The Painted Lady (11 page)

She stared up at him while he blotted her mouth. “No dalliance. Food. Of course. I should not have suspected you of such ungentlemanly conduct.”

If he weren’t a gentleman, Kasey would have the starry-eyed miss on that bed in an instant. Zounds, he’d have her on the floor! As it was, he had all he could do to keep his hands off her. Then, thunderation, he thought, she’d eaten all his treats; she owed him something sweet!

He’d tasted many a woman’s lips, coated with champagne or wine, but never a sweeter pair, and the pastries had little to do with it. He waited for the scream, the slap, the startled outrage, knowing he deserved every one, but they never came, so he deepened the kiss. Miss Bannister leaned into him, till he could feel the peaks of her perfect little breasts pressed against his chest. Lud, this had to stop! He was a gentleman, and she was a lady, by all that was holy, and he had never taken advantage of an innocent yet. By
George, the chit was drunk on dessert! And he must be more addlepated than he supposed, Kasey decided, to be taking such liberties, such luscious, lovely liberties, with her.

Why, one shout and her uncle could be here in an instant. Lilyanne would be ruined, and His Grace would find himself engaged. The duke hadn’t avoided parson’s mousetrap all these years by trifling with maidens, not by half, and he did not intend to start now, nor have his career as a bachelor end so abruptly. Miss Bannister was not at all suitable to be his duchess, even if her slim body suited him to a cow’s thumb. Besides, she deserved better than a chap who spoke with spirits.

Feeling very much as the gingerbread man did upon having his head bitten off, Kasey set Miss Bannister away from him. “That never happened,” he said.

“No, of course not. Never.” Lilyanne looked at him one last time before fleeing the room, as if wanting to ask precisely what it was that had not happened.

Kasey could not have told her.

* * * *

Her uncle was correct after all, Lilyanne reflected as she lay trembling in her bed, the blankets a cocoon protecting her from everything except her thoughts. Uncle Osgood was right that rich foods disordered the mind. Definitely. Why, one tart, a biscuit, and a gingerbread man, and her wits had gone begging! Heaven only knew what a bit of marzipan or marchpane might do to her morals. The thought was unnerving indeed.

Either Uncle was accurate about sweets and spices causing brain storms, or else insanity was contagious. Lilyanne had never grown weepy or willful or wasp-tongued from the troubled young ladies she’d guided, so why would she contract derangement from a rakish duke?

She could not let such a lapse in good judgment happen again. Lilyanne had no connections, no handsome dowry, no erudite education to help her make her own way in the world, to help her see Lisbet settled in a better life. All she had was her wits and her reputation, and she had nearly lost both tonight. No, that kiss should never have happened, and it certainly must never happen again.

Of course His Grace must have been out of his mind, too, for Lilyanne could find no other excuse for his behavior, even if he was in the habit of kissing every female he encountered. Kissing her, however, plain Miss Lilyanne Bannister, when Lady Edgecombe was handy, was beyond reason. Sadly, a breeze was certainly blowing through the gentleman’s cockloft, wafted on raspberry tarts.

Even more sadly, His Grace had been the one to end the embrace, not Lilyanne. Miss Bannister recalled the sense of loss when he did, and was sorely ashamed. She had not made so much as a murmur
of protest—no, not even when her mouth wasn’t full of shortbread, or his breath. She’d gasped like a landed fish, then fled like one thrown back in the lake, undersized or uneatable. Lilyanne could feel her cheeks burn in mortification, even with the covers pulled over her head. She should have raged at his ravishment. She should not have regretted its end, but oh, his kiss was more satisfying than all the sweets in his sack.

Perhaps Caswell was the sane one, after all, for recognizing danger and stopping before the precipice. Lilyanne feared she would have followed him off the edge, like a lemming.

The question now was whether she should tell her uncle. Or how much to tell him. The kiss? Lilyanne was too ashamed to admit her own participation in what could have been her downfall. Besides, her uncle was not going to call the man out or demand that the duke marry her—Uncle Osgood was not the one with the befuddled brain. She doubted that he’d even tell the wealthy duke to leave, not if her uncle had to return his fee.

She could tell her uncle about the duke’s midnight repast, but that smacked of tattling on a schoolboy’s prank. Lilyanne could not be a tale-bearer, especially after she’d participated in the mischief. Besides, she was no longer certain that rich desserts were the devil’s handiwork. They were against Uncle Osgood’s rules and regulations, but so were things like silk and alcoholic spirits. Expensive things. Could it be that the doctor was simply a nipcheese, wrapping half his theories around saving a shilling? Catherine’s night rail was silk, what there was of the diaphanous gown, and she was no madder than Mr. Hanson, who delivered the mail. Botheration, Lilyanne did not know what to believe anymore, her uncle’s teachings, her own common sense, or the duke’s depravity.

One thing she did believe was that Caswell was not having an affair with Lady Edgecombe. Not that he was above it, or below it, but Lilyanne had to trust her feelings that His Grace would not kiss one woman moments after offering carte blanche to another. Neither would Catherine have so nonchalantly left her lover with Lilyanne, if the viscountess and the duke were indeed carrying on in the corners, not after Lady Edgecombe had raised such a ruckus over her husband’s liaisons. Lilyanne would not have shared her partner either, if she had a husband, of course, or a lover.

Lilyanne also believed that as long as the Duke of Caswell was not trying to heal his own mind, he would stay troubled. Should she inform her uncle that his writings were wasted on the duke, that his latest experiment was bound to fail?

But then, a tiny voice whispered in her mind, but then the duke might leave. Was that what she really wanted?

* * * *

What Kasey really wanted were his oil paints. And better light. A glass of wine, or at least a glass, so he did not have to use his shaving mug as a water dish. He wanted another apple turnover. And he wanted Miss Bannister in the room, where he could see if he got the skin tones right, if her hair really was that inky black, if she was still blushing. Lud, watercolors could not begin to capture her essence, like trying to write a novel with half the alphabet.

He had not worked with watercolors in ages, and these brushes were better suited for painting a wall than a picture, but Kasey was painting, and he was happy.

His conduct had been less than perfect, he admitted, but he hadn’t been caught. Little Miss Bannister was too green to realize he owed her an apology, if not a proposal, and now he knew what her lips tasted like. If he could only translate that sweetness to the paper, he could count himself a true artist.

Until then, he counted himself a fool. He was not hearing voices anymore, so he should leave. He had business in Town, obligations, his life to lead.

Bannister’s theories were more cockle-headed than constructive, so he should leave before he starved to death, or his blisters grew blisters.

Mostly, Miss Lilyanne Bannister was a dangerously irresistible temptation, so he should leave before he destroyed her innocence and his own self-respect.

He was staying.

Chapter Twelve

Apologies were difficult. Dukes did not, as a rule, beg anyone’s pardon for anything, anytime. Caswell was out of practice. This apology was particularly taxing because His Grace did not regret that kiss in the least, so the sincerity of his contrition was sincerely in doubt. Hardest of all, when it came to making amends, was the fact that the person he’d offended was not willing to listen to his apologies. Miss Bannister was not even willing to be in the same room with Kasey, not unless her uncle, Lady Edgecombe, or three servants, one of them with a gun, were also present.

In London, His Grace would have sent a bouquet of flowers and a note. Here, Little Henry would shoot him for certain if he decimated the gardens. Then again, in London Kasey would not have been alone in his bedchamber with a wellborn miss of weddable age. He’d rarely had two private words with Lady Phillida, to whom he hadn’t given two thoughts in two days. But that was another issue, for another time.

His Grace did not wish Miss Bannister to think that he thought any the less of her, which she might, if he did not apologize. One did not, after all, beg pardon of a ladybird when she wandered into one’s bedroom in the dark. Kasey never doubted that Lilyanne Bannister was a lady, one who deserved an excuse-me, if not a marry-me.

All he could do, until he tendered his regrets in person, was make sure that Lady Edgecombe had her maid place an offering from the village bakeshop in Lilyanne’s bedroom every night. He did not know if she liked the buns or the biscuits or the berry tarts, nor if she ate any of them, and he could not ask, any more than he could apologize.

She did not come to breakfast. Neither did her uncle or Lady Edgecombe, so Caswell had their shares of eggs and toast. At least he was not going hungry, except for company and conversation.

Little Henry had none of the latter, but he and the duke had come to an understanding. The gardener’s son was permitted to carry the musket on their morning walks until they were out of sight of the house. Then a few coins changed hands, and the gun, and they went hunting. Little Henry was much more comfortable following orders than giving them to a real live duke, and happy to have the extra food on his mum’s table, to say nothing of the coins. Not that he said much anyway.

Wolfie turned out to be a fair hunting dog, both a pointer and a retriever insofar as if he got to the bird or the hare first, it was, of course, his, and Kasey was not about to argue the point.

Miss Bannister was not waiting when he returned to the house, but instructions for his morning’s activities were: chop wood, dig fence postholes, then paint the fence. At least he was painting. Kasey found he enjoyed the physical work, where strength meant more than style, for once.

Both Bannisters and Lady Edgecombe came to luncheon, but Sir Osgood still frowned on conversation, and Lilyanne still frowned on Caswell. The duke suggested he go fishing in the afternoon, in a stream he and Little Henry had passed on their ramble, one that appeared perfect for trout.

“There is nothing like fishing to teach a man patience,” he told Sir Osgood, “and I doubt there’s anything bigger than a minnow in the brook, so it’s not liable to be exciting in the least, simply an outdoor exercise in the appreciation of nature. Miss Bannister will come along, of course, to make certain that I don’t get caught up in the challenge of catching a big one.”

Since the leaves were all raked and half the winter’s firewood was neatly stacked, Sir Osgood agreed. Miss Bannister did not.

“I need to work in the stillroom, drying the last of the herbs,” she told her uncle, never looking at the duke.

“Ah, then I will help you,” Kasey offered. “You can teach me about restoratives and calming agents.”

Lilyanne needed a restorative herself. She and the duke in the small, secluded, stillroom? Alone? There wasn’t even room for Little Henry. She took a sip of lemonade. “No. That is, I need to concentrate on the task. I am sure fishing will be a more beneficial activity for His Grace.” Her tone seemed to imply that burning in hell would be more beneficial for her tormentor.

Kasey nodded, unsurprised. “Perhaps Lady Edgecombe would care to accompany me, then?”

Lilyanne did not care for that notion either. Before Catherine could answer, she said, “What, stand on the edge of a swamp all afternoon drowning worms? I cannot imagine the viscountess finding that pastime to her liking.”

Neither could Kasey, which was why he’d asked, to see Miss Bannister’s reaction. He smiled, until she informed her uncle that she would likely work at her recipes through afternoon tea. Blast, was he never to get the woman alone?

Wolfie frightened all the fish into deeper waters, naturally, but Kasey had hidden his paints in the creel, so he did a landscape of the rippling stream, overhung with autumn-colored branches. Then he did a close study of some of the flies in Little Henry’s kit, so he could copy them when he went to his hunting box in Scotland. The duke even painted a portrait of Wolfie—and it did not growl at him.

So caught up in his painting was Kasey that Little Henry had to point out that His Grace was missing tea.

So what, the duke thought, if Miss Bannister was not present? The food was certainly not worth giving up this last bit of sunshine for. Little Henry went picking nuts.

She was at dinner, picking at her meal. Kasey wished he’d actually caught something that might have tempted her appetite, although Mrs. Dowdeswell would likely have boiled the flavor out of the fish anyway. As it was, Kasey did not eat much either, not after all the nuts, and knowing he had a sack of sweets in his bedroom. He wasn’t even tempted by the unappetizing pudding, so he could not blame Miss Bannister for leaving hers untouched. He still had to worry, though, that his presence was so distressing to the woman that she was off her feed. Was she that upset with him over a little kiss? Very well, it had not been such a little kiss, he conceded. He was determined to apologize finally, after dinner, while her uncle droned out his sermons.

Lilyanne outmaneuvered him; she took over the reading. Kasey did not listen to a word she said, but he let the sound of her voice flow over him, as the stream had flowed over the stones. Meanwhile, he knitted on his scarf. Kasey was happy to have something to look at so no one would notice him staring at Lilyanne with his mouth open like a trout, the one he was determined to catch for her tomorrow, even if he had to tie Wolfie to a tree. He was happy to have something in his lap so no one could notice how the thought of that kiss affected him.