“I think all is as ready as it will ever be, Obediah,” she said.
“Except perhaps me, Miss Fairbourne.” Riggles shifted uncomfortably.
Miss Fairbourne laughed lightly. “What a modest man you continue to be, Mr. Riggles. True, this may be a most illustrious collection owned by a famous and noble man, but in the end it is the same trade as you have excelled in for years.”
Riggles flushed and nodded none too firmly. He appeared to age and shrink by the moment. Darius doubted a count’s agent would be impressed.
The auctioneer drifted off, presumably to collect his persuasive abilities. Miss Fairbourne surveyed the new arrangement of paintings on the wall.
“You chose to come today, I see. Since you did, we need to decide immediately how to accommodate your interference.” There was no umbrage in her tone, but her eyes communicated some exasperation, and the word interference all but asked for a row. “Do you want us to introduce you as a frequent patron? Shall we pretend you just happened by this morning?”
“That might be best.”
“It will be deceptive, however. I think it would be better to let him know that you are an owner.”
“Hardly better.”
She walked over and straightened one of the paintings. “Consider it, though. If we are honest, you can be more direct.”
He joined her at the wall. “I did not come here to take your father’s place. That is Mr. Riggles’s duty, and, according to you, also his experience.”
“He almost never persuaded alone. Mr. Nightingale would aid him, both with consignors and with patrons who bid.”
“Perhaps you should replace Mr. Nightingale with another man.”
“I have tried. Remember? A Mr. Laughton was a good prospect but, alas, someone both warned him off and bought him off.”
“Laughton was a cub. He could never match wits with a count’s man.”
“You, however, surely can.” She looked over her shoulder to the entrance. A carriage was stopping in the street outside. “Please appear impressed with our expertise. This auction will be held with or without this collection he comes to discuss, so it is in your interest, and that of your investment, for Fairbourne’s to get it.”
He began to explain that he had never actually agreed that the auction would be held. She heard not a word, however, because the door opened and the count’s servant entered.
Herr Werner was neither tall nor broad, but his arrogance gave him stature. He posed inside the doorway like a man who knew his worth too well. Blond curls neatly dressed and coat embellished with braid and buttons, he sniffed the air as if taking its occupants’ measure by scent alone.
His pale blue eyes swept the premises and came to rest on Darius, whom he sized up in every way imaginable. Riggles appeared out of nowhere, advanced on their visitor, and introduced himself.
Herr Werner’s gaze never left Darius.
Riggles brought him over. “Allow me to introduce you to one of Fairbourne’s most esteemed patrons, the Earl of Southwaite.”
Chapter 12
Emma tried to find distraction in the garden behind Fairbourne’s. She strolled its paths, and took note of work that needed to be done before they held the grand preview night.
She tried not to imagine the conversation taking place in her father’s office. She prayed that between Riggles playing the manager that he truly was not, and the earl playing the disinterested patron, which he definitely was not, the two of them would persuade Herr Werner to consign that collection to them.
She fretted that she should have stayed, and joined them in their discussion. Herr Werner had barely bothered to condescend to her, however. Once he met Southwaite, all attention had focused there, not on Maurice Fairbourne’s ordinary daughter, who, as a mere woman, could not begin to understand a count’s financial and artistic concerns.
The danger, as she saw it, was that Southwaite might be too honest, and point out that currently there were few consignments of sufficient prestige to buttress the count’s own in the next auction. He might even openly discourage Herr Werner. He wanted to be done with Fairbourne’s, and would prefer if the auction could not go forward.
Her contemplations caused a good deal of agitation in her heart. The waiting seemed to go on forever.
Her self-absorption caused her to startle when she looked up from some shrubbery and saw Southwaite standing not twenty feet from her.
His back rested against a tree trunk. Arms crossed, he regarded her. His sudden appearance took her aback, but so did his expression, so much that she stayed in place even though her heart began pounding with excitement at the hopes that he brought good news.
No, that was not the only reason for the way her heart did a jig in her chest. His gaze struck her as invasive, much as it had in the storage room the other day. She was not accustomed to being watched like that by anyone, let alone a handsome man. It frightened her, but also proved very titillating.
Time pulsed by awkwardly when he did not speak. She collected herself and forced her feet to move. A flush warmed her as she drew near. She prayed that she did nothing to reveal how foolish her reactions were.
“What are you looking at? The sad state of the shrubbery, or that of the rose hedge?” She glanced over her shoulder as if to guess which neglected part of the garden concerned him.
“I am looking at you. Do not pretend you do not know it.”
“I can think of no reason why you would, so I do not know it at all.”
He settled against that tree more comfortably. “There are several reasons why, and I think you know that too. However, mostly this time I was deciding if you are really as sly as I suspect.”
“No one has ever called me sly, so your suspicions are unfounded.”
“Are they?” He pushed away from the tree and advanced to where she stood. He peered down at her, somewhat amused but not entirely so. “I think that you sent that letter advising me not to come here this morning because you calculated it was the best way to get me here in fact.”
“I am flattered that you think I am that clever.”
“Oh, you are very clever, Miss Fairbourne. That has been clear for some time.”
“Clever enough to know that your actions would be deliberately contrary to my advice? I barely know you, Lord Southwaite, so I could hardly predict such a thing.”
“Perhaps you know me well enough to guess, or know men well enough to suppose your direction would not be well received.”
She looked at the building. “I trust that my worst fears did not come to pass, and that you were able to keep your investment discreet?”
“Herr Werner only wanted my honest appraisal of Fairbourne’s from a collector’s view, and believes that is what he received.” He moved to her side and they strolled through the garden. “Just as well that I came, whatever your true intentions. Riggles performed so poorly that I wonder whether he ever attended such a meeting before.”
His suspicion hung there, waiting for a response. Emma decided to ignore it. “Is the collection as prized as rumored?”
“Very fine. A large Titian. Rubens, Poussin, Veronese—if they are of as high quality as reputed, it will be a notable sale.”
“A Raphael?”
“No.”
That was unfortunate. Raphael was very popular among collectors.
“He did not miss that the paintings now on your wall are not of the caliber that he has,” Southwaite said. “He opened negotiations with Riggles on a lower commission. He guesses that you need him far more than he needs you.”
She performed some quick calculations of the likely income if Herr Werner paid less, and she also then had to pay Cassandra ten percent of their commission. Fairbourne’s share would not be what she had hoped then.
“Did you tell him that more paintings were coming?” she asked.
“Are more coming?”
“Yes.” She made a decision that she had been avoiding. “Among others, a Raphael is coming. A very f
ine one, with excellent provenance.”
“Riggles did not mention a Raphael. How curious.”
A slight pressure on her arm caught her attention. She looked down at the fine masculine fingers touching her, stopping her stroll. Her gaze moved up to the dark eyes watching her most closely.
“There will need to be authentication of the collection if he consigns it,” Southwaite said. “Someone who knows a true Titian from a fake will have to examine each lot. I will not be party to a fraud.”
“That goes without saying. Obediah will carefully—”
“Obediah will not, because he cannot.” He released her, but blocked any further progress on the path with his body. “I admire that you are clever, but I warn you not to be too clever with me now.”
Not feeling at all clever at the moment, she held her tongue.
His head dipped closer to hers. “Answer me clearly, Miss Fairbourne. Is there anyone associated with the auction house now who has the expertise to replace your father?”
He stood inappropriately close to her. That thought slid through her mind while her nose quivered as it absorbed his scent. Masculine and individual and clean, with undercurrents of leather and horse and wool, it surrounded her like a manifestation of his presence, invading her sense.
“Yes.” The affirmation slipped out without much thought. His thorough attention left no room for lies. She no longer thought clearly enough to deceive effectively anyway.
His head dipped closer yet, and his dark scrutiny penetrated deeper. “But not Mr. Riggles, I assume.”
“No, not Mr. Riggles.”
“You, then.” It wasn’t even a question.
She barely found the ability to nod. Speaking was now beyond her. The oddest thickness filled her chest and throat, and lively tingles teased her cheeks.
“I do not like being lied to.” He did not sound angry. Rather, his quiet statement breathed over her as if carried on a gentle, warm breeze.
“I—That is, it was not really a—”
His finger came to rest on her lips, silencing her. “You have been found out. Do not attempt to cover one deception with another.”
His gaze did not reflect much interest in whatever she would have claimed or attempted. His finger stayed on her mouth, warm and firm, making her lips tremble. Then it moved, in a tiny caress of her lips.
Her reactions astonished her. Frightened her. Her body and her essence grew achingly aware of him, and of that touch. Quivers moved down in a sensual blush. It was far more powerful than the sensations that had confused her thus far.
He is going to kiss you. The thought came to her one second before his finger left her lips.
Then he did kiss her, as if her thought had been a request.
The kiss enchanted her. She did not even think about resisting for what seemed a long time. Then his hands cradled her head and the kiss deepened and a cascade of wonder defeated any attempts at forming words of denial.
He pulled her into an embrace and the tiniest part of her mind knew she had erred in not speaking. She should push away now, but oh, the warmth, the human touch and masculine strength and scent seduced her into compliance. The pleasures streaming through her were distraction enough, but the poignant intimacy was what really made her heart sigh.
She did not have to stand alone in that embrace, or be strong. There was no sorrow while those kisses pressed her lips, her face and neck, and no worry or calculations. No thought at all, just the delight of new, fresh sensations, much like feeling the first warm spring breeze after a hard winter.
She did not kiss him back, or embrace him in turn. She merely accepted, awed by how he transformed her world for a few moments. Only when his hands moved, and his embrace became caresses, did her sense reassert itself. She knew then that she had proven too compliant, and that this man assumed more agreement than she had realized she gave.
Still, she could not stop it. She did not want to. His hands did not shock her. Instead they felt wonderful. Necessary. Their firm pressure formed connection after connection that raised compelling, almost frantic urges inside her, especially very deep and very low where a heaviness full of delicious anticipation grew.
He moved her from the path, but she had no awareness of how. She noticed only the leaves above her head now, and the privacy afforded by shrubs and trees. Most of her senses centered on his shockingly intimate kisses and his hands and how both drove her to the brink of insanity again.
A new embrace, encompassing. A new kiss, burning into her neck. A new caress, finding her stomach and side and finally closing on her breast. Madness truly beckoned then. She succumbed when he intensified the pleasure with artful touches that made her gasp. She surrendered to a luscious sensuality full of excitement and need and deepening passion.
She thought she might dwell there forever. She hoped it would never end or change, but even as she accepted it, the urges increased, driving her, demanding more. An overwhelming ache began transforming the pleasure into a primitive, carnal hunger.
She sensed the danger, but even so she was not the one to stop it. Rather, a voice did, calling her name. The sound penetrated her daze.
She recognized Obediah’s voice seeking her. Southwaite heard it too. That voice served as a strong slap that forced them both to find some control.
One sweet final kiss, and Southwaite set her away from him, releasing her. One deep look in her eyes, then his gaze lowered to her body. The angles of his face hardened.
His fingertips brushed the black frill at the neck of her black dress.
Her glorious arousal had not yet faded, but she stepped away, because of course she must. She walked into the sunlight and sought Obediah’s face at a window. “I am here,” she called. “You must tell me every word that Herr Werner said.”
What the devil was wrong with him? The question shouted in Darius’s head while he trailed Emma into the building, and kept chanting while Riggles gave a report and answered Miss Fairbourne’s many questions.
Thwarted desire did not sit well with him, and he heard little of what she said to Obediah in response. He had to make an effort to keep his eyes off her.
You have been an ass with her and now you are being an idiot. Had he not sworn to himself, repeatedly, to close Fairbourne’s? Had not long thought always led to the conclusion he should, even must? Instead today he had played the knight to a lady in distress and all but bribed Herr Werner to consign those damned paintings here. And instead of laying down a few laws when he met her in the garden, he had come very close to seducing her, and still wished Riggles had left them alone.
Arousal led his thoughts to places they really did not need to go now, if ever. He could not help but reflect that she had not seemed very experienced. That was bad news on several counts. It indicated apologies were in order, when he could summon no inclination to make them. It suggested that he should feel guilty, when he did not in the least.
What was wrong with him? Even now, as the conversation between Riggles and Emma began to penetrate his brain, most of his mind was back under the trees hearing her surprised gasps of pleasure and feeling her supple warmth against his body.
“You will write to him,” Miss Fairbourne said to Riggles. “Tell him that after deliberation, you are prepared to take a smaller commission on the sale. Make it very clear that you rely on his discretion in the matter. We can’t have him telling the world about that. Other collectors will want the same terms, and it will ruin us.”
She was no longer pretending that Riggles managed things, now that her secret was out. If Riggles himself thought that odd, he did not show it. He nodded dutifully, and went to the office to compose his letter.
Miss Fairbourne in turn strode to the storage. Darius followed because he had things he was supposed to say. However, a part of him—the dishonorable, hungry, larger part—instead calculated how to continue what had started in the garden.
She plucked an apron from a wall hook and put it on. “I confess that I am al
most happy that you know the truth, Lord Southwaite. I have much to do during the next weeks, and it has been very inconvenient evading you while you interfered here.”
“How much did you do while your father lived?” The question came from his better half, the half not picturing this woman out of those mourning clothes, and lying naked on the surface of that desk, her blue eyes filmed by the ecstasy of pleasure the way they had been mere minutes ago.
“I helped with the catalogue of large auctions. Silver and objets d’art mostly. I consulted with him on paintings, however. He did not dismiss my views, if you are wondering if I overstate my abilities.”
“And the management? The accounts and the consignments? Did you help there as well?”
“That was my father’s role alone. Especially the consignments. That was too public for me to be involved.” She faced him with an expression both severe and exasperated. “I deceived you because I need to deceive the world. You know that no one would accept that my expertise is good enough. No one would patronize Fairbourne’s if they knew a woman’s judgment made the decisions on anything, especially authenticity.”
He was glad that she had not been aware of the past consignors, since he was sure some of those lots had been suspect at best. “There is no law that says a woman cannot have a good eye for art.”
She moved some silver to the table and pulled a sheaf of papers from under a tray. “Oh, tosh. If you had known the truth during our first conversation, I could never have convinced you not to sell the business at once instead of allowing this sale.”
“I do not remember your convincing me to allow anything. I said I would decide after determining if Riggles was up to the management.”
She froze. She glared at him. “And now you have concluded he is not. Well, I am.”
Desperation entered her eyes. If he had not kissed her less than an hour ago, that might not have touched him as it did. Since he had, the urge to reassure her swept him and he came close to promising her whatever she wanted to hear.
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 12