by Janet Kent
Thus far, however, the only such man she’d stumbled across was Rogue. She could hardly marry him. Besides, what made her think he would he even come back? Perhaps his pretty apology was the last she’d see of him.
Alicia’s heavy hands fell on the keys, and the discordant sound caused her to jerk her fingers into her lap.
Such a thought ought to make her happy. The last thing she needed was Rogue, or even reckless romantic ideas of him. They’d been alone and he hadn’t so much as kissed her. He could have, but he didn’t. Even though she was alone, Alicia’s cheeks pinked. Perhaps he was a true gentleman, in the polite sense if not in blood. Or perhaps he found her unappealing. Perhaps without the trappings of an impressive dowry and an inheritable title, she couldn’t garner interest.
No. Alicia stood, the bench scraping the backs of her legs through her skirts. She would find a fond husband. She would find love. A fairytale prince. No matter what.
She stepped into the hall and heard voices. Davis, the butler, asking if he could put wet cloaks by the fire. Papa must be home. She walked down the corridor to greet him.
“Evening, Papa.” Alicia forced a smile. “Louis.”
Startled faces jerked in her direction. Louis wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Papa nodded. “Alicia.”
“I think you allow her too much freedom in your library, Chadwick,” Louis whined, still wearing his dripping hat and clutching his cane to his chest. He must not be staying. Good.
Alicia bared her teeth at him before turning to her father. “Papa,” she began.
He drummed his fingers against a wrapped parcel. “I don’t want to hear it, Alicia. I will not rescind your reading privileges while you remain under my roof. Once you live with Louis, however, you must bestow upon him all the respect of a dutiful wife.”
Louis smirked, and tried to fluff his sodden cravat.
Alicia crossed her arms. “I should think a man secure in his superiority would love to have an intelligent woman as his wife.”
“Love,” scoffed Louis. “Irrelevant and unimportant. Love doesn’t last.”
Alicia’s fists went to her hips. “For some it does. Great-aunt Beatrix has held onto her love for forty-odd years.”
Louis tossed his head. “Emphasis on ‘odd’. She’s completely batty. I shouldn’t listen to her if I were you, cousin. I’m surprised Chadwick hasn’t sent her off somewhere.”
“He would never send her away! She loves me.”
Louis rolled his eyes.
“Take her with you then, when you marry,” her father said in bored tones. “And you will marry. Uniting the branches of our family is best for everyone.” He stared at Alicia. “Now goodnight, daughter. It’s late and we all need our rest. I’ll see you tomorrow, Louis.”
“Until then,” Louis answered. He waited until her father strode halfway down the hall before sneering at Alicia. “I realize that as a woman, your intelligence is such that you may not grasp even simple things, so please allow me to make myself clear.” He jabbed a pudgy finger at her face. “Do not entertain a single thought about bringing that old quiz to live with us. I won’t have it.”
Alicia shot a frantic glance toward her father, who had already disappeared into his office. Before she could respond, Louis pranced out the door. Alicia whirled on her heels and fled to her room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ian clutched a rose with one hand and tugged on his mask with the other, grateful that the steady drizzle had tapered into sporadic sprinkles. He had no wish to ruin Chadwick’s painting in the rain, but he had no intention of leaving it behind again.
He slipped into the house undetected and ducked into the library. His free hand felt his pocket. Good. The book was still dry. He headed to the shelf on which he’d found it and bent to replace the hollow volume between the novel and the book of poetry. No one would be the wiser.
Now he needed the frame.
Ian stood and looked for the painting. There. He strode toward it, reaching out with both hands before he remembered he still held the rose. He paused. Just in case the nocturnal Elizabeth did in fact make an appearance, he ought not to offer her yet another crumpled flower. Besides, if he tried to lift a painting with a rose stalk across his palm, the thorns would reward him with a row of bloody puncture wounds. Not pretty.
With a frown, he shoved the flower into the pocket previously occupied by the book. Half the stem protruded. Ian watched in exasperation as the weight of the blossom tipped the stalk at a precarious angle. Within seconds, the rose fell from his pocket to the floor.
He had half a mind to leave it there.
Although, if he did, he’d probably step on it. Crumpled wildflowers were one thing. Explaining how he’d ground rose petals into the carpet was quite another.
Ian’s hand swooped down and snatched up the flower. He looked around the room. He straightened a row of books and set the rose on the exposed shelf in front of them. No, if he left it there, he might forget its existence entirely. He was wasting time.
He picked up the flower and returned to the painting. He trapped the stem with his teeth and hefted the frame from the wall. Ian prowled back down the hall to the window he’d used to enter Chadwick House. He sat the canvas down long enough to slide open the glass. No rain. He picked up the painting, lifted it through the window, and leaned the frame against the side of the house.
Perfect. He’d pick it up on his way out.
He closed the glass just as he heard faint footsteps on the stairs. Should he go back out the window? Ian cocked his head and listened. The padding of the soft footfalls sounded as delicate as a woman’s. No doubt the omnipresent Elizabeth descended the steps on one of her nighttime excursions.
Ian straightened and turned to face her. His bonneted waif in white tiptoed barefoot down the stairs. As their eyes met, he realized too late that the length of the rose still protruded from his mouth. Marvelous.
###
Alicia stopped so suddenly she almost pitched forward from the final step to land in a heap on the floor. Had she really thought he wouldn’t return? No, she admitted, she’d suspected he might. She’d done her face up with black velvet shapes just in case. She’d been right about Rogue. Here was a man whose word could be trusted. He’d even brought her a better flower, as he’d promised. Clutched in his teeth. What more could she want?
Although, Alicia realized as she stepped into the hallway, the flower did look a bit worse for the wear. No matter. Beggars ought not to be choosy.
He walked toward her, away from the dark window, the limp stem bouncing with each step. Alicia had the suspicion he strode to meet her in the shadows of the hallway so she could not determine the precise condition of the flower whose stem hung in angles from his teeth.
When he stood an arm’s length from her, she broke the silence.
“You brought me a flower?” she whispered.
Rogue dropped to one knee and removed the rose from his teeth. “Because your lips are as rosy as cherries.”
Alicia blinked. “Do you mean as red as roses? This is a rose, not a cherry. Besides, you cannot even see my lips.”
“Please, madam,” he answered with faux sternness. “Do permit me to mangle my metaphors in any manner I choose.”
“My apologies, I’m sure,” she replied with a stilted curtsy. He rose to his feet, holding the blossom in his fingers.
“May I find it some water?” she asked.
Rogue placed the rose in her outstretched palm. Although the bloom looked beautiful, the stem felt wet and somewhat, well, chewed.
As if he could read her mind, Rogue muttered, “It may be soggy enough already.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Alicia assured him. “It’s terribly romantic.” She reached out to pat his arm and her fingertips brushed against the naked skin of his wrist.
She froze.
Rogue’s free hand covered hers, trapping her trembling palm against his hot skin. Alicia didn’t mov
e. She stared at him in breathless anticipation. His pulse throbbed beneath her fingertips. Her own raced in response.
He took a step closer.
Mere inches now separated them, their joined hands trapped between their bodies. Alicia swallowed. Exhilaration pulsed in her blood. Rogue lifted the hand that covered hers. She didn’t move. Rogue’s fingertips glided along the line of her hair and a delicious shiver traveled her body. She bit her lip.
His fingers caressed the line of her jaw and curled under her chin. With one knuckle, Rogue tilted her face upward.
Alicia waited, excitement quivering in her stomach.
He angled his face over hers and brushed the tip of her nose lightly with his. Alicia’s eyelids fluttered closed. His breath steamed against her bare cheek, his curved knuckle still tucked under her chin.
His mouth brushed against hers and increased its gentle pressure.
###
Ian felt her moist lips melt against his. Unbidden, his hands framed her face, holding her captive. Her eyes were closed. He rubbed his mouth against hers. One of her hands crept up his stomach and splayed across his chest. She slid the hand down the length of his side, leaving a hypersensitive trail of heated skin in her wake.
He released her face from his hands, gliding his palms down the sides of her neck and along the tops of her shoulders before returning his arms to his sides.
She did not pull away.
Her lips returned the pressure. His body struggled inside his too-tight pantaloons. Ian stifled a groan. He broke the kiss, his ragged breath betraying his arousal.
If he didn’t get out of there soon, he was liable to make some very unwise decisions.
He traced the line of her jaw with the knuckles of one hand. She opened her eyes and dipped her head so that his knuckle grazed across her lower lip. Ian fought the urge to grab her and give her a kiss she’d never forget.
“I must go,” he whispered.
He forced himself to turn away and walk toward the window without looking back to meet her eyes. She did not follow him. He opened the glass and paused. When he heard no movement from her, he slid over the windowsill and dropped to the ground.
Ian allowed himself a brief moment to ensure she was not staring through the window. What on earth possessed him to kiss her? Well, besides a very healthy set of masculine urges. He retrieved the painting and cut across the yard into the shadows. He was going to need a long bath.
And ice cold water.
###
When the footmen cleared away the last remnants of lunch, Ian stood and considered the painting on the floor, now resting against one wall. He crossed the room to retrieve it and placed it in the exact center of his dinner table. At least he’d accomplished something logical last night.
Ian collapsed into a chair. He propped one elbow on the table, slumped forward until his forehead rested on his fist, and stared at the painting. What on earth had he been thinking?
Well, first, he’d been thinking about recovering the frame. That was good. That was his job. But then what happened? He took one look at a barefoot houri and his brains were replaced by his – well, in this case, his mouth. At least he’d stopped with a kiss. A chaste kiss. The merest peck of a kiss. Ian rocked his head on his hand. How he’d wanted more than that kiss!
And Elizabeth had not stopped him. She had not pulled away, nor slapped him for his impudence. He was certain from the innocence of her response that she had never before been kissed. She had closed her eyes. Leaned forward. Kissed him back.
Ian snapped his head up. This line of thought helped nothing. To be honest, he’d been surprised she had indulged romance of any sort, as addled as he must have looked, crawling through the window with a cockeyed rose hanging limply from his mouth.
Her transparent delight with the gesture suggested she might never have had a suitor before. Ian reached out and straightened the frame. Spinster or not, being cooped up indoors would starve anyone for some excitement. Once he cleared Chadwick’s name, he’d have to think of some way to get Elizabeth out into the world, so she could find her perfect someone. She’d never find a husband roaming the halls of Chadwick House.
If he planned to make progress of any kind, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Ian rose to his feet and stood the painting upright on the table. He peered at every gilded swirl, looking for a secret compartment of any kind. He ran his fingers along the cold ridges, turning the painting in every direction. Nothing.
Very well, then. He’d have to take it apart and look inside.
He turned the painting with caution, so that the frame rested facedown without clattering to the tabletop. With a penknife, he loosened the backing and set it aside. Careful not to touch the canvas itself, Ian felt along the inner walls of the frame. When he reached the bottom corners, his fingers scraped against two protrusions. A quick tug unfastened a long, narrow strip of wood covering the base.
Ian stared in disbelief at the hollow enclosure.
Once again, the note had been both right and wrong. The alleged compartment existed, but contained nothing but dust.
Ian ran a finger along the inner recesses. Shallow scratches buffeted the pad of his finger. Empty now, but not always. Something had once been secreted within. As with Astronomy, such a discovery proved little except that the note-writer knew of its existence. Chadwick himself may or may not even be aware. A frame of this age might have been in the family for years.
Or, being a collector, he could have acquired it at any time. Even, perhaps, from the villain himself. What a stroke of evil brilliance that could prove to be – a villain who took advantage of Chadwick’s nature by enabling him to purchase the very items to be used as evidence against him.
Ian nudged the wooden divider into place and replaced the backing. He tightened the fasteners and turned the painting over to run a dry cloth along the frame. For the first time, he focused on the canvas itself and gave a short bark of laughter.
The portrait depicted none other than Charles II, the king who hid in the Royal Oak in order to avoid discovery. Whoever chose his likeness for such a frame sported a fine sense of irony. Ian would need some of the king’s own luck to return the painting undetected.
###
Alicia tried to hold still as her maid dressed her for tonight’s ball. Jenny arranged the soft gauzy skirts covering an under-layer of mint green. Short little sleeves puffed just so from Alicia’s bare shoulders and a ribbon of emerald satin encircled her ribs underneath her bust. The gown was beautiful, but Alicia found it difficult not to fidget when her mind rattled with thoughts of Rogue.
He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her! Alicia closed her eyes. She permitted his lips to rub against her own. Encouraged him with her acquiescence, if she wanted to be honest. She’d been fascinated. Reckless. Wanton. And why not? Every girl received her first kiss sometime. And hers had been a romantic, secret kiss. How many women could say that?
Alicia hugged her arms across her chest, earning an accidental pinch by Jenny.
Letting any other gentleman have the liberty to kiss her could have proved a bad mistake. Last night’s kiss, on the other hand, could never come back to haunt her. No one knew it had happened, except she and Rogue.
He was dashing. Charming. Seductive. And hers. Their stolen moments were the one aspect of her life unscripted by her father, their meetings the one arena where decisions were hers to make. To be honest, Alicia couldn’t remember making a conscious decision to allow his kisses. Rogue’s allure was an irresistible pull. She’d been spellbound.
Alicia’s eyes flew open. She had been spellbound. She’d floated back to her room in a daze, forgetting her father’s office altogether. Alicia burst out laughing.
“Miss Kinsey!” came Jenny’s soft, reproachful voice.
“Sorry,” Alicia answered with a rueful grin. Jenny would be arranging and rearranging all night if she didn’t stand still.
Part of her wished she really would miss the night’s enter
tainment. Balls were far more fun to look forward to when one wasn’t traveling there in the company of one’s beastly cousin. She couldn’t find her true love with Louis looming over her shoulder. She needed to buy some time. But how? Quoting from books hadn’t helped her. It just made her look crazy.
Alicia blinked.
Crazy. She could try being a little mad. Not in an overt enough manner to attract the attention of anyone other than Louis, of course. She could present herself as unpredictable. Foolish. Someone so thickheaded he’d never want her for a bride. She could “misunderstand” everything he said to her. Alicia grinned. Louis would never want to marry a woman who was too stupid to follow his orders.
“Beautiful,” pronounced Jenny, offering Alicia a hand mirror.
A strand of pearls wound around Alicia’s neck and rested against the scooped bodice of the gown. Jenny’s artful hands had piled her blonde ringlets in just the latest fashion.
Alicia smiled and her reflection grinned back at her.
Tonight would be the night she got rid of Louis for good. And if she were lucky, she might even discover a potential suitor or two among the other guests.
She handed the mirror back to Jenny and headed downstairs, where Louis waited. She smelled him before she saw him and wished not for the first time that his cologne were not quite so potent.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, checking his watch. A trail of muddy boot prints led from the door to where he stood. Alicia shook her head.
“Oh dear,” she called as she descended the steps. “You’ve tracked dirt on the floor.”
Louis shoved his watch into the pocket of his waistcoat and tossed his head. “Hear me well, cousin,” he said with a sneer. “I’ll do as I like. Never presume to think you can reprimand me. I will own you.”
Alicia grit her teeth, but schooled her features into a bland mask. “Why, Louis. When are you purchasing me?”
His fingers wrapped around her upper arm in a parody of helping her through the door. He leaned toward her until his fetid breath puffed against her face. “Soon,” Louis whispered, then jerked his head back as he erupted into a wild cackle.