Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (25 page)

How could he forget her instructions days ago to deposit all her art supplies in the ballroom? Probably because that brain-muddling embrace outside the gallery scrambled clear thinking. He recalled the distraction of burying his face in the softness of her hair. Her presence seeped into him the same way her simple lemongrass scent invaded his senses. Right now, breathing heavily from exertion, he’d swear her scent surrounded him.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty…” He exhaled the count with each steady slap of thick hemp on parquet as the rope’s staccato noise bounced off the walls.

Of all the rooms in Greenwich Park, she’d chosen this one for her art studio. Yes, the light was good, even on this cloudy afternoon, thanks to a glazier’s dream of high-paned windows and doors, now ringed with frost. On sunny days the light would be ideal. Yes, he had given her free rein to choose any room that pleased her. Yes, he would be absent from Greenwich Park—from England—in seventy-five days. Thus,
her
use of this space should not matter. But it did.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, and thin rivulets sluiced his chest.

“Sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five…”

His goal, not to be thwarted, remained: reach one hundred consecutive jumps without error before moving on to the next training exercise. That discipline came in handy during the confines of his first voyage, however shortened that one was. This time, though, he’d planned a healthy dose of swordplay for better defense. For that he needed Jonas. Where was his friend?

“Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five…” he counted aloud as he maneuvered across the ballroom floor, closer to Miss Montgomery’s paintings all wrapped in burlap, lining the opposite wall.

Nearby, a table with powders in bulbous glass flasks, mortars and pestles, flagons of oil, linseed by the puttylike smell, and chunks of plain beeswax made a neat row. Four tripods, soldiers defending the perimeter of her makeshift studio, stood with their spines facing him in their section of the ballroom. Three tripods were bare, save the one supporting a painting, and that square beckoned him.

Come
see.

Edward sped up his jumps, inching closer to that curious square and the unknown on the other side.

“Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six…”

Suddenly, the ballroom doors cracked open wide. Light spilled a long rectangle across the dance floor, illuminating his quest to look at Miss Montgomery’s art.

“Ninety-eight, ninety—” Caught in the act of almost peeking, Edward stumbled. His stocking foot snagged on the rope. He gave an exasperated roar that bounced and echoed.

This would not be his day to reach one hundred.

Miss Montgomery cast a long shadow up the middle of the rectangular light splashing the ballroom. He squinted at the brightness and, chest pumping like a blacksmith’s bellows, Edward leaned his hands on his thighs, pressing a damp outline on his breeches. All of him was hot from exertion and frustration.

“What are you doing?” Miss Montgomery called into the distance, raising a candelabrum high. Her determined footsteps clicked across the ballroom.

Edward raised himself to full height, holding the rope, a limp instrument at his side. When she came closer, her mouth opened to an O. Miss Montgomery’s green eyes went saucer-round as her gaze swept from his head, lingering on his bare chest, and moving down his legs to his stocking feet.

“You’re nearly naked, my lord. Quite sweaty, too.” Her eyebrows slammed together in two dark slashes. “And for goodness sake, what are you doing with that rope?”

He wiped excess sweat from his forehead and gave her a marginal bow. “And may I say how nice to be in your company again.”

Her pretty lips frowned at his subtle chastisement before looking over at an array of swords and equipment on the far side of the room.

“Next, I suppose you’ll tell me I’m invading another of your domains,” she said, setting a hand at her hip.

“No, by all means, invade them all,” he said, breathing heavily as he coiled the rope. “I’m preparing for my voyage. Where you paint shouldn’t matter.”
But
it
does.

That sounded reasonable enough, yet his words rang as testy to his ears. Miss Montgomery wasn’t fazed by his irritation. Her bottle-green eyes followed the slow, rhythmic motion of the rope as if he were a mesmerizing snake charmer and she his victim. Edward felt his smirk grow. She’d blatantly ogled his bare chest and arms as if she’d never seen the like before. And, well he knew she had likely seen a male chest or two. Her reaction pleased him and made up for the intrusion.

But did he detect some irritation on her part?

“And what has you in such a state?” he asked, moving to a nearby pile that was his shirt, coat, and boots. He dropped the coiled rope there.

Her frown deepened. “Your mother and her idea of countess lessons. She was very vocal to me and the servants about my inadequacy for that post. In
her
opinion, of course.” Her brows slammed together as she finished, “And say what you will, to her it’s a job.”

She looked away in a fit, but her green jeweled gaze went right back to him. Edward picked up a drying cloth and wiped sweat from his face, chest, and arms, aware of his spellbound audience. Interesting. At least the scars across his chest didn’t repulse her. He drank long from a pitcher of water, noticing the way her full lips dropped open and she scrutinized every inch of him.

With shirt and coat in hand, he walked back to the easel where Miss Montgomery stood. He tugged on his shirt not bothering to tuck it in, since the fabric clung uncomfortably in several spots. The way she viewed those spots, he could very well have been a feast she was about to devour. Edward wasn’t shy, but her lack of composure in the face of his lack of decorum made the air spark anew between them. He shrugged into his brown broadcloth coat.

“Miss Montgomery,” he said softly. “You’re staring.”

Her bottle-green stare jerked from his chest to his face. “Oh.”

Her cheeks tinged pink. She set the candelabrum on the floor, removing one flickering candle. She faced the opposite wall and moved about, all business. Smiling to himself, he decided to let her collect herself. She flitted from one mirrored sconce to another, until their end of the dim ballroom flickered alive with brighter light.

“How was the meeting in the blue drawing room?” he asked, retying his queue. “That’s where you’ve been all day, isn’t it?”

“A disaster. And yes, that’s where I’ve been
all
day
. Your mother insulted me at every turn as we practiced pouring tea.” Miss Montgomery jammed the candle back into the silver candelabrum, and her green eyes pierced him as she rose to full height. “It was tea, mind you, tea. But your mother acted like I ruined a state dinner.”

“She takes that kind of thing seriously,” he said, moving around on quiet feet to see what was on the other side of the canvas.

Flashing green eyes held him at bay on the easel’s perimeter, denying him a view.

“That’s all you have to say?” She glared at him then moved in a flurry of skirts to her artist’s workbench. She pinched a dash of colorful powder into a stone mortar, then scooped another into the bowl, her tiny spoon clinking stone. “You as good as fed me to the lion’s den. Your mother’s so concerned about family lineage? Ha!” she huffed, hugging the stone bowl to her body while grinding her pestle in the mix. The more she pounded and stirred, the more her ire built. “Maybe she ought to be nice to the current candidate. And
you
, my lord, could at least tell her to curb her tongue. She shoots daggers with every syllable.”

“You held your own with her the first day she arrived.” He swiped his coat sleeve across his forehead. “Why wouldn’t I think your meeting in the blue drawing room would be any different?”

Her dark head snapped up at that, but she was in the act of dribbling oil into the mortar, which pulled her back into the work of mixing pigment. She paused, distracted by the process of bringing color to life. At least the tension in her face eased as she examined the particular shade created. Funny how finding the right shade diminished her temper; his Miss Montgomery was a bit of a magician, one he wanted to appease.

“About my mother, I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured, slipping around to face the square canvas.

She may have said something, in fact, he was sure she did. He’d become an expert over the years at tuning out the female voice, of listening but not really hearing; however, this was not a matter of escaping a verbose female. This was altogether different.

Edward lost himself in the image before him. The painting, a tree of sorts, or… No, he stepped back, then moved closer for better focus. An up-close view of his Chinese pear tree. Dense foliage with an open, inviting space in the middle of all those leaves.

Yet the golden orb, the fruit suspended in the middle of that space looked suspiciously like…

Did his eyes deceive him?

Edward blinked again, lost in the Chinese-pear image. The aroma of newly mixed oils floated from behind. The pleasant mix of scents: paint, oils, and what was distinctly Lydia, drew his attention away from the mysterious impression. He pointed at the painting.

“When did you do this?”

“These past few nights after dinner…late.” Her lips curved in a secret smile. She dipped her brush into a shade of onyx and then a vibrant green, mixing the colors. Her brush moved in a tight circle on the palette.

“And you’re not tired?”

“Painting makes me…” Lydia dabbed brush tip to canvas, and her voice glowed with reverence. “It makes me feel alive.”

Soft candlelight flooded the room. She painted with fervor, engrossed in her work. Her lips parted with soft breaths at each dip of the brush. Lydia Montgomery was a study of something rare. He couldn’t put his finger on what he saw as she moved in close to ascertain details, then stepped back for fuller effect, but he liked the way her body moved, vibrating with energy from each tiny stroke. Brush and paint swooshed and dabbed canvas. Light framed Lydia’s hair, a glossy halo on her dark crown. Color smeared and dotted the old, gray smock she wore over her dress.

He looked again at the painting, his stare catching on the tempting, pale gold fruit.

“Lydia,” he called to her softly, “you’re painting the Chinese pear tree.”

“Very good, my lord.” Her short-bristled brush finished dabbing another leaf into existence, shaping the curving ovate tip.

Warmth spread over him as her skirt twitched and rubbed his knees and calves. He pointed to the golden orb hanging in the midst of foliage: pale fruit, a nude-gold shade, nicely curved with a slight cleft down the center.

“The fruit bears a strong resemblance to a woman’s bare bottom.”

Or
am
I
so
randy
for
you
I
can’t see straight?

She flicked a side glance at him, and her brush slowed. “Does it now?”

Her question floated between them, pure invitation. Not so much sensual invitation as something else.

Well, yes, there was something sensual, no denying that.

But what else? This facet of her was all like a new and complex puzzle laid out before him. He crossed his arms, perplexed at the inability to put his finger on the exact nature of her invitation, and his utterly male inability to grasp what needed to be said. The painting, both excellent and elemental, spoke volumes, and he was on primer reading level when it came to art, woefully out of his depth.

“Is this almost finished?” He winced at his own ineptness.
University
educated, and that was the best he could do?

“Almost.” She nodded and didn’t bother to look his way.

That was close to a dismissal. A chill of distance spaced itself between them, even though neither had moved. Tenacity gripped him. He inched closer to her and the canvas as if proximity could capture what eluded him.

“But this is the Chinese pear tree, yet it’s not an exact rendering.” He pointed to fruit hanging in the background. “These pears are indistinct…they’re…” His words trailed off.

When was he ever at a loss of words to explain or define? His whole life was dissection and discovery, especially flora in all its intrinsic properties. Everything had a place and a definition, a role and a purpose.

Lydia dabbed her brush on the platter. “They’re what, Edward?” she prompted him with a quiet air and kept her attention on the canvas.

His patient tutor’s dark eyebrows raised a notch as she gave a slight nod. The teacher would not give up on her unskilled student; instead, she’d coax him into deeper comprehension.

“This close, the piece looks unfinished.” He cocked his head this way and that, pointing at one of the leaves. “Yet, stepping back, I would call the work complete.”

“What do you see?” Lydia concentrated on one corner of the canvas.

“A tree, of course.”

Her shoulders dropped.

“I’m disappointed. You, who daily capture the tiniest details in your work, with plants no less, have failed to notice what’s right in front of you.” Her head tipped sideways, and Lydia made a satisfied moue with the spot she completed. “For someone so intelligent, you’re really quite dull.”

Edward snorted in good humor. “Dull?”

“Yes. I recommend rereading your Aristotle. Find out what he says about art.” Her lips twitched, then softened when her brush touched canvas again. “Truly enlightening.”

Her mild condescension didn’t bother him; he welcomed the energy that vibrated between them. Glimpses of his exemplary education, years of private tutors, discussions with some of the best minds, from physicists to philosophers, flew through his mind—a carousel of vivid scenes from youth to maturation.

And all he could come up with was that snort and to repeat the word
dull
used to describe him.

Miss Lydia Montgomery had out-nuanced him today, and that interesting facet both stimulated and pleased. His pretty tutor gave him a patient sigh and finally faced him. Her suspended brush, heavy with scarlet paint, pointed at him.