Tia withdrew her hand, tensing at his side. The mattress shifted beneath him, and he knew what was happening without having to look. But he opened his eyes anyway to watch as she left the bed.
“Tia,” he called out to her, not wanting her to leave. Not like this. “I’ve never lied to you about my past.”
“No,” she said sadly, keeping her back turned to him. “You haven’t.”
Why did it feel as if he’d done something wrong? Damn it all. She shrugged into her dressing gown without looking at him, and he knew she was deeply wounded by his admission. What had she wanted? For him to lie to her? Loving Bess didn’t preclude him from caring for Tia. Surely she understood that.
“Don’t leave,” he implored, not wanting the evening to end on such a discordant note. Not after what they’d shared.
But his wife, in typical form, wasn’t listening to him. She marched from the chamber, the door closing loudly at her back. He flinched and pressed his fingers to his newly throbbing temple. The silence in her wake was nearly deafening.
She was gone.
The next morning dawned grim, gray and cold for Tia. She woke from a fitful sleep at dawn and couldn’t force herself to remain abed. Too many thoughts were whirling through her mind, leaving her emotions in a horrid hodgepodge from which she very much feared there would be no return.
She rang for Bannock and requested breakfast in her chamber, intentionally eschewing the private breakfasts she’d often been sharing with Heath. It wasn’t that she meant to punish him, but that she needed time to sort out her feelings. She supposed she’d brought on his agonizing concession and thereafter her own agony with her foolish questioning. Why ask when she’d been petrified of the answer?
Tia didn’t know. She scarcely ate any of the ample selection of fruits, eggs and meats Bannock had brought her to devour. She didn’t even touch her chocolate—a rare event indeed, for Tia adored her chocolate in the morning. Instead, she’d completed her toilette and simply sat alone at her writing desk, staring out the window in search of solace that wasn’t forthcoming.
At last, she took up pen and paper in an effort to distract herself. She wrote to her sisters Cleo, Helen and Bo. She wrote to Miss Whitney to inquire after the girl’s latest societal jaunts and marriage prospects. She wrote to her dear friend Bella, who was likely about to perish from boredom as her lying-in approached. She even wrote to her mother and father, which was even rarer than foregoing chocolate. For while she loved Mama and Papa dearly, her every letter was invariably met with a long list of whisperings they’d heard concerning her reputation.
“Pish,” she said aloud as she finished her last letter, signing her name with an artful flourish. Her hand was cramped, her fingers ink-stained and her heart in no better form than it had been at the onset of her correspondence. Her paltry attempts at distracting herself had failed.
She had fallen in love with her husband.
There. She’d admitted it to herself, weak-willed, foolish creature that she was. She had allowed herself to be wooed and won and seduced. Initially, her attraction to him had been primal, laced with lust and the excitement of doing what she knew she ought not. But it had quickly become different. Deeper. More dangerous. The time they’d spent together had only drawn her to him even more. He was handsome, a skilled lover, charming when he wished to be. He made her heart flutter and her body hunger. And now that she had seen his beautiful paintings, she couldn’t deny it any longer.
She loved Heath, as frightening and awful as it was.
Because he distinctly did not return the sentiment. No indeed. That tender feeling was solely reserved for the paragon Bess. His dead betrothed. Tia frowned, thinking herself horrid for knowing an instant of stabbing jealousy toward the woman. It was dreadfully small-minded of her, she knew. She simply couldn’t help the way she felt.
A sudden knock on the connecting door startled her then. She stood hastily, straightening her skirts. It would be Heath, likely returned from his ride. And while she wasn’t certain how she would face him after last evening’s debacle, she knew that it wouldn’t do to look a bedraggled mess. Tia took great pains to look her best at all times. Perhaps it didn’t do much for her ability to win her husband’s heart, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.
“You may enter,” she called out, steeling herself.
And then, there he was, standing at the threshold in his riding clothes, sinfully handsome as ever. “Tia,” he greeted her, unsmiling.
The air between them fairly cracked with awkward tension. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she returned, equally polite. “I trust you enjoyed your ride?”
“No.” He passed a hand through his hair and stalked into her chamber. “I daresay I didn’t.”
“I own it is rather dreary,” she commented, trying to hold her wits about her as he stopped close enough for her silken skirts to brush his trousers.
“That wasn’t the reason for my lack of enthusiasm.” He caught her chin, tipping it up so that he could better search her gaze.
“Then what was?” she asked, daring to hope that he felt something for her, however small, beyond mere desire.
“You.” He traced her jaw with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Tia. I never meant to hurt you last night.”
She swallowed, choosing her response with care. After all, she well knew she was partially responsible for what had transpired with her ninny-headed question. Why had she had to ask it? If only she had not. “I shouldn’t have pried when I already knew the answer.”
“I don’t want the past to come between us,” he said gravely, giving her spirits even more buoyancy.
“Nor do I,” Tia agreed readily, even if she very much feared it would be inevitable. After all, it already had to varying degrees. Sadness crept through her. Why couldn’t they have met years before? Dash it all, why couldn’t she have met him when she’d been a starry-eyed girl fresh off her comeout? But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d given her heart to Denbigh, and Heath had given his to Bess.
Now they were two halves facing each other. Two halves she wasn’t certain could make one whole. Not when she loved him and he loved another.
“Do you suppose we can begin again?” He cupped her cheek, his bright eyes pinned to hers.
She couldn’t look away. “I wish we could,” she murmured, knowing too much muddled the path before them.
“We can,” he vowed. “I care for you, Tia. Very much.”
“I—” she began, only to falter. She had almost confessed she loved him. Good heavens. “I care for you as well,” she said instead.
He leaned closer, smelling of a maddening combination of himself, leather and the outdoors. “Will you sit for me again today?”
He still wanted to paint her? She hadn’t been certain after last night. But she was certain of so little these days, it seemed. She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his hand. “Yes of course. I would be happy to sit for you if you’d like me to.”
He smiled down at her, looking more at ease than she’d seen him since their arrival at Chatsworth House. “I’d like nothing better, darling.” And then he pulled her to him for a kiss that, while unable to erase the misgivings swirling through her, at least gave her the expectation that perhaps one day he would be able to lay his past to rest at last.
Chapter Ten
Two months later, Tia sat at her writing desk once more, engaging in her daily morning ritual of reading and responding to letters from her sisters, friends, and family. She and Heath had settled into a routine of sorts at Chatsworth. It was a life of comfort and ease. There had been no more arguments, no more talks of suitors past, living or otherwise.
She wasn’t fool enough to think that Heath had forgotten Bess, or that he even ever would. But for now, the tentative bond they shared was enough. They spent their days mostly together. She sat for Heath while he painted, and their sessions were frequently ended with or interrupted by frenzied bouts of lovemaking.
With a happy smile, Tia flipped th
rough her tray of letters to the next in line and promptly froze as she looked at it more closely. Her heart picked up its pace into a mad gallop at the familiar seal. She turned it over, fingers tracing the precise, masculine script she knew too well.
She tore open the letter and confirmed what she had already known. It was from the Earl of Denbigh. Her first instinct was to tear the note into shreds without bothering to read it. Time had passed but had failed to assuage the pain he’d dealt her in throwing her over. It still hurt to know that while she’d been helplessly in love with him and he’d been sneaking away with her for secret kisses, he’d been wooing another.
Lady Evelyn Landers.
Tia frowned, the name bringing back memories she’d preferred to keep buried. Lady Evelyn’s smug smile after her engagement to Denbigh had been announced. The new Lady Denbigh looking satisfied and with child not long after their nuptials.
But that had all been years ago, which begged the question of why the earl would write her a letter now. She couldn’t help but be curious even though she knew she ought to pitch the letter into the nearest fire. Tia had never been the sort who did what she ought to do. She began reading.
He longed to see her, he wrote. He was out of mourning for his wife and there was an old secret he wished to air. He hoped it would change everything. Would she meet him at her father’s estate?
Hands shaking, she folded the letter as it had been, staring unseeingly into her lap. Lady Evelyn had died. Tia hadn’t even known. But that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Denbigh had been something of a rare sight in town. He’d retired to his country estate shortly after his nuptials.
She had to admit that the temptation to see Denbigh one last time was strong. But whereas once she would have been elated at the possibility of rekindling their romance, she now felt merely a curiosity for the old secret he mentioned. Her loyalty was to Heath. He was her husband, and she loved him, regardless of whether or not he returned that love. It was her most fervent hope that he one day would.
No, she resolved. She wouldn’t respond to Denbigh’s letter. Nothing he could say would be of import to her any longer. The adjoining door clicked open, revealing Heath. He was informally dressed in a white shirt, trousers and bare feet. Dear God, the man was sinfully handsome. She hastily stuffed the letter into a Trollope book Bella had sent her. The silly woman refused to believe that Tia preferred not to waste her time wading through voluminous manuscripts in her spare time.
“Good morning,” she greeted him cheerily, hoping he wouldn’t notice the letter. It wouldn’t do for him to know she’d received word from an old suitor. The dust between them had largely settled. No need to stir it up once more.
“Have you finished your correspondence, darling?” he asked, sauntering across the chamber to her.
She couldn’t help but admire just how wonderful her husband looked, completely at ease as she’d rarely seen him. “Quite finished. Are you ready for me?”
“Always.” He grinned as he stopped before her writing desk. “You ought to know that by now.”
Tia was at eye level with his very obvious arousal. The imp in her prompted her to reach out and cup him through his trousers. She heard his sharp intake of breath and couldn’t suppress a smile at his response. “I would certainly say you are,” she told him archly.
“Ah, wife. You’ll be the death of me.” He caught her wayward hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m tempted, but I very much fear that if I linger here with your lovely hand on my cock, I’ll forget all about showing you the portrait I’ve finished.”
That caught her attention. “You’ve finished my portrait?”
He nodded, looking suddenly nervous. “I believe I have. I worked on it this morning instead of going for my ride. Will you come have a look?”
“Of course I will.” She shot out of her seat as though someone had pinched her bottom. “You must show me at once.”
“Promise to be gentle on me,” he said wryly, leading the way back to his chamber. “This is the first painting I’ve completed in years.”
Tia smiled at his back. She was more than aware, and she was quite honored to have been chosen as the subject of his first painting since Bess’s death. Surely it had to mean something. She didn’t imagine the passion between them, and she continued to hope that it would grow into something stronger. Love, should she be fortunate enough.
She followed Heath in silence to the work area he’d set up by the large windows on the far wall, the better to catch the most sunlight. When she rounded the easel and caught sight of the canvas, she lost her breath. The painting itself was stunning. He had rendered the oils so effortlessly, the colors he’d chosen all cast with a golden glow. Instead of painting her in the chamber as she’d assumed he’d done, he had painted her draped over rocks in the midst of a beautiful forest. The trees were whimsical, intertwined in a lush landscape. And she scarcely recognized the goddess staring back at her as herself.
“What do you think?” Heath asked, an uncharacteristic uncertainty evident in his tone.
He had painted her with reverent strokes, had made her beautiful. Dear heavens. He’d painted her in much the same way he had painted Bess. She was so moved that it took her a moment to find her voice. “It’s incredible, Heath.”
“I know it could use a bit more work.”
She turned to him, thinking that if anything, his painting was even stronger than it had been before. Tia wasn’t a stranger to art. In her wilder days, she’d hosted parties for some of the premier young artists of their day. She’d been a steadfast attendant at the Grosvenor Gallery and the Royal Academy both. She knew incredible pictures when she saw them. This latest work just confirmed what she’d already suspected.
Heath possessed an innate talent for painting that was as rare as it was magnificent.
“More work?” she repeated, incredulous. “Why, I believe this is one of the finest pieces I’ve ever seen.”
“Of course it isn’t.” He scoffed. “This is the mere dabbling of a man with too much idle time on his hands.”
“It’s nothing of the sort.” She turned her gaze back to the portrait, wishing that others could see what was before her. Naturally, the fact that he had painted her nude body with nary a stitch of clothing rendered that impossible. But that didn’t mean his other pictures ought to be hidden away forever. “You should exhibit your work. I’ve seen the works of Mr. Burne-Jones, Mr. Millais and Mr. Watts,” she told him, listing off some of the most renowned and revered artists she knew. “Yours rivals any of them.”
“I’m gratified by your flattery, but it isn’t necessary, my dear.” He gave a derisive laugh. “I couldn’t hold a candle to Burne-Jones or any of the others.”
“Yes.” She was adamant on the matter. “You can and do. You must send some of your work to the Grosvenor Gallery for this year’s exhibition. Say you will, Heath.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” He was equally adamant. “I paint for myself, not for others. No good can come of opening myself to the ridicule of society and the acid pens of the critics.”
“To Hades with the critics.” Tia looked back to her husband. “You cannot mean to simply continue hiding your pictures away.”
“They’re not hidden.” He raised a brow. “I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t wish this particular gem to be on display for all the world to see anyway, darling.”
She flushed, thinking of the raw eroticism with which he’d painted her. “Of course not. But the others—”
“Are for me alone,” he finished, his tone firm and ducal. No opposition would be tolerated. “Tell me, do you truly like the portrait?”
“I love it,” she told him, utterly without artifice. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t determined to see that he received the recognition he deserved. He could very well take all his ducal decrees and stuff them. She’d never been terribly good at following orders. Just ask her poor old governess, Miss Hullyhew.
He gave her a ra
re, unfettered smile. “Thank you. Though I’m afraid I didn’t do the subject one bit of justice. Her beauty far exceeds my poor ability to capture it with oils and canvas.”
“I’m gratified by your flattery, but it isn’t necessary, my dear,” she said, using his own words on him.
His smile turned into a grin. “Touché.” He caught her around the waist and drew her against him, his eyes darkening in a way she found all too familiar. “Would you care to sit for another portrait for me?”
“I would be honored, Your Grace,” she said, fluttering her lashes. “Shall I be dressed for this one?” She palmed his hard cock, feeling an answering blossom of desire unfurl within her. “Or would you prefer it if I disrobed?”
He kissed her swiftly. “Perhaps you ought to disrobe.”
She met his gaze, feeling emboldened by the moment, the way he was looking at her, the way he had painted her. He had fashioned her into a Venus. And she liked it. “Perhaps you ought to help me,” she suggested, presenting him with her back.
The gown Bannock had helped her don that morning was an elegant cream and navy affair, but alas, its buttons were not down the front bodice. But her husband, it seemed, harbored no concerns about playing lady’s maid. His nimble fingers were already halfway to her bottom, unhooking the buttons from their moorings faster than even Bannock. She supposed Bannock hadn’t quite the inspiration for haste that Heath had.
Wordlessly, he stripped her gown and undergarments, making short work of them. When he spun her back to face him once more, she wore only a chemise. His eyes roamed hungrily over the skin he’d revealed, his hands a hot brand on her waist through the delicate fabric. Desire swept through her at the sight of him, so intent, so beautiful. He was seeing her, she realized, through the eyes of an artist. The notion sent a pang of longing directly to her core.
“Something tells me I’m not about to sit for a portrait,” she murmured wickedly. She caught his shirt and all but tore it from his body, desperate to feel him, to see his masculine strength.
Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3 Page 72