“Do not despair too much, dear friend,” Gillian grinned. “There may be hope for you yet. You see, Richard has more than one marriageable sister.”
“Monsieur Toussaint?” Gillian rapped on the door once again.
“Perhaps he isn’t there, my lady?” Robin’s driver called from the bottom of the stairs.
“Then I shall wait right here. All day if necessary.” She was determined to find the boy who could take her to Richard. The time had come to resolve everything between them, and she would not be put off.
Toussaint could well be here, too absorbed in his work to notice a knock on the door. She fisted her hand and pounded impatiently, the sound echoing in the stairwell. “Monsieur, are you here?”
The door cracked open.
She paused. Was he inside, or did the silly man actually leave his studio without locking his door? If he was foolish enough to allow the possibility of any stranger entering, he deserved unexpected visitors.
She pushed the door open and poked her head inside. “Monsieur?”
No one was there. She opened the door wider and cautiously stepped inside. In the daylight, the single room looked much as she’d imagined it. Disheveled and disorganized, it was obviously the domain of a man without a maid to occasionally shovel out debris.
Canvases were stacked against the walls. Battered tables held paints and artist’s tools. In a far corner, Toussaint’s bed was heaped with unmade bedclothes. There were few other furnishings aside from the chaise where she’d posed, the stool next to it that held the candelabra, his easel, and the screen set up beside it to hide his face. A large blue splatter of paint stained one wall.
She stepped across the room to the other side of the easel. A cloth covered her painting, and she gently pulled it off. Her face gazed back at her, and again the sensation of his capturing more than her mere appearance swept through her. The portrait was nearly finished, just a bit of the background remained to be filled in. She stared at the likeness with a sense of awe.
Toussaint’s skill was impressive. No wonder his work was starting to be appreciated. His talent deserved to be recognized, and she would do what she could to assist him. She probably owed him that much.
At the very least, she did owe him an apology. She wandered around the edges of the room, stopping to study a sketch here, a preliminary drawing there. She had asked him to kiss her, after all, and it had been only her anger with herself that had made her strike him. He had simply been doing what obviously came naturally to a man of his nature.
She smiled, anticipating his reaction when he found her here. Throughout their acquaintance that ridiculous nonsense of his not allowing her to see his face had given him the upper hand. Now, the tables were turned.
She really didn’t think Toussaint was ugly, but she doubted he was overly handsome, either. He was probably quite ordinary. One would no more stare at him on the street than one would notice him. Still, whatever his appearance, the expression on his face when he saw her here would be quite enjoyable.
And he had to return eventually. She would wait as long as was necessary. Toussaint was her only link to the boy, and he her only link to Richard. After today, however, with any luck at all, there would be no more secrets between them. Not where he lived or what he did or how he felt.
A half-finished landscape caught her eye. It was a lovely scene, a wooded setting with a small Greek temple off to one side. It looked a great deal like the Duchess’s Folly. Gillian bent to study it closer.
Of course, one folly looked a great deal like any other, but the resemblance was remarkable. The proportions were right, as was the number of columns, and... she narrowed her eyes and leaned closer.
Perched on the top of the finial was a claret-colored bonnet with a jaunty green plume.
Her hat? Toussaint had painted her hat on top of what looked suspiciously like her temple. How in the world.... She sank down on the floor and studied the painting closely.
It wasn’t just the temple but the clearing, the arrangement of the trees, and wasn’t there the hint of a lake in the distance? This was definitely the Duchess’ Folly. Since she’d never seen Toussaint’s face, it was unlikely, but not inconceivable, that he’d been a visitor to the Effington estate. Possibly even at this year’s house party or the Ride. But only she and Richard knew about the hat.
Richard? Could he have commissioned Toussaint to produce the work? Of course not. He had no money for such frivolities. He used every cent he made doing whatever it was he did ...
“I’m assuming it’s some kind of business endeavor but Richard won’t say, probably because society would never accept an earl actually earning a living wage.”
Emma’s words rang in her ear.
What had Richard said?
“Whether by a female or an earl or a king for that matter, such work would be seen as inconsequential and given no serious consideration.”
Her breath caught. Was it possible? Surely not.
Her blood pounded in her ears. It was ridiculous. A quite mad idea.
The landscape seemed to pulse before her eyes.
Were Richard and Toussaint one and the same?
At once, a myriad of tiny details and minuscule moments that had had no significance at the time joined together in her head like pieces of a puzzle. Fitting perfectly into one astounding picture.
Good Lord! Of course. It all made sense. Toussaint’s refusal to let her see his face. His insistence on nighttime sittings. His thick, overdone accent, not to mention the way it seemed to lessen on occasion. He probably didn’t even speak French.
And there was so much more. The same boy delivering notes from both men. Richard’s comments about the hard life of an artist. His far too astute knowledge of art. Emma’s observance as to the similarities between Toussaint’s painting and the work Richard used to do. Used to do? Hah!
And the vague scent of turpentine after their first night together!
Why hadn’t she seen it before? Was she that foolish? That enamored with the man? No, she shook her head impatiently. Never in a hundred lifetimes would she have ever even toyed with the idea of the Earl of Shelbrooke being Etienne-Louis Toussaint.
But why didn’t he tell her? She of all people would not condemn his painting.
“What is more mysterious and exciting than a man whose face is hidden? Or a man with secrets.”
Was that what this was all about? Was he using Toussaint to gain her affections so she could live up to his condition for their marriage? If so, it hadn’t worked. Not really. It was not Toussaint’s arms she had ended up in. Not Toussaint’s arms she truly wanted to be in.
Realization struck her, and she gasped. Why, she wasn’t a trollop after all! She felt the same way when Toussaint kissed her as when Richard kissed her because it was the same man. The same man she loved. It wasn’t lust. Well, it wasn’t lust alone. After all, other men had kissed her, Robin most recently—and quite thoroughly at that—and she’d felt nothing whatsoever.
So why hadn’t he told her the truth?
“Perhaps he is confused as well.”
Was he? And was he confused because he too was in love? An absurd sense of joy bubbled up inside her, and she wanted to laugh out loud. Of course. That was the only answer. And what did she expect? Was there anything else in the world as confusing as love? And hadn’t she told Pandora men had no idea what was in their own hearts when it came to something like love? If indeed he wanted her only for the legacy he could have married her by now. But if his heart was involved ...
She should be furious with him. Should want to shoot him, or at the very least run him through with a dull sword. Instead all she could do was grin like an idiot.
She got to her feet and dusted off her dress. Poor, dear Richard. In love and confused. One could almost take pity on the man. And she would. Eventually. But not yet. She certainly couldn’t let him get away with this little deception unscathed. It would not be a good way to begin the rest of their lives together. Why, the man hadn’t begun to understand the true meaning of the word confused.
If there was nothing more mysterious or exciting than a man with secrets, it was past time Richard found out there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew those secrets. Each and every one.
What exactly had gone wrong? Richard stared at the canvas and tried to work, but he couldn’t get his meeting with Gillian out of his head. He’d gone to her house with the best of intentions. Planning to confess everything. Tell her about Toussaint and tell her he loved her. Instead, an irrational jealousy toward, of all things, her dead husband had reared its annoying head. Until today, Richard hadn’t even realized he resented this first love of hers.
But he did. Resented that he hadn’t been the first man in her life. The first man in her bed. The first man to rescue the fair princess.
What had she done to him? He should have married her at once, agreed to her terms, claimed her inheritance, and gone on with his life and a wife in name only. At least he’d be out of debt. But his pride wouldn’t allow that in the beginning. And his heart wouldn’t allow it now.
A knock sounded at his door, followed by a feminine voice. “Monsieur Toussaint?”
Gillian?
“Madame?” He jumped to his feet and strode to the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I should very much like to talk to you.” She paused. “May I come in?”
“A thousand pardons, but I am not prepared for a sitting tonight.” He couldn’t possibly let her in.
“I’ll wait.” She paused. “Monsieur, I have already let my driver go.”
“One moment, s’il vous plait.”
Damn. What on earth had brought Gillian here? He raced across the room, lit the candles by the chaise, extinguished the remaining lights, flew to the easel, and lit the candle affixed to the frame. He ran a hand through his hair, drew a deep breath, and settled on the stool in his concealed spot. “Very well, then, madame. You may enter.”
He heard the door open and watched her figure move from the dim shadows near the entry to the light by the chaise. “Good evening, monsieur.”
“Madame,” he said cautiously. She dropped her cloak onto the end of the chaise. “I did not think I would see you again.”
“Why would you think that?” She sat on the sofa and slipped off her shoes. “Is the portrait finished?”
“Not entirely, but I do not need you for what is left to complete. Therefore if you would prefer to leave, I can send for a carriage.”
“Not at all.” She stretched out on the chaise, her movements languorous and enticing. “I would prefer to stay right here.”
“You would?”
“Indeed I would.” She laughed softly, a sound deep in her throat, and the muscles of his stomach tightened. “You say you don’t need me to finish this portrait?”
“No.” However, as long as she was here, he might as well work on it. He picked up a brush. How long did she plan on staying, anyway? As far as he knew, she’d always left Wilkins waiting at the bottom of the stair. Where was the man tonight?
“Then perhaps you would accept my commission for another?”
“Another portrait?” He frowned. “One is not enough?”
“It simply struck me how lovely it would be to have a work that was, oh, a bit different. Something unique.”
“All of my paintings are unique,” he muttered. It wasn’t enough for her to surprise him, now she had to criticize him as well.
“Yes, well, I was thinking of something in a more classical vein.”
“Classical?” What was more classical than a woman in a Grecian gown reclining on a chaise?
“You know, in the manner of a sculpture. A Greek sculpture. Yes, that would be perfect. Something that would grace, oh, I don’t know, a temple perhaps.”
“A temple?” he said, uttering a silent prayer. Hopefully, the landscape he’d started after they’d returned from the country was leaning against a wall where she couldn’t possibly see it in the dark.
She swung her legs off the chaise and rose to her feet, her movements at once graceful and provocative. “This gown is perfect for such a painting.” She stretched her arms over her head and turned slowly. The candlelight danced off the folds in the sheer fabric and caressed every curve. “Don’t you think so, monsieur?”
He swallowed hard. “I do indeed, but I have already painted you in that dress.”
“Oh dear.” Her lips pursed in a delightful pout, and she crossed her arms over her chest, the action underlining the swell of her breasts above her gown. “Then this will never do.”
“Perhaps not,” he murmured, his gaze caught by the play of the flickering light on her ivory skin.
“What shall we do instead?” She tapped her finger against her bottom lip.
“I don’t know.” He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but painting played no role in it.
“I did so desire something in a classic tradition.”
“Desire ... classic.” His gaze riveted on the finger against her lips.
“Perhaps even daring.”
“Daring.” Her luscious, lovely lips.
“Yes, but maybe not Greek exactly, perhaps something more in the manner of the great Italian masters.” Her movements seemed as measured as if she moved in a dream. Or perhaps the dream was his. Her hands drifted to the gold cord knotted at her waist. “Botticelli.” She untied it. “Or Titian.”
It dropped to the floor, and his gaze followed.
“Titian,” he echoed, mesmerized by the snake of gold twinkling at her feet.
“No, Botticelli, I should think. Something like his
Birth of Venus
.”
“Madame, Venus was ...” Her gown fell to cover the cord. His gaze traveled up her legs and higher, over the curve of her derriere and up the valley and planes of her back and shoulders. Her flesh glowed warm and golden. She drew the ribbon from her hair, and her curls tumbled like liquid light to kiss the top of her back.
She looked at him over her shoulder. He knew full well she couldn’t see him, yet her gaze seemed to rivet to his. “Venus was ... ?”
“You have lost your clothing, madame.” He could barely croak out the words.
“Not at all, monsieur.” She reached down, plucked the gown from the floor, and tossed it to join her cloak on the chair. “I know precisely where they are.”
“And do you know what you are doing as well?” He bloody well hoped so, because he had no idea what she was up to.
“Oh, I believe I do.
You see, monsieur... Etienne—”
Etienne
?
When had she started calling him Etienne?
“I have been giving my situation a great deal of thought since last night.” She moved toward the candelabra, the flickering light skimming her naked body like a luminescent hand. She leaned forward and blew out a candle. “And I have considered what you said.”
“What I said?” Why was his mouth so dry?
“Indeed. Everything you said.” She puffed out the second candle.
“Everything?” Why was his voice so weak?
“Oh my yes. About how I feel when you kiss me.” She extinguished another candle. “And about your test.” She glanced at him. “It wasn’t fair, you know.” She blew out the next candle.
“No?” His heart thudded in his chest.
“No indeed. I wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t at all ready.” She looked in his direction and slowly licked her thumb, then her forefinger.
“You weren’t?” He couldn’t breathe. And didn’t care.
“No. But now, monsieur.” She snuffed out the last candle with her fingers. A slight sizzle sounded in the air. Every muscle in his body tensed. “I am.”
“You are?” Was he?
“Test me, Etienne.” She practically purred the words, a dark silhouette on the far side of the room.
“What do you want of me, madame?” In spite of his words, he started toward her, his feet moving of their own accord.
“What?” She laughed in a throaty manner he’d never heard from her before. A shiver of desire shot up his spine. “Why, what does any woman want of Etienne-Louis Toussaint, master painter and lover extraordinaire?”
“Madame, I...” He was a scant step away from her. He should stop this. Now. Before it was too late.
“Yes?” She stepped toward him and placed her hands on his chest, then ran her fingers lightly over his shirt. He gasped and grabbed her hands firmly.
“Why?” His voice was strangled.
“Why?” She pressed her naked body against him, her flesh burning his through the fabric of his clothes. She leaned forward and flicked her tongue over the hollow of his throat. “I once thought I could never marry a man I did not love.” Her voice was low and intoxicating. She pulled her hands from his and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I also once thought I couldn’t be with a man I didn’t love.”
“And now?”
“Now?” She tunneled her fingers through his hair and drew his mouth to hers.
“We shall see.”
“I... we must talk,” his mouth murmured against hers.
“Must we?” She slid her hands over his shoulders, down his back, then slipped them under his shirt.
He yanked it over his head and threw it aside, and she was at once back in his arms. “It is imperative ...” It was hard to form a sentence, a single thought. “... I must tell you ...”
“Your secrets, Etienne?” Her hands were everywhere at once, touching and exploring and skimming his sides, lower and lower still.
And in that moment he knew it was already too late.
He couldn’t resist and didn’t want to. She pushed his trousers down his hips, freeing his hard member. Her hands cupped him and caressed him with a shocking confidence, and he moaned with the sheer sensation of her touch.
She drew him onto the chaise, the heat of her body searing his bare skin, numbing his mind to anything beyond the passion in her touch, the need swelling within him.
Here and now, he no longer cared if it was Toussaint she truly wanted or Richard. If she loved the earl or the artist. She was in his blood, in his soul. He wanted her with an ache so fierce it eclipsed all thought of right and wrong. All thought of honor and deception. He loved her and he wanted her and it didn’t matter who she wanted, who she loved.
He and Toussaint were one and the same. There was enough of the rakish artist in him to discard the consequences of this moment, enough of the man he had once been to cast aside all thought of repercussions, all concern for tomorrow. There was nothing in this moment but a single man and the one woman he loved.
But even as his body joined with hers and ecstasy swept away caution and control, he knew in some still sane portion of his mind that it would soon matter very much indeed.
It would be all that mattered.
* * *
They lay together silently, wrapped in a sense of contentment and serenity he’d never suspected could be the aftermath of the physical act of love. Now might well be the best time to confess all, although any urgency to do so had vanished. She was warm and supple beside him and probably quite receptive to the truth. He had an amazing sense of well-being and the illogical belief that nothing could come between them now.
Gillian sighed, turned to him, and kissed him firmly. “I have never seduced a man before.”
“I would not have known,” he said lightly, remembering just in time to feign his accent. He chuckled. “You seemed quite good at it.”
“Thank you.” He could hear the grin in her voice. “I’ve been practicing.”
She sat up and bent over to find her shoes, then rose from the chaise. He watched her shadowy figure grope for the chair. She found it, slipped her dress on and her cloak. At once he realized she’d made certain she knew exactly where to find her clothing in the dark room. He propped himself on his elbows.
“You are leaving? Now?” He’d rather hoped that she’d stay until dawn, when the rising sun would reveal his face to her and alleviate the need for him to bring up the subject of his deception. He’d always been rather more successful at defense than offense.
“Yes, well, my carriage is waiting.”
“Did you not say you’d sent it away?”
“Did I?” she murmured. “What was I thinking?”
“Madame?” he said slowly.
“Monsieur, I have had a delightful evening. I do so appreciate your part in it.” Her tone was cordial and polite, as if she were thanking him for nothing more than a drive around the park.
She crossed to the door and opened it, silhouetted in the doorway by the dim light. “Oh, and I should hate for you to spend the rest of the night wondering, so I do think I should tell you before I go.”
“Tell me what?”
“The answer to your last question, monsieur,” she paused, “is no.” She closed the door behind her with a firm snap.
“What question?” he muttered and stared after her. He couldn’t recall any question of significance. He lay back and stared upward into the night. No stars shone tonight. Clouds obscured the heavens, a blessing earlier for keeping his secret from her, but now they seemed forbidding. An omen perhaps?
What question? He searched his mind. He’d been far too busy dealing with questions of his own to note anything of importance she might—
“I also once thought I couldn’t be with a man I didn’t love.”
“And now?”
He bolted upright.
“The answer to your last question, monsieur, is no.”
No? What in the hell did that mean?
He jumped to his feet and promptly bashed his knee on the chair. Pain shot through him. He muttered a curse, groped for his trousers, and pulled them on, then headed toward the easel, guided by the faint glow of the candle still burning on the wooden frame. He sank onto the stool before the portrait and stared at Gillian’s face.
She stared back.
No?
If she couldn’t be with a man she didn’t love ...
His stomach clenched.
But she had been with Toussaint. She had in fact seduced Toussaint, And with a great deal of enthusiasm.
Did she then love Toussaint? Had his silly plan worked after all? And had it worked far too well?
The face on the portrait smiled a smug, satisfied smile.
Blast it all, what would he do now? Gillian had fallen in love with the wrong man, even if he was that man. He was his own rival. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to think.
What if he could get rid of Toussaint? His spirits lifted at the thought. Send him back to France, or better yet, kill the scoundrel. Perhaps in a duel? No, no, that would be too romantic. Besides, he’d need witnesses and an opponent.
A duel would create far too much gossip, and the last thing he needed was to draw the attention of the
ton
. What about an accident? He racked his brains for something plausible. A carriage accident perhaps? Or he could drown? That would work. His body would never be found.
Bloody hell, he couldn’t kill off Toussaint. Gillian would then be faced with a dead lover as well as a dead husband, and Richard couldn’t handle the memory of yet another man in her life. Even if he didn’t truly exist.
Of course, he could be wrong about her feelings. No. His heart sank. He should have known right from the beginning, regardless of her intentions, that she was not the kind of woman to share a man’s bed without love. And not the kind of woman who married without love.
Damn it all, he loved her. But she loved someone else. And she would hate him when she learned the truth. She’d never believe that this deception of his wasn’t strictly to gain her inheritance. And in truth it had been when this whole blasted mess had started.
Now, he didn’t care about her legacy. If he had to go the rest of his life painting under another name and trying to make repairs on an ancient roof and struggling to scrape up dowries for his sisters, it was well worth it if she shared that life with him.
He blew a long, resigned breath and met the gaze of the face in the portrait. He loved her. He’d never loved before and probably never would again. But how could he marry a woman who loved someone else?
He couldn’t. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Neither would his heart. It had all been so simple until love had entered into it. Damnable love.
Once again, irony colored his life. He who had never thought of love at all now found it was the only thing he could think about. The only thing he truly wanted.
And the one thing he couldn’t have.