Silver Splendor (23 page)

Nicholas stood as silent as a masterpiece of moon dappled marble. “I do believe,” he said softly, “that you’re jealous.”

“I am not.” But inside Elizabeth knew the heart wrenching truth. The gentle Lady Phoebe had been bred to make the ideal wife for a man of Nicholas’s rank. Elizabeth genuinely liked Phoebe, which made watching them together far more hurtful than seeing him pay court to that silly Marianne.

Nicholas’s eyes blazed silver in the moonlight. “You are jealous, by God!” he whispered in triumph. “Your behavior tonight has been a blatant invitation.”

“For what?” she scoffed.

“For this.”

His hands latched hard onto her shoulders, pulling her to him with a force that should have hurt but somehow didn’t. His mouth closed over hers, his urgent kiss draining any thought of protest. The skillful sweep of his tongue brought a moan of longing to her throat. Pliant and willing, Elizabeth felt her body turn to warm wax, ready to be molded by his clever hands.

She adored his taste and scent, the richness of brandy and the tang of soap. The intensity of his kiss tilted her head back against the hard muscles of his upper arm. Against her breasts she felt the impassioned thud of his heart. Her own blood beat hotly in her ears. Obeying the urges inside her, she slid her hands over his smooth coat. One of her fingers stole between the buttons of his shirt, encountering the rough silk of his chest hair.

His arms went taut around her, his mouth moving to nip the tender lobe of her ear. Trembly and weak with wanting, she reached for a shirt button and worked it free, then another. When her hand slipped inside to caress the carved strength of his chest, his breath came out in a hiss.

“God! Elizabeth…”

The knowledge of his passion filled her with heady excitement. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and it tightened with a sweetness that made her shiver. The response coursed through her like a sterling silver thread, coming to rest deep within her belly. Her insides clamored for more and she moved her hips restlessly. He groaned, then took her lips in another shattering kiss, his hand tracking lightly over her breast, tracing its shape and softness.

Driven by the desire to explore him, she finished unbuttoning his shirt to the waistband of his trousers. She parted the fine linen and skimmed her hands over his bare chest. The curling pelt of hair pleased her; the sleek, hard muscles entranced her. No work of art could surpass his male splendor, the breadth of his shoulders, the tautness of his belly, the slimness of his waist.

“You’re magnificent,” she breathed, pressing her lips to the heat of his skin. “I wish I could see you in the moonlight… I wish I could sculpt you in marble.”

His muscles tensed beneath her cheek; his hands tightened around her upper arms. Abruptly Nicholas thrust her away. “A shame you won’t get your wish,” he said.

His arctic drawl chased the warmth from her being. His eyes were slitted, his anger a noxious presence in the fragrant summer night. Bewildered, Elizabeth leaned weakly against the pillar as he rebuttoned his shirt. She felt bereft, abandoned. A keen ache of loss wrapped around her heart. Why had he turned cold?

The sight of him so casually straightening his clothing aroused a fierce fury inside her. “You can’t bear for a woman to speak her mind, can you?” she snapped. “You pushed me away because I don’t play frivolous games like your other women.”

“Like hell you don’t play games,” he said, shoving his shirt into his trousers. “No doubt you expected a commission to sculpt me in exchange for your favors. Isn’t that the way you plan to win the commission from Buckstone?”

The insult made her gasp. Without thinking, Elizabeth slapped him hard across the cheek. His head snapped back under the force of the blow. For a mo ment he stood there, glaring at her, his hands clenched at his sides, the rasp of his breathing blending with the backdrop of music.

“Damn you,” he said in a savage whisper.

Pivoting sharply, Nicholas strode down the shadowed loggia, his tall form vanishing around the corner of the town house.

Elizabeth felt the urge to run after him, to apologize for losing her temper, to do anything that would wipe the look of freezing contempt off his handsome face. Yet he richly deserved that slap!

Racked by confusion, she leaned against a pillar and blinked against the sting of tears. She had driven Nicholas away by behaving like a common hussy. How could she ever hope to earn his love and respect if she could not act the lady?

Love.
Awe sparkled inside her like the lilting notes of music drifting through the French doors. She loved Nicholas. How or when or why such a powerful emotion had been born within her, she could not say, yet it shimmered in her soul, radiating through her like a warm and tender presence.

But beneath the glitter and glow, pain clasped her heart. Her impetuous actions and rash tongue had extinguished any spark of affection Nicholas might have felt for her. Perhaps it was for the best. Their lives were like warm bronze and cold marble, elements too diverse to ever mesh into one.

“I say,” Lord Buckstone remarked as he strolled through the conservatory a week later, “have you seen the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy?”

“Aye, guv’ner, that I did,” said Kipp, sitting proudly in the chair by the burbling fountain. “Miss Libby took me.”

Buckstone stopped pacing to aim a cold look at the boy. “I beg your pardon?”

Apparently assuming the viscount was slightly deaf, Kipp shouted, “I said,
Miss Libby took me.”

Stifling a smile at Buckstone’s appalled look, Elizabeth glanced swiftly at the lead wire in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cicely whip a handkerchief over her mouth and utter a strangled cough.

“Miss Libby?” Buckstone said. “Are you referring to Miss Hastings?”

“Aye, guv’ner.” Thoughtfully Kipp lifted a hand as if to adjust the battered bowler hat that no longer rested on his combed black hair. He scratched his ear instead. “Don’t rightly know why she wanted to take me there. Just a lot of snooty folks gapin’ at a bunch of paintin’s.”

A spatter of raindrops struck the glass roof. “Indeed,” Buckstone said in a chillingly sarcastic tone. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I was addressing the ladies.”

“That’s all, Kipp,” Elizabeth said, rounding the corner of the worktable. “You may return to Mr. Greaves now.”

“Thank Gawd Almighty!” The boy surged up, then darted her an abashed look before walking sedately out the vine draped door.

Buckstone shifted irritated blue eyes to Elizabeth. “I cannot conceive why Hawkesford tolerates such insolence and tale telling in his servants. Imagine, expecting me to believe a lady of quality would take a member of the staff to the academy!”

Elizabeth hid her annoyance. Snapping at Peter Tate could accomplish nothing and harm much. She had no wish to antagonize the man who would soon award the commission that would, she hoped, distract her mind and her heart from Nicholas.

“I’m sure Kipp didn’t mean to be rude.” She couldn’t resist adding, “And he didn’t lie; I did take him to the exhibit. I believe in encouraging everyone to develop a love of art.”

Buckstone appeared taken aback; then his thin face assumed a conciliatory expression. “Pray accept my apology, Elizabeth. It truly is admirable of you Americans to take such a benevolent interest in educating the common masses.”

She smiled serenely. “Why, thank you, Peter.”

“You are indeed an original,” he said, bestowing an admiring look on her as he resumed his promenade. “I daresay you made quite the impact at the Garforths’ last week.”

“Did I?” The image of Nicholas’s coldly furious face sprang to her mind. Swiftly she glanced down, concealing a wrench of heartache as she nonchalantly twisted the wire with a pair of pliers. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I heard many a favorable comment about you,” Buckstone said. “People were discussing that marvelous Egyptian necklace you were wearing. When I described it to my jeweler, he said three women had come in this week to order a similar design.”

With startled pleasure, Elizabeth stared at him. “Truly?”

“Yes. I myself ordered one for my mother’s birthday. You’ve sparked quite the rage, my dear.”

“I never expected anyone to appreciate my attempt at jewelry designing.”

‘It was more than the necklace,” he murmured. “Your charm won over everyone. They’re calling you the jewel in Hawkesford’s coronet.”

The viscount strolled closer. He cut a fine figure in his wine colored morning coat, though Elizabeth privately preferred Nicholas’s muscular beauty and sincere wit to Buckstone’s svelte form and phony blandishments. That poetic intensity must explain the viscount’s appeal to women, she surmised. And, of course, his wealth and title attracted as well.

Buckstone stopped beside her, his eyes probing. “You and Hawkesford disappeared from the ball. I trust he hasn’t turned your pretty head.”

Her breath caught as she recalled that steamy kiss, that shocking slap. Bending a length of wire in half, she lied, “Of course not. I… didn’t feel well and Nicholas was kind enough to escort me to the carriage.”

Suspicion still narrowed the viscount’s eyes. “Perhaps you’ll forgive me a friendly word of advice. Hawkesford’s had a string of mistresses; he has no interest in permanent attachments.”

Elizabeth’s heart squeezed tight. Swallowing hard, she said, “I didn’t think a gentleman discussed such topics with a lady.”

“Pardon my boldness. I mean only to save you heartache.” Buckstone kissed her hand. “You’re a lovely woman, Elizabeth. Until you left the ball, I was the envy of every man there.”

“You exaggerate,” she said lightly, rescuing her fingers from his damp clutches.

“You’re too modest. My dear, you are a fragrant rose in a field of noxious weeds.”

“Oh, pooh,” Cicely said, her eyes twinkling. “I’m no raving beauty, but I never likened myself to a weed, either. Really, Bucky, where have your manners gotten to?”

Stiffening, Buckstone swung toward her. “A thousand pardons, my lady. Of course, I wasn’t including
you
in my assessment.”

“Of course.” With a dramatic sweep of her scratch tool, Cicely added texture to the bust’s hair. “We lady artists are attractive to men because we’re so original. Is that not so, Bucky?”

Annoyance flitted over the viscount’s features. “I admire a woman who has the pluck to shed the constraints of society.”

He started to turn back to Elizabeth, but Cicely’s guileless voice stopped him. “You mean a woman who’ll forget her scruples and have an affair with you?”

Elizabeth bit her lip to restrain a giggle. Buckstone’s normally pale face had gone scarlet.

“That is not what I meant at all!” he blustered. “I would never dream of misusing a lady.”

Elizabeth aimed a hard won frown at Cicely, who smiled mischievously before returning to her work.

“Of course not, Peter,” Elizabeth said. “You’re the finest of gentlemen.”

“Thank you.” The rigid set of his shoulders relaxed. He stared as she attached the long piece of wire to a supporting pipe. “I say, isn’t that a human form you’re making there? A rather curious piece of art,” he added, gazing askance at it.

She smiled. “This is only the supporting armature — I’d build the day figure around it.”

“I see.” Unlike Nicholas, Buckstone’s interest in her work seemed perfunctory, for he consulted a gold pocketwatch and said, “I’m afraid I must go. I’ve an engagement for tea at White’s. But I’ll be back to visit again… if I’m not intruding.”

His frank gaze scalded Elizabeth; discomfited, she shifted her position. “Certainly I welcome your company,” she said, forcing a courtesy even Lady Beatrice would have praised. “Especially if you don’t mind that I work as we talk.”

“Never, my dear. I am your most ardent admirer.”

“Don’t forget my design,” she said, handing him the sketch pad containing her plan for the memorial. Palms damp with anxiety, she asked, “When might I expect a decision?”

“The other two sculptors haven’t been as swift in submitting their proposals. Perhaps within a week or two?”

She swallowed her impatience. “Of course.”

As he walked out the door, Elizabeth touched the sterling ring for luck. Such a brilliant appointment, her first big commission in England, would likely lead to other opportunities. She would be flooded with projects For a moment she lost herself in dreams of grandeur, dreams of leaving her mark on the art world.

And what of Nicholas? A storm of pain drenched her happiness. A future without him seemed dark and bleak. Yet he didn’t fit into her life, nor she into his. This week the monument design had torn her from sleep, from meals, from company. When could she have spared the time for a man? If her career flourished as she hoped, she’d be even busier.

She eyed the fabric covered shape half hidden by a camellia bush. Beneath the cloth lay the lovingly rendered bust of Nicholas. Yet even while pressing the swan trademark into the base, she’d felt vaguely dissatisfied. Turning to the worktable, she studied the armature. Perhaps a life sized study would appease the emptiness gnawing her. She couldn’t forget the feel of his chest beneath her fingers, the trimness of his waist, the span of his shoulders. She imagined the perfection of his naked body. He would reach for her, his tender hands caressing her, his hungry mouth arousing her, his low voice whispering words of love —

“… don’t you think?” Cicely said.

A blush scorched Elizabeth’s cheeks. “What did you say?”

Cicely studied the bust of Kipp. “I’m nearly finished, don’t you agree?”

Elizabeth walked closer to examine the sculpture. “You’ve done well — his personality comes through. Once the clay dries we’ll have it cast in bronze.”

Cicely sighed dreamily. “Drew would look marvelous in bronze. I shall do him next.”

The girl’s obsession with the rake worried Elizabeth. Drew Sterling had come to call this past week; in the midst of the visit, Nicholas had arrived home, his chilly disapproval putting a damper on the meeting.

“Didn’t you say Drew was leaving London soon?”