“Perhaps you would be more comfortable … Estce que vous préfériez parler français?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Huh?
“Je m’excuse,” he said quickly. “But I did not quite understand your question. A thousand apologies, madame, but your accent …” Condescension colored his tone.
“My accent is impeccable,” she said coolly.
“Perhaps to the English, but to a true Frenchman …” She could hear the dismissive shrug in his voice.
“Then I gather you would prefer not to speak French?”
“Forgive me once more, but the language I speak is not the same as that which comes from your lips, as lovely as they are.”
“Very well.” Her tone was a bit sharper than she’d intended. She was rather proud of her ability with languages, and to have this man tell her otherwise was more than a little annoying. “I have no wish to offend you.”
He chuckled. “I fear it is I who have offended you. It was not my intent. I can only think your overwhelming kindness has affected my senses and turned me into an ungrateful idiot.”
“Nonsense,” she said, mollified. “It is your language, after all, and you no doubt have a better grasp of it than I.” Although she would have wagered a great deal on her fluent command of French. Still, he was the expert, and she merely a gifted student. “Now then, what next?”
“Did you wear the costume as I requested?”
She nodded and slipped out of her cloak, draping it over a battered chair. The Grecian gown might have struck someone else as odd, but she rather liked the idea of being painted in this particular dress.
“Excellent. Then if you would be so kind as to take your place.”
“On the chaise, I presume.”
She started toward it, noting the lack of other furnishings. From what little she could see, there were several tables stacked so full with jars and bottles and other accoutrements of the artist’s trade that they seemed in imminent danger of collapse. What were probably canvases leaned against the walls in piles a half dozen deep, whether pristine or works in progress she couldn’t determine. The dim outline of a sagging bed lurked in one corner of the room.
The chaise was the only acceptable piece in the place, and it, too, had seen better days.
She perched stiffly on the edge of the recliner and clasped her hands in her lap, abruptly at a loss as to what he expected of her. She squinted into the dark recesses of the room and could make out Toussaint moving between an easel and a large screen. A five-branched candelabra sat on a rickety table in front of her and slightly off to the side, obviously placed to cast light on her face and perhaps intended to make him more indistinct as well.
“Relax, madame, it will not hurt a bit.”
“I am not anticipating pain,” she said with a laugh. “I simply have no idea what to do now. How to hold my head, where to put my hands, should I smile or appear serious or—”
“The look in your eye is as you wish. As for the rest of you …”
He explained how he wanted her to pose. Within moments, she was in the position he’d directed, reclining slightly, the lines of her body echoing the lines of the chaise. She rested one elbow on its rolled arm, her bare feet peeked from beneath her white gown. His manner was brisk and matter of fact, and her unease vanished.
Nothing to this point had been even remotely personal. He seemed to regard her with no more interest than he would a bowl of fruit. Even when he’d asked her to remove her shoes it had been for aesthetic reasons. While under other circumstances she would never have considered it, Toussaint was an artist and a certain amount of forward behavior was to be expected. In fact, the man issued commands rather than made requests.
“I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d asked me to remove my clothing as well,” she muttered to herself.
“Did you say something, madame?”
With a start, Gillian realized she’d spoken aloud. “No, not at all.” She stared at his dark figure. “How can you see to paint me from over there?”
“I see you quite well. The candles illuminate your face and features. And I have another here to work by.”
“Well, the light is directly in my eyes. I can hardly make out anything beyond the reach of my arm.” He chuckled, and immediately his intentions were clear. “I should have suspected as much the moment I received your note. You’re going to continue this ridiculous masquerade of yours. You’re not going to let me see your face again tonight, are you?”
“I think not, madame.” Amusement sounded in his voice.
“Why on earth not?” she said with surprise. “I thought surely once I was here—”
“Ah, but you forget I am a master of illusion. In my art and in my person. I find I like it very much.” He settled onto a stool behind the easel. “Did you not say it yourself: what is more mysterious and exciting than a man whose face is hidden? Or a man with secrets.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.” She vaguely remembered saying something of the sort in Lady Forester’s garden, but she thought she had said it to Richard. Apparently not.
“And what man would not wish to be exciting to a woman such as yourself?”
“I really haven’t thought—”
“Then you must permit me my secrets.”
It was not as if she had any choice in the matter. Toussaint had made certain of that. Between the canvas supported on the easel and the positioning of the screen, Toussaint could have a clear view of her yet still remain in the shadows. Only when he shifted could she see so much as a black silhouette. Short of running across the room to confront him directly, which she refused to rule out altogether, there was little she could do.
“If I must.” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was amused, intrigued, or irritated by this game of his. Perhaps it was a combination of all three. Still, what would be the harm in playing, at least for the moment? If nothing else, he was right: there was something exciting about a man whose face was hidden.
“Do you have secrets, then, other than your face?”
“Untold,” he murmured. She could hear the slight swish of charcoal on canvas. Apparently he had already started to work.
She waited. And apparently, he worked in silence. Pity she couldn’t. “What manner of secrets?”
“The usual,” he said absently.
Again she waited. This game wouldn’t be at all enjoyable if he was the only one allowed to play.
“And what are the usual?”
“Everyone has something they prefer the world not know. Typically about the past. Their heritage. Or their families.”
“Families? Really?”
“Oui. Insane aunts in the attic. Bastard heirs. Disreputable parents. Scandalous liaisons.” He rattled off the list as if he was paying no attention to his words, obviously preoccupied with the canvas before him.
She counted to ten in her head and tried again.
“Are those your secrets?”
Yes, madame, they are indeed mine. Each and every one.” He huffed an impatient sigh. “I have not one but three insane aunts and as many bastard brothers all fighting for a share of my vast inheritance which was amassed by a father who was, in truth, a pirate. My legacy includes a castle in the mountains of Switzerland and the imperial crown jewels of Russia. Now that you know all there is to know, hold your tongue, s’il vous plaît!”
“Very well. You needn’t be so overset about it.” She paused and bit back a smile. It may well be his game, but she had no problem playing by her own rules. “You didn’t mention scandalous liaisons.” Silence came from behind the easel. She wanted to laugh, giggle like a girl still in the schoolroom.
“I did not mention murder either,” his voice was level, “yet the evening is young.”
She tried not to laugh, but an odd, strangled sound burst from her, and she could barely choke out the words. “I am sorry. I shall try, but I simply cannot sit here, not being able to see beyond the light, for the next hour or two
without saying a word.”
“Very well, madame,” he said with a note of resignation. “I shall make you a bargain. If you will refrain from chatter for the next few minutes and allow me to concentrate, I shall permit you to speak and even join you in discussion of whatever you wish.”
“Anything at all?”
“Of course not.” Surrender sounded in his voice.
Nearly anything. Is it agreed, then?”
“As you wish.”
Long, silent minutes passed, and Gillian tried not to fidget. She was not used to enforced idleness, to sitting still with nothing to do but think. And there was only one thing to think about. One thing on her mind, always on her mind.
Richard.
With each minute in his presence she grew more certain she could be the wife he wished. She could share his bed, have his children. Indeed, there were moments when she wanted just that. Wanted him.
Then why did she recoil like a frightened fawn whenever he came too close? Why did fear grip her stomach and tighten her throat? Surely she wasn’t afraid of caring for him, even loving him? She’d known love before, and it was wonderful. Wouldn’t it be just as wonderful with Richard?
Was she falling in love with him?
The question she’d dismissed earlier now demanded consideration. It would be much easier to be his wife in every sense of the word if she loved him. But would love on her side alone be enough?
Love was not part of their agreement, and she wondered if it would ever be. It was pride on Richard’s part that demanded this condition to their marriage. Nothing more than that. Even so, she knew he wanted her. Knew by the look in his eye and the way he held her in his arms that his desire no longer had anything to do with her inheritance and was not merely part and parcel of his intention to seduce her. Still, it wasn’t love, and with Richard she suspected the likelihood that it ever would be was slim.
Could she love a man who didn’t love her? It was one thing to commit to a marriage that was nothing more than a convenience and quite another to offer your heart to someone who wasn’t particularly interested in such things. Is that what she was afraid of?
Regardless, she was determined to wed Richard, and these thoughts of love were nothing more than a distraction. Why, wasn’t there already desire on her part, or at least the beginnings of desire? Wouldn’t that be enough? And the blasted man hadn’t so much as kissed her yet. What would happen when he did?
Would those lips that had up to now only brushed her hand be as equally gentle against her mouth? Would he tease her lips with his own until her resistance dissolved and she melted into his embrace? Or would his mouth be demanding, insistent, an assault on her senses and her soul? Would his arms pull her so tight against him that the heat of his body would sear her flesh? Would he tear off her clothes in a mad rush of passion at long last unleashed and make her his without a thought as to time or place?
And would she meet his desire with her own? Would she counter his need with hers? Run her hands over the hard planes of his body with an urgency she’d never known? Abandon herself to the pleasure of touching him, of him touching her? Would she claim him as her own without a thought as to the future or the past? Would she—
“You have lied to me, madame.”
Gillian jumped, her mind jerking back to her surroundings. Good Lord, what had she been thinking? Heat flashed up her face.
“Lied?” She smoothed the fabric of her gown with a trembling hand and struggled to regain her composure. “What makes you think I’ve lied?”
“You said you did not have a lover.”
“I don’t,” she said quickly.
“No?” Skepticism rang in his voice. “A woman does not look as you do unless she is thinking about a man.”
“Don’t be silly.” She ignored a sudden need to fan her face. “I was thinking nothing of the kind.”
“Then you must have a dog.”
“A dog?” She shook her head in confusion. “Why do you say that?”
“It has been my experience with Englishwomen they are as attached to their dogs as to their men.” He chuckled. “Sometimes more.”
“And sometimes a dog is more worthy of attachment,” she said pointedly. “However, I do not have a dog nor do I have a lover and you, monsieur, are quite impertinent.”
“But of course. It is my nature. It is why women find me charming and most irresistible.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Do they now?”
“You have not heard the stories? The tales told of Etienne-Louis Toussaint, master painter and lover extraordinaire?” He clucked his tongue in mock dismay. “I am most distressed.”
“You shall have to work harder, then. It’s not at all easy to maintain a reputation like that.”
“To my regret and my eternal joy. Now, madame,” his voice lowered, “tell me of this man who is not your lover.”
“I most certainly will not. I am not in the habit of discussing matters of a personal nature with people I scarcely know. Besides, I thought you wished for silence.”
“Only at the start of a work. I can now divide my attention without concern. You did agree to discuss anything.”
“I agreed to let you discuss anything,” she said quickly.
“And I wish to discuss the gentleman who occupies your mind.” He paused for a moment. “Do not worry that I will reveal what you confide in me. Those who sit for portraits often speak of things they would not otherwise mention. If I were not to hold my tongue, I would quickly find myself at a loss for clients. What is said between artist and subject is as sacred as that which passes between priest and penitent.”
“Rubbish. I don’t believe that for a moment.” She laughed. “And by your own admission you are no priest.”
“No. But I give you my word what passes between us stays between us. And my word, too, is sacred.”
“Still, I really don’t—”
“If you are concerned about embarrassment when next we meet, do not be. You do not know my face. We could pass on the street and you would be none the wiser. There is much to be said for anonymity.” He paused as if sensing her indecision.
Could she trust him? It was absurd to consider confiding in him, even though she realized she longed to discuss her feelings with someone. Surely the temptation was due to nothing more than her surroundings at the moment. The lull of the dark room. The lure of the faceless stranger. Her relaxed position on the chaise, even her bare feet all created a sense of sanctuary. Secure, safe, and private. Perhaps it was akin to a confessional after all.
“I suspect as well, madame, you have no one else to confide in.”
She hadn’t thought about it, but he was right. She’d always shared everything with Robin and Kit, but on the subject of Richard they were impossible. She refused to face their continuing disapproval, and she had no other close friends. She’d grown more and more independent of her family in recent years, and while she loved them all dearly, they didn’t know of the legacy, and she preferred to keep that knowledge to herself for the moment.
Her cousin Pandora would understand, but from the gossip Gillian had heard, Pandora was occupied with her own intriguing dilemma. And while Gillian suspected she and Emma would prove to be great friends, they did not know one another well enough yet for confidences of this nature. In addition, Emma was Richard’s sister, and her loyalties would lie with him.
“You are perceptive, monsieur, I will grant you that,” she said quietly.
“And discreet.”
“I do hope so.”
What harm could there be in talking to him? The worst that could possibly happen is that he would reveal her situation to the rest of the world, and he would scarcely do that. She could be of great benefit to his career, and he would be a fool to betray her. Toussaint was definitely no fool. He had also given his word, and there was nothing to lead her to believe he would not keep it.
She drew a deep breath. “There is a man.”
“Ah, you s
ee? There is always a man.” He laughed softly.
“I plan to marry him.”
“Do you? Yet you say he is not your lover, and since you are not of an age where such matters are arranged … I do not understand.”
“It’s a rather … well … unusual circumstance.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t especially understand it myself. It’s become so much more complicated than I ever expected.”
“Complicated? What is more complicated than that between a man and a woman, yet what is more simple as well.”
“It did start out simply enough.” She quickly outlined the details of the legacy, the resulting list of husbands, her choice of Richard, prudently omitting his name, and his conditions for the marriage.
“So, there you have it.”
“It is indeed an unusual story.” He fell silent, obviously considering her words. His own were measured. “Have you then decided to be the wife he wishes?”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “No.” Frustration welled inside her. “I don’t know. One moment I will, I want to, and the next I can’t. It’s terribly confusing.”
“Confusing?”
She groped for the right words. “It was, as I said, in the beginning a simple matter. A marriage strictly for the purposes of gaining my inheritance. A marriage in nothing more than name. Then, of course, he wouldn’t agree to that, and frankly, I do understand why and I don’t blame him. But in the process of his seduction—”
“I thought it was a courtship?”
“Yes, of course.” She waved off his correction.
“That’s what I meant. I don’t know why I said seduction.” Richard’s dark, intense gaze flashed through her mind, and she knew full well why she’d said seduction. “At any rate, I seem to have all these odd feelings whenever I’m anywhere near him.”
“I see. Then perhaps you have made your decision after all?”
“No, no, not those kind of feelings. At least not entirely.” She pushed herself upright and stared in his direction. “What overwhelms everything else when I’m with him is … well … fear.”
The Husband List Page 12