Silver Splendor (20 page)

Elizabeth refused to flinch. “That was not my intent. I only meant for Cicely to learn something of the real world. You’ve kept her insulated like a hothouse camellia.”

“I thought you were only interested in art; you’ve told me so often enough. Since when have you decided to change the world?”

Resentment rose in her; before she could give voice to her feelings, Cicely spoke.

“You needn’t blame Elizabeth, either. I acted on my own. I didn’t think you’d mind me giving away a few old rags.”

“It would seem we’ve arrived at your problem, Cicely.
You don’t think.”

“I’m sorry about the boots, Nick,” she said, looking genuinely contrite. “I didn’t realize they were so dear to you.”

“Never mind.” Furrowing his fingers through his hair, he let out an exasperated hiss. “But the next time you feel so driven to philanthropy, you might stop to consider all the charitable institutions our family already supports.”

Cicely’s eyes were big and blue. “What do you mean?”

“Ware funds provide income for the Stanhope Hospice for Women as well as for the Whitechapet School for Orphans. So you see, there’s no need to contribute the clothes off our backs as well.”

“Oh, my… I didn’t realize.” Cicely looked surprised and pleased; then she tilted an uncharacteristically meek face at her brother. “You’re not still angry at me, areyou?”

The stern lines of his face relaxed. “Not as long as you remember to ask next time before you act.”

“I will, I promise,” she declared, untying her apron and flinging it over a chair. “But please don’t forbid me to attend the Garforths’ ball tonight.”

Fondness mellowed his expression. “I ran into Charles at parliament yesterday. He’s most anxious to see you again.”

“Oh, Lord Charles.” She fluttered a dismissive hand. “It’s Mr. Drew Sterling
I
hope to impress.”

The fine edges of Nicholas’s mouth turned down. “Forget Sterling. He’s not for you.”

“You’re not being fair,” Cicely said, her eyes shining with irrepressible excitement. “As heir to a dukedom, he’s perfectly acceptable.”

“As a profligate gambler, he’s eminently unacceptable. If he’s present at the Garforths, you’re not to get within ten feet of him. Is that clear?”

“Whatever you say, Nick.” She airily waved a hand. “Excuse me, I must make sure Eversham has seen to the pressing of my gown.” Twirling, Cicely darted from the room.

As Nicholas gazed suspiciously after his sister, Elizabeth felt her blood quicken. This was the moment she’d been awaiting… the chance to be alone with him, to pour out all the needs aching inside her. Yet her tongue felt cloven, her feet glued to the floor. Here he stood, the model of pristine perfection while her hands were caked with clay, her apron dirty, her hair tumbling in an untidy mass down her back. Generations of privilege and wealth had given him an inbred air of assurance; in contrast, she felt gauche and uncertain, her emotions simmering too close to the surface.

He swung abruptly to her. “Has my sister spoken to you of Drew Sterling?”

“A little,” Elizabeth admitted, unwilling to get Cicely into more trouble yet grateful for a distraction. “Cicely said she met him at tea the other day, that he was most attentive.”

“Did she discuss his family with you?”

The watchfulness on Nicholas’s face puzzled her. “The duke and duchess? No, she spoke only of Drew — he seemed to have made a deeper impression on her.”

“I see,” he muttered. For a moment Nicholas gazed down at an overgrown camellia bush; then he focused an aloof look at her. “I know how you disdain social events, Elizabeth, but I wondered if you might come to the Garforths tonight, for my sister’s sake. I’d like you to help me watch her around Sterling.”

His formal manner stung; they might never have shared that fevered kiss. She bit back the confession that she planned to attend the ball; she wanted to meet Lady Phoebe Garforth, the paragon Cicely had singled out for Nicholas’s future wife.

“Why should I interfere with Cicely’s right to choose her own friends?”

“Because Sterling has been involved in more than one scandal. I will not tolerate scandal in
this
family.”

Elizabeth busied her hands with the clay. Would he consider
her
proposal scandalous?

His face candid with concern, Nicholas took a step closer. “For all her womanly airs, Cicely is still young and foolish enough to let Sterling entice her into going off alone with him. No doubt a single kiss would set the naive girl to swooning.”

Elizabeth rubbled her lip in consternation. Was
she
setting too much store by a kiss? She wanted Nicholas to want her; he wanted a chaperone for his sister. “I suppose I must pose as the daughter of your mother’s long lost friend,” she said dryly.

“The ruse is necessary, a small price to pay for preserving Cicely’s reputation.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I won’t hide the fact that I’m a sculptress, that I work for a living.”

“Fine. Just come with us… please.”

His earnest expression made him appear less godlike and infinitely more approachable. The constraint around her emotions melted like wax in a casting mold. “All right, Nicholas, I will.”

“Excellent.”

Something beyond satisfaction warmed his handsome face, a hint of hunger that made her go soft and yielding inside. Her hands stilled, the clay heating beneath her palms, her heart blazing with hope. He did want her… she hadn’t been mistaken. His eyes flicked over her; then he turned to the half finished bust of Kipp.

“Is this my sister’s work?”

She forced herself to be patient. “Yes, it’s her first attempt. She’s doing quite well for a beginner.”

Hands clasped behind his back, his heels clicking on the stone floor, Nicholas circled the pedestal. “I don’t pretend to be an expert, but the bust seems a trifle askew.”

“Cicely needs to make mistakes and learn how to correct them. Sculpting is more than copying a skeletal structure and facial features. She’s learning to capture the individuality of the subject’s character.”

“I see.”

He prowled the conservatory, pausing to pick up first a chisel, then an art volume from the shelf. Her hands kneaded the pliant clay; her eyes followed his tall form. Elizabeth imagined him naked, sunshine pouring over his sculpted body. He would stand much like Michelangelo’s
David,
one hand at his side, the other lifted carelessly to his shoulder. His pose vibrant with energy, his eyes warm with need, he would gaze at her, challenge her artistic talent and invite her woman’s passion —

“… are you listening, Elizabeth?”

Blinking, she caught his cool stare. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “What?”

“I said, did Cicely construct her own armature?”

“Yes,” she said, absurdly pleased that he’d remembered the term. “With help from me, of course.”

“How many hours a day do you spend instructing her?”

“Two or three… more if she doesn’t have letters to write or calls to make with your aunt.”

“What do you do the rest of the time?”

“I work on my own projects.” The bust of
you,
she thought.

“How many hours a day does that comprise?”

“I don’t know… I never thought much about it. Twelve hours, perhaps more.”

He stopped pacing to quirk a dark eyebrow. “What else do you do?

The intensity of his gaze rattled her. “I eat, I sleep, I read,” she said tartly. “Why the inquisition? I didn’t realize when I accepted this post that I would have to give an accounting of my free time.”

The sun burnished skin over his cheeks tightened. “I’m merely trying to ascertain whether or not my sister shares your devotion to art. It would seem she does not.”

The implication of his words chilled her heart. Now she understood his remote demeanor, his probing questions. Distractedly Elizabeth dipped a cloth into a basin of water and wrung it out, then walked toward him and draped the damp rag over the bust.

“It’s true,” she said, wiping her fingers on her apron. “Cicely does have other interests. Yet she has talent as well, a talent I am doing my best to nurture.” Feeling an unreasonable depth of hurt, Elizabeth met his eyes squarely. “I won’t deny her the chance to develop her gift, Nicholas. If you force me to leave here, I will simply resume teaching her elsewhere.”

He started visibly, his hand lifting as if to touch her. “Ask you to leave? I would never —” A trace of color etched his strong cheekbones… or was it just a trick of the sunlight? His arm dropped to his side. “You mistake my meaning,” he said coolly. “I’m concerned with my sister’s progress, nothing more. You’re certainly welcome to stay for as long as Cicely wishes to study art.”

Relieved and frustrated, she stared at him. Just when she caught a glimpse of his true self, he exasperated her with that flawless composure.

“If you will excuse me, Elizabeth.”

He politely inclined his head before turning away. A bolt of distress shot through her.

“Nicholas, don’t go, please!”

He swung back, eyes alert. “What’s wrong?”

Feeling suddenly foolish and shy, Elizabeth stepped to the worktable. “I… I want to apologize. For assuming you were too indifferent to care about the plight of London’s poor.”

He made an impatient, almost embarrassed gesture with his hand. “It isn’t something I publicize.”

“I imagine there are lots of things about you I don’t know.”

“Look beneath the surface, then. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to teach my sister?”

He sounded brusque to the point of rudeness. Again he started toward the door. He was leaving because she lacked the pluck to open her soul.

The words tumbled out in a wild surge: “Do you still want me to be your mistress?”

He halted. His elegant figure stood rigid; the burbling of the fountain filled the silence. Then Nicholas jerked back around. “What did you say?” he asked hoarsely.

Elizabeth took heart from his stunned expression, from the yearning softening his mouth. Her fingers dug into the clay as need throbbed inside her, leaving her shaken and aching. Breathlessly she said, “When we first met… you asked me to be your mistress… but I told you —”

“I recall your answer,” he said, the bite back in his speech. “I have a ‘pleasing face.’ Beyond that, nothing about me interests you.”

“That was before I knew you… before I came here to live…” Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Before you kissed me.”

A curious stillness wrapped him. “So one kiss changed your mind. Or was it perhaps touching my ‘pleasing body’?”

“Well, of course I admire your body,” she said, and felt dismayed by his sudden scowl. “I know you think a lady shouldn’t be so bold, but I believe in honesty.”

He laughed, a harsh sound. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you from speaking your mind, Elizabeth. You do so with tedious regularity.”

His ill tempered response daunted her, but it was too late to turn back now, too late to stop the need for him that billowed around her heart. She stepped to him and stopped, her clay soiled fingers twining in her apron.

“You haven’t answered me,” she said in a small but determined voice. “Will you take me as your mistress?”

Something flickered across the dazzling handsomeness of his face, a fleeting impression of longing that vanished into a stark frown. Hands clenched at his sides, he stared at her, as if wrestling with an inner turmoil. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, his words dropping like stones, “but my feelings have changed since then.”

Disconcerted, she gaped at him. Her cheeks heated with mortification. “Your feelings!” she snapped. “You haven’t any feelings, Nicholas Ware.”

Marching to a large wooden tub, Elizabeth started to drag it toward the worktable. The bottom scraped the stone flags. She gave the tub a reckless tug and her fingers slipped, grazing her knuckles. Tears sprang to her eyes. With a cry of angry frustration, she sat back on her heels and sucked on the injured area.

Nicholas appeared beside her. She glanced at him through blurry eyes, then looked quickly away. He was tall, far too tall. His nearness sent an agonizing shaft of longing through her. She felt the stupid urge to lay her smudged cheek against his pristine shirt and cry.

He put his hands on the rim of the tub. “Where do you want this?”

She took her knuckles out of her mouth. “You needn’t bother. I can manage on my own.”

“I’m sure you can,” he said, a trace of tender humor in that precise, British voice. “Nevertheless, why don’t you tell me where you want it.”

“Beside the worktable.”

In one fluid motion he picked up the tub and transported it the few necessary yards, ignoring the fact that it dirtied his clothing. Elizabeth rose, blotting her eyes with a clean corner of her apron.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, wishing he would go away yet wanting him to stay.

He stayed.

She couldn’t bear to look at him, to face the glitter of disdain in his eyes. Head lowered, battling the bitter taste of humiliation, she walked past him to the table. Plunging her fingers into the clay, she rolled a hunk into a loaf and dropped it into the tub; it landed with a dull plop.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice subdued.

“The clay was too mushy. I let it dry a little overnight.”

“Oh.”

Another awkward silence ensued, punctuated by the occasional plop of clay into the tub. Concentrating on the task, Elizabeth told herself it was ridiculous to feel such a fierce yearning to be the woman of his heart. Nicholas Ware didn’t possess anything as human as a heart.

From beneath her lashes she glanced at him. Why was he still standing there? To gloat? To savor the satisfaction of adding yet another admiring woman to his stable of conquests?

Abruptly he strode to the table. He plucked the loaf from her hand and flung it aside. Planting his palms on the heap of damp clay, he leaned over the table. He stood so close she caught his arousing scent over the pervasive earthen smell. “Elizabeth, look at me.”

Feeling defensive, yet unable to ignore him, she lifted her gaze. His face wore a frank expression of longing, his eyes a desolate look of regret.