"You don't have to be afraid of us," Nic assured him. "I know Farnham seems a bit regimental, but as long as you try your best, he'll more than do right by you."
"Yes, sir," said the boy, then started edging farther off. "I'll just fetch that coal you wanted."
The sudden rapping of the doorknocker did nothing to call him back.
Bloody hell, thought Nic. Can't train anyone these days.
Fortunately for his mood, the figure on the stoop called forth an immediate smile.
It was the maid from the night before. The single spot of color in the mist, she wore a hideous tweed
coat over an even more hideous orange dress. Its skirt was stained and the ruffles around its hem
draggled as if they'd been stepped on. Indeed, they might have been. Both coat and gown hung on their wearer like a sack. Last night she had not seemed this small. Now he saw she was a slip of a thing, not merely short, but tiny. Nor was her size the only trait he'd failed to appreciate by gaslight. He could not have missed her freckles, but her eyes, an interesting sunstruck umber hue, were as bright as the day
was not.
Her hair, what he could see beneath her muddy brown knitted scarf, was quite remarkable. He'd guessed it was fair but hadn't expected this blazing mix of red and gold. Kinked by the weather, it was so curly and thick it seemed alive. Like faerie dew, beads of moisture clung to its rippling waves.
In spite of his ennui, his fingers itched for his paints.
"Don't tell me," he said, verging on a laugh, "Farnham tracked you down to jolly me from my gloom."
"I beg your pardon," said his visitor, drawing herself up. Nic had never seen a woman stand that straight. She looked like a little soldier with her shoulders thrust back and her jaw stuck out Her nose, he noticed, had a funny tumed-up ball on the end, like a forgotten bit of clay. Retrousse, a Frenchman would have said, but the word could not convey its winsome humor. A smudge of ash marred the skin of her freckled cheek. What a face, he thought. What a wonderfully unforgettable face.
Too bad he couldn't say as much for her name.
"Forgive me," he said as he racked his brains. "Obviously, you are here on your own initiative. Won't you come in and state your business? I shouldn't like a young lady to stand on my doorstep growing chilled."
Calling her a lady might be a stretch, for no true lady came to a gentleman's home alone. Nic had found, however, that most females, no matter how humble, liked to be spoken to as ladies. Unless they were ladies, he thought wryly, recalling how titillated Amanda Piggot had been by his supposedly common touch. But he had no desire to offend this young woman, not when she had most likely come to grant
his dearest wish.
Despite his cordiality, his invitation seemed to unnerve her. Perhaps she wasn't as worldly as he'd thought. After a slight hesitation, she stepped past him into the relative warmth of his foyer.
"It is rather cold," she conceded. Her voice was low in pitch, boyish almost: a tinge of stable mixed with
a hint of manor. This one, he thought with amusement, had aspirations. Clearly, his furnishings caught
her eye. She strolled the circumference beneath the dome, pausing to study a statue of a sleek Egyptian cat The treasure was carved in basalt and bore a gold-and-lapis collar around its neck. Her hand, gloved
in coarse green wool, touched the smooth front paws.
She turned and, for one brief moment, looked as regal as the puss. Little duchess, he thought, his smile too broad to keep inside.
"I wish to know," she said, with that same self-possession, "if you're still looking for a model."
"I might be," he said, then broke into a laugh.
Unable to resist, he began to circle her. His hand caught the end of her scarf and unwrapped it as he went. She uttered a startled sound, but did not fight him, her eyes on his face as he slowly revealed her glory. Three long pins held her hair to her head in a messy lump. Feeling like a naughty schoolboy, he pulled them free. Curls fell, masses of them. Her hair was magic beneath the watery illumination of the skylight, the ends dancing with static, the color indescribable. Past her waist it tumbled, past her hips, a blanket behind which Lady Godiva could easily have hidden. His hands curled into fists. He wanted to paint her like that, naked on a horse, riding proud through the heart of town, making a triumph of what her husband had meant to be a shame.
Come to think of it, Nic needed a centerpiece for his next show. Something provocative. Something the jaded art world could not ignore.
"Take off your coat," he said, his voice hoarse with his urge to see the rest of her.
A wash of peony pink crept up her cheek. "I am not a whore," she said. "Just because my ... my employer cast me off doesn't mean I'm anyone's for the taking."
"Cast you off?" Her words were a dash of cold reality. "Because of what happened to you last night?"
Hanging her head, she put the toe of one boot atop the other.
"Idiot," he said, and her head jerked in alarm. "Not you, love. Your employer." He cupped the side of
her face, pitying her trouble with all his heart. Just once, why couldn't the men of his class respect the women in their care? "Did he try to force himself on you?"
Her mouth dropped and she blinked so rapidly he feared she was about to cry.
"Never mind," he said hastily, reluctant-to face a scene. "You don't have to tell me. I just want you to know that no woman is less than a lady to me, no matter how she's been mistreated, no matter if she's worn ruts down the paths of Covent Garden. I have never forced a woman and I never shall."
With the pad of his thumb, he touched her trembling lower lip. She had a plain mouth but a pleasant
one, its surface soft and pink. Naturally, now was not the time, but he wouldn't have minded kissing it. He'd do it slowly, he mused, and very, very gently. As if she read his thoughts, she shivered and pulled away.
Her eyes locked warily onto his. "Do you still want to paint me?"
"I do," he said. Deciding a casual tack was best, he examined his paint-stained nails. "I'd want you to board with me, of course."
"Of course," she agreed, a little too quickly. When he peered at her, she squared her shoulders in the way he'd already identified as her habit. "I'm not some quivering miss. I know what's expected of a model."
He smiled at her mixture of innocence and bravado—not that it was amusing, when one thought about it. Despite his assurance that he'd never force a woman, this poor girl was obviously prepared to bed him if she must. He touched her face again, following the hollow of her cheekbone toward her jaw. The artist
in him took over from the man. Gripping her chin, he turned her head to catch the light from a different angle. She really was surprisingly dramatic.
"I'll pay you to pose," he said softly. "Whatever else you choose to give is just that: a choice. Unless
you understand that very clearly, we can't go on."
She blinked as if he'd spoke in Chinese. "I do understand," she said, "and I thank you."
"Well, then." Suddenly buoyant, he tweaked the tip of her nose between two fingers. "Perhaps you'd
be willing to take off your coat and let me see what we've got to work with." Her name returned in a tardy flash. "Mary, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said, fighting with her buttons. "Mary Colfax."
The name pleased him. Simple. Straightforward. Perfect for a woman who'd be a challenge but not a trial.
Taking pity on her struggle, he reached in to remove her awkward gloves. Though she swore under her breath, she let him take them. Curious, he turned her hands between his own. Her fingers were delicate, their nails clipped short, their bases as callused as if she'd shoveled out the stable that seemed to have supplied her original speech patterns. Oddly enough, he liked her better for the roughness. This girl was no layabout. When her coat was off as well, she thrust it at him as if she loathed the very sight. Nic draped the worn tweed over his arm.
"Now then, Mary Colfax," he said, feeling more satisfied with the world, "why don't we drink some tea and discuss your fee."
* * *
With a heightened sense of unreality, merry watched him hang the ugly coat as she pressed her fingertips to her palms. They tingled from the way he'd probed them with his thumb. How oddly he treated her:
half woman, half object. She could scarcely say which manner disturbed her more. And of all things,
he thought her father—
her father
— had despoiled her. The duke of Monmouth was not that sort of
man, and yet her tongue cleaved to her mouth before she could push the words out to defend him.
True or not, it was a convincing explanation of why a maid might have been fired.
And it did seem to make Mr. Craven, who obviously had a protective streak, more eager to take her in. Heavens, he'd invited her to board with him! A stroke of luck, that, since she hadn't known where she'd stay if he did not. Given how conveniently everything was falling into place, it hardly behooved her to correct his erroneous impression of her sire.
She couldn't reveal her true identity, after all. No matter how debauched he was, Nicolas Craven would never compromise the daughter of a duke—at least, not an unmarried one.
She had thought her plan through most carefully. Not only was she going to accept his offer to paint her, she was going to let him paint her nude. That would be a scandal even her father could not suppress. She'd be utterly unmarriageable then, not just to Ernest but to any respectable man.
Yes, her father would be furious, but Nicolas Craven was wealthy and well known. Beyond a bit of unpleasantness, she suspected the man could defend himself. Certainly, if his swift disposal of her attacker were an indication, her brothers would pose no threat. In truth, they might have to worry about themselves. Still—she waved a mental hand—no mere artist would dare do serious injury to a peer.
Best of all, even if the duke decided to marry her to a commoner, a confirmed bachelor like Mr. Craven was certain to dig his heels in.
When the dust settled, Merry would have her freedom and Mr. Craven would have his art. His reputation might be a touch more notorious, but surely no harm lay in that. Artists like him thrived on notoriety.
The plan was, as far as she could see, without a single flaw.
Or almost without a flaw, she mused, as he led her down a narrow hall. The previous night's encounter had not prepared her for Nicolas Craven in the daylight. He wasn't just good-looking, he was gorgeous. Devilishly so, as if beauty could be a sin. His hair, which she'd simply thought untidy, was poetically long, a dark, smooth spill across his brow. The eyes she'd judged expressive downright smoldered in the light. They were gray and shining, like diamonds filled with smoke. And he was tall, almost as tall as her brothers, his shoulders as lean and broad as a statue from ancient
Rome
.
The fact that half his chest was showing did nothing to calm her pulse. Even as he walked before her,
the sight was emblazoned in her mind. His shirt was in the American style, the kind that buttoned all the way down the tails. Naturally, with four not particularly modest brothers, she'd seen her share of bare male chests. But this male chest was different.
For one thing, Mr. Craven could have posed for an anatomy manual. His muscles looked as if they'd
been laid in sculptor's clay directly on his frame. He had little chest hair, a mere smattering between his nipples, which—from the glimpses she caught beneath his shirt—were small and sharp. His feet were
bare as well: long, strangely graceful feet. Merry was certain she'd never noticed a man's feet before.
She found it disconcerting to notice them now, not to mention very personal.
Seemingly unaware of the flutter he had caused, Mr. Craven ushered her into a crowded Chinese parlor, where he rang for tea and savories. The servant who answered, a man he called Farnham, had a crooked nose and brush-cut iron-gray hair. A nasty scar slashed diagonally across his chin between the ends of his long mustache. Its skin puckered as if it had healed without medical care. Since he looked like an old pugilist, she wondered if he'd taught Nic the art of subduing strangers in the street. Happily, his manners were unobjectionable. The man glanced at her, no more than mildly curious. Beyond that, he seemed to make no judgment about her presence.