He feigned a connoisseur’s interest in the objects piled in the storage room, but in truth he saw only her, felt only her. Wanted only her. “There will be a Raphael, you said.”
Her expression softened with relief, beautifully. “Yes. A superb one.”
“From the collection of an esteemed gentleman, I assume.”
“Most esteemed.” Her conspiratorial smile lit up the chamber, and his damned blood began heating again.
He reached for the door latch, lest he reach for her instead. “Perhaps I will buy it, if it is as good as you say.”
He finally left, too long after he should have. He was on his horse before he remembered that he had lingered in order to apologize for what happened in the garden, but had neglected to say the words.
Just as well. He was not opposed to saying the right things for the right reasons. This time, however, if he had expressed apologies or remorse, it would not have rung true at all. Reassurances to behave better in the future would have definitely sounded hollow, since he already doubted he could carry through on the promise.
Chapter 13
“I may get the count’s collection,” Emma confided to Cassandra.
“You required a meeting at nine o’clock to tell me this? In a damp park? I dare not step off this path lest the dew ruin my skirt.”
Emma kept them hugged to the Serpentine’s edge. Cassandra had been sweet to agree to this walk at all and had a right to her annoyance with the hour. Given a choice, Emma would have done this differently.
They strolled along a deserted path in Hyde Park. Even as she chatted with Cassandra, Emma’s gaze swept the surrounding park land. At this hour, very few visitors could be seen, and all appeared to be men. Most rode horses, taking advantage of the open spaces to give their mounts exercise. Over near the chestnut trees men in uniform clustered, probably preparing for the spectacle of the volunteer unit review planned for midday. Back near the start of Rotten Row, a small collection of riders gathered for what looked to be an impromptu race.
One of them, on a large white horse, caught her eye. Was that Southwaite? She fancied that the man held himself much like the earl. She could not tell for certain from this distance, but the mere possibility had her all but stumbling.
It was very annoying that she could not even think about him without getting flustered. She had probably flushed too, and hoped that Cassandra would think it was because of the crisp breeze and the exercise. The problem was that thinking about the earl meant thinking about the garden, and that only confused her.
She had not gotten far in sorting out what had happened, and why. The latter part was the bigger conundrum. She could not deny she had enjoyed every kiss, but she had no confidence Southwaite had been swept away by pleasure and passion too. He wasn’t inexperienced, was he? He was not likely to be mesmerized by the sheer novelty of all that human warmth and sensation. She suspected that when she finally mustered the courage to analyze why he had kissed her, she would not much like the conclusions she would draw.
In the meantime, she would rather not see him.
“I apologize, Emma. I should rejoice at your news, and not notice how the air chills me. I have been hopeful for your success with Herr Werner, but I confess I thought it unlikely that Mr. Riggles could convince him,” Cassandra said.
“He had help.”
Cassandra lowered her head and gazed up through her dark lashes. “I thought you were not going to allow anyone to know that you now managed affairs there.”
“It was not me. Southwaite was visiting the auction house when Herr Werner came by. His patronage reassured Herr Werner, I think.”
“I am sure Herr Werner dared not be other than impressed, if Southwaite required it.”
Cassandra’s tones and words never spoke well of Southwaite. Emma ached to confide more about that day Herr Werner had visited, but it would be embarrassing to describe how she had succumbed without a murmur of protest to a man she was not even sure she liked. Worse, Cassandra might want to start scheming for Southwaite’s comeuppance.
“You really do not like the earl at all,” she said.
“Nor should you. He is a hypocrite, like most of the rest. For example, everyone knows he has had a series of mistresses, but he makes very sure his affairs never fuel more than vague whispers. Hence he feels free to criticize others for their scandals, but he really is no better.”
Cassandra referred to her own scandals, Emma assumed. After Cassandra refused to marry a man who had compromised her when she was a girl, society had noted every one of her subsequent diversions off the virtuous path through life.
Emma could not disagree with her friend’s assessment of the earl, even if she inexplicably found herself wanting to defend him.
Southwaite had said he was a master at managing discretion and avoiding scandal. He had not said he did not do anything scandalous. Indeed, he had even lured her into bad behavior. Yet he had raised an eyebrow over her friendship with Cassandra.
“You sound bitter, Cassandra. Has someone been cruel to you recently? You know that you only have to return to your brother’s household to avoid such cuts. All will be forgiven once he takes you back.”
“I could not bear being the prodigal sister. He and his wife would watch me like hawks if I returned, and make me know I was dependent on them for my reputation as well as my board. He would probably want to marry me off to some dull man in order to make all the gossip go away. No, as long as my aunt will have me, I will stay with her.”
Part of Cassandra’s notoriety came from those living arrangements, however. Cassandra’s aunt had collected a few scandals of her own. That she now lived as a recluse meant that Cassandra had too much independence.
“He is radical, so one would expect less rigidity on the social rules,” Cassandra said after they had walked a bit more. “I am speaking of Southwaite. He is a Whig, and has spoken for reform in the past. With the war, no one does anymore, lest they be seen as sympathetic to the revolutionaries in France.”
“Perhaps he bides his time.” Emma rather liked hearing that the earl had spoken for reform, even if he no longer dared. It suggested he was not a slave to expected ways of thought even if he conformed to those regarding behavior.
“Or perhaps he has changed his mind. More recently his voice has called for better guarding of our coast. He pesters the admiralty about it. With property in Kent, he knows too well how vulnerable that coast can be, I suppose.”
Mention of Kent turned Emma’s mind to her father’s property there, and its contents. She would have to visit there very soon.
That thought led to others about the auction. She trusted that her plans today were progressing well. A certain wagon was moving from her house to a building on Albemarle Street this morning. By noon its contents should be mixed with the other items, and the wine hidden out of view in storage.
A movement up ahead caught her thoughts up short. A figure had appeared as if by magic on the path. Swathed in brown cloth, it seemed to merge with its surroundings from this distance, but Emma recognized the willowy form.
“Who is that?” Cassandra asked.
They drew closer, but the figure did not move.
“That is Marielle Lyon,” Emma said. “I think perhaps she wants to talk to me.”
“How odd that she guessed you would be here,” Cassandra teased. “Go to her, and see what she has for your auction. I hope it is worth the chill we both risked with this rendezvous. I will wait for you here, and be jealous that a woman who is wearing a dull sack dress twenty years out of style manages to appear so fashionable.”
Marielle waited in the shade of a tree that overhung the path.
“You have come,” she said when Emma reached her. She gave brief but sharp consideration of Cassandra, then ignored her presence. “I have found some things for your auction. A big roll of drawings. Old things. The owner says they are by artists sought after in England. I told him you wanted paintings, but he said you would know t
heir value if you know anything at all.”
“Where are they? I must see them in order to know they are good enough for the sale, and authentic.”
“He said to learn if you wanted them first. If so, he will bring them to you.” She toed at the soil flanking the path with her mule. “Twenty percent, you said.”
“It will be yours if all is in order, after the sale. Tell this man that I do want them, if they are as good as he thinks. Ask him to bring them to my house tomorrow morning.”
Too conscious that Cassandra watched with unguarded interest, Emma started to walk back to her.
“Do you not want the rest?” Marielle asked.
“There is more? Are they also drawings?”
“I do not speak of art. That man, the one who brought the wagon. He will see you.”
Emma’s heart leapt. She glanced back furtively at Cassandra, who knew nothing about that wagon.
“When?”
“He said Thursday afternoon. At the east entrance to St. Paul’s. You should bring some money. I promised him good coin.”
Emma did not miss the reminder. She retrieved two shillings out of her reticule. “I will be there. Thank you.”
Marielle tucked the coins away. Her gaze sharpened on the path behind Emma. She tsked her tongue in annoyance. “I must go now. I have been followed, and you do not want it misunderstood why we meet.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder. A horse approached Cassandra’s spot at a slow walk. The man riding it did not appear interested in them, or in anything except the fine day.
Marielle laughed. “It is amusing. The English worry that I spy for the French, and some of the French think I spy for the English. In truth, I spy for no one but you.”
Then she was gone, melting into the dappled shadows below the nearby trees.
Darius visited the auction house the morning after Herr Werner had called there. He went the following afternoon as well. His detailed perusals of the records and accounts were yielding nothing of value. Their vagueness defeated any efforts to see what Maurice Fairbourne had been doing the last few years.
Miss Fairbourne did not grace the establishment with her presence either day. He thought that odd. She no longer had to pretend she was not writing the catalogue, and she had said she had much work to do.
He wondered if she avoided the premises in order to avoid him. Since he haunted the same spaces in part to see her, that was not acceptable.
He rode east to Compton Street after leaving the auction house the third day. Maitland brought him to the dining room. Miss Fairbourne stood at the table, flipping sheets of paper. As he approached he saw that she examined a stack of drawings.
“They were brought to me today,” she explained. “They are much better than I had dared hope. I am sure this is a Leonardo. I also accept the claim that this silverpoint portrait is by Dürer. What do you think?”
He admired the drawings, and her excitement over them. She appeared very animated today, even flushed. She wore a fashionable pale yellow dress, and appeared very fresh and pretty in it.
“These must be from the same consignor as the other new items that arrived,” he mused, while he bent to get a better look at the details in the Dürer.
Did he imagine that she stiffened beside him? For a moment she stilled, at least.
“You have been to the storage again, I see,” she said. “I hope that you did not move anything. It is all arranged to my liking, so that I do not miss anything as I complete the catalogue.”
He straightened. “I touched nothing at all. It has become so crowded that I wonder how you get to that desk, however.”
“I told you there would be more, and it is arriving. All I need is to hear from Herr Werner.” She turned two more sheets, and revealed a large drawing in ink and wash. “For all the other great names attached to these drawings, I think this one will be the prize among them. It is a magnificent Tiepolo, and a study for a ceiling painting. You should tell your friends that it will be offered. Any good collector would want to know.”
“Are you suggesting that I sell your sale, Miss Fair-bourne?”
“I would never ask such a thing of you. However, if you found yourself expressing interest in it while you attended parties and dinners, and described some rarities you have heard it will contain, that would help.”
“If I am not careful, you will have me in Mr. Nightingale’s coats and shoes, greeting the ton as they arrive at the preview night.”
She began rolling the stack of drawings carefully. “Well, someone has to do it.” She tied a thick ribbon around the roll. The flush had not left her face, and her fingers trembled at their task.
“You were not at the auction house today. Nor yesterday.”
She did not look at him. “I had other matters to attend to.”
“And tomorrow?”
“More matters. Other ones.”
“Eventually the catalogue must be written.”
“I will complete it in time. And you, Lord Southwaite? Are you quite done with examining the records and accounts?”
“Almost done.” More than done, in truth. He should just say so, and see her again at the auction. “Have you stayed away because you fear I will be there? Has what happened in the garden caused you to hide?”
“I truly have other matters to which I must attend. However—” Her gaze met his with all the directness that could so easily undo him. “I have chosen not to think too much about that afternoon. I fear that if I do, I will only blame myself for the what, and you for the why.”
“Allow me to blame myself for both. I should have apologized that day.”
“Yet you did not. Because I am not a lady?”
“Your birth had nothing to do with it. I did not because I was not truly sorry.” Lies, lies. Deceptions and omissions. He had not apologized because his darker side was hoping for more, and her birth probably had more to do with that than he wanted to contemplate.
“Are you sorry now?”
“No, but I am not a man to take advantage of a woman.” More lies. Damnable ones. “There is no reason for you to be afraid of me.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
The hell she wasn’t. The caution showed in her eyes. He saw other things in them too. Vulnerability, as if she expected this conversation to insult her before it was over.
“Perhaps your restraint is better with wellborn ladies due to more practice. I doubt you have had much experience with ordinary women in these things,” she said.
“You have it backward. To me you are not ordinary. You are very unusual to my experience, and that may be what disarmed my restraint.” Some truth at last, but a flattery given with self-interest.
“What an odd world you must live in, Lord Southwaite. One so full of pretense that my lack of sophistication becomes intriguing in comparison.” She held the roll of drawings in front of her like a shield, but did not avert her intense focus on him. “Let us speak the truth we both know when we can, sir. Whatever your reasons or impulses, you took advantage of my surprise, but nothing more. I will not pretend that I behaved well, so we are both aware the blame is not wholly yours. I trust that you know, however, that I will never be that surprised again. Not ever.”
Wouldn’t she now? Damnation, he had come here to make peace, and she sounded like she was lining up her knights to engage his again, and had just issued a challenge.
That raised the devil in him, and the devil was far too glad to stretch his black wings. “Are you saying that if I should try to kiss you again, you will find the fortitude to deny me?”
He did not intend it as a threat, nor did she take it as one. His words opened the possibility of more kisses, and other things, however. She knew it, too. She could hardly miss how it altered the air and forged an invisible link between them.
“While I have every faith in my fortitude, I thought it was clear that I assumed you would not try to kiss me again.”
“What an impractical and naïve thing f
or you to expect.”
“You apologized. I had every reason to expect it.”
“If ever a man’s apology revealed where his thoughts really were, mine did.”
“Then allow me to speak more plainly. I do not assume or expect you to resist such impulses. I require it. In fact, I would like your word on it.”
She did not plan a battle, after all. She wanted a diplomatic victory instead. Unfortunately for her strategy, he had learned that Emma Fairbourne well pleasured was much easier to deal with than Emma Fairbourne self-possessed.
“I never give my word of honor when I know that I am likely to break it, Miss Fairbourne.” He gently pried the roll of drawings from her arms and set it aside. “And I have known since I left that garden that I would try again.”
He cupped her face with his hands. She startled, but she did not pull away.
Her skin felt like silky velvet under his palms. A flush rose in her and its warmth passed into him, joining his own heat. Her eyes widened in surprise at her reaction and arousal, revealing the same astonishment he had sensed in the garden.
As soon as his lips touched hers, he knew he would pay dearly for this kiss. As Kendale put it, he was not a schoolboy anymore. She was very sweet, and adorably artless, and despite her announcement, she was still very surprised at the way a kiss could affect her. His desire urged that he try for yet more, argued forcefully for it.
He ravished her mouth, but managed to keep his hands off her body. When that became unbearable, he released her and stepped away. Not here. Not now. Not in her own household with her servants about.
It seemed they stood there forever, the passion and want still binding them. Pulling them. That could be a sweet torture, but only if ultimately it ended the right way.
He assumed that she saw it in him, what he wanted. Just as he saw her suspicions about the “why” and her fear of the “what.”
She executed a careful, slow curtsy. He made the requisite bow, and left.
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 13