“My sister is expecting her second child any day now and she’s ecstatic,” he disclosed almost absentmindedly. “Or so I gather.”
So Lady Ivy was carrying. Viola wasn’t about to ask him to elaborate. “Well, I shan’t be gloomy for her sake. How very lovely for her.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, nodding lightly. “I suspect her husband is beside himself as well.”
Smiling fully at that, she remarked, “No doubt he is, but probably with joy if her first delivery held no problems.”
He didn’t reply to that statement, just continued to watch her, his features unreadable. She turned her attention back to the sketch, now nearly done to her satisfaction, hoping the man would grasp her desire to leave the topic of childbirth, his sister, and especially the past, alone.
“May I ask you another question, Lady Cheshire?” he murmured seconds later.
He certainly didn’t expect her to deny him, with his suddenly silky-smooth tone and the intimacy it implied. Her pulse began to quicken with renewed uncertainty, but she didn’t dare look at him.
“Of course, your grace,” she replied as primly as possible.
He drew in a long breath, then let it out slowly. “You’ve never asked me a single question about my past or interests, my family or home in the country. I wouldn’t find it so unusual in most circumstances, but given that I explicitly told you I believe we’ve met before, I’m . . . curious to know why that is.”
She stilled, staring down at her sketch pad as her mouth went dry. Trying to sound nonchalant, she admitted, “I—I hadn’t really thought about it, actually.”
“No?” he prodded. “You never thought to ask me even general questions about my daily affairs or acquaintances who might be mutual? Never thought about where our paths might have crossed? I even mentioned my sister and you didn’t ask her name, much less where she lives or if she’s titled.”
His gentle affront almost made her angry, though in truth that anger should have been directed at herself rather than him, because his query was perfectly reasonable. If she’d been smart, she would have exchanged pleasantries before now, and not doing so only made such an oversight on her part seem evasive. Then again, she had no reason to think he knew her motives, only that he questioned them.
“I apologize, your grace,” she said sweetly, placing her charcoal pencil back in her needlework basket, then standing, sketchbook in hand. Gaze direct, she continued, “Honestly, I never gave it a thought. Of course I’m curious, and I just assumed your sister was titled and lived in the country.” She spread her free arm wide. “But, as I’ve already said, if we’ve met before, I can’t recall anything about it. And of course it’s not my place to question clients in such a manner, or become too intrusive into their lives, especially those with titles as grand as yours. I’m sure you understand.”
For a second or two he looked as if he might laugh. Then he drawled, “I do, indeed. It’s very . . . noble of you to respect my station, Lady Cheshire.”
His use of such a phrase sounded a bit deriding, and she resisted the ridiculous urge to give him a deep curtsey. Instead, she brushed over his mock praise and walked bravely toward him, chin lifted a fraction for confidence, a satisfied smile planted on her mouth.
“I’ve finished the first drawing, your grace,” she said as she moved to his side, the sketchbook held tight to her bosom. “Perhaps you’d like to see it?”
His brows rose slightly, but he remained sitting. “Absolutely, I would.”
With him still on the stool, the top of his head met her shoulder. She scooted as close to him as she could without touching, then held the sketchbook out at arm’s length so they could view it together.
“It’s only a rough image, but you can better see how the portrait will appear.”
He studied it for a moment, then said, “The likeness is excellent. I’m actually quite . . . delighted with your talent.”
“Thank you, your grace,” she replied politely, though she really felt annoyed, because if she didn’t know better, she’d say he sounded more surprised than pleased. That suddenly made her determined to explain her effort. “May I show you a bit of the process?”
He shot her a fast glance. “The process?”
“How I put the drawing together.”
Confusion crossed his features, and then he acquiesced. “Of course.”
She tipped her head to the side minutely as she turned her attention to the drawing. “The background will be as you like it, probably your form in front of a sunny window in a library, or wherever you wish. Likewise, the colors of your attire can be to your liking, regardless of what you wear to each sitting.” She began skimming specific lines with her fingertip. “You’ll notice the angles of the cheekbones and the squareness of the jaw. Your side whiskers are somewhat short for the average gentleman today, but the look is quite appealing on you. I also tried to give depth to your eyes. You’ve got stunning, dark eyes that tend to show a great vitality, but if I paint the brow too high or thin, the likeness on the portrait may appear too cheerful, and I’d rather give a serious tone to one this formal.”
He nodded very faintly, seemingly engrossed in the work.
She turned her attention to him. “You’ve got a good forehead—not too wide or long, and your skin is excellent. I think, for a stately appeal, I’m going to comb your hair from your face to reveal it.” She reached forward and began to brush the silky strands away from his brow with her fingers. “I think—”
He grabbed her by the wrist, jerking his head back as if she’d scalded him.
She gasped, startled.
He didn’t move, just held her tightly, his gaze intense, penetrating the depths of hers intimately, searching.
Viola swallowed hard and tried to pull away, but he refused to let her go. Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest, now merely inches from his face, their bodies so close she felt instantly enveloped—trapped—by his presence.
“I’m sorry, your grace,” she said hoarsely, trying to wriggle her wrist from his grasp to no avail.
And then he blinked, shaking his head negligibly as if returning from a trance, his brows furrowing in confusion.
“Your grace?” she whispered again.
Slowly, he lowered his lashes and stared at her breasts, their top curves tantalizingly revealed by her tight, low-cut bodice. She grew breathless and warm from the scrutiny as his gaze lingered, and for a timeless moment she feared he might actually lean forward three inches and lay his cheek against them, kiss them with need.
The air seemed to crackle around them, charged by memories she held deeply within of a time he had clung to her in desperation. Suddenly her greatest fear was that by touching him innocently, she’d stirred whatever bits he might remember of it, too.
“Viola . . . ,” he murmured.
Her eyes widened as he whispered her given name, but she remained still, held perilously in his control, uncertain what to do or say, if anything. Seconds ticked by until finally he drew in a sharp breath and looked up once more at her face.
A fierce heat lit his eyes when his gaze captured hers, and the intense hunger she witnessed in their dark depths made her heart skip a beat and her stomach twist in knots.
He remembers something. . . .
And then, abruptly, the fire died. The mood in her studio shifted as she watched his lids narrow seductively and his handsome mouth curved into a wry smile. As if he willed himself to completely alter his demeanor, he no longer seemed disoriented or aroused, but rather returned to the disarming, intimidating gentleman he’d been when he’d arrived. He still held her wrist, but his grasp had become gentle as he began to rub the pad of his thumb along her sensitive skin. Seconds later, he raised her hand and gingerly placed his soft lips on her curled fingertips.
Stunned, her knees wobbled beneath he
r and she almost dropped the sketchbook she still clung to like a lifeboat. But she couldn’t look away.
He watched her closely as he moved his head back and forth to caress her knuckles with a delicate, side to side brushing of his mouth. She shivered from the contact, her insides heating with an immediate sexual longing she remembered but hadn’t felt in years. Then raising her hand even higher, he cocked his head slightly and kissed her wrist, peck after small peck, his warm breath teasing her deliciously until she nearly fainted.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against her. “I can’t help myself when you’re so near.”
In a manner, she believed him, and yet his attention to her now wasn’t anything like the desire she’d instinctively felt from him and beheld in his eyes only moments ago. Now it seemed forced—as if there were two sides to his thoughts and feelings. As if his actions were planned.
With a renewed strength, her emotions grounded, she attempted to pull her hand away from him again, and this time he released her.
He stood as she took a step back from him, and in some form of self-defense, she clutched her sketchbook to her bosom with both hands.
“You know I want to kiss you, Viola,” he murmured huskily.
She raised her chin a fraction, growing furious with his apparent notion that he could dominate her as he pleased, that she would abide by his every desire or whim. She had given up such allowances when she’d left her overbearing family in Winter Garden, and for a final time when her husband had died, and she didn’t need another man making choices for her now. Especially one who used her female nature against her. But worst of all, the worst feeling of all, after the last few moments, was that she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t acting. Or lying for a nefarious reason.
Holding his gaze, pulse racing, her face no doubt bright pink to his satisfaction, she smiled flatly and replied with prim sarcasm, “You do strike me as a man who would enjoy that kind of small diversion, your grace, but I don’t think it would be in my best interest to let you. And of course it would get in the way of our professional association.”
His brows rose; his lips twitched. She couldn’t tell if he was surprised or amused, but if she had to guess, she would say he was both. She didn’t bother to wait for his response, however. Quickly, she stepped past him and walked back to her small desk, placed her sketchbook atop it, rang the bell for a servant, then turned and faced him squarely, hands folded in front of her.
“I believe we’re done for today anyway. My butler will show you out—”
He was upon her in three strides.
As swiftly as he grabbed her upper arms with both hands, he yanked her against him, his mouth coming down on hers not harshly, but firm with purpose.
A squeal escaped her at the initial contact, and for a slice of an instant, she thought to shove him away and scream. Then all negative thoughts vanished as he began to coax her lips apart with his, tease her into submission with a gentle urging that melted her within and forced a whimper from her throat.
Her sound of submission encouraged him. Releasing her arms, he wrapped his own around her and pulled her closer, hugging her fully with a palm to her back, another on her neck, his fingers brushing the hair at her nape. His mouth assaulted hers exquisitely, making every nerve in her body come alive, reminding her of the pleasure that only a man could give. His tongue skimmed her upper lip, then drove inside, and she welcomed it with a teasing of her own, mesmerized by his feel, his taste, his scent. Locked in his embrace, she could do nothing but accept him, and just as she wrapped her arms around his lower body and surrendered to desire, he paused, and then very slowly raised his head.
Viola felt him reach for her hands and pull them from him as he took a step back. Her lashes fluttered open, and in a daze, she looked up at his face.
He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, his breathing coming fast and hard as he tried to gain his own control.
Suddenly, she heard a low cough behind him, and remembering that she’d rung the bell before he’d charged at her, she realized, with total mortification, that they were not alone.
“Don’t underestimate me, Lady Cheshire,” he whispered for her ears only, a smirk upon his mouth. “I’m not easily brushed aside.”
Furious, wanting to slap his handsome face for taking advantage and embarrassing her, she tried to react but realized at once that he still held her hands. And then as he smiled and released her fully, stepping away to allow her to view a newly hired footman sheepishly fidgeting in the doorway, she cringed inside as she began to understand exactly what he’d done. Servants talked, and by the end of the day the entire neighborhood would know that the young Widow Cheshire, so recently out of mourning, had been caught kissing the Duke of Chatwin in her studio, not innocently, but with passion. Within the week, most of good society would be heeding the delectable news, and although it likely wouldn’t ruin her, she had now become the gossip of the season.
As if sensing her fury, her humiliation, he said loud enough for all, “Forgive me, madam, but I was . . . overcome by your good charms. Of course I didn’t mean to take advantage.”
He cleared his throat, then shot a quick glance to her footman before looking back into her eyes.
“I’ll see you Friday for our next appointment.”
He’d posed that as a statement, not a question, which didn’t allow her to criticize his actions and turn him away to save herself a bit of disgrace. Frankly, he dared her to deny him, a man of power and prestige, which he knew she would not do.
Coldly, she replied, “Perhaps we’ll work in the garden next time, your grace. Being out in the open air will do us both some good, don’t you think?”
For seconds he did nothing as a sly grin spread across his mouth. And then, to her utter astonishment, he winked—winked—at her, then nodded once, turned, and walked toward her footman, who led him from her studio.
Viola clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself not to smash the windows in her rage. The man had nerve, she was forced to admit, but she was smart, too, and wouldn’t again be so cleverly cornered.
He had upped the stakes, indeed. But by Friday, she vowed, she would be ready for him.
Chapter Six
I put the candle behind me today, so he couldn’t see my face inside my cloak. He asked me my name, but I didn’t dare speak. He is frightened, and his heartache is so intense. . . .
Viola stepped inside the Chelsea office of Leopold Duncan, Esquire, her solicitor of many years. The morning had been quite warm and sunny, and the small room in which she now stood felt as stuffy as the coach she’d just exited. But that was irrelevant. She didn’t intend to stay long, and hadn’t actually planned to see him today until she’d received an urgent note from him insisting upon an immediate meeting.
After closing her parasol and hanging it on the rack beside the door, she removed her peach lace gloves and greeted the man’s assistant, Calvin Bartlett, with a nod and a brief good morning. Moments later he ushered her into Duncan’s private office, where she found the man seated behind his massive desk, pen in hand as he scribbled on a sheet of paper.
He looked up when he heard her enter, then stood abruptly, his deep-set eyes bright, his round, pockmarked face cheery as always.
“Ahh, good morning, Lady Cheshire,” he said with an abundance of gaiety, pulling down on his waistcoat in an attempt to cover his wide belly as he moved toward her.
She smiled and held out her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Duncan. I see you’re looking well.”
“As are you, madam,” he replied, taking her fingers with his and bowing quickly to brush them with his lips. “Please be seated.”
She did as directed, walking to an oversized, velveteen chair and lowering her body with grace to sit upon the edge. He only had two chairs in the room besides his own, and they were both so full of flu
ff that one naturally sank into them inelegantly if not careful. In fact, everything in Duncan’s office was either fluffy, enormous, or both, including his curtains, desk, chairs, artwork and frames, even the fireplace, and she knew for a fact that it had been decorated by his wife. Everything, aside from his dark brown desk and the large painting of red roses above the mantel, was the color of the summer sky and accented with yards of frilly, white lace.
“So, what information do you have for me that’s so very important?” she asked breezily, folding her hands over her gloves and reticule in her lap. “I assume it’s about the auction Saturday?”
Duncan fairly grunted as he plopped his round figure down onto the seat of his chair again. “Indeed, it is,” he replied, leaning forward to fold his hands together on top of all the scattered paperwork. “I received an unusual visit yesterday from an agent of inquiry, requesting that I speak to you immediately about selling the Bartlett-James drawing.”
Forehead creased, she repeated, “An agent of . . . inquiry?”
“An investigator,” he clarified. “Privately hired.”
She shook her head, thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan, I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but . . . privately hired to do what, exactly?”
“Apparently to broker a purchase,” he replied at once.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I admit I was a bit puzzled myself at first. I’m a solicitor, not a museum curator.” He chuckled at that, reaching up to scratch his side-whiskers. “But what I gathered from our brief conversation is that apparently this agent works for a banker who represents an anonymous individual who would like to make an offer to buy your drawing before the auction, sight unseen. He’s also willing to negotiate the price.”
It took her several long moments to fully grasp the implications of all that he was saying. She’d never been personally approached by a buyer for a specific sale before, and at any other time, in any other instance, she might have brushed such information off as somewhat surprising but rather trivial. Yet for more than one reason, this new and unusual development made her uneasy.
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