An Artful Seduction (11 page)

His gaze darkened. “I want to thoroughly kiss you until you promise me what I’ve asked, but I don’t want to cause you pain.”

He shifted her in his arms and simply held her. She rested her face against his chest and felt the strong beat of his heart. The heat from his body seeped into her, warming and comforting. She had been shaken by Dorian Reed’s attack, but now, in Grayson’s arms, she felt safe.

She also felt utterly and totally grateful to him. He’d paid her father’s debt, a man who had humiliated Grayson and evaded justice. The man whom Grayson had hunted unsuccessfully for years.

Shifting in his arms, she looked up at his strong profile. “Why did you give Dorian Reed the money?”

“You mean why pay off your father’s debts?”

Her heartbeat quickened. “Yes.”

“Because men like Reed will do anything for money, and I don’t want him to ever trouble you or your sisters again.”

Her heart was pounding so hard now she was amazed he couldn’t hear it in the carriage.

“I will pay you back somehow. It may take me months…years, but I will manage to pay—”

“I don’t expect it,” he said.

Something shifted in her mind. She was starting to trust him. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She
did
trust him. Perhaps it had been unfair to compare Grayson to her father. They were cut from a different cloth. Her father had neglected and abandoned his daughters whereas Grayson had helped her and her sisters survive.

She made a quick decision. Climbing off his lap, she sat across from him. “Then I’d like to fulfill my part of the bargain.”

“Which bargain? The one where you agree never to go searching for Jonathan Miller?”

She grimaced. “I said I’d do my best. But that’s not what I meant just now.”

“Then what?”

“I want to help recover the stolen painting. Reed mentioned the name of a viscount who expressed interest in the Rembrandt.”

Grayson nodded. “Viscount Pickens. His private collection exceeds mine. We have not always seen eye to eye.”

“How can I help?”

He hesitated, his dark eyes contemplative. “The Royal Academy is hosting an exhibition next week. The viscount will undoubtedly attend.”

“You mean to ask Pickens if he’s recently purchased a stolen painting?”

Grayson chuckled. “Not directly.”

“Then how?”

“Every year the viscount holds a ball for his wife’s birthday. I mean to obtain an invitation,” Grayson said.

“I’m surprised you are not already on the guest list.”

“As I mentioned, our interactions haven’t always been amicable.”

She stifled a laugh. “Imagine that. Someone who doesn’t get along with you.”

He smiled at her teasing tone, but then his gaze lazily roved her figure. “What other dresses do you own?” he asked.

She was suddenly conscious of the plain blue cotton. Her clothing may not be of the sort required in his circles, but it was perfectly serviceable for a shopkeeper.

“Why?”

“I want you to accompany me to the Academy.”

She hadn’t anticipated such a request and her thoughts scampered with excitement. Oh! To see the Royal Academy and all the magnificently displayed artwork. An exhibition during the winter may not be the wildly popular Summer Exhibition, but she didn’t care. She’d yearned to go to the place for years, but feared she might somehow be recognized as the daughter of the forger of the
ton
.

But if she arrived with Lord Huntingdon, who would suspect her? She’d accompany the highly regarded art critic her father had harmed.

No one would believe it.

“There is a dressmaker on Bond Street who I understand to be all the rage with the ladies of the
beau monde.
I’d like to take you shopping,” he said.

“I cannot accept any more of your charity, my lord.”

“It’s not charity. If we are to attend the exhibition, it’s necessary that you be dressed the part. Consider it a costume and the Academy a stage. Nothing more.”

She’d be acting. As she had been doing for the past five years.

For some reason, disappointment welled within her. Grayson wasn’t offering to take her as a fellow art connoisseur. He didn’t simply wish to spend time with her, leisurely perusing the Academy’s treasures, discussing new artists and studying the masters. She had a purpose: to help him engage Viscount Pickens and find the stolen artwork. He’d never otherwise have extended her an invitation to accompany him to the Academy.

Best she remember that and not allow any silly fantasies to take flight. She may trust him, but she wasn’t foolish enough to lose her heart.

“Very well. I’ll see the dressmaker, although I’m not as knowledgeable about ladies’ fashions as I once was.”

“I’ll accompany you, remember?”

Lord Huntingdon to help her choose dresses? She pictured him in a ladies’ dress shop. The dressmaker would undoubtedly fawn over the handsome, masculine lord as soon as he walked into her establishment. The experience would be entirely too intimate, like a man buying clothing for his lover.

His lover.

Her face grew hot. A warm shiver ran down her spine as her thoughts turned torrid. She imagined herself with Huntington, naked in bed together, their limbs entwined. Would he be a gentle lover? Or one consumed by passion?

The carriage came to a stop in front the Peacock Print Shop.

She reached for the door handle when Grayson placed a hand on her sleeve. Her skin tingled pleasurably.

“I’ll send my carriage for you,” he said.

Eliza didn’t trust herself to meet his gaze. He was too intelligent and far too intuitive. He would surely know what she was thinking.

Nodding mutely, she fled into the shop.

Chapter Twelve

Grayson placed his empty glass on the table. “One more.”

“It’s unlike you to drink yourself into a stupor. I take it the lady is behind your demons?” Brandon said as he raised a crystal decanter.

Grayson sipped his drink. “Eliza nearly got herself killed. All because she wants to find her father before me.”

“Do you blame her?” Brandon said.

Grayson swirled the amber colored alcohol in his glass as he contemplated the question. He was in a foul mood. After he’d escorted Eliza to her shop, he’d immediately sought out his friend at his home. Brandon had taken one look at Grayson and locked them in his study and handed him a glass.

“Miller abandoned her and her sisters. Eliza probably married old man Somerton just to survive,” Grayson finally answered.

Brandon shrugged. “So? Miller’s still her father. It makes sense she’d want to speak with him after all these years.”

“After today, she better not act impulsively,” Grayson said tersely.

When he’d learned she’d gone off to see Dorian Reed without him, he’d panicked. And when he’d found Reed straddling Eliza on the settee, fury almost choked him. Then the sickening fear that Eliza had been hurt, or worse, violated, panicked him into violent action. Both emotions were frighteningly unfamiliar.

What had come over him?

He was a man of self-restraint and control, highly respectable in his circles, and a deep thinking art critic. He experienced unleashed passion only when viewing a masterpiece hanging on a gallery wall. Yet he’d exhibited uncharacteristic violence twice now—first with the warehouse owner and now with Dorian Reed—all on Eliza’s behalf.

Then there was their time in the carriage where
she
had cupped his face and kissed him. Her lips had been sweet and warm, and his response had been hot and urgent. He wanted to crush her to him and thoroughly kiss her, but at the first taste of blood from her bruised lip he’d immediately pulled back. He longed to seduce her, not hurt her. So he’d controlled the harsh uneven rhythm of his breathing and reined his lust.

Brandon lowered his glass and chuckled. “I was right the first time. Grayson Montgomery, the mighty Earl of Huntingdon, is in lust. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Grayson scowled. He wanted Eliza Somerton. There was no sense denying it. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered, and she had enraptured him, enthralled him. At night, he was plagued by erotic dreams in which he kissed and licked every inch of her exquisite flesh until she cried out his name as she climaxed.

He was torn by conflicting emotions—lust, the need for revenge, and possessiveness. He didn’t like it.

His thoughts turned again to the afternoon’s events. She’d had enough good sense to acknowledge he’d come to her aid. Not only had he physically pried Dorian Reed off of her, but he’d paid her father’s debts. Looking back, he should be furious he’d paid off Jonathan Miller’s debts, but the odd thing was he wasn’t. He’d acted impulsively when he’d thrown his purse at Reed’s feet. He hadn’t hesitated then, and he didn’t regret it now.

Christ! Had he begun to separate the daughter from the father’s sins?

The question hammered at him. At least one good thing had come of it. Eliza had agreed to help him find the Rembrandt. Oh, she’d grudgingly agreed before, but only because she believed she had no choice and he would turn her and her sisters in to the authorities for forgery. But after the fiasco with Dorian Reed, her gratitude had been clearly reflected in her jade eyes, and she now truly desired to help him.

But how much longer could they work together without him touching her, making love to her?

Brandon was right. Grayson was in lust.

In aching, painful lust.

“When will you see Mrs. Somerton again?” Brandon asked.

“I’m taking her shopping.”

Brandon threw back his head and laughed. “Another first for you, my friend.”

“It’s not like that,” Grayson snapped. “She’s accompanying me to the Royal Academy to engage Viscount Pickens. I believe he purchased the stolen Rembrandt.”

“Pickens? He’s an arrogant ass.”

“I’m aware,” Grayson said dryly.

“The Viscount despises you. Aren’t you two like oil and water?”

Grayson’s lips thinned. “One can describe our relationship that way.”

“Maybe Eliza can charm him. He has a fondness for pretty brunettes, and I suspect he’ll try to steal her away just to spite you,” Brandon said.

“I’m counting on it.”

It was all part of his plan. It wouldn’t surprise Grayson if Pickens were drawn to Eliza. After all, what breathing male wouldn’t notice her?

And Brandon was right. If Pickens believed Grayson was taken with Eliza, then he’d do anything to steal her away from him.

Grayson knew it could help his cause. Ease his efforts in finding the stolen Rembrandt. It’s what he wanted, right?

Then why did the thought of another man with Eliza make his gut clench tight?

…

Grayson had sent word in advance of his arrival, and Eliza was waiting outside her print shop when his fancy, crested carriage arrived. The cold afternoon air stirred tendrils of her hair as she clutched the fur-lined cloak around her.

She fought the ridiculous urge to run to him as he stepped out of his carriage. Dressed in a navy jacket with damask waistcoat and buff trousers, his sensual lips curled in a smile when he spotted her.

Goodness. He nearly took her breath away.

“I like a lady who is prompt,” he said, his tone teasing.

Her fingers tightened on her reticule. An angry earl she could handle; a handsome, charming man posed more of a challenge. She feared her defenses could easily crumble under this type of attack.

He was a rare type of male, one that possessed an irresistible combination of masculine confidence and a streak of dangerousness. The kind of man that women swooned over.

Eliza always considered herself a logical, practical woman, a shopkeeper who survived using her intelligence. But something about the Earl of Huntingdon caused all rational thought to fly from her head.

Grayson waved aside the footman and held the door to assist her himself. She placed her gloved hand in his and alighted into the carriage.

She was aware of his strength and warmth of his body as she settled on the padded bench across from him. The footman shut the carriage door, and she immediately felt cocooned inside the warm, comfortable coach.

Yet she couldn’t completely relax. Not with the good-looking man sitting across from her, the only man she reacted so strongly toward.

“Are your sisters aware of everything?” he asked.

“You mean do they know you are taking me shopping? Or do they know what happened yesterday with Dorian Reed?”

His lips twitched. “Both.”

Eliza sighed. “I confide more in Amelia than Chloe. That being said, I decided not to worry them unnecessarily. I told them that Reed was not helpful at first and wanted a share of our print shop in order to pay off father’s debt. I did confess you paid the thousand pounds on our behalf. Both are very grateful to you.”

“As I’ve said before, they are lovely ladies and I wish them no harm.”

“Oh, Chloe is in awe of you. And Amelia is now convinced you are good-hearted.”

He laughed. “You don’t agree?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You do not strike me as a man who needs flattery.”

“True,” he said. “As for your sisters, I agree with your decision not to tell them everything that occurred at Dorian Reed’s town home. Amelia was very concerned for your safety.”

She felt her face color. “I’m sorry I caused her worry. That’s why I left the distasteful parts out. Omission is not lying, and I prefer to forget it myself.”

His expression turned serious. “Nonetheless, there’s a lesson to be learned from it.”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I’m not a child in the schoolroom.”

“No. You’re not. But I do believe I’ve aged a year after yesterday’s scare, and I would like to think you won’t repeat any foolish visits on your own.”

She blinked at the worry in his voice. Had he truly been that affected by it? She’d had nightmares last night in which she fled from the dark-cloaked figure of Dorian Reed. She ran and ran and yet he somehow had seemed to gain on her. She’d woken in a sweat, breathing heavily in her bed, and had tried desperately not to wake her sisters.

“It’s in the past, Eliza. I won’t let you come to harm,” he said.

His softly spoken words eased her nerves. She swallowed hard and looked away. How could this man, someone who had every reason to hate her father, offer her his protection?

She twisted her fingers in her lap. “Tell me again what you need me to accomplish at the Academy.”

“I want you to gain an invitation to Lady Pickens’s birthday ball.”

She looked up. “Me?”

“Yes. I’m certain you can charm Lord Pickens.”

“May I point out that I do not get invited to society balls on a regular basis, my lord. Shopkeepers do not wear ball gowns and waltz with aristocrats in their free time.”

“I’m perfectly aware of how society functions, but I’m not concerned. Viscount Pickens invites all his artistic friends, those that are influential art critics, collectors, and even Lord Yarmouth, the Regent’s own art collector.”

“And precisely how do I fit in?”

“His guest list also includes artists—those who are on the cusp of recognition and those that are struggling. He surrounds himself with all types and proprietors of art shops have been on the guest list—even Rudolph Ackerman.”

“Still, I—”

“I’m confident.”

At her silence, he touched her chin with his forefinger and raised her eyes to his. She met his gaze and gasped.

He stared at her. Possessively. Protectively.

And lustfully.

And just like that it was there. The ever-present sizzling current between them. The air crackled with their desire.

The carriage came to a sudden stop. He was first to break their gaze and turn to the window. “We’re here.”

It took a moment for her to realize his meaning. Her mind floundered, and she recalled their destination.

The dress shop.

She took a deep breath and eased her grip on her reticule in her lap. Any more time in the confines of the carriage and she would have ended up in his arms, crushed against his chest, his kisses sending the pit of her stomach into a wild swirl.

The thought of stepping away should not leave her feeling bereft.

But it did.

Sweet lord, it did.