Delectably Undone! (3 page)

Loveday reached home the next day just as the bells of St. Clement Danes pealed four o’clock. An hour to change out of her work clothes and tidy up. Make sure everything that should be away was away. She ached all over. Back, arms, legs and neck. But she forced herself through the chores, ignoring the aches and the longing for a cup of tea. She couldn’t afford tea. Cleaning paintbrushes, she treasured the thought that tea was possible again. Along with better lodgings. Except that respectable landladies didn’t much like indigent artists. And landlords…well, she wasn’t going to think about landlords and what they liked. Nor would she think of all the other things that no amount of money or good fortune could bring back. She was going to be all right. Safe. Secure. Successful.

More pealing bells broke into her thoughts. Five o’clock. He could be there at any moment. Her hands shook as she worked faster, rinsing brushes. But six o’clock pealed without bringing him. He was late, and her rumbling stomach suggested that it was time and more she went to find some dinner. It wouldn’t occur to Eve—to
St. Austell
that other people couldn’t just ring a bell and eat when they felt like it. No.

She tamped down the bitterness at once. That was unfair. After all, he had paid for last night’s dinner and the dinner she would eat tonight. She had the paintings stacked, ready for him. He’d take them and leave. Then she would be free.

He might not even come himself. He might simply send a servant to collect the paintings. There was no need for him to come at all. Beyond the paintings there was nothing here for him. It would be safer for her if he did not return.

She bit her lip. No.
She
was safe enough. He’d been clear about that. It was her heart that would be safer if he did not come. Six years. Surely that should have been long enough for the foolish organ to learn some common sense?

The way her pulse leaped at the knock on the door assured her that common sense was in short supply. She cast a final glance around the bare, gloomy room, checking for anything that might betray her, and with a steadying breath, opened the door.

Relief punched through him at the sight of her as the door opened. He stared at her, dazed, stunned at the release from a tension he had not realized was there. As if at some deep level he had a memory of her vanishing and had expected her to be gone…but there she was.

“Good afternoon, my lord. Your paintings are ready. Do you need help taking them out to your carriage?”

For God’s sake—call me Evelyn!

He’d always been Evelyn to her. But he had destroyed that friendship, and she was right to remind him of it. Of the gulf between them that he ought to have remembered all those years ago.

“No.” He gestured to the footman behind him. “I brought help.” Clearly she wanted him gone from her home as quickly as possible. He couldn’t blame her for that. “We’ll get out of your way.” Evelyn winced inwardly at the coldness of his own voice.

For a moment he thought she flinched, but she said only, “Thank you,” before turning away. He watched as she wriggled her shoulders, as though they were stiff, and fought down the urge to go to her, knead the slender arms and rub all the soreness out. Only he wasn’t alone with her. With a muttered curse he turned back to the waiting footman.

They carried the paintings out to the carriage under the watchful gaze of several of the yard’s denizens.

He hadn’t intended to return. But he found himself dismissing the coachman once the paintings were loaded. Of course, he had forgotten to assure Loveday that the money was in the bank. He could tell her that and then leave.

The door was open as he trod up the steps. He frowned. Surely she should keep it shut. He raised his hand to knock anyway, unwilling to enter without her permission…and his hand froze in midair.

She had her back to him, but he could smell the turpentine and knew what she was doing—cleaning brushes. How many times had he seen her at that task?

“Loveday?”

She swung about with a gasp, still clutching a brush. “Oh! I thought you’d left.”

“Without saying goodbye?” That was exactly what he’d intended. He thought they’d been good intentions, but in the end it had felt shabby. “I forgot to tell you that the money is in the bank.”

“But we didn’t agree on a price.”

“Fifty pounds each, wasn’t it?”

She stared. “For the three you took yesterday. But—”

“Including those, I bought twenty paintings. I deposited one thousand pounds.”

She dropped the brush, scarlet flooding her cheeks. “That’s too much! Especially for—” She broke off, the color ebbing, leaving her blanched. “Some of them were not…not Lionel’s best work.”

Evelyn nodded. “No, they were not. Some of them were his older work.” He bent down and picked up the brush. “The way he painted before. Like the mountainscape, the portrait.”
Before what?
“But the others, that seascape—” He drew breath. “What happened to him, Loveday? Something changed him.”

Their eyes met and Loveday felt herself drowning, falling into the deep, deep blue just as she always had. She had always known he would see the difference. Even if he didn’t yet quite know what he had seen.

“Things happen. People…change, Evelyn. That’s all.” She held out her hand for the brush.

People did change. And she lied by evasion.

He gave her the brush and she took it, fumbling, and turned away to hide the tears. There was a muttered curse, and his arms came about her, drawing her back against the comfort and strength of his body. She shook as his fingers closed over hers and gently removed the brush, to drop it in the basin.

This was madness. The heat and strength surrounding her were temporary at best, and illusory at worst.
He was not for her.
If she had not known that six years ago, she knew it now. She should pull away, before all her hard-won common sense dissolved. And yet she remained.

The length of his body pressed against her, warding off the chill. His cheek rested on her hair, his breath warm in her ear. Her heart hammered as heat stole through her. It had been like this that other time. He had offered comfort, and she had lost her head, reached up and kissed him clumsily on the jaw.

She slammed the door shut on the memory. Of his shock. And then his eyes darkening as he drew her closer and showed her what a kiss could be.

Now he held her helpless before him, one arm close about her waist, his other hand lifting to touch gentle fingers to her face and throat. She quivered, her soul crying out in silent delight, her breath coming in soft gasps as her pulse danced and an ache blossomed in the growing dampness at her core. There was a reason…somewhere there was a reason she must refuse him, but she had forgotten what it was as her body, alive and yearning, melted against him. Warm lips brushed her ear, and his hand stole up to cover her breast, kneading lightly. A moan escaped her trembling lips as heat stabbed, a golden shaft from breast to that growing secret ache, and his arms tightened. Her head fell back against his shoulder and one hand rose to cover the tormenting fingers at her breast, pressing them closer, wanting more. The fierce ridge of his erection rode hard against her bottom and she moved her hips, wanton, enticing.

With a harsh groan he pulled away, stepping back, leaving her bereft, torn apart. Summoning every fading ounce of resolve and courage, she turned to face him, her cheeks scarlet. His eyes blazed into hers, hot and dark.

“Evelyn?” She held out her hand. Not knowing why, only that she must.

He flinched, looking down at it. And she saw what he must see: the frayed cuff of her sleeve, smeared with paint, and her hand, roughened and paint-stained, reaching across an unbridgeable gulf; the schoolmaster’s daughter and painter’s sister, and the aristocrat.

“You still clean his brushes. He’s been home today, then?”

Her hand fell. Time to step back from the edge. As he had done. “Brushes need to be cleaned, my lord. Or they become useless.”

He frowned. “So he came home, left you with his brushes, and went out again? Why? Because I was coming?”

“He had to be…somewhere else.” Crimson scorched her cheeks again at the lie. So far she’d been able to avoid direct lies. Not this time.

“It used to be something you did for him while he made a cup of tea for both of you and talked about his day, his work. What he had planned for the next day.”

She turned away to hide the pain. How many times had Evelyn been there while she did just that? Sometimes he’d helped her. A novelty for the viscount’s heir, to play at a dirty manual task.

“Loveday?” His very gentleness sliced at her. “Did I destroy that, too? Your friendship with Lionel?”

“No!” Shocked, she spun around. “He was angry, upset, but what you—” She broke off. That was unfair. It had not been just Evelyn. She had known what she was doing. It would have taken only a word, a gesture, to stop him. She had not spoken that word or made the gesture, because she had not wanted him to stop. Any more than she had wanted to stop just now. She ached with the pent-up yearning of six endless years. “What
we
did,” she corrected herself, “did not cause any falling out between Lionel and myself.” She dragged in a breath. “It’s different for us. It’s not as though I disgraced an ancient name, or anything like that.”

“Dammit, Loveday!” Evelyn caught her wrist in a fierce grip. “Don’t cheapen yourself like that, as though your innocence was of no account! You’re still his sister, and he was right to be furious with me. And even if you had no brother to be furious, I still should not have taken you.” His voice had gentled and his clasp on her wrist eased. “I don’t want to think that it made a difference between you.”

Unthinking, she laid her other hand over his. “Evelyn, I promise you, it made no difference.”

Slowly, he nodded and released her. “Very well. I’ll wait.”

To her absolute horror, he went and sat down on a chair.

“Wait?” Her tongue felt frozen.

He gave her a level look. “You can hardly expect me to leave you here alone at night. I’ll wait until Lionel returns. If he doesn’t wish to speak to me, I’ll go as soon as he’s back.”

She nearly choked. “But…you can’t!”

“Yes, I can.”

Panic fluttered in her throat. “But—” She cast about for a way to be rid of him. “Your dinner. I…I’ve no food here for you. Indeed—” this would shift him “—I must go out to get my own dinner.”

He stared at her, clearly stunned. “You were planning to go out by yourself? At this hour?” He rose.

“You’re leaving, then?” She tried not to sound relieved.

His gaze narrowed. “Not exactly. I’m taking you out for a meal,” he said. “What? No!”

“And if Lionel isn’t back by then,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll wait.”

“But, you’re going out.” She waved at his elegant evening clothes. “You must be.”

He shrugged. “There’s a ball later. It won’t signify if I’m late.”

She forced back the whirling panic. There had to be a way out of this, if she could only think of it. Somehow she had miscalculated. He was angry. Angry with Lionel for supposedly leaving her here alone too much…. She let out a breath.

“Very well. I’ll…I’ll need to leave a note so he doesn’t worry.”

Evelyn bit back the obvious retort; that if Lionel was worried about her he wouldn’t have rented rooms in this area, let alone left her unguarded in them. God! If he had ignored Lionel’s request for the commission… His gut churned.

“Good idea,” he said.

It had to be safer to take her out. If they remained here alone… His body hardened. Six years had not quenched his desire for Loveday Trehearne. Once, he had taken advantage of her innocence. She should hate him for that, yet it appeared she was still vulnerable to him.

He watched as she hurried around, found a scrap of drawing paper and wrote a brief note. Despite her assurances, he couldn’t rid himself of the idea that there was something wrong between Loveday and Lionel. Something was eating at her. In the growing gloom she looked pale, hesitating over the note, as though choosing her words carefully. Her gaze skittered to his face, then she wrote hastily and propped the paper against a candle near the tinder box.

“It’s easy to see there,” she said, her gaze not quite meeting his.

“Very easy. Are you ready?”

She bit her lip. “Is there time for me to change?”

He swallowed. “Of course.” There was probably time for him to go insane, too. He repressed the instinct to follow as she vanished behind a curtain into the other room.

He tried to ignore the soft, intimate sounds that spoke of a woman undressing, the trickle of water, the faint splashing that told him she was washing. His imagination painted the images for him: Loveday in her chemise, naked; the washcloth caressing her pale, delicate curves, stroking over her breasts; cool water peaking the dusky pink nipples. He remembered their satin softness, remembered their taste…the sweet scent of apple and cinnamon that had always been a part of her…

The memories flooded him, dissolving the years…Loveday, shy before him in her stays and shift. Her skin like peach silk under his touch, flushed to rose in the lamplight. Loveday, naked in his arms, so sweet and generous. And his. All his, yielded beneath him. A madness he regretted more than he could say. All very well to assure himself that he would have stopped if she had asked. She shouldn’t have needed to ask; he should have damn well stopped, anyway. Better, he should never have let it start. Instead, selfishness had won. Even now he remembered her soft cry spilling into his mouth, her body stiffening in shock….

His foot caught against a painting, sending it clattering to the floor. Shaken, he realized that he had taken several steps toward the curtain dividing them.

“Evelyn? Is something wrong?”

Blood pounding, he forced himself to stop. “It’s nothing. Caught my foot.”

No matter how much he wanted to, he wasn’t going to seduce Loveday again. He breathed deeply, trying to steady his hammering pulse and shaking hands. He turned his back on the useless blasted curtain and let out a pent-up breath. His gaze fell on the note against the candlestick.