Silver Splendor (14 page)

She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’ll take a tray in the conservatory.”

His lips tightened, but she told herself she didn’t care if he was displeased. The thought of trussing herself up in a corset and petticoats was abhorrent. She wouldn’t bow to his presumptuous order to behave like an English gentlewoman.

Affording her a curt nod, Lord Nicholas strode toward the main staircase. Her father uttered a distracted goodbye and vanished into his room, leaving Elizabeth alone in the corridor. Irritated at the way they planned to exclude her from their discussion, she felt scorched by curiosity.

What did the earl mean to say to her father?

“You wish me to do
what?”
Lady Beatrice said, incredulity elevating her usually modulated voice.

Her dumbfounded look made Nicholas repress a smile. Pivoting, he walked to the mahogany sideboard, where he poured brandy into two glasses, then brought one to her.

“Here you are, Aunt,” he said, injecting the proper amount of deference and concern into his words. “You look as though you need this.”

The glass clicked sharply as she set it on a marble-topped side table. “Don’t try to distract, me, Nicholas. You’re asking me to turn myself into a tutor, to take that… that
artist
and transform her into a lady! Why, it’s impossible! She lacks breeding and background. There is simply no foundation on which to build.”

“Miss Hastings managed quite well with Lord and Lady Melton.”

“Sheer luck,” Lady Beatrice said with a sniff. “She did address Lord Melton wrong, but I managed to smooth things over. Imagine how dreadful it would have been if she’d committed a worse gaffe.”

Unaffected, Nicholas took a swallow of brandy. “That’s all the more reason for doing as I ask. As Cicely’s companion, Miss Hastings cannot avoid going out into society from time to time. Would you rather she be unprepared?”

Lady Beatrice pursed her lips in displeasure. “Of course not. Nevertheless, I simply haven’t the time. Why, I have calls I must make each afternoon, connections to nurture, people of consequence to visit.”

She was weakening, Nicholas judged. “Ah, but you’re so perfect for the task,” he said. “Can you name a person more suited to taking an untrained girl and molding her into the consummate lady?”

“You’re flattering me again, Nicholas. It simply won’t work.” Though her tone scolded, a smile flirted with the corners of her mouth.

Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed its satiny back. “Say you’ll do it, Aunt. Please.”

She drew her fingers away and studied him for a moment, then reached up to pat his cheek as if he were a boy. “Nicholas, you’re impossible,” she said grudgingly. “I never could refuse you anything.”

Elation rose in him, though he guarded his expression. His aunt must never know just how important this was to him. “Thank you,” he said with quiet sincerity. “I knew I could depend on you.”

Clasping her hands, she gazed pensively at him. “I don’t understand this uncommon interest you’re taking in that woman. Are you certain there’s not something between you two, something… ah… something I should know about?”

His heartbeat surged. “If there were,” he lied coolly, “you’d be the first person I’d confide in.”

Beatrice still wore a tiny frown. “I wonder,” she said, a trace of irony in her voice. “Well, I shall say good night, then. It’s not often that energetic sister of yours retires before me.”

Nicholas laughed. “We can thank Elizabeth for that. She’s been keeping Cicely busy these past few days.”

“Indeed.” After giving him another long, measuring look, Lady Beatrice sailed out the drawing room door.

Only then did Nicholas understand the source of that scrutiny; he had referred to Elizabeth by her Christian name. His aunt was far too swift not to notice such slips. Draining his brandy, he vowed to be more circumspect in the future. Not a whisper of scandal must touch Elizabeth. Not now, when he was so close to unearthing her past. Already his secretary had discovered the noble house linked to the swan crest; Nicholas made a mental note to reward Thistlewood for such efficient work.

Heading slowly toward the foyer, he recalled his shock of that afternoon when he’d learned the name of Elizabeth’s grandsire. He hadn’t anticipated her being connected to such a highly placed family. Of course, he couldn’t be certain the relationship was legitimate; that was yet another mystery to unravel. Impatience tugged at him. He must find out quickly why someone wished her dead. He’d sent a sharp reprimand to the police commissioner for not having found the man in the porkpie hat. And Thistlewood would depart on the first train to Yorkshire tomorrow to begin discreet inquiries. Though Nicholas burned to conduct the investigation himself, he told himself it was more important that he stay here and protect Elizabeth.

In the meantime, he would do a little digging on his own.

In the foyer a tiny sound drew his eyes. Pickering stood smartly at attention by the front door, though weariness was apparent in the slight sag of his lanky frame. “Lock up for the night,” Nicholas said absently. “And get yourself to bed.”

A wealth of gratitude on his boyish face, the footman bowed. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Pivoting, Nicholas headed down the hall, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. In the distance he heard the library clock chiming the hour of midnight. Although it was late, he needed to talk to Elizabeth; she might know something that could speed up Thistlewood’s search.

Gaslight spilled from the opened doorway of her studio and the faint musky scent of plants and clay drifted to him. Anticipation budded inside Nicholas, a feeling he couldn’t deny. Elizabeth stood at the cluttered worktable, her eyes intent on the piece of wood she whittled with a penknife.

A powerful sweep of desire took his breath with the force of a blow. He wanted to sink his fingers into the jet black cascade of her hair, to caress the swanlike curve of her neck, to peel away those ridiculous baggy trousers and find the womanly softness beneath.

He cursed himself. My God, hadn’t he learned yet? If he hadn’t known her opinion of him already, her candid words this afternoon should have done the trick. Only a royal fool would still crave her. Yet crave her he did; the hot pulsing of his blood gave testimony to that. He wanted all Elizabeth Hastings could offer … her body, her tenderness, her smiles, her respect.

Watching as she put down the penknife to wire two bits of wood together, Nicholas felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach, a feeling oddly akin to jealousy. He didn’t understand it, this burning passion for a woman devoted to the arts, a woman who found his face far more fascinating than his character.

Yet an inexplicable force drew him to her like a bee to a maverick camellia. Entombing his emotions deep inside himself, he stepped inside the conservatory.

Blinking weary eyes, Elizabeth whittled absent mindedly at a bit of wood for the armature she was building. Just moments ago, the muffled tones of a distant clock had tolled the hour of midnight. She had been certain her father would have come by now. Maybe he didn’t intend to tell her the outcome of his interview with Nicholas. Irritation nagged at her. What could the earl possibly have to say to Owen that she couldn’t hear? And why was she suddenly thinking of his lordship as Nicholas?

Over the gurgling melody of the fountain came the tread of footsteps. Expecting her father, she swung around. And gasped, for it was Nicholas who walked down the stone pathway. The sight of him brought a jolt of joy to her heart; her exhaustion vanished beneath a surge of excitement. Flustered, she let the penknife clatter onto the worktable.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted.

He came beside her and settled into a half sitting position against the worktable, hands clasping the scarred edge. “I was passing by and saw the lights on,” he said. “You’re working rather late tonight, aren’t you?”

His friendly manner disconcerted her. In the gaslight his eyes were a steady silver gray; his relaxed expression made him seem more approachable and, astonishingly, more handsome. Dazzled by his nearness, Elizabeth felt the urge to smooth her fingers over that firm masculine mouth. Instead she picked up the wood and again wielded the penknife.

“Is working late also something a lady isn’t supposed to do?” she said tartly.

He smiled. “I don’t dare answer that so long as you have that weapon in your hand.”

The fine grooves on either side of his mouth drew her eyes. Realizing how fiercely she stabbed the wood, Elizabeth set down the knife and said lamely, “Oh.”

The earl leaned closer to examine the curved lead pipe fastened to a wooden baseboard. His subtle masculine scent made her slightly giddy. “What are you making?”

His look of genuine interest erased her embarrassment and warmed her heart. “An armature. When I do a bust of someone, the armature supports the clay so that it doesn’t sag.” She deemed it prudent not to tell him the bust she planned was of him.

“I see.” Lord Nicholas picked up the small wooden cross. “And what’s this?”

“It’s called a butterfly. It also helps anchor the clay.” Plucking the cross from his palm, she deftly wired it to the loop of pipe. “There, I’m finished.”

He straightened, studying her with an absorbed expression that made her blood flow faster. The splashing of the fountain filled the silence; Elizabeth saw a sudden image of the dark and quiet house enfolding them. If she had agreed to become his mistress, she could thread her fingers into the neatness of his chestnut hair, press her mouth to the smooth strength of his jaw…

“What made you want to become a sculptress?” he asked.

Elizabeth blinked, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. “When I was fifteen, a friend of mine died in an accident.” As the memory came flooding back, she slowly sank into a chair. “I was shaken, grief stricken for weeks. It was the first time anyone close to me had ever died. Hoping to lift my spirits, my mother bought me some modeling clay. I spent days working out my sorrow, struggling to transfer my feelings to the clay. And when I finished that first sculpture, I did feel better, lighter somehow, as if a burden had been lifted.”

She raised her head to look at Nicholas; the tenderness in his eyes made her feel suddenly shy and breathless.

“Do you still have what you made?” he said. “I’d like to see it.”

Absurdly gladdened by his interest, Elizabeth shot to her feet. “Come here, then.”

He walked with her to a shelf where the small sculpture served as a bookend to her collection of art and anatomy volumes. She touched the polished bronze figure of a weeping woman draped over a gravestone. Seeing the sculpture still made her throat tighten.

“I call it
Desolation,”
she murmured.

“It’s stunning.”

His low tone testified to his sincerity; the praise warmed her heart. “Thank you.”

Picking up the statue, he ran his thumb over the tiny tracing of a bird on the base. “The swan. Is that your hallmark?”

Elizabeth nodded. “When I finish a piece, I press the signet into the clay before it dries. Then, if I can manage the money, I have the sculpture cast in bronze.”

“Your mother was a wise woman,” Nicholas said, setting the figure back on the shelf. “Did she always encourage you in your work?”

“Oh, yes.” Awash in bittersweet memories, Elizabeth smiled. “My mother was my greatest champion and my severest critic.”

“She had art training, then?”

“Only a little drawing, as a girl. But she had wonderful instincts. I learned so much from her. Things that will be a part of me forever.”

“What was her name?”

“Lucy. Lucy Templeton Hastings.”

Nicholas studied her intently. “She looked a lot like you. The night we met, I saw a drawing of her in your blue notebook.”

“Yes.” A troubled pang invaded Elizabeth. “That sketchbook is still missing, by the way.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m sure it will turn up.”

If only she could be so certain. Then the warm pressure of his hand at her spine distracted Elizabeth as he guided her back to the chair. His candid questions opened a chasm of pleasure inside her. Maybe he wasn’t quite so self centered, after all.

“Tell me more about your mother,” he suggested, resuming his informal pose against the table edge. “She was raised here in England, was she not?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Both of my parents grew up here. I was born here, too, but we moved to America when I was two.”

“Ah.” Nicholas fell silent for a moment, studying her with those disturbing smoke hued eyes, eyes that possessed the power to make her insides melt. “Do you know why your parents left?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I guess because they wanted all the opportunities America has to offer.” An impish impulse made her add, “And freedom from all the rules and regulations people seem to have over here.”

The corners of his mouth quirked, deepening his masculine dimples. “Are you saying your mother was a member of the gentry?”

A daub of suspicion colored Elizabeth’s thoughts. “I think so, but she never spoke much of her life here. Does it matter?”