Of course, as an infamous artist's butler, he must have served more than his share of female guests.
As soon as the servant left, Mr. Craven lounged back in his chair, his chin propped on two fingers and a thumb, his legs sprawled out until his long, naked toes nearly touched her boot.
Unlike most men she knew, he seemed to feel no need to speak.
She forced herself to look down at her hands. Returning his gaze struck her as incautious. She didn't
want to spoil her progress by giving him the wrong idea. It was one tiling to hint she might welcome his advances, which, to judge by his behavior, required no more than showing up on his doorstep and being female. Actually giving in to those advances, however, was more than she wished to do. To her mind,
the less real damage she did to her person the better. She didn't dismiss the possibility of one day having an affair, but she'd learned her lesson from Edward Burbrooke. The next time she offered herself, it would be to a man who wanted her as much as she wanted him.
She couldn't imagine that happening with Nicolas Craven.
"So," he said, crinkling his eyes in a manner that was, despite its urbanity, surprisingly sympathetic,
"your life is about to start anew."
Had her story been true, Merry thought this was a very kind way to put it.
"I hope so," she said. "I've always wanted to have adventures."
"Good for you," he responded, his smile curling into his cheeks. His lips, she noticed, were thin and mobile. Their color was rich, as if they'd been stained by wine. Despite its gravelly timbre, his voice
was soft. "Couldn't go home to your folks?"
"Dead," she lied, crossing her fingers in her skirt. "For a number of years."
"I'm sorry." To her surprise, he reached forward to squeeze the muscle between her shoulder and her neck. His grip was comforting, despite her lack of any need for comfort. "Don't worry, Mary. I'll make sure you have sufficient funds to keep you when we're done."
"That's very kind of you, Mr.—"
"For God's sake, call me Nic," he said. "And it's not kind, merely good business. I want the best models champing at the bit to work with me."
Merry grinned at the brass-bound edge of the Chinese table. "I imagine plenty of women would be eager to work with you, no matter what you paid."
He laughed, his thumb sliding past her collar to the sensitive skin along her neck. "Lord, I can't wait to
get you in my studio."
His enthusiasm surprised her, though he'd said as much the night before. He genuinely seemed to want
to paint her, plain old Merry Vance. She didn't know what to make of him, with his lingering touches
and his smoldering stares and his "for God's sake, call me Nic." Merry's own manners were hardly priggish, but she had no clue how she ought to respond to his.
He treated her as if she'd been in his bed already.
Was this what Isabel meant by savoring his conquests bit by bit?
"Have I frightened you?" he asked, leaning so close she could smell the bergamot soap in which he washed.
"No," she said staunchly, though she could not suppress a shiver. "I'm looking forward to posing in your studio, Mr. Craven. I'm a great admirer of your work."
He sat back with a chuckle. "A great admirer, eh? Well, Lord willing, you'll have more reason to admire me before long. Maybe you'll even learn to call me Nic."
His implication was as clear as his wagging brows and yet she found she could not take offense. He was so good-naturedly rakish. More a wolf pup than a wolf. Her resistance to his charm began to melt like chocolate in the sun.
This man is dangerous, she thought.
Perhaps to her misfortune, the knowledge did not incline her to turn and run.
* * *
The savories Nic had called for turned out to be a meal of sausage and bread and cheese; hardly the dainty tidbits she was used to, but welcome all the same. Her nerves had for once gotten the better of
her appetite, and this was the first solid food she'd eaten since the day before.
When Farnham returned to clear their plates—apparently, the other servants were on holiday—Nic showed her to her room.
It was tinier than her maid's chamber at home, with a single window overlooking the back garden, now
a tangle of winter brown. The bed was narrow, the washstand chipped, and the Persian rug had seen better days. Dust grimed the painted baseboard, though the floor had at some recent time been swept.
Nic seemed to see nothing wrong in offering these amenities to her.
And why should he? she scolded herself. He had no reason to think she'd known better.
"It's very cozy," she said, forcing a smile.
"Well, the fireplace draws. And we never stint on coal. You're welcome to use as much as you like."
Hm, she thought, squinting at the loaded bucket. Was she expected to stoke the fire herself? She supposed she could manage. She'd seen housemaids do it often enough. To hide her consternation, she moved to the mantel. A painting hung above it, a nice one. If she recalled her "finishing" in art, it was a copy of Correggio's
Jupiter and Io
. The cloudlike god was as sooty and thick as
London
fog, which
didn't stop the nymph he held from swooning in his misty arms.
Merry could imagine all too easily why Nic liked it.
"The water closet is across the hall," he was saying. "Nothing fancy, but you'll have it to yourself."
"I'm sure that will be fine," she said, though she wasn't sure at all. She nodded at the painting. "Did you copy this?"
He smiled and joined her. "Yes, I did. You have a good eye." He tapped the simple wooden frame. "I began my studies in
Vienna
. My master had a habit of tossing his students' paintings in the fire. This
was the first of my efforts to escape the blaze. Ever since, I've had a fondness for Correggio."
"I suppose you studied all over
Europe
."
His expression grew distant. "I've seen a fair amount of it.
Geneva
.
Florence
. And
Paris
, of course,
when politics allowed. It's good to know the world is bigger than the place you live."
"I've never been out of
England
."
He looked down at her, his gaze warming as he wound one of her curls around his finger. Those eyes of his ... They were like molten silver, made even brighter by their short, dark fringe of lashes. She didn't know which moved her more: the kindness they held, or the banked erotic fire.
"Where would you travel if you could?" he asked;
She struggled to think with the heat blooming thick inside her. "The
Forbidden City
," she said. "Or
maybe
Rome
."
He allowed her hair to spring free of his hold. "
Rome
might be more practical than
China
, but I suppose you can go anywhere in your dreams."
His tone was so smoky, so suggestive, she felt compelled to step back. Here again was his persuasion,
the sensual charm no woman could resist.
His mouth curled knowingly at her retreat, his eyes half-lidded with enjoyment. "I'll let you freshen up and rest then, shall I? We serve dinner at eight. You can eat with me, or Famham can bring you a tray, whichever you prefer. It'll be simple fare until my cook returns, but I'm sure we'll manage."
"I'm sure," she agreed, her response embarrassingly ragged. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for showing me to my room. And thank you for taking me on."
His smile deepened, lending his eyes a glow that said the pleasure was all his. He stepped backward to
the threshold, then laid his finger beside his nose.
"I'll see you later, Mary Colfax," he said, and closed the door behind him.
Reality struck like a cartload of bricks as soon as she was alone. She, who had never left the bosom of her family except to visit female friends, now shared a roof with a man she barely knew, a man who clearly considered her fair game for his amorous wiles.
"My-y," she said, the word sighing out on a long, low breath. Even she could scarcely credit she'd had
the nerve.
She hadn't permitted herself to consider how she'd feel, not when she handed Isabel her packet of bogus letters to send back to Merry's mother, not when she snuck out of the mansion in her stolen dress and hired a cab to
St. John's
Wood.
She was alone with Nicolas Craven, alone but for a butler who probably saw more depravity in a week than she could imagine in a year. Knees weak, she dropped into a faded fan-backed chair. She felt as if she were galloping toward an unfamiliar jump on a half-broke horse, the hazards untested, the outcome wholly dependent on her and the creature's skill.
The intensity of her terror was a pleasure in itself.
* * *
Despite her resolve to embrace all challenges, Merry was dismayed to discover she had not planned as well as she'd thought. She went down to dinner at five to eight, still wearing her pitiful maid's dress.
She stopped in her tracks at the entrance to the dining room, barely noticing when Nic rose. This room,
a small but perfect oval, was done up like a French salon from the era of the Sun King. Soft, pastoral murals—not Nic's, she thought—filled curlicued medallions on the walls. Gilt and ormolu encrusted the furniture to the extent that she wondered if it was safe to sit. Everything looked antique, even the ivory damask that draped the table.
She'd known Nic Craven was successful, but this eclectic jewel of a home was more than she'd foreseen.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, standing beside his chair.
Recalling herself, she touched the skirt of her orange gown. "I have no clothes," she said.
She lied, of course. She had a steamer trunk full of clothes sitting in the cellar of Isabel's town house. This trunk was supposed to be on its way to
Wales
as part of her ruse to convince her mother she had gone. Since Nic didn't know this, he looked her up and down, his eyes slanting, his lips curled slightly
at the corners.
She didn't understand how an expression so subtle could be so predatory, or what he imagined lay under this baggy gown. Certainly, nothing like what was there, or he wouldn't have been grinning.
"We'll have to see what we can do about that," he said, and offered her the chair across from his. When she took it, he slid it under her with the ease of a gentleman born and bred. "I have gowns I keep on hand for models, but I doubt they'd fit you. You're a good deal slighter than most of the women I paint. If you can survive till Monday, I know a dressmaker we can visit. Very reasonable and discreet."
I'll bet, Merry thought, especially the discreet part.
Nic's eyes gleamed as if he'd read her mind. "I, of course, would never force you to wear a stitch. Speaking as an artist, I think the unadorned female form is a lovely thing."
Merry shot a repressive look from beneath her brows, but it only made Nic laugh.
"Little cold for that," she said.
Nic put his elbow on the table and tweaked her nose.
"You forget," he said, "in my house, we stoke the fires."