Leslie Lafoy (7 page)

She sighed, kicked off her mules, and removed Tristan’s coat from her shoulders. And then went slowly still as she savored the scent wafting around her. A hint of spice, a shadow of something deep and woodsy, the barest touch of sunlight. Lifting the coat to her face, she buried her face in the warm satin lining and breathed deeply the scent of Tristan Townsend.

Simone drew back and considered the black silk fabric, her brows knitted. There was no way to reasonably count the number of men who had crossed her path in the course of her twenty years, men of every social class and with every imaginable vice and virtue. Some had been handsome, some not. Some had been obviously depraved to the point of being a physical threat, while others had been merely interesting in a “Good Lord, he’s actually allowed to run loose?” sort of way. Not once had any of them ever interested her in a personal sense, in a way that …

Simone smiled softly. None of them had ever made her heart go pitter-pat. At least not in a good sort of way. Not the way Tristan Townsend did. And not that she’d ever in a million years admit that to him. Giving Tristan even a dram of encouragement would only lead to bolder advances on his part.

The prospect of which, she had to admit as she laid aside his jacket, made her heart race faster and in the most delicious, thrilling way. It was in how much she liked the feeling that the danger lay. Logically, she knew that she should stay well away from him; he was a rogue and a scandal waiting to happen. Of course, logically, she shouldn’t ride spirited horses, either. And she did. All the time. And wouldn’t have it any other way.

Riding Tristan Townsend … Simone arched a brow and undid the buttons of her bodice, both amazed and intrigued by the clarity and detail of the images playing past her mind’s eye. Having spent her childhood in brothels, she’d seen lovemaking in what had to be all of its forms and positions. Given the business nature of the exchanges, she’d always percieved sex as a rather mundane and largely boring fact of life. Of course, never, not once in all of her years, had she been able to even vaguely imagine herself having sex. To so suddenly and unexpectedly be able not only to envision it but also to see how wildly enjoyable it would be with Tristan Townsend …

Good girls and virtuous women didn’t enjoy sex, though. Everyone knew that. And all of her deportment masters had gone to great lengths to be sure she understood that she was to marry for money and social position and then quietly fulfill her obligations in the marital bed. Since it was just easier to go with the tide of things sometimes, she’d always nodded, letting them think she actually intended to marry and that she’d behave as she should once she did. The idea of marriage still didn’t appeal to her any more than it ever had, but the possibility of twisting the sheets tight with Tristan …

Simone flopped down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering just how big a scandal Caroline and Drayton could tolerate.

Chapter 4

Simone stood in the parlor, Tristan’s jacket draped over her arm, and hoped it wouldn’t take the butler long to find Emmy. As rooms went … At home, the parlor whispered a very refined but decidedly cheerful welcome to visitors. The Townsends’ parlor, however, didn’t whisper and it didn’t say welcome. No, it practically shouted. And the message was very clearly,
We have have money. Great wads of it.

It was probably all very impressive, Simone allowed, studying a pair of rather fragile-looking white chairs with gilded scrollwork and brightly upholstered seats. Unfortunately, the effort that had gone into the acquisition and display was largely wasted on someone like her. Now, if Emmy’s mother had thought to hang a Norman shield and a couple of Scottish claymores over the mantel … Different interests, different tastes, she supposed.

“Simone! What a wonderful surprise!”

She turned to the parlor door at Emmy’s welcome. Emmy was smiling and seemingly oblivious to the giant splashes of bright red that cascaded down the front of her white smock. Simone did a quick appraisal and then nodded toward her friend’s right hand, asking, “Have you cut yourself, Emmy?”

Emmaline held up her hand. “This? It’s paint. I’m in the conservatory doing my best to develop the essential skills of a true lady. Thank you for rescuing me.” Her smile broadened. “Again.”

Simone chuckled and lifted her arm bearing Tristan’s jacket and said, “Your brother lent me his coat last night and I thought perhaps you might see it returned to him with my thanks.”

“Or you can return it and thank him yourself,” his sister countered, beaming. “He promised to call this morning and I’m expecting him at any time.”

If she were going to be sensible and ever so safe, now was the time to conjure an excuse and run. “Oh yes, that would be even better. What are you painting?”

“Come along and I’ll show you.” And with that cheery command, Emmy spun about and headed off into the rest of the house, leaving Simone to tag along in her wake, to alternately note the incredible amount of fancy furniture lining the hallways and marvel at what a very different person Emmaline Townsend was at home. No hiding. No peeking tentatively. Here she strode, her head up and her shoulders squared without the slightest bit of coaching. Why she hadn’t been able to bring that sort of confidence and presence naturally into a ballroom …

“It’s supposed to be a still life with roses, but it’s not going very well,” Emmy said as they entered the greenhouse and she made her way toward the easel standing amid a collection of well-cushioned wicker furniture. “My roses look more like mud pies than flowers. Would you care for some coffee? It’s fairly fresh and still a bit warm.”

“Coffee would be lovely. Thank you,” Simone replied, eyeing the picture as Emmy puttered at the tea cart. Simone glanced over at the pedestal that was likely the model for the painting. God, “not going well” was a massive understatement.

“Do you paint, Simone?”

“Not if I can avoid it,” she admitted, laying Tristan’s coat over the back of a chair and accepting the cup and saucer from her friend. “My elder sister once hired an instructor who made a valiant attempt to bring out the artist in me. He finally had to admit that I don’t have one.”

“Mine has gone on a very long holiday and forgotten to return home.” Emmy picked up her own cup and then stared at her picture as she added, “Which I think is really selfish of him. James could paint pictures that looked eerily real. And Tristan can do the most spectacular things with a simple piece of charcoal and just a flick or two of his wrist. It’s hardly fair that they got all the talent and left none for me.”

“None” was right. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of wanting to badly enough,” Simone offered diplomatically. “And setting aside the time to practice.”

“Do you really think so?”

No, but saying so would be hurtful. “Perhaps it’s more a matter of being uninspired by still lifes. Have you ever tried to paint something more interesting to you?”

Emmy nodded and sighed. “The cat won’t sit still long enough.”

“Yes, they do tend to have a mind of their own,” she allowed. “When they’ve had enough, they’ve had enough.”

“I could paint you!”

Simone couldn’t think of anything to say. Well, anything that would be considered even marginally nice. If Emmaline couldn’t paint a flower in any sort of recognizable way, the odds of her being able to faithfully render a face were—

“Would you sit for a portrait, Simone? Please say
yes.
You could give it to your sister and her husband for a present.”

She was trapped by kindness and knew it. “Well…”

“Oh, thank you!” Emmy cried happily, putting her coffee cup back on the cart. “This will be ever so much more fun than empty wine bottles and wilting flowers on a silly pedestal. How would you like to pose?”

“It’s not enough to sit in a chair and look important?”

“Of course not,” Emmy assured her. “I need to capture the true essence of you. Your energy and your confidence. I want people to look at the painting and know that you’re the most interesting person they could ever hope to meet.”

Given Emmy’s artistic ability, the only thing people were going to know was that Emmy should stick to embroidery. “Maybe we could offer the cat some fish and a little bowl of cream. Where is he?”

Emmy laughed and took the cup and saucer from her, saying, “Why don’t you wander about the furniture and look for someplace you’d be comfortable posing and I’ll get my canvas and paints ready? It won’t take long. I always have several canvases prepared in case the muse suddenly strikes and I’m overcome with a flood tide of creative urges.”

If that expectation weren’t the very definition of groundless optimism … But, bless Emmaline’s heart, she was so hopeful and confident that there wasn’t anything to do but go along and let her make the attempt. As Emmy went to a storage cabinet in the far corner of the glass room, Simone removed her riding jacket and laid it over Tristan’s coat on the back of the chair. By the time her friend had returned with a very large, very white new canvas, Simone had decided that the chaise had the thickest cushion and the best chance for being comfortable for a near eternity.

“How’s this, Emmy?” she asked, sitting down and arranging her skirt so that the riding split in it wasn’t glaringly apparent.

“Tilt your head a bit to the side, I think.”

Simone did as asked, thinking that she had to look like one of Fiona’s cats watching a bird through the window.

“No, I was wrong. Put it back the way you had it.”

Simone gladly obeyed and tried not to sigh too loudly as Emmaline began tilting
her
head at various angles as she studied her from behind the easel. God, it was going to be a very long day. If it weren’t for the promise of—

As though conjured by the very thought of him, Tristan strode into the conservatory. Simone smiled and let her gaze slowly skim him from his handsome head to his manly booted toes. It was such a pleasurable trip that she took it again in reverse. His dark eyes sparkled as she met his gaze and his smile tipped up knowingly.

“What are you two doing?”

Emmaline’s eyes widened and she whipped around, grinning. “I’m going to paint Simone’s portrait!”

He sucked in his cheeks and cocked a brow but kept his opinion to himself as he stepped to his sister’s side and gave her a hug. Looking over the top of the canvas, he met Simone’s gaze again and said softly, “Good morning, Simone.”

Her heart raced and she would have sworn that she’d felt his fingertips grazing her lips. “Good morning, Tristan,” she managed to say despite being decidedly breathless. “I forgot to return your coat to you last night and brought it over. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

“It was my pleasure.” His knowing smile returned. “Are you comfortable sitting there like that?”

She wasn’t comfortable at all, actually, but it had nothing to do with where and how she was sitting. Standing wouldn’t be any better, either. Not unless it happened to be where he could wrap her in his arms and pull her against him. “I suppose so,” she answered, wondering why he so filled her senses this morning when he hadn’t the night before. Had the stresses of the fire clouded her perceptions that thickly? Good God, he was nothing short of … well, intoxicating.

Still holding her gaze, still smiling that certain smile of his, he asked, “If I might make a suggestion or two?”

Emmaline beamed up at him. “Oh yes, please do, Tristan. You’re so very good at this sort of thing and I need all the help I can get.”

“Squared-off or sharp angles don’t make for very flattering portraits. Lady Simone, if you would be so kind as to leisurely and fully recline yourself on the chaise.”

And wait for me there
, her mind wantonly finished. She looked away from his gaze and shifted about as he’d asked, bringing her legs up and turning onto her side. Propped against the arm of the chaise, she asked, “Like this?”

Emmy peered around the side of the easel. “Oh yes. That’s much better.”

Tristan looked over the top of the canvas, considered her, and then slowly cocked a brow to ask, “Do you always wear a ribbon in your hair?”

“Very seldom, actually,” she admitted, keeping to herself the fact that she’d decided to tie her hair back that morning in the hope that he’d like the style. So much for trying.

“Please feel free to remove it.”

And anything else you’d care to.

“Where are your pencils, Em?” he asked as Simone brought her wayward mind under control, tugged the ribbon streamer, and undid the bow.

“Pencils?”

“Yes, to sketch in the basic lines.”

“Oh. They’re in my room. I’ll be right back.”

Simone absently reclined on the arm of the chaise and watched in amazement as Emmaline took off like a shot. Last night, in the midst of a fire, Emmy had been worried about leaving her brother and her alone together in a smoke-filled room. But today? Apparently, with the dawn of a new day, they could be trusted to behave themselves.

“You look very starched.”

“Starched?” she repeated, bringing her gaze to Tristan’s.

“Prim and proper and ever so respectable.”

The look in his eyes was anything but. “Emmy plans to give the portrait to my sister and her husband,” she explained, smiling. “They pray every night for prim and proper and ever so respectable. They’ll be delighted to know I’m capable of at least looking that way.”

He laughed, the sound deliciously low and rumbling. “With Em wielding the brush,” he said, making his way toward her, “your portrait, when finished, is going to look like a mangled monkey on a battered cushion. It will never leave this house. There’s no harm in relaxing and being yourself for the process. No one but us will ever know.”

She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “And just what would being myself entail?”

“Being a bit daring,” he answered, easing down onto the very edge of the chaise beside her.

She was only vaguely aware that the ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. She was acutely aware, though, of the scent of his cologne, of the cleanly chiseled line of his jaw, of how his dark eyes seemed to see right to the center of her soul. Her heart racing and her blood warming, she considered it nothing short of a miracle that she could coolly reply, “Really. Daring?”