Privately the earl thought it was a little late for that, but all he said was: “I would rather you abandon the whole idea of including a horse in the painting at all, my dear. Surely you cannot wish to waste your talent on such a pathetic creature?”
“Oh, quite the contrary,” she responded with spirit. “I believe it is high time poor old Hercules received some recognition for his lifetime of putting guineas into Mr. Dudley’s pocket. I shall deem it an honor to do so.”
Nicholas considered this startling statement a prime example of feminine gibberish, but—having experienced similar aberrations with his mother—he did not betray his alarm by so much as a flicker. Instead, he cleared his throat and remarked mildly, “From what I know about horses, my lady, every last shilling he may have earned went into oats, and not many found their way into Dudley’s pocket.”
Lady Sylvia surprised him with an unladylike but delightful giggle. “I do believe you are jealous of old Hercules,” she remarked, with a teasing smile that did odd things to the earl’s pulse. “Do not fear, my lord. You will not be outshone by a horse, although .. Her voice trailed off, and Nicholas held his breath. What would this incredible female come up with next? he wondered apprehensively.
“Although what?” he prodded.
Her gaze, which had been fixed speculatively on the nag, as if she were wrestling with important artistic decisions, swung up to meet his, and Nicholas felt his heart lurch uncomfortably.
He had looked into Lady Sylvia’s gray eyes many times before, and admired their luminosity and the lively intelligence reflected there. She normally lowered her gaze, as any well-bred female would, when she caught him staring. Nicholas enjoyed this mildly flirtatious game, enjoyed the vicarious feeling of momentary dominance over a beautiful, independent female. He could look at her and subdue her. The thought pleased him, satisfied a primitive, predatory instinct that he barely acknowledged. Or if he did, took as his male prerogative, like so many others he enjoyed.
But today Lady Sylvia did not lower her gaze.
As he returned her stare, Nicholas waited for the normal pattern of events to take their course. As it would, he reminded himself confidently as the moments dragged by. The silence of the stable, broken only by indistinct rustlings of invisible horses in their stalls, closed in around them, isolating them from the world outside. He waited for his implacable male power to assert itself.
After what seemed like an eternity, Nicholas began to wonder if he had not overshot his mark. Ridiculous, he thought. But even as he tried to convince himself, he felt the pull of those liquid gray pools reaching out to lure him into their tantalizing depths. His power to subdue this woman was slipping away. In an inexplicable shift in the nature of the game he had so often and carelessly played, Nicholas felt his will to resist draining away. He was losing his power, he realized in sudden panic. Instead of subduing the female as he had anticipated, he was being subdued.
Their roles were reversed. He knew it instinctively by the quickening of his pulse, the shallow breathing, the dampness of his palms, the odd sensation of dizziness in his head. But most of all he recognized the symptoms of surrender in the unfamiliar urge to lower his gaze.
A long-forgotten scene from his past flashed through his mind. One of his favorite summer haunts as a boy had been a deep, secret pool in the middle of the Home Wood. His father had forbidden Nicholas and his brother to go near the place, but the threat of a beating had not deterred them. His cousins, Luke and Matt, had been equally fascinated by the mystery of the hidden pool, and the four boys had invented many a fantastic story to explain its presence in the wood.
One afternoon, after a particularly violent storm, they had found a huge beech tree toppled across the small pond. As the eldest, Nicholas had claimed the right to be the first to crawl out on the fallen tree to gaze down into the murky depths of the dark water. He still remembered the thrill of fear he had felt seeing his pale face reflected on the surface of the pool. Then he had seen—or imagined he had seen—strange shapes writhing deep down in the brackish water.
Nicholas had been petrified with terror, but oddly exhilarated at the same time, attracted by some force he could not name. He had not thought of that pool in many years, but the feeling he was experiencing now as he gazed into Lady Sylvia’s eyes brought it all back in frightening detail.
Perhaps the most disturbing part of this recollection from his childhood was the fact that he had fallen into that mysterious pool. Had he lost his balance, as his cousin had insisted, or had Matt pushed him? All he remembered was thrashing about in the ice- cold water and seeing Matt’s face peering down at him, and hearing his cousin’s familiar crow of mocking laughter. Given his cousin’s long history of small, vindictive acts, Nicholas was convinced he had been pushed.
With something of a shock, Nicholas discovered that he was no longer gazing into Lady Sylvia’s eyes, but at the sorry excuse for a horse that still stood—head hanging even lower at an awkward angle, wrinkled gray muzzle inches from the dusty floor—between them.
“Although I am seriously considering the possibility of making Hercules the central focus of the painting,” she continued, quite as though she were unaware of the shattering emotional upheaval she had caused. “After all, is he not the quintessential relic of a life of crime?”
“I thought this was supposed to be my portrait, madam,” Nicholas said stiffly, annoyed to find himself relegated to second place by a broken-down nag. He refused to believe that the lady was ignorant of the power she had wielded over him. But since he was paying for the portrait, he reminded himself, he had every right to dictate what would or would not be featured in the picture. He would insist upon it. “And furthermore,” he added dryly, “I have not led a life of crime, so have no need for a moribund horse to suggest that I have.”
She made no reply to this outburst, merely giving him another melting smile that threw his pulse into further disorder.
“I quite agree,” she murmured soothingly, rather like a doting mother to a recalcitrant child. “And there is little point in arguing over poor Hercules until we see what improvement Evans can achieve to his appearance. I have no wish to embarrass you, my lord,” she added as they strolled back to the house together, “but I have conceived a fondness for the animal, and must insist that he be included in the portrait as agreed.”
Nicholas cursed himself for allowing a mere female to talk him into a course his every instinct warned him would end in disaster. He had half a mind to cancel the commission entirely and contact a portrait artist in London, which he should have done in the first place.
Curiosity, and something else he could not put a finger on, impelled him to see this farce to its conclusion. No mere female would be permitted to deny the Earl of Longueville the right to do as he pleased. Hercules would have to go.
And Lady Sylvia—no mere female by anyone’s standards, but a female nevertheless—would not be permitted to deny him anything he wanted.
Nicholas smiled at the thought of her ultimate submission, his spirits miraculously revived.
When they entered her studio twenty minutes later, Sylvia knew that this sitting with the earl would be nothing like the comfortable arrangement she had enjoyed with Captain Ransome.
It soon became apparent that, unlike the captain, Lord Longueville was not going to be easy to work with. Ignoring Sylvia’s instructions to exchange his elegant blue superfine coat for the nondescript brown homespun she had gone to considerable trouble to obtain for him, his lordship sauntered about the spacious room, browsing through the collection of finished canvases stacked against the walls and hung on every inch of space available.
Sylvia regarded him impatiently for a few minutes, but when he reached up to remove the cloth she had placed over the painting of the cliff hut, with its newly added male figure, she stopped him with a sharp rebuke.
“My lord, I must request that you not presume to look at those of my works not intended for public view.”
The earl glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression perplexed. How many times had his lordship been denied his will? Sylvia wondered. Not very many, she estimated, given the faint frown of annoyance that marred his rugged features.
“What is so special about these works that I may not see them?” he demanded, in a tone Sylvia speculated he used to rebuke incompetent servants.
Amused rather than offended that the earl imagined he might use that same dictatorial tone with her, Sylvia gave him one of her sweetest smiles. She had noticed that such smiles appeared to disconcert his lordship. This very morning in the stables he had turned quite pale when she had returned his impertinent stare with one of her own.
The earl was undoubtedly a strange, moody man, but not so different from the vast majority of gentlemen of his class in his assumption that he could dominate a female with a mere glance. It was high time he learned that Lady Sylvia Sutherland was not to be intimidated so easily.
“They are special because I choose not to share them,” she replied calmly. “So again I beg your lordship not to peek.”
Unexpectedly he grinned, a quite devastating, devilish grin, and Sylvia felt a flutter of apprehension. It reminded her that they were quite alone in the studio, a circumstance that had never bothered her while she was alone with Captain Ransome. Of course, the captain had reminded her of John, perhaps given her a false sense of security.
The earl was nothing like her brother.
Sylvia felt a prickle of fear course up her spine as she watched him saunter back towards her, that wanton smile still on his lips. Flustered she took refuge in practicality.
“If you will remove your coat, my lord,” she said stiffly, picking up the well-worn homespun, “and try on this more modest garment, I think we shall be well on the way to turning you into the ferocious Hedgerow Harry himself. And if we add this elegant hat”—she reached for a tattered tricorne with a once lavish feather curling jauntily from the high crown—“none of your friends will know you.”
“That I can well believe, my dear.” He had come to a halt close beside her—inappropriately close, Sylvia thought, focusing her attention on a small rent in the worn collar of the coat. She picked at a loose thread, intensely aware of the smell of maleness emanating from the man beside her.
Wordlessly, she handed him the well-wom coat, which he accepted gingerly, holding it up for inspection.
“I trust this monstrosity has no resident fleas or lice,” he drawled, eyeing the garment as one would an unwashed, mangy dog.
“It is perfectly clean, my lord,” she assured him. “And if you will condescend to put it on, we can throw this cloak over one shoulder and get you set up in the proper pose.” She indicated a nondescript woollen cloak that had possibly once been green, but now appeared a dull greenish gray with darker, rust-colored stains that Sylvia shied away from identifying.
The earl glared at the cloak in disgust. “It is too hot to wear a cloak,” he protested. “And furthermore, the meanest undergardener on the estate would balk at being seen in such a thing. Besides, highwaymen do not wear cloaks in summer.”
“Oh, yes, they do,” Sylvia countered firmly, although to tell the truth she knew next to nothing about life on the High Toby except what she had gleaned from romantical novels.
“How do you know they do?”
“How do you know they do not?”
She stared at him for several moments, wondering which of them would have to back down, determined it would not be her.
When she saw the flicker of uncertainty in his dark eyes, Sylvia knew she had won. As it had earlier in the stables, the earl’s gaze faltered, then slid back to the disputed garment. She felt an unfamiliar thrill of triumph at having out-stared the gentleman again.
‘To avoid an argument, I will agree to wear the cloak if you will dispense with Hercules,” he proposed at length, sounding so reasonable that Sylvia momentarily considered accepting his terms. A telltale smirk on his bronzed face instantly changed her mind.
“Both horse and highwayman as agreed, my lord,” she said shortly. “But naturally,” she added after an awkward pause, “you may always choose to cancel the commission and select another artist. I am sure there are any number of painters in London who would be happy to portray you just as you are, without the roman- tical touches that seem to offend you so much.”
Her eyes strayed to the portrait of the captain, occupying a prominent position above the mantel. She indicated the painting with a graceful gesture. “Now, there you see what a romantic touch can do to an otherwise commonplace portrait, my lord. Does the captain not look grand as a pirate? It suits his personality and brings out the inner essence of his character.”
“What has that damned nag got to do with the inner essence of my character?” the earl demanded explosively, evidently losing his patience. “And I am not so sure I wish my inner essence— whatever that may be—to be exposed for all the world to gawk at.” Sylvia could not help smiling at this outburst. Perhaps she should not have mentioned something as personal as inner essence to a man as jealous of his privacy as the Earl of Longueville. She had discussed it openly with the captain, who had instantly understood what she meant. But the earl was a different man entirely. How would he react, for instance, if she told him that he was more like the legendary Hedgerow Harry than he guessed? Was he not dark, secretive, predatory, with a mysterious, perhaps violent past? The handsome captain was none of these things.
Sylvia infinitely preferred the sunny disposition and comfortable camaraderie she had shared with the captain. However, the artist in her—and the woman, too, she had to confess—longed to explore the secret depths of Nicholas Morley, a man still held responsible—in one way or another—for his wife’s death.
Would her artist’s eye and intuition discover the truth of that tragedy from long ago? she wondered, watching the muscles of the earl’s jaw contract as he tried to regain control of his temper. Would she be happy with that truth if she found it? Or would she wish she had never meddled in the past of a man as shadowy as this one?
Chapter Fourteen
The Flowers
A week later they had worked out an uneasy truce. The earl would ride over to Whitecliffs every afternoon for his sitting, submit to being disguised as a ruffian of the first stare—as he liked to call Sylvia’s efforts to turn him into a romantical figure—and then accept Lady Marguerite’s invitation to take tea with the family. Sylvia would prudently refrain from any mention of Hercules, since that pathetic creature seemed to exacerbate the earl’s natural predisposition to stubbornness.
Lord Longueville never declined her aunt’s invitation, and Sylvia suspected that he was beginning to enjoy the informality of tea-time at Whitecliffs. Having taken tea one sultry afternoon in the impressive Green Saloon at the Castle, under the disapproving eye of the Dowager Countess, and amidst the muted sounds of polite conversation, Sylvia knew exactly what his lordship was accustomed to. She could well understand that the rustic simplicity of sitting down among the rose-bushes, or under the willows by the pond, or on the terrace with its tubs of vivid scarlet geraniums, with a dog’s head resting comfortably on his lap might offend his sense of propriety.
She was pleasantly surprised when the earl accepted Rufus’s presence at the tea-table without noticeable alarm. She did experience a moment of alarm herself when the collie abandoned his usual place by her chair to fawn over the visitor.
“It appears that I am forgiven,” the earl remarked, stroking the dog’s silky ears with his long fingers.
Mesmerized by the gentleness of that unexpected caress, Sylvia
instinctively fought the tremor that ran through her. She knew immediately what the earl referred to, and this reminder of their first, unpleasant encounter helped to steady her nerves. What had the odious wretch called her? A redheaded ape-leader of dubious breeding? The insult still rankled, and unlike Rufus, she had not entirely forgiven him for his unspeakable rudeness.
> “Forgiven?” her aunt repeated. “Now, why would Rufus need to forgive you, my lord?”
The earl laughed, somewhat ruefully, Sylvia thought. “Our first encounter was not at all propitious,” he replied. “You might even call it bellicose. I was in serious danger of losing a piece of my hide. Entirely my fault, I have to admit. An unfortunate misunderstanding,” he continued, and Sylvia suddenly realized that he was not talking about the dog at all, “for which I am heartily sorry.”
So the wretch was sorry, was he? she thought, keeping her eyes resolutely on her spoon as she stirred her tea with more vigor than was strictly necessary. This was probably the closest his lordship would ever come to an apology for his abominable rudeness, she told herself philosophically. But was she ready to accept it? Her head wanted to resist—why should she let him off so easily?—but her heart still fluttered at the sight of those long fingers on the dog’s head. How would it feel if those same warm fingers were to—
Abruptly she tore her thoughts away from those forbidden longings and looked across the table. He was indeed staring at her, his dark eyes enigmatic, but his half smile telling her that he had read her thoughts.
Sylvia willed herself not to blush. She glanced at her aunt, who must have sensed her distress, for she jumped into the awkward moment like the consummate hostess she was.
“How is the portrait going, dear?” she asked, reaching for the earl’s empty cup. “I do think it was an inspired choice to depict his lordship as a highwayman. There is something so dashing about social outcasts like pirates and criminals and smugglers. No wonder they are to be found in all the romantical novels in the circulating library. They make excellent heroes.”
Sylvia could not help laughing. “You are sadly mistaken, Aunt,” she said. “According to Captain Ransome, pirates do not bathe regularly and have bad teeth. I imagine highwaymen have similar faults, considering the irregular lives they lead.”
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