by Andrea Kane
In the process of assembling his easel, André paused. "My job is already unspeakably easy," he told her huskily. "In fact, so easy it's absurd to think I'll actually be receiving money for doing it." A provocative wink. "But we won't tell that to Mr. Baricci."
"Of course not." Noelle gave him a sunny smile. "Now, where would you like me to sit?"
André pointed to an empty space directly across from the windows. "Have your lady's maid fetch a high stool and set it there when she comes in. That will give me just the right amount of sunlight to do you justice. And don't worry. I won't allow you to endure even the slightest bit of discomfort. We'll take frequent breaks so you won't become stiff or fidgety."
He crossed over, caught Noelle's chin between his fingers and angled her head from side to side. "Astonishing," he murmured. "Your eyes are like glowing sapphires. They must surely bum to ashes every man you gaze upon. And your skin…" His knuckles brushed her cheek. "Pale, delicate—flawless. All crowned by a halo of shimmering black silk." He lifted strands of her hair, let them trail between his tapered fingers. "Exquisite."
"Thank you." Noelle managed to insert just enough breathlessness in her tone to sound sincere. Actually, she found the overt flattery nauseating. "I'll send for a footman to bring the chair." She paused, delivering what she knew André would find to be his coup of the day. "With regard to my lady's maid, she won't be chaperoning us after all. I convinced Papa that it would be too difficult for you to concentrate on your craft, to express yourself freely, with Grace looming over you." An exasperated sigh. "She's loyal but too overbearing for words."
Sure enough, André's entire face lit up.
"Thank you, chérie," he murmured. "That was very thoughtful of you. And you're right. We'll get far more accomplished with no one else present. Just the two of us—and the magic we'll make celebrating your beauty."
"Well, not quite the two of us," Noelle amended with an impish grin. "We will have one spectator who refuses to be ousted."
A puzzled frown. "And who would that be?"
"My cat." Noelle gestured towards the ledge, where Tempest lay sprawled on her side, sleeping in a patch of sunlight.
André followed her gesture, and chuckled, his frown evaporating as if by magic. "I think I can block out the distraction of a dozing cat. So long as it doesn't meow plaintively throughout our session."
"There's no threat of that," Noelle replied. "Tempest has never done anything plaintive in her life."
"Good. Then for all intents and purposes, we're alone." André hovered over her for a moment, his charismatic presence a close and palpable entity, and Noelle wondered how many women he'd charmed into bed with that overwhelming presence, together with that sensual accent and deep, caressing stare.
* * *
Lying silently beneath the ledge's overhang, Ashford was wondering much the same thing. Just listening to Sardo's attempted seduction of Noelle made rage pump through his veins—he who stayed calm under the most adverse of circumstances. Then again, why should he be surprised by the vehemence of his reaction? Noelle constantly elicited unprecedented emotional reactions from him; it seemed only natural that fierce and unreasonable jealousy be one of them.
Damn, he wanted to choke Sardo with his bare hands—and the bastard had scarcely touched her.
Ashford clenched his teeth, purposefully tamping down on his fury. He'd best regain control—and fast. This seduction scheme Baricci had arranged was only going to get more intense as time went on—until Sardo got the assurances and the information he wanted.
Or until Noelle learned what she wanted to know, then expedited the painting of this portrait and ensured its eagerly awaited conclusion—a conclusion that entailed the ousting of André Sardo.
And the capture of Franco Baricci.
Steeling himself for what was to come, Ashford crept forward a few knee-lengths, until Tempest's tail was practically touching his nose and he dared go no further for fear of detection. He peeked around the edge of the sofa, able to catch a glimpse of the scene unfolding before him.
Sardo was mixing his paints and setting his palette, and Noelle was settling herself on the newly delivered stool.
"I've always been in great awe of artists," Noelle confessed, draping the skirts of her gown out around her. "Since I can't draw a straight line, I find it a miracle that others can capture color and essence, even emotion, on paper and canvas."
"It's a gift," Sardo answered and then paused, raising his palette knife and staring at it broodingly. "And sometimes a curse."
"How so?"
Sardo's chin came up, and he turned his dark gaze on Noelle. "When I'm haunted by a vision, I can't rest until I've re-created it. I'm a prisoner to the voices inside my head that command me to put pencil to pad or brush to canvas." He resumed scraping paints onto his palette.
"That's fascinating." Noelle folded her hands in her lap. "Do you ever become so attached to a particular work that you refuse to sell it?"
"Occasionally, yes. Some of my paintings become so entrenched in my soul that selling them would be like cutting out a part of me." A corner of his mouth lifted. "Why? Are you afraid I'll decide to keep your portrait rather than delivering it to Mr. Baricci?"
"No." Noelle shook her head. "Frankly, I'm not at all concerned with Mr. Baricci's hopes or his whims. Commissioning this portrait was his idea, not mine. I'm fascinated with the procedure, not with the man who originated it, nor with the olive branch he's extending."
If Sardo were taken aback by the fervor of Noelle's declaration, he gave no overt sign of that fact.
"And with the artist?" he asked instead, ceasing his preparations in order to scrutinize her. "Are you fascinated with him?"
A tiny smile. "How could any woman not be fascinated with you, André? You're incredibly exciting."
"As exciting as Lord Tremlett?"
Noelle feigned surprise. "Lord Tremlett? What made you mention him?"
"I was merely wondering what your relationship was to him. Lord Farrington seemed to think he was the reason you'd been invited to the party at Markham. And the glow in your eyes when you saw the invitation, when you mentioned Tremlett's name…" A shrug. "Forgive my boldness, but I like to know right away if I have competition."
"Competition?" Noelle's delicate brows rose. "Is that your way of saying you're interested in me?"
Sardo gifted her with a dazzling smile. "Interested? That's a passionless choice of words—certainly not the one I would ascribe to my response to you. Enchanted, bewitched, mesmerized—those are more appropriate descriptions for the reactions you inspire. Ah, Noelle." He placed his palette on an end table and walked around front of his easel, not halting until he was but a few feet from the stool. Then he rubbed his palms together and regarded Noelle with a possessive gleam in his eyes. "You're breathtakingly beautiful, spirited, and alluring. Lord Tremlett would be a fool if he didn't want you. The question is, do you want him?"
"Are you asking if Lord Tremlett and I are lovers?"
André looked only mildly surprised by her audacity. "Yes, I am."
"Then the answer is no." Noelle provided him with her rehearsed answer. "We're not lovers. We scarcely know each other. I met him on the railroad, where I trounced him at a game of piquet. My prize was a carriage ride to Mr. Baricci's gallery and another one back to Waterloo Station."
"And during the party at Markham? Surely you spent time with him there."
Noelle shrugged, realizing that to entirely refute Ashford's appeal would sound totally unbelievable, especially to a man like André, who was well practiced in discerning what types of men would be enticing to women. "We chatted a bit, shared several hands of whist and a waltz or two. Lord Tremlett is very charming."
"But…?" Sardo prompted.
"But I'm being brought out in a month," Noelle finished. "At which time I'll be meeting dozens of gentlemen. This is hardly the time for me to become infatuated—especially with a man Papa considers to be a womanizer."
"As opposed to you, who would keep himself only to one woman?"
A profound and assessing stare. "If she was the right woman—yes."
"I'm flattered." Noelle tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaned forward a tad. "André, may I be honest with you?"
"Of course."
"I said before I didn't care about Mr. Baricci. That's not entirely true. It's just that … well, let's say that he's left me with deep emotional scars. But I would like to know more about him. Does he have any redeeming qualities?"
Sardo seemed pleased by her interest, if somewhat guarded in his reply. "Of course he does. I wouldn't be associated with him otherwise."
"Have you known him long?"
"About six years." André answered with a total ease that belied his earlier wariness, making Noelle wonder if this particular answer were rehearsed. "We met just after I came to London. I left Le Havre and the studio in which I'd been studying in the hopes of finding new inspiration. A mutual friend introduced me to Mr. Baricci, who asked to see my work. He was impressed by its quality and, shortly thereafter, began showing my paintings in his gallery. I've sold five of them thus far. With a modicum of luck, more will follow suit."
"How many of your paintings are displayed in the Franco?"
A careless shrug. "Ten. Twelve. Maybe more. I don't recall the exact number."
That fine tension was back.
"Are there many other competing artists whose works are shown there as well?" Noelle tried.
A mask settled over Sardo's features. "I try not to ponder my competition. It upsets my concentration and makes it difficult for me to work."
"I understand." Sensing his distress—and realizing now was not the time to challenge it—Noelle steered the conversation in a safer direction. "Six years," she repeated. "That's quite a long time—long enough for Mr. Baricci to feel comfortable sharing elements of his past with you." She inclined her head, gazed quizzically at Sardo. "I notice you didn't ask what emotional scars I was referring to. Is that because you were being tactful or because you already know what those scars are?"
Without responding, Sardo pivoted, retracing his steps and bypassing the set palette and waiting canvas. Silently, he extracted a sketch pad and pencil from his portfolio. "I'm going to do some preliminary sketches as we talk," he informed her. "Later, I'll move to canvas."
Noelle nodded, half-tempted to repeat her question, but refraining from doing so. Somehow she knew that André would address the issue when and if he chose to. Very well; she'd wait.
He began drawing with long, sweeping strokes, his concentration shifting from Noelle to the pad to Noelle again.
Long minutes passed before he spoke.
"Excellent," he appraised, surveying his work thus far. "A promising beginning." He folded the first sketch over the top of the pad, began a second. "To answer your question, I have my suspicions with regard to the cause of your emotional scars. Judging from the way Mr. Baricci speaks of you, I realize you mean a great deal to him. I also know his affections toward you are deep, but not romantic. Combine that with the fact that you share several identical facial expressions, and the same lightning-quick minds, and … well, it doesn't take a scholar to guess the nature of your relationship. Given that relationship, and considering that you'd never met before a fortnight ago…" André shrugged. "As I said, I can guess what those emotional scars must be."
"An artist's eye—it misses nothing," Noelle murmured, certain that André's entire speech was a fabrication. She'd bet a lifetime of piquet winnings that Baricci had told him everything—who she was and why he wanted her affections won.
Fine. She'd let him think he was on his way to accomplishing just that.
"Tell me, André." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Is Mr. Baricci a compassionate employer?"
"He's fair. Demanding but fair. He's also a brilliant businessman, one who knows just how to maximize his profits. It's remarkable to watch him do his work." A rueful grin. "Then again, I feel the same awe toward superb businessmen as you feel toward artists. My business skills are severely lacking."
"Not nearly as lacking as my artistic awareness," Noelle commiserated, carefully gauging André's reaction at her next words. "When Mr. Williams asked me which technique I preferred, I almost wept. I wouldn't know an amateur from a Rembrandt."
Not even a flinch. "Don't underestimate yourself, chérie. What you've deemed inadequacy is, in fact, inexperience. All you need is the right tutor to awaken you to the beauty of art. Among other things."
His meaning was so blatant that Noelle lowered her lashes, a tinge of color staining her cheeks. Evidently, she mused, he'd decided the time was right for making his first move.
Taking her reaction as encouragement, André tossed aside his pad, crossing over to where she sat, his gaze heated, purposeful. "You have such fire, such passion," he said fervently, leaning forward, his knuckles brushing the curve of her shoulder. "The right artist—the right man—could coax forth that fire, fan it into a blazing inferno." He bent his head, brushed his lips to the pulse at her neck. "Let me be that man, Noelle."
Before Noelle could respond, chaos erupted.
Unseen, Ashford acted purely on instinct. Fully intending to thrash Sardo senseless, he lunged forward—stopping himself a split second before he revealed his presence and undid all their hard work. Just as swiftly, he lurched backwards, remaining undetected and, in the process, trapping Tempest's tail between his shoulder and the underside of the ledge.
The cat let out a startled yowl, darting to life and springing from her perch. She bounded across the sitting room, leaping from sofa to settee to chair, crashing into the easel and then the end table, toppling the canvas and palette to the floor.
Paint splattered everywhere, dousing the rug and furniture, leaving streaks of rainbow hues on every surface. Tempest herself followed in their wake, racing across the palette's mahogany surface—once, twice, then in rapid circles—repeatedly immersing her paws in the wet colors, then tracking them every which way, until the entire sitting room resembled a patchwork quilt.
André swore in French, leaving Noelle and rushing to salvage his materials and stop the damage. He grabbed for Tempest, who responded by clawing his face and hissing, retaining her freedom and flying across the room, where she collided with Eric's legs in the now-open doorway.
"What in God's name…?" Eric thundered.
Tempest whizzed by him, a tawny cat splashed with primary hues, who disappeared down the hall, leaving behind only a vivid trail of multicolored paw prints.
Silence descended—a silence that was broken by Noelle's helpless shout of laughter.
"Oh, André, I'm sorry," she managed, tears of mirth stinging her eyes. She climbed down from the stool, bending to gather up the sketch pad and canvas—all of which was splattered with paint—and to try reassembling the crippled easel. "Papa, would you ask Bladewell to send in some towels? Many towels," she clarified. "It seems something unnerved Tempest, and she decided to live up to her name."
Eric surveyed the room—a mass of upset jars, overturned furniture, and rivers of muddied color—his lips twitching despite his best attempts to still them. "I'll see to it." He turned into the hallway, issuing the command to the startled group of servants who'd gathered nearby to find out what the cause of the commotion was.
"I don't think you can salvage this sketch," Noelle assessed, frowning at the speckled picture of herself. "But even covered in paint, it's an extraordinary likeness. You're very talented, André."
That seemed to mollify him somewhat, although he still looked quite piqued—his mouth set in a grim line, angry splotches of red darkening his cheeks. "True, but even I must have some semblance of normalcy in which to paint—exquisite subject or not. Not this … this…" He waved his hands, shaking his head as he sought words t
hat were dire enough to describe the upheaval that had just taken place. "I can't believe one cat is capable of wreaking this much havoc."
"Yes, well, you don't know Tempest." Eric remained where he was, looming in the doorway. "She doesn't do this often, but when she does, her destruction is never half-measure. In any case, today's session is clearly at an end. You'll have to resume another day."
"Another day indeed," André muttered. "It will take at least that long to purchase new supplies—paints, pens, pencils, brushes—for all I know, a whole new palette and easel."
"Use this to do it." Eric handed him a ten-pound note. "Consider it compensation from me and a peace offering from Noelle's cat. As for your next sitting, when I said another day, I didn't mean tomorrow. We'll need more time than that to restore this room." A quick scan of his surroundings. "The floor, the furnishings, even the drapes must be scrubbed. So take your time and buy whatever supplies you need. Come back … let's see, how does three days from now sound? Or is that too soon?"
"No, no, three days would be fine." André nodded, clutching the money and staring at it as if the very sight of remuneration would help ease his annoyance—and his discomfort at having to tell Baricci that his plan was delayed. "I'll gather up what's left of my things and return then."
With a lingering glance at Noelle—a rueful, brooding glance—he began reassembling his easel.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the entranceway door shut, and André was en route to the railroad station via Eric's carriage.
Inside the sitting room, Noelle waited only for her father's affirmative nod. Then she whirled about.
"You can come out now," she hissed.
Ashford complied, brushing himself off as he rose to his feet.
"What in God's name set Tempest off like that?" Noelle demanded.
"I did."
"That much I guessed."
"Then you should also have guessed why."
If Noelle had expected sheepishness, she wasn't getting it. On the contrary, Ashford looked utterly self-righteous and positively murderous.