In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady (12 page)

She thought about an eighteen-year-old with such
power. Had he been determined? Relieved? Perhaps even afraid? She couldn't imagine him as such.

When the maid returned to make the bed, Rebecca asked for pen and paper.

“Ma'am, I'll bring it up after yer bath.”

Though a bath sounded heavenly, Rebecca said, “But I didn't—”

“Yer manservant said ye'd need it after a day of travelin', ma'am.”

Now she truly did feel guilty. “Thank you,” she murmured.

When at last the maid had gone, Rebecca removed her bonnet and shawl, then hugged herself. Hot coals gave soft ticking sounds in the grate, and an angry male voice spat incomprehensible words in the room next door. Was she actually feeling lonely? She'd spent her life with her sister and brother, her many cousins. They were all as overprotective as her parents. She'd have thought she'd welcome any chance to be alone.

Then the shutters burst open.

She gasped and jumped back toward the door, heart pounding madly. But it was Julian who put his head and shoulders through the window. Straitlaced Julian, scaling walls?

She covered her mouth to keep from giggling, watching in growing awe as he lifted himself even higher, got one foot onto the ledge, then jumped inside. He straight
ened slowly, unfolding to that impressive height. She waited for him to stalk her, to say how angry he was, to show—something. But he did none of those things, only looked at her.

“It was a joke,” she said, spreading her hands.

“I know.”

Was he even capable of being angry, of losing control, of doing something reckless? Of course, he had followed her from London, but he'd probably say he was doing the logical thing, protecting her.

Slowly he walked toward her. “You did not consider the ramifications of your ‘joke.' This is one of the worst inns I've ever stayed in. The stables are deplorable. Who knows whom the innkeeper might have been alerted to intercept a woman traveling alone.”

She sighed uneasily, uncertain of his mood. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

He looked down her body. “Where's the tub?”

“I appreciate that you thought of sending one up,” she said, feeling more confused by the minute.

“I'll hide when it arrives,” he said, then arched a brow, a smile playing about his mouth. “Unless you want the establishment to think you sleep with your manservant.”

She returned his smile, determined to show him that she could play along with his teasing.

“Are you still hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then I think you should answer some questions while we wait.” He sat down in the room's only chair.

“About what?” she asked, trying to show that she was unconcerned.

“Before we reach Manchester, I'd like to know more about the artist, Roger Eastfield, and the painting you posed for.”

And then he pulled her onto his knee. Rebecca felt a surge of trepidation and uncertainty—and excitement.

J
ulian enjoyed the curve of Rebecca's hips on his thigh, the way she pressed her knees together where they touched his other leg. Her back was as straight as a girl fresh from finishing school, as if she didn't dare lean into him. He found it amusing that one moment she asked for a kiss, and the next she seemed uncertain about his intentions—off balance. That was the best place to keep her. How else would she learn how to handle herself in the intimate world of scandal she now inhabited?

“I
could
sit on the bed,” she said calmly.

“And what would be the enjoyment in that?”

He let his arm circle her back, resting his hand on her hip. He put the other hand on her knee, which became the focus of her widening eyes.

He waited to speak until she met his gaze.

“I assume Eastfield painted your portrait within the last year?” Julian asked.

She blinked as if she'd forgotten the reason for their discussion. “At the end of the holidays.”

“You weren't in Cambridgeshire?”

She shook her head. “We wanted to give my brother and his wife more time alone together, so we spent Christmas in London.”

“Ah yes, they'd been separated while he was in India, presumed dead.” With his fingers, he caressed her knee slowly, almost absently. “Do you know how long Eastfield had been in London?”

“No, I didn't ask. I only knew he'd been in France for several years.”

“Where he could have fled because he'd stolen the jewel.”

“But if he'd done so, why hadn't he sold it?” she asked, meeting his gaze again as if at last she were more caught up in their conversation than his nearness. “Wouldn't greed have been his only reason for the crime?”

“Perhaps he found its notoriety made it difficult to sell.”

“In France?”

“One must still know the right people to insure that the diamond's sale remains hidden.”

“I don't think he knew the right people—I don't believe he stole the jewel. It was tossed in a box with other pieces, tangled together, as if he were convinced it was paste. And why else would he let me take it?”

“To put something else in motion, perhaps.”

“To put something in motion? I don't know what you mean. He felt compelled to sell the
painting
for money, not the jewel.”

He frowned thoughtfully, even as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Very true. So how long did the actual painting take?”

She gave him a faint smile, touching her hair as if to find anything else out of place. “What does that have to do with the Scandalous Lady? Or are you back to the wager now? Perhaps you and your friends will compare our stories, see who's making a mistake.”

It was easier to talk about Roger Eastfield than think dispassionately about that painting. It haunted him, the dark background, the candles that gave her body a sensual glow. He kept picturing himself there at her side as she displayed herself only for him. But right now he had to remember the diamond, and finding the truth, even as he continued to unsettle Rebecca by stroking her hip.

“I want you to talk freely of the artist,” he said, his voice smooth. “You may say something that will unexpectedly help.”

Her face was a study in patience and amusement, and he was impressed at her success in ignoring his touches.

“Very well,” she said. “The painting took several weeks of twice-weekly visits.”

“Then you spent much time with him. What did you talk about?”

“He did not wish to be interrupted by idle chatter. He mostly said, ‘Tilt your chin. Arch your back.'” Her tone had grown dry.

Had she realized that her words were themselves a tease? Or did she think him so unaffected by memories of the nude painting? If he shifted her just a bit, she'd know how aroused he was becoming.

To distract himself, he said, “I've come to think of you as a woman who has difficulty
not
talking.”

“I don't think that's a compliment. Talking implies ease, and I was not feeling that way.”

“Did you regret the decision, Rebecca? You could have stopped at any time.”

“I finish things I start,” she said. “Julian, this is a useless line of questioning. The painting is already hanging on a wall for all to see.”

Since she hadn't clarified her regrets, he wondered if she truly had none at all? That amazed and intrigued him, but it was not yet time to explore that part of her. “How did you meet Eastfield?”

“Through my sister, Susanna. They were introduced at a showing of his work in London. They corresponded and occasionally met to discuss their projects, and I happened to be with her once. He expressed an interest in painting me.”

Something unpleasant seemed to twist in his gut as he imagined her with Eastfield. Was this jealousy, this dark intensity that was part anger, part desire? How unexpected. “And you just agreed?”

“No, I gave it some thought and researched his work. He asked several more times.”

“And then your longing for adventure overcame you,” he said in a soft voice.

She lowered her eyes, dark lashes fanning her cheeks. Was she blushing? Had she wanted to be nude for the artist alone? Jealousy was a rush of untamed emotion that swelled him, crawling into his mind.

“I'm surprised he had to ask more than once,” Julian said, “considering how much you longed to be free of constraint.”

“You disapprove,” she said slowly, studying him. “Why…you're as much a prude as a little old spinster.”

A prude? He found himself amused, surprised that she could draw such an incorrect conclusion. “That's a mistaken assumption, Rebecca. You are not the common young Society miss, and that intrigues me.”

They stared at each other, eyes locked together in heat until there was a soft knock on the door.

“Mrs. Lambe?” called a woman's voice. “I've brought yer bath.”

Rebecca broke their shared gaze and jumped to her feet. “Just a moment!”

Then she folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, arching a brow. He debated rolling under the bed, but considering the unclean state of the establishment, that seemed unwise. He went back to the window and boosted himself up onto the ledge.

Rebecca followed him, her expression growing concerned as she whispered, “What do you think you're doing?”

“Keeping your reputation pure. When I'm outside, close the shutters.” He gripped the ledge, then swung himself down and hung from it. He was only one floor off the ground, and he didn't even think he'd break a leg if he fell.

She leaned out the window with a gasp.

He looked up at her. “I'd appreciate if you'd hurry.”

She withdrew quickly and closed the shutters. He hung immobile, hoping that no one would see him against the dark building in the faint moonlight. There were few guests, and the stables behind him looked unused.

He could hear little of what was going on inside Rebecca's room. If he were lucky, several servants would be bringing buckets to fill the tub, hurrying the process. Time crept by, and his shoulders began to ache, along with his fingers. At last the shutters opened.

“You can come in,” she called.

When he dropped back into the bedroom, he rubbed his fingers and found himself staring at the bathing tub.
It wasn't large, and she would not be able to totally submerge herself in it and hide her body from him.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. She was a virgin, he reminded himself.

Or was she?

But there she was, oblivious of his thoughts, staring at the tub with a longing that looked almost sexual. He could have groaned.

“I have to bathe,” she said, eyes flashing with amusement as she looked at him.

Did she understand how she affected a man? Perhaps he should see how she reacted to a small test. In a low, husky voice, he said, “If you're so proud of your modeling, then you should have no problem undressing in front of me, because I've seen everything you have.” Then he sat down in the only chair and crossed his arms over his chest, facing the bathing tub.

She blinked at him, her face slowly flushing, but she made no answer. Challenging Rebecca seemed to fire her reckless spirit, and his bold invitation hung between them, crackling in the room like a rising storm.

He saw the moment she made up her mind, the way her hazel eyes glittered and her mouth turned mutinous and daring. Everything inside him clenched, as if he was caught unmoving in a vise, and his brain seeming to lose all higher functioning. His groin won the battle over the rest of his body.

She lifted her hands to her hair and began to remove
the pins. Sable brown curls slowly cascaded about her shoulders, one at a time. He clenched his sweating hands into fists.

She tugged the laces at her throat, loosening them, and slowly her bodice opened wider. He could see a glimpse of white chemise beneath.

A fine trembling began inside him, disturbing his usual calm. Did she
want
him to throw her down on the bed and take her? She wasn't going to have what she wanted, because that would go against the rules he lived by. No bedding virgins. And she
was
a virgin; he could tell simply by the way she'd sat all tense on his knee, as if that were almost as intimate as her nude modeling.

She lifted the hem of her gown and began to pull it up. His eyes were fixed on her black boots, then her trim ankles covered in black stockings. The gown kept moving higher, up and over her head, blocking her face for a moment. And then it was gone. The chemise was plain and serviceable, but it was worn by Rebecca, hinting at all the rounded curves he'd seen displayed to their best advantage in the painting. Her breasts hung heavy within the bodice, and he could see when they hardened in arousal.

His mouth was dry, and to his surprise, it took everything in him not to throw himself from the chair and on top of her.

Rebecca did not think she'd ever felt so overheated in her life. She wanted to look away, pretend she'd not
gotten herself into this fix, but Julian's pale gray eyes held her like a butterfly pinned to a display. And she was definitely on display, feeling fluttery and trapped—and excited, far too excited than could be good for her.

He'd annoyed and angered her, and this had been the result: her pride had demanded she not back down, when in truth, she should have fled—or demanded he do so.

But she hadn't, and now she'd taken off her gown, and only wore her chemise. Thankfully, it was not her own fine, sheer garment, but she was still almost naked. If only she hadn't felt the need to prove that she was the model once and for all. She was certain her sister and cousin were working just as hard to convince the other two men of the same thing—but hopefully in a tamer manner.

Would she really do this—and could he really expect her to? She had thought him staid, competent, calculating—and then he'd pulled her onto his knee and caressed her the whole time he interrogated her. Was it a calculated ploy on his part to unbalance her, to persuade her to speak the truth? She didn't know what to think about him.

But he said nothing, only watched her with shadowed eyes that made her feel even hotter. He wasn't looking at her face. He was waiting for her to reveal more.

Would she stop disrobing? Could she? Or was this a dream she'd had of inspiring a man's desire, something
she'd worried that after her last illness she might never have a chance to experience?

Just a little bit farther, she told herself. Just to see what he'd do, how she could prove to him that he was as human as everyone else.

Her boots were next, and she had a wild thought of propping her foot on the chair right beside him. But that was far too daring, so she sank onto the bed, reaching down to unlace her boots. The bodice gaped dangerously, and she lowered her head to hide it.

Had he made a noise? What had he seen?

After removing each boot, she set them aside on the floor. She stared into his eyes as she slid the chemise higher to reach the garter just below her knee.

His gaze moved leisurely between her face and what she was doing with her hands. She rolled her stocking down, letting the chemise remain folded at her knees, out of the way. Her lower leg looked so bare and white, and soon the other matched it.

There wasn't much left to remove, she realized, feeling the first shiver of panic. She rose to her feet, letting the chemise skirt fall back down to cover her drawers.

She had thought the room cold, but now it was so hot that she was perspiring. Or was that nervousness? For all of her bravery, she did not know how far she could go with this, without him thinking that she wanted—

But she didn't stop. She gathered the chemise skirt forward, reaching beneath it to unlace the back of her
drawers, letting the majority of the skirt hang low in front of her. She drew the drawers down, feeling a draft of air on her backside. The linen garment puddled at her feet and she stepped out of it.

Julian's gaze rose from her feet all the way up her body. She paused, knowing they both realized that only one garment separated her from complete nudity.

How could she possibly compete with Roger's overly generous interpretation of the female form? Did she want to see the answer in Julian's eyes—perhaps the disappointment?

But she was trapped, made helpless by her own longings and the desire in his eyes, desire for her, not a painting, not a memory.

She reached for the hem of her chemise and began to lift it.

“Stop!” he said, his voice harsh and sounding unlike his own.

She did so, gazing at him helplessly, for she fought the very real need to finish what she'd started, to understand everything that happened between a man and a woman.

He came so quickly to his feet that as her head tipped back to look up at him, she fell back onto the bed. He leaned over her, hands braced on either side of her head. She couldn't breathe, could barely think. His body was so massive that he could crush her if
he wished. Had she driven him past gentlemanly restraint? Did he mean to—