An Artful Seduction (14 page)

She hesitated and looked at him beneath lowered lashes. Here was her opportunity, her chance to charm the viscount. She gifted him with a coy smile and placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. “That would be lovely, my lord.”

Chapter Seventeen

Grayson watched as Viscount Pickens led Eliza across the room. Her fingers rested on his sleeve, her green eyes focused on his face, and a sensual smile curled her full lips. Pickens responded as any red-blooded male would to the rapt attention of a beautiful woman—his chest inflated by several inches and he strode with an arrogant sense of self-importance.

Grayson’s gut clenched. Just as he expected, as soon as he’d introduced Eliza, Pickens had taken an interest her. But when she’d ardently defended him in front of the viscount, she had truly captured Pickens’s interest.

The viscount wanted to hurt Grayson any way he could. What better way than to use Eliza? If flinging insults at Grayson in front of the lady failed, he’d attempt the next best thing—seduce the lady away from him.

Grayson had felt a cold fury, a dangerous anger, when Pickens had brought up his past. He remained silent, fearing if he spoke or moved it would be to wrap his hands around the viscount’s thick neck. Instead he stared at Pickens with barely concealed hatred, thinking how ironic it was that he had no idea the forger’s daughter stood before him.

Five years may have passed, but the humiliation of being fooled by Jonathan Miller was still fresh in Grayson’s mind. His reputation had suffered—still suffered. Pickens may be the only one to insult him to his face, but he knew others still whispered behind his back.

At one point Grayson imagined his mistake would be etched on his tombstone:
Here lies Lord Huntingdon, earl of the realm and mostly successful art critic, save for being fooled by the infamous forger of the
ton.

Yet just as his temper threatened his control, Eliza had surprised him by defending him. She wasn’t playing a part when she’d spoken. Her beautiful face had paled, and she’d flashed Pickens a look of disdain. Her words had been earnest and her set down of Pickens satisfyingly true.

He still struggled to comprehend how she—the daughter of Jonathan Miller—had defended him. It was unbelievable, incredible.

He’d never forget it as long as he lived.

“Lord Huntingdon. Are there any other notable paintings you’d like to point out?”

Grayson turned to the newspaperman. He had already peppered him with questions about the new artist, and Grayson’s patience was quickly expiring. He was having a deuced difficult time concentrating on his answers. He glanced back to where Eliza and Pickens stood in the corner of the room.

Eliza stood inches away from Pickens. She threw back her head and laughed at something the idiot said.

Grayson’s fingers clenched into fists at his side.

She was playing her part all too well, and he didn’t like it. The viscount’s wife was noticeably absent, and Pickens had free rein to gaze upon Eliza like a besotted fool.

Free rein to try to seduce her.

Eliza turned and the candlelight radiated off her skin and her green skirts shimmered. Any man would picture her naked body beneath the hugging silk, her long limbs wrapped around him. Surely Pickens was imagining the same erotic scene, and the viscount believed her to be Grayson’s lover.

And that’s what he wanted her to be, dammit.

He was accustomed to having beautiful women vie for his attention, whether it was Leticia or other widows seeking a lover. His wealth and title ensured success, never rejection, but with Eliza Somerton everything was unnerving…

He should feel satisfaction that Pickens’ interest was captured. It was part of his plan to gain an invitation to the ball and access to his mansion. But the problem was he felt anything but satisfaction.

Pickens touched Eliza’s low back with his hand under pretense of gaining her attention. He pointed to a watercolor hanging at the level of her breasts. She looked at the painting; Pickens looked down her bodice.

Jealousy, fierce and dark, surged inside Grayson.

Enough was enough.

“Excuse me,” Grayson said to the newspaperman, then stalked over to where the couple stood.

“Lord Huntingdon.” Eliza smiled as he approached. “Viscount Pickens has just told me of a ball he is hosting in a fortnight and has extended me an invitation. He assures me yours will be delivered straightway.”

“Mrs. Somerton is a jewel of an art lover. Wherever did you find her, Huntingdon?” Pickens asked.

The pompous bastard was standing too close to Eliza. Grayson wanted to pull her away. “You must be speaking of your wife’s birthday ball. Is she well?” Grayson asked.

Pickens’s face darkened. “Of course, she is. But I find it odd that you of all people should inquire about her welfare.”

“I will be sure to personally extend her my congratulations when I attend your ball.” He made a curt motion to Eliza. “Come, Mrs. Somerton. I am finished with the reporter.” Grayson took Eliza’s arm and tugged her along beside him. He efficiently wove through the crowd, evading further conversation, and led her into the vestibule.

They made it to his crested carriage. As soon as the footman shut the door, Eliza whirled on Grayson. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“The way you asked about the viscount’s wife. The animosity between you and Pickens was palpable. Something obviously occurred to cause such dislike. Something other than artistic rivalry.”

Grayson’s jaw tightened. “He believes I had an affair with the viscountess.”

“Did you?”

“No. I’ve never been with a married woman, even an unhappy one.”

“Then why does Pickens think so?”

“Harriet has solicited me on several occasions.”

Her lips pursed. “I see. No wonder you have never been invited to her birthday ball. A woman scorned is not a woman to be taken lightly.”

“There is truth to that statement,” Grayson scoffed. “Pickens and I never liked each other to begin with, but needless to say, Harriet told him that I had solicited her, and
she
had rejected
me.”

“It makes perfect sense now. No wonder he wants to have an illicit liaison,” Eliza said.

“He said that?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “A man doesn’t need to speak the precise words for a woman to understand his intent.”

Grayson frowned. She spoke like he was a simpleton who didn’t understand a man’s motives or desires. He understood all too well, and the idea of Pickens attempting to seduce Eliza made his blood boil.

He was even angrier at himself for his lack of control when he was near her. He wanted to be the one to seduce her, no one else. Every moment they spent together made it more difficult to focus on the reason he’d enlisted her aid in the first place. It didn’t help that every time he’d kissed her, she’d responded with fire to his touch.

The carriage sped across the street and she glanced outside. A tense silence enveloped the carriage.

They turned a corner and she finally caught his gaze. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He knew exactly what she was referring to. She was too persistent not to demand the truth. “You mean why didn’t I defend myself against Pickens’ attack on my character?”

“Yes.”

“Would it have mattered? It’s true I was fooled by your father’s work. His forgery was meticulously crafted.”

“You must have been devastated. Devastated and furious.”

“Men like Pickens will always attack. You didn’t need to speak on my behalf.”

“I believe I did,” she said softly.

“It wasn’t your forgery that fooled me, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“Leave it, dammit,” He said in a tense, clipped voice that forbade further argument.

Once again silence stretched between them. She twisted her hands in her lap and bit her bottom lip. He felt uncomfortable for venting his anger and causing her distress. He wanted to reach out and smooth her fingers. To ease her torment the way she’d tried to ease his under the viscount’s attack.

“I never fully understood the consequences of selling forgeries back then,” she said. “I thought it was just taking money from those that had more than enough. But there is more, so much more harm done by the deed.”

He sighed and ran his fingers though his hair. “Don’t think of it. You did well today, Eliza. You ensured invitations for both of us to the Pickens’ ball.”

She leaned forward and touched his sleeve. “Thank you for taking me to the Academy. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget it.”

His heart hammered at her touch. “You speak as if you will never attend again.”

“I may not get the chance.”

“As I said earlier, your father should have taken you and Amelia. He should have seen how much you all enjoy art; should have recognized Amelia’s budding talent.”

Her lips parted. Her emerald eyes were liquid pools. No deception reflected in their depths, only an honest need.

“Our wants weren’t important to father. He thought only of survival.”

“Why? What drove him?”

Eliza sighed. “He was a successful and legitimate portrait painter for years. He was even knighted by the Crown. Then our mother died from a lingering cough that affected her lungs. She was a good mother and their marriage was a true love match. He changed after her death, and he became withdrawn and aloof. At the same time new painters came upon the scene, younger ones, and competition for work became fierce. He adapted,” she explained.

“By becoming a forger?”

“It was simple for him, you see. He was already painting. Why not copy other works? He should have ceased early on. But greed took hold of him,” she said, a note of sadness in her voice.

“He stopped thinking of his daughters.”

“Yes, he did. But to his credit, he somehow inspired the love of art in all of us.”

Grayson nodded. “It’s why you opened a print shop, not a dress shop or some other business.”

A hint of sadness crossed her features and her eyes were downcast. “I suppose so.”

He reached for her hand and began to stroke the inside of her palm. Slow circular strokes, meant to relax her clenched fingers. “We are similar creatures in that regard, Eliza. We experience an inexplicable joy when we are immersed in the artistic world.”

She sucked in a breath at his touch. He felt the familiar pull between them as strongly as an artist feels the first brushstroke on a blank canvas—compelling and sure, with a heighted sense of awareness of the pleasure to come.

“Another business would have been safer,” he pointed out. “But you could never stay away, even at risk of society learning your true identity. You need to be surrounded by artistic beauty; you crave it and feel whole only when you are immersed in it.”

She glanced up, her green eyes alight with awareness and something else.

Excitement. Desire. For him.

“Yes, I believe it’s true,” she whispered.

His heart pounded as lust ran rampant through his blood. “Imagine if we can capture that together,” he said hoarsely.

“It’s not safe.”

“That’s what makes it so exciting.” Reaching out, he pulled her to him.

She didn’t protest. She appeared as caught up in the moment as he was.

His mouth covered hers hungrily. She was all soft, feminine curves. She kissed him back, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her fingers in his hair. Their tongues met, tentative at first, then more urgently. His lips left hers to nibble at her earlobe, licking the delicate shell, and she shivered. He continued on, trailing kisses down her nape and above her embroidered bodice. His breath heated the curve of her breast through the silk and she trembled in his arms.

Compelled by a strong urge to touch and taste more of her, he unbuttoned the top buttons on the back of her gown, slid the silk and her chemise down her shoulders to reveal her lush breasts. Her rosy nipples hardened like diamonds in the cool air, and he nearly groaned out loud at the sight of her flesh.

Cupping the globes in his hand, he licked one nipple then sucked it full into his mouth. She gasped and arched forward, offering herself in splendid abandon. She grasped fistfuls of his hair, urging him on. He turned his attention to the other breast, licking and laving until his cock throbbed and strained against the fabric of his breeches. She squirmed against him, rubbing against his hardness, and his heart pounded in his chest as if he had sprinted ten miles.

“Jesus,” he moaned. “I have to have you, Eliza.”

His hand moved under her skirts, trailed his fingers up the silk stockings encasing her long legs until the fabric of her drawers made him want to tear the cotton to get to her skin. He longed for a bed, not the cramped confines of the carriage.

The carriage hit a rut in the road and she nearly toppled from his lap onto the floor.

“Oh!” She scrambled back to her bench, struggled to right her dress, and covered her breasts from his gaze.

He mourned the loss, nearly groaned out loud. His breath was ragged. He’d never been so painfully aroused in his entire life.

“Eliza, we have to—”

“This can’t keep happening!” she cried out. “I seem to lose my senses around you. It’s wrong, all wrong.”

“It didn’t feel wrong to me.”

She ignored him, and continued to struggle with her dress. The buttons were in back; she’d never reach them.

“Let me.” He spun her around and set upon the tiny pearl buttons with a vengeance. He tried not to think about the softness of her skin as he closed the gap of silk.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He frowned. He didn’t want her thanks; he wanted her naked and writhing beneath him.

She began to fuss with her hair. Ebony locks had come loose from her coiffure; one curled deliciously around her right breast. His fingers itched to reach out, trace it.

He was so lost in his erotic thoughts that he was slow to realize that the carriage had stopped until he heard the squeak of the footman’s perch as the man jumped down. Moving the drawn tasseled shade aside, Grayson saw they had arrived outside of her shop.

“Thank you for taking me to the Academy today, but we must keep distance between us. A working relationship. No more kisses. I insist.”

“Splendid.” Had he much choice?

“I’ll see you at the Pickens’s ball in a fortnight.”

Two weeks. There was no way he’d wait two weeks to try and seduce her again. A thought occurred to him. “Your fittings, remember?”