarded by a tightening of his jaw and lowered her voice, “Someone who paints me scandalously nude in his secret art studio? No.”

  He halted, frozen for a beat mid-step.

  Then he went on, not daring to glance down at her. The only other visible reaction to her barb was a faint twisting of his lips in chagrin.

  He led her slowly through the long gallery that held the contemporary English artists, toward the two rooms in the rear where the old masters had been hung, with English artists in one room and Continental artists in the other.

  “You’ve not returned to the studio,” he said in a low voice, careful not to let anyone overhear.

  She’d been absent only a week, yet homesickness ached inside her for it. And for him. “I know I’m not wanted there.”

  “Exactly the opposite, in fact,” he murmured. Before she could reply, he added, “And when I’ve tried to call on you at your home, you’ve refused to see me.”

  “What good would it do?” She fought to keep her shoulders from sagging.

  “It would let me know that you were all right.”

  Despite herself, she couldn’t resist squeezing his forearm. The muscle flexed beneath her fingertips in reward, and a thrill raced shamelessly through her. “Concerned about me?”

  “Of course.” Before she could counter that with a protest that she could take care of herself, he murmured, “I also wanted to apologize.”

  She couldn’t stop the flutter in her belly. But she still had her pride, what little of it remained, so she flippantly challenged in a low voice, “You wanted to apologize for not deflowering me?”

  His mouth hardened at that soft rebuke. “For letting it get that far in the first place.”

  “That’s the difference between us.” She set her empty champagne flute onto the tray of a passing attendant and snatched up a fresh one, then avoided his gaze as she raised it to her lips. “I regret that we didn’t go further.”

  He bit back a frustrated curse. “Eve, you know why—”

  “Your Lordship!” An artist hurried up to them. Not noticing Dom’s irritated grimace at being interrupted, the man profusely thanked him for sponsoring the exhibit, and he humbly accepted the man’s gratitude, claiming he’d done nothing but loan out a few paintings.

  “A few?” she pressed when he led her onward, grateful to change the topic of conversation to the exhibition. If she had to think any more about how he’d rejected her, she couldn’t have borne it.

  “Well…most.” He stopped and gazed up at the paintings. “The walls of Mercer House are starkly bare.”

  “And Vincenzo? Why are none of his works on display?”

  “He wasn’t invited.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “The members thought him too scandalous.”

  “But you are a member.”

  “Exactly. And I voted against him.” When her mouth fell open in surprise, he pointed at a painting high on the wall. “Francesco Guardi. Of the Grand Canal in Venice. One of my favorites.” He paused a beat and said quietly, “How are you, Eve?”

  The quiet concern in his voice surprised her. She answered automatically, “I’m fine.”

  He arched a brow and murmured, “You are a terrible liar.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I will be fine.” She caught a glimpse of Penelope Daniels from across the room, and her stomach sank. “Eventually.”

  He paused, as if deciding whether to challenge that new lie, then turned back toward the paintings and pointed to one. “Tintoretto. From his St Mark series.”

  She gasped, clutching at his arm in excitement. Her lingering irritation at him couldn’t match her awe for the painting. “Tintoretto? You own a Tintoretto?”

  “I also own a Titian and a Caravaggio. There.” He pointed casually across the gallery to the opposite wall. “And there.”

  “Sweet heavens,” she breathed, her eyes wide as they fixed on the paintings. “They’re beautiful.”

  “So are you.” Another long glance, this time taking her in from head to toe and making her shiver. “That color is perfect on you.”

  Please, God, don’t let me blush! She couldn’t have borne the humiliation of it.

  She brushed a hand across the skirt of her sage-green dress, the one she’d spent hours deciding on, along with exactly how her maid should fashion her hair, what necklace and earbobs to wear, what slippers…But she had too much pride to admit that. So she asked cheekily, “This old thing?”

  “Yes,” he repeated dryly, “that old thing.”

  However much it pleased her to know that he’d noticed how she looked, she was still upset at him. “Perhaps I should have worn this to pose in.”

  “It would have been an amazing painting.”

  With that, all of her lingering anger at him dissipated. In its place came remorse for her role in what had happened.

  “I’m sorry about ruining your painting,” she whispered to keep from being overheard by the other patrons.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Even as she heard his words, she didn’t believe him. Still he was a gentleman to say so. “That canvas was a victim of circumstance, that’s all.”

  So much more than that! “What are you going to do with it now?”

  Disappointment darkened his face. “I’ve sent it to Mercer House for safe keeping.”

  Where his servants might see her nude form. Every. Single. Day. Oh God! “Can’t you—can’t you do something else with it? Anything else.”

  “You’re asking me to destroy a masterpiece?”

  “Not destroy it.” Although that idea was growing on her. “Can’t you just…I don’t know—paint over it? Add a dress, a fig leaf or twenty…or a carefully placed bonnet?”

  �
��A bonnet?” He laughed. A grin curled his lips, then faded as he murmured, “Dear God, how much I’ve missed you.”

  She looked away, her eyes stinging. Blast him for saying that! He might have been concerned about her, but he was unwittingly making everything worse. All that his sweet flatteries did was remind her that he didn’t want her the same way she wanted him.

  He took her arm and led her around the room. “The studio is empty without you.”

  Empty. Not lonely. The studio. Not him. “You’ll find another model to replace me,” she said softly, not trusting herself to speak any louder without her voice breaking.

  He leaned down to bring his mouth close to her ear. “Trust me, Eve.” His deep drawl purred into her like liquid silk. “No one can replace you.”

  She glanced away and sucked in a deep breath to tamp down the emotions tangling in her chest.

  They continued on their turn around the room, the conversation now focusing solely on art. Thank goodness. Because Eve didn’t know how much longer she could tolerate his concern and compliments.

  As they circled back toward the Carlisles in the outer gallery, they were interrupted on the way several times by patrons who wanted to congratulate him on such a fine exhibition. She smiled at the irony. They might have blackballed Vincenzo, but Dominick Mercer was having the last laugh.

  “They’re going to unveil the contest entries in a few minutes.” He nodded toward the south wall of the main gallery, whose paintings were all carefully hidden behind several sheets strung from the picture rails near the plasterwork ceiling. “Then all the artists who’ve entered can see the competition for themselves and make their final touches before the preview ends.”

  “And everyone watches?”

  “Just like the opera,” he drawled as he led her toward a spot with the best view for the unveiling. “Only with more drama.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, making eye contact with Mariah, who frowned with concern. Eve wished she could have blamed her sister’s worry on being enceinte, but Mariah had always been protective of her. “I really should get back to the others.”

  “Stay.” He covered her hand with his and lightly squeezed her fingers. “It’s your first unveiling. Let me share it with you.”

  When she tentatively nodded her consent, he turned his attention to the activity at the end of the wall, where the president of the Royal Academy stood ready to address the crowd and then pull the gold cord that would release the sheets. The artists clustered anxiously, ready with their stools, brushes, and supplies.

  From the corner of her eye, she stared at Dom’s profile as he watched silently. She’d never been more aware of the duality of his identity than at that moment. The marquess took it all in with an expression of aristocratic dispassion, but the painter inside him longed to be in the midst of the activity.

  No—more than that. What she saw in him were the same flickers of jealousy she’d witnessed when he’d found her talking with Christopher Carlisle.

  A sickening jolt shot through her. She knew now why he was so upset over what she’d done by hiding her identity. God help her, she knew…“You were going to enter our painting into this contest, weren’t you? You were going to enter a masterpiece by Vincenzo.”

  “No.” He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the veiled wall as he admitted, “I was going to enter a masterpiece by Dominick James Mercer.”

  Her fingers tightened on his arm as the realization of what she’d truly cost him slammed into her. More than the weeks spent working on the painting, more than having to start his masterpiece over with another model…She had cost him his chance at being an artist under his own name. One so brilliant that the English art world couldn’t dismiss him as a mere hobbyist or bored lord, that English society couldn’t laugh at him for attempting to be a serious painter.

  The guilt of what she’d done was unbearable. “I had no idea that you…”

  He glanced down at her. The haunted expression in his eyes ripped her breath away. “It’s all right.”

  No, it was the furthest thing from that! “Dom, I am so—”

  The president yanked the gold cord, and the sheets dropped to the floor. Around them, a cheer went up from the crowd, yet Eve was aware of nothing but Dom and the pain she’d caused him, the grief, the loss…

  Then she felt the excitement of the room change, fading into puzzled confusion as the crowd of onlookers grew quiet. No one moved, not even the artists, and the cheers lowered into muffled whispers of bewildered surprise.

  As the uneasiness grew around her, Eve tore her attention away from Dom to see what was the matter. She looked up at the wall of paintings.

  And right into her own eyes.

  Chapter 16

  Dom’s heart stopped. The painting.

  Christ—the painting!

  Eve stood beside him, frozen, as her own reflection gazed back at her, as every pair of eyes in the room glanced between her and the wall. Whispers grew louder, followed by the shifting of the crowd as everyone strained to get a better look at the painting and prove to themselves that they weren’t imagining what they were seeing…her nude body reclining across the canvas.

  He leaned toward her with a loud chuckle. “Laugh,” he ordered beneath his breath. Then he gestured at the painting, as if he needed to point out to her the uncanny likeness. Aware of the eyes upon her, he lowered his mouth to her ear and forced out despite his smile, “Laugh, damn it! Laugh your head off.”

  She did as ordered. At first only a stiff, bewildered, and weak chortle, but that was all right, because it let everyone know that she was just as stunned as they were. Then stronger and more carefree, despite the mortification glistening in her eyes. A true Covent Garden actress would have been less believable.

  Her hand went to her mouth as the laughter came so freely now that he worried she’d fall into hysteria. Although he wouldn’t have blamed her if she did.

  “Heavens—it’s uncanny!” he said loudly enough that everyone within fifty feet could overhear.

  “Yes,” she choked out, tamping down her laughs but keeping a brave smile plastered on her face, as if greatly amused to think that someone had painted a nude model who looked like her. She kept her gaze moving between him and the painting, not daring to glance back at her family. Thank God. He feared she would have broken down right there, and they’d have no chance of pulling off this pretense. “Uncanny.”

  “Actually,” he mused loudly so he would be overheard in the back of the gallery as he leaned forward and narrowed his gaze on the painting, the same way all the art critics had been doing for the past hour, “I’ve changed my mind.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, then back to the painting. “On closer inspection, it doesn’t look like you at all.”

  “Oh?” Her smile never wavered. “We seem to have the same eyes.”

  “Not at all. And your hair is a completely different shade.” He stepped back, still judging the painting, still acutely aware of being watched and the ever-rising whispers at Eve’s expense. “The line of the jaw is different, you’re not as tall, your shoulders are much more slender—this model’s bone structure isn’t nearly as fine as yours. Or her complexion.” Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips, a coup de grâce to their little performance. “Whoever she is, she isn’t nearly as beautiful as you.”

  At that moment, he would have given his entire fortune for her to blush. But although her smile stayed in place, her face remained as tellingly pale as before. Her eyes glistened in the lamplight, and he feared she might start sobbing.

  “Come, Miss Winslow.” He took her arm and wrapped it around his to lead her away. “Let’s return to the Old Masters. There’s a Rembrandt deserving of our attention.”

  As they moved away, the crowd parted for them like the Red Sea. The patrons were still unconvinced that Eve wasn’t the woman in the painting. But the artists who had been waiting couldn’t have cared less and surged forward to attack their own canvases, just as they d
id every year. Thank God for that tradition and the distraction it provided from Eve, however fleeting.

  He guided her through the galleries, gesturing at the paintings around them just as he had before. But this time he stopped occasionally to laugh and shake his head, encouraging her to do the same. He only prayed that her family was smart enough to leave them alone. If her reputation had any chance of being saved, they needed to finish the last act of their little play.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.

  “No, you’re not.” A firm command.

  “Dom—”

  “Breathe,” he ordered and gave her hand a squeeze. “Just breathe, mia bella.” Dear God, how pale she was! He suspected that only the lingering shock of seeing the painting on the wall kept her from breaking down.

  “I want to leave.” She began to tremble, and he heard her teeth chattering when she forced out, “Now.”

  “You have to remain, or everyone will think that it’s really you in that painting.”

  “It is me! Dear God…” She whipped her gaze up to him. “What did you do?”

  The ferocity in her amber depths stunned him. So did the raw pain behind that accusation. “You think I would wound you like this?”

  She looked away, but not before the expression of betrayal on her face plunged like a knife into his heart. It was a stark reminder of how others had abused her trust and attacked her. She’d once accused him of being no better than those men, but he was nothing like them.

  “I would never hurt you like that,” he assured her, meaning it with his entire heart. “There must have been a mix-up with the paintings at Mercer House.”

  His chest sank. No, not a mix-up. His own damn fault. He’d told Davies that he had a new masterpiece to enter into the exhibition, had even arrogantly attached his own name to it. Dominick James. But that was before he knew who she truly was.

  “I will get you out of this with your reputation intact,” he promised.

  “How?” Her voice cracked.

  “I will,” he asserted, even though he had no idea himself how he would. “You have to stay here until we’ve made a complete circuit of the galleries. You’ll say your goodbyes to the Carlisles. Then your sister, Robert, and the duchess will leave with you. Their presence will help tamp down suspicions about the painting, and tomorrow, I’ll make certain that the man who supposedly painted that picture releases notice to all the papers that it was an actress he paid to pose for him and not you.”