Love's Portrait

by Monica Burns

  He barely nodded his head before turning away from her. It had been a long time since he’d been this miserable. Of course, he had no one to blame but himself. All the signs of an impending migraine had been there, he’d simply ignored them.

  The most puzzling thing was Julia’s behavior. It had only been a few days since she’d lost their wager, and every time he’d said even a word to her, she’d presented a stony façade that he’d been unable to shatter. It made this gentle, caring demeanor of hers all the more confusing. And the last thing he liked, aside from migraines, was being confused.

  Women never confused him. He confused them. It had become an art form with him. His head reverberated with a jolt of pain. He failed to suppress the groan that poured out of him. Damn it to hell, would this infernal carriage not stop. As if hearing the unspoken curse, the coach rolled to a halt, and he steeled himself for another performance just to get to his rooms. The silk of her glove touched his bare hand.

  “I instructed the driver to take us to the back of the hotel. I didn’t want you to feel it necessary to repeat the heroics you displayed at your offices.”

  There was no censure in her voice, but there was the distinct thread of humor. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have taken the time to make an appropriate retort. Instead, he grimaced. Moving his head was too painful. The carriage door opened and Julia exited to turn and wait for him to climb out of the vehicle.

  The fresh air gave him a renewed sense of energy, and he steadied himself against the black lacquered panels of his carriage. A warm body slid up along side him as she wrapped an arm around his waist to guide him. Grateful for her help, he put one foot forward after the other until they reached the hotel’s back door. As a bustle of activity exploded around him, he pitched forward into a black hole.

  Chapter 4

  Morgan’s room was every bit as decadent as she remembered, and a shudder went through her as she watched two footmen lift his tall, sturdy frame onto the bed. She’d lost her bet to him almost a week ago, and the blasted man had yet to send her a note or pay her a call to arrange for the collection of his winnings. But he’d been nothing but pleasant since the Society’s auction.

  Silently, she cursed her stupidity at having entered into a wager with him. St. Claire’s silence in the matter was nerve wracking. Even in spite of his solicitous manner, she found herself waiting for the man to claim his one night with her when she least expected it. Such a tactic had been one of her late husband’s finer skills—surprise was how Oscar had controlled her. That, along with fear and criticism.

  Distancing herself from the painful memory of her repressive marriage, she looked toward the bed where Morgan lay. He stirred something in her she’d thought long dead. She bit her lip at the thought. It alarmed her to know she was attracted to the man. He was a threat to everything she’d fought so hard to achieve since Oscar’s death.

  With a man like Morgan St. Claire, her independence would be at stake. The man was used to getting his way with everything and everyone in his world. He didn’t like to be thwarted. At the same time she’d found him a thoughtful and considerate employer. Morgan seemed to truly care about the people working for him. Especially disconcerting was how he’d taken extra time with her over the past few days explaining how the shipping industry worked. He’d answered all her questions patiently and without condescension. That fact alone had attracted her to the man all the more.

  The footmen, having closed the drapes and lit candles, passed the hotel’s head housekeeper on their way out of the room. Tall and thin, Mrs. Welkins entered with a tray of rags and bowl of water. As she set her burden on the nightstand beside Morgan’s bed, the woman turned to face her.

  “Thank you for agreeing to tend to Mr. St. Claire for a short time, ma’am. I have several other things to attend to before I can return, and he’ll be wanting his tea when he wakes up so I must set that out to brew. I promise not be too long.”

  “I’m happy to help, Mrs. Welkins. My father suffered from migraines, and I’m familiar with what needs to be done.”

  With a grateful smile, the woman left her alone with Morgan. Sighing softly, Julia removed her hat and snaked the hatpin through the plumes. Carelessly, she dropped it onto a nearby chair along with her gloves before moving to the side of the bed.

  Morgan’s face had lost some of the harsh lines that emphasized his commanding nature. At the moment, he appeared defenseless, almost boyish in his expression. She was certain he wouldn’t like anyone seeing him this way, least of all her. With a gentle touch, Julia pushed a lock of chestnut hair off his forehead. Flustered by her actions, she quickly turned to the bowl of lavender-scented water Mrs. Welkins had left.

  Her fingers swished a rag in the water as she seated herself on the edge of the massive bed. She gave the cloth a sharp twist then with a light touch laid it across Morgan’s forehead. For some reason, it seemed quite natural for her to be here—tending to this man.

  It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but it was confusing. Her fingers tingled from the heat of his skin as she adjusted the cloth on his forehead. There was a pinched set to his firm mouth. Even in repose, he seemed in pain. She shook her head slightly at the memory of him walking past his shipping clerks as if he was hale and hearty. It had been nothing short of magnificent.

  With a frown, she retrieved another rag to soak in the scented water. She didn’t want to find Morgan St. Claire magnificent. She didn’t want to think or feel anything about him. The man was a rake—a dangerous one at that. With his handsome face and silk-edged compliments, it was understandable why women fell at his feet. But she had no intention of being classified a St. Claire woman.

  The man might have won their wager, but he would never win her mind or heart. She would see to that. Water droplets wet her palm as she gently dampened Morgan’s pale features. There was an intimacy to her actions that disconcerted her. Unwillingly, her gaze drifted down to a strong, tanned neck showing through the open folds of a white shirt. The footmen had removed his jacket, stock pin and tie then undone the top few buttons of his shirt. The vee revealed only a small portion of his throat and chest, but it was enough to make her imagination soar.

  She bit her lip as her gaze roved over the length of him. The sight of his large hands on the black bedspread brought to mind the way he had pulled her into his arms the night he’d caught her stealing his handkerchief. His lips had seared hers and the memory was so vivid her fingers flew up to her burning mouth. She’d never been kissed like that in her life, and she’d liked it. It had made her feel wicked and daring.

  It was the same sensation she’d experienced when she’d posed for her portrait. Swallowing the knot of confusion that tightened her throat, she shook her head slightly. The man was far too attractive for her peace of mind. God only knew what would happen to her when he demanded she make good on their wager.

  She’d gotten herself into such a mess and there was no way out of it. Even more disturbing was the fact she might find it almost impossible to avoid succumbing to his charms. She scowled at the thought. There had to be some way to put an emotional barrier between them.

  Her gaze drifted back to his face, noting the tightness at the corners of his mouth had eased somewhat. The cloth on his forehead had lost its coolness, so she lifted it from his head and soaked it again. Replacing the damp cloth on his skin, she was pulling away when a strong hand gripped her wrist.

  Startled, she froze. The last time she’d been held her so fast, she’d been tied to a bed while Oscar rutted on top of her. Julia suppressed the hideous memory and fought not to jerk out of his grasp. It would only arouse his curiosity. Something she didn’t want. Julia focused her gaze on Morgan’s face and saw his eyes were still closed.

  “You may leave now, Julia.” His voice was husky, almost hoarse.

  “And if I go, who will change the cloth on your forehead?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “I told Mrs. Welkins I’d wait for her retur
n.” Stubbornness had to be this man’s most annoying trait. She glared at him, mentally challenging him to look at her. He didn’t. Instead, his long finger rubbed against the inside of her wrist in the manner of a blind man. The simple gesture filled her belly with fire. His eyes still closed, the corners of his mouth tilted up in a slight smile.

  “As soft as I’ve imagined.”

  “Stop that.” She tried to tug herself free, but his grip simply tightened around her wrist. It startled her that she didn’t feel panic at his restraint. If anything, her only fear was that she found his touch far too pleasant.

  “I like the feel of your skin beneath my fingers.”

  “I care little for what you like, St. Claire. Release me this instant,” she snapped as the fire spreading across her skin only exacerbated the fear inside her.

  “Ahh, there it is again, that waspish tone.” His fingers relinquished his hold on her, and she stumbled to her feet. She watched him slowly open his eyes to meet her gaze with just a hint of the irreverent mischief she was accustomed to seeing in him.

  “Whatever are you referring to?”

  “You get defensive whenever you’re frightened.”

  “I do not.” She scowled at the way his mouth twisted with amusement. “You’re right. I should leave. You no longer have need of me.”

  With a final glare in his direction, she wheeled about and walked stiffly toward the chair where she’d left her hat and gloves. She’d only taken a few steps when a loud crash, mingled with a weary oath of frustration, filled the air behind her. Whirling around, she saw Morgan flop wearily back into the mattress. At the foot of the nightstand, the bowl of lavender water lay in pieces on the floor. Annoyed by his bullheadedness, she returned to the bedside and adjusted his pillows none too gently.

  “You, Morgan St. Claire, are the most obstinate man I’ve ever met. One of these days, that pride of yours is going to cause you to fall flat on your face.” Straightening, she scowled down at him with her hands on her hips.

  “Your confidence is one of the most intriguing things about you, Julia. I like a confident woman in my bed,” he murmured with obvious exhaustion.

  The observation stunned her. How on earth could he possibly think she was confident? She was the least self-assured person she knew. “I am not in your bed, St. Claire.”

  “But you will be, and quite soon, I think.” His words were soft, almost as if he were talking to himself.to

  “Then collect your damned prize and leave me be.” She turned away, only to feel the warmth of his hand on her wrist once more.

  “You are definitely a prize, my sweet, but I’ll collect my treasure at a time of my choosing, not yours.” Despite the pain furrowing his brow, his dark blue gaze held a possessive gleam that set her heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil.

  Mesmerized, she stared down at Morgan, knowing the reckoning between them would not be avoided. She flicked her tongue out to wet her dry lips, and his eyes narrowed with an emotion that alarmed and exhilarated her in the same breath. Good Lord—she was far too attracted to this man. Heaven help her if she became involved with him. The man would control and manipulate her until he tired of her, and then where would she be. Lost.

  Her gaze fell on his fingers holding her fast. The sudden image of her hands bound in a black necktie made her shudder. She’d lived that hellish existence while Oscar was alive. He’d been a bastard, but he’d taught her one thing. Never let anyone control her. Never again.

  Jerking free of Morgan’s hand, she knelt to clean up the pieces of broken china, while using the last of the cloths to soak up the spilled water. To hell with the man’s headache, he could reuse the cloth he’d been using. He was deliberately tormenting her, keeping her on pins and needles as she waited for him to demand she make good on their wager. But he had no intention of telling her when, he simply enjoyed making her stew and wait until he surprised her with his demand for payment. If there was one thing she hated, it was surprises.

  Oscar had always taken great pleasure in surprising her, but they’d always been unpleasant events. Never anything pleasurable.

  Using one of the cloths from the nightstand, she swept it across the floor to wipe up the water. The sudden sharp edge of a broken piece of porcelain she’d missed cut into her finger and she yelped. She climbed to her feet to examine the wound under the light of the candle.

  “Let me see.”

  His harsh command grated each and every one of her nerve endings. She wouldn’t have cut herself if it hadn’t been for his pig-headed behavior. With a shake of her head, she tossed him a disdainful glance over her shoulder before studying the small cut in the light of the candle.

  “I’m fine. It’s a small cut.”

  “Let me see your finger, Julia.” The soft words contained a warning note, and she glared at him again before thrusting her hand toward him.

  “As I said, it’s an insignificant cut.”

  He studied her finger for a moment then released her hand. His mouth tightened into a firm line as he turned his head away from her. Scowling at him in frustration, she stalked away from his bedside to where she’d dropped her gloves. With quick, jerky movements, she tugged on first one glove and then the other.

  Blast the man and his arrogance. The sooner she escaped this den of decadence, the better. It was disturbing enough to know she would return in the future, and not solely of her own volition, but because of her foolish tongue.

  As she reached the door, his voice made her pause. “I shall call on you in two days, Julia.”

  “I’m afraid I have plans.” She threw a glance over her shoulder to see him lying still on the bed, his eyes closed.

  “Two days, Julia.”

  There was no need for him to say anything else. She knew exactly what he meant without any further explanation on his part. If she didn’t make herself available to him in two days time, he would extract a price she would not find pleasant. No, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was she might find the punishment Morgan St. Claire decreed suitable as being far too much to her liking. Not about to answer his autocratic command, she left the room.

  ∫

  Head bent over her needlepoint, Julia stiffened as the sound of voices in the foyer drifted up the stairs and into the salon. It was easy to distinguish Morgan’s voice from that of her butler, Calvert. A tremor shot through her as she heard heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. What to do? Greet him as though he were expected? No, far better to make it appear that his visit was of little consequence.

  Once more, she returned her attention to the complex bird of paradise pattern in her hands. She punched the needle through the material just as he entered the parlor. Slowly, she turned her attention toward him in an attempt to illustrate her indifference. There was a smile of amusement on his face, almost as if he could read her mind.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. St. Claire. I trust you’re feeling better?”

  “Exceedingly so.”

  Glancing back down at her work, she tied off her thread, surprised by the small silence filling the room. She darted a look in his direction to find him studying her with narrowed eyes. He looked every inch the gentleman in his dark blue suit coat with gray vest and trousers. Still, even dressed in the height of fashion, there was a dangerous edge about him. Determined not to lose her composure, she arched an eyebrow as she met his gaze.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea? My cook was preparing some scones earlier, I’m certain they’re done by now.”

  “I think a cup of tea would suit me well.”

  Setting her work on the half-oval shaped table next to her wing-backed chair, she rose to her feet. Unnerved by his presence more than she cared to admit, she pressed one hand against the jade silk of her afternoon gown as she moved to ring for tea. The white lace on the sleeve tickled her wrist, reminding her of how he’d stroked her skin the other day. Disturbed by the memory, she tugged on the bell cord a trifle harder than she should have.


  A sudden movement flashed just on the edge of her vision, and she jumped slightly before turning to face him. He’d moved to stand in front of the brass fire screen, his gaze focused on the small fire burning in the grate. There was tension in his jaw line and she tipped her head to one side.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Immediately his expression changed as he turned to look at her, his smile filled with breathtaking charm. “Not at all, being in your company is exceptionally pleasant.”

  “Please save your flattery for someone more susceptible to your charms, St. Claire.”

  “You seem to enjoy challenging me. The question is what will you do when I accept?” There was a hint of seduction in his voice that sent a shiver down her back.

  “It was not my intent to challenge.” She moved toward the center of the room and drew in a sigh of relief at the sight of Calvert entering with a tray of tea and scones. The butler set his burden on the low table in front of the burgundy velvet couch.

  “When you rang, Cook thought you would want tea brought up to the salon, madame.”

  “That was most thoughtful of her. Please thank her for me, Calvert.”

  The short, stocky servant smiled, then bowed and left the room. To her dismay, he closed the door behind him. Why on earth hadn’t she thought to tell him to leave it open. It was bad enough St. Claire was here at all, let alone taking tea with her in such intimate conditions. It might make the servants think the man was courting her. After all, Oscar had been dead for sometime and it wasn’t unheard of for widows to marry again.

  Marriage. No. Almost ten years of torment was more than enough for a lifetime. She could still see Oscar sitting in the chair at the fireplace, berating her for speaking to the wrong person at a social gathering. The first time she’d protested, he’d slapped her. The sting of his abuse tingled its way over her skin once more, and she automatically lifted a hand to her cheek. It infuriated him when she would try to explain. She’d learned to tread carefully from that point forward.