This was not the question Gillian had expected, and she wasn’t entirely certain how to respond.
Still, the truth was usually best. “I plan to marry him.”
“Do you?” Emma’s voice rang with surprise. “Why?”
“Why?” Gillian laughed. “For any number of reasons. He’s an honorable man with a good head on his shoulders and a not altogether unattractive head at that. In addition, while his title was perhaps a bit tarnished, it is old and noble, and he has managed to make it respectable once again.”
“Well thought out, my lady, but,” Emma shook her head, “your reasons sound as much like those one would use to hire a good solicitor as to choose a husband.”
“Well, I—”
“Does he love you?” Emma walked toward her. “Do you love him?”
Do I
? She raised her chin firmly. “I don’t know.”
“I see. I never expected something like this. How very interesting,” Emma murmured. “I wonder what the others will say?”
“Let’s keep it to ourselves for the moment, shall we?” Gillian said quickly. “Nothing is certain as of yet.”
“As you wish.” A thoughtful light shone in Emma’s eyes, and Gillian wondered exactly what the girl was thinking.
“Now,” Gillian rose to her feet, “I should show you to your room.” She turned, but Emma reached out to stop her.
“If perhaps we shall be related someday, you might well wish to refuse my request.” Emma’s tone was cautious.
“What request?”
“While I’m here, in your home, do you think ... would it be possible...” Emma pulled a deep breath and released her words in a rush. “Would you allow me to paint?”
“In watercolors?” Gillian raised a brow. “Or something perhaps more, oh, shall we say, unsuited to the temperament of women?”
Emma laughed and nodded eagerly.
“I have an attic room that gets excellent light. It could be used as a studio.” Gillian grinned. She rather liked the idea of helping Richard’s sister do something he disapproved of, since that disapproval was ridiculous in the first place. She’d never imagined he would be so narrow-minded. It was the first thing she’d learned about him that she didn’t like. “I’m certain I can afford a few canvases and paints—”
“Oh, I have paints. Richard thinks they’re only watercolors, that I’ve given up, but...” A blush of embarrassment at deceiving her brother swept up Emma’s face.
“Then all we need is canvas.” Gillian hooked her arm through Emma’s and headed toward the door. “This should be great fun. I’ve never had an artist under my roof before. I’ve never been able to watch one work before.”
Emma glanced back at Gillian’s paintings. “What a shame she didn’t have someone to provide a roof for her.”
“Indeed—” Gillian stopped short and stared at Emma. “What did you say?”
Confusion colored Emma’s face. “Nothing really, only that it was a shame she didn’t have—”
“Someone to provide a roof for her,” Gillian said slowly, a dozen ideas tumbling through her head like pieces of a puzzle. “Or for others like her.”
“Others?”
“Women. Artists.” At once the pieces fit. The puzzle solved. “That’s it, Emma. That’s exactly what I can do if I get this inheritance.”
“What inheritance?”
“The details aren’t important at the moment.” Gillian waved away the question. “Suffice it to say, it’s an inheritance that will truly allow me to repay my debt.” Excitement raised her voice. “With money I can provide a place for artists, female artists, to work without having to worry about mundane things like room and board. I can purchase a house or, better yet, a mansion. Here or maybe in the country. Maybe a manor or a hall—”
“Or a castle?” Emma’s eyes twinkled.
“Perhaps.” Gillian laughed. “It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And you shall be my first beneficiary.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Emma grinned and bobbed a curtsey, obviously caught up in Gillian’s excitement. “I shall be honored.”
Gillian curtseyed back and laughed. “The honor is all mine.”
Emma joined her laughter, and Gillian wondered if this was what it would be like to have an artist in the house. Or a sister.
“It’s a wonderful idea. I see but one possible obstacle to your plan.”
Gillian opened her arms wide in an expansive gesture, her voice as exuberant as her mood. “There are no impediments, no problems we cannot overcome. What is this paltry obstacle?”
Emma smiled wryly. “Richard.”
“Entrez.”
Gillian pushed open the door at the top of the stairs with a touch of trepidation. Perhaps it hadn’t been entirely wise to come to Toussaint’s studio at night. But she hadn’t been so foolish as to come alone. Wilkins waited at the bottom of the stairway, still muttering dire predictions about what happened to ladies who frequented neighborhoods like this after dark.
In truth it wasn’t all that disreputable an area of the city, simply business in nature rather than residential. And it was not in Toussaint’s best interests to allow anything to happen to her.
Even so, it was comforting to know Wilkins was there should she need him, although how much help he would be if called upon was questionable.
Gillian pulled her cloak tighter around her and stepped into the studio. The sharp smell of turpentine hung faint in the air. It was, if possible, even darker in here than it had been on the stairs. A few candles on the far right side of the huge room illuminated a chaise. Stars shone in the night sky framed by high windows running the length of the walls on either side. The rest of the space was consumed by shadows, but she had the impression of a vast, empty area. She suspected the artist’s studio took up the entire top floor of the mercantile building.
“Toussaint?” she said hesitantly even while acknowledging that it was a bit late for caution.
“But of course, madame. I am pleased you did not choose to disappoint me. I was afraid you would not come.” Toussaint’s voice echoed from across the room. She could make out the dark figure of a man, but his features were indiscernible.
“You must admit, it’s a bit odd. A sitting at night like this.” She closed the door behind her, taking care not to shut it completely, and stepped further into the room. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Ah, but I must use the light of day for work for which I am commissioned. This portrait is—how do you say—speculative and as much for the joy of creation and the beauty of the subject as for anything of a more practical nature.” It might have been the mysterious setting, or even a trace of nerves on her part, but his thick accent seemed somewhat heavier tonight than she’d remembered.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable...
Est ce que vous preferiez parier francais?” she asked.
“Huh?”
Huh?
“Je m’excuse,” he said quickly. “But I did not quite understand your question. A thousand apologies, madame, but your accent...” Condescension colored his tone.
“My accent is impeccable,” she said coolly.
“Perhaps to the English, but to a true Frenchman ...” She could hear the dismissive shrug in his voice.
“Then I gather you would prefer not to speak French?”
“Forgive me once more, but the language I speak is not the same as that which comes from your lips, as lovely as they are.”
“Very well.” Her tone was a bit sharper than she’d intended. She was rather proud of her ability with languages, and to have this man tell her otherwise was more than a little annoying. “I have no wish to offend you.”
He chuckled. “I fear it is I who have offended you. It was not my intent. I can only think your overwhelming kindness has affected my senses and turned me into an ungrateful idiot.”
“Nonsense,” she said, mollified. “It is your language, after all, and you no doubt have a better grasp of it than I.” Although she would have wagered a great deal on her fluent command of French. Still, he was the expert, and she merely a gifted student. “Now then, what next?”
“Did you wear the costume as I requested?”
She nodded and slipped out of her cloak, draping it over a battered chair. The Grecian gown might have struck someone else as odd, but she rather liked the idea of being painted in this particular dress.
“Excellent. Then if you would be so kind as to take your place.”
“On the chaise, I presume.”
She started toward it noting the lack of other furnishings. From what little she could see, there were several tables stacked so full with jars and bottles and other accoutrements of the artist’s trade that they seemed in imminent danger of collapse. What were probably canvases leaned against the walls in piles a half dozen deep, whether pristine or works in progress she couldn’t determine. The dim outline of a sagging bed lurked in one corner of the room.
The chaise was the only acceptable piece in the place, and it, too, had seen better days.
She perched stiffly on the edge of the recliner and clasped her hands in her lap, abruptly at a loss as to what he expected of her. She squinted into the dark recesses of the room and could make out Toussaint moving between an easel and a large screen. A five-branched candelabra sat on a rickety table in front of her and slightly off to the side, obviously placed to cast light on her face and perhaps intended to make him more indistinct as well.
“Relax, madame, it will not hurt a bit.”
“I am not anticipating pain,” she said with a laugh. “I simply have no idea what to do now. How to hold my head, where to put my hands, should I smile or appear serious or—”
“The look in your eye is as you wish. As for the rest of you ...”
He explained how he wanted her to pose. Within moments, she was in the position he’d directed, reclining slightly, the lines of her body echoing the lines of the chaise. She rested one elbow on its rolled arm, her bare feet peeked from beneath her white gown. His manner was brisk and matter of fact, and her unease vanished.
Nothing to this point had been even remotely personal. He seemed to regard her with no more interest than he would a bowl of fruit. Even when he’d asked her to remove her shoes it had been for aesthetic reasons. While under other circumstances she would never have considered it, Toussaint was an artist and a certain amount of forward behavior was to be expected. In fact, the man issued commands rather than made requests.
“I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d asked me to remove my clothing as well,” she muttered to herself.
“Did you say something, madame?”
With a start, Gillian realized she’d spoken aloud. “No, not at all.” She stared at his dark figure. “How can you see to paint me from over there?”
“I see you quite well. The candles illuminate your face and features. And I have another here to work by.”
“Well, the light is directly in my eyes. I can hardly make out anything beyond the reach of my arm.” He chuckled, and immediately his intentions were clear. “I should have suspected as much the moment I received your note. You’re going to continue this ridiculous masquerade of yours. You’re not going to let me see your face again tonight, are you?”
“I think not, madame.” Amusement sounded in his voice.
“Why on earth not?” she said with surprise. “I thought surely once I was here—”
“Ah, but you forget I am a master of illusion. In my art and in my person. I find I like it very much.” He settled onto a stool behind the easel. “Did you not say it yourself: what is more mysterious and exciting than a man whose face is hidden? Or a man with secrets.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.” She vaguely remembered saying something of the sort in Lady Forester’s garden, but she thought she had said it to Richard. Apparently not.
“And what man would not wish to be exciting to a woman such as yourself?”
“I really haven’t thought—”
“Then you must permit me my secrets.”
It was not as if she had any choice in the matter. Toussaint had made certain of that. Between the canvas supported on the easel and the positioning of the screen, Toussaint could have a clear view of her yet still remain in the shadows. Only when he shifted could she see so much as a black silhouette. Short of running across the room to confront him directly, which she refused to rule out altogether, there was little she could do.
“If I must.” She wasn’t entirely sure if she was amused, intrigued, or irritated by this game of his. Perhaps it was a combination of all three. Still, what would be the harm in playing, at least for the moment? If nothing else, he was right: there was something exciting about a man whose face was hidden. “Do you have secrets, then, other than your face?”
“Untold,” he murmured. She could hear the slight swish of charcoal on canvas. Apparently he had already started to work.
She waited. And apparently, he worked in silence. Pity she couldn’t. “What manner of secrets?”
“The usual,” he said absently.
Again she waited. This game wouldn’t be at all enjoyable if he was the only one allowed to play. “And what are the usual?”
“Everyone has something they prefer the world not know. Typically about the past. Their heritage. Or their families.”
“Families? Really?”
“Oui. Insane aunts in the attic.
Bastard heirs. Disreputable parents. Scandalous liaisons.”
He rattled off the list as if he was paying no attention to his words, obviously preoccupied with the canvas before him.
She counted to ten in her head and tried again. “Are those your secrets?”
“Yes, madame, they are indeed mine. Each and every one.” He huffed an impatient sigh. “I have not one but three insane aunts and as many bastard brothers all fighting for a share of my vast inheritance which was amassed by a father who was, in truth, a pirate. My legacy includes a castle in the mountains of Switzerland and the imperial crown jewels of Russia. Now that you know all there is to know, hold your tongue, s’il vous plait!”
“Very well. You needn’t be so overset about it.” She paused and bit back a smile. It may well be his game, but she had no problem playing by her own rules. “You didn’t mention scandalous liaisons.”
Silence came from behind the easel. She wanted to laugh, giggle like a girl still in the schoolroom.
“I did not mention murder either,” his voice was level, “yet the evening is young.”
She tried not to laugh, but an odd, strangled sound burst from her, and she could barely choke out the words. “I am sorry. I shall try, but I simply cannot sit here, not being able to see beyond the light, for the next hour or two without saying a word.”
“Very well, madame,” he said with a note of resignation. “I shall make you a bargain. If you will refrain from chatter for the next few minutes and allow me to concentrate, I shall permit you to speak and even join you in discussion of whatever you wish.”
“Anything at all?”
“Of course not.” Surrender sounded in his voice. “Nearly anything. Is it agreed, then?”
“As you wish.”
Long, silent minutes passed, and Gillian tried not to fidget. She was not used to enforced idleness, to sitting still with nothing to do but think. And there was only one thing to think about. One thing on her mind, always on her mind.
Richard.
With each minute in his presence she grew more certain she could be the wife he wished. She could share his bed, have his children. Indeed, there were moments when she wanted just that. Wanted him.
Then why did she recoil like a frightened fawn whenever he came too close? Why did fear grip her stomach and tighten her throat? Surely she wasn’t afraid of caring for him, even loving him? She’d known love before, and it was wonderful. Wouldn’t it be just as wonderful with Richard?
Was she falling in love with him?
The question she’d dismissed earlier now demanded consideration. It would be much easier to be his wife in every sense of the word if she loved him. But would love on her side alone be enough?
Love was not part of their agreement, and she wondered if it would ever be. It was pride on Richard’s part that demanded this condition to their marriage. Nothing more than that. Even so, she knew he wanted her. Knew by the look in his eye and the way he held her in his arms that his desire no longer had anything to do with her inheritance and was not merely part and parcel of his intention to seduce her. Still, it wasn’t love, and with Richard she suspected the likelihood that it ever would be was slim.
Could she love a man who didn’t love her? It was one thing to commit to a marriage that was nothing more than a convenience and quite another to offer your heart to someone who wasn’t particularly interested in such things. Is that what she was afraid of?
Regardless, she was determined to wed Richard, and these thoughts of love were nothing more than a distraction. Why, wasn’t there already desire on her part, or at least the beginnings of desire? Wouldn’t that be enough? And the blasted man hadn’t so much as kissed her yet. What would happen when he did?
Would those lips that had up to now only brushed her hand be as equally gentle against her mouth? Would he tease her lips with his own until her resistance dissolved and she melted into his embrace? Or would his mouth be demanding, insistent, an assault on her senses and her soul? Would his arms pull her so tight against him that the heat of his body would sear her flesh? Would he tear off her clothes in a mad rush of passion at long last unleashed and make her his without a thought as to time or place?
And would she meet his desire with her own? Would she counter his need with hers? Run her hands over the hard planes of his body with an urgency she’d never known? Abandon herself to the pleasure of touching him, of him touching her? Would she claim him as her own without a thought as to the future or the past? Would she—