She felt the platform shake as he began to climb and she quickly collected up her palette and brushes out of the way.
‘So this is where you work.’ He crawled onto the platform. ‘Good God, how do you manage?’
‘It is a little cramped, to be sure. There is no room to stand and one has to work crouching or lying down. But it is easier for me, because I am so much shorter than you.’
He pointed to the large roundel in the centre of the ceiling. ‘Is that your father’s work?’
‘Yes.’ She giggled as she watched him twisting his long frame around, trying to look at the fresco. ‘It is easier if you lie on your back, only you must not, of course. You will make your coat dirty.’
Ignoring her warning, he stretched himself out on the platform. ‘Ah, yes, I can see it much better now. A god and his attendants.’ He shifted his position. ‘And the other roundel, the smaller one at the far end?’
She slid down beside him and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘I painted that one. You are still too close to see it all properly; it will look so much better from the ground.’
‘It looks wonderful to me now,’ he said. ‘I am impressed.’ He rolled over and propped his head on his hand, smiling at her. ‘Now, when will you come down?’
The frescoes were forgotten. His face was only inches from her own. What if she was to reach out to him, to take his face in her hands and pull him down to her, to kiss him? The urge to do just that had been so strong she shivered. Such wicked thoughts!
‘Carlotta.’
She jumped. No longer was she lying beside Luke Ainslowe on the high scaffold at Malberry; she was ambling through Hyde Park on her docile little pony. The rest of her riding party had moved ahead and, to her dismay, she found Lord Darvell was beside her on a sleek, long-legged bay. Her cheeks grew hot—had she conjured him with her musings?
She had not expected him to seek her out after her performance at Prestbury House. She thought she had made her feelings perfectly clear, but here he was, smiling at her and causing her heart to flutter in the most foolish way imaginable.
‘We had no opportunity to talk, the other night,’
‘There is nothing I want to say to you, my lord.’
She urged her mount to a trot, wanting to catch up with her party, but Luke’s hand shot out and caught her bridle.
‘Not yet, Carlotta. Allow me to enjoy your company for a little while.’
She stiffened. ‘I did not give you leave to use my name.’
‘No? I told you I would do so. At Malberry, do you remember?’
She hunched a shoulder. ‘I have no wish to remember Malberry.’
‘No?’ he said again, his slow smile slicing through her defences. ‘Why should you not—did you not enjoy our time together there? Have you forgotten that I commissioned you to paint me?’
She stared ahead of her. Of course she remembered. She remembered every word he had spoken to her. She realised she would very much like to paint him, not posing statesman-like in a studio, but as he had been at Malberry Court, relaxed and reclining on the grass. For his brown hair she would use a base of raw umber and add fine brushstrokes to represent the blond sun-streaks—mixing in a little Indian yellow, perhaps. And his eyes—it would not be difficult to recreate their colour, like polished hazelnuts, but could she capture the smile that lurked in their depths, or the way his mouth quirked into a smile?
Carlotta looked away suddenly. This was too dangerous a game—she was only a memory away from crying. She assumed a haughty look and raised her brows at him.
‘You would commission me, my lord? But it is well known you have no money.’
‘That will not always be the case.’
She curled her lip at him. ‘But it is irrelevant, since I shall not be painting you. Indeed, I have no need to do anything, now.’
‘Perhaps not, but I thought painting was your passion.’
She managed a tinkling laugh. ‘Oh dear me, no. How unladylike that would be.’
She noted with satisfaction that his hand on her rein tightened, and the little mare side-stepped nervously.
‘What has happened to you, Carlotta? At Malberry you were…different.’
He was watching her intently. Carlotta knew she would have to look at him, but she would die rather than show him her true feelings. He was a rake, everyone told her so. He had been her first love—her only love—and he had broken her fragile young heart. But that was what rakes did; he could not change his nature. It had taken her months to rebuild her life—only the knowledge of how dear she was to her parents and to her aunt and uncle had given her the will to carry on. She could not let him hurt her again. She raised her chin and fixed him with cold, indifferent eyes.
‘At Malberry, my lord, I was a child, ignorant of the world. I thought fortune was not important. Now I know better.’
She forced herself not to look away, praying that he would not see past her icy, supercilious stare to the raw pain in her heart. For a long, treacherous moment he held her eyes; not by the flicker of an eyelid did she betray the anguish that was ripping her apart. She watched as his puzzlement turned to contempt. She had not thought she could feel any more miserable, but the disdain she now read in his eyes was almost unbearable. Almost.
He released her bridle and gathered up his own reins, saying curtly, ‘Then I shall leave you to your fortune-hunting, Miss Rivington. Good day to you.’
Luke dug his heels into the bay’s sides and cantered away, ignoring the stares and frowns of those who considered it unseemly to move at more than a snail’s pace. Damn the chit. When he had first seen her at Malberry he had intended nothing more than a little flirtation to pass the time. By heaven, the girl had given him his own again! He scowled; it was his own fault, for he had told her of his financial problems. They had been sitting on the lawns at Malberry on one of those hot, sunny afternoons when he had persuaded her to come down from her high perch for a little while. He had been curious to know why her father was so anxious to have the frescoes finished.
‘It is most important that my father fulfils his obligations, you see,’ said Carlotta, stretching out on the grass and putting her hands behind her head. He tried not to stare at the way her paint-stained shirt settled over the gentle curves of her breast. ‘He must be paid on time.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because there are bills outstanding, expenses to be met…As a gentleman, perhaps you would not understand.’
He grinned at that. ‘I understand only too well about debts; I have an abundance of them.’
Carlotta wrinkled her brow. ‘It must be very unpleasant to be under such an obligation, I think.’
‘But it is unavoidable,’ he said lightly. ‘Any gentleman living in town will tell you that his expenses are very high. There’s one’s house and stable to be maintained, not to mention one’s tailor.’
‘But surely you could cut back, economise…’ She bit her lip. ‘I can see that I have made you angry, I beg your pardon. The way you live is none of my business.’
‘No.’ He had not meant to sound so cold and he saw the sudden, anxious look Carlotta threw at him. When she did not speak, he said gently, ‘What, Mistress Durini? Have you no riposte for me?’ She shook her head, and looked surprised when he laughed. ‘At last I have found a woman who does not want the last word!’
Carlotta sat up. She said angrily, ‘I think you are making May-game of me, sir.’
‘No, no, pray, Miss Durini, forgive my incivility. I was jesting when I talked of the expense of town life; I have only recently returned from Paris and I have no town house to maintain—and to the best of my knowledge neither do I owe my tailor a penny. The debts I do have relate to my estate, and I plan to address that problem very soon. There, will you cry peace with me now?’
His hand tightened on the reins and the bay skittered, throwing up his head. Damnation, he had never owned as much to any woman before and what good had it done him? He had given her a stick
to beat him with. A short, bitter laugh escaped him. He had been within an ace of offering for her—thank Providence it had come to nothing! What a lucky escape—he had no wish to be married to such a shallow, mercenary female.
He brought his horse to a sudden stop.
The only trouble was, he could not bear the thought of anyone else marrying her.
During the following weeks it was inevitable that Carlotta and Lord Darvell would meet frequently, but a polite, distant nod was their only acknowledgement.
‘I am surprised that Darvell does not pay you more attention,’ remarked Lady Broxted, when they saw him in Mrs Price’s drawing room one evening. ‘He is generally very appreciative of a pretty young lady…a little too appreciative in some cases,’ she added reflectively. ‘He is an incorrigible flirt.’
Carlotta glanced across the room. Luke was enjoying a lively dialogue with a very pretty blonde matron and she quickly looked away again.
‘I do not think I am quite to his taste, Aunt. I doubt I am pretty enough to tempt his lordship.’
‘Nonsense, I have received any number of compliments for you, my love,’ replied Lady Broxted. ‘But I suppose we should be thankful for Darvell’s lack of interest; your uncle has settled a generous dowry upon you, and he hopes you will contract an alliance with a gentleman of means.’
Carlotta raised her chin. ‘You need have no fear, Aunt; I shall not throw myself away upon an impoverished fortune-hunter like the Wicked Baron.’
Lady Broxted looked at her closely. ‘Oh dear, what has Lord Darvell done to deserve such vehemence? Perhaps it is his lack of attention that has piqued you. After all, you cannot deny he is very attractive. However, if you showed a partiality for him, I have no doubt Broxted—’
‘Dear ma’am, I have no partiality for him!’ cried Carlotta, an angry flush warming her cheeks. ‘I am quite thankful that he does not notice me.’
‘Well, then, there is no more to be said on the matter.’ reasoned Lady Broxted. ‘You are a very sensible little thing, Carlotta. I have no doubt we can achieve a very creditable match for you. Fairbridge seems to have taken a shine to you.’
Carlotta followed her aunt’s gaze to observe the tall, fair-haired young man standing on the far side of the room.
‘I think the viscount is more interested in our host’s daughter, ma’am. Do you see how he hovers about Miss Price, and how she blushes when he speaks to her?’
‘Perhaps you are right.’ Lady Broxted sighed. ‘Pity, for he would make you an ideal partner. His mama is well disposed towards you, too. Her late husband was a great friend of Broxted’s and I think she would like to strengthen the connection.’
‘Dear ma’am, is it not a little early to be contemplating marriage?’
‘It is never too early,’ said my lady firmly. ‘I am determined to see you well established. However, we must not repine. There is time yet.’
‘I hope so, ma’am,’ replied Carlotta, her eyes twinkling. ‘We have been in town for little more than a month!’
At that moment a young gentleman approached to claim her hand for the next set and she went off, still smiling.
The ballroom grew hotter and more crowded as the evening progressed, and in between dances Carlotta was glad to stand by one of the open windows to cool her heated cheeks. She thought with longing of her parents’ cottage in Malberry village: her mother’s last letter had been full of trifles such as her success in the herb garden and the diligence of the new maid, as well as news of her latest commission and her father’s progress at Malberry Court. He was now decorating the little temples that littered the gardens. Carlotta wished she could be with them, but it was not possible. She was fanning herself gently when Julia Price came to join her. Carlotta said in her open, friendly way, ‘Your mama must be very pleased with the success of her party, Miss Price.’
‘Yes, I think she is. It is always a concern that no one will come, for there are so many concerts and entertainments.’
‘Well, I think you need have no worries, your rooms are full to overflowing. Is this what they call a sad crush?’ Carlotta asked. ‘I believe that means it is a great success.’
She must remember to put it all into her next letter to her parents; Mama enjoyed reading about the parties and entertainments.
‘Yes.’ Miss Price was smiling at her. ‘We are very fortunate tonight, I think. Is this your first Season, Miss Rivington?’
‘It is. My aunt and uncle have been kind enough to sponsor me.’ Carlotta sighed. ‘They are very good, but it is all so new and there is so much to remember: I am in constant dread that I shall embarrass them!’
Miss Price was quick to disclaim, ‘No, no, that could not be—you always look so calm and at ease.’
‘Thank you, but I am in a perpetual quake, I assure you, Miss Price.’
‘Do, please, call me Julia.’
‘Very well, if you will call me Carlotta.’
‘That is a very pretty name.’
‘Thank you. It is—’ Carlotta became aware of someone approaching and broke off, turning to see Viscount Fairbridge at her side, his pale blue eyes fixed upon Julia. He bowed.
‘Miss Price, you p-promised me the next dance, I think…that is, if I am not interrupting…’
Carlotta smiled at him. ‘Pray, my lord, do take your partner.’
‘You shall not object if I leave you?’ asked Julia, looking anxious.
‘Not at all. Off you go and enjoy yourself.’
Carlotta stepped back, smiling, as Julia put her fingers on Lord Fairbridge’s sleeve for him to lead her away. Too late did she see Lord Darvell standing behind the viscount’s lanky form. They were only feet apart. He checked as he saw her, a slight frown in his eyes. He was already turning away when their host’s jovial voice boomed out.
‘Now, now, how fortunate is this, my lord!’ Mr Price put his hand on Darvell’s arm. ‘The next set is forming and here is Miss Rivington without a partner.’
Mortification swept over Carlotta. A glance at Lord Darvell showed her that he felt very much as she did, and for a brief moment she wondered if he would walk off, but Mr Price was clapping him on the shoulder, crying, ‘Well, go to it, man!’
Carlotta opened her mouth to protest, but she could not speak. Lord Darvell stepped forward, stony-faced. He held out his hand.
‘Will you do me the honour, Miss Rivington?’
There was no escape. To refuse would be to embarrass them all. Tentatively she put her fingers on his sleeve.
‘You are too good, my lord.’
Damnation. Luke swore under his breath. However much he tried to avoid Carlotta, it seemed she forced herself upon his notice. No, he must be honest with himself, it was not her fault. He remembered his efforts at Malberry Court, when he had realised that he was in danger of falling in love with the bewitching little sprite in her shirt and breeches. He had done his best then to keep away from her, finishing his business with the clerk of works late one afternoon and planning to set off for Darvell Manor the following morning without returning to the Court. But when he left Kemble’s lodge he found the heavy storm clouds had brought an early dusk and lightning was already splitting the sky. He saw the faint glow flickering from the windows of the house and rushed in, expecting to find flames licking at the newly painted walls. Instead he had found Carlotta.
‘What the devil are you doing in here?’
His voice, edged with irritation, vibrated against the empty walls of the drawing room.
‘I might ask you the same, sir, when you have not been near the house for days.’
Heaven and earth, the chit was challenging him!
‘I have been at the lodge with Kemble, discussing plans for moving in the furniture. I saw the light in the windows as I was about to leave and came up to see what was amiss.’
‘I am sorry, then, if you thought it was intruders.’
‘I was more concerned that the lightning had started a fire. Why are you not at home?’ he barked th
e question at her, frowning.
‘I wanted to have one last look at my father’s work. I beg your pardon; I never meant to disturb anyone. I will go now.’
‘Oh, no, you will not.’
She blinked.
He took off his hat and shook it, sending off tiny droplets of water that sparkled in the candlelight. ‘I mean the storm is too violent. It is not safe.’
‘Oh.’
That one little word, spoken so softly, was his undoing. His heart went out to her; she looked so vulnerable, holding aloft the candlestick with one shaking hand. He said gently, ‘You need not worry, you are perfectly safe here.’ He stepped forward and took the candlestick from her. ‘Let us look at your father’s work together.’
They wandered through the empty rooms until they found themselves in the salon, which occupied one end of the house. There was only one painted panel, set between the two marble fireplaces. The other three walls were taken up with long windows, designed to allow in maximum light, although now they only gleamed blackly as the rain spattered against the glass. Luke crossed the room, raising the candles higher as he studied the mural.
‘Your father is a great artist, Carlotta. This is really very good.’
‘Thank you. May I show you something?’ She took his arm and led him to the far corner of the panel. ‘There,’ she pointed. ‘Look closely at the decoration on the lady’s sandal.’
He peered closer. ‘A tiny snail.’
‘Yes, a lumaca.’ She laughed. ‘It sounds so much prettier in Italian. It is Papa’s signature. He does not tell many people, but it is very important to him. When he was in Rome he would often paint copies of the great masters for the foreign visitors to take home and put in their grand houses. He insisted that as long as he signed them then there was no harm in it; he was not trying to trick anyone.’
‘I am honoured you should share it with me.’
The Wicked Baron Page 4