“Yes, I am. Now kindly close your mouth and take a seat.”
He flinched at her impudence. “Young woman, I am here on a matter of great importance, with nothing less at stake than family honor.”
Her posture stiffened. “In the first place, you may call me ‘Miss McAllister.’ I’ll thank you to remember to whom you are speaking. And in the second place, I know precisely why you are here.”
An angry retort died on his lips. “You do?” he said slowly, wondering how she could possibly ascertain his intentions.
“Of course,” she replied, rising from her chair. The fabric of her blue dress cascaded to the floor. “You are not the first man to step over our threshold who has found himself experiencing some degree of financial embarrassment. You might even say that gentlemen who have fallen on hard times provide our stock-in-trade.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do they?”
“There’s no shame in earning an honest wage. A good hard day’s work would do many gentlemen a world of good. Including you, I daresay.”
The affront was almost more than he could stand. It was bad enough that the saucy woman had mistaken him for someone else. But to upbraid his character without the benefit of even a formal introduction was beyond tolerable.
“Nevertheless,” she continued, crossing her arms at her chest, “we more than anyone appreciate the importance of tact. After all, modeling has been a much maligned profession.”
He almost laughed. Tact was something this girl knew nothing of. As he debated how best to put her in her place, something she said buzzed in his head like an angry hornet. Modeling?
“You will find that at this school, educational candor is valued above all else. These young ladies are taught a broad range of subjects, without capitulating to what is deemed acceptable for members of our sex. To the outside world, however, our curriculum may raise a few eyebrows. Your involvement in the program will be treated with discretion for as long as we have yours.”
Marshall had not ascended to the rank of captain in the Royal Navy without learning how to deal with an adversary. And something told him that it would be far more effectual to get the information he sought by concealing his intent rather than disclosing it.
“Indeed. That had been a concern of mine.”
“What is your name?”
“Marshall.”
The woman returned to the desk and pulled out a fresh piece of paper from a box of stationery. She laid it upon a graph she had been working on when he had arrived. “Well, Mr. Marshall, have you ever done any modeling before?”
“I can’t say that I have, no. But I have been told that I’m not too hard on the eyes.”
“Hmm,” floated back her pert response. “I suppose if the room were dark enough.”
Marshall shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
She scribbled something down. “Your hair is flaxen, your eyes are blue . . . how tall are you?”
“Six feet, three inches.”
“A large fellow.”
“I come from good Oxfordshire stock.”
She glanced up from the sheet. “I’ve no wish to discuss your relatives. No matter what manner of farmyard species they came from.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. This girl was a complete surprise to him. Proper ladies of his acquaintance rarely disagreed with him, let alone offended him. She had a nerve—no, the bloody cheek—to treat him this way. He looked around the room. There were paintings hanging on the walls, each one made intriguing by a mysterious image—an idyllic countryside with a darkened wood to one side, a woman cradling a locked box, two people at a ball wearing masks. All of them seemed to be painted by the same hand.
“Will you be the one I shall be posing for?”
“Not exclusively. I lead a class on art, and I will need a model for our next lesson. Seeing as you’re the only applicant who has presented himself, I expect you may have to do.”
He pursed his lips. “Please don’t flatter me. It goes to my head.”
She smirked, and it lent her face a wicked charm. Her skin was lovely . . . fair and luminous, offset by her striking red hair. Her eyes were like cut emeralds, sparkling with a lively intelligence. Her mouth was like a rosebud, pink and kissable, and he experienced a rogue desire to make that mouth moan instead of smirk. This meeting had completely veered off his intended course, but he was intrigued by the prospect of the fresh adventure. This woman warranted exploration.
“The job pays a guinea an hour. If I engage you, I’ll want you to pose for no more than two hours at a time.”
It was a generous wage. Clearly, this woman had no idea that anyone off the street would pose for a twentieth that price.
“When shall I start?”
She stiffened. “I said if I engage you. You haven’t been given the position yet.”
He couldn’t help but smile. He was beginning to understand how her mind worked. There was another volley of mortar fire coming, and he had to let her launch her attack. She wasn’t about to give an inch without first taking a foot.
He clasped his hands. “What must I do to be hired?”
“I’ll need a proper look at you. Stand up.”
He ground his teeth at her commanding manner.
“Over there, in the light.” She strolled up to him and took a closer look. She walked around him, examining him from all angles. The top of her chignon came to just below his shoulder.
“Well, Admiral?” he quipped. “Do I pass muster?”
“I haven’t even begun my inspection yet. Take off your clothes.”
The sardonic grin was torn from his face. “I beg your pardon?”
She looked him squarely in the face. “Take off your clothes so that I can get a better look at you. You can’t expect me to hire you on the basis of a smile.”
“You want me to pose nude?”
“Why should you appear so surprised? My advertisement called for a male model to pose à la française. Did you think that meant I would serve you up with croutons?”
Marshall shook his head in amazement. “Miss McAllister, aren’t you afraid of what this compromising situation will do to your reputation? Or to that of the school?”
She walked over to the window and untethered the drapes. The fabric swished over the window, muting the light in the room. “There is no one else watching.”
His rational judgment began to dissolve in the rising tide of his fascination. What an audacious woman this was. And yet, as he began to tug at the knot of his cravat, her eyes drifted to the floor.
He studied her intently as he pulled off his coat. A muscle in her throat tensed, and color suffused her face.
He pulled the linen shirt over his head and dropped it on the chair with the rest of his clothes. Naked to the waist, he waited for her to look up at him, but her gaze was riveted to the floor. His hands went to unbutton his trousers when a soft voice stopped him.
“That’ll do for now,” she said. Finally, she looked up at him.
Marshall watched as her eyes traveled nervously across his broad chest. She was too uneasy to assess him properly, and he wondered briefly if this exercise was just a childish display of power. But she was visibly shaken by what she saw, and despite her bravado, he wondered if she had ever before beheld a man in a state of undress.
He watched in growing amusement as she timidly inspected him from different angles. Her rushed, unsteady breathing betrayed her nervousness. Though her crossed arms attempted to communicate a distant reserve, her whole body was as tight as a manrope knot. It was as clear as daylight. She was attracted to him.
“You may have the job,” she said finally from behind him.
“Thank you.”
“On one condition.”
He turned around to face her. “Yes?”
“You must tell me how you acquired those scars.”
“Perhaps.”
She blinked up at him.
“If you ask me nicely.”
The
haughty expression returned, and her full lips thinned. “You may get dressed now. I shall open the drapes.”
As she walked past him, he reached out and grabbed her forearm. Her body jerked back and collided with his. “Just a moment,” he said, snaking his arm around her waist. She looked up at him in equal parts panic and fascination. She tried to push herself away, but everywhere her hands touched his bare flesh. In the hollow of her throat, her heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird.
He lowered his head to within inches of hers. “I have a condition or two of my own.”
“I beg your—”
“First, I will want to know more about this institution of yours. I have a keen interest in the sort of education you offer, especially when I am asked to be a part of it.”
She tried to pull herself free, but his arm was as immovable as a branch of oak. “And second?”
“The second I shall reserve for a later time. I wouldn’t want you to think me too presumptuous.” He softened his arm, and she slithered away. For the first time, her sharp tongue was silent.
The girl retreated behind the desk, presumably to gather her wits. He grabbed his shirt and slipped it over his head, the voluminous fabric falling below his hips.
“Shall I begin Monday?”
She nodded.
“Ten in the morning?”
“No.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “Eight in the evening. You must use the servant’s entrance through the back. Is that understood?”
“Of course. We must observe the strictures of propriety.”
“Precisely.”
“Speaking of propriety . . . would you mind terribly?”
“Would I mind terribly what?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Turning around. I must unbutton my trousers in order to tuck in my shirt.”
Wide-eyed, she glanced between his legs before spinning toward the wall.
Once she was facing the opposite direction, Marshall leaned over her desk and stole a peek at the chart she had been working on. He caught one phrase—“Erotic Literature”—and knew he had to take it. Gingerly, he pulled the sheet out and flattened it against his abdomen before tucking his shirt into his trousers.
“Miss McAllister,” he began as he buttoned his waistcoat down the front, “I do hope that I will prove satisfactory in my commission. The last thing I wish to do is disappoint your students—or you for that matter. You will of course let me know how to best please you.”
She turned around to face him, and he saw that it had happened again, that telltale blush that darkened her cheek. It was like reading her thoughts—and lascivious ones they were.
“Perhaps there is one thing you can do to accommodate me, Mr. Marshall.”
He jerked on his coat. “Anything.”
“Do try to leave your colossal arrogance at home. Copernicus has already decreed that you are not the center of the universe.”
He smiled in spite of the cut, and bowed curtly. “If I were, I would no doubt be incinerated by the warmth from your sunny disposition.”
Marshall tethered his horse outside the Hart & Hound. Although his father had been a longstanding member of White’s Club, Marshall himself preferred the more pedestrian drinking establishments. There was nothing like the smell of sawdust and roasting ham while one downed a swift half.
A trip to the water closet let him remove the pilfered cache from inside his shirt. He sat down at a table, ordered his ale, and began to read.
His blue eyes danced over the schedule, which outlined all the lectures for the week. There were classes scheduled during the day, which centered on history, music, and myriad other mundane subjects.
But his mouth fell open when he read what was being organized for the evenings. Monday’s class was Painting the Nude Male Form. Tuesday’s was Bringing Erotic Literature to Life, followed by Wednesday’s Sensual Kissing, and Thursday’s Using Your Hands to Bring Pleasure to His Body and Yours. His mind turned to his sister. Now he knew why his sister was accused of being “demonstrative.” Miss McAllister was teaching her pupils to become seductresses!
His drink arrived and he took a large swallow. School for the Womanly Arts indeed! The education that Justine received had cost her her fiancé and him his freedom from the tedium of the London Season. No doubt to his sister these lectures were an awakening of sorts, opening her mind to the seamier side of social interaction. But even at her age, she was better off remaining an innocent. It was difficult enough to find her a potential husband at twenty-nine, but it would be impossible if she started to let attraction determine her choice of prospective husbands.
Attractive. Marshall took a slow sip of his ale as he reread the names of the evening lectures. That sassy Miss McAllister had awakened every nerve that had lain dormant since he left his ship. She was a tangle of contradictions. Strait-laced and haughty, but far from being a lady. Fiery red hair that accounted for her incredible daring, but cheeks that blushed with the awareness of being discovered. A buxom figure that would fill a man’s hands, but he doubted she’d allowed any man access to it. The face of a good girl, but the mouth of a bad one. He chuckled. That mouth, at once impertinent and alluring—the thought of it ignited a slow burn in his trousers. The corners of his lips lifted at the thought of the exciting venture she presented.
He sighed, folding the sheet of paper and slipping it into his coat pocket. If word of this school ever got out, Miss McAllister would not be the only one to suffer. Every student who’d ever matriculated would be tainted, his own sister included. They would be shunned by Society, ostracized by any decent family. Despite her dowry, no upstanding gentleman would ever marry Justine. But any bounder and cad would. He would never allow that to happen.
The school ought to be closed down, quietly and without incident. But how on earth was he going to get the indomitable Miss McAllister to see reason? He had to find a way to force her to close, short of burning the place down.
SEVEN
All day Monday, Athena kept glancing at the clock on the mantel. At first, she could not wait for evening to come around. Mr. Tremayne, the lecturer on the subject of servant management, whom she had scheduled to speak for two hours that morning, droned on for more than five. All twelve of her students were valiantly fighting drowsiness. Only the promised art class with a live male model kept them alert.
But after the apothecary had left, Athena began to dread the appointed hour with Mr. Marshall. It was bad enough that she had dropped her chilly reserve of authority with him; worse still was the way she lost her composure altogether. Instead of a mature woman of years in a position of authority, she dissolved into a weak, virginal female. His embrace had completely robbed her of any aloofness. How formal could she remain in the arms of a partially naked man? But the real humiliation was in his ability to read her discomfiture. Even now, when she thought of it, she groaned inwardly.
The ladies had practically raced through supper to be ready in time for Mr. Marshall’s arrival. The most eager was Miss Drummond, a woman of over thirty who lived as a virtual recluse in her brother’s household. Her eyes lit up behind her round spectacles as she repeatedly asked Athena, “Is he really going to be naked?” with the same bubbly enthusiasm as a child waiting for a sweet.
At the stroke of eight, Athena heard a knock on the back door. She tensed, unaware she was holding her breath. She asked Gert to answer the door.
A few seconds later, Gert opened the door to the parlor and announced him.
Mr. Marshall strode in, wearing a quiet intensity and a crooked smile. He was dressed in a dark green jacket and a skintight cream-colored waistcoat. He looked significantly larger than the last time she saw him, but she suspected that had something to do with the way his body filled the doorframe.
Their eyes met, and he smiled. He effected a curt bow.
“Miss McAllister, I bid you good evening.”
She steeled her haughty reserve. “Mr. Marshall, you’re looking well.”
<
br /> “Thank you. May I sit down?”
“No.”
His blue eyes darted to hers in curious surprise.
She stood up. “This is not a social call, Mr. Marshall. There are a dozen art students upstairs. I’ve no wish to keep them waiting. Through that door is a hallway, and the next door down leads to a water closet. Please use that room to disrobe. There’s a towel inside which you can use to protect your modesty as we go upstairs.”
“I was hoping to be introduced to your students first. Fully clothed, preferably.”
She folded her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Marshall, but perhaps I failed to make you understand your position. What you do outside these walls is of no concern to us. It matters not whether you are a Member of Parliament or a chimney sweep. Within these walls, you are a servant for hire, pure and simple. So there is no need for introductions. You have no name once you go upstairs.”
A muscle tensed in the hollow of his jaw. “You have an annoying habit of putting people in their place.”
“And you have an annoying habit of forgetting yours. To the washroom, if you please.”
He made no move. His eyes stormed over as he stared down at her, as though he were warring with the urge to defy her. Without a word, he strode off in the direction of the door.
His absence from the room filled her with relief. He was clearly not a man accustomed to taking orders, less so from a woman. Hard luck, she reasoned—he was going to have to get used to it. She was proud of the way she stood up to him, her frosty equanimity fully intact. It was the best way to deal with presuming subordinates.
A short while later, the door to the salon opened. In the doorway stood Marshall. He was unclothed from head to foot, with only a narrow towel wrapped around his narrow hips. His wide shoulders practically spanned the doorway, and she realized he looked no less substantial without his clothes. A hood of sinew cloaked his neck, ending at the cannonballs of muscle that formed his shoulders. His chest was smooth and sculpted, like the statues of Greek soldiers in the British Museum, but there ended the comparison, for there was strength and life beneath the sun-kissed skin. A trail of golden hair led down his ridged abdomen, disappearing behind the white towel.
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