The Husband List -2 (8 page)

“Excellent. I shall make the arrangements at once.” He stepped toward her, stopping within arm’s reach.

She gazed up at him, speculation in her voice. “What kind of arrangements?”

“Paints.” There was no fear in her eyes now. “Brushes.” She wasn’t the least bit nervous at his nearness. “Canvas.” He could easily take her in his arms.

She raised a brow. “Don’t you have paints, brushes, canvas?”

“But of course,” he murmured. His gaze slid to her mouth. What would she do if he kissed her? Slap his face? Flee into the night? Or would she allow his kiss? Respond to it? To him?

“Then I don’t understand what kind of arrangements are necessary.”

Or would she dismiss it as amusing and meaningless? An insignificant moment in a garden at a ball. Nothing more.

“Monsieur?” A teasing smile quirked her lips.

“I shall contact you soon. Madame.” He nodded sharply, turned, and started off, the need to escape her presence almost overpowering.

“Monsieur,” she called after him, and he slowed. “Will you take your mask off for me when I sit for you?”

He swiveled toward her. “And destroy the illusion?” He pulled the tricorn from his head and swept an overly dramatic bow. “We shall see, madame.” He turned again and strode down the path.

“We shall indeed.” Her voice and laughter trailed after him.

The moment he was certain he was out of sight he ducked behind a hedge into a narrow space between the plantings and the high wall of the terrace, brushed the hat off his head, pulled back the hood, and yanked the mask from his face. He ran his fingers through his hair and drew in great gasps of air. Blast it all, he hated masks.

Will you take your mask off for me when I sit for you?

Bloody hell. He sank back against the bricks. He hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t thought about anything at all when he’d proposed to paint her portrait. In that one moment, he’d been too caught up in a desire, as hard and urgent and unrelenting as anything he’d ever known, to truly capture her on canvas. An impulse unchecked by reason, by sanity.

Damnation, he thought he’d conquered his impulsive nature years ago, just as he’d conquered his penchant for gaming, for whoring, for rash and reckless behavior. For five long years, everything he’d done had been well considered, practical and rational, with his aim always on the future. Even his paintings had been produced with an eye toward the market. Why then had he succumbed to impulse tonight, not once, but twice, without a second thought as to the consequences?

It was Gillian, of course, and his own misplaced pride. He wanted her to like his work and wanted to hear her say it. And more, he wanted her to want him for other than the inheritance their marriage would bring. And with every moment spent in her company he wanted it more. But whenever he came too close, in deed and in words, she withdrew. Possibly from an odd feeling of betrayal that made no sense to him: her husband was dead and buried, after all. Possibly from fear. At least that’s what he’d seen in her eyes.

She certainly wasn’t afraid of Toussaint.

He pushed away from the wall and absently took off his cloak, an absurd idea forming in his mind.

Gillian was well used to dealing with artists like Toussaint. She had been relaxed and unconcerned and had apparently enjoyed their lighthearted conversation. She had been flirtatious in the manner of a woman who knew there was no risk to her emotions whatsoever. Even her assessment of the miniature and its personal nature had been puzzling to her, not frightening.

It was ridiculous to even consider the possibility, but if the Earl of Shelbrooke courted her in a typical manner, while someone else, perhaps a mysterious French artist with a notorious reputation, sought her favors in a more provocative fashion, one of them might well succeed. She was on her guard with Richard but did not consider Toussaint so much as a mild threat.

Was there a woman in the world who could resist an amorous assault on two fronts? Especially from men she viewed as completely different from one another? Richard topped her husband list. Toussaint wasn’t on the list at all. The artist was more the man he used to be than the man he was now. The kind of man women found appealing even as they knew such men were wrong for them.

And once her affections were engaged, he could reveal the truth to her. Since the earl and the artist were one and the same, what would be the harm? Why, they’d probably laugh about it. It would be a story to tell their grandchildren one day.

She had already agreed to sit for him. That would require spending a great deal of time together. He had no idea how he would manage to paint her portrait and still keep his true identity concealed. He absolutely refused to wear that irritating mask again. No doubt he would come up with something. He always did.

He drew his brows together thoughtfully. It was a relatively simple plan, surely destined for success, yet he wondered if it wasn’t too simple. If there wasn’t a flaw in it that he failed to see. Impatiently, he pushed the disquieting idea away. It was the only plan he had at the moment, and the rewards, both financially and personally, were far too great to leave to chance.

He folded the cloak over his arm, bent, and picked up the hat. He’d return the costume, then find Gillian. It was past time he shared a dance with the woman he was to marry. A slow smile grew from somewhere deep inside him, and he wondered who would be the first to seal their fate with a kiss.

Richard or Toussaint?

Gillian watched Toussaint’s cloaked figure disappear in the direction of the terrace, shook her head in amusement, and sank down on the cold bench.

What an intriguing encounter. Toussaint was as arrogant and self-important as any other artist of her acquaintance, filled with an overblown sense of his own worth. And, just like the others, he had a need for praise that belied his conceit. Oh, they all hid it with bravado and swaggers that were typically smug, but the longer one observed them, the easier one recognized the signs of the artistic temperament. Toussaint was no different.
Nicely done
would never suffice for a man of his nature.

What did he look like without the costume? He was tall, that couldn’t be hidden. It was apparent by the way he moved that he wasn’t fat or old. But what of his face? His refusal to remove his mask and all that nonsense about illusion indicated there was something he wished to hide. Did he have hideous scars? Or warts? Perhaps he was merely quite ordinary. If she did indeed sit for him she’d surely find out.

And wasn’t there something odd about his voice? His accent was pronounced and a bit too prominent, as if he were trying to emphasize it. He probably thought it enhanced his reputation. After all, if the rumors about him were true, he’d left France at least twenty-five years ago. Toussaint would not be the first artist to create an exaggerated background of mystery and romance to increase interest in his work. With the exception of his remarkable talent, Gillian, and the rest of the world, really knew nothing at all about the man.

Although he was most certainly French. She chuckled to herself. Who but a Frenchman would be brazen enough to suggest her portrait would be purchased by a lover?

Richard.

His face popped unbidden into her mind. Would he be her lover eventually? She clasped her hands in her lap and stared at her entwined fingers. Her husband? Certainly, if all went well. The thought was at once frightening and ... what? Wonderful?

“Forgive my delay.” Gillian glanced up. Richard strode toward her carrying a glass of champagne in each hand. “I was unavoidably detained.”

“Were you?” She smiled and rose to her feet, paying no heed to the tiny thrill that raced through her at his approach. “I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned me.”

“Never.” His voice teased, and he handed her a glass. His gaze dropped to the empty crystal on the bench. “But I see you haven’t been entirely alone.”

“A waiter brought champagne,” she said without thinking and wondered why she hesitated to tell him about her meeting with Toussaint. Richard had a great appreciation of art and would no doubt enjoy meeting the man. Still, some cautious voice inside her urged restraint.

“A waiter?” He raised a brow.

She took a long sip. “Um-hum.”

“Odd. I hadn’t noticed any of the waiters going into the gardens.”

“This one did,” she said brightly.

“A stroke of luck then.” He drew a long swallow of his wine. “Interesting how Lady Forester has them all attired as dominoes. It’s impossible to tell one from another.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she murmured.

“Indeed. Why, anyone could be hiding behind those masks.” He considered her for a moment. “A pauper. A prince.”

“Perhaps.” She cast him a sharp look. He couldn’t possibly know. “But more than likely simply a servant.”

“More than likely.” He shrugged in dismissal. “Would you care to dance?”

Her heart raced at the thought of being in his arms. She forced a lighthearted note to her voice. “Why, my lord, a dance following our sojourn in the gardens? What will people say?”

“A great deal, I suspect. Especially since I plan on more than one dance, and, furthermore, I firmly intend to occupy your attention for the remainder of the evening.”

She studied him for a moment. “You realize that will be tantamount to declaring your intentions?”

“I do.” He stared down at her and held out his hand. She drew a deep breath and placed hers in his.

A moment later they entered the ballroom and crossed to the dance floor. She was acutely aware of the speculative stares that followed their progress. A waltz began, and he took her in his arms. Strong and hard and unyielding.

He held her no closer than propriety dictated,
yet
she was engulfed by his presence, his warmth. His gaze locked on hers and all else faded away. They whirled across the floor, her steps in perfect harmony with his. As if they had danced together before. As if they had danced together always. As if they were one.

She was aware of the music, aware of their movement, but dimly, as if in a dream. She existed only in the reality of his embrace, the intensity of his dark eyes. Her blood pulsed, her breath caught, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. And she didn’t want to. There was nothing in her world save him and her, and she lost herself to the emotion sweeping through her. Desire? Need? Fear?

Whatever was happening between her and this reformed rake was as foreign to her as a gentle stream was to a raging, flood-swollen river. It had been so very long since any man had made her feel anything, let alone filled her with conflicts and terror and... anticipation? At once frightening and delicious.

She was scared of him, of herself, of the two of them together and what the future could hold. She’d admitted as much, accepted her fears and doubts. And in his arms, she realized acknowledging the truth wasn’t enough.

Now, she had to face it.

Richard’s horse gingerly picked his way up the gravel drive, in truth more rut than rock these days. Pristine lawns long gone to seed encroached on the edges of the lane as if to swallow it whole. Gardens that had welcomed visitors in years past now sported only weeds and the occasional blossom too stubborn to give way to neglect and the passage of time.

In better days, an enterprising gardener in the employ of a far more prosperous Earl of Shelbrooke had laid out the grounds to draw the eye upward to the top of a slight rise and Shelbrooke Manor. The grand house had overlooked the countryside in the manner of a benevolent stone queen surveying her domain. Now, she was as run-down as her surroundings, an old lady weary of struggle with little more than pride keeping her upright.

Richard clenched his jaw, anger firing his blood as it always did on this first sight of the manor. He remembered it from his childhood before he had left for school. Before his mother’s death. Before his father’s passion for drink and gaming had very nearly lost it all.

As always, his fury mixed with a grudging gratitude to his irresponsible parent. Richard had been well on his way to treading his father’s path. If not for the obligations thrust upon him with his sire’s demise and whatever sense of duty passed to him through his mother’s blood, he would have fared no better with his life than the previous earl.

And, as always, his anger fueled his determination as well.

A peal of laughter and the bark of a dog sounded in the distance, and Richard couldn’t resist an answering grin. At least his sisters had retained their spirit. Of course, they were all too young to remember when life here had been substantially different. And it wasn’t as if they lived as beggars in the streets of London, never knowing where their next meal would come from. They still had a roof over their heads, such as it was, and their family name, thanks to Richard’s efforts, had regained some measure of its former respect. Even their finances were slowly improving.

He reached the broad stone steps that swept up in a graceful curve to the front entry and slid off his horse. When he was a boy, there would have been someone near at hand to take the reins. In its grander days, the estate would have provided employment for more than a hundred servants in the house and stables and grounds. There were nowhere near that number when Richard had come into his questionable inheritance, and he’d let most of those still in service go, retaining only old Ned, who attempted to keep the house from falling down around their heads, and his wife, Molly. Shelbrooke Manor was as much their home as it was his.

Tenants remained as well, farmers who fared little better than he but kept food on the table for their families and, in lieu of rent—his—with a paltry amount left for market. Production could be vastly increased, but improvements to the land and implementation of the latest in agricultural methods were costly. The fortunes of all who inhabited the estate, be it in the manor or in the cottages, were as tied together today as they had been for generations. And it took funds to improve their lot.

Richard looped the reins over the saddle and strode up the steps. The horse wouldn’t go far. He too was home.

He reached the wide wooden door, weathered from years of protecting those within from rain and cold and whatever else threatened. He grasped the big brass handle and pushed. The door swung open with a protesting creak.

“Richard!” The call mingled with the incessant bark of an overexcited dog. He braced himself and turned.

A large, dripping, brown-and-white fur ball bounded toward him, followed by his youngest sister, just as exuberant and nearly as wet. The dog skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steps and started up the stairs.

“Henry,” Richard said sharply.

The beast stopped short and stared up with what could only be described as adoration in his brown eyes. His body quivered with barely suppressed joy and the impetus of a madly wagging tail.

“He just wants to welcome you home. He misses you, you know.” Becky halted beside the dog and grinned. “So do I.”

“As I miss you, little sister.” He smiled down at her. At age sixteen she still had more hoyden than miss in her. Her dark hair was mahogany red, and with every passing day she showed the promise of exceptional beauty. A blessing or a curse. “I would hug you, but—”

She laughed and pushed a wet strand of hair away from her face. “I was trying to give Henry a bath.”

“Or he was giving you one.” A whiff of wet dog assailed his nostrils. “Apparently he needs bathing.”

Becky wrinkled her nose. “Henry has an alarming tendency to roll in the most vile things he can find.”

As if in response to the criticism, Henry chose that moment to shake himself. Water and its accompanying pungent scent sprayed in a wide arc.

“Now, now, Henry.” Becky grabbed his collar and pulled him farther from Richard. “Stop that this instant.”

“Rebecca!” An indignant yell sounded from someone still out of sight.

Richard raised a brow.

Becky widened her eyes innocently. “She wanted to help.”

Jocelyn rounded the far corner of the house and stalked toward them. “Blast it all, you were supposed to hold on to the damnable ...”

She pulled up short, and her demeanor changed abruptly. At once her manner was proper and dignified, and she strolled toward them. Becky rolled her eyes toward the heavens. Jocelyn was barely a year older than Becky, and, while all his sisters shared a similarity in height and features, they couldn’t have been farther apart in temperament. At this distance, Richard was certain Jocelyn didn’t recognize him. She’d never been able to see clearly past a distance of about fifteen feet, but she disdained even the mere suggestion of spectacles. She too would be a beauty far sooner than he wished and, in contrast to Becky, was well aware of it.

Jocelyn drew closer, pursing her lips in a well-practiced pout. “Rebecca, you didn’t tell me we had a visitor.”

Becky glanced at Richard and grinned. “We don’t.”

Jocelyn paused and squinted. “Richard?”

“Were you expecting another gentleman caller?” he said dryly.

Becky snorted. “Hardly.”

“Not expecting, merely hoping.” Jocelyn sighed dramatically and reached the bottom stair. She kept a wide berth between herself and Henry, who ignored her in favor of sniffing something interesting in a crack in the stone. She climbed the steps and placed a sisterly kiss on Richard’s cheek. “I—we— will never meet any acceptable, or even interesting, gentlemen exiled here in the country. Why can’t we come live with you in London?”

“I don’t want to live in London,” Becky said quickly. “I’m quite happy right here, thank you.”

Jocelyn shot her a withering look. “Then you can stay.”

Richard bit back a groan. It was an ongoing point of dissension. Where Becky would have been content to spend her life in the country, Jocelyn could not wait until the day she could travel to London. Even the reality of their finances did not diminish her burning desire for a season in town.

“Richard.” She hooked her arm through his and gazed up at him, her eyes wide and pleading. Her lashes fluttered, her voice lowered. “Please.”

“Good God, where did you learn to do that?” Shock rang in his voice.

“To do what?” Her honey-colored eyes, a shade darker than her hair, opened even wider, if possible. Richard knew full well he had to do something to come up with the dowries to ensure good marriages for all the girls, but his first priority was of necessity his oldest sisters. He’d thought, or perhaps had hoped, that he had a bit more time to find suitable matches for the younger pair. Apparently he was wrong.

“
You
haven’t been home for weeks,” Becky said pointedly, “and
she’s
been listening to Aunt Louella.”

“I should have known,” he muttered. Since the day Lady Louella Codling had moved into Shelbrooke Manor to care for her dead sister’s children, she’d filled the girls’ heads with talk of London and the season, dashing suitors and glittering balls. Fortunately, in Jocelyn alone had Louella’s stories found fertile ground.

“Aunt Louella is simply trying to prepare us for our proper positions in life,” Jocelyn said loftily. “Not that anything she could do could possibly help you.”

“Perhaps I don’t need as much help as you do,” Becky smirked.

Jocelyn wrinkled her nose. Becky stuck out her tongue.

“As always, it’s good to be home,” Richard sighed. “However, I can only stay for the night.”

“Richard!” the sisters wailed in unison.

“Business, my dears.” The girls traded glances, abruptly united against a common enemy. Were they up to something? He brushed the thought away. He had no time for their nonsense. “Now then, Becky, do something about that beast and then join us inside. I assume the others are about somewhere?”

“Emma, Marianne, and Aunt Louella are in the drawing room. Mending.” Jocelyn said the word as if it were obscene.

“Excellent. I need to speak to everyone, and I would prefer to do it at once.”

Again, the sisters exchanged looks. They were definitely up to something. Unholy allies. But in what? He shuddered at the thought.

“What about?” Becky narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Patience, my dear. Get rid of the dog.” He smiled, turned, and stepped into the house, leaving behind the murmur of curious voices. At least they weren’t screeching at one another, although admittedly he usually found their bickering more amusing man annoying.

He strode across the wide front hall between flanking staircases that rose to a gallery overlooking the entry, and tried to ignore the discolored rectangles on the walls where paintings had once hung. He turned into the west corridor and headed to the small salon.

His two oldest sisters and his aunt sat amid baskets of clothes, bent over needlework in what was probably a vain attempt to make well-worn clothing last a bit longer.

“Good day.”

“Richard.” Emma tossed aside the fabric in her hand and stood. He crossed the room and enfolded her in an affectionate hug. With her dark hair and dark eyes, she was the sister most like him in appearance and, these days, manner as well. Practical and matter-of-fact, she well understood the realities of their lives, and the household accounts were entrusted to her in his absence. She drew back and studied his face. “We hadn’t heard from you. We were worried. Are you quite all right?”

“You haven’t been here for a month,” Aunt Louella said through tight lips. “You’re supposed to come every week.”

“We thought perhaps you’d been kidnapped by pirates.” Marianne grinned and pushed the spectacles that had slid to the tip of her nose back into place. Fairer in coloring than Jocelyn but every bit as pretty, Marianne had no concern for appearance. Her light blonde hair was typically an unruly riot of curls around her head, her clothing always a bit disheveled. She lived in her books and her poems and her own dreams.

He laughed and stepped to her. “Nothing so adventurous, I’m afraid.” He bent and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Simply too busy to get away.”

“He says he has something to tell us,” Jocelyn proclaimed as she walked into the room.

“Something serious?” Emma frowned. “Not bad news, I hope.”

Becky appeared in the doorway. “You haven’t discovered more of father’s debts, have you?”

“Not at all. It’s something rather pleasant, I should think.” Of course, Jocelyn wouldn’t think it was pleasant at all. Neither, he suspected, would Emma. Marianne was far too absorbed by her own world to particularly care where she lived, and he still had a few years before he needed to deal with Becky.

“Do we have money again?” Jocelyn cried with delight.

“Can we get another horse then?” Becky said.

“And a better carriage,” Aunt Louella sniffed. “This one is barely held together.”

“The roof first, Aunt,” Emma smiled.

“And books that haven’t been chewed on by mice,” Marianne said wistfully.

“And clothes, Richard. Something fashionable. Made by a real modeste. Maybe even from Paris,” Jocelyn grabbed her skirt and stretched it out on either side. “Not these old rags that we’ve made ourselves and remade over and over.”

“Something pretty would be nice.” Becky nodded thoughtfully, and Richard realized even Becky was nearly grown.

Marianne’s voice rose eagerly. “In bright colors.”

“White is appropriate for a girl who is as yet unmarried, regardless of her advancing years,” Aunt Louella said primly. Emma and Marianne traded long-suffering glances. “Although pale pastels are permissible.”

“And silks and satins,” Emma said. “I saw a pattern in the village—”

At once the room erupted in excited feminine chatter. Richard stared, a sinking sensation in his stomach. It wasn’t so much that he had to deflate their excitement, although he did regret the need to do just that, as it was the fact that his prospects for providing them with what they wanted, what they deserved, on his own were slim. “No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

The optimism on their faces vanished, snuffed out with the finality of a breath upon a flame, and guilt washed through him. He had it within his power right now to guarantee them a move to London, grand seasons, substantial dowries, and all the new clothes they could wear in a lifetime.