Her eyes widened at the endearment, and she laughed. “Monsieur, I am not your dearest—”
“That is my eternal loss.”
“Nor will I ever be.” Her gaze was unflinching yet relaxed, her stance unyielding yet nonchalant, as if their discussion was nothing more than a mild and familiar flirtation.
“Are you so certain?” His voice carried an unexpected intensity.
Why didn’t she back away? She’d never let him get this close without a touch of panic in her eyes. Or rather—she’d never let the earl get this close.
“Yes, monsieur, I am quite certain.” No, there was nothing even remotely like panic here—only the self-assured gleam of a woman of confidence. “I am well aware of the fickle nature of men who reserve their passion for their work. And I am not foolish enough to risk my heart on such a man.”
“I did not know we were discussing matters of the heart.” How far could he take this farce?
“We aren’t.”
“Ah, but we were speaking of passion.” How far would she let him? “And I am Etienne-Louis Toussaint. Have I not a reputation for passion for more than my work alone?”
“A reputation rivaled only by your talent.” She brought her glass to her lips and gazed at him over the rim. “I find one quite interesting and the other not at all.”
“You wound me deeply,” he said in a low tone.
“Oh, come now.” She drained the last of her champagne and smiled. “I suspect it would take more than a mere set down to temper your confidence.”
He clapped his hand over his heart. “My life’s blood is flowing from my veins with every word from your lips.”
“Nonsense. Only your arrogance is injured, and that is a minor pain.”
He huffed. “You are a hard woman, madame.”
“Not at all. I am simply practical.” Her gaze searched his eyes. With the mask in the shadows, surely she wouldn’t recognize them. His heart beat faster at the thought, and he took a backward step. “And somewhat curious as well.”
He nodded sagely. “About the passion.”
“About your attire.” She stepped to the bench and set down the glass, then turned toward him. Her gaze traveled over him curiously. “Why are you dressed like the waiters?”
“Why?” Why? “It is not an unusual costume for a masquerade.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “You can only imagine my distress when I arrived to discover I was attired not like a figure of the carnivals of Venice but as a servant. What was I to do? I should not wish to offend our hostess by discarding my cloak and mask.”
“And does the tray accompany the costume?”
“Merely an excuse to approach you.”
“I see.” She paused. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Lady Forester.”
“Acquainted may not be the right word,” he murmured. He’d never actually met the lady, but it was a simple matter to procure an invitation to the ball.
“Odd, she’s never spoken of you. And she rarely keeps secret those she has agreed to sponsor.”
“I did not say she was my patron.” Damnation, he certainly didn’t want Gillian to think he was Lady Forester’s latest amorous foray into the world of art. “She is perhaps more discreet than one would expect.” Or did he?
“Perhaps.” She leaned back against a statue and lifted her mask to her face. “Lady Forester requires masks for this occasion to allow those who should not be seen together to be discreet when slipping away. Together. It’s most considerate of her and, I believe, quite appreciated. Yet she has never been particularly discreet in her own liaisons.”
“I, however, am most discreet.”
“Are you?” She paused and considered him. “Even without a mask?”
“We all wear masks of one sort or another, madame,” he said cautiously.
“Surely, you can take this one off?” She shrugged in an offhand manner. “I did warn you as to my curious nature, and I do wish to see the face of Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”
He would have liked nothing better than to rip the irritating mask off and fling it into the dark, but he could bear it for a while longer. It was well worth the discomfort to be in Gillian’s company. A Gillian far different from the woman who wished to marry Richard. Besides, he rather enjoyed the banter between them. “For you and for you alone I would but, regretfully, I cannot.”
“Why?”
Why? He groped for a response. “Why?”
“Yes, why?” A wicked smile danced on her lips as if she knew he had no answer.
“I am an artist, madame,” he said slowly, his mind racing for something, anything, she would accept. “I deal in … perception. Illusion.”
“Illusion?”
“Indeed, the illusion created by a brushstroke on canvas.” That sounded reasonable. The words came a bit easier. “Viewed from a distance, a painting seems complete. Perfect. But upon close inspection one sees each stroke, each dab of color, each nuance of the artist’s hand.” He shook his head in feigned regret. “Illusion is as fragile as fine crystal. And shatters as easily.”
“What illusion does your mask preserve?”
“Why, the illusion of Etienne-Louis Toussaint, of course.”
She laughed with delight.
Her sheer Grecian gown and the white marble statue towering above her caught the glow from the light on the terrace, and for a moment reality was indeed obscured by illusion. For the merest instant, marble merged with flesh. The lines and shadows of woman and stone flowed into one as if the two belonged together. Mined from the same quarry. Carved from the same block. Part of the same whole. It was a trick of illumination, nothing more; still, it cast a spell that caught at his artist’s eye. Or his heart.
“I wish to paint you,” he said without thinking.
She lowered her mask. “But you have. My soul as well as my face, I believe.”
“A miniature.” He snorted in disdain. Excitement roared through his veins in anticipation of a new project, this new project, overpowering the voice of reason cursing in the back of his mind. “An exercise in technique, nothing more. I want to do a real portrait. I want you to sit for me.” He would paint her in this dress with a marble statue behind her. A mythical shadow of a very real woman.
“As lovely as the thought is, demand for your work is growing, and I simply can’t afford your prices.” She sighed. “Pity, I have never sat for an artist before.”
“Then I must be the first. I have no doubt a buyer will be found.” His voice was deceptively casual. “A lover perhaps.”
“I don’t …” She hesitated. Was she thinking of him? Of Richard? Or her husband. She straightened and lifted her chin slightly. “Perhaps, someday.”
“Excellent. I shall make the arrangements at once.” He stepped toward her, stopping within arm’s reach.
She gazed up at him, speculation in her voice. “What kind of arrangements?”
“Paints.” There was no fear in her eyes now. “Brushes.” She wasn’t the least bit nervous at his nearness. “Canvas.” He could easily take her in his arms.
She raised a brow. “Don’t you have paints, brushes, canvas?”
“But of course,” he murmured. His gaze slid to her mouth. What would she do if he kissed her? Slap his face? Flee into the night? Or would she allow his kiss? Respond to it? To him?
“Then I don’t understand what kind of arrangements are necessary.”
Or would she dismiss it as amusing and meaningless? An insignificant moment in a garden at a ball. Nothing more.
“Monsieur?” A teasing smile quirked her lips.
“I shall contact you soon. Madame.” He nodded sharply, turned, and started off, the need to escape her presence almost overpowering.
“Monsieur,” she called after him, and he slowed. “Will you take your mask off for me when I sit for you?”
He swiveled toward her. “And destroy the illusion?” He pulled the tricorn from his head and swept an overly dramatic bow. “We shall see, mada
me.” He turned again and strode down the path.
“We shall indeed.” Her voice and laughter trailed after him.
The moment he was certain he was out of sight he ducked behind a hedge into a narrow space between the plantings and the high wall of the terrace, brushed the hat off his head, pulled back the hood, and yanked the mask from his face. He ran his fingers through his hair and drew in great gasps of air. Blast it all, he hated masks.
Will you take your mask off for me when I sit for you?
Bloody hell. He sank back against the bricks. He hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t thought about anything at all when he’d proposed to paint her portrait. In that one moment, he’d been too caught up in a desire, as hard and urgent and unrelenting as anything he’d ever known, to truly capture her on canvas. An impulse unchecked by reason, by sanity.
Damnation, he thought he’d conquered his impulsive nature years ago, just as he’d conquered his penchant for gaming, for whoring, for rash and reckless behavior. For five long years, everything he’d done had been well considered, practical and rational, with his aim always on the future. Even his paintings had been produced with an eye toward the market. Why then had he succumbed to impulse tonight, not once, but twice, without a second thought as to the consequences?
It was Gillian, of course, and his own misplaced pride. He wanted her to like his work and wanted to hear her say it. And more, he wanted her to want him for other than the inheritance their marriage would bring. And with every moment spent in her company he wanted it more. But whenever he came too close, in deed and in words, she withdrew. Possibly from an odd feeling of betrayal that made no sense to him: her husband was dead and buried, after all. Possibly from fear. At least that’s what he’d seen in her eyes.
She certainly wasn’t afraid of Toussaint.
He pushed away from the wall and absently took off his cloak, an absurd idea forming in his mind.
Gillian was well used to dealing with artists like Toussaint. She had been relaxed and unconcerned and had apparently enjoyed their lighthearted conversation. She had been flirtatious in the manner of a woman who knew there was no risk to her emotions whatsoever. Even her assessment of the miniature and its personal nature had been puzzling to her, not frightening.
It was ridiculous to even consider the possibility, but if the Earl of Shelbrooke courted her in a typical manner, while someone else, perhaps a mysterious French artist with a notorious reputation, sought her favors in a more provocative fashion, one of them might well succeed. She was on her guard with Richard but did not consider Toussaint so much as a mild threat.
Was there a woman in the world who could resist an amorous assault on two fronts? Especially from men she viewed as completely different from one another? Richard topped her husband list. Toussaint wasn’t on the list at all. The artist was more the man he used to be than the man he was now. The kind of man women found appealing even as they knew such men were wrong for them.
And once her affections were engaged, he could reveal the truth to her. Since the earl and the artist were one and the same, what would be the harm? Why, they’d probably laugh about it. It would be a story to tell their grandchildren one day.
She had already agreed to sit for him. That would require spending a great deal of time together. He had no idea how he would manage to paint her portrait and still keep his true identity concealed. He absolutely refused to wear that irritating mask again. No doubt he would come up with something. He always did.
He drew his brows together thoughtfully. It was a relatively simple plan, surely destined for success, yet he wondered if it wasn’t too simple. If there wasn’t a flaw in it that he failed to see. Impatiently, he pushed the disquieting idea away. It was the only plan he had at the moment, and the rewards, both financially and personally, were far too great to leave to chance.
He folded the cloak over his arm, bent, and picked up the hat. He’d return the costume, then find Gillian. It was past time he shared a dance with the woman he was to marry. A slow smile grew from somewhere deep inside him, and he wondered who would be the first to seal their fate with a kiss.
Richard or Toussaint?
Gillian watched Toussaint’s cloaked figure disappear in the direction of the terrace, shook her head in amusement, and sank down on the cold bench.
What an intriguing encounter. Toussaint was as arrogant and self-important as any other artist of her acquaintance, filled with an overblown sense of his own worth. And, just like the others, he had a need for praise that belied his conceit. Oh, they all hid it with bravado and swaggers that were typically smug, but the longer one observed them, the easier one recognized the signs of the artistic temperament. Toussaint was no different. Nicely done would never suffice for a man of his nature.
What did he look like without the costume? He was tall, that couldn’t be hidden. It was apparent by the way he moved that he wasn’t fat or old. But what of his face? His refusal to remove his mask and all that nonsense about illusion indicated there was something he wished to hide. Did he have hideous scars? Or warts? Perhaps he was merely quite ordinary. If she did indeed sit for him she’d surely find out.
And wasn’t there something odd about his voice? His accent was pronounced and a bit too prominent, as if he were trying to emphasize it. He probably thought it enhanced his reputation. After all, if the rumors about him were true, he’d left France at least twenty-five years ago. Toussaint would not be the first artist to create an exaggerated background of mystery and romance to increase interest in his work. With the exception of his remarkable talent, Gillian, and the rest of the world, really knew nothing at all about the man.
Although he was most certainly French. She chuckled to herself. Who but a Frenchman would be brazen enough to suggest her portrait would be purchased by a lover?
Richard.
His face popped unbidden into her mind. Would he be her lover eventually? She clasped her hands in her lap and stared at her entwined fingers. Her husband? Certainly, if all went well. The thought was at once frightening and … what? Wonderful?
“Forgive my delay.” Gillian glanced up. Richard strode toward her carrying a glass of champagne in each hand. “I was unavoidably detained.”
“Were you?” She smiled and rose to her feet, paying no heed to the tiny thrill that raced through her at his approach. “I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned me.”
“Never.” His voice teased, and he handed her a glass. His gaze dropped to the empty crystal on the bench. “But I see you haven’t been entirely alone.”
“A waiter brought champagne,” she said without thinking and wondered why she hesitated to tell him about her meeting with Toussaint. Richard had a great appreciation of art and would no doubt enjoy meeting the man. Still, some cautious voice inside her urged restraint.
“A waiter?” He raised a brow.
She took a long sip. “Um-hum.”
“Odd. I hadn’t noticed any of the waiters going into the gardens.”
“This one did,” she said brightly.
“A stroke of luck then.” He drew a long swallow of his wine. “Interesting how Lady Forester has them all attired as dominoes. It’s impossible to tell one from another.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she murmured.
“Indeed. Why, anyone could be hiding behind those masks.” He considered her for a moment. “A pauper. A prince.”
“Perhaps.” She cast him a sharp look. He couldn’t possibly know. “But more than likely simply a servant.”
“More than likely.” He shrugged in dismissal. “Would you care to dance?”
Her heart raced at the thought of being in his arms. She forced a lighthearted note to her voice. “Why, my lord, a dance following our sojourn in the gardens? What will people say?”
“A great deal, I suspect. Especially since I plan on more than one dance, and, furthermore, I firmly intend to occupy your attention for the remainder of the evening.”
She studied hi
m for a moment. “You realize that will be tantamount to declaring your intentions?”
“I do.” He stared down at her and held out his hand. She drew a deep breath and placed hers in his.
A moment later they entered the ballroom and crossed to the dance floor. She was acutely aware of the speculative stares that followed their progress. A waltz began, and he took her in his arms. Strong and hard and unyielding.
He held her no closer than propriety dictated, yet she was engulfed by his presence, his warmth. His gaze locked on hers and all else faded away. They whirled across the floor, her steps in perfect harmony with his. As if they had danced together before. As if they had danced together always. As if they were one.
She was aware of the music, aware of their movement, but dimly, as if in a dream. She existed only in the reality of his embrace, the intensity of his dark eyes. Her blood pulsed, her breath caught, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. And she didn’t want to. There was nothing in her world save him and her, and she lost herself to the emotion sweeping through her. Desire? Need? Fear?
Whatever was happening between her and this reformed rake was as foreign to her as a gentle stream was to a raging, flood-swollen river. It had been so very long since any man had made her feel anything, let alone filled her with conflicts and terror and … anticipation? At once frightening and delicious.
She was scared of him, of herself, of the two of them together and what the future could hold. She’d admitted as much, accepted her fears and doubts. And in his arms, she realized acknowledging the truth wasn’t enough.
Now, she had to face it.
Chapter 7
Richard’s horse gingerly picked his way up the gravel drive, in truth more rut than rock these days. Pristine lawns long gone to seed encroached on the edges of the lane as if to swallow it whole. Gardens that had welcomed visitors in years past now sported only weeds and the occasional blossom too stubborn to give way to neglect and the passage of time.
In better days, an enterprising gardener in the employ of a far more prosperous Earl of Shelbrooke had laid out the grounds to draw the eye upward to the top of a slight rise and Shelbrooke Manor. The grand house had overlooked the countryside in the manner of a benevolent stone queen surveying her domain. Now, she was as run-down as her surroundings, an old lady weary of struggle with little more than pride keeping her upright.
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