The Bride of Time (10 page)

Tessa hesitated. It sounded more sad than scandalous the way he’d put it, but still, from the look in his eyes, she was certain it wouldn’t take long for one thing to lead to another. This man had a volatile nature. Something almost bestial lived beneath his skin, something
that would be hard for her to control if it ever got loose, considering her curiosity, and yes, her undeniable attraction to the man formed long before she set foot inside his mysterious manor in the patchwork hills of Cornwall.

“All right,” he said on a sigh. “You needn’t give me your answer now. All I ask is that you think upon it. All proprieties will be met and strictly enforced.”

What that meant exactly in an understaffed household, where doors were bolted against a nine-year-old child, Tessa had no idea. He seemed sincere, but still, the half-naked image of the doxy fleeing the Abbey with Longworth on her heels wouldn’t leave her.

“Only my hair and face?” she said at last.

It was as if dawn had broken over his gloomy countenance. This was a side of Giles Longworth Tessa had never seen. It brought a lump to her throat.

“And your hands,” he added excitedly, “holding the hourglass. Miss LaPrelle, I know I’ve made a bad first impression, but I assure you I am a gentleman…when I’m not dealing with thieves who take advantage of my generosity and good nature. I will never ask you to do anything that will make you uncomfortable.”

The mention of thieves struck a sour chord inside her, reminding her of what she’d left behind. Considering his abhorrence of thieves, what would he think of her if he knew he harbored a suspected thief under his very roof? That thought kept pricking at her like a stubborn splinter, but other thoughts now beat those nagging worries back.

“And…who will you have pose for the body?” she queried. Whatever possessed her to say that? It just seemed to come rolling off her tongue of its own volition; she bit it for spite. Hot blood pumping through her veins rushed to her temples. She could only imagine the color of her cheeks; they were on fire.

“I will hire someone for that,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Why did that stab her with a crippling pang of jealousy? Did her posture really clench? She hoped not, but she feared so. It scarcely signified. He seemed so bowled over by her response, she doubted he’d noticed.

“Does that mean you will?” he asked.

That soft, warm expression hadn’t left him; the unguarded, boyish look that charmed her so had banished the hard, brooding countenance she remembered from the self-portrait in the little London gallery.

He had strolled nearer, so near she could feel his body heat. When had that happened? How tall he was, standing over her. How dark his eyes were gazing down. They were lit with an inner fire that sent shivers racing along her spine. His scent, all musk and maleness, drifted toward her. It wasn’t laced with brandy now. She breathed him in deeply. What a delight he was for the senses, crackling with virility, with feral volatility at cross purposes with the innocence and boyish charm.

She took a faltering step back. “If that is all you require,” she said hesitantly. “It might be arranged. At least I would be earning my keep—”

“I cannot thank you enough!” he said, taking another step toward her. Backing up another pace brought her flush against the wing chair she’d vacated. When he reached out to steady her, the world tilted on its axis. His hands were warm, their moistness penetrating the bombazine fabric of her sleeve. Her heart leapt, and he slid the hand down until it had captured hers and lifted it to his lips. “I promise you, you shan’t regret it,” he murmured.

That those lips lingered longer than necessary on the back of her hand didn’t matter. She didn’t pull her hand away—couldn’t—
wouldn’t
pull it away, even though her mind and traitorous body demanded separation.

When he finally released her trembling fingers, she broke eye contact and sidestepped his closeness. “O-only during the d-daylight hours,” she stammered.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I’ll work with the body model in the evenings, when light is not as critical as it is while painting facial features and the shadow play that gives dimension to hair. We shall commence after nuncheon. The successful completion of this project is crucial to the economic upkeep of Longhollow Abbey. Oh, we are hardly rolled up here, you understand, just swimming a bit at low tide because of the unfortunate affairs that have cost me my local clientele. The Prince Regent’s patronage for future commissions would set things to rights. I shall send Able after a body model straightaway. You needn’t have worried in that regard. You wouldn’t have been quite right for that in any case. Prinny prefers his women…a little more voluptuous. So, you see? There it is: an amiable solution all around. I cannot thank you enough, Miss LaPrelle.” He turned her toward the door. The pressure of his splayed palm against the small of her back seared her like a firebrand. Did he have to move it like that—like a caress? Lud! It
was
a caress.

“Until after nuncheon,” she intoned, escaping through the study door the minute he lifted the latch.

Chapter Eight

Giles made a visible trip to the stables after his interview with Tessa, just in case she might be observing him from the window in her suite, which faced that direction. That was a stroke of genius. He had no intention of hiring a body model, especially not now, with the full moon looming and Master Monty still not confined to his chamber for the test. Not to mention his own reaction to the full moon when it rose to night.

No. The pretext was believable, at least believable enough to prompt a reaction from Miss Tessa LaPrelle, which was his intent. The look on her face when he criticized her exquisite body nearly cost him the ruse. It was all he could do to suppress a laugh. She was absolutely livid at the comment. How she could possibly believe her image wouldn’t give rise to a eunuch’s manhood was beyond him. Women! He’d gotten the answer he’d been seeking. The adorable little hypocrite wouldn’t dream of posing naked for him, yet she’d turned pea-green with envy at the thought of another doing so. That gave him hope that at least the attraction was mutual. It fed fuel to his own fantasy that somewhere in his own imperfect time, he’d found a woman without guile who
might even be tempted to love him for who he was—sans the wolf that lurked just beneath the surface, ready to devour his newfound hope with one ravenous chomp. For that brief space of stolen time, like an oasis in the midst of a parching desert, it was a pleasant fiction.

Giles only half-expected Tessa to come to the solarium after nuncheon, and he was visibly surprised when she did just that. It was an awkward moment when he turned to find her standing on the threshold. The gentle rap of her knuckles on the seasoned wood of the open doorframe spun him toward her.

He strode at once to her side and, taking her elbow, led her into the room. He’d repositioned the easel facing the lounge and gestured toward the canvas. “I would like you to recline on the chaise thus,” he said, pointing to the model’s position with the handle of the paintbrush he’d been using when she entered, “…with your hands just so.”

He handed her the hourglass and motioned her toward the lounge. Once she had reclined there, he gestured toward her hair. “May I?” he asked, waiting. Handing her the hourglass was a stroke of genius. He would give anything to feel that wonderful hair again, to let its soft, fragrant silkiness spill down over his hands. She would have to give the glass back to him, if she were to take the hair down herself. Since his fingers were at the ready, poised over the tortoiseshell hairpins, he hoped she would allow him. For a moment she hesitated, then nodded permission, and he withdrew the pins. “Thank you,” he said, slipping the hairpins into the pocket of his buckskins. “I just need to arrange it as I have it begun on the canvas. It won’t take but a minute.”

Giles suppressed the breathless moan that lived in his throat as her hair slid through his fingers. How he longed to scoop up handfuls of that luxurious hair, press
it to his nose, and inhale the sweet scent of wildflowers drifting toward him from it until it filled his senses. He wished he’d tossed back a couple gulps of brandy earlier. That might have blunted the edges of desire that gripped him now. Something else was gripping him as well, the pull of the un-risen moon. If it was so strong before dark, what would it be when the sun set and the full moon rose over the patchwork hills, over the Abbey? When would he lose consciousness? When would the nightmare begin? He had no way of knowing, for he had no memory of any of that from the last time the moon rose full in the indigo vault above and drove him naked onto the moor. He couldn’t think about that now. Moonrise was still a few hours off, and he was facing The Bride of Time in all her radiant glory. Tessa LaPrelle had bewitched him. She had cast a glamour over him, arriving in the dead of night out of nowhere with naught but the clothes on her back; a lady of mystery. It suddenly occurred to him that she knew all about him, but he knew virtually nothing about her.

Having lingered over her hair as long as he dared, Giles captured her hands and positioned them in the proper attitude holding the hourglass. “Perfect,” he said, backing away for a panoramic view. “Place your left hand under the glass…That’s it; now caress it with your right, but let the sand show…There! That’s it. Hold that if you will. Tell me when you tire, and you can rest. I shouldn’t want to wear you out on your first day.”

Tessa didn’t answer, and he frowned. There was a wide-eyed look of apprehension on her face, reminding him of a roe deer he’d caught in his sites, staring down the barrel of his musket last season. He frowned. He’d hoped he’d put her at ease; that was why he’d left the solarium door open. Evidently he’d failed. The look on that face was pure fright. It simply wouldn’t do.

“We must do something about that startled expression,” he said. “I cannot paint that. Perhaps a little pleasant conversation, while I work. It occurred to me earlier that you have my tale entire, whilst I know next to naught about you. Where do you come from…where is your home?”

Again she hesitated.
Zeus!
Perhaps drawing her out wasn’t a good idea after all. She’d suddenly lost what color she had, her posture had clenched, and the frightened doe look in those magnificent eyes had intensified tenfold.

“London,” she said.

Giles stopped painting mid-stroke. “Oh, yes. Still, my advertisement for a governess reached
London?
” he said, incredulous. “I don’t recall sending word—”

“You didn’t,” she interrupted him. “I…I’m here in Cornwall on holiday. I heard of the position…from one of the locals.”

Giles resumed painting. “Were you employed as a governess in Town? Things happened so quickly, I didn’t even ask to see references. Not that it matters any longer.”

“I…I lived with my aunt until she passed,” Tessa said.

“Why Cornwall…so far from Town?”

“I wanted to get away from Town for a bit before going into service. I always wanted to see Cornwall. I fell in love with a painting I saw once of the Cornish moors…in a little gallery near Threadneedle Street. I wanted to see it for myself.”

“No suitors…no beaux?”

“No,” she said.

That was a relief. Giles had feared she might be spoken for. She seemed a bit more relaxed, but there was still something in those limpid eyes that trembled with fear. His artist’s eye was infallible when seeking out the
complexities of his subjects. That talent gave his portraits much greater depth. He was seeing something now that puzzled him. The girl was an enigma. It was almost as if she’d built a wall around herself, like the stacked stone walls hemming the lanes that sidled through the hills. She was a challenge, and he’d always met a challenge head-on.

“Are you tiring?” he asked. “You look a bit…strained.”

“Not really.”

He glanced toward the glass roof. “We won’t have much more light,” he observed. “Twilight comes early in Cornwall this time of the year. If you are willing, I would like to take advantage of it.”

Tessa nodded. “That would be fine,” she murmured.

“Good! We always count ourselves fortunate when we have the sun. It so often rains hereabouts, or the dampness conjures belching fogs that have us lighting lamps and candles by mid-afternoon. Sometimes, what the old folk call
flaws
—fearsome gales—set in and linger for days on end, bringing horizontal rain and flesh-tearing winds that would flay the hairs right off your head. During those cyclones, the candles are lit night and day, and the hearths as well, winter and summer. Artificial light is quite different when one is painting. The values are all wrong.”

“Then it must be difficult when you continue on into the night,” Tessa said.

“Oh, it is,” Giles assured her. “But when the muse beckons, one must heed the call.”

“Have you found a body model yet?” she queried.

Taken aback, Giles stared. He’d forgotten about that, and almost laughed at the look of her then. The apples of her cheeks had suddenly taken on color. It was clear that curiosity had gotten the better of her. She bit her lip, and color rushed there.

“That’s it!” he cried. “Wet your lips. I want to place the highlights.”

She was hesitant at first. Her lips parted once, twice, but still she hesitated.

“Like this,” he said, tracing the shape of his own lips with the tip of his tongue.

After a moment, Tessa licked her lips as he had done, and a soft sound escaped his throat watching the pink tip of her tongue glide over the Cupid’s bow. Something shifted in his loins. The vision of her reclining there, her long chestnut mane rippling over her shoulders, her dewy lips still parted, had aroused him from across the room. What would those lips feel like beneath his own? He could almost taste their honey sweetness. Would that tongue, those lips, betray him as Elena’s had done? Dared he chance finding out? Could he suffer betrayal again?

Never had a woman—any woman, lady or whore, for he’d known his share of both—affected him the way this mysterious female did. Was she angel or witch? It didn’t matter. He was captivated. His manhood was tight against the seam of his buckskins, his heart hammering in his breast. Cold sweat trickled down his spine, riding gooseflesh that had raised the fine hairs from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. His loins were on fire.