He pulled a deep breath. “I would be quite grateful if you should allow her, that is Emma, the oldest, to stay here with you.”
Her heart went out to him. “Richard, I can’t afford to sponsor a season for a young woman.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said quickly. “If you would chaperone her, procure invitations for her to the same parties you attend, allow her to participate in your salons, that will serve nicely. With luck, she will meet someone. She’s rather an attractive bit of baggage.”
“But if you and I don’t marry, what will you do for a dowry?”
“I’ll think of something.” He shrugged. “I always have.”
It really wasn’t all that much for him to ask, considering what she had asked of him. Besides, while there were any number of Effington relatives and more than a few female cousins, she’d never had a sister. Having one, even for a short time, might be fun. “I should quite enjoy having your sister here.”
“Thank you.” He took her hand in both of his. “Regardless of how this arrangement between us ends, you will have my eternal gratitude.” His gaze bored into hers, and once again she struggled against the sensation of drowning.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she said in an unconcerned manner, belying the fluttering in her stomach.
“I have every intention of kissing you. I can think of no better way to seal our agreement.” He stared for a long moment. Silence stretched between them as taut as the unexpected tension in the air, as disconcerting as the feel of her hand in his. “But not today.”
“As you wish.” She pulled her hand from his in an unhurried manner. She wouldn’t want him to think she was relieved. Or disappointed.
The corners of his mouth twitched as if he thought exactly that and was trying not to smile. He started toward the door. “I intend to go to the country at the end of the week. I shall fetch Emma then.”
She stepped after him. “How long will you be gone?”
He stopped and raised a brow. “Do you miss me already?”
“Don’t be absurd. It’s just that I don’t know how we are to proceed with this—”
“Seduction?”
“Courtship,” she said firmly, “if you are not here.”
“I shan’t be gone more than a day or two. In the meantime, I assume you are going to Lady Forester’s masquerade?”
In spite of herself she laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of missing one of Lady Forester’s masquerades. One never knows precisely who or what will be unmasked. Will you be there?”
“If you are.” He nodded sharply. “Until then,” he said, turned, and, before she could say a word, strode from the room. She heard a murmur of voices followed by the sound of the front door closing firmly. A moment later Wilkins appeared in the doorway.
“Will that be all, my lady, or are you expecting additional guests? If so, I should rouse Mrs. Wilkins, and perhaps she can prepare refreshments.” Wilkins’s bland stare only emphasized the sarcasm in his voice.
She stifled a sarcastic response of her own. “No, that will do for the moment, thank you.”
“Very well.” He sniffed his obvious disapproval at the entire episode and took his leave, his haughty demeanor an incongruous contrast to his bobbing nightcap.
Gillian blew out a long breath and sank onto the sofa. She should have felt relieved at Richard’s willingness to go along with her proposal, but until now she hadn’t really realized exactly what that would mean.
Could she truly be a real wife to him, or to any man for that matter, with all the title implied? Could she really share his life? His bed? His children?
She pulled herself to her feet and paced the room. She should have picked someone else on the list. Someone not nearly as attractive, or with hands that made her want to melt, or eyes that seemed to sap her will. Someone who would have accepted the kind of marriage she had originally proposed for half of her inheritance and been more than happy.
But what of her happiness?
The question pulled her up short. The idea of her own happiness had never entered her mind. How could she possibly be happy without Charles? Why, she couldn’t. Any chance at happiness had died with him eight long years ago. No man would ever, ever take his place in her heart. She wouldn’t allow it. She could never love anyone else.
Love
? There was an odd thought. Love played no part in her arrangement with Richard. It was a practical matter, nothing more. Many of her friends had entered marriage without love, and many of those had turned out well enough. She could certainly do the same.
She tried to ignore the unsettling idea that sharing Richard’s bed would not be at all distasteful. She’d always assumed she could never abide with any other man the kind of intimacies she’d had with Charles. But there was a moment tonight when she’d wanted ... wanted what? She wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a chill.
Surely whatever she’d felt tonight had been triggered by no more than her desire to make the relationship between the two of them succeed. Wasn’t she simply trying to convince herself she could indeed be the wife he wished? Trying to regard him with a certain amount of affection? Of course that was the answer. It had to be. She couldn’t desire another man any more than she could love him.
Could she?
Once again, guilt washed over her. No. Any odd yearnings she’d had in Richard’s presence were an aberration, nothing more. She could marry him and do what was necessary, but she could never want any man but Charles.
How very curious to realize the betrayal wasn’t so much in the act but in the need.
Richard studied the miniature portrait propped before him on the easel. He’d tried his hand at miniatures in the past for their lucrative nature, but considered them more a matter of technical skill than true art. Such renderings were better suited to women accustomed to the intricacies of needlework and the use of watercolors than serious artists, although he did wonder if his disdain was due more to his own impatience with the painstaking work than to any legitimate artistic reasons. Richard much preferred to work on a grander scale.
Still, if one had to produce a painting quickly, a miniature would serve well, and a need within him at the moment demanded speed. He’d spent the better part of the night before his visit to Gillian completing this one.
Ice blue eyes stared up at him. No, not so severe as ice, but definitely cool and remote and reserved. If indeed eyes were windows to the soul, Gillian’s soul was shuttered tight against intruders. Yet hadn’t there been one brief moment tonight? ...
He rubbed his chin absently and leaned back, automatically adjusting his balance on the precarious stool, his gaze locked on the tiny portrait. He wasn’t entirely certain why he wanted to melt the ice in her eyes. Pride was the obvious answer. He had no wish to marry a woman who needed him only as a means to an end. No, he wanted his wife to desire him, long for his touch, yearn for his caress. It seemed little enough to ask in exchange for a lifetime.
Had Gillian ever known such desire in the long years after her husband’s death? Richard couldn’t recall hearing rumors about her and other men.
And Thomas would have mentioned any liaisons of his sister’s, if only out of concern for her.
Had there been no one in her bed other than her husband? His stomach clenched, and he knew without a doubt the answer to his question. Bloody hell, the woman was practically a virgin. He detested virgins and, to his knowledge, had never been involved with one. One had to be exceedingly delicate with virgins—under the bedclothes and elsewhere. He far preferred experienced women.
Oh, certainly, as the world defined such things, Gillian was a widow, not a virgin. But in a practical sense, was there any significant difference between a woman who was untouched and a woman who had not been touched in nearly a decade?
Damnation. How on earth could he willingly bring such a woman, a woman who had no doubt managed to resist untold advances given her family name and her appearance, to his bed? He had no idea whatsoever and not even the vaguest inkling of a plan, far-fetched or otherwise.
A smile danced on the lips of the face staring up at him, as if the portrait itself were amused at his dilemma. He might have painted it such, but not from life. He didn’t doubt Gillian saw nothing humorous in their situation. Did her pride, too, chafe at the thought of marrying for financial gain? He still didn’t know why she was so eager to acquire her inheritance, although he could hardly fault her, or anyone else, for refusing to forfeit such a fortune.
His gaze slid back to the eyes of the portrait.
Painting this had been an odd exercise in futility. His time would have been better spent on something a little more profitable. But for some absurd reason—or six hundred thousand reasons, none of them absurd—her face lingered in his mind, obscuring any other scenes he might have put to canvas.
Perhaps he could present the miniature to her? Seal their agreement with a memento? Ridiculous idea, of course. Where would the Earl of Shelbrooke get the money for such a commission?
No, he couldn’t possibly give it to her. She would be far too curious. It was extremely tempting, though. He did rather like her reaction to his work.
He carefully picked up the ivory by its edges and studied it. Why couldn’t he give it to her? Indirectly, of course. He could have Thomas deliver it for him and simply explain to his friend that he’d painted it because she appreciated the landscape. No. Thomas would never believe that. He’d ask as many questions as his sister. Blasted family. Curiosity ran with the blood in their veins.
Why couldn’t Etienne-Louis Toussaint send it directly?
Why indeed? Even though the elusive artist’s work had never been sold through anything but the most surreptitious manner, there was no reason why Toussaint couldn’t send Gillian the miniature, without the auspices of an agent or gallery. After all, she did like his work. And a word from her could only benefit an artist’s career. What would be more appropriate than an offering of gratitude?
Really nothing more than a thoughtful token. Merely a polite gesture.
Richard grinned and resisted the impulse to laugh, yawning instead. He knew full well the same pride that kept him from accepting Gillian’s offer of marriage without hesitation now compelled him to present a gift of his work. Pride was the only thing that hadn’t changed with his fortunes. Admittedly, it might well be his downfall one day.
He smiled at the portrait in his hand. One day perhaps. But with any luck at all, not today.
“A Greek muse. I expected nothing less.” The tall, masked gentleman swept a low bow before her.
“Really, my lord?” Gillian extended her hand with a dignity that belied the pounding of her heart. She would have known Richard’s voice anywhere, even in the midst of Lady Forester’s crowded masquerade ball. “A muse, you say?”
“Indeed.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“But only a mere muse?” she said, surprised at the flirtatious note in her voice. “Why not a goddess?”
“A goddess commands.” He released her hand. His eyes glittered behind his mask, and he considered her for a long moment. She wore a simple Grecian-style gown, tied with a gold cord wrapped around her waist and held at each shoulder by gilded pins. Her hair was swept up and bound with a gold ribbon. It was the same costume she’d worn last year and the year before, but under his scrutiny tonight it was once again new and special. “A muse inspires.”
“And do I inspire?” She tilted her head in a teasing manner.
His voice was at once intense. “Very much so.”
Her breath caught. It was the second time today someone had claimed her as his inspiration. She’d barely given the earlier instance a second thought. But Richard’s comment—
“Good evening, Lord Shelbrooke.” Robin stepped up beside her.
“Lord Shelbrooke.” Kit nodded, standing on her other side. Lord, she had quite forgotten about Robin and Kit. They’d accompanied her tonight, as they had for most social occasions in recent years, but for the first time in memory she would have much preferred to have come to the ball alone.
“Lord Weston, Lord Cummings,” Richard said mildly.
Silence fell among the three men as if each one was assessing the respective merits and weaknesses of the others in preparation for mortal combat. It would have been a humorous sight under different circumstances: Robin dressed as a Roman soldier, Kit costumed as a French musketeer, Richard in what appeared to be the same clothes he’d worn to her salon. All three were sporting the half-masks that were
de rigueur
for male guests at Lady Forester’s annual masquerade.
Gillian groaned. Thus far, the evening had been every bit as awkward as she’d expected. She’d tried to avoid Robin and Kit in the few days since she’d told them of her plans to marry Richard, though each had found time to pay her a visit in a futile attempt to convince her of the error of her decision. At the moment their disapproval was silent but obvious nonetheless.
“Interesting choice of costume, my lord,” Kit said at last, inclining his head toward Richard. “What precisely are you supposed to be?”
“Precisely?” Richard spread his arms wide and glanced down at his clothes. While not exactly shabby, they had definitely seen better days. “Why, isn’t it obvious? I’m a penniless earl planning to marry a wealthy heiress.”
Gillian sucked in a hard breath.
Robin’s eyes narrowed. Kit’s widened with disbelief.
Richard laughed.
It might have been the shock of hearing his laugh, deep and unrestrained for all the world to witness. Or the looks on the faces of her two dearest friends. Or the moment Richard’s gaze met hers and she distinctly caught his wink. The absurdity of it all bubbled up inside her, and she joined in his laughter.
“This is not funny,” Robin said indignantly.
“Not at all.” Kit’s brow furrowed.
“Oh, but it is. I’ve never seen a Roman quite so astounded or a musketeer nearly so stunned.” Gillian lowered her voice and leaned toward her friends. “And I must say you two deserve it. You’ve treated me like I don’t have a brain in my head from the moment I first took you into my confidence, and I’m tired of it. In point of fact, I’m beginning to believe you’re right in that I have indeed made one stupid decision—”
“Gillian,” Robin started, “we never—”
“I say, you needn’t—” Kit sputtered.
“—and that was confiding in the two of you!” She turned toward Richard and cast him her brightest smile. “My lord, it is hot and stuffy and I would like nothing better than to be escorted to a spot where I could get a breath of fresh air.”
“I am, as always, at your service.” Richard took her elbow. “Gentlemen.”
Gillian nodded in dismissal and allowed Richard to steer her through the crowd and away from a staring Roman and an openmouthed musketeer.
“I am sorry, Gillian.” Richard bent closer to be heard over the din of the throng. “I simply couldn’t resist. They were so blasted protective and rather condemning and ... Good Lord.” He stopped and stared at her. “They did know, didn’t they? About your legacy? I just assumed—”
“They know,” she said with a sigh. “And they haven’t been at all helpful.”
“No?” He raised a brow. “I’m surprised they didn’t offer to marry you.”
“They did.”
“I see.” He again took her arm, and they started toward the doors at the far end of the room.
It was pointless to try to explain anything to him here. She could barely hear herself think, and the last thing she wanted was for all of London to learn anything about her arrangement with Richard through a misplaced shout. She’d already noticed more then a few curious glances cast in their direction. She hadn’t been seen in the company of anyone other than Robin and Kit in years, and Richard was viewed only as a silent figure always on the edge of a crowd.
They made their way across the ballroom packed with revelers in costumes ranging from the exquisite to the ridiculous, skirted the dance floor, and headed toward the open doors, where the festive crowd overflowed onto a gaily decorated terrace.
Lady Forester’s home was well suited to grand entertainments, and she had arranged the evening with a theatrical flair, even out of doors. Lanterns danced on the slight breeze and led the way into the gardens below, trailing into shadow for those guests seeking a private moment. Huge flower-filled urns and swags of netting and ribbons festooned the balustrades. Everywhere servants dressed in dominos offered refreshments.
The hostess’s setting extended to her guests. Men were expected, if not required, to wear masks. She was not quite as strident in her requirements for female guests, however, stipulating only that they carry a mask and not necessarily wear it. Gillian’s dangled from a tie at her wrist. Lady Forester was ever aware of the possibility of mussing an elaborately concocted hairstyle and even more acutely aware of the need to have a mask close at hand should a guest require anonymity for whatever reason.
“The crush is barely less out here,” Richard muttered and scanned the area. “This way.” He escorted her to the stairs leading down into the garden. A stone pathway encircled a large pool and gently trickling fountain. Paved walks branched off at precise intervals. Larger-than-life marble statues stood like white, silent sentinels over the grounds. Just off the first turn, a stone bench sat half hidden by a huge marble figure, providing discretion for privacy but not secluded enough for an illicit rendezvous. “Do you think anyone will notice us here?”
“I think everyone will notice the two of us everywhere. Especially going into the gardens. Lady Forester’s gardens have a formidable reputation.” She smiled and leaned her back against the statue. “All manner of amorous activities are reputed to take place here.”
“Need I worry about compromising your reputation?”
“I really haven’t much of a reputation. Not like ... well, any number of women I could name.”
“Why not?”
“Why?” She stared in disbelief. “Goodness, Richard, you do ask the most unexpected questions.”
He shrugged. “I am simply trying to learn all I can about you. You’re a beautiful woman. You spend much of your time surrounded by writers and artists. Why is it you haven’t succumbed to the lure of a well-turned phrase or a seductive brushstroke?”
“Seductive brushstroke?” She laughed. “You certainly do know how to turn a phrase.”
“And I am scarcely trying,” he said with a grin, “But I do find it hard to believe no poet has ever written of the stars in your eyes—”
“An ‘Ode to Gillian’ perhaps?”
“No artist has sought to capture your spirit on canvas.”
“On canvas?” Odd that he should mention that. Just today she’d received a miniature portrait of herself from the French artist whose landscape she’d so admired. She’d planned on bringing it with her tonight to show Richard and perhaps get his opinion. It would have given them something to talk about other than themselves, but at the last moment she’d decided against it. There was something about the tiny image that struck her as rather personal. A feeling, more than anything else. Still, it was a strange sensation, and she wasn’t quite certain how Richard would react to it. The man did seem to be remarkably perceptive. There was time enough to show him the miniature at a later date. “Don’t be absurd.”
“So there have been no artists,” he said lightly, “no poets—”
“No.”
“No composers, no politicians—”
“No. Richard—”
“No butchers, no bakers—”
“No! No one! Honestly, Richard.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I haven’t... what I mean to say is...”
“You have no reputation.”
“Exactly,” she huffed. “Are you happy?”
“Blissful. Although,” he shook his head in mock distress, “we should probably consider
my
reputation.”
“Yours?”
“I used to have one, you know,” he said staunchly. “And damned impressive it was, too. But look at me now. Out in a disreputable garden with a woman with no reputation whatsoever. And not a soul to give it a second thought because I’m considered quite reformed. A man of honor no less, topping your list of husbands.
“I can hear the whispers now: she’ll be safe with him.” A mournful note sounded in his voice. “What a sorry end I’ve come to.”
“It’s not that bad. Why tonight alone you have laughed aloud and emerged from the shadows of the room. I daresay everyone in the place is speculating about us at this very moment.”
“Do you think so?” he said hopefully.
She bit back a laugh and nodded somberly. “I do.”
“Then I have nowhere to go but up.” The teasing note in his voice vanished. “And bloody hell, I cannot stand this another minute.”
Unease stabbed her. “Richard, what are you—”
With a swift movement, he ripped his mask off like a man escaping from a prison. He pushed his hair away from his forehead, tilted his face up to catch the breeze, and pulled a deep breath. “That’s much better. I detest masks. I cannot abide things pressing on my face.” He shuddered. “Do you think Lady Forester will have me ejected for taking it off?”
Gillian narrowed her eyes and adopted an overly thoughtful manner. “Perhaps. It could indeed be an unforgivable offense. I’ve heard her say there is nothing quite as attractive as a man of mystery.”
“Hence her passion for deep, dark secrets.”
“As well as other things.” She smiled and shook her head. “She may be right, though. What is more mysterious and exciting than a man with secrets? Or a man whose face is hidden? He could be anything. A pauper, a prince, a—”
“He could be dangerous.”
She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I imagine that simply adds to the excitement.”
Richard propped his foot on the bench, rested his forearm on his thigh, and clasped his hands. “Do women typically wish for such excitement?”
“Lady Forester is not at all a typical woman.”
“Neither are you.” He studied her intently. “Then do
you
wish for such excitement?”
“Me? I’ve never especially thought about it. I can certainly understand ...” Did she long for excitement? For a man of mystery? A stranger with secrets? Dangerous and irresistible? The possibility had never arisen. She shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“No, you prefer to know all there is to know about a man before you propose marriage.”
“It seemed wise at the time,” she murmured uneasily. It did sound rather harsh and calculating when he said it.
“And extremely practical.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you accept Weston or Cummings? You’ve known them all your life.”
“Oh, I could never do that to either of them,” she said quickly.
“However, you could do
that
to me?”
“I didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded. Perhaps I simply know them too well. They’re like brothers. Besides,” she laughed softly, “at this very moment I suspect Kit is flirting with a rather attractive shepherdess he remarked on earlier and Robin is trying to determine whether or not he should actively pursue a wife or if he can put it off for another year.”
“They do care for you, though.”
“And I for them, but...”
“And I suspect either of them would give you the kind of marriage you want.”
“The kind of marriage ...”
“In name only.” His eyes smoldered.
“Yes, well...” She avoided his gaze and stepped away from the statue. She pulled a deep breath and turned to him. “That’s not to be, is it?”
“It’s entirely up to you.” He shifted his foot off the bench and moved toward her. Her heart thudded in her chest. Was he going to kiss her? Panic surged through her. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his.