The Husband List -2 (7 page)

“Is it?” She choked out the words, her throat abruptly dry. Without thinking she moistened her lips. His gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“Isn’t it?”

She wanted to run. Turn and flee into the night. But she couldn’t seem to move. Couldn’t seem to breathe.

He lowered his face to hers, his lips a scant brush from her own. “Gillian.”

“Yes?” she whispered. Perhaps it would be best if he did kiss her and got it over with right here and now. Surely then she would know if she could be the kind of wife he wanted.

“I was wondering.”

“Yes?” She braced herself.

“I find I’m quite parched. Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

“Champagne?” Her voice rose. “You’re offering me champagne?”

The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Unless there’s something else you’d prefer.”

“No,” she said, her tone surprisingly sharp. With relief? “Nothing at all.”

“Very well then. You’ll be here when I return?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.” He started to leave, then paused. “Gillian, I—”

“Yes?”

“It’s of no significance at the moment.” He flashed her an arrogant smile, turned, and retraced their steps. She watched until he disappeared up the stairs. Blasted man. Why hadn’t he kissed her?

Of course, it was best that he hadn’t. It was far too soon. She barely knew him. Barely knew herself. Still, once again, her relief was mingled with an odd sense of disappointment.

She hadn’t seen him since his early morning call yesterday, but he was never far from her thoughts. Nor were the conflicting emotions that rushed through her with a mere glance of his dark eyes or touch of his hand. Or the promise of a kiss.

She clasped her hands behind her back and paced before the bench.

Since their last encounter she’d done nothing but think long and hard about their arrangement and their possible future together. In the part of her mind reserved for logic and practical matters she’d come to the realization that wanting Richard, even perhaps someday loving him, was not truly a betrayal of what she’d shared with Charles. Indeed, she’d spent so many years trying not to dwell on the past that the brief time they’d spent together seemed often little more than a lovely dream.

Her emotions were something else altogether and not as easily resolved. She couldn’t deny the sense of guilt that clutched at her heart and tensed her shoulders and sent a rush of panic through her whenever Richard came too close. No man had triggered such feelings in her before. She was as self-assured and confident as ever when they bantered and their comments were lighthearted, but the moment their words took on a deeper meaning, the moment his gaze bored into hers, she was as uncertain and nervous as a green girl. She’d thought her reaction to him was simply because of their situation, their need to marry, but she now suspected there was much more to it all than that.

Was it indeed guilt? Or was it fear?

She stopped abruptly and stared unseeing into the night. Not once in the last few moments with Richard had Charles so much as entered her mind. Did her feelings have little to do with her husband and everything to do with herself? Was Charles simply a convenient excuse to avoid—what? Life?

Or Richard?

There was something about the man that drew her to him as surely as a leaf caught in the current of a waterfall.

Inevitable. And exciting?

Despite what she’d told him, did she want excitement? Did some part of her long for a man of mystery? Certainly Richard was not mysterious, but he was nothing she’d thought he was. And wasn’t that in itself exciting?

And terrifying?

Was fear any easier to overcome than guilt? She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to stop the trembling that swept through her. Realizing the truth made it no easier to manage.

How had she gotten into this mess? All she’d wanted was her inheritance and, with it, independence and the ability to fully pay a debt of honor. Now she wasn’t entirely sure which prize would be the greater.

The legacy or the man.

* * *

Blast it all, he should have kissed her. Had wanted to kiss her. Why hadn’t he?

Because when he’d gazed into her eyes he’d seen the terrified look of a trapped animal. Because he’d never forced his affections on any woman.

Because he wanted her to want him.

He stalked up the terrace stairs and slowed, searching for the distinctive black cloak, tricorn hats, and white masks that marked the Venetian costumes worn by the waiters. There had been a dozen of them just a few minutes ago. Had they all disappeared?

He blew a long breath and circled the edge of the terrace. To make matters worse, Gillian hadn’t even mentioned the miniature. He knew she’d received it: he’d refused to pay the boy he’d hired to deliver it until the youth returned with a signature of receipt from Gillian’s morose butler.

He spotted a servant bearing a tray of champagne and gestured to him. At once the man started in his direction.

What if she didn’t like it? What if she thought it was a poor likeness—or worse, badly done? How could he find out?

The waiter wove his way through the crowd toward him, deftly avoiding one guest after the other. An odd, dreamlike figure in the black cape and white mask.

He certainly couldn’t come right out and ask her. After all, Toussaint had sent her the portrait—not Shelbrooke. Pity Toussaint couldn’t ask her. He supposed he could send a note.

The waiter reached him and presented the tray. Richard reached for the glasses and paused, his hand hovering in midair.

“Is something amiss, milord?” the waiter said.

Behind the mask, beneath the cloak and the hat, the waiter could be anyone. A pauper, a prince ... a painter? This was a masquerade ball and costumes were a necessity. A requirement. Of course, it would mean donning a damnable mask. And there was always the possibility of recognition. Still, occasionally a man who could not publicly acknowledge his accomplishments needed to know if a woman he admired, admired him as well. Or at least his work.

Certainly, there were risks. To his pride and his secret. But it might well be worth a bit of risk.

“Not at all” Richard favored the man with his most amicable smile. “In fact, everything may be far better man I could possibly have hoped for.”

This was insane. Richard ignored the annoying thought even as he acknowledged its truth. Up to now, his role of Toussaint had been impersonal, with minimal risk. This act tonight was something else altogether. He adjusted the irritating mask one last time, drew a steadying breath, and stepped out of the shadows.

Gillian paced in front of the bench, exactly where he had left her. She glanced up at his approach.

What was he going to do now? He hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t considered any course of action beyond borrowing the servant’s costume. At least he’d had the presence of mind to take the waiter’s tray along with his attire.

Her gaze dropped to the lone glass it bore. “Did Lord Shelbrooke send you?”

He nodded mutely.

“I did expect him to bring it himself,” she said under her breath. “I assume he has been detained ...” She accepted the champagne and started to turn away, then paused and smiled politely. “Thank you.”

It was a pleasant dismissal but a dismissal nonetheless and not at all what he’d had in mind. What did he have in mind? How on earth was he going to proceed? Or rather, how would Toussaint proceed?

Gillian was pacing the length of the bench, already deep in thought. Richard and Thomas had concocted a life for Toussaint, but Richard had never imagined actually pretending to be the man. If he was to act the part of Toussaint he would have to become Toussaint at least for tonight. The son of a noble French line, arrogant in his heritage. An artist supremely confident of his talent.

She swiveled back and stopped short. He hadn’t moved. Her brow furrowed slightly. “Yes?”

A man adored by women.

“Was there something else?” She took a cautious step backwards. At once he realized the attire of a domino was charming and clever amidst the crowd in the ballroom or on the well-lit terrace, but here in the shadows of the gardens the white mask was stark, the black cloak forbidding. A romantic figure no longer, he was now a disconcerting, even threatening, vision.

He deepened his voice and adopted a heavy French accent. “You need not be frightened of me, madame.”

“I’m not.” He could see the lie in her eyes and wondered how long it would take for help to arrive if she decided to scream for assistance. “Now, I really must—”

“Permit me to introduce myself.” He drew a deep breath and tossed the tray onto the bench.

“I scarcely think—”

“I am,” he bowed with an exaggerated flourish and what he hoped was a distinctly Continental flair, “Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”

“I cannot imagine...” Her eyes widened. “The artist?”

“None other.”

“You’re quite good.” Admiration sounded in her voice.

“Indeed I am,” he said smugly.

“And modest as well.” A slight smile lifted her lips.

He shrugged. “Modesty is an affectation I cannot afford. I must be free to throw aside the shackles of convention if I am to create great art.”
Shackles of convention
? He groaned to himself.

“I see.” She studied him for a moment. “And was the miniature you sent me great art?”

“You are an expert in such matters, madame, what is your opinion?” he said as if her answer didn’t matter.

“It was nicely done.”

“Nicely done?” Indignation swept away his accent, but only for a moment. “Nicely done is what one says about a child’s first drawing of a pony.”

“Oh, it’s much better than a drawing of a pony.” Amusement colored her tone.

“I am so pleased you think so, madame,” he said dryly.

“It’s quite an accurate likeness, given that I did not sit for it.”

“I am an excellent observer of life, and I have seen you many times. In a carriage on the street, on a horse in the park, across a ballroom.”
Nicely done? Accurate likeness
? What kind of comments were those? He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d wanted her to say, but this certainly wasn’t it.

She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “It struck me as an extremely personal work.”

He drew himself up. “A good portrait should be quite personal. It should make one looking at it say, Mais oui, it is she. I sought to capture not merely your beauty but your soul.”

She laughed lightly. “You have no knowledge of my soul.”

“Ah, but I do. The world of artists is an intimate one. All who you so graciously introduce to potential patrons have said much about the charms and intelligence of the Lady Gillian. Your actions reveal your soul. As do your eyes.”

“Do they? And you could see my soul in my eyes from across a ballroom? You have remarkably good vision. Unless,” she studied him carefully, “have we met?”

“You would never forget such a meeting.”

“No doubt.” Her smile softened her words. Her gaze traveled over him. “Still, in that costume you could be anyone.”

“I could indeed.” But for the moment, he was Toussaint. “I could be a king or a peasant but, alas, I am merely Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”

“Merely?” Her eyes twinkled.

He ignored her, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly circled her. “Tell me, madame, do you think then that it does capture your esprit— your spirit?”

“Perhaps,” she said slowly. “Perhaps a bit too much.”

“How can it be too much?”

“I really don’t—”

“Is it too much to put the stars of the heavens above in the eyes when you see them there?”

“I’m not saying—” She turned to follow him.

“Is it too much to paint lips with the hue of ripe cherries as though a bite had just been taken, if that is what you observe?”

“Monsieur, I—”

He stopped in front of her. “Is it too much to color flesh with the tones of summer so that one feels the image itself would be warm to the touch if indeed that is what you imagine?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “It does seem rather too much. I have no quarrel with the liberties taken by artists as a rule. I well understand the nature of creative expression. And most miniatures are no more than keepsakes. But the manner in which you painted it is, well, somewhat intimate.”

“How do you mean, ‘intimate’?” He stared down at her.

“I’m not entirely certain. I only know when I look at it...” She shook her head impatiently. “It reveals more of me than I wish to have revealed. It is a measure of your talent, I know, but it is quite unnerving.” A puzzled look showed on her face. He was a mere inch away, yet she stood her ground. “Are you certain we haven’t met?”

“Only in my dreams, ma cherie.”

Her eyes widened at the endearment, and she laughed. “Monsieur, I am not your dearest—”

“That is my eternal loss.”

“Nor will I ever be.” Her gaze was unflinching yet relaxed, her stance unyielding yet nonchalant, as if their discussion was nothing more than a mild and familiar flirtation.

“Are you so certain?” His voice carried an unexpected intensity.

Why didn’t she back away? She’d never let him get this close without a touch of panic in her eyes. Or rather—she’d never let the earl get this close.

“Yes, monsieur, I am quite certain.” No, there was nothing even remotely like panic here—only the self-assured gleam of a woman of confidence. “I am well aware of the fickle nature of men who reserve their passion for their work. And I am not foolish enough to risk my heart on such a man.”

“I did not know we were discussing matters of the heart.” How far could he take this farce?

“We aren’t.”

“Ah, but we were speaking of passion.” How far would she let him? “And I am Etienne-Louis Toussaint. Have I not a reputation for passion for more than my work alone?”

“A reputation rivaled only by your talent.” She brought her glass to her lips and gazed at him over the rim. “I find on? quite interesting and the other not at all.”

“You wound me deeply,” he said in a low tone.

“Oh, come now.” She drained the last of her champagne and smiled. “I suspect it would take more than a mere set down to temper your confidence.”

He clapped his hand over his heart. “My life’s blood is flowing from my veins with every word from your lips.”

“Nonsense. Only your arrogance is injured, and that is a minor pain.”

He huffed. “You are a hard woman, madame.”

“Not at all. I am simply practical.” Her gaze searched his eyes. With the mask in the shadows, surely she wouldn’t recognize them. His heart beat faster at the thought, and he took a backward step. “And somewhat curious as well.”

He nodded sagely. “About the passion.”

“About your attire.” She stepped to the bench and set down the glass, then turned toward him. Her gaze traveled over him curiously. “Why are you dressed like the waiters?”

“Why?”
Why
? “It is not an unusual costume for a masquerade.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “You can only imagine my distress when I arrived to discover I was attired not like a figure of the carnivals of Venice but as a servant. What was I to do? I should not wish to offend our hostess by discarding my cloak and mask.”

“And does the tray accompany the costume?”

“Merely an excuse to approach you,”

“I see.” She paused. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Lady Forester.”

“Acquainted may not be the right word,” he murmured. He’d never actually met the lady, but it was a simple matter to procure an invitation to the ball.

“Odd, she’s never spoken of you. And she rarely keeps secret those she has agreed to sponsor.”

“I did not say she was my patron.” Damnation, he certainly didn’t want Gillian to think he was Lady Forester’s latest amorous foray into the world of art. “She is perhaps more discreet than one would expect.” Or did he?

“Perhaps.” She leaned back against a statue and lifted her mask to her face. “Lady Forester requires masks for this occasion to allow those who should not be seen together to be discreet when slipping away. Together. It’s most considerate of her and, I believe, quite appreciated. Yet she has never been particularly discreet in her own liaisons.”

“I, however, am most discreet.”

“Are you?” She paused and considered him. “Even without a mask?”

“We all wear masks of one sort or another, madame,” he said cautiously.

“Surely, you can take this one off?” She shrugged in an offhand manner. “I did warn you as to my curious nature, and I do wish to see the face of Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”

He would have liked nothing better than to rip the irritating mask off and fling it into the dark, but he could bear it for a while longer. It was well worth the discomfort to be in Gillian’s company. A Gillian far different from the woman who wished to marry Richard. Besides, he rather enjoyed the banter between them. “For you and for you alone I would but, regretfully, I cannot.”

“Why?”

Why
? He groped for a response. “Why?”

“Yes, why?” A wicked smile danced on her lips as if she knew he had no answer.

“I am an artist, madame,” he said slowly, his mind racing for something, anything, she would accept. “I deal in ... perception. Illusion.”

“Illusion?”

“Indeed, the illusion created by a brushstroke on canvas.” That sounded reasonable. The words came a bit easier. “Viewed from a distance, a painting seems complete. Perfect. But upon close inspection one sees each stroke, each dab of color, each nuance of the artist’s hand.” He shook his head in feigned regret. “Illusion is as fragile as fine crystal. And shatters as easily.”

“What illusion does your mask preserve?”

“Why, the illusion of Etienne-Louis Toussaint, of course.”

She laughed with delight.

Her sheer Grecian gown and the white marble statue towering above her caught the glow from the light on the terrace, and for a moment reality was indeed obscured by illusion. For the merest instant, marble merged with flesh. The lines and shadows of woman and stone flowed into one as if the two belonged together. Mined from the same quarry. Carved from the same block. Part of the same whole. It was a trick of illumination, nothing more; still, it cast a spell that caught at his artist’s eye. Or his heart.

“I wish to paint you,” he said without thinking.

She lowered her mask. “But you have. My soul as well as my face, I believe.”

“A miniature.” He snorted in disdain. Excitement roared through his veins in anticipation of a new project, this new project, overpowering the voice of reason cursing in the back of his mind. “An exercise in technique, nothing more. I want to do a real portrait. I want you to sit for me.” He would paint her in this dress with a marble statue behind her. A mythical shadow of a very real woman.

“As lovely as the thought is, demand for your work is growing, and I simply can’t afford your prices.” She sighed. “Pity, I have never sat for an artist before.”

“Then I must be the first. I have no doubt a buyer will be found.” His voice was deceptively casual. “A lover perhaps.”

“I don’t...” She hesitated. Was she thinking of him? Of Richard? Or her husband. She straightened and lifted her chin slightly. “Perhaps, someday.”