by Diana Quincy
Warmth and something else tingled deep in Emilia’s belly as she watched the man she’d almost married fencing with her father. Hamilton Sparrow was undoubtedly the most beautiful person she’d ever laid eyes on. She stared at his defined chest and the rippled splendor of his stomach beneath skin that glistened with perspiration.
She sighed. If kissing him had taught her anything, it was that intimacy with Sparrow held the promise of great passion and pleasure. Sadly, that promise would never be fully realized.
He had no interest in marrying her; he’d certainly made that as clear as a fine spring day the other day at the museum. She’d pretended not to care, just as she’d done five years ago when he’d jilted her just before their wedding, even as her heart had quietly shattered.
Straightening, she drew a long, determined breath. This time Sparrow’s rejection would not destroy her. She’d grown up enough in these past five years to harden herself against him. He’d never break her heart again. She wouldn’t allow it.
Picking up the charcoal pencil, she resumed her work, using the crosshatching technique to define the pronounced musculature in his arms. Arms that had held her just a few days ago. Swallowing against the aching thickness in her throat, she pushed carnal thoughts of Sparrow out of her mind; she must regard him as a subject and nothing more.
Her future lay with Edmund and, when the time came, she’d go willingly to his bed. They would build a life together. One day, surely, the painful remembrances of Sparrow would be forever banished.
She worked diligently, her pencil racing across the page, shading the muscles, re-creating the mysterious indent at both sides of his hips while, down below, the men paused to take a break.
“I’m pleased you could come today,” her father said. “I needed someone to put me through my paces.”
“And you’ve put me through mine.” There was silence as both men gulped water. And then Sparrow spoke again. “I do have a rather delicate matter to discuss with you, sir.”
“Oh?” Interest sounded in Papa’s voice. “What?”
“There are some disturbing truths I’ve discovered about Edmund Worsely that you should be aware of before the nuptials go forward.”
Emilia’s pencil froze. She put the sketchbook aside and peered through the white marble posts to where the men stood on the floor below.
“Continue.” Her father’s voice.
“To begin with, Worsely is not as flush in the pockets as most of society believes.”
“I am aware of his financial circumstances.”
A beat. “You are?” Sparrow’s hands were fists on his hips.
“Yes, he is quite the spendthrift.”
“Are you are aware of who he is spending his funds on?”
“The mistress, Marie Dubois.”
The breath left Emilia’s lungs. Mrs. Dubois was Edmund’s mistress?
“You know both about Mrs. Dubois and Worsely’s sorry financial state, and yet you intend to allow the wedding to go forward?”
“He is my daughter’s choice, but I am also not the sort who leaves anything to chance.” Papa chugged more water down. “I’ve spoken to Worsely. He assures me that his liaison with Mrs. Dubois will end once he weds.”
Anger began to boil in Emilia’s blood. Edmund had flaunted his mistress right under her nose, had even had the temerity to introduce them to each other. She clenched her fists, remembering how he’d gone so far as to suggest she take sartorial inspiration from his strumpet.
“It’s a damnable thing,” her father was saying, “but many men of a certain class keep mistresses.”
“Do you?” Sparrow demanded.
“No.” Her father shrugged. “But it is hardly the same. I am a younger son of a minor baron. I am not of the station of a duke’s grandson. That type of man often keeps a ladybird on the side. At least Worsely has vowed to give her up once he marries.”
“And you believe him?” Skepticism fairly vibrated from Sparrow. “I find it difficult to conceive of how you can take him at his word.”
“I do not.” Papa spoke with the certainty of a man used to getting what he wanted. “He’s well aware that I’ll continue to control the purse strings even after he weds my daughter. He will toe the line.”
“He still receives twenty-five percent of your fortune immediately, along with Emilia’s generous dowry.”
“That’s a pittance compared to the vast St. George fortune. If he wants it all, he’ll treat my daughter with the respect she deserves. Besides, the Duke of Arthington is in full agreement with me. He wants his grandson away from that French whore even more than I do.”
Surprise lit Sparrow’s sculpted face. “I wasn’t aware you were on intimate terms with Worsely’s grandfather.”
“We are old friends. Arthington is an honorable man, which gave great weight to my decision to bless Worsely’s union with my daughter. The duke and I, between the two of us, shall make certain Worsely behaves in a circumspect manner.” Papa swiped a towel across his face. “I must go. I’ve an appointment with my steward. How is yours coming along, by the way?”
“Very well indeed, from what I can tell.” Sparrow’s voice sounded distracted. “He sends me twice-weekly letters keeping me abreast of estate matters.”
“Very good.” Her father turned to go. “Are you coming?”
“In a moment,” Sparrow said. “I need to cool down a moment before donning my shirt.”
“Very well. Do take your time.”
Emilia turned away from the scene, abandoning her sketchbook by the rails to scoot back against the gallery wall. Her mind raced as the truth sank in. Edmund found himself in a penurious state, which rather convincingly confirmed that he was marrying the St. George fortune rather than her. Amazingly, learning the truth about Edmund’s motives didn’t sting as much as it should.
It was certainly nothing like the emotional agony she’d experienced after Sparrow’s defection, when she’d barely been able to function for months afterward. Her current reaction to the truth about Edmund wasn’t a positive sign. She should care more. She was going to marry the man, after all.
But she didn’t love him and had never fooled herself into believing he loved her. Perhaps that was why, at her core, none of this truly surprised her. At its essence, once one stripped away of the societal pomp and niceties, her betrothal was nothing more than a mutually agreeable arrangement.
She was using Edmund for travel and adventure and he was apparently using her for the coin. It was all rather simple, like a business transaction, as was true of most ton marriages. But a sick feeling swirled in the pit of her belly. Doubts crept into her mind about whether she and Edmund had what it took to make a marriage work in the long term.
“Isn’t this interesting?” The sound of Sparrow’s voice made her jump. Her head swung around to find him standing on the threshold of the gallery entrance she herself had used not an hour ago. Still bare to the waist, he had a towel draped around his neck as he clutched his bunched-up shirt in one large hand.
Her breath caught. Up close his torso was even more breathtaking, with its remarkable pectorals and the play of muscle down his abdomen. She was so mesmerized by the spectacular view that she didn’t immediately register that his attention had shifted from her to the sketch pad she’d abandoned by the railing.
“Oh no!” She leapt for it, but he was too fast for her, snatching up the sketchbook before she could reach it. “Give that back,” she insisted, breathless and embarrassed. “That’s mine.”
But it was too late.
Clutching her sketchbook in both hands, he stared at the half-naked drawing of him.
Chapter 14
Sparrow gazed down at Emilia’s drawing, disbelief lancing through him when he realized exactly what it was he was seeing.
The figure of a man in motion was undoubtedly a rendering of him. She’d concentrated on the torso, shading in certain areas to define the musculature of the chest and abdomen. His blood pounded hard i
n his veins. There was such intimacy in the strokes. To achieve this level of detail, Emilia would have had to study his body very closely.
He swallowed, his neck growing hot. “This is very flattering.”
She attempted to snatch it away. “I told you I do not allow anyone to see my unfinished work.”
He held on for just a moment before letting go. “And I made it very clear I did not want you to sketch me.”
“No, you said you would not pose for me.”
“You used me as a subject without my consent.”
“You never explicitly said I couldn’t sketch you.”
“If you truly believed I wouldn’t mind, why did you hide up here sketching me in secret?” he demanded.
“Oh, very well,” she snapped. “But it’s your fault, when you think about it, because you are the one who said I only do copies because I am afraid to get too close to real life.”
“And that is what exactly?” He gestured at the sketchbook now clutched possessively to her chest. “Proof that I am wrong?”
“Precisely. I accepted your implied challenge.”
He blew out an exasperated breath, but at the same time couldn’t help but admire the way she held her ground with him; her posture erect and proud, she was completely uncowed by his anger.
“And,” she continued, “I needed a live subject with an excellent physique, and here you are right in my house.”
He opened his mouth and closed it again, taken aback by her offhanded compliment. She admired his form. His heart sped up as he imagined taking her in his arms and demonstrating how he could use his body to induce sublime pleasure in hers. He pictured her Titianesque hair fanned out against a snowy white pillow, her expressive face flushed with rapture—
Cursing to himself, he banished the sultry image of Emilia from his mind. He cleared his throat. “None of this is appropriate for a gently bred maiden and you know it.” He gestured toward his bare chest. “A lady shouldn’t even see a man in shirtsleeves, much less without his shirt on.”
“Really, Sparrow.” One side of her lovely mouth quirked upward. “When did you become such a prig?”
He was certain no one had ever called him that before. “I am no such thing.”
“Then agree to pose for me.” Her emerald gaze dropped to his bare chest with appreciable interest. “Your form is similar to Michelangelo’s David, and not many males can say that.”
Interest twitched in his groin at being favorably compared to the perfect male specimen created by the Italian master. All indignation drained out of him. “Are you comparing me to Adonis?”
The air between them crackled with mutual physical attraction. A becoming flush dusted the smooth curve of her cheeks. “You really do have a big head,” she said, acid in her tone. “How unfortunate it is that your brain isn’t occupying all of that vacant space.”
He barely registered her words; his heart beat too hard for that when she ran the tip of her pink tongue over sweet lips, belying a nervousness that she’d otherwise hidden well.
She exhaled. “All I am saying is that it is apparent you take care of yourself. One does not look like that”—she waved an airy hand in his general direction—“without putting a great deal of effort into it.”
Sparrow did make an effort to stay in top form. Vigor and good health had been critical when he’d been an agent for the Home Office, especially when he’d needed to confront or outrun an adversary. And, since adopting this ridiculous idle lifestyle of a gentleman, he was doing his damnedest to keep from turning to fat. “Should I be flattered that you noticed?”
Her cheeks turned even pinker. “This is about art, you idiot, not intimacy.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she prompted, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What do you think I’m asking?” she asked impatiently. “Will you consent to my drawing you?”
“No.” He brought up the shirt in his hand and pulled it over his head before the situation could get further out of hand. “Absolutely not.”
She closed the sketchbook with a snap. “You are the one who challenged me to draw from a live subject.”
Suddenly something hit him and he forgot all about posing half naked for her. “How long have you been up here?” How much had she overheard?
She avoided his gaze. “Long enough.”
“Long enough to…?”
“Hear what you told Papa. Yes.”
Mortification at having wounded her folded around him. “I am sorry you had to hear it that way. It must be very upsetting.”
“What?” She tucked the closed sketchbook under her arm. “To hear that Edmund is marrying me for my fortune?”
He blinked. She didn’t appear particularly upset. “Surely you’re somewhat disappointed.”
“I should be, I know, but ours is not a love match.” Her words were matter-of-fact. “Many couples of the ton marry for money, especially with so many shillingless nobles about. But I suppose that now that you’re wealthier than Croesus, you wouldn’t think about these matters.”
Ha. If only she knew that he was fairly drowning in a mountain of debt. “You deserve more than a loveless, passionless match devoid of all sentiment.”
“So you have said. I have never fancied myself in love with Edmund. I am marrying for the travel and adventure his occupation provides.”
“It isn’t too late for you to change your mind about him.”
“What about Lady Harrington?”
He frowned. “What about her?”
“Have you changed your mind about the lovely widow? There are rumors you intend to marry her.”
He frowned. Had Amanda put out that rumor? “I am barely even courting the woman.”
“Sparrow.” St. George’s voice drifted from the ballroom down below.
He went to the railing and looked over. “Up here.”
St. George stared up at him. “What are you doing?”
Emilia shrank back against the gallery wall, out of her father’s sight because it was not appropriate for her to be alone with a man.
“I thought I heard a noise up here, but I guess it came from out in the corridor,” Sparrow said.
“Come and join me, if you please. I thought you might pick up a tip or two about estate management from my steward. He’s discussing some new farming techniques.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Casting a furtive glance at where Emilia stood against the wall, clutching her sketchbook to her chest, he turned and trotted down the stairs to join her father.
—
Two days later, Sparrow was in his study sorting through the latest pile of mail when he received a missive from Titus Bean, claiming to have located Jerome Onslow. Not only had the sharper found the Duke of Sunderford’s former curator, but the missing man was going to present himself at His Grace’s Grosvenor Square address within the hour.
Sparrow placed Bean’s missive next to a note he’d received that morning from his new steward. Unfortunately, the news from Boyd was not good. The team searching for tin at the Vale estate in Dorset had found nothing so far.
Relieved to have a reason to put his monetary woes aside for the moment, he made his way to his bedchamber to dress quickly before leaving for Sunny’s. He intended to be present if Onslow truly did appear at the appointed time. However, given Gibbs’s exacting standards, the process of donning his street clothes took far longer than Sparrow would have liked.
“Any master I dress must always be impeccably turned out,” Gibbs sniffed, leaving Sparrow to wonder who the lord of the manor really was. There certainly was no question as to who commanded the dressing room. Apprehension rippled through him as he eyed the pale blue jacket, gold waistcoat, and cream pantaloons his valet laid out.
“Is this new?” How much had it cost him? After an initial visit to the Bond Street tailor Gibbs had selected, he’d rarely ventured back, save the occasional fitting. With all of Sparrow’s measurements on file, Gibbs took care of all of the war
drobe details. It occurred to Sparrow that even though they’d discussed budget before, perhaps he should be paying more attention to his valet’s expenditures. “You do recall that I’m fairly rolled up, do you not? I haven’t got a sixpence to scratch with. We’ve discussed this before.”
“Indeed.” Gibbs helped him on with the waistcoat. “The late Viscount Vale certainly enjoyed his luxuries.”
“Yes, but as I’ve repeatedly told you, he did not have the means to pay for them.” Sparrow buttoned the vest. “Which means I’ve got no business spending great sums of money on clothing. Not when I’ve got tenants to see to.”
“Not to worry.” The valet draped a cravat around Sparrow’s neck and began tying the white scarf in deft movements. “The tailor is a particular friend of mine. He is billing you at less than half price.”
“He must be a very close friend indeed.”
Gibbs stood back to assess the knot and then came forward to make a few adjustments. “He seeks to unseat Weston as Mayfair’s premier tailor.”
“What’s a battle between two Bond Street tailors got to do with me?”
“You’re a viscount, which means you move in certain rarefied circles, and your form shows Milford’s clothes to great advantage.”
“Meaning what? That I’m supposed to be something of a walking advertisement for the man?”
“Precisely.” Gibbs held out the topcoat for his master. “With your form, and my exemplary wardrobe skill, Milford will soon be the talk of Mayfair.”
“I’m no dandy,” Sparrow grumbled as he shrugged into the snug coat with Gibbs’s assistance. “This Milford fellow is bound to be disappointed.”
“We shall see about that.” Holding a brush aloft, Gibbs circled him, at the ready to attack any unwanted lint. “I happen to think he’s made quite an excellent bargain.”
—
After making his escape from Gibbs, Sparrow headed straight for the St. George town house to collect Emilia. He knew she’d be interested in hearing the interview with Sunny’s erstwhile curator. On arriving, he was disappointed to learn she was out with Worsely. Distaste pulsed through him. One could only hope she planned to jilt the cad, although he doubted it. But a man could dream. He continued on to Sunny’s behemoth mansion off Grosvenor Square, where the butler took him directly up to the gallery.