Silver Splendor (3 page)

Pickering walked ahead, holding the lantern high to light the way up a narrow flight of steps, the wooden risers creaking. Doors opened off each landing; the sounds of laughter and the smells of cooking emanated from inside. The stairwell was dingy but swept clean, Nicholas noted. Still, he felt appalled at the incongruous notion of such a lovely woman living in poverty.

Five flights up, at the top floor, Miss Hastings inserted a key in the lock and tilted her head at Nicholas. “My father may be home.” The door swung open to darkness. “Oh, I guess he’s not.”

She sounded nervous, as if the impropriety of the situation had just occurred to her. Pickering brought the lantern inside until she lit an old fashioned oil lamp, then Nicholas motioned the footman out.

The door closed with a quiet click. Miss Hastings removed his frock coat and tossed it over the back of a rush bottomed nursery chair, on which she had already set her shawl and satchel.

The room was small but cozy, the few furnishings a clever blend of the mundane and the unique. Half visible behind a bamboo screen was an ancient iron bedstead. Near it stood a rickety washstand bearing a Chinese ginger jar in lieu of a pitcher. A gothic hall table harbored a collection of antique musical instruments: dulcimer, lute, and mandolin. Whimsically adorning one bare wall was a lifesized charcoal sketch of an armchair and tea table. The overall effect was as quaint and gypsylike as Elizabeth Hastings herself.

Beneath a row of tall, darkened windows, a worktable held an array of odds and ends, chisels and mallets and clay. Statues littered the floor, along with piles of books, while mud spattered cloths draped the tops of several pedestals. Walking to the hall table, he idly rubbed a finger over the gold embossed letters on a royal blue book:
Elizabeth Templeton Hastings.
Obeying an odd impulse, he opened the volume and found himself gazing at the sketch of a laughing woman. For an instant he thought she was Elizabeth Hastings, for the features were remarkably similar. Then he noted the fine lines bracketing the mouth and eyes.

“My mother,” she murmured, coming beside him. “She died last autumn.”

The sadness in her voice curled around his heart. “I’m sorry.”

Over the smoke of the lamp he caught a whiff of her country garden scent. In the flickering light the red marks on her throat were already darkening to bruises; the sight aroused the sudden sharp urge to protect her. Unexpectedly his groin tightened. Her mist curled hair cascaded in unruly waves to her waist and brought to mind a sudden, vivid picture of what she would look like with only that lavish jet black mantle veiling her body, her breasts full and milky smooth, her hips lush and feminine.

Forcing his eyes from her, he snapped the book shut. For Cicely’s sake he must not stray from his purpose.

Miss Hastings struck a match to light another oil lamp, this one on the washstand. Bending, she adjusted the wick.

“There,” she said in satisfaction, straightening. “Now I can see you better.”

She seemed to have recovered from the brief bout of uneasiness at the door. For some obscure reason, the very serenity of her manner set Nicholas’s teeth on edge.

“You don’t even know my name,” he said, his voice quietly harsh, “yet you invite me here alone with you. How do you know I won’t do worse to you than that ruffian?”

She gazed at him with those vast violet eyes and for the life of him he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Then, in a small voice, she asked, “What is your name?”

“Lord Nicholas Ware.”

With stern pleasure he watched comprehension flit across the wild beauty of her face. Her eyes lit up and her lips curved into the most intriguing smile. “Ware! Why, then, you must be Cicely’s brother, the Earl of…”

“Hawkesford.”

Her hand went to her bodice. “What an extraordinary coincidence that you of all people would happen along at such a moment… or
is
it coincidence? Were you coming to see me?”

“Quite astute, Miss Hastings.”

Her smile bloomed brighter. “Then you must have been intending to commission me to sculpt you. Cicely said she would convince you to do so.”

“Indeed,” Nicholas said dryly. “That is precisely the sort of grandiose promise I would expect or my sister.”

“What a peculiar turn of fate — me offering to sculpt you, I mean.” Elizabeth Hastings gave a merry laugh. “You see, I knew you weren’t the sort of man to treat a woman unkindly. I can tell a great deal about a person by looking at bis face. You have both strength of character and faultlessly handsome features. I can’t wait to capture your likeness in clay.” Tilting her head to the side, she studied him, tapping a finger against the curve of her lip.

Nicholas squelched a sudden, almost violent urge to kiss that adorable mouth. “You mistake my purpose, Miss Hastings,” he said in his most chilling tone. “I have not come here to participate in any artistic endeavor.”

“Oh.” Her eyes clouded then cleared. “Well, I understand if you haven’t the time to sit for me. But perhaps if you could give me just a few minutes to do some sketches…”

Before he could speak, she dashed to the worktable and returned with a copybook and pencil. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll do some studies of you from different angles then use a caliper to make sure of the measurements…”

“Miss Hastings.”

The steely softness of his voice failed to halt her swift strokes interspersed with studious glances at his face. “Mmm-hmm?” she murmured.

“Miss Hastings.”

This time his grimly gentle tone penetrated; the pencil stilled and her eyes met his. “Is something wrong?” she asked, looking quite charmingly flustered. “I’m sorry, how remiss of me! Of course, you’d rather sit.” Tossing aside her copybook and pencil, she started to drag over a chair.

“No, I should not like to sit. What I have to say will take only a moment.”

“Say?”

“Contrary to the conclusion to which you have leapt, Miss Hastings, I did not come here to ask you to sculpt me.”

“You didn’t?”

Her crestfallen face almost made Nicholas regret what must be done. Almost. “I came here to discuss your association with my sister. Or shall I say, your exploitation of her.”

A tiny furrow appeared on her brow. “Exploitation?”

“Quite.” With effort, he curbed the most curious urge to avoid her eyes. “Under your influence, Cicely has come to the ludicrous conclusion that she wishes to study art.”

“What’s so ludicrous about studying art?”

“She is a lady, Miss Hastings. She should be spending her time in gentler, more womanly pursuits. I shall not stand by and see her reputation destroyed for the sake of a passing whim.”

He could tell by the paling of her cheeks that his opinion of the morality of artists was not lost on Elizabeth Hastings. Turning in a swirl of violet skirts, she walked to her worktable and reached into an oil cloth covered bucket, drawing forth a small ball of clay.

She swung toward him. “What makes you so certain Cicely’s interest in art is solely a whim? She has talent, you know.”

Nicholas caught himself watching her nimble fingers working the clay; he forced his mind back to duty. “You don’t know my sister as I do. She’s young and foolish, easily influenced by silly, romantic notions.”

“As you, sir, are not.”

The trace of mockery made him tighten his jaw. He realized Elizabeth Hastings wasn’t as flighty as she seemed on the surface.

“Undoubtedly,” he went on icily, “the well stocked shelves of Mucfie’s lending library have filled Cicely’s head with eccentric ideas. Ideas you’ve fostered to suit your own purpose.”

“Just what purpose do you mean?”

The proud tilt of her chin made Nicholas feel vaguely abashed. “Cicely is not without influence. I suspect you’d planned to use that influence to obtain art commissions.”

Her fingers stilled on the clay. “You are mistaken, sir,” she murmured. “I intended nothing of the sort. All I want is to foster her talent rather than see it wither in a stuffy drawing room.”

Her aura of quiet dignity again gave him the disconcerting sense of having misjudged her. Yet even if she had no nefarious designs on Cicely, Nicholas firmly reminded himself, the principal issue remained. Elizabeth Hastings belonged to an unacceptable world. If anyone of consequence learned of his sister’s association with the artist, Cicely’s reputation would be in shambles. She would be shunned by polite society and relinquish hope of a decent marriage. He could not — would not — allow one imprudent act to destroy her future.

“Regardless of what you intended. Miss Hastings, I must insist that you cease encouraging my sister.”

She regarded him coolly; her supple fingers manipulated the clay absently. “Then we seem to be at an impasse, sir, for I will go on tutoring Cicely.
Your
endorsement is not necessary to me.”

Her unruffled manner incensed Nicholas beyond reason. Discarding all pretense of politeness, he snapped, “Might I point out, Miss Hastings, you are indebted to me for your rescue. The least you might do to repay me is to offer your cooperation.”

He had the brief satisfaction of seeing smudges of color leap to her cheeks. She thrust the ball of clay into her pocket and marched to the chair. “I must ask you to leave, sir,” she said, snatching up his crumpled coat. “Dear me!” Her lips parted in surprise as she stared at the slash rending the dark velvet cuff. “How did this happen?”

“The man who attacked you had a knife.”

She paled, lifting her gaze to Nicholas. The concern he saw there was absurdly gratifying. “You might have been killed,” she said in a small voice.

“So might you.”

Nibbling her lip, Miss Hastings looked away. Suddenly she lay down the frock coat and drew a thin silver chain from beneath her bodice. Carefully removing something from the necklace, she held out her hand.

“I’m sorry to have caused the ruin of your expensive coat. I haven’t the money to repay you, but perhaps this will compensate for the damage; it belonged to my grandfather.” Cradled in her palm was a man’s silver signet ring. Nicholas felt curiously ashamed. Did Elizabeth Hastings so heartily resent being indebted to him that she would part with something of such obvious sentimental value?

“I can’t accept that,” he stated.

“Take it, please.” Stepping closer, she boldly thrust the ring into the pocket or his waistcoat. “It’s all I have of value to offer you.”

The tilt of her chin bespoke pride and character; the fire in her eyes conveyed passion and conviction. Nicholas stared down at her gypsy beauty and felt a powerful tide of longing, a longing that both baffled and bedeviled him. Why did he feel drawn to a woman so far removed from his own world? Her fragrance evoked a stirring reminder of wild herbs and lush earth. He wanted to learn the scent and taste and touch of every part of her. She was fresh and free, unfettered by the conventions that bound him.

Logic warned him against the imprudent thoughts crowding his mind. He could have any one of a hundred lovely women more acceptable to a man of his rank. He should walk away from temptation; he should retain control of the urges burning inside him.

He could… he should… and yet…

“But you can offer me something of far greater value than a ring,” Nicholas said slowly. “You can offer me yourself.”

Shock numbed Elizabeth. She should have anticipated this proposal; Lord Nicholas Ware had made his opinion of her morals plain enough. An angry flush stung her cheeks. Papa had been right to warn her against the hypocrisy of the nobility. And she had been wrong to place so much trust in the strength of character she saw in the earl’s face.

Yet she could not deny he fascinated her. Despite that polished arrogance of manner, that austere set to his jaw, Lord Nicholas looked the epitome of chiseled perfection. His hair was as brown as fired clay, his eyes as gray as granite beneath fierce brows. His white shirt and charcoal waistcoat failed to disguise the power of his body. For a man who led the pampered life of an aristocrat, his muscles looked superbly fit. His body had the vitality of a Michelangelo, the sensuousness of a da Vinci.

Elizabeth longed to duplicate in clay the shape and texture and vigor of Nicholas Ware. She wanted to appraise the breadth of his muscles and the smoothness of his flesh, to measure the contours of his cheekbones and the sweep of his jaw. But by doing so she would confirm his base opinion of her. He wouldn’t understand that her interest was purely artistic curiosity.

“Miss Hastings?” he prompted, studying her with guarded gray eyes. “Perhaps I should make myself clearer. I’m asking you to become my mistress.”

Feeling the urge to slap his flawless face, Elizabeth reached into her pocket for her clay, digging her fingers into the soft ball. She would not behave like the street woman he believed her to be. “I see,” she said coolly.

His dark brows lifted. “No, I don’t believe you do see. I’ll provide you with a house in St. John’s Wood, servants to fulfill your every need, a wardrobe to befit your station.” His voice lowered. “It promises to be a mutually satisfying arrangement… Elizabeth.”

Resentment choked her. Did he expect her to fall at his feet in humble gratitude? “Why me, your lordship? I thought you despised artists.”

He shifted his weight impatiently. “I disapprove of my sister’s interest in art. That has nothing to do with my attraction to you.”

“Yet you expect me to give up my work, to become your paramour.”

“On the contrary, you may certainly pursue your sculpting…” The earl paused, then added in a caressing murmur, “Whenever I’m not with you.”

The intensity of his gaze kindled an unexpected fever within her; the ball of clay softened under the sudden heat of her hands. Flustered, Elizabeth lowered her eyes to his starched collar and neatly knotted cravat. Despite her antipathy, it was gratifying to know the earl’s passion for her burned fiercer than his scruples… that such a stunningly attractive man desired her.

He came closer and the gentle pressure of his fingers tipped her chin up. “I’m offering you a better life, Elizabeth, a safer place to live.” His eyes as soft as smoke, he tenderly brushed his fingertips over her cheek. “I find myself most impatient to become your protector. I await only your permission to do so.”