Thomas frowned. “Whatever is the matter now, Richard? No doubt Gillian will be delighted by the revelation of your secret life.”
“Delighted might not be the appropriate word,” Richard said under his breath.
“Why on earth not? I daresay she’s—”
The door to the billiards room swung open, and a small, elderly lady with a regal bearing stepped into the room. “Good evening, Thomas.”
“Grandmother.” Thomas set his glass on the table and hurried to her side. She tilted her face toward him, and he placed an affectionate kiss on her cheek.
So this was the dowager duchess, the matriarch of the Effington family. By reputation she was quite formidable, but Gillian had assured him she was not as daunting as she might appear. Still, Richard had no experience with dowagers of any sort, let alone those who headed large, noble, and wealthy families.
“Grandmother,” Thomas turned to Richard, “I don’t think you’ve met the Earl of Shelbrooke yet.”
“No, but I have heard a great deal about him.” She held out her hand.
Richard dropped the ball onto the table, stepped to her, and took her hand in his. He bowed and brushed his lips across it. “Your Grace.”
He straightened, and her gaze met his. Her eyes were blue and bright and nearly the same shade as Gillian’s. An amused light twinkled there.
“Thomas,” she said without looking at her grandson, “are you finished with your game?”
“Not quite.”
“Even so you may take your leave,” she said, her manner pleasant but firm.
“Grandmother, do you really think—”
“Yes, Thomas, I do.”
A distinct look of unease crossed Thomas’s face. He glanced at Richard apologetically. “Very well, then. Richard.” He nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
The dowager smiled. “He’s quite concerned for you, my lord, but I can assure you I am not the dragon you may think.”
“I thought nothing of the sort, madam.”
She laughed. “Liar.”
He grinned. “You do have a daunting reputation.”
“One I have done all in my power to earn.” She stepped to the billiards table and ran her hand along the edge. “Entertaining game, billiards.”
“Do you play?”
“On occasion. I quite like it.” She slanted him a sharp glance. “You needn’t look so startled. I have been on this earth for nearly eighty years, but I am not yet dead.”
“Would you care for a game?”
“Not at the moment. You would, no doubt, consider it only polite to allow me to win.” She circled the table slowly. “And while I do enjoy winning, I have always preferred victory on my own terms.”
Richard chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”
“I didn’t think you would be.” Her gaze pinned his. “And I am not disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
She ignored him and continued around the table. “I have been a widow now for fully a third of my life. I know what it is to lose a husband, a first love. For some, such as myself, there is one and only one love. I am grateful Gillian is not among those ranks. And I approve of her choice.”
“Her choice?” he said cautiously.
“Come now, my lord, you know exactly what I am talking about, although I do admire your reluctance to reveal a confidence that is not yours to divulge.”
“You know,” he said slowly.
“My dear boy,” she said in a patronizing manner, “I know everything.
I make it my business to know.”
“Does Gillian’s father, or rather, does the duke, know?”
“I doubt it. He would never allow her to agree to the conditions of the legacy.”
He chose his words with care. “But you will?”
“Not at all. And if her involvement with you at this point had nothing else to it than her inheritance I would put a stop to the entire endeavor at once. However, I decided from the beginning to see how this game of yours played out. I know my granddaughter well enough to know that no matter how tempting the reward, she would never settle for someone she did not care for deeply. I am quite pleased.”
“You are?” He was curious in spite of himself. “Why?”
She laughed. “You are a rather remarkable creature, Lord Shelbrooke. It has taken a great deal of moral courage to turn your life around, to accept the responsibilities thrust upon you.” She picked up the cue leaning against the table and studied the tip. “And I quite admire the way you’ve used your talent to try to recoup your family’s fortune.”
He widened his eyes in surprise. “My talent?”
Her amused gaze caught his. “I told you I know everything.”
“Thomas,” he muttered.
“Do not blame him too harshly, he is your true friend and I’m confident he has told no one else your secret.” She smiled smugly. “But the boy has never been able to keep secrets from me.”
“I can certainly understand that,” he said wryly.
“Do you know you come by that talent naturally?”
“What do you mean?”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded as if making a decision. “In due time. It’s of no significance at the moment.”
“Am I to understand then that you are allowed to keep your secrets but I am not?” he said in a teasing manner.
“You are an intelligent scoundrel, I’ll grant you that. You will make a fine addition to the family. I am quite looking forward to your children.” She chuckled. “Now then, my lord, I find I am up to a game after all. Will you allow me to win?”
“Absolutely not.” He grinned.
“Excellent.” He arranged the balls on the table, and she leaned forward and positioned her cue, then glanced up at him. “Are you aware that Marie Antoinette and the king of France are said to have played billiards on the eve of their imprisonment?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Pity. Then you don’t know the outcome of their game.” The dowager cast him a serene smile. “She won.”
Perhaps there was something to this business of love after all. Something that made the lights in the ballroom brighter, the colors of the women’s gowns more vivid, his senses more acute. Something that made it impossible to keep his gaze off Gillian.
At the moment, she danced with a gentleman he didn’t know and, further, didn’t like. He sipped the champagne in his glass irritably. Didn’t her partner hold her a bit too close? Wasn’t her laugh a touch too joyous? Was this, then, jealousy? Irrational, no doubt, but present nonetheless.
He suspected Thomas was right. Richard, who had never considered love at all, was apparently now in the grips of the odd and disquieting emotion. He was a practical man, and his feelings were not at all practical. Or rational. Or even sane.
Rational or not, the man definitely held her too close.
Was Thomas right about his sister as well? Thomas and his grandmother both believed Gillian shared Richard’s feelings. Richard wished he could be as certain.
How could he find out? Was she in love with him, or was she simply swept away by the kind of passion she hadn’t tasted in years? He had no doubt she enjoyed being in his bed, but even he realized the act of love was not the same as the emotion. He could, of course, simply ask her. But was he ready to hear her answer?
If her partner didn’t stop clutching her at once, Richard would be forced to take action.
At first, she’d wanted marriage for her inheritance. He’d wanted a wife for his future.
Now he wanted so much more. But did she? And could he bear it if she didn’t? He’d never considered himself a coward, but there it was: he didn’t have the courage to face her answer. It was no longer a question of his pride: it was a question of his heart. Damnable heart.
The dance ended, and her gaze met his. Was the look in her eye born of love or merely desire? Love was not part of their agreement. Not expected, not demanded. But now ...
Thomas was right. Richard couldn’t marry her for the legacy alone regardless of his need for her fortune, regardless of his need for her. He had to have her love as well.
She started toward him, and he could see nothing else in the crowded ballroom but her. She filled his gaze and his mind and his soul. He wanted to paint her and nothing but her forever.
What did she want?
For a practical man, he was indeed something of a fool. But for good or ill, he had to know. Had to determine her true feelings. But how?
She reached him and paused, her smile quizzical. “Whatever are you thinking?” She took the glass from his hand, drained the last of his wine, then returned it. “You look as though you were trying to determine matters a great deal more important than those to be found in the strains of a waltz.”
“Do I?” He forced a casual note.
“What is on your mind, Richard?” She gazed up at him. Was it love that shone in her eyes or something less?
“Nothing more important than the next dance.” He signaled to a waiter and placed his empty glass on the tray. “Will you do me the honor?”
“Always.”
He led her onto the floor and took her in his arms, amazed at how perfectly her body fit to his. They were meant for each other. How odd that he should be the one to think such things.
“Because you pose no threat to my heart!”
The words she’d said in his studio came to mind with the swiftness of a fired shot. She’d admitted more of her feelings to him as Toussaint than she’d ever admitted to him as Richard. Perhaps once again he could break through her reticence, not as an earl but as an artist.
The longer he played this game of deception, the stronger her fury when she learned the truth. And the stakes for all concerned were much higher now. Still, it was worth the risk.
If the Earl of Shelbrooke didn’t have the courage to find out if the woman he loved, loved him in return, Etienne-Louis Toussaint was more than up to the task.
Whatever had possessed her to come here again?
Gillian reclined on the chaise in the dark studio. This was the height of foolishness.
When Toussaint’s note had arrived arranging another sitting two days after she’d returned to London, she’d had no intention of keeping the appointment. Still, the more she’d thought about it, the more she’d been convinced she had nothing to fear by coming here.
So far, the Frenchman had kept his distance. She’d been posing for nearly an hour, and they hadn’t exchanged more than a few polite comments. He’d been, in fact, both cool and remote. Exactly as she wanted it.
She loved Richard, or at least she was fairly certain she did. Surely, her feelings for him went far beyond the powerful sensations he triggered with nothing more than a smoldering glance or a casual brush of his hand or a simple kiss. And if indeed she were in love with one man, the flirtatious overtures of another wouldn’t affect her in the least. It was simply curiosity that brought her to Toussaint’s studio. Nothing more than that. Once she knew for certain he had no real effect on her, she could put the tiny seed of doubt in her own mind to rest.
Besides, she did want him to finish the portrait. She’d be well able to pay for it once—when—if— she got her inheritance. Richard seemed in no great hurry to consummate their agreement even though she had met his lone condition to their marriage. She smiled to herself. More than met his condition.
“You have the look of a woman who has been well loved, madame.” The artist’s heavy accent drifted from the other side of the dark room. The silly man was still playing his absurd game of not allowing her to see his face. He was probably quite ugly.
“Do I,” she said coolly.
“I gather you have now been kissed.”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Oh, but it is. I can only paint what I see.” He paused. “And I see a woman whose senses have been awakened after a long sleep. Do I not?”
“You most certainly do not,” she snapped.
He chuckled. “Your protest does not carry the ring of truth, madame. Whom do you wish to convince: me or yourself?”
“You.” Did she?
“Are you so certain?”
“Yes.” Was she? Wasn’t that truly at the heart of her confusion? Was she afraid to admit her love to Richard because she feared it wasn’t truly love at all but merely desire? Was she afraid that what she felt for him was brought on not by her heart but by his touch? Or were even these arguments in her own mind simply a mask for something else she hadn’t considered at all?
“Perhaps you should tell me about this man who has put such a look on your lovely face?”
“I really don’t think—”
“Ah, but how soon you have forgotten.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I am your confidant, am I not?”
“You are not,” she said firmly.
“Who else do you have, madame?”
Who else indeed? Not her friends, not her family. Telling this man her secrets was as foolish as coming here in the first place. Yet here she was, and there was a certain amount of ease and freedom in talking to a faceless stranger in the dark. She’d acknowledged it at the last sitting, and nothing had really changed. She heaved a sigh of her own. “I suppose I am rather confused.”
“When you were last here, it was your circumstances you found confusing. Now, it is you who are confused?” He clucked his tongue. “That is not a good sign.”
“No, it isn’t.” She shook her head. “My feelings seem to be all jumbled.
I think I love him—”
“Do you?” Toussaint’s accent eased with the comment, and for a fleeting instant his voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“Yes, well, that’s what is so perplexing. Am I truly in love, or is it exactly what you said a moment ago? He makes my senses reel.” She thought for a moment, trying once again to sort it all out within her own mind. “When I am in his arms I can think of nothing but him.”
“And when you are not?”
“I can think of nothing but him.” She laughed wryly. “Which still doesn’t answer the question of whether I truly love him or whether I simply want him.”
“And how does he feel?”
“I don’t know. One minute I’m certain he must care for me, at least a little, and the next...” She shrugged.
“You English are so foolish about matters of the heart.” Scorn rang in Toussaint’s voice. “Why do you play such games? Why do you not ask him how he feels?”
“Because I’m not entirely certain I wish to hear the answer.”
“Perhaps,” Toussaint paused, “he is confused as well.”
“Perhaps.” Was it at all possible that Richard’s emotions were as tumultuous as her own? “He does seem to be a man with any number of secrets.”
“And what is more exciting than a man with secrets, eh, madame?”
“Or a man whose face is hidden,” she murmured. Why did that thought keep recurring in her life these days?
“But now I am confused. What difference does it make if it is love you feel for this man or lust?”
“A great deal, I fear.” She searched for the right words. “If what I feel with him is no different than what I would feel with another man, how can I marry him?”
“Again, I do not understand. I thought your marriage was only for the purpose of gaining a great fortune.”
“I thought so too.” The irony of it all struck her as sharply as a physical blow. She’d intended to marry with no thought for love at all. Now, it was the only thing she could think of. Did he love her? Did she love him? She’d married the first time for love, and how could she marry again without it? Nothing, not the legacy, not the plight of needy artists, not even her own longing for independence, was as important.
Abruptly an overwhelming weariness flooded her. She was tired of trying to sort out her feelings and tired as well of the odd circumstances governing her life. She sat upright, found her shoes, and slipped them on. “I must thank you, though. If nothing else, I do understand a bit more of my own feelings.” She rose to her feet. “You have a great deal of talent, monsieur, and I would very much like to have this portrait. Regardless of whether I marry or not, I’m confident I can find the money to pay you for your work.” She picked up her cloak and started toward the door.
“Would you care to see it?”
She paused. “The painting?”
“It is not yet finished, but you may wish to see what I see when I look at you.”
“But if I came over there I would no doubt see your face and spoil all your fun,” she said lightly.
“And that we cannot allow,” he laughed. “Put out the candles nearest you, madame, and I will step back into the shadows.”
“Very well.” She blew out the candles, then crossed the room and stepped to the other side of the easel.
A lone candle burned in a holder affixed to the top of the easel, illuminating the painting. Her face stared from the canvas. It was a lovely likeness, yet was this creature captured in paint truly her? Was her smile that mysterious? Her relaxed pose on the chaise, the line of her body, that confident? Her eyes that luminous and serene? Had he captured not who she was but who she wished to be?
“You’re very good, monsieur,” she said softly. “Is this once again how you see my soul?”
She caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of her eye, and the candle snuffed out. The room plunged into darkness.
Toussaint’s voice sounded behind her, his tone intense. “It is indeed how I see you.”
“What are you doing?” she said with a sigh.
He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Nothing more than what you wish.”
“What I wish?” She shook her head. “I doubt that.”
“You want to know if it is lust you feel for this man or love.” He drew her against him, and she didn’t have the strength to protest. “What do you feel for me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He laughed softly. “That too is a lie. When I kiss your neck”—he brushed his lips along the side of her neck, and a shiver rushed through her—“you feel a great deal.”
Did she? “No, I don’t.”
“Another lie.”
“No.” Was it?
“It is, how do you say, a test, perhaps? Test yourself, ma cherie. If I were to kiss you as you should be kissed, as no man has kissed you before,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “you would know.”
Without warning, anger filled her. She whirled to face him and glared at his dark figure. “Very well then, monsieur, test me! Kiss me!”
Without hesitation he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers. Fire shot through her from his touch, and for a moment she was swept away by desire, stark and unrelenting and undeniable. Realization flooded her and caught at her breath and stilled her heart.
The emotion gripping her now in Touissaint’s arms was exactly like that she felt with Richard. The heat of his embrace, the press of his body, the feel of his lips on hers, was the same. How could two such different men create the same response within her?
She wrenched herself out of his grasp. “Good God!” Unreasonable anger surged within her, and without thinking she drew back her hand and cracked it across his face. “So much for your test!”
“Madame, I—”
She turned on her heel and groped her way across the room. “And, apparently, Toussaint, I failed!”
And failed miserably. She found the door, flung it open, and stalked down the stairs toward a waiting Wilkins. She barely glanced at him, nodding sharply for him to follow. She climbed into the hired carriage without a word, and it started off at once.
She was furious. With Toussaint certainly, but more with herself. If this stranger could do this to her, what did that say of her relationship with Richard? What did it say about her? She was indeed wanton. No better than a common trollop.
Richard was a good man, an honorable man, and he deserved far more in a wife than a woman who would melt at the foot of any man who so much as kissed her. Although it was an impressive kiss.
What on earth was she going to do now? She buried her face in her hands and tried to think. A flurry of thoughts crowded her brain, and she couldn’t separate one from the other.
Still...
She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes in concentration. She only felt this desire for the artist when she was in his arms. She didn’t long for his touch, didn’t yearn to be with him. Then ... wasn’t this nothing more than lust? Didn’t her feelings for Richard go far beyond that?
She straightened in her seat. Toussaint was as accomplished at seduction as he was at the easel. Everyone knew that. And Richard had been rather versed in that arena as well at one point. Why would anyone in their right mind think the kisses of such men wouldn’t have a devastating effect on her senses? She was, in a very real sense, not terribly experienced, in spite of a bit of hard work and practice.
Had she passed the test after all? Perhaps it wasn’t only what she felt when she was with Richard that mattered. Perhaps what she felt when she wasn’t with him was equally—no, more—important. She wanted him when she wasn’t in his arms and wanted him for so much more than his touch alone. Hadn’t she already realized that? And if that wasn’t love, well, what in truth was? Now, she simply had to tell him.
She could ignore Toussaint’s kiss, it was of no real significance. It wasn’t as easy to ignore the persistent question lingering in the back of her mind.
How could the kisses of two different men be so very much alike?
Was there ever a man who approached his level when it came to total idiocy and sheer number of mistakes?
Richard lay on the chaise in the dark studio, his hands laced behind his neck, and stared up at the night sky. And at the moment there was surely not a man as miserable. How could he have done that to her? Any of it? He was the worst sort of cad. He’d placed her in an awkward situation for his own purposes. He’d lied to her, deceived her. Once for pride, once for money, and finally for love, although he doubted Gillian would either note the difference or care. Worse, none of it had really gotten him anywhere.
The stars above winked in accusation.
He was no closer to knowing her feelings now than he had been at Effington Hall. Of course, he had managed to find out that she was as hesitant to confront him as he was to talk to her. That, no doubt, was in his favor. A small point, but far better than nothing.
He stared upward at the stars hoping for inspiration, some new strategy. Preferably brilliant.
It had been such a delightfully clever plan in the beginning, and he still wasn’t sure when it had all gone awry. He probably should have put an end to it and told her the truth the moment there had no longer been a need for a twofold assault. But by then, too many confusing emotions were muddling his mind. What little mind he seemed to have left.
There really weren’t many options remaining at this point. He blew a long, resigned breath. He would have to confess and throw himself on her mercy. Tell her everything, from the moment he’d seen his own painting in her house to his impromptu deception at Lady Forester’s masquerade to this ridiculous business tonight.
He would explain it all, and eventually she would understand. She was as practical in her own way as he was in his. Oh, certainly, at first she would be a bit overset, perhaps even furious, but that would pass. Didn’t it stand to reason that if they shared the same sort of fear over each other’s feelings then surely they shared additional emotions as well?
Surely she loved him just as he loved her?
Her grandmother had said it had taken courage to change his life. Telling Gillian he loved her as well as the rest of it would forge the greatest change of all. And take far more courage than he’d ever dreamed possible.
Still, she wasn’t entirely innocent. She hadn’t mentioned a word to him about her sittings with Toussaint or about the artist’s advances, although she hadn’t exactly lied.
He snorted in self-disdain. She’d never donned a disguise to accost him in a garden, never adopted an accent to seduce him. No, perhaps it would be wise not to mention Gillian’s actions. No doubt she wouldn’t equate her relatively minor lies of omission with his very real duplicity.
He did have to admit, at least to himself, he’d rather enjoyed playing the role of the rakish Frenchman. Toussaint’s manner was very much like his own had once been. It was surprisingly easy to fall into the portrayal. To be, once again, a rogue absorbed by nothing more than his own interests and desires.
Well, he would pay dearly. Now, he’d do whatever he needed to do to make it right between them. Beg. Plead. Even grovel.
In truth, how long could it take? Sooner or later she’d probably see the humor in it all. One of the things he loved about her was how easily she laughed. They’d have quite a good laugh together over it. She’d forgive him because she loved him. He just hoped she loved him enough.
He smiled up at the stars. Of course she loved him. Given her comments, and her confusion, it made sense. How could she not?