Lord Perfect (47 page)

'You must go to Paris,' he told me, 'and get one of your
own.' And so I have come."

"From Russia?" Leila resisted the urge to
press her hand to her pounding heart. Good grief. He'd come all the
way from Russia—this man who probably couldn't cross a street
in St. Petersburg without having to fight off a hundred desperate
painters. Artists would sell their firstborn for a chance to paint
this face. "Not merely for a portrait, surely."

His sensuous mouth eased into a lazy smile. "Ah,
well, I had some business in Paris. You must not think it is mere
vanity which brings me. Yet it is only human nature to wish for
permanence. One seeks out the artist as one might seek out the gods,
and all to the same purpose: immortality."

"How true," said Francis. "At this very
moment, we are all slowly decaying. One moment, the mirror reflects a
well-looking man in his prime. In the next, he's a mottled old toad."

Leila was aware of the faint antagonism in her husband's
voice, but it was the count who held her attention. She saw something
flash in his fiercely blue eyes, and that brief glitter changed not
only his face but the atmosphere of the room itself. For one queer
instant the face of an angel became its opposite, his soft chuckle
the Devil's own laughter.

"And in the next moment," Esmond said,
releasing Leila's gaze to turn to Francis, "he's a banquet for
worms."

He was still smiling, his eyes genuinely amused, the
devilish expression utterly vanished. Yet the tension in the room
increased another notch.

"Even portraits can't last forever," she said.
"Since few materials are permanently stable, there's bound to be
decay."

"There are paintings in Egyptian tombs, thousands
of years old," he said. "But it hardly matters. We shall
not have the opportunity to discover how many centuries your works
endure. For us, it is the present that matters, and I hope, madame,
you will find time in this so-fleeting present to accommodate me."

"I'm afraid you'll want some patience,"
Francis said as he moved to the table bearing a tray of decanters.
"Leila is just completing one commission, and she's engaged for
two more."

"I am known for my patience," the count
answered. "The tsar declared me the most patient man he'd ever
met."

There was a clink of crystal striking crystal and a
pause before Francis responded. "You travel in exalted circles,
monsieur. An intimate of Tsar Nicholas, are you?"

"We spoke on occasion. That is not intimacy."
The potent blue gaze settled again upon Leila. "My definition of
intimacy is most precise and particular."

The room's temperature seemed to be climbing rapidly.
Leila decided it was time to leave, whether her allotted ten minutes
had passed or not. As the count accepted a wineglass from Francis,
she rose. "I had better get back to work," she said.

"Certainly, my love," said Francis. "I'm
sure the count understands."

"I understand, and yet I must regret the loss."
This time Esmond's intent blue gaze swept her from head to toe.

Leila had endured far too many such surveys to mistake
the meaning. For the first time, however, she felt that meaning in
every muscle of her body. Worse, she felt the pull of attraction,
dragging at her will.

But she reacted outwardly in the
usual way, her countenance becoming more frigidly polite, her posture
more arrogantly defiant. "Unfortunately, Madame Vraisses will
regret even more the delay of her portrait," she said. "And
she is one of the
least
patient women in the world."

"And you, I suspect, are another." He stepped
closer, making her pulse race. He was taller and more powerfully
built than she'd thought at first. "You have the eyes of a
tigress, madame. Most unusual—and I do not mean the golden
color alone. But you are an artist, and so you see more than others
can."

"I do believe my wife sees plainly enough that
you're flirting with her," said Francis, moving to her side.

"But of course. What other polite homage may a man
pay another man's wife? You are not offended, I hope." The count
treated Francis to an expression of limpid innocence.

"No one is in the least offended," Leila said
briskly. "We may be English, but we have lived in Paris nearly
nine years. Still, I am a working woman, monsieur—"

"Esmond," he corrected.

"
Monsieur
,"
she said firmly. "And so, I must excuse myself and return to
work." She did not offer her hand this time. Instead, she swept
him her haughtiest curtsey.

He answered with a graceful bow.

As she headed for the door a tightly smiling Francis
hurried to open for her, Esmond's voice came from behind her. "Until
next we meet, Madame Beaumont," he said softly.

Something echoed in the back of her
mind, making her pause on the threshold. A memory. A voice. But no.
If she'd met him before, she would have remembered.
Such a man
would be impossible to forget.

Continue reading for a special preview of

The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

Now available from Berkley Sensation!

FROM A DISTANCE, THE DURRES HOUSE SEEMED a ramshackle
heap of stones piled upon a ledge overlooking the Adriatic. It was
smaller than their previous abodes, comprising but two tiny rooms:
one to live in, one to store supplies in. To Esme Brentmor, it was a
beautiful house. In all her peripatetic life, this was the first time
she'd lived upon the sea.

The sea brought them fresh fish nearly all year round. A
short distance from the ledge, Esme's garden thrived in surprisingly
fertile soil. Even the chickens, in their own irritable way, were
happy.

At the moment, Esme was not. She sat cross-legged upon
the hard ledge, her eyes on her folded hands as she conversed with
her very best friend, Donika, who was leaving the next day for
Saranda, to be married.

"I shall never see you again," Esme said
gloomily. "Jason says we must go to England soon."

"So Mama told me—but you'll not. leave before
my wedding, surely?" Donika asked in alarm.

"I fear so. He's made a promise to my English aunt,
who is dying."

Donika sighed. "Then nothing can be done. A promise
on a deathbed is sacred."

"Is it?
She
held nothing sacred." Esme
hurled a stone into the water. 'Twenty-four years ago she broke her
betrothal vows to him. Why? Because one time he got drunk and made a
foolish mistake—as any young man might. He played cards and
lost a piece of land—that's all. But
she
told him he was
weak and base, and she wouldn't marry him."

"That was not kind. She should have forgiven him
one mistake
. I
would."

"She did not. But he's forgiven
her
. Twice
this year he's gone to visit her. He tells me it was not her fault,
but her parents' doing."

"A girl must obey her parents," said Donika.
"She can't choose a husband for herself. Still, I don't think
they should have made her break a sacred vow."

"It was worse than that," Esme said angrily.
"Not a year after she drove my father away, she wed his brother.
She was of a noble family, and wealthy, and you'd think Jason's
family would have been appeased. They were quick enough to take
her
in, but my father they made an outcast forever."

"The English are very strange," Donika said
thoughtfully.

"They're
unnatural
," Esme returned.
"Shall I tell you what my English grandfather wrote when he
received the news of my birth? The words are burned in my heart. 'It
was not enough,' he said in his hateful letter, 'that you disgraced
the Brentmor name with your reckless debauchery. It was not enough to
gamble away your aunt's property and break your mother's heart. It
was not enough to run away from your errors, instead of remaining,
like a man, to make amends. No, you must compound our shame by
joining the ranks of Turkish brigands, marrying one of these
unspeakable barbarians, and infecting the world with yet another
heathen savage.'"

Donika stared at her in horrified disbelief.

"In English, it sounds even worse," Esme
grimly assured her. "This is the family my father wishes to take
me to."

Donika placed a comforting arm about her friend's thin
shoulders. "It's hard, I know," she said, "but you
belong to your father's family—at least until you're wed. I'm
sure your father will find you a husband in England. I've seen some
Englishmen. Taller than the other Franks, and some quite handsome and
strong."

"Ah, yes, and I'm sure their kin are just dying to
welcome an ugly little barbarian into the family."

"You're
not
ugly. Your hair is thick and
healthy, filled with fire." Donika smoothed the wavy dark red
locks back from Esme's forehead. "And your eyes are pretty. My
mama said so, too. Beautiful, like evergreens, she said. Also, your
skin is smooth," she added, lightly touching Esme's cheek.

"I have no breasts," Esme said glumly. "And
my legs and arms are like sticks for kindling."

"Mama says it doesn't matter if a girl's skinny, so
long as she's strong. She was skinny, too, yet she bore seven healthy
children."

"I don't want to bear children to a
foreigner
,"
Esme snapped. "I don't want to climb into bed with a man who
can't speak my language, and raise children who'll never learn it."

"In bed, you won't need to converse with him,"
Donika said with a giggle.

Esme threw her a reproving look. "I should never
have told you what Jason said about how babies are made."

"I'm glad you did. Now I'm not at all frightened.
It doesn't sound very difficult—though perhaps embarrassing at
first."

"It's also rather painful at first, I think,"
Esme said, momentarily distracted by the titillating subject. "But
I've been shot twice already, and it can't be worse than having a
bullet dug out of your flesh."

Donika threw her an admiring glance. "You're not
afraid of anything, little warrior. If you can face marauding
bandits, you should have no trouble with even your English kin.
Still, I'll miss you so much. If only your father had found you a
husband here."

Donika tossed a stone into the water. "They say
Ismal wants you," she said after a moment. "He isn't old or
desperate, but young and very rich."

"And a Moslem. I'd rather be boiled in oil than
imprisoned in a harem," Esme said firmly. "Even England,
with relatives who hate me, would be better than that." She
considered briefly, then added, "I never told you before, but I
was afraid once that it would happen."

Donika turned to her.

"When I was fourteen, visiting my grandmother in
Gjirokastra," Esme continued, "Ismal and his family were
there. He chased me through the garden. I thought it was a game,
but—" She paused, flushing.

"But what? But what?"

Though there was no one else about to hear, Esme lowered
her voice. "When he caught me, he kissed me—
on the
mouth
."