An Artful Seduction (18 page)

Footsteps sounded down the hall.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispered urgently.

“I almost have it.”

“Hurry!”

Sweat beaded on his brow. She shouldn’t be here; he should have insisted she stay at the ball. The lock released and the handle turned. Grasping her by the hand, he pulled her inside and shut the door.

They held their breath until the scrape of booted feet passed by the door and continued onward.

Grayson cracked the door and glanced outside. “It was just a passing servant.”

“Thank heavens,” she said.

They turned back to the room. It was dim, but he could make out the shapes of paintings hanging on the walls. Marble pedestals displaying ceramic plates, ivory and gold carvings, and bronze statues occupied the center of the room.

What he’d told Eliza was true. He’d been here years before when the viscountess had invited him under pretense of viewing one of the paintings. She had made her amorous intentions clear that evening. But that had been a while back, and he was curious as to how vast Pickens’s collection had grown since then.

“See if you can find—”

Eliza cut off his next words with a gasp. “Look at that painting!” She pointed over his shoulder and caught his gaze, causing his heart to pound. “Do you see that landscape?” she asked in wide-eyed wonder.

He followed where she was pointing. She looked as if she’d just seen a Michelangelo.

“Yes. Why?” he asked.

“It’s one of Father’s.”

“How can you tell?”

“I was with him when he painted it.”

Grayson couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “For the first time, I don’t find fault with your father. I only wish I could point out that Pickens purchased a forgery himself.”

“An eye for an eye?”

“In a way, yes,” he said. “All those years of putting up with his taunting and Pickens was fooled himself.”

Eliza glanced at him with regret. “You’ll never be able to tell him.”

“No,” he said bitterly. Pickens couldn’t learn that they’d broken into his gallery. Grayson’s thoughts turned as he glanced at the walls. “We haven’t much time. Look for the Rembrandt.”

They searched quickly, glancing at every painting on each of the walls around the room.

“It isn’t here,” Eliza said. “Maybe Dorian Reed was wrong and someone else purchased it.”

Frustration roiled inside him. “No, dammit it. Pickens must have it stowed elsewhere.”

“We have to return before we’re discovered missing,” Eliza said.

He didn’t want to abandon their search, but she was right. There was always the possibility that Pickens would escort a guest upstairs to view his collection.

Grayson was careful to crack the door open and glance both ways before leaving the gallery. Making their way back down the stairs, they blended with the crowd in the overheated ballroom.

Chapter Twenty-One

Eliza sensed Grayson’s disappointment as they returned to the ballroom. He had been so certain that the Rembrandt was in the viscount’s private gallery. She wanted to find it just as badly as he did, but for different reasons.

She wanted Amelia’s forgery returned. She no longer believed Grayson would turn it over to the constable. But at the same time, only when the forgery was in her possession could she rest easy knowing the crime could not be traced back to her sister.

If Grayson was convinced Pickens had purchased the stolen Rembrandt, then Eliza was as well. And she was going to do everything in her power to find it. She scanned the ballroom until she spotted the viscount.

He was by the punch bowl, a crystal glass in hand, surrounded by friends. He laughed at something one of them said and paid little attention when the amber colored liquor in his glass splashed on his lace cuff.

He was clearly deep in his cups. It was no secret he’d expressed his lascivious intentions toward her.

A perfect combination.

She thought of her father. Jonathan Miller often took every advantage.

So would she.

Grayson was occupied, his back to her as he talked with a distinguished looking gentleman. She headed for the refreshment table, a direct path to the viscount.

His watery eyes lit as she purposely brushed his shoulder. He motioned to a footman and she was immediately offered a tray full of flutes of bubbling champagne.

“You look ravishing, Mrs. Somerton. Are you having a good time?” the viscount said.

“Your home is magnificent, my lord. I must admit I was most excited when I met you at the Academy. I am a true lover of art.”

His breath was hot on her cheek. “As am I.”

She leaned close, placed a hand on his sleeve. “I’ve heard your private gallery is wondrous.”

He leered at the swell of her breasts above her bodice. “Wondrous, yes. Would you like to see it?”

She licked her lips. “My blood sings at the thought. I’d find it most exciting.”

Lust shone in his eyes. “Come. I’d be a bad host if I didn’t oblige such a lovely guest.”

The orchestra played a lively tune and the music reached a crescendo. She’d lost sight of Grayson as she followed the viscount out of the ballroom. This time she did not sneak up the servants’ staircase, but ascended the winding front stairs.

Pickens weaved slightly and the strong odor of brandy wafted from him. He withdrew a key ring from his waistcoat pocket and that’s when she saw it.

A second gold key on the ring.

What room was it for?

He fumbled with the key; dropped the key ring twice before he successfully opened the door to the gallery.

She stepped inside for the second time that night. She roamed the room, pretending to see the pieces for the first time. “The works of art are exquisite.” She halted before her father’s forgery and a deviousness rose within her. “This is especially lovely.”

His chest puffed with self-importance. “It was quite costly. I outbid many others for it,” he said arrogantly.

A thoughtful smile curved her mouth. “Tell me, do you have other pieces squirreled away?”

“Perhaps.”

She came close and ran her fingers up his arm. “You must know that expensive artwork makes me breathless…excited.”

His eyes bulged in his ruddy face. “You are striking. A passionate woman. I knew the first time I saw you with Huntingdon.”

“He means nothing to me. Whereas you and I share a special connection, my lord,” she breathed.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He needed no further invitation to kiss her. She turned her face at the last second and his lips met her cheek. His kiss was wet and sloppy on her face. She forced down her revulsion and her nimble fingers plucked the key ring from his waistcoat and hid it behind her back. She pushed against his chest with her other hand.

“I hear your wife’s voice!” she cried out.

Pickens lifted his head, alarm battling his drunken haze. “My wife?”

He turned toward the door. Eliza hid the keys in her skirts and went to the door. “We best return to the ball before we are missed. Your wife must be searching for you.”

“My wife. Yes, we have to go back,” he said. “She’ll make my life unbearable if she catches me here with you the night of her ball.”

“Then let’s not give her a reason.”

Pickens face reddened and he opened the door for her to pass. “I’ll return a few minutes after you,” Eliza said. “If anyone asks, I’ll say I was looking for the ladies’ retiring room.”

“Yes. Yes,” he said, then hurried off down the stairs.

As soon as the viscount was out of sight, Eliza turned back around and withdrew the keys from her skirt pocket. She ran to the door adjacent to the gallery and fumbled to get one of the keys into the lock. Just as she thought she found the right key, a strong hand grasped her arm and swung her around.

Her scream was stifled beneath Grayson’s hand. Her heart pounded like a drum until recognition calmed her and he nodded.

Grayson released her, but didn’t step back. His eyes flashed dangerously and a muscle flicked angrily at his jaw. “What the hell are you doing?”

She held up the key ring. “Finding the Rembrandt.”

“Is picking pockets another skill you learned from your father?”

“It wasn’t difficult. Pickens is quite drunk.”

“You could have been hurt or worse—”

“We haven’t much time,” she said, cutting him off. “Pickens admitted to owning more artwork, and I suspect this key opens one of these doors.” She motioned down the hall.

He grabbed the key ring and began trying to open the door she had been working on. None of the keys worked. They went to the second, but had no success.

The third one opened.

Grayson cracked the door. Confident it wasn’t occupied, they entered what was obviously the viscount’s master bedchamber. Elegantly appointed with mahogany furniture and a canopied four-poster, it had an adjoining door that Eliza suspected led to his wife’s chambers. A portrait of Pickens with his horse and hunting dog hung above a stone fireplace. At first glance, it looked like any other aristocrat’s bedchamber. But then she noticed a large package wrapped in brown paper and tied with butcher’s string visible from behind a tall chest of drawers.

“Over there,” Eliza pointed.

Grayson pulled the package out from behind the furniture and carefully unwrapped a corner of the brown paper. “This is it,” he said.

Eliza’s breath caught. The Rembrandt was magnificent, and she ached to remove all the paper and view it in its entirety. A mastery of brush strokes showed a self-portrait of a young Rembrandt in his studio painting.

“We can’t take it with us. I’ll send a note to Thomas Begley tonight,” Grayson said.

She reached for the key ring in Grayson’s hand. “I have to return this.”

Grayson grasped her arm, his expression fierce. “That’s the second time you outright defied me, Eliza. You could have been hurt or violated.”

She knew what he referred to. The first time she’d defied him she’d visited Dorian Reed on her own. That had turned out to be a nightmare. But this time was different. They had only one chance to find the stolen painting.

“You cannot be upset with me,” she argued. “We found the Rembrandt. Now let me return the keys before Pickens discovers them missing.”

“How?”

“Leave it to me,” she said.

His eyes narrowed and she feared he wouldn’t release his grip on her arm, but he reluctantly let her go. “I’ll be watching you downstairs.”

They returned to the ball separately. She found Pickens by the dance floor with a drink in hand. He bowed when he spotted her and lowered his voice. “The viscountess suspects nothing.”

She feigned a smile of relief. “Thank goodness.”

He offered his arm. “I would be a rude host if I didn’t ask you to dance.”

She accepted and he led her onto the dance floor. She smiled as she slipped her hand beneath his jacket and returned the key ring. “Thank you for the tour, my lord. I’ll never forget such an enlightening artistic experience.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The following morning Eliza woke past noon with a terrible headache. The ball had seemed endless and she didn’t return home until four in the morning. As a hardworking shopkeeper, she never slept past six, and she marveled at the frivolity of the upper crust.

Memories of last night returned. They’d found the Rembrandt. Her part of their arrangement had been fulfilled. After Huntington returned Amelia’s forgery, there was no need ever to see him again.

The thought should have offered her comfort, but instead she felt an acute sense of loss, jagged and painful. She was being foolish. Huntingdon was no different from Lord Vale in that both would eventually marry rich, titled ladies. She was a mere shopkeeper, the daughter of the man who had fleeced him.

Still, when his note arrived later that afternoon she was filled with excitement.

Chloe handed her the missive. “This arrived for you this morning. I wanted to wake you, but Amelia said to let you rest and that you didn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning.”

Grayson’s distinctive bold script was written on the front of the foolscap.

“You must tell me what the ball was like!” Chloe prodded. “What were the ladies wearing? And the gentlemen? Did you dance with the earl?”

Amelia’s headache slid to the base of her skull. Her younger sister’s incessant questions pounded against her. “The ball was decadent, Chloe. I’ll explain it all later.”

Eliza hurried into the back workroom and broke the seal.

Eliza,

I would be honored if you would join me for dinner tonight at my home. As you have upheld your end of our arrangement, I shall uphold mine. My driver will arrive at seven.

Grayson.

Her heart thumped erratically at the thought of sharing another intimate meal with him, but this time in his home. She had no doubt what he meant; he was a man of his word and he would return the Jan Wildens forgery. But there was more there. He needn’t invite her to his home. He could have the painting delivered by one of his many footmen.

So what more did he want?

And why was she questioning his invitation?

She wanted to see him one last time. Somehow she’d grown accustomed to him, to spending time with him, discussing their mutual love of art. He was intelligent, good at what he did as an art critic, and compassionate toward her sisters. And if she were honest with herself, she was highly attracted to him.

Then there was the issue of the Rembrandt. She had questions of her own. Did the duke reclaim the stolen painting? And if so, how did he accomplish that feat? One didn’t simply knock on a viscount’s door, accuse him of theft, and search his house.

Amelia found her pacing the back room. “Did last night go as expected?”

Eliza whirled at the sound of Amelia’s voice. “We found the Rembrandt. Pickens did indeed purchase it.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it? Huntingdon will return my painting.”

“He’s asked to meet me tonight.”

“You’ve grown attached to him, haven’t you? And the thought of never seeing him again must be distressing.”

Her sister looked so young and expectant standing beside a stack of canvases. Eliza thought of Lord Vale and the duke’s daughter dancing together at the ball. Even though she knew Amelia hadn’t seen Vale since his visit to the shop, her heart ached for her sister.

They were in the same predicament, weren’t they?

A part of her wanted to tell Amelia, but she bit her tongue. Why ruin her fantasy? She would tell her later so that Amelia would have a chance to protect her heart, whereas Eliza feared her own was already lost.

…

Eliza wore one of her new dresses that evening. A simple, but elegant gown of pale green crepe embroidered with silver rosettes. Unlike the prior two occasions she had visited Grayson’s Mayfair mansion, the butler, Hutchins, greeted her warmly.

“His lordship is waiting for you,” Hutchins said.

She followed him through winding hallways and was surprised when they passed the formal dining room with its polished table and Chippendale chairs. They turned a corner, and she recognized the direction they were headed. Grayson’s study was several doors down, and she wondered if they were to dine there, but when the butler passed the study and halted outside another closed door, her pulse quickened.

She knew this room as well…

Hutchins opened the door and she swept inside Grayson’s private gallery. He was standing at the tall window, looking at the gardens below. He turned at her entrance and smiled. He looked magnificent in a navy jacket, snowy cravat, buff colored trousers, and polished Hessians. Candles glowed from the chandelier and candelabras on end tables around the room. In the corner was a table for two with snowy white linen and fine china.

Grayson held out his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to our dinner, Eliza.”

She came forward and placed her gloved hand in his. “So have I.”

He led her to the table and held out her chair. “I thought it would be fitting for us to dine here.” Candlelight flickered off the priceless paintings.

His fingers lingered on her shoulders as she sat. She shivered in awareness and inhaled the distinctive scent of his shaving soap. He took the seat across from her and she was struck with a sudden nervousness.

The door opened and two footmen entered carrying silver covered trays. A plate of venison and fresh vegetables was placed before them, and her crystal goblet was filled with expensive wine. The food was delicious, but she ate without tasting. Her senses were attuned to the man before her.

He raised his wine glass. “A toast to our success.”

She raised her glass. “To finding the Rembrandt.”

She sipped the wine and then lowered it to find him staring at her lips. “You never told me what happened after the night of the ball. Was the painting in fact recovered and returned to its rightful owner, the Duke of Desford?”

“Yes. Thomas Begley, the duke’s man of affairs, is a shrewd man. He knew he couldn’t just accuse a viscount of knowingly purchasing a stolen painting, so he approached Pickens and told him that an art dealer who was arrested claims he sold the stolen Rembrandt to him. Pickens immediately panicked and claimed he did not know the painting was stolen. The Rembrandt has been returned to the duke.”

“That’s brilliant.”

Dessert arrived, a sweet tart with a light coating of powered sugar. Grayson’s dark eyes missed no detail as she ate the delicious confection and licked her lips.

He stood and held out his hand. “Come.”

She rose and took his hand. He motioned to a velvet settee before the window and she thought he wanted her sit, but he shook his head and pointed behind the settee. She saw it then.

The Jan Wilden forgery.

“As promised. The painting is yours. I’ll have it wrapped and will personally deliver it to you tomorrow morning.”

She never doubted he would keep his promise. Yet a feeling of intense gratitude welled within her.

“What will you do with it?” he asked.

“Burn it.”

He arched a dark eyebrow. “I hate to see art destroyed, even a forgery.”

“It shall never end up in another collector’s gallery again,” she vowed.

He nodded, and she knew he understood how strongly she felt about the painting. “You’re one of the most admirable women I have ever known,” he said.

She looked up at him in surprise. “Admirable? Need I remind you of my family’s history?”

“Those are your father’s sins, not yours,” he said firmly. “I told you I was wrong to blame you for his past deeds. You are a hard working shopkeeper, a woman of worth who has shouldered the burdens of caring for your sisters.”

His words sent a thrill through her. Could it be true? Could he see her for who she truly was and not as the daughter of his nemesis?

“There’s something else,” Grayson said. He looked eager now and she was caught up in his excitement. He pointed to the
Icarus
engraving that she had originally admired the first time she’d walked into his private galley. “This is yours.”

“Pardon?”

“This is my gift to you. I want you to have it.”

Her mouth gaped. The engraving was worth a small fortune, but it was the gift of art that truly captured her senses.

“Why?” she asked.

“Ever since you first admired the work, it has reminded me of you.”

Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm. She understood the vast differences between them. Socially, economically…morally, if one considered her family history. But now, none of it seemed to matter. Her eyes were open. Wide open. And she wanted this man.

Longed for him.

Their time together was limited—had come to an end. Was she willing to spend the rest of her life wondering what if?

The answer was a resounding no.

She was filled with a strange inner excitement as she studied the sensuality of his features. Just once, she wanted something for herself. One night that would last her a lifetime of memories. “I want more, my lord.”

His brows drew downward. “Another painting?”

She stepped close and licked her lips. “No. More of what I experienced in your arms,” she whispered.

His dark eyes reflected glimmers of candlelight as he held her gaze. “Eliza, be sure of what you ask. I won’t be able to stop this time.”

“I’m sure,” she breathed. “I want you.”

He cradled the side of her face and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her pulse quickened. She’d waited so long for his kiss tonight. Her lips parted in invitation and she rose on tiptoe to meet his lips with her own. He kissed her slowly and leisurely, his movements igniting a flame of desire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched forward in sweet invitation.

His kiss changed and he pulled her tightly against him from chest to thigh. All her senses heightened, and she moaned in approval. He gave her a passionate, openmouthed kiss, then his strong hands grasped her around the waist and he took two steps forward.

She found herself pressed against the wall between two paintings, just like an instance long ago. But this time she welcomed him, welcomed the thrust of his tongue, the pressure of his muscular chest against her sensitive breasts. She clung to him, her fingers grasping his broad shoulders. He flicked his tongue across the seam of her full lower lip, then reclaimed her mouth as if he was a dying man and she was his salvation.

He turned her to face the wall and swept her hair aside to place a hot kiss on her nape. She shivered at the touch of his lips on her neck, and desire pulsed through her in a dizzying rush. The heat from his body wrapped around her back as she pressed her palms against the cool plaster. Her breath caught as she felt his fingers undo the fastenings of her gown. She longed to feel her naked flesh pressed to his. The tiny row of buttons loosened, and her beautiful new gown slid down her body to pool at her feet. Her shift and corset followed, leaving her clad in only her silk stockings and frilly garters.

She was naked and he was fully clothed. She should be ashamed, but she didn’t care, her need was so great. She wasn’t a lady and she had eagerly made the choice to be with him. Then all thought fled as he kissed her back, licked each of her vertebrae down, down, down, until he reached her bottom and placed a hot kiss on her derriere.

She sucked in a breath. He was on his knees, cupping her breasts in his large palms and she’d never felt so vulnerable and hot at the same time. Her body cried out for his touch, for something she knew he alone possessed to give her.

He turned her around, sucked her breast into his mouth and flicked his tongue across her nipple. Searing sensations radiated from her breast to the aching heat between her thighs. She closed her eyes to savor the pleasure. He moved to her other breast and she felt she would go mad with need. He kissed a path down to her stomach, twirled his tongue in her navel, and blew on the patch of hair between her legs. Then he licked her hot, aching core.

Sweet heaven!
Grasping fistfuls of his dark hair, she thought to pull him away, but at the first stroke of his hot tongue against her sensitive bud at the crest of her sex, her knees buckled.

His strong hands held her around her waist as he looked up. “I have you. I won’t let you fall.”

He lowered his head and continued his onslaught. He licked and laved her until she was quivering with need and her inhibitions fled. Her entire being centered on what his skilled mouth was doing to her. Her body tightened like a bow, and she was poised on a precipice of pleasure. With a last flick of his tongue, she hurtled into oblivion from an explosive climax. Gasping for breath, she sagged against him.

He stood and held her tight as her breathing slowed. At last she opened her eyes. His gaze was dark with passion and his body taut with need.

“I’ve wanted to do that to you since the first time I sat beside you at the Tutton auction,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Truly? I had no idea.”

He brushed her forehead with his lips. “I know. I’ve had erotic dreams of you in my bed, and having you beside me without touching you has driven me to near madness.”

She boldly met his eyes. “Show me more, Grayson.”

“God, yes.” Picking her up in his arms, he carried her to the settee beneath the window. The velvet fabric was soft and inviting against her naked skin.

Beyond half-closed eyed she saw the moon and stars through the window. She was aware of a rustle of clothing and watched as he tugged his cravat from his shirt points and unbuttoned his shirt. His chest was beautifully muscled with swirls of hair and a trail that ran down his flat abdomen to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers. He pushed his trousers down his hips, and her gaze lowered.

His manhood jutted out long and hard. She felt a moment of unease at his size. She wasn’t completely ignorant about what transpired between a man and a woman. She just didn’t think he would be so
big
or that her body could accommodate him.

“Your body was made for me, for this,” he said.

His dark gaze was so hungry and full of raw need that her heart lurched in her chest and her apprehension dissipated. She lowered her gaze once again, now fascinated by the size and length of him. She reached out to touch him. He was hardness encased in velvet. She slid her palm up the thick column and her thumb traced the head of his erection. He gave a strangled groan.