What A Lord Wants

by Harrington, Anna

  Heavens! There had been no biscuits at all.

  Mortification poured through her as the realization smacked her, right there on the front portico. She’d completely forgotten to ask for a tea tray when she arrived, too concerned about her examination to think of it.

  Judging from the way Dr. Brandon paused to pull on his gloves before he returned to his carriage, he didn’t seem to mind the slight in hospitality. Or if he did, he was so used to delivering patients unexpected news that an absent-minded patient was simply routine.

  But there was nothing routine about this for her.

  She was with child.

  Dr. Brandon signaled for the butler to close the door and return inside so that he could have parting words alone with her. “You need to come by my office within the next few weeks so that plans can be made for your care.”

  She gave a jerky nod, still stunned at the diagnosis, although she shouldn’t have been surprised. Something had been wrong with her for the past few weeks. She hadn’t been feeling at all like herself…tired, once again not sleeping well even with Dom beside her, headaches, and sick to her stomach. Yet she hadn’t had the courage to mention it to Dom or even to Mariah, fearing the worst. After all, hadn’t her own mother’s death begun with her feeling as equally out of sorts, as tired and headachy?

  “You’ll want to hire a nurse, of course. I keep a list of women who are excellent. Shall I send it to Mercer House?”

  “No,” she said, so quickly that his eyes narrowed. “There’s…so much going on there right now.”

  “Ah, yes. The marquess’s art exhibit. I heard tell of it the other day at the Royal College. He must be quite busy planning it all.”

  She forced a smile as she always did at mention of the exhibition. Now that the storm over her painting had died away, Dom had launched into a new project to establish himself as an artist under his own name. Part of his plan was to stage a special winter exhibition that he’d convinced the British Institution to hold just after the new year, when English society began to trickle back into London for the start of Parliament. The other part was to create a new masterpiece. And both were eating away his time, until it seemed that Eve barely saw him at all.

  But he needed to do this in order to break away from Vincenzo, and she would never begrudge him his art. No matter how much she missed spending time with him.

  “Best to send all correspondence to me here, I think.” No need for Dom to grow suspicious of her condition until she’d found the right time to tell him.

  With a nod, he gestured toward his own carriage. “Can I offer you a ride?”

  “No, thank you.” She couldn’t bear the thought of being locked up inside a carriage, not when so many emotions were churning through her that she thought she might burst. “It’s a pleasant day. I’ll enjoy the walk home.”

  “Very well.” He smiled happily as he cautioned, “But do not overly exert yourself, my dear.” He tipped his hat to her, then hurried down the stairs toward his carriage. “Congratulations to you and His Lordship!”

  Her hand went to her lower belly, although it was as flat as ever and would most likely continue to be for several more weeks, until it grew huge like a hot-air balloon at Vauxhall. Then everything would change forever.

  “The marquess will be thrilled at the news, I’m certain.”

  Eve wasn’t so certain at all. But she gave a parting wave as his carriage drove away. Then she sucked in a deep breath to gather herself before heading home.

  But she didn’t return to Mercer House. Instead of turning left when she reached Park Lane, she turned right, and then walked through the open gate in the wrought iron fence and into the park.

  The day was crisp and bright with golden sunshine that played on the trees whose red and orange leaves had stubbornly refused to fall. The bite of last night’s heavy frost still hung in the air, along with the lingering promise of approaching snow. But she barely saw any of it, too stunned to take it all in. Inhaling a deep breath of chilly air that tingled into her lungs, she pulled her wool coat tighter around herself and walked toward the Serpentine.

  The park was practically deserted. Thank God. Most of fashionable London had departed for the country, to spend the fall on their estates. The handful of society that was left didn’t care to venture out into the chilly air. After all, what was the point in promenading when there was no one to watch?

  Not that she minded having the city to herself. She’d been grudgingly accepted into society’s ranks, but only because of Dom and only because as a marchioness she now outranked the majority of them. They certainly hadn’t welcomed her with open arms, and their coldness wasn’t because of the painting. Dom had been right about that. No, they disliked her because she was the upstart daughter of a shipping magnate who should have been living in Shoreditch rather than in their midst on Park Lane. Whose father reminded them of the changing status quo that had previously held a stranglehold over England, and that their own family fortunes and positions were more precarious than ever. Who had the audacity to marry one of their own.

  And happily, too. Which Eve was certain irritated the daylights out of them.

  She and Dom were happy…overall. He was supportive of her, encouraging her to wear her new role as marchioness with pride and to become involved with charities of all kinds. He’d even given her complete say over running Mercer House. As for the intimate side of their marriage, well, that had been wonderful, too, just as Mariah predicted. Their marriage was a true one in every way.

  Except for love.

  She stopped on the path near the edge of the lake to stare blankly across the water. These past few months together only proved to her how deeply she loved him, more than she thought possible. And Dom certainly cared about her. In that, they had more than most society marriages, and she knew she should be grateful.

  But selfishly, she wanted more. She still wanted his heart.

  The time they’d spent together had been heavenly. Eve had made certain of that, planning all kinds of pleasurable distractions…a midnight picnic beneath the stars in Mercer House’s gardens, an outing to the theatre in which they never left the carriage and spent the evening circling the park. She’d even rented an old Thames skiff with a makeshift forecabin that she’d decorated to look like a Venetian gondola—that had earned her plenty of laughter from Dom, before he made love to her inside it, right there on the embankment.

  When Dom was with her, everything was wonderful. She felt alive and beautiful, even when they did nothing more than share a quiet dinner…

  Until he returned to his art, when she didn’t know if he gave her a single thought.

  Frustration and loneliness burned hollow inside her chest. She’d never wanted to replace his art. Never. She wanted only to share equally in his passion and had fought with all her might to have just that.

  But she was losing.

  At the water’s edge, a little boy of not more than four or five was attempting to sail a toy boat. His coat, hat, and gloves lay discarded on the bank, in typical boy fashion, heedless of the chilly air. His concentration was on sending the boat out into the water, but it wouldn’t go where he wanted and instead kept drifting back to shore.

  The boy looked up and caught her watching him. When she forced a friendly smile, he scowled, with no patience for interfering grown-ups when his boat refused to sail.

  Pushing down her uneasiness, she approached him. Except for a glance as she knelt on the grass beside him, he ignored her. Also in typical boy fashion. “Having trouble launching your boat?”

  “It’s a ship,” he corrected, as if she were daft.

  “Ah, yes. I see that now. And what a fine ship, too.”

  That earned her a grudging smile.

  “But the lake is against you, isn’t it?” She reached for a stick lying on the bank. “Let’s try this.”

  She gestured for the boy to place the boat back into the water. But this time, when he pushed it out into the lake, Eve tapped i
ts side at its rear with the stick to point it away and catch the slight breeze. Another tap, and it sailed smartly away from the bank.

  “It’s sailing!” The boy laughed and clapped his hands.

  “Here.” She gave the stick to the boy. “You try it now.”

  He took the stick, then poked at the toy boat just as she’d done to keep it sailing along the edge of the lake. As it slipped away, he ran in little hopping steps after it, his round face beaming.

  Eve couldn’t help a faint smile, despite the unease still roiling inside her. Perhaps she would be a good mother, after all.

  Although Dom’s reaction to the baby might be a different matter entirely.

  Her shoulders sagged. What would he say when he discovered she was with child, a child that would have an immense impact on his art? What kind of havoc would a baby wreck on his current plans?

  Oh, the timing couldn’t be worse!

  All of his attentions and energies were focused on the new painting for the special exhibition. So much so that he was often exhausted when he returned home. Sometimes she didn’t see him at all. Some nights he came home so late that he went straight to sleep in his room, only to be up and gone before she rose for breakfast. Or he didn’t come home at all, preferring to stay at the studio after working late into the night.

  A baby’s presence might change all of that. Would Dom expect his art to come before his child, as well?

  “Well, if it isn’t London’s newest marchioness.” A cloying voice called out from behind her. “The lovely Lady Ellsworth.”

  Icy fingers played down her spine as Eve turned to face the woman—

  Constance.

  Dom’s former model strolled slowly toward her with a knowing smile playing at her lips. She reminded Eve of a cat who’d stumbled across a mouse.

  “I do hope you remember me,” Constance purred as she lowered her parasol. “Although we only met once.”

  “Of course I remember.”

  Good Lord, how could she have ever forgotten? And not only the fight with Dom that Eve had stumbled into, but also the paintings of her that had littered the studio. She acknowledged coldly, “Miss Devereaux.”

  “Your Ladyship.” Constance gave a mockingly shallow curtsy. “How is the marquess?” A contemptuous tone underscored her voice, but her smile remained firmly fixed. “Or should I say Vincenzo?”

  Eve refused to rise to that bait. “Ellsworth is well, thank you.”

  She plucked an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve. “You’ll be certain to tell him that I asked about him, won’t you?”

  The devil she would. “Of course.”

  “And that I’m still waiting for what he owes me.”

  “My husband owes you nothing.” She almost managed to keep the animosity from her voice. “Please leave us alone.”

  Constance slid an assessing gaze over Eve from head to foot, then gave a little laugh at her disheveled appearance, made worse by being mussed from the examination and her face most likely lacking all color. Surely, she had dark circles under puffy eyes from not sleeping well the last few weeks. Even though she now knew why her stomach was rolling and pitching like the deck of a ship, she couldn’t stop it. In fact, seeing Constance again made it worse.

  “Well, aren’t you just the devoted little wife, coming to his rescue,” she mused, her green eyes gleaming wickedly. “I will admit that I was completely stunned to hear that Dom had married you.” She waved her gloved hand in the air, although most likely to draw Eve’s attention to the diamond and citrine gold rings she wore over it. “I don’t mean because he stooped low enough to marry a tradesman’s daughter.”

  “Of course not,” Eve drawled icily at the insult. A tradesman…an interesting way to describe the owner of the largest sole proprietorship in the British empire.

  “Dom’s always been so nonconforming that way. What I mean is that he married you after you’d posed for him, when he’d never even considered such a thing with his other models.” She paused thoughtfully. “Except for Elena, of course. Her he loved.”

  Eve’s heart skipped. Dom had…loved another woman?

  “She’s the closest he’s come to finding his muse and the only woman he’s ever been willing to put before his art.”

  Jealousy slapped her hard. “You’re lying.”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself…unless you’re afraid of what he might be hiding from you. He might have married you, but that doesn’t mean he’s shared all his secrets.”

  Eve said nothing, struggling to keep the burning anguish inside her from showing on her face.

  “Marriage won’t save him from giving me what I’ve asked for. I want what I am due.”

  Eve knew the threats Constance had made to Dom, the demands for money and property. Just as she knew that Dom would never capitulate. “He has no need of a mistress.”

  “Because he’s married?” She laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the small group of children and nannies nearby. “A wife makes no difference whatsoever for that. But then, you’re still a shiny, new toy. He’ll grow bored of you soon and then look elsewhere for his pleasures. A man like Dom always does.”

  Oh, how much Eve wanted to walk away! But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t let this woman see that she’d upset her. To speak of her husband like that, directly to her face, was completely beyond the pale—worse, it was also a reminder that Dom hadn’t made love to her in over a fortnight and had recently spent more nights alone than with her.

  A smile curved at Constance’s mouth, as if she knew the tension already blossoming in their marriage. “Perhaps I should drop by the studio, for old times’ sake. It would be lovely to pose for him again.”

  Over Eve’s dead body. “Stay away from my husband.”

  “Or what?” All amusement vanished from Constance’s face. “What could you possibly do to stop me?”

  Helplessness surged through her, and her hand flew unconsciously to her belly. Eve wanted to claw the woman’s eyes out!

  Then Constance said quietly but with so much confidence that Eve shivered, “Dom might have you warming his bed now, but eventually, he’ll return to me. He always has.”

  The breath ripped from Eve’s lungs. Stunned at the woman’s audacity, she couldn’t find her voice.

  “After all, unless he wants his secret identity to be found out, he’ll be keeping me in all the luxuries a gentleman provides his mistress. He’ll surely feel entitled to partake. When that day arrives, why would I stop him from coming to me?” With a laugh, Constance strolled away, calling back over her shoulder, “You’ll be sure to tell him that I asked about him—and that one way or another, I will have what he owes me.”

  Eve watched her go, her hands clenched into frustrated fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms. Oh, what an evil woman!

  Constance wanted to upset her, that’s what this was. That’s what made her approach her and threaten those horrible things, with no other purpose than to hurt her as much as possible.

  Especially her comments about Elena.

  Who was she? Dom had never spoken of the woman before, not even in passing. Yet he’d put her before his art. Constance hadn’t lied about that. She’d said it with such bitterness and resentment that Eve didn’t doubt its veracity.

  He’d loved another woman…Her throat tightened as she swallowed down a sob.

  No, it was so much worse than that! Not that he was incapable of loving a woman as much as he loved his art, not that he wasn’t willing to relegate his painting to second place in his life—he simply wasn’t willing to do it for her.

  That realization burned like fire in her lungs. Nothing had come from months of trying to make him love her except that she occupied an ever-shrinking place in his life. He was still as distant as ever, with no intention of letting her inside his heart.

  Pressing her fist to her chest to physically push down the anguish, she hurried back to Park Lane. Instead of turning toward Mercer House, she w
aved down a hackney.

  “Chelsea,” she ordered hoarsely past the knot in her throat, then stepped into the carriage.

  Chapter 21

  Constance paused inside the doorway of the dark art studio to let her eyes adjust.

  How on earth did Turnstable paint in here without proper lighting? No wonder he had to make his living primarily as a forger if this was how he practiced his technique. Dear God, the countless hours she’d spent bored to tears from simply waiting around in Dom’s studio for the sun to emerge from behind a cloud, for the hour to grow late enough that the sunlight cast whatever special glow he’d wanted—madness. But she’d tolerated it because he’d made her look beautiful, then made her feel beautiful when he finally took her to his bed.

  Now he would make her rich, or she would end him.

  “Can I help you?” A middle-aged man in paint-splattered clothing approached from the shadows in the rear of the room, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. An assessing glance told her that the artist was just as squalid as the studio. Not that it mattered, as long as his finished canvas was good enough.

  “I’m looking for Turnstable.” Constance smiled flirtatiously, knowing to use her charms on him even though she would never allow him to lay a finger on her. “I was told this was his studio.”

  “It is.” He flung the towel over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips in a posture that was part casual, part confrontational, and all paunchy gut. He raked a gaze over her from head to toe, his mouth drawing down as he discovered that she wasn’t at all his usual customer. “You looking to buy a painting?”

  “To have one painted, actually.”

  “I’ve got other commissions in front of you.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to you until the spring.”

  “No. I need the painting to be finished by mid-January.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You’re daft!”