Silver Splendor (12 page)

Nicholas arched his brows. “I don’t recall hearing you correct me. You seemed to enjoy the deception.”

“Should I have branded you a liar in front of a roomful of your friends? Not I, your lordship. You think me an ill mannered bohemian, but I know better than to insult my host.”

Her indignant attitude aroused the dark urge to laugh. “I never know what to think of you, Elizabeth.”

She tossed her chin up. “Don’t change the subject. I demand to know why you put me in the position of pretending to be someone I’m not.”

“If you were more familiar with society, you’d appreciate what I’ve done for you. No one will receive you unless you come from an acceptable family.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might not
care
whether or not I’m accepted by your snobbish friends? For that matter, why should
you
care?”

Why, indeed? Wrestling with inner turmoil, Nicholas prowled the stone flags. Why
did
he feel so eager for her to fit into his social circle? Uncertain of the answer, he said, “As Cicely’s friend and companion, it’s vital that you appear respectable. I’m only trying to make life easier tor you.”

“Easier for me or easier for yourself?” Elizabeth countered. “You couldn’t hold your perfect head up if the news got out that you had a social liability living in your household. Well, I refuse to be a party to your brand of hypocrisy.
I’m
not ashamed of who I am, even if you are.”

He felt torn between shaking her and reassuring her. “I never said I was ashamed or you, Elizabeth.”

Her dark brows drew into a skeptical line. As proud as a gypsy princess, she knelt on the stone floor, blending beautifully with the wild background of greenery. “I wonder why I find that so hard to believe.”

Nicholas let out an exasperated hiss. He would not allow her to be chewed to ribbons by the merciless jaws of drawing room harpies. “Comprehend it or not,” he stated, “you’ll do as I say.”

Her lips parted in anger and astonishment. “Is that a command, your lordship?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet… and swayed. Alarmed, Nicholas shot to her side to slip a steadying arm around her back. Nestled against him, she felt as precious and delicate as a late budding camellia.

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.

“It’s just these silly heels.” Bracing a hand on his chest, she kicked off her shoes; each went flying into the shrubbery, landing with a muffled plop. “There, that’s where they belong.”

Elizabeth tilted her face up. Her eyes shone bright; her smile flashed brilliant. Then she seemed to grow aware of their nearness, the stance that was a mere heartbeat from a lover’s embrace. Stockinged toes peeping from under her hem, she retreated a step and glared at him.

“I don’t know why women endure such ridiculous clothing.”

“Ridiculous, Elizabeth? I happen to find you lovely.”

A blush crept over her skin; she looked so sweetly flustered in the gaslight that he wanted to kiss her… and not just on the lips. He wanted to learn the taste and touch and scent of her skin. He wanted to unpin her hair and let the glossy black locks ripple over her bare breasts. He wanted to feel her body next to his, softening and swaying in surrender.

Mischief suddenly curved her lips. She twirled as gracefully as a ballerina, the magenta train of her gown whispering. “Do I pass the test, then? Am I as lovely a lady as the noble Marianne?”

Nicholas couldn’t stop a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of comparing your vivid beauty to any other woman, titled or not.”

For an instant Elizabeth looked inordinately pleased. Then the light left her face and a frown creased her brow. “You’re terribly accomplished at flattery, aren’t you?” She gestured at herself. “These clothes are a symbol of the false image you’ve ordered me to assume for society. You want me to hide my true self behind silk and hairpins.”

Annoyance pecked at his good humor. “Fine clothing is meant to enhance a woman’s beauty, not disguise it.”

“Well, I don’t happen to care for your standards of beauty.” Tugging at her high lace collar, Elizabeth wriggled uncomfortably, drawing his eyes to the adorable shape of her breasts. “Believe me, this is the first and last time I’ll ever wear a corset.”

Shock at her frank words pierced Nicholas, followed closely by the renewed blaze of desire. She was here under his protection, he reminded himself, yet all he could think about was seducing her.

“You shouldn’t speak of such things in front of a gentleman,” he snapped.

Her chin shot up. “Another command, my lord? One evening, and already my head is swimming with your silly rules.”

“Silly or not, speaking so candidly might induce a man to take advantages you don’t intend.” Telling himself she needed to be taught a lesson, Nicholas strode to her as his voice dropped to a grim whisper: “He might well think
this
is what you’re inviting.”

Shedding conscience and judgment, he shaped his palm to the beguiling curve of her breast. He heard the hiss of her indrawn breath, saw her eyes widen to great purple pansies against her glowing skin. Yet she didn’t move away, not even when he slid his hand over the silk of her bodice. The stiff corset hid her softness, but her warmth radiated into his fingers, heating his blood to an unbearable degree. She smelled like half wild herbs and sun warmed earth. His thumb found the peak of her breast and circled it slowly. Her lashes lowered a little; her slumberous expression hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. He wanted to take her right there on the stone floor, encompassed by a tangle of plants; he wanted to lie with her beneath the night darkened roof of glass; he wanted to slide his hand under her skirts and caress her —

Something in her gaze froze his fantasy. Her rapt eyes glided over his face, as if memorizing every line and angle. She looked absorbed, spellbound, fascinated…

Fascinated by the position of his hand? Or by what she termed his physical perfection?

Despising his uncertainty, Nicholas drew his fingers from temptation, curling them into a fist at his side. “Do you comprehend my meaning, Miss Hastings?” he said coldly. “If you fail to watch your words, you’ll soon find your reputation beyond the pale.”

Elizabeth shook her head; the dreamy look cleared from her eyes. “I won’t live a lie, Lord Nicholas. I’m an artist, first and foremost. Whether society accepts me or not doesn’t matter in the least.”

Her obstinacy frustrated him. “It matters to me,” he said brusquely, “so long as you live under my roof. Mark my words. If you fail to act like a lady, I won’t feel obliged to treat you like one.”

Taking one last look at her startled, kissable face, he turned on his heel and strode out of the conservatory.

A curse echoed through the empty room.

At the soot streaked window, a solitary figure held back the filthy curtain to peer at the drenched street below. Despite the drizzle that hid the midday sun, the byway abounded with people: a wizened old woman selling posies, a knife grinder turning his raucous machine, a young mother trudging along with a swaddled baby in her arms.

But it was not these ordinary folk who attracted the wrathful gaze of the watcher. It was the pair of liveried footmen who carted wooden crates out of the tenement across the street and loaded the boxes into a dray.

Fury cut like a scalpel into the watcher’s heart. Lucy had been spirited away again, away from where she belonged.

A knock shattered the emptiness. “‘Ey, you in there?” came a muffled shout.

The figure wheeled around, angrily kicked aside the shreds of a newspaper, and flung open the door.

The man in the porkpie hat burst into the room. “She’s done moved out,” he gasped. “The bitch’s run off!”

“Run off! Is that all you came to report?”

The coarse faced man stared. “Didn’t you ‘ear wot I said? The trull’s gone!”

He scurried to the window and pointed.

“See ‘ere! Them fancy fellows are cartin’ off all er things.”

“As they have been for the past hour. Where the devil were you?”

The man uneasily shifted his hobnail boots. “I got to catch me a few winks sometime,” he grumbled. “Wot d’you expect”

“I expect you to drink your gin on your own time. Now get your lazy hide back down there. You’re to follow those footmen when they leave.”

“Follow ‘em? Where to?”

“To Berkeley Square, you dolt! Didn’t you see the Hawkesford crest on the landau the other day?”

“Ain’t bein’ paid to know me letters,” the man whined.

“Paid! You’re being paid far more than you’re worth. You watch that girl and look for an opportunity. You’ll not see even a tuppence if you don’t hurry.”

Scowling, the man adjusted his porkpie hat and scurried out.

The figure moved across the dirty floor to pick up the notebook propped against the wall by the window. Loving fingers brushed off a cobweb clinging to the royal blue cover, then traced the name embossed in gold.
Elizabeth Templeton Hastings.

Lucy’s daughter. Lucy’s sin.

No, Lucy could never sin. Lucy was too good, too beautiful. This book was a shrine to her loveliness. A slim fingered hand, meticulously groomed, turned the vellum pages. Lucy laughing. Lucy smiling. Lucy gazing dreamily into the distance.

Yes, the drawings were proof that she lived. The letter containing the news of her death was nothing but a vile lie, a vicious attempt to keep Lucy from returning home.

But soon she would be free. The knowledge was a soothing balm, the long awaited healing of a wounded soul.

Yes, her daughter was the cancer. Her daughter must die so that Lucy could live again.

Whatever could have happened to that notebook?
Releasing a baffled sigh, Elizabeth straightened her weary back after sorting the contents of the last packing crate. She had searched for two days now, but the treasured drawings of her mother were nowhere to be found. Her insides twisted with distress. The notebook was all she had left of her mother… that and the ring she wore on the chain beneath her simple blouse. Of course, she could draw her mother from memory, but would the freshness be there? Could she recall every nuance, every detail?

A spatter of raindrops struck the glass roof of the conservatory. Disheartened, Elizabeth sank onto an overturned wooden box. Reaching into the pocket of her Turkish trousers for a lump of clay, she moistened it in a nearby jug of water, then began to absently work the substance. The familiar pliancy beneath her fingers brought a measure of calm, as did the sight of her surroundings.

Even in her dreams she had never imagined such a perfect place to work. The conservatory looked charmingly wild with overgrown camellia bushes, climbing ivy plants, and winding flagstone paths. Yesterday a swarm of workmen had descended upon the room, fixing the dripping faucet, replacing a few broken panes of glass, and repairing the fountain so that water now splashed from the satyr’s tilted urn, the musical sound mingling with the tapping of raindrops. Her worktable was already scattered with an array of tools: chisel, mallet, penknife, spatula. Clay stained cloths draped her sculpting pedestals.

Something crashed behind her, followed by a muttered, “Oh, pooh!”

Swiveling, she saw Cicely gingerly stepping down from a packing crate. The girl stooped to retrieve the book lying on the floor, then climbed back to finish straightening the row of anatomy and art volumes on the wall shelf.

“You haven’t come across my sketchbook with the royal blue cover, have you?” Elizabeth asked.

Cicely shook her head. “Maybe it’s inside that box you’re sitting on.”

“No, I’ve unpacked everything,” Elizabeth said, digging her fingers into the clay. “I haven’t seen the notebook since the day my lodgings were vandalized.”

Cicely gasped and nearly fell off the box. “You don’t suppose the thief took it, do you?”

“Of course not. Why would anyone want sketches of my mother?”

Cicely dramatically put a hand over the pleated green silk of her bosom. “Why, don’t you see? He must have known you’re a famous artist. He’s probably planning to sell the pictures and make a fortune!”

Elizabeth laughed. “Come now, Cicely. I’m hardly Rodin or Millais. I can’t imagine the public clamoring for my work.”

“Why, you’re the finest artist in England. With Nick’s patronage, you’ll soon have so many commissions you’ll hardly know what to do with yourself.”

The clay went slick beneath Elizabeth’s fingers. Ever since that night here in the conservatory with Lord Nicholas, the mere mention of his name set her heart to racing. She didn’t understand why such an annoying, arrogant man could make her feel so weak. Whenever he was near, all she could think about was how much she wanted to touch his strong body, to feel his hand caress her breast again. Thoughts of him kept distracting her from her art.

“Your brother hasn’t promised me a single commission,” she said. “He won’t even let me sculpt
him.”

“Oh, he’s such a stuffed shirt.” Cicely dusted off her hands, then lifted her skirts and hopped onto the stone floor. “One thing I can say about Nick, he isn’t vain in the least. He hates for anyone to make a fuss over his looks.”