Delectably Undone! (2 page)

“Did you make that stipulation?”

She shrugged. “Why would that make a difference?” It shouldn’t.

“Where is he? Lionel made good money as a painter. Judging by the sketches he sent me, he still could. Why are you living like this?”

The delicate brows rose. “Like what? In squalor? Fashions change, my lord. In art…as well as women.”

“Don’t do that!”

“What? Stop speaking the truth?”

“Stop ‘my lording’ me as though I were a stranger!” He fought down hurt and anger. “For God’s sake, Loveday—let me help you. Let me give you some money. I can—”

“No!” It burst from her.

“Dammit, Loveday! It’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything!”

Her lip curled. “Easy to say when you’ve plenty of it. Anyway, money for what? Money for what we did six years ago?”

Money for
… His hands balled to fists as her meaning slammed home, and the cool speculation in her eyes scored deep. He closed his eyes, reaching for control.

Opening them again, he found her still watching, her face a mask. His own control shredded, he gritted his teeth against the rising tide of fury…and saw, really saw, the stacked canvases around the dingy room.

“Paintings,” he heard himself say.

“I beg your pardon.”

No, that should be his line, but the blank mask had at least been replaced with a puzzled frown.

“I’ll buy paintings.” Surely if he bought enough paintings it would help Lionel get her out of this…this
hell
without trampling their pride in the mud. Without making her feel that she had been paid off like a whore, albeit belatedly. “
What?
You haven’t even looked at any of them!”

He didn’t really need to; they were Lionel’s. “Easily remedied.” He strode past her to a stack leaning against a battered table, and crouched down, flipping through them backward and forward. Mountainscapes; Italian, he supposed. Beautiful, evocative, painted by the old Lionel. Any or all of these could grace his collection. Evelyn put one aside…and his breath stopped. The next canvas glowed. A lonely shore with a single, distant figure standing bathed in golden light where the sand met a dreaming sea… Silently, he set it aside, and kept looking through the stack until he came to the last one….

His hands shook as he drew it clear. He knew this one. Not the painting; he’d never seen it before. But the subject—the young girl curled up reading in that shabby old wing chair she’d loved, one hand caressing a tabby kitten asleep in her lap, red-gold tresses tumbling over her shoulders, glimmering against the dark, cracked leather.

Lionel must have painted it just before or after…as a reminder?

“How much for these three?”

She stared. “You want those? Even the seascape?”

“Yes. Especially that one. How much?”

The mask had crumbled. Instead there was panic in the wide golden eyes and parted lips. “I…I don’t know.”

“Fifty, then?”

“Fifty? For three?” Some of the spark rekindled and she scowled at him. “Fifty each.”

“But that’s too much!”

“No, it isn’t. They’re good. Better than good.” They were, too. Especially the beach scene, which must have been painted after whatever cataclysm had transfigured Lionel’s style; it had the same quality of yearning that infused the murals.

“What happened to him, Loveday?” he asked, without looking up from the painting.

“What…what do you mean?”

Glancing up, he tapped the beach scene. “The man I remember didn’t paint this.”

She paled, eyes huge. “What—”

“Something must have changed him,” said Evelyn, watching her. “Oh, the technique might be his, but the rest isn’t.”

Her expression eased very slightly. “Oh. Well, nothing, just…just Italy. Yes. Just Italy.” She finished in a rush, her face now red and her hands, those expressive hands, twisting together. “We’ve all changed, my lord.”

“I see.” She’d never been able to hide a lie. He let it go. For now. “I’ll take these three today, deposit the money at Hoare’s with the rest, and come back tomorrow for the other paintings.”

Her jaw dropped. “What other paintings?”

“The other paintings I’m going to buy. I’ll look at them now.”

Loveday watched, heart and stomach inextricably tangled, as Evelyn worked his way through the stacked paintings. Dear God in heaven—what now was she to do? He was putting so many paintings aside!

Looking down, she discovered that her hands were twisting in her paint-smeared apron. Sweet Lord! If he noticed
that
! Trying to be unobtrusive, she tugged off the apron and stuffed it into a drawer.

He was absorbed in the paintings, though, and didn’t so much as glance up. She watched, imprinting every detail on her mind, renewing and overlaying memories. He crouched, flipping through canvases, and she knew the easy strength it took to hold the position, could see in her mind’s eye the taut stretch of muscles hidden by the elegant trousers. Her trembling fingers remembered the ripple of muscle under warm skin in his broad back as he set one painting aside and reached for another. Icy fingers of fear clenched to a fist in her gut. How close was he to realising the truth?

As if catching her thoughts, he looked up, frowning. Her mouth dried.

“I’ll have to bring a carriage tomorrow,” he said. “What will you tell Lionel?”

She took a shaky breath, her brain scrambling for coherent thoughts, for an honest answer.

“When did I ever tell Lionel anything but the truth?”

The deep blue eyes held hers, searching. “I know, but he refused to see me, so—”

“That was me…that is—” She floundered. He looked as though she had struck him, straightening slowly, face rigid.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“No! I mean—yes. That is…” She fought to steady her restless hands. “I made such a fool of myself!”

His mouth twisted. “Loveday, you didn’t make fool of yourself. The fault was mine.”

“Not entirely,” she muttered.

He looked as though he was about to disagree, and she hurried on. “Anyway, I was embarrassed.”

“Then Lionel won’t come looking for me with a gutting knife when he hears I called?”

Oh, God!
“Lionel forgave you long ago,” she whispered.

“Did he?” said Evelyn. “But you didn’t.”

She gathered the remaining shreds of pride around her. “There was nothing to forgive. Like you, I decided long ago that I had made a mistake.” A mistake in thinking the daughter of a schoolmaster could ever mean something to him. She lifted her chin. “I didn’t care to be reminded of it.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “In that case I’ll remove myself from your presence.” He bent to pick up the paintings. “Wait!”

He looked an enquiry.

“It’s raining. They’ll need to be wrapped. I have some oilcloth to protect them.”

The oilcloth was in the drawer where she had stuffed the apron. She drew it out, trying to steady her hands. When she turned, he had set the paintings on a chair, and stepped back.

Clutching the oilcloth before her like a shield, she moved forward. The paintings needed protection.
Think of that.

Kneeling beside the chair, she lifted the first one, the portrait Lionel had painted of her before they had left for Italy. Before everything. She remembered how he had chatted casually doing it, full of laughter, plans. She remembered the kitten, poor little Oliver. Biting her lip, she covered the painting with the cloth, reached for the next one. It was the mountainscape, peak after peak piled up in a wild jumble and celebration of what he had seen. He had said once that it was the immensity of the mountains he had tried to paint, that it was important to know why you were painting something. Heat stinging behind her eyes, she folded it into the cloth and reached for the last painting.

A choking lump seared her throat as she looked for the last time at the lonely beach with the solitary figure caught between land and sea, lost, always wondering…. She jerked the cloth over it and let out a breath she had not known she was holding. It was better to let these paintings go. Especially if the rent was to be paid and food put on the table. She could trust Evelyn to care for them.

She stood up, lifted the paintings and held them out.

He was frowning.

“Is something wrong? Have you changed your mind?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. I’ll look after them for you.”

Her throat tightened—he had always been able to echo her thoughts—but she shrugged. “If you don’t, then you’ll have wasted your money. Here.” She steadied her voice as he came toward her. “Take them.”

Heat jolted through her as he grasped the paintings and their fingers brushed. He was close enough that she could see each separate eyelash, the faint shadow where he had shaved that morning, and smell the lemony tang of cologne. Once, her world had been built of that fragrance, and she’d dreamed that one day he would realize she was no longer a child, imagined the gentle touch of his hands and the caress of his cheek against hers…. Sometimes dreams came true, but left a bitter taste.

Everything in her tensed as the dark lashes lifted and his blue gaze stabbed her.

“Loveday—you need to let go.”

She had done that. Long ago… Then she understood. Looking down, she saw that she was clutching the paintings as if she would never release them. One by one she relaxed her fingers, allowing him to take the canvases, feeling as though part of her had been ripped away.

He tucked them under one arm and held out several gold coins.

She scowled. “What’s that for?”

“A down payment.” He frowned, glancing around the room. “Is money safe here?”

She bit her lip. “I have a safe place.” No need for him to know she kept money stuffed in her stays.

His brows lifted, his gaze straying to her breasts, and she blushed again. Trust Evelyn to guess exactly where that “safe place” might be! She lifted her chin and glared, daring him to comment.

He simply held out the coins.

She took them. Five sovereigns. She’d forgotten how heavy even one sovereign was. Her fingers closed tightly on the coins. She would be able to buy dinner. Keeping her expression blank, she looked up at him.

He was watching her, a puzzled frown on his face. “What time will suit you tomorrow?”

“Five o’clock?” That gave her time to get home and make sure anything that needed to be put away was put away.

“Five o’clock then. Will Lionel be here?”

“No. He won’t mind about you coming, but he won’t be here.”

The deep blue eyes searched her face and she kept her expression, her mind, empty.

Evelyn nodded and turned away. Only to stop at the door and look back, holding her gaze. “Loveday, I did write to ask, and Lionel assured me that you were not…that there were no consequences, but—tell me the truth. Did I give you a child?”

Her heart pitched. “No, Evelyn. You did not. I swear it.”

His eyes searched hers, then something in him seemed to relax. “Good.” He bowed slightly and left, closing the door behind him.

She shut her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. It wasn’t as if that door hadn’t been closed before.

Thank God for that.

She hadn’t deserved to pay that price for his stupidity. He’d told Lionel that if there
were
consequences, then he would do the right thing. Lionel had written back, assuring him that there was no child, and…
no need for such a sacrifice on your part, Fitzhugh.
Evelyn had not believed that Lionel would conceal such a thing, but seeing Loveday again, he’d had to ask. His conscience, despite its spectacular lapse in allowing him to seduce her, had insisted on asking.

More to protect the paintings than for any other reason, he hailed a hackney, and sat lost in thought and regret as it rumbled over the streets back to St. James. He would see her again tomorrow when he collected the rest of the paintings. He frowned. And what the hell was he to do about that? Every tenet of honor and decency demanded that he keep his hands off Loveday Trehearne. But one look into those golden eyes had been enough to warn him; he still wanted her. Just as he had six years ago when he’d called on Lionel one evening and found Loveday there alone, heartbroken over the tabby kitten who had come to grief under the wheels of a passing carriage. He’d meant only to comfort her. Just to hold her for a moment. But he had underestimated his growing desire for her, overestimated his own decency and control.

He forced the memories away.

And he’d said that he would go back tomorrow. Well, he’d take a footman to help carry the paintings out to the carriage. And he was leaving town the following day, anyway, to go down to Steynings for the house party his aunt Caroline, Lady Drummoyne, had insisted that he host. She had arranged for Miss Angaston to attend. If he were courting Miss Angaston, he couldn’t be seducing Loveday. He couldn’t be seducing Loveday, anyway; honor and decency forbade it. As they should have done six years ago. He didn’t much like the careless young fool he’d been then; damned if he’d repeat his selfish folly.

By the time he returned to town the paintings in his bedchamber would be complete, and there would be no need to see Loveday Trehearne again.

She was like smoke in his arms, winding around him, her hair a fragrant veil. It had been so long since he had held her…. He hardly dared believe she was really there, her soft lips trailing fire on his jaw, her breath the sweetest caress. His body ached, burned with the need to claim her, to make sure that this time she was
his
. He turned his head to capture and devour her mouth…one touch, one taste, and the mist drifted between them. He clung, and she slid through his fingers; he tried to cry out, but tears glazed her cheeks and she was gone, the mist triumphant…and he woke, reaching out, his voice finally breaching the prison of his throat.

Evelyn fell back against the pillows with a groan as sweat chilled on his shaking body. Was he ill? His eyes adjusting to the dark, he reached out for the glass of water by the bed. He’d woken like this several times in the past few weeks, his erection like iron. Aching with arousal from whatever he’d dreamed about. Something about a mist… But it evaded him. Shivering slightly as he cooled and his arousal eased, he settled down again to sleep.