The Husband List -2 (13 page)

“No!” With the last vestige of resistance in a mind weakened by numbing desire, she jerked out of his arms, yanked open the door, and flew down the stairs.

His confident voice followed her. “You will return, madame.”

“No,” she called over her shoulder.

Why not?

She paused and turned to stare at the still open door. She had nothing to fear but her own lustful desire, and that she could surely curb. She squared her shoulders.
Why not indeed
? “Perhaps. But only for the portrait. Nothing more.”

She swiveled and started back down the stairs, pulling her cloak on over her shoulders as she went. Wilkins stared up at her as if she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had.

Toussaint’s laughter echoed in the stairwell. “We shall see, madame, we shall see.”

Richard closed the door and grinned. That had certainly gone well. He started toward Gillian’s portrait. Very well indeed. His step slowed, and his grin faded. Perhaps too well?

He sank down on the stool before the canvas and stared at the rough charcoal drawing. What in the hell had really happened tonight? He ran his fingers through his hair impatiently and recounted the events of the evening.

It had started out well enough, although he’d thought all was lost when she’d spoken to him in French. Damnation, why hadn’t he paid more attention to his studies years ago and learned the blasted language? Still, he’d managed to recover nicely. He grinned at the thought of her indignation when he’d slandered her accent.

Gillian had been a good subject once she’d agreed to keep quiet, providing him with more than enough time to sketch her form lying on the chaise. Indeed, with every line the excitement of a work in progress, a work he knew would be his best, had grown within him. It had proceeded extremely well as long as he’d been immersed in what he was doing, as long as he’d viewed her as nothing more than a model.

But the moment he’d started on her face, he was lost. He’d studied her for a time, stared at her, without her noticing that the quiet sound of charcoal against canvas had ceased. Of course, he had arranged the room to make certain he would remain in the shadows and she would see him as nothing more than a silhouette. Even so, it had been apparent by her expression that she’d no longer been aware of her surroundings. Of where she was or who she was with.

He’d wondered at the time, or perhaps hoped, he was what was on her mind. If he was the one who had put that dreamlike expression in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. If when she’d parted her lips and licked them slowly, she had been thinking of him. It had been all he could do to keep from racing across the room to take her in his arms.

He swallowed hard and stared at the face on the canvas. Quick, unfinished strokes of black that hinted at what was to come.

He’d managed to keep himself in control and had even succeeded in sustaining that silly accent. Who would have thought an accent adopted for a brief meeting in a garden would be so difficult to maintain during an hour in a studio? He’d nearly forgotten it altogether in those final moments at the door.

He picked up the charcoal and started to work, refining the vaguely formed image. He didn’t need her here to continue: her face was as vivid in his mind as if she stood before him.

Those final moments at the door.

Whatever had possessed him to follow her? To hold her so tight against him that he could feel every curve of her body through that scandalous wisp of a dress. Feel as well the warmth of her skin. Each breath she took. The beating of her heart.

What would have happened then if she hadn’t pulled away? He’d wanted her with an intensity that even now shocked him, and he knew she’d wanted him as well. And that too was shocking.
She’d
wanted
him
? Or was it Toussaint she’d wanted?

She certainly hadn’t withdrawn from Toussaint’s arms. No, there had been no fear in her manner when Toussaint had embraced her. In fact, while not entirely eager, her resistance had been minimal at best. Annoyance tightened his grip, and his strokes on the canvas were hard and swift.

Was it that nonsense about her heart, about love that made the difference? Surely she didn’t want love from Richard? From him? Blast it all, she was right, this was damned confusing. Her behavior. His reaction. And just who was reacting to whom?

With Toussaint there was no question of love. Was that why with Toussaint she had nothing to fear? No reason to retreat or withdraw?

Still, a little fear wouldn’t be uncalled for. A bit of resistance would be only proper. Hell, the woman was practically putty in his arms. Or Toussaint’s arms.

He blew out a long breath. Well, that was his plan, wasn’t it? His so-called two-prong attack? What woman could resist both the advances of an English earl and a French artist? It was as clever as any military strategy ever devised by Wellington or Napoleon.

No, his plan was still sound. Should she surrender to Toussaint, it would only serve to prove to her that she had nothing to fear from him, from Richard. Prove that she could share his bed without losing her heart.

He drew his brows together in irritation. Is that what he wanted? Of course. He had no interest in love. Oh, he’d started to care for her and certainly seemed to think about nothing else but her, and the idea of her inheritance was no longer as important as it had been, but love? Hardly.

Once again the English were battling the French, and surely once again the English would win. He ignored the nagging thought that, once again, it could be a long and bloody war.

Gillian wondered just how improper it would be to send her guests home and Emma to her room so she could at last be alone with Richard.

She surveyed the small group now gathered in her parlor. Richard and Robin stood debating the merits of the latest actions of Parliament. Emma sat on a nearby settee dividing her attention between the political discussion and Kit beside her. Thus far the evening had gone surprisingly well, all things considered.

Oh, certainly Robin had been of no help, politely challenging everything Richard said, whether he was commenting on the current state of governmental affairs or the fine spring weather. Fortunately, Kit had been far too busy gazing wide-eyed at Emma to join in Robin’s sport.

From the moment Kit had walked in the door, he’d been unable to keep his eyes off the girl. Of course, she did look quite fetching with her hair properly dressed and wearing the gown Gillian had loaned her. Emma’s own clothes had been her mother’s and were sadly out of fashion. Gillian had thought Richard would need to come up with at least a few pounds to clothe his sister appropriately, but as she and Gillian were of a similar size and height it might not be necessary.

In point of fact, if the purpose of any season, no matter how modest, was to find a husband, Emma might well have achieved that already, if Gillian were to judge by Kit’s manner and the dazed look in his eye. Gillian was at once delighted by the development and, oddly, just a wee bit annoyed.

Emma was accepting Kit’s attentions with an air of cool amusement. Gillian couldn’t help but be impressed. Richard’s sister may well be straight from the country, but she had all the poise of a young woman with several seasons to her credit. When it came to matters of the heart and the art of flirtation, Emma had nearly as much natural talent as she did for painting.

They’d set up a studio of sorts earlier in the day, and Emma had already thrown herself into her work. Gillian wondered if she should bring the girl to her next sitting with Toussaint to observe his work. Besides, Emma’s presence would serve more than one purpose.

Richard did not appear to notice the unexpected attraction between his sister and Kit. No, for the first time since she’d come to know him, he was living up to his public reputation. He was rather abrupt tonight, reluctant to make conversation and continually cast her the most annoying looks, as if he was trying to see inside her. Why, the man was positively brooding. Given last night’s sitting with Toussaint and Gillian’s intentions toward Richard this evening, it was most unnerving.

She’d thought about the encounter with the artist all day, dismissing the feelings she’d experienced at the end of the evening as nothing more than a physical response to the embrace of a man skilled in seduction. Still, it was hard to ignore them completely. She’d never considered herself prone to passion, and to have such reactions to a man whose face she’d never seen was disturbing.

But what truly preyed on her mind were her admissions. Was she indeed afraid of losing her heart to Richard? Was she afraid of what she might feel in his arms? In their few brief encounters she’d already felt a great deal.

But what if it was nothing more than the same physical longing she’d experienced with Toussaint? What if she wasn’t afraid of losing her heart but afraid of not losing it? Afraid of feeling nothing at all beyond desire? If she was going to marry the man, it was past time to find out. Regardless of what was at stake, could she spend the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love?

“Robin,” she said abruptly, “I do hate to call an end to this lovely evening, but it is getting rather late.”

A wry smile lifted the corners of Richard’s mouth. It was neither late nor, in truth, had it been all that lovely.

Robin looked at her with an assessing eye. “Very well. Kit?”

“It doesn’t seem late to me,” Kit murmured, his gaze never leaving Emma.

Emma rose to her feet, and Kit stood at once. “Lady Gillian is right. It has been an exceedingly long day.” She held out her hand.

Kit took it and favored it with a lingering kiss. Gillian tried not to grin. “I do hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

Emma blushed.

Robin rolled his eyes and started toward the door. “Come along then, Kit.” Kit followed reluctantly. Robin stopped and directed a pointed stare at Richard. “Are you coming, Shelbrooke?”

“In a moment,” Gillian said quickly. “We have some matters to discuss.”

Richard raised a brow. “Apparently not, Weston.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed. He studied Gillian thoughtfully, then nodded. “I see. I will bid you good evening then.” He turned and stalked from the room.

“Good evening.” Kit cast a last longing look at Emma and trailed after Robin. Wilkins’s voice was heard in the hall, followed a moment later by the sound of the door opening and closing.

Emma’s gaze met Gillian’s. There was an attractive flush in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. “He certainly is a pleasant gentleman, isn’t he?”

“Pleasant?” Richard snorted. “He’s a flirtatious rake and you’d be well advised to keep your distance.”

“Richard!” Emma’s eyes widened.

“Nonsense,” Gillian snapped. “He’s somewhat high spirited, but he’s quite honorable, very nice, and one of my dearest friends. In addition, he has a respectable fortune and title and would make Emma an excellent match.”

“An excellent match?” Richard’s brows drew together.

“Do you think so?” Emma said in a dreamy manner.

“I do indeed.” Gillian nodded and smiled. “And I have never seen him look at a woman like this before. I think it’s an excellent start.”

“It’s not a start.” Richard’s voice rose. “It’s not a start at all. It’s an end. I have no intention of allowing my sister to have anything more to do with the man.”

“Oh dear,” Emma murmured.

“Your intentions scarcely matter.” Gillian planted her hands on her hips. “She is one-and-twenty and there is not a great deal you can say about it.”

Richard glared back. “There most certainly is. As long as she enjoys my protection—”

“Perhaps, but at the moment one could make the argument that she is not precisely enjoying your protection, as she is living under my roof.” Gillian smirked.

“It is rather late after all,” Emma said, inching toward the door.

“And since she is under my roof, my approval is the only thing she needs to concern herself with. At the moment, I see nothing wrong with allowing her to see whomever she wishes and do as she pleases.”

“Your approval?” Richard sputtered. “I scarcely think you are any judge of character when it comes to scoundrels like Weston.”

“I’m an excellent judge of character.” Indignation washed through her.

“Hah!”

“I should probably be going,” Emma said uneasily.

Gillian crossed her arms over her chest and stepped toward him. “ ‘Hah’? What do you mean by ‘hah’?”

“Only that your so-called ability to judge character remains to be seen,” he said with a lofty air.

“By whom?” Her voice rose with ire.

“By me.” His tone was firm, as if this was the end of the discussion. She resisted the immediate impulse to scream in frustration. Or smack him.

“I chose you, didn’t I? Was that a mistake?” Her voice rang with challenge.

“That too remains to be seen,” he said smugly.

“It does indeed.” Her gaze locked with his.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t use your positioning of me at the top of your list as an example of your excellent assessment of a man’s nature.” He glowered down at her.

“What list?” Emma said curiously.

“So far, I’d say your behavior has been damnably proper.” She stared up at him. “So apparently I was right.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? What you selected? A man who behaves properly, honorably, respectably.” His eyes narrowed. “A man who doesn’t want anything more from you than your bloody inheritance?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I got, was it?” She was losing control, and right now, she didn’t really care. The man was infuriating. “What I got was a beast who wants more than my money. He wants me in his bed. He wants—”

“What?” Richard roared. “What do you think I want from you?”

“I should definitely retire.” Emma fled from the room, flinging the doors closed behind her.

Gillian refused to pull her gaze from Richard’s. “Look at what you’ve done now, you’ve scared her.”

“The way I scare you?”

“You don’t scare me,” she snapped. It was true. She was far too angry to be scared.

“Something does.”

Irritation swept away caution, and she spoke without thinking. “Why haven’t you kissed me?”

“What?” Confusion colored his face. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She stared up at him. “You haven’t even tried to kiss me. For a man who claims to be trying to seduce—”

“Court,” he murmured.

“Seduce! Although I scarcely think nuzzling my hand on occasion can be considered seduction. Why, you’ve not put any real effort into this seduction of yours.”

“Indeed I have.” His tone was wounded, as if she’d maligned his manhood.

She snorted.

“I didn’t think you especially wanted me to kiss you or anything else,” he replied. “Every time I’d so much as hold your hand ...” He shook his head. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look quite so puzzled. “I thought... well, the way you—”

“Kiss me, Richard.” She wasn’t the least bit afraid, and she had to know what, if anything, she’d feel when he did. Would it be fear? Passion? Love? Or nothing at all? This was obviously the right moment to find out. “Now.”

His eyes flashed. Was he too angry to kiss her? “Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yes, yes.” She gestured impatiently. “Do go on.”

The corners of his lips twitched. Or was he amused? “If you insist.”

He lowered his head, and she closed her eyes. His lips met hers, warm and gentle, and heat flashed through her. It was an excellent beginning. She strained upward, and without warning, he was gone.

She snapped her eyes open. He raised a brow. “Well?”

“Well what?” Disbelief sounded in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Surely that wasn’t the best he could do? Her heart sank.

“Well, how was it?”

“It was ...”
Brief, short, diminutive
. Not that she could possibly tell him that. She forced a weak smile. “Pleasant.”

“Respectable.” He nodded solemnly.

“Yes, I suppose.” It was, in fact, scarcely worth mentioning. What if it was the best he could do?

“Then you’re disappointed?”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. “At any rate, I’m scarcely a judge of such things. I can’t recall the last time I asked a man to kiss me.” Still, she had an excellent memory and a fairly good idea of what to expect. Disappointed was as appropriate a word as any. Good Lord, his perfunctory peck barely counted as a kiss. “I did expect... something ... well...”

“Not quite as restrained?”

“Perhaps. You do have a reputation, after all.”

“I did have a reputation, remember,” he said pointedly. “I have reformed. That’s why I head your list.”

“Pity,” she said under her breath. What if he’d reformed too well? What was she to do now? This so-called kiss of his hadn’t proved anything at all. It had been far too reserved, too proper, and entirely too short.

“Now then, if there’s nothing else, I shall take my leave.” He nodded, turned, and strode toward the door. Very formal, quite correct, and yet...

Damn it all, she had seen it in his eyes: he was amused!

“Richard!” He stopped in his tracks. His shoulders shook. “Are you laughing?”

“Nothing of the sort.” His voice had an odd inflection. Like a man about to choke or struggling to hold himself in check.

“There isn’t anything to laugh about.”

He turned to face her, biting on his bottom lip so hard that she wondered he didn’t draw blood. “There isn’t?”

“Not at all.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He nodded slowly and crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose there isn’t anything remotely comical in our situation?”

“I see nothing to so much as draw a smile.”

“You don’t think it’s even mildly amusing that you, a well-respected lady, would propose marriage to me, someone you have considered far beneath your notice, for the sole purpose of acquiring your legacy?”

“No,” she huffed. “It was a necessity and I resent your saying that I considered you beneath my notice.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Perhaps, once, but that was years ago.”

“Forgive me then. Time and circumstances have changed us both.” He stepped closer, his teasing manner gone. “However, to continue, you don’t believe my refusal to agree to the kind of marriage you want and your subsequent suggestion that we spend the time until your birthday getting acquainted well enough for you to concede to share my bed to be the least bit humorous?”

“No, I don’t.”