The Husband List -2 (12 page)

“You have lied to me, madame.”

Gillian jumped, her mind jerking back to her surroundings. Good Lord, what had she been thinking? Heat flashed up her face.

“Lied?” She smoothed the fabric of her gown with a trembling hand and struggled to regain her composure. “What makes you think I’ve lied?”

“You said you did not have a lover.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly.

“No?” Skepticism rang in his voice. “A woman does not look as you do unless she is thinking about a man.”

“Don’t be silly.” She ignored a sudden need to fan her face. “I was thinking nothing of the kind.”

“Then you must have a dog.”

“A dog?” She shook her head in confusion. “Why do you say that?”

“It has been my experience with Englishwomen they are as attached to their dogs as to their men.” He chuckled. “Sometimes more.”

“And sometimes a dog is more worthy of attachment,” she said pointedly. “However, I do not have a dog nor do I have a lover and you, monsieur, are quite impertinent.”

“But of course. It is my nature. It is why women find me charming and most irresistible,”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Do they now?”

“You have not heard the stories? The tales told of Etienne-Louis Toussaint, master painter and lover extraordinaire?” He clucked his tongue in mock dismay. “I am most distressed.”

“You shall have to work harder, then. It’s not at all easy to maintain a reputation like that.”

“To my regret and my eternal joy. Now, madame,” his voice lowered, “tell me of this man who is not your lover.”

“I most certainly will not. I am not in the habit of discussing matters of a personal nature with people I scarcely know. Besides, I thought you wished for silence.”

“Only at the start of a work. I can now divide my attention without concern. You did agree to discuss anything.”

“I agreed to let
you
discuss anything,” she said quickly.

“And I wish to discuss the gentleman who occupies your mind.” He paused for a moment. “Do not worry that I will reveal what you confide in me. Those who sit for portraits often speak of things they would not otherwise mention. If I were not to hold my tongue, I would quickly find myself at a loss for clients. What is said between artist and subject is as sacred as that which passes between priest and penitent.”

“Rubbish. I don’t believe that for a moment.” She laughed. “And by your own admission you are no priest.”

“No. But I give you my word what passes between us stays between us. And my word, too, is sacred.”

“Still, I really don’t—”

“If you are concerned about embarrassment when next we meet, do not be. You do not know my face. We could pass on the street and you would be none the wiser. There is much to be said for anonymity.” He paused as if sensing her indecision.

Could she trust him? It was absurd to consider confiding in him, even though she realized she longed to discuss her feelings with someone. Surely the temptation was due to nothing more than her surroundings at the moment. The lull of the dark room. The lure of the faceless stranger. Her relaxed position on the chaise, even her bare feet all created a sense of sanctuary. Secure, safe, and private. Perhaps it was akin to a confessional after all.

“I suspect as well, madame, you have no one else to confide in.”

She hadn’t thought about it, but he was right. She’d always shared everything with Robin and Kit, but on the subject of Richard they were impossible. She refused to face their continuing disapproval, and she had no other close friends. She’d grown more and more independent of her family in recent years, and while she loved them all dearly, they didn’t know of the legacy, and she preferred to keep that knowledge to herself for the moment.

Her cousin Pandora would understand, but from the gossip Gillian had heard, Pandora was occupied with her own intriguing dilemma. And while Gillian suspected she and Emma would prove to be great friends, they did not know one another well enough yet for confidences of this nature. In addition, Emma was Richard’s sister, and her loyalties would lie with him.

“You are perceptive, monsieur, I will grant you that,” she said quietly.

“And discreet.”

“I do hope so.”

What harm could there be in talking to him? The worst that could possibly happen is that he would reveal her situation to the rest of the world, and he would scarcely do that. She could be of great benefit to his career, and he would be a fool to betray her. Toussaint was definitely no fool He had also given his word, and there was nothing to lead her to believe he would not keep it.

She drew a deep breath. “There is a man.”

“Ah, you see? There is always a man.” He laughed softly.

“I plan to marry him.”

“Do you? Yet you say he is not your lover, and since you are not of an age where such matters are arranged ... I do not understand.”

“It’s a rather ... well... unusual circumstance.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t especially understand it myself. It’s become so much more complicated than I ever expected.”

“Complicated? What is more complicated than that between a man and a woman, yet what is more simple as well.”

“It did start out simply enough.” She quickly outlined the details of the legacy, the resulting list of husbands, her choice of Richard, prudently omitting his name, and his conditions for the marriage. “So, there you have it.”

“It is indeed an unusual story.” He fell silent, obviously considering her words. His own were measured. “Have you then decided to be the wife he wishes?”

“Yes.” She shook her head. “No.” Frustration welled inside her. “I don’t know. One moment I will, I want to, and the next I can’t. It’s terribly confusing.”

“Confusing?”

She groped for the right words. “It was, as I said, in the beginning a simple matter. A marriage strictly for the purposes of gaining my inheritance. A marriage in nothing more than name. Then, of course, he wouldn’t agree to that, and frankly, I do understand why and I don’t blame him. But in the process of his seduction—”

“I thought it was a courtship?”

“Yes, of course.” She waved off his correction. “That’s what I meant. I don’t know why I said seduction.” Richard’s dark, intense gaze flashed through her mind, and she knew full well why she’d said seduction. “At any rate, I seem to have all these odd feelings whenever I’m anywhere near him.”

“I see. Then perhaps you have made your decision after all?”

“No, no, not those kind of feelings. At least not entirely.” She pushed herself upright and stared in his direction. “What overwhelms everything else when I’m with him is ... well... fear.”

“I cannot work if you do not stay in one spot,” he murmured.

“Sorry.” She settled back into position. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not scared of him specifically, at least I don’t think I am. What I mean to say is he’s not the kind of man who beats children or kicks dogs—”

“Hah! I knew there would be dogs.”

She ignored him. “He’s an honorable man. A good man.”

“A good man?” Toussaint scoffed. “How tedious. And how boring.”

“Not at all,” she said staunchly.

“If he is so
good”
—Toussaint said the word as if it were obscene—“then what are you afraid of?”

“I only wish I knew.”

He didn’t respond, and she wondered if he was mulling over his words or working.

“Toussaint?”

“You are a widow, are you not?”

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

“Then it is not the act of love that frightens you.”

“Of course not.” Indignation colored her tone. “I am an adult. I have been married, and I am well aware of what transpires between a man and a woman.”

“But, if rumor is correct, you have not been free with your favors since the death of your husband.”

She stifled a sharp reply, annoyed as much by the accuracy of
ton
gossip as his temerity in repeating it. She kept her voice cool and slightly amused. “Your impertinence is not quite as charming as you’ve been led to believe.”

“Ah, but again you lie, madame.” He chuckled. “If you did not enjoy my insolent nature you would have left long ago.”

“I could very well leave now.” And she should probably do just that.

“You could.” A shrug sounded in his voice. “But you will not.”

“Why on earth not?” Of course she could.

“You admitted it yourself. I am the only one you have to confide in. In addition, we have neither solved your problem nor finished your portrait. In fact, we have scarcely begun on both.”

“I doubt you can resolve my dilemma. Particularly since I am not at all certain precisely what it is.”

“Then perhaps your fear is indeed of the act of love.” He paused. “Or love itself.”

Irritation washed through her. “Nonsense. On both counts.” She sat up, found her shoes beside the chaise, and slipped them on. “But I think I’ve had quite enough for one night, and I shall indeed take my leave.”

“Because you cannot face the truth.”

She stood. “And what truth is that?”

“You plan to marry a man who has never taken you in his arms. Never swept aside your sensibilities with his touch, his caress. Never so much as kissed you as a woman like yourself should be kissed.”

“I never said he hasn’t kissed me,” she snapped.

“Has he?”

“That’s none of your concern. This discussion has gotten completely out of hand.” She started toward the door.

“Perhaps you are afraid when he does, you will feel nothing?”

She sucked in a hard breath. Was he right? Was that what she was so afraid of? No. The very idea was ridiculous. The one and only thing she knew at this point was that when Richard finally did kiss her she would feel a great deal. “That’s quite enough. This conversation is at an end.”

She stalked across the room, snatched her cloak from the chair, stepped to the door, and yanked it open. At once his footsteps echoed hers. His hand reached from behind her and slammed the door shut. She gasped, and he gripped her shoulders and held her still.

His voice sounded beside her ear. “Do not turn, ma cherie—”

“I’m not your—”

“Listen to me.” His tone was low and intense.

She tried to break away, but he held her tight. “Let me go.”

“You are a lovely woman who has been without a man too long.”

“I’ll scream if you don’t release me at once.”

“I would love to hear you scream.” He held her firmly against him. “You need a man who will make you cry out with pleasure. Who will claim not just your body but your soul.”

“No!”

“And that, my dear madame, is what you fear.”

“It is not!” Was it?

“No? Then why are you not afraid of me? We are together, alone, in the night.”

“I don’t know.” But even now, held tightly to him, she wasn’t afraid, when she probably should have been.

“Don’t you? I could have you now. Here. And you would not resist.” His lips brushed against her ear.

“I would!” Would she?

“You do not fear my touch. I know it. I feel it in the way your body molds against mine.” He shifted behind her, and she could feel him hard and lean and strong. “You know it as well.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” But he was right: she wasn’t at all scared.

“Why are you not afraid?”

“I don’t know!”

“Why?”

“I don’t—” Her blood pounded in her ears. “Because you pose no threat to my heart!” she blurted, stunned by her own admission.

“Are you so certain?” He brushed his lips against her neck and she stiffened but couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

“Yes.” His body was hot against her back and, in an odd way, welcoming, and even, somehow, familiar.

“Why? Because I am not a good man? Because I am not on your silly list? Because you run no risk of caring for me?” His voice softened, whispering against her neck. A shiver ran through her. “Because I am not the kind of man who would take his time to seduce you.”

“You’re not?” she whispered. What was happening to her?

“I would not waste one precious moment with you on such nonsense.” He nuzzled the curve where her neck met her shoulder, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“I have to go,” she murmured. It was obviously lust surging through her. Nothing more than that. Plain and simply physical need. By God, Toussaint was right: it had been far too long since she’d been with a man. “You have to stop. Now.”

“Why? You are not yet married. Not even betrothed.” He slipped the sheer fabric of her gown down her arm, bared her shoulder, and kissed it until she marveled she could still stand.

Part of her mind cried out in protest, ignored by her traitorous body that screamed for more. Much more. In another moment, any denial, any objection would be futile.

He lessened his grip and ran his hands along her arms, and she shuddered with the realization that for the first time since her husband’s death she wanted a man in her bed. And at the moment, she wanted this man. This faceless, anonymous stranger who triggered sensations she hadn’t known she’d missed, hadn’t known she’d wanted, until now.