Dangerous Loves Romantic Suspense Collection (4 page)

His breath caught in his throat. It took no great feat of artistic talent to recognize the budding woman, hovering oh so near to sweet ripeness, in the schoolgirl. Given a year or two, she would be married.

He gulped at the thought and swung away with those uncomfortably long arms of his and crashed into his easel. His paints and brushes scattered onto the dew-moistened grass.

“Damn and blast,” he muttered as he dipped to his knees and started gathering up his mess, all the while praying the women wouldn’t spot him, praying that if they did, they wouldn’t come over to speak to him.

If that young beauty came over and turned her sapphire gaze toward him…His heart hammered painfully enough in his chest at the mere thought of speaking to her.

He glanced up. The girl was still sprinting across the field, her long legs carrying her as gracefully as a young doe. She waved a bouquet of yellow flowers in the air and danced circles in front of her harried-faced guardians.

“So this is where you sneak off to every morning, Pole.” Hubert, a thick bully who lived for the day he’d be able to take his father’s title, punched Dionysus in the arm with such force the paintbrushes tumbled to the ground again.

Dionysus rose. He wiped at the grass stains on his breeches and maneuvered himself in front of the painting he’d been laboring over. “Leave off, Hubert. A man’s entitled to some time away.”

Hubert tossed back his head and boomed a laugh. “What are you trying to hide there, Pole?” He pushed Dionysus aside with a meaty paw and crossed his arms as he studied the painting.

Dionysus gasped when he saw it himself. In the center of the unfinished landscape the beginnings of the dancing schoolgirl’s face had appeared. His hand, without his mind’s permission, had captured but a fraction of her beauty.

Hubert looked out over the field and quickly spotted the sensuous phantasm. She was laying out a blanket among a throng of wildflowers. His lips quirked up into a grin.

“I didn’t realize you indulged in, in—what would your uncle call it?—in a female’s talent, Pole,” he said as his gaze remained trained on the young woman. He licked his wide lips. “I certainly can’t fault you in your choice of subjects, though. Zounds, that chit would make a man of my ilk a mighty fine wife.” His grin grew by wolfish proportions.

“I-I can’t imagine what you mean. I only paint landscapes. The child intruded into my work, that is all,” he protested, though Hubert’s interest had already been turned.

“Child? She’s sixteen, if not a day,” Hubert said, and snatched the wet painting from the easel.

“Hand that back!”

“If you don’t want your uncle learning of this frivolous pursuit of yours, you’ll do as I demand,” Hubert said.

His uncle’s efforts to forcefully mold Dionysus into a hard, no-nonsense man—the exact opposite of his dreamy father—were common knowledge at Merton College. The blood drained away from his head at the thought of pricking his uncle’s ire. He backed down and stood unmanned, silently cursing his bloody weaknesses and his wretched fear of his uncle, as he watched Hubert swagger toward the bevy of women, the wet painting swinging in his paws.

More than eight years later, his heart still thundered, his breath still fled at the thought of speaking to the lovely angel Hubert had so boldly approached that spring morning. But he didn’t need to speak to her, for he now possessed the painting. He crossed the dimly lit workroom to his pile of discarded canvases where he’d hidden it away from anyone’s eyes but his.

Tossing the canvases aside, one by one his muscles grew taut, eager to drink in the view of her rose-petal lips and her creamy body.

He lifted the last of the canvases and stared at the bare, stone floor. “What trickery is this?” he whispered, dragging both his hands through his hair. He tugged at the strands until his scalp burned. “Where is she?”

His mind raced, his chest constricted, frightened to consider the possibilities. His painting—the proof of his madness was gone.

Someone must have found it.

Taken it.

* * * *

It had taken only two days for the
ton
’s censure to fall on the entire Baneshire household, confirming Elsbeth’s worst fears. Because of her position as chaperone to Baneshire’s daughters, not one member of the
ton
dared send an invitation for fear of her inadvertent attendance. And yesterday, Sir Donald Gilforth had paid a call to Lauretta. She’d been expecting him to propose marriage. But instead, he coldly broke off their relationship, announcing that in light of Elsbeth’s scandal, he needed to think of his unmarried sisters’ reputations. And that he didn’t dare let his name continue to be associated with theirs. Elsbeth decided right then and there that something drastic had to be done to remedy this disaster. And soon.

Early in the afternoon the very next day, Elsbeth hastily departed from the Baneshire town house. None of the servants raised an eyebrow or questioned the wisdom of her venturing out alone on foot with only her oilskin cape for protection from the freezing rain.

She curled icy fingers into a pair of tight fists. Dionysus, whoever that rogue turned out to be, would soon regret the day he sought to ruin her. He would pay for the humiliation he’d served her while hiding like a coward in the night. She hadn’t lied to her uncle. She didn’t know Dionysus’s true identity…but she knew someone who might.

A cold wind whipped a stinging rain against her face. She tugged at her cape, pulling the fabric close to her body. Trying to ignore the water soaking through her thinly soled half boots, she marched down the street, head lowered, toward what surely would be considered improper behavior.

She was about to visit a bachelor in his home.

If her reputation were not already in tatters and Lauretta’s heart not already smashed to pieces, she would have never considered such an outrageous course of action.

* * * *

“What is it now, Graves?” Severin asked his butler who’d appeared once again in the doorway. The baron had spent the afternoon sequestered behind closed doors in his shabby study, working desperately to keep one step ahead of his creditors. The constant patter of rain against the windowpane confirmed that the weather outside continued to be dreadful. For a day when any sane man or woman should be huddling beside a blazing fire, he couldn’t imagine why his study was becoming as busy as a fashionable tearoom.

“There is a woman demanding entrance, my lord,” Graves announced in a tone that made Severin wonder if his butler had recently gotten a whiff of some truly awful scent.

“Send her in,” he said, without glancing up from the piles of ledgers on his desk.

“But-but, my lord,” Graves stammered in a most uncommon manner. “The lady is unescorted. I shall send her away.”

“Send her away?
An unescorted woman?
Graves, I am shocked. You know I have a reputation to keep. By all means send the woman directly up—and be sure the neighborhood witnesses my thoroughly debauched behavior.”

“Very good, my lord,” Graves said flatly.

A few moments later the doors to the study again slid open. Severin set down his pen and waited to see who his mysterious visitor could be. The dowager Lady Buckley had been making bold passes of late and had hinted that she was looking for a new lover. Would she be so brash as to appear on his doorstep in the middle of the day? Her coffers were overflowing and her face still lovely. He could dearly make use of such a combination.

He sat forward in his leather chair and watched as a slender figure, still cloaked, entered the room. A heavy hood shadowed her face. Water dripped from her hem, staining his bright red Axminster rug, a rug he could ill-afford to have ruined.

“Graves!” he shouted. “Graves! Where is your head? Take the lady’s cloak straightaway. And fetch a pot of tea.”

The butler returned, his back ramrod straight. “Aye, my lord.”

Severin took to his feet and crossed the room while the lady allowed Graves to help her shed her sodden cloak. “Please,” he said, and let a seductive smile curl his lips. “Stand with me by the fire. I daresay your bones must be chilled through and through.”

She turned toward him. There was no matching smile in sight. The heat in her gaze damned well burned him.

Severin’s rakish grin froze on his face. Shock—that was what had done this to him.

What in blazes was
she
doing here? The Marquess of Edgeware, after blistering Severin’s ears for having displayed the scandalous painting without his knowledge or permission, had promised to set things right. Dionysus was, after all, Edgeware’s responsibility. Severin had spent more money than he could afford already when he’d dispatched a messenger to the Marquess of Edgeware’s estate a few hours after the unfortunate unveiling. Severin’s responsibility had ended there. Or so he’d hoped.

“Lady Mercer, this-this is indeed a surprise.” He motioned again to the fire. “Please, take a moment to warm yourself.”

The bright peacock and white striped promenade dress made from the thinnest muslin fabric complemented her winter-pinked cheeks and rosy lips. Her golden hair, swept up away from her slender neck, formed a halo of silky curls on the top of her head.

“This is by no means a social call.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I am here on an important matter of business.”

“Indeed,” he said.

He leaned against the hearth and watched her slender fingers tug at the damp woolen gloves, struggling to peel them off. After a few moments, she gave up and with a huff turned her attentions instead to the contents of the rather plain reticule hanging from her wrist.

Severin stepped forward, concerned she was about to produce a revolver.

“Actually, two matters of business,” she said, as she retrieved a silken purse from the reticule. “I don’t possess a great fortune. And I cannot take an advance in my quarterly income without my uncle’s knowledge.”

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “I wish to purchase the painting.” A blush brightened her cheeks. “The painting of me.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but that would be quite impossible.”

“I am more than willing to pay your price.” There was a compelling strength in her tone. But when she held up the silk sack, clearly heavy with coins, he saw that her fingers were shaking. “You
must
sell it to me.”

Fearing she was on the verge of collapse, Severin rushed to her side and led her to a chair near the fire. He kept a tight grasp on her damp hands as he freed the silk coin purse from her fingers and laid it on her lap. “I am sorry, but the painting is no longer available.”

“Oh dear,” she whispered. “I hadn’t considered that possibility.”

She looked up quickly. “Provide me the name of the buyer. I must have the painting. I simply must. Certainly you can understand why.”

Severin returned to the large fireplace. “Forgive me,” he said. He kept his back to her, unable to face the anger that darkened her sparkling blue eyes. “I gave my word as a gentleman that I would never reveal the buyer’s name.”

The room fell silent for many minutes save for the occasional crackle from the fire burning behind the grate. Slowly he turned to find her gaze set upon him and her mouth drawn to a thin line.

“You had two matters of business? Perhaps I’ll be able to assist you with the second?”

Lady Mercer blinked.

He held his breath, bracing for her patience to come to a quick end.

“If you gave your word…” she said finally with a sigh. She rose from her chair. “Dionysus.” A sharp fire flared anew in her eyes. “Tell me, Lord Ames, who is he?”

His mouth dropped open. “You don’t know?”

Her slender body trembled, but this time it looked as if womanly rage, not fear, shook her.

“No. No, why should I know him? Tell me, Lord Ames. You are his sponsor. Tell me, who is he?” She shook her bag of coins. “I can pay for the information. I must…I must find him and demand that he answer for what he’s done to me…and to the Baneshire family.”

Severin stood torn between rushing to comfort her and fleeing to the far side of the room to take cover from the fury he was, no doubt, about to cause. “Forgive me, my lady. As much as this too pains me, I have sworn an oath of secrecy to the artist. I cannot help you.”

* * * *

He had sworn an oath?

“Very well,” Elsbeth said while silently cursing her own foolishness. Why had she expected answers from him? Just because he’d been kind to her once? She should have expected nothing, for despite the kindness he’d shown her years ago, he’d also been a friend of her husband’s. And that fact alone should have been enough to warn her not to expect any goodness from the likes of him. “With or without your help, I
will
find him.”

With her shoulders squared, she marched out the door.

“If there is ever anything else I can do—” he called after her. She didn’t wait to hear the rest of
that
empty offer.

What a simpering fool he must think her to be. He was probably laughing behind his hand right now. Ames’s butler quickly helped her with her cloak and ushered her back out into the worst of the cold, wet weather. She took one last look at his town house.

The rogue, along with his cronies, knew exactly what they were doing when they chose to display that horrid painting. Her cheeks burned with a deep blush from the memory of seeing the image of herself spread out like a wanton, naked and unashamed, on a crimson sofa. The details were startling. How could Dionysus know her so intimately? Not even her husband had seen her in such a willing pose.
Never, ever, had she been so comfortable with her body to so abandon her modesty.

She stifled a sneeze.

What a fine fettle this afternoon was turning out to be. And her folly was about to reward her with a terrible head cold. “My family would probably be better off if I contracted a lung affliction and died.”

She sneezed again.

“God bless you, my lady.” An unmistakably masculine gloved hand pressed a crisp handkerchief into her soggy palm. “The weather is wicked enough to kill the stoutest of creatures. Whatever is a delicate bird like yourself doing tempting the fates so?”