Risk of Ruin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Annalies couldn’t tear her gaze away from the tanned, warm flesh of his throat. She could detect his scent, mixed with damp and soap. It was abruptly all she could sense.

  Something stirred deep in her belly and wicked thoughts rose. An impulse stuck her, strong and alluring. She wanted to sway closer and press her lips to his skin—and not just his throat, although she would start there.

  Annalies blinked and thrust the astonishing idea away. He still had not properly looked at her. “Are you angry with me, Peter?”

  His gaze pulled back to her face. “Angry about what?” His tone was indifferent.

  He’s lying. She knew it in her heart, even though he gave no hint that he didn’t give two bits about her, or the secret she had made him share with her, which he had professed to resent knowing.

  Annalies regathered her composure, which was crumbling in a most annoying way. She could barely pull together two thoughts in a row, without having to tear her gaze away from the width of his shoulders, or his very agreeable height, or the thick silkiness of his hair, which wasn’t really brown at all. It wasn’t black, either. It was a charcoal shade which was most interesting.

  Her wandering thoughts and the restlessness building inside her came together in her mind. Shock parted her lips.

  She felt lust for Peter.

  The last time she had seen Peter, she had been a maiden and unaware of the practices of the bedroom and the pleasure they could bring. Instead, she had simply thought of Peter as a close friend inside the family, who liked to help her with her art and seemed to enjoy her company. She had enjoyed any time she spent with him and always looked forward to the next occasion.

  Now she understood why she had felt that way. Had she always longed for him and not understood what was drawing her to him?

  Now, though, she knew. She understood clearly what was making her body throb, an invisible tide surging through her.

  Her long silence warned him. Peter’s gaze settled back on her face. He lifted a brow.

  Did he feel anything at all for her? Not that she should care at all what Peter might feel, Annalies quickly told herself. Only, now she was a woman and was aware of such things, she couldn’t help but wonder with a feminine vanity if he felt anything for her at all.

  She was well acquainted with Peter’s proclivities. The entire family knew, for he had never hidden his preference for wine and for women with less than stellar morals. Society was littered with rakes who were a danger to any self-respecting debutante. Peter put them all to shame.

  Did he look upon Annalies merely as his simple cousin, besotted with painting, and uninteresting because of it?

  Her heart thudded as she speculated. Did he see anything different in her, now? Did he find her wisdom about men appealing? Did he appreciate her appearance? It would be flattering if a man like Peter noticed.

  Annalies thought of a certain duke who liked to work his way through as many maidens each season as those maidens’ mamas would tolerate, which some of them did with one clear eye upon his dukedom. The idea of that aging Lothario leaning over her, his breath on her neck, made her feel nothing but disgust.

  If Peter were to do it, though…!

  Annalies realized she had not spoken for far too long. Peter’s eyes narrowed as he considered her. She shook herself mentally, to rid herself of the useless and dangerous thoughts. She gripped a fold of her skirt with her spare hand, for courage. “I wonder, might I speak with you, Peter?”

  “You are speaking with me.” He didn’t even smile.

  “Alone.” She hesitated. “Preferably behind a closed door.”

  He straightened up from his indolent pose with a snap, as if he was alarmed. “No. I don’t think so.” His voice rasped over the low notes. “In fact, if you will excuse me, I see Will over there—”

  A similar alarm speared her. “Please, Peter,” she said quickly. “I…I need help.”

  His gaze roamed over her face, while a tiny furrow appeared between his brows. She realized he was searching for a hint of what troubled her. She had caught his attention at least.

  He shook his head. It was a tiny movement. For a moment Annalies thought he was repudiating her, refusing to even hear her out. Her heart froze and pain slashed through her. Until this moment, she had not realized how much she trusted that Peter would always be there for her, that he would help her no matter what the problem was.

  He shifted on his feet, turning so the archway was clear and waved toward the airy, high-ceilinged foyer. “The library, then.” His tone was resigned. His head shake had been his way of expressing irritation or disbelief over the fact that she was once more in trouble.

  Her relief was so great she trembled with it. She pressed her hand against her middle as it swirled, and forced her feet to move forward a step at a time. She brushed past Peter and moved through the foyer to the double doors of the library.

  The doors were open. She shut one side, as Peter followed her into the tall room. He shut the other, stood with one hand on the door handle and considered her. “How bad is the trouble?” His voice was soft.

  His gaze dropped to where her hand rested against her basque.

  Annalies snatched her hand away. “No, no, you misunderstand,” she said quickly. Her cheeks burned. “Not that trouble.” Her mortification was deep. He really thought she would come to him over that type of trouble? That she was so foolish about life she could get into such trouble in the first place? “Tobias is cautious about such things,” she added.

  Peter whirled from her. He stalked over to the cabinet where the big brandy decanter and the crystal glasses were kept. He poured himself a deep glassful and drank. “Then name your trouble.” His voice was low. Harsh.

  This was not the way Peter usually dealt with her troubles. He had always listened patiently, paying attention, before immediately sorting out the issue with a few well-chosen suggestions. He had brought to an end the weeks-long row Annalies and Emma had gone through, when they were still young girls. He had intervened with Cian when Annalies wanted to take even more art classes. He had won Natasha over to Annalies’ side the first year Annalies had remained in London for the off-season. He had been there for Annalies when Jenny’s divorce proceedings had turned the world against the greater family, and Annalies had been rejected from the season’s biggest art exhibition.

  Peter had never shown this irritation with her before, despite the endless complications he’d resolved for her over the years.

  He drank deeply again and hissed as he swallowed the large mouthful. “It is money?”

  Annalies jerked. “Why would you ask that?”

  “You refused the allowance Cian offered to set up for you, because you wanted to live off the money you earned—a risky proposition for any artist. Has the bastard failed to take care of your financial matters after all?”

  She blinked at the building anger in Peter’s voice. He was referring to Tobias with that cruel observation. “It isn’t like that,” she said quickly.

  “No? Then it is about money.” He turned away, with a disgusted sound. “How much do you need?” He spoke to the shelf of Greek philosophers.

  Irritation touched her. Yes, she was asking for money, but was there any need to be so rude about it? Her irritation gave her the ability to speak as baldly as he. “I need two hundred pounds.”

  He made another sound of irritation. “Why?” he demanded, turning and leaning against Aristotle with one shoulder.

  Wariness touched her. “Does it matter?”

  Peter put the glass on the shelf beside him and crossed his arms. “If you want my money, it does. As the lender, I’m entitled to know where the money is going and why, so I can assess the risk.”

  “Risk?”

  “Of losing the money.”

  Horror burst through her. “Of course I will pay it back! How could you suggest—”

  “You’ve already lost your money. I have no intention of letting you throw mine into the abyss after your
s. Tell me why you want two hundred pounds, and how you intend to use it.”

  She put her champagne glass on a different shelf. She had lost interest in the brandy. She gripped her hands together. “I am trying to finish a series of paintings which the Royal Academy has shown an interest in displaying in their winter exhibition. Only…there is no money for canvases.”

  He grew still. She could feel the wariness in him, the sudden flurry of thought. He was considering every angle. Was he trying to find a way to blame Tobias for this? He didn’t like Tobias, although she wasn’t sure if that was because of her, or because of something else.

  “You cannot afford even the raw materials you need to paint?” Peter said softly. “How did you arrive at such an impasse, Anna?”

  Her cheeks heated. “Do you really need to know?”

  “Now I do,” he muttered. “Tell me. All of it.”

  Annalies shook her head. “No. The rest of it is not mine to tell.”

  “If you want the money, you will tell me.” His voice was quiet. Dangerously so.

  She shivered. “You will get angry.”

  “Oh, I’m already angry,” Peter said. “I have been angry for months.” He paused and tilted his head, as if he was repeating in his mind what he had just said and measuring it and finding it truthful. “Yes,” he added softly. “That is what I have been.” He sounded surprised. Then his gaze swung back to her. “You’re shielding him. Don’t bother. Nothing you tell me could make me dislike the man more than I already do. Tell me all of it. Then I might see my way to helping you.”

  “Is my humiliation part of the price I must pay for your help?” Annalies demanded.

  “I consider that a bonus.” He shrugged.

  She curled her hands into fists, hidden beneath the side drapes of her dress. “This is intolerable…”

  “Oh, you will tolerate it well enough,” Peter drawled. “After all, I am the only one in the family you deemed to share your secret with, which now makes me the only man you can turn to. You will put up with anything I demand to get your money.”

  “I could go to a bank—”

  “Not as a single woman,” Peter replied. “Which you still are in the eyes of the law, even if you are no longer a maiden in fact.”

  Annalies swallowed. She could deny none of it. The wretched taste in her mouth and the beating in her temples told her that.

  Peter’s smile was sour. “Now you understand,” he said softly. “Tell me everything. Why do you need two hundred pounds?”

  Hating him a little, Annalies said, “Tobias’ family cut him off. I don’t make enough from the sale of my pictures yet to cover the rest. Now our accounts are due and Charles Roberson cut me off…and I need to paint more, in order to make more money.”

  The words made her choke, her throat tightening. The humiliation was deep and hot. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Peter any more. She studied the swirl of patterns on the rug beneath her feet instead.

  “You cannot go to another colourman. Roberson provides the better quality supplies,” Peter said, his tone thoughtful.

  Annalies lifted her chin, surprised. “Yes, exactly,” she breathed, hope flaring.

  Peter pushed his hand into his trouser pocket, pushing the long jacket back. Was his hand curled into a fist inside his pocket? She couldn’t quite tell. “Why did his family cut off his money?” he demanded.

  Her hope withered. “Really, Peter? I did not think you were a voyeur.”

  “I am protecting my money,” he reminded her, his tone icy. “Tell me.”

  With a sigh, Annalies told him everything. He continued with his questions, pulling the truth from her one ugly and uncomfortable fact at a time, to the point where she answered bluntly and tiredly, her shame complete.

  When Peter seemed satisfied that he had learned everything there was to know about her financial situation and about Tobias’ failure to manage her money, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the black hairs rasping. “You need more than two hundred pounds,” he pointed out. “That will merely pay your current debts. You must still eat and paint in the meantime.”

  Annalies’ heart sank. “I had not thought of that,” she admitted.

  “Why would you? Until today, I doubt you’ve ever thought of money beyond the coins in your reticule to pay for cabs.” Peter’s voice was harsh.

  Annalies examined the tips of her glove. “No, I haven’t,” she admitted, hating that he was right.

  “If you were a proper maiden, you would still be at home, where Cian would take care of such things,” Peter added. “You are in this pickle because you chose an unconventional path which cannot be revealed to anyone, which adds further complications.”

  She met his gaze. “I’m surprised you did not take the opportunity to call my choices immoral and grind my character into the carpet another degree deeper.”

  His smile was self-aware. “If I did, I would be a hypocrite. My sins are many, yet I prefer to not add that one to my pile.” His gaze was steady and frank.

  Annalies felt her mouth quirk at one corner. “We’ve both made unconventional choices.”

  “Yes.” His exhale was heavy. “I think you are only now starting to understand the price you must pay for your choices. Tell me, Lisa Grace, does it not bother you being among everyone out in the drawing room, knowing you are lying to all of them in the most profound and fundamental way?”

  Annalies held her teeth together, controlling the wail of self-pity which rose within her. “Yes,” she said, her voice uneven. “It bothers me more than I realized.”

  Peter seemed pleased. “Then there is hope for you yet, Lisa Grace.” He moved over to the big claw-foot desk and settled behind it, then reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet.

  Startled, she moved toward the desk. “You have such an amount upon you?”

  He shuffled through the big notes, counting, then separated them into two piles. He pushed the larger pile toward her. “There is fifty pounds,” he said. “I will arrange another four hundred pounds tomorrow, when the banks are open.”

  Annalies picked up the notes and folded them. “Do you not want to know exactly how I will pay you back?” For he had omitted to ask her those details.

  He shook his head. “I know the quality of your work. I know you will find success and you will return the money.”

  Annalies had been made aware of how little she knew about financial matters, although it seemed like simple commonsense to demand to know how one would get their money back, and when. “You are giving me the money on pure, blind faith?” she asked, a little breathless.

  Peter shook his head. “I am speculating upon your painting abilities. It is a low-risk speculation, in my estimation.” He got to his feet and put his wallet back in his jacket. “If you insist upon beating your own path, as you are, then you must learn to think of your ability to paint as something more than merely talent, Anna. You are a gifted artist. Your talent is your asset, and so is every picture you paint.”

  Annalies drew in a long, slow breath. “That is…a very interesting thought,” she admitted.

  “I suspected you might think so.” He moved around the desk. “We should go back to the drawing room.” He held his hand out toward the door, with a polite wave.

  Annalies pushed the folded notes into her pocket and moved to the double doors. Peter outpaced her and opened the righthand door for her. She looked up to thank him, in the proper way, and all the words died on her lips.

  He is too close, was the last coherent thought she had.

  Warmth and power seemed to radiate from him, as his gaze met hers. They had found a degree of truce and the indifference had gone from his eyes. She could see the Peter she remembered there. The warmth, the constant laughter at himself and the foibles of the world which lived as a glitter of amusement in his eyes. Those, she knew well.

  There was something more in his gaze, now, which she had never seen before. Or perhaps she had but failed to recognize it for wha
t it was.

  His gaze shifted to her lips and her heart leapt in recognition. He was considering what it would be like to kiss her.

  For one shining moment of complete madness, Annalies wanted it, too. Yet for many reasons, it would be dangerous to let herself consider it for a moment more. She was with Tobias. Even though no one else in the world apart from a few art people, Mrs. Thistlethwaite, and Peter knew of the arrangement, it didn’t mean her commitment was any less than that of a married woman.

  That was the superficial excuse. Deeper still, unvoiced and barely without shape, was the inherent knowledge that kissing Peter would open a scarlet, glowing Pandora’s chest.

  Peter’s gaze met hers once more. His fingers tightened on the edge of the door. “After you,” he breathed. His voice was hoarse.

  Her breath was too quick. Too revealing. Annalies cleared her throat. “Thank you.” Her voice was as strained as his. She made herself move out of the library, and was aware of Peter, behind her, as she walked into the drawing room.

  Her life for a drink!

  Long minutes later, after Annalies had finished the second glass of champagne, and Emma had pulled her into a corner to talk about her life in Kirkaldy, Annalies realized that even with her back turned to the room, she was still listening for Peter’s deep voice. She was using the sounds to trace where he moved about the room and who he was talking to. His voice made her middle thrum.

  And she realized that Pandora’s box had been opened, after all.

  Chapter Three

  Even though she had her back to him, and did not once look around, Peter was as aware of Annalies as filings would feel the magnet. She was tugging on him from afar.

  How had he let this happen?

  He turned the question over, in between snatches of conversation with everyone here—which was nearly everyone in the family.

  Of course, he had noticed Annalies as a pretty young girl ever since she turned her hems down. No man could fail to notice her, if he had a dollop of hot blood. Pretty girls were everywhere in society, though. Annalies was family and therefore owed more respect than Peter granted his casual associations. As those associations regarded him as little more than a night of interest and entertainment, the lack of regard was conveniently mutual.