She was about to descend the stairs when the front door opened again, admitting a gust of damp, chilly air. Probably people coming to visit her father's current sitters. She paused to allow the newcomers to be guided to the studio.
Then a rich contralto exclaimed with delight, "Kenneth!"
A woman moved gracefully into Rebecca's field of vision, her garnet-colored cloak glittering with raindrops. "What a splendid surprise!" She threw herself into Kenneth's arms and kissed him. As she did, her hood fell back onto her shoulders.
Rebecca's fingers whitened on the banister. The woman was the most beautiful creature she'd had ever seen, a stunning brunette with a marvelously expressive face.
And Kenneth was not exactly fighting her off. Quite the contrary. After a swift, almost furtive glance around the hall, he embraced the brunette, murmuring something in her ear. Her beauty and Kenneth's strength would make them perfect models for Venus and her husband Vulcan. Rebecca might have wanted to paint such a picture, except that her desire to stab the woman with a paintbrush was much stronger.
"You should have let us know you were in London, Kenneth." The brunette stepped back, laughing. "Or should I call you Lord Kimball now?"
Rebecca gasped and sank to the floor, clinging to the railings for support.
Lord Kimball
?
"Don't you dare," Kenneth said easily. "We've known each other too long for such formality, Catherine."
A distinguished gentleman appeared behind the lady and caught Kenneth's hand in both of his. "Lord, how long has it been?" he said with a broad smile. "Almost two years."
"Don't remind me, Michael." Kenneth clapped his free hand on the other man's shoulder. "At our last meeting, you were so near dead as to make no difference."
"As you can see, I'm as good as new." The newcomer put his arm around the woman's waist. "Much better than that, actually."
"We're just back from the christening," Catherine said. "I'm so sorry you couldn't come—it was almost as warm as summer in Cornwall. But the drawing you sent was wonderful. It looked as if you had been right there in the church with us."
Rebecca listened numbly as the people below continued their conversation. Clearly the man and woman were married, and Catherine's effusive greeting was that of a friend, not a lover. But still—Lord Kimball? Knowledge of what that meant knotted her stomach. She peered through the railings, glad that the people below were too busy to glance upward.
Kenneth was asking, "What brings you to Seaton House?"
The man, Michael, said, "Some friends are having a portrait done and they invited us to keep them company." He gave his wife a fond look. "It seemed fortuitous, since I've been thinking of commissioning a portrait of Catherine. I like Sir Anthony's work, and this is a good chance to meet him."
"No portrait unless it is of the whole family," Catherine said firmly. "Are you also here about a portrait?"
"I'm working for Sir Anthony," Kenneth said without inflection. "As his secretary."
His friends were obviously surprised, but recovered quickly. "It must be sheer heaven to be surrounded by so much wonderful art," Catherine said warmly.
Her husband added, "Can you dine with us tomorrow? There is much to catch up on."
"I'm not sure." Kenneth shifted from one foot to the other. "I'll let you know. Where are you staying?"
"Ashburton House." Michael took Kenneth's hand again. "If you can't come tomorrow, name a time. Amy will be furious if you don't call as soon as possible."
Dully, Rebecca huddled in a ball against the railings while the people below took their leave of each other. Under her shock was a deep ache for what she had learned. She had thought there was a special kinship between her and Kenneth. Instead, she hadn't even known his name, or other vital facts. Once again, she had been a fool about a man.
Too late, she heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. Instinctively she froze, like a mouse trying to hide from a hawk.
An instant later, Kenneth's head appeared, his eyes almost level with hers. He stopped dead, his expression going rigid.
After a long, tense moment, he said, "I assume you overheard the conversation with my friends."
Anger began to stir. "Lord Kimball?" she said icily.
He winced at the note in her voice. "Let's go to your studio. it's a better place to talk than the stairs, and I think we could both use a cup of tea."
He ascended the remaining steps and caught her hand to help her up. As soon as she was on her feet, she jerked her hand away. Then she turned and wordlessly led the way to the attic.
When they reached her studio, he went immediately to the hearth. The kettle was already simmering on the hob. Knowing that he would be chilled after his errands, she had set out a tea tray and cakes so they could refresh themselves before starting work. Cozy. Romantic. She had been a
fool
.
Her anger grew as he poured the steaming water into the teapot. What right did he have to make himself so much at home in her private sanctuary? Damn, and damn again.
After setting the tea to steep, he straightened and gave her a tentative smile, as if hoping he could tease her out of her mood. "You're looking like an outraged ginger kitten again."
"Do you blame me?" she snapped. "You're an endless source of surprises. First a secret artist, now a secret nobleman. What the devil are you doing in this house, Lord Kimball?"
"Working as a secretary," he said peaceably. "Given your reaction to my title, do you blame me for not mentioning it?"
She wanted to throw something at him. Instead, she lashed out with the source of her deepest pain. "Last year my father did a portrait of Lady Kimball. The pic-ture turned out very well, but of course you must know that. Your wife is a beautiful woman, Lord Kimball."
Kenneth stared at her. Then he swore, "Christ, no wonder you're upset. The woman in question is neither a lady nor my wife, Rebecca. She's my stepmother."
It was Rebecca's turn to stare. Then she sank onto the sofa, remembering that Kenneth had mentioned his father's marriage to a girl the same age as Kenneth. Thinking back, she vaguely recalled that an older man with a broad, powerful build sometimes escorted Lady Kimball to sittings. She scarcely noticed him because her attention had been on her ladyship's sulky beauty. "I see," she said more moderately. "But that really doesn't explain why you're working as a secretary and why you've been concealing your rank."
He dropped his eyes and poured her tea. "There's no great mystery. When my father died several months ago, I inherited nothing but debts. I needed work and someone referred me to your father." After mixing in sugar and milk, exactly as she liked it, he handed her the teacup. "I was afraid that if I presented myself as a lord, it would interfere with my hope of getting the position. Besides, I prefer being called captain. That title I earned. The viscountcy is an accident of birth."
"Your financial state is so desperate that you must take such a humble position?" she said, unconvinced. "I remember that Lady Kimball was draped in really magnificent jewels in her portrait. Surely some of them are family pieces."
He poured tea for himself and sat at the opposite end of the sofa. "No doubt." His mouth twisted bitterly. "But the will didn't specifically mention the jewelry, and Hermione claims that my father gave the whole collection to her. I'm sure she's lying—my father had a strong sense of tradition, and he had already provided for Hermione very generously. Since he was both honest and besotted, it didn't occur to him that his little darling would try to steal the family heirlooms as well."
"Do you have any legal recourse?"
He shook his head. "My solicitor says that in the absence of written proof of my father's wishes, it would be virtually impossible to get the jewelry back. I don't have the money to pursue a lawsuit, especially with so little chance of winning. It's a great pity. Besides the jewels that should have gone to the next viscountess, there were a number of pieces that my mother intended for my younger sister."
So he had a sister. Another significant fact she hadn't known. "The jewels may be a lost cause, but surely your father would have left any estates to you."
"I did inherit the family seat, Sutterton in Bedfordshire," he agreed. "When my mother was alive, the estate was well run and prosperous. My father lost interest in the place after she died. When Hermione demanded to live in London, he took out a series of mortgages to buy a town house and pay for her other extravagances. By the time he died, everything of value had been shifted to the town house, which was left to Hermione."
Seeing the pain in his eyes dispelled the last of her anger. "Can nothing be done to save the estate?"
"There… may be a way." He set his cup aside and got to his feet to pace restlessly. "A possibility is being explored. I won't know the results for a while."
She saw the deep tension in his body and knew that he was telling her the truth, but not the whole truth. "You're still concealing something important."
A muscle jumped in his jaw before he looked away. "I'll admit to a secretive streak. It developed as soon as I was old enough to recognize that drawing, the thing I loved most, was utterly unacceptable in a viscount's heir. Being an intelligence officer in Spain made me even more evasive, I'm afraid."
"Don't try to play on my sympathies." Her eyes narrowed. "You're hiding something very specific, and it bothers you."
"I should know better than to try to lie to an artist." He went to the window and gazed out at the gray rain, his face haggard. "You're quite right. I am involved in something I cannot discuss. I'm sorry. Please believe that I don't like being less than truthful, Rebecca."
"Saying you dislike a sin doesn't exonerate you if you go ahead and commit it anyhow."
"I don't suppose it does." He ran his hand through his damp hair, tangling it hopelessly. "Sometimes one must act against one's nature, even though it will produce grief and regret."
She rose from the sofa and went to stand beside him at the window, where she could watch his profile and the subtle changes in his expression. "Have you come here to hurt me or my father?"
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. "As a soldier, I hurt far too many decent people because our countries were at war," he said haltingly. "I swore I would never again injure the innocent."
No doubt she was being foolish again, but she believed him. Perhaps his secret had no direct bearing on the Seatons. If his primary reason for being in London was to salvage his family from disaster, he might feel that he was not wholeheartedly fulfilling his duties to his employer. For someone as scrupulous as Kenneth, such a situation could be a source of guilt. Or perhaps he was wrestling with his conscience whether he should burgle Hermione's house. Personally, Rebecca thought that would be a fine idea.
A more serious thought struck her. "Are you concealing a wife who isn't Hermione, or a fiancee?"
"No," he said immediately. "Nothing like that."
The shocking intensity of her relief revealed how much she wanted him to be free. Hoping he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to recognize her reaction, she said, "Surely there has been some woman who mattered."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple jerking under his dark skin. "There… there was a woman in Spain. Maria had joined a guerrilla band to fight the French. I met her because my intelligence work often took me to the guerrillas. In theory, she refused my proposal because I wasn't Catholic. But the real reason was that the needs of her country came first."
Rebecca thought of the fierce beauty whose portrait she'd seen in Kenneth's portfolio. Surely that had been his Maria. And they had been lovers, not merely sweethearts.
"Spain is free now," she said without inflection. "Perhaps it is time to ask Maria again."
The scar on his face whitened. "She was captured and killed by the French."
Rebecca sensed he would rather not have revealed such a painful piece of his past. Perhaps he felt the need to compensate for the other secrets he was keeping. The man was like a Chinese puzzle, made of layers of mysteries. Yet in some strange way, they did understand each other.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. She laid a hand on his arm and lifted her face to brush his lips with hers.
He turned toward her and slipped his hand behind her head, and suddenly sympathy flared into desire. He deepened the kiss, his long fingers kneading the sensitive nape of her neck. Her hairpins slipped loose, and her hair spilled down her back. She pressed against him, molding herself against the hard planes of his body, feeling the pulse of his strength and desire.
His arms came around her hard, and for a few wild moments passion reigned supreme. She ran her hands hungrily up and down his spine. Marvelous muscles, marvelous bones, Michelangelo would have
killed
to sculpt a body like this.
Then he broke the kiss and lifted his head away. "You shouldn't have done that," he said hoarsely.
"No, I shouldn't." She rose on her tiptoes and lightly nipped his lower lip with her teeth.
He groaned and captured her mouth again. Their tongues mated, hot and deep. His hand went to her breast, teasing the nipple through her gown. She gasped as sensation burned through her. She should be concerned about where this was going, but at the moment she didn't give a damn about what was wise and proper.