Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  Raising one dark, slashing brow, he released her at once. “What is this, imp? A return of maidenly modesty?”

  “I have never lost my maidenly modesty,” Grace informed him.

  “Really?” Niall paced around her, studying every inch from the top of her tightly coiled chignon with its few restrained curls that fell forward at the ear, all the way to amber satin slippers that barely peeped from the hem of the matching pelisse robe. “Intriguing. Truly intriguing.”

  Grace walked past him and set her package down by the window. “There are a few things I wish to tell you. And one or two questions I should like to ask. Would that be acceptable?”

  When he didn’t reply, she swept the full back of her skirts around and turned to look at him. “Niall? May I proceed?”

  He made an expansive gesture with one arm. “Please do.”

  “First there is the matter of a rumor that has been spreading today. Are you aware of it?”

  “Something about missing trinkets? A handful of small gems? Yes. It is of no importance.”

  “But Calum did tell the marquess.” Grace picked up her parcel again. “He would not have done so if he hadn’t thought it important.”

  “Mr. Innes has become Calum? I had not thought the two of you were on such intimate terms.”

  “The use of a first name is hardly intimate.”

  “It is more intimate than the form accepted between strangers.”

  “We are not strangers.”

  Niall came closer and stood, looking down at her. “You find it remarkably easy to become closely acquainted with men, don’t you?”

  His meaning was obscure, but Grace doubted she would like it made more clear. “Calum has been kind to me. For that I’m grateful. It has been mentioned to me that certain suggestions have been made about the identity of the supposed thieves.”

  “No such suggestion was made to me ... by the marquess.”

  “I’m told that a member of the staff thinks the crimes are being committed by someone recently arrived here.” She stared at him hard. “How many people can you think of who are recently arrived at Kirkcaldy?”

  He strolled away, and for an instant she thought he might sit at the piano. Instead, he picked up a violin and peered at its bridge.

  “You can think of no one but my mother and myself, can you?” Without waiting for his reply, Grace tugged open the oilcloth that wrapped her package and spread the contents upon the window seat. “It occurs to me that someone may have observed me bringing my supplies here and decided that I am hiding things I have stolen.”

  “Are you suggesting I may have made that connection?”

  “I don’t know. Come here, please. You will see that any such suspicion is false.”

  “You really are an intriguing little baggage.” He did as she asked and silently regarded the jumble she’d set out for him. “Paintbrushes? Paints?”

  Grace drew herself up. “I am a painter.” She raised the lid of the window seat enough to drag out another bundle and wrestled a canvas into the light. “I do not expect you to understand my form. It is not necessary that you do.”

  Niall took the canvas from her and propped it against the drapes. “Oils?” he asked, predictably enough.

  “Indeed. Oils. I have no interest in the dull watercolors ladies are supposed to take such delight in daubing.” Why was she showing him, telling him? Was it truly because she feared he might make a connection between her hidden possessions and the things that had been stolen? Or was it because she needed, so very desperately, to share what she had never been able to share, and to do so with another human being in whom she felt a kindred passion for beautiful things?

  He had crossed his arms. “Your parents approved of this?”

  “No.”

  His expressive brows rose once more. “Then how have you been able to pursue such an ... unusual pastime?”

  “It is not a pastime. It is a vocation. And I have pursued it in secret because what I am doing is important. One day it may be of the utmost importance to other artists who follow in my footsteps.”

  “I see.”

  Grace regarded him with narrowed eyes. “No, you don’t. I thought you would. But you think what I do is trivial. If I were a man, you would take something so innovative seriously, but a daring female artist must be regarded as foolish—and with deep suspicion.”

  “Painting ... this type of painting—” he appeared bemused “—cannot be ... suitable for a woman.”

  “Why?” She began to seethe. “Because I should not tax my poor little brain with anything more than insipid flowers? And of course, there is needlework. No doubt that would meet with your approval.”

  “There are, my dear girl, your duties to your husband.”

  “I do not have a husband.”

  “But you will. Very soon. I cannot imagine the marquess approving of a wife who, er—” puffing up his cheeks, he made a vague, all-encompassing motion with his hands “—who applies such, mm, dramatic and unconventional swaths of color into compositions that are difficult to ... interpret?”

  Speech deserted Grace. He did not understand at all.

  Niall glanced at her. “No, no, my dear. Your husband will have quite different demands to make of you. Although, of course, creativity is always to be commended.”

  His superior smile did something odd to her spine.

  “What exactly is this supposed to be?” he asked, indicating her painting.

  “I—” Grace planted her fists on her hips and turned her head away. “Your arrogance appalls me. Total, impossible, male arrogance. High-handed, cabbageheaded, completely insensitive ... I—I—”

  “Please do not strain for superlatives on my behalf.” He was still smiling that infuriatingly tolerant smile.

  “In generations to come,” Grace said when she could finally speak, “there may well be a school of painting for which my work is the pattern. One day they may speak of the Grace Wren school.”

  He looked at her, simply looked at her, then at the painting, and said nothing at all. The silly smile remained on his lips.

  “You do not think my work has any value at all, do you? You find what pleases me ridiculous and unworthy of fair comment.”

  Niall drew his bottom lip between his teeth, then slowly released it. “Not at all. I am merely speechless before something so unusual.”

  She did not believe him.

  “Hmm.” Clearing his throat, he pointed to the canvas. “Enlighten me. What exactly do you call this school of yours?”

  She was tempted not to tell him. But he deserved to learn that she had given all this much thought. “Suggestive.”

  Grace was gifted with an unblinking and brilliant green stare. Slowly Niall’s sensual mouth spread into a frank grin. “What?” He coughed and then she was almost certain he was trying not to laugh. “Suggestive? Suggestive of what, pray?”

  “You are laughing at me!” Forgetting herself, Grace poked a finger into his chest. “Laughing, sir. That is despicable. Unconscionable.” A jab punctuated each word.

  “Hah! What an admirable vocabulary you do have.” He convulsed, apparently at his own brilliance, and bent over.

  “Ooh!” Grace poked him again and again. “I shall never forgive you. I thought you would understand.”

  “You assault me unfairly,” he sputtered, making futile grabs for her finger. “Suggestive, eh? Black and red and white. A gaping hole, I think. Suggestive of a large mouth, perhaps? Yes. You see, sweet imp, I do not have the least difficulty understanding what you think you painted.”

  To her horror, Grace felt the prickle of tears sting her eyes. “All you do is play music other people create.” She sniffed. “I create my own beauty. I expect that is what makes you so mean and jealous. There is nothing original in you.”

  He became still.

  “You were right about the mouth,” she told him, holding her anger about her like a thorny skin. “It is—appropriately—a man’s mouth. Wide open,
yes. Shouting, yes. What else does a man’s mouth ever do?”

  “Men do not always shout.”

  She did not care to listen to him. “That is not the point here.” Indicating the painting, she explained. “This is the essence of a man, his soul reaching through the flesh to find meaning in the wretched life with which he is shackled.”

  Niall scrubbed at his face.

  And Grace jabbed him again. “Pay attention! You may learn something of interest. You may be complacent in your lot, sir. It is not so with all men. Or all women. This man is made of fire and passion. This man cries out his love and his desire to be free to bestow that love upon the object of his desire.”

  “All of that?” Niall said quietly.

  “Yes. All of that.”

  “You have an incredible imagination.”

  “I do, indeed. And I find I burn with the need to resume my work.”

  “Mm. Tell me more about this man.”

  He no longer appeared amused. Grace smoothed back loosened wisps of hair. “He is naked.”

  Niall’s gaze shifted slowly from Grace’s face to the painting. He bent low to look closely. “Naked?”

  “Naked. I never paint clothes.”

  “I see—or perhaps I should say that of course I see there are no clothes. May I ask upon whose form you base a painting such as this?”

  Grace waved a hand airily. “Upon previous impressions.”

  “Indeed? Do tell me more.”

  “I think not.” She did not trust his sober countenance. “You were kind enough to allow me to keep my supplies here. You deserved an explanation, and now you have one. Nothing more need be said on the subject.”

  “I am beginning to find the subject fascinating.”

  “Please do not mock me further.”

  “I find you even more fascinating.”

  At last everything was safely stowed away again. “And now there is the other matter I wished to speak to you about.”

  “And there is another matter I wish to speak to you about,” he said. “At great length and in great depth.”

  Niall was rubbing his chest. Grace noted the shadow of dark hair through fine linen. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and the same hair curled in plain view. “I have never known a gentleman to come into a lady’s company without his coat before. Or his waistcoat and neckcloth,” she remarked, and instantly regretted the comments. “Not that it concerns me, of course.”

  “Of course. A woman of the world who paints naked men could not possibly be affected by such a sight.”

  Grace shook her head. “Not possibly.”

  “You have very pointed fingers, imp. I do believe you have wounded me beyond repair.”

  She frowned. “A bruise or two. Nothing more. I could not have injured you badly.” But she did feel some remorse. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, but you made me very angry.”

  “I did not intend to make you angry. But do not give it another thought. You have shown me another level of yourself, and I like what I see. A little temper can be titillating in a woman, particularly during certain, shall we say, encounters?”

  He muddled her. “I should return to my room quickly. I had made up my mind not to come here tonight.”

  He planted his feet apart. Doeskin breeches fitted his powerful thighs without a wrinkle. “Sweeting,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “You could not possibly have made up your mind to such a foolish thing.”

  With an effort, Grace raised her eyes. “Why? Because it is unthinkable that I should be able to resist you?”

  “Exactly. I understand you better than you understand yourself. You wanted to come as much as I wanted you to—if not more so.”

  “Oh, that is ...” Grace sputtered, “It is insupportable. I shall leave at once.”

  “I think not.”

  She made to go around him. He stepped into her path. Grace dodged in the opposite direction, only to be foiled again.

  He took hold of her wrists and, ignoring her attempt at resistance, drew her toward the fire. “You are overset. Come and sit with me.”

  “I am not overset,” she told him, but she had no choice but to go with him, to allow him to press her down into one of the Aubusson chairs.

  “If you are not overset, why are you scarcely able to take a breath? And why are your cheeks so charmingly pink?” He rested a big hand on each chair arm and leaned over Grace. “And why are you behaving as if you think I might ravage you?”

  Her hand flew toward her mouth. She dropped it and straightened her back. “I may know very little,

  sir, but I know you are suggesting something quite beyond the pale. You are entirely too familiar. The time has come for you to understand your position—what your position will become.”

  “Sir? I was not sir last night.” He sounded ... dangerous. “Surely you have not forgotten how familiar we were last night.”

  He enjoyed humiliating her. “Matters have changed. I have considered my behavior and decided the less said about it, the better. I was simply caught off balance by unusual circumstances. You would do well to look to the future and forget the past yourself.”

  “Look to the future and my position?” The soft linen of his shirt draped hard, flexed muscle. “I can hardly wait for you to explain that to me. What exactly will my position be?”

  There was a threat in his voice, in the attitude of his extremely tall, extremely strong body. Poised to pounce, Grace thought, pressing herself into the chair.

  “Um, I think we should discuss this at another time,” she suggested.

  “And I think we should discuss it now.”

  So tall. So forceful. And so angry. Green fire flashed in his eyes. His lips were drawn slightly back from his teeth, very white teeth.

  “My position, Grace?”

  Her only escape would require that she duck beneath him and scramble away, with a complete disregard for decorum. “I wish you would not loom over me like that, Niall.”

  He smiled. Definitely dangerous. “Do I make you uncomfortable?” Firelight rippled across his tanned skin. “Do I, Grace?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

  Her own skin blazed. To kiss and be kissed by

  Niall? Delightfully tempting. And it was also wrong. With or without the whisperings of Mama’s friends, Grace knew that men and women did not kiss—as they had kissed—in a casual manner. Did married men and women kiss in such a way frequently? she wondered. Really, this preoccupation with such matters was out of hand.

  “I asked you a question, Grace.”

  She was to marry another man, and she had already betrayed him in her heart. She shook her head fiercely.

  “I think you do want to be kissed.” His eyes flickered lazily over her.

  Might she be forgiven, but he was right! His nearness alone made her dizzy with longing.

  “Last night we barely began to explore what we can enjoy together.”

  “There can be nothing more.” But if only there could.

  “Let us consider my position. At the moment I am above you. Over you.”

  “I did not refer to—to—that type of position.”

  “Well, we can deal with whatever other position you have in mind later. For now we shall experiment with some I have in mind.”

  He made no sense. “I shall speak to the marquess. I’m sure that if I explain that you are, er, supportive of me, he will understand.”

  “Supportive?” he repeated thoughtfully. “Mm. Yes, I think that will do well for a start.”

  “And—with his lordship’s approval—we will be able to continue our friendship. If it pleases us both.”

  She thought the smile on his lips fixed. The narrowing of his extraordinary eyes was impossible to mistake. “Naturally, if you do not wish to—”

  “What makes you think the marquess could possibly approve of his wife’s friendship with another man?”

  Grace shifted awkwardly. “His lordship is un
likely to know exactly what it is that we share, Niall. Therefore he is unlikely to be jealous of—”

  “We must see how things progress,” Niall said, interrupting Grace again. “Your gown becomes you.”

  Her heart and soul were torn by confusion. “Thank you.”

  “The color. Not the cut. It is too severe. Take off the ruff.”

  Grace did not immediately understand.

  Niall’s next move shocked her. Smoothly he parted her thighs and sank to kneel between them. “Every position is made up of many parts,” he said, his gaze centered on her mouth. “This is but the beginning. Kindly remove your ruff.”

  She found that the next breath she took went no farther than her throat.

  “Do it, Grace. Now.”

  Slowly she raised her arms and found the fastening behind her neck.

  “No,” he said sharply. “Don’t. I’ve changed my. mind. Undo these.” He touched the silk corded bows that hid the fastenings on her gown.

  Grace made no attempt to do as he asked. Very slowly she lowered her arms. Very slowly Niall slipped his hands beneath the hem of her gown and smoothed the backs of her legs through lace stockings. He smoothed all the way to her knees.

  “Stop!”

  “Ah, Grace, your protests excite me. Just as you intend they should.”

  “I’m sure this is wickedness. You must not continue!”

  “If it is wickedness, it is wonderful wickedness,” he argued, his nostrils flaring. “I must continue and I will. You and I both need this. You know it and so do I. Your skin is soft. Is every part of you so soft?”

  “No!” She should have listened to her head and remained in her rooms.

  “No? Tell me which parts are not soft so that I may avoid them.”

  “I did not mean ...”

  “I thought not.” At the sensitive spots behind her knees, he stopped and feathered little strokes back and forth.

  Grace’s legs jerked and Niall smiled—a purely wicked smile. “A soft part? A tender part?”

  She tried to wriggle away.

  Niall’s smile broadened. “Mm. Move like that again, sweet imp. You can have no idea what you are doing to me.”

  Grace attempted to lift her legs from his hands.