The Seduction of His Wife (26 page)

He still planned to purchase back every single nude she had painted over the years. If it were ever revealed that Emma painted golden-haired Venuses and amorous Aphrodites for the gentlemen in society, she’d be closed to all social circles in Town. Not that he cared what society thought.

His foolish, adorable wife was going to keep him on his toes. Tucking the canvas under his arm, Richard left her painting room. He had left no canvas unturned. He had to make sure there were no more paintings in here, no sketches of a lusty nature. It had taken him some hours to complete the task.

He stopped outside Dante’s room on hearing a breathy moan. His brow furrowed, and his hand went to the door latch. It might be his house, and he expected a certain level of respect toward his guest and his wife’s sisters, but he couldn’t demand Dante keep his hands to himself. He was almost positive who his friend spent the evening with.

Grace was a grown woman. A widow, Richard reminded himself. And she was in Dante’s room, not the other way around. With a shrug, he eased away from the door and walked the remainder of the hall to his bedchamber.

Setting the painting on his bureau, he stared at it. While he did not have an eye for art, he could see that this one was something that could easily be coveted by any man who considered himself a connoisseur of the female form.

It was not an amateur painting. It was at least a hundred times more detailed and real than the landscapes and flowers Emma had shown him earlier. Thirty paintings of this nature existed somewhere in England. Hell, they could be anywhere on the Continent for all he knew.

*   *   *

Emma took a late dinner in her room that night. She pushed around the asparagus on her plate. She didn’t have an appetite. Not after the fight with her husband. Just when she thought everything was coming together in their relationship, everything fell apart at the seams.

Her fork fell to the plate with a clank.

She wasn’t angry with her dim-witted husband anymore. Perhaps she should be, but her temper was usually short-lived. There was comfort in knowing he couldn’t do anything about her sold paintings. He would simmer over the evening and be his cool, calm self by morning. She was sure of that.

She wondered if he planned to come to her room later. She frowned. She shouldn’t want that. In fact, she’d refuse him at the door. Lock him out as she had the first night he’d arrived at the manor.

She’d given in to him so easily. It wasn’t fair for him to walk back in her life and take the reins right out of her hands. In the matter of days, she’d lost herself. It had taken years for her to build her confidence. And he took all that away in a single day.

What if she just left? Went to London and let the infernal man chase her down if he truly cared to mend their marriage. If he didn’t, then she’d have to hope that she wasn’t pregnant. She could not be tied to a man for the rest of her days and be alone. How would she survive without his companionship now that she’d tasted of it so thoroughly?

There was at least fifty thousand pounds sitting in a trust fund originally set up for her extra pin money. She’d not spent a single cent from the sales of her nudes. What if she left Mansfield Hall? Forgot about London altogether and moved to the wilds of Scotland?

She pushed away her plate and slouched back in the chair. That didn’t sound much more appealing, either.

She brooded as though her life was at an end because her secret had been revealed.

Her art would remain a constant in her life. The same could not be said for her husband. He would eventually leave again. She would continue to sell her paintings and squirrel away the money. If they did divorce, she’d need that money to find a little cottage somewhere. To live as an independent woman.

As she stood from the writing table where she’d taken her dinner, the door to her private sitting room flew open.

Richard strolled in without a care for invading her private space.

“Good evening, Emma.”

She inclined her head as she gathered her courage to face her husband so soon after their fight.

Richard narrowed his eyes to the lone lamp lit on her table. “Why is it so dark in here?”

“I was in a black mood. Gothic lighting seemed fitting.” She folded the napkin she was holding and placed it on the table. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to discuss the disagreement we had earlier.”

Her brows rose, and she tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for him to continue.

He stepped fully into the room, leaving the door wide open. Behind him, the last rays of sun shaded her bedchamber in tones of orange and gold.

“I realize now that my assessment of the situation might have been rash.”

“Rash?” Why was it that he made her want to strike out at something? “Really, Richard, your reaction was far more than rash. You assume you can take control of my life after being away for the better part of it.”

“I’m not here to fight about this.” Richard yanked on the bottom of his vest and stood taller.

That was not something she expected to hear from him. Why was he here, then?

She sat in one of the chairs arranged neatly around the hearth, giving her husband her back. “I have things I need to attend to. I would appreciate it if you’ll make your speech and leave me to my own devices.”

She turned her head so she could watch him from the corner of her eye. Richard put his back to the silk-papered wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What of our night together?”

She couldn’t help the snort that left her mouth, or the subsequent laugh at his nerve to suggest they continue their night as planned. As though nothing significant had happened between them. If he wanted to control her life, he was in for a surprise. She had vowed never to let a man rule her actions or her heart ever again. She’d been foolish enough to let Richard back into her life at all. Had she been thinking with her head instead of her heart, she would have pressed the issue of divorce.

Her hand curled around the cushion by her thigh. “To assume I would accept your advances is pure arrogance.”

A small part of her cried out in denial at refusing her husband now; she tamped that need down in her mind, locking it away with all the other emotions she’d been forced to ignore for so many years.

The attraction she felt toward her husband, the desire to have him in her life and in her bed, would subside if she just ignored it. She’d gone twelve years without him already. She could last long enough to get a divorce.

Infernal man. How vexing this day had turned out. She should be focused on her anger—not her attraction. He had accused her of adultery, and indecency with the paintings. Yet during their marriage, he was allowed to do exactly as he pleased. That infuriated her.

He gave one of his slow, easy smiles that made her heart skip a beat and then speed up. Did he know the effect he had on her? Was he trying to provoke her? She turned away from his smug expression.

“I came to ask you about the buyer for your art. Now that we’ve both had time to think and calm ourselves, have you thought about telling me who he is?”

She shook her head and stared at her lap. He’d never forget her art, would he? She’d never reveal the duke’s involvement as her buyer. Nathan could always be counted on for his discretion. Though, for some reason, she didn’t doubt Richard’s ability to ferret out who the buyer was. Even so, until that time arose, she need not worry about it.

“I will find out whether you tell me or not, Emma.”

Her head snapped up. The light was fading fast behind Richard, and she wished she could see his expression more clearly. She wanted to walk over to him and push him off balance—to wipe that grin clean off his face. Her irritation was getting the better of her.

Taking a deep breath, she focused elsewhere. “Then you don’t need me to answer the question.”

He stalked forward. All the humor was gone from his face as he grasped her arms and lifted her to her feet so she couldn’t avoid his sharp gaze. Unlike Waverly, he did not hurt her where he held her arms. He was careful but firm in his resolve.

“You do neither of us any favors with your contrary attitude. You may refuse to answer my questions now, but what will you do once I know the name of your buyer?” His grip loosened, but he didn’t release her. “He cannot be saved from my wrath indefinitely.”

Emma pulled herself out of his hold. “I have done nothing wrong. Not once, in all the years we were married, have I done anything untoward. I don’t see why you care.”

“Because I do, damn it!” He brushed his hand through his hair in frustration. “You cannot brush the matter of your paintings under the carpet as if the topic has no bearing on our lives. You’ve done something that will harm our future. Harm the future of our children. I intend to buy all the paintings, Emma.”

“That’s not possible.”

It wasn’t that she wanted to be contrary in this. Not in the least. But there was no way to find all the paintings. Half remained with her buyer, those that were of his mistress’s likeness; the other half had been sold to anonymous bidders. She did not know their identities. She very much doubted the duke would reveal the purchasers’ names simply because Richard demanded the information.

It didn’t matter. No one would connect her signature to that of the Countess of Asbury. She’d been careful with her initials. They remained, even today, as discreet letters: an
E
for her first name, and a
C
for her middle. Nothing more or less to give away her real identity. She hadn’t wanted to be associated with something so … wickedly enterprising.

“You are wrong on that count, my dear. I most certainly can track down every last canvas.” His jaw tensed; the vein at his temple visibly throbbed. She hadn’t wanted to tell him about any of this. But she needed to make him see reason.

“You don’t understand how impossible a task that will be. My buyer privately auctions the pieces.”

*   *   *

Richard walked away from his wife. He stopped at the wall, pressed his hands flat against the surface and took a deep breath to calm the rage goading his temper. Auctioned. The bloody pieces were auctioned.

His wife tried his patience. Laughed at his sense of dignity. Cared naught for anything he tried to correct to start them on the right foot toward a better future, a better marriage. Goddamn her. Goddamn him!

His head dropped forward between his arms, and he stared blindly at the parquet floor. What was wrong with trying to cover up the fact that she painted indecent pictures? Why shouldn’t he feel obligated to track down every last one of them whether they were in England, Scotland, or some other place on the Continent?

He’d go to the farthest reaches of the world for her in this matter. He didn’t care to question why that was. Though he felt it was his duty as her husband. His duty to any children they had. This wasn’t any different from the loyalty he shared with his friends. She just so happened to be the first woman he’d given any loyalty to. The first woman he’d ever really cared about.

The first woman he had ever cared about.

He wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. Sometime in the past week he’d started to care about Emma. That had definitely not been planned.

He hadn’t come in here to yell at her. To argue with her, or to fight with her. In fact, the moment he’d seen her all laced up tight and wearing all those damn layers of clothes, treating him as cool as ever, he’d wanted to undress her. Lay her out and taste every inch of her creamy white skin and burn away the icy facade she wore like a second skin. He wanted her wild and wanton, as she had been in the painting room. He wanted his adorable, warm, caring wife back.

If he could turn back the clocks to this afternoon, he would. He almost wished he’d never discovered her secret.

He spun around and glared at her. There was a stubborn tilt to her chin, her hands clenched firmly together in anger. She had the nerve to stand up to him. That should make him furious, but it didn’t. It made him want to laugh at his stupidity all over again.

No one else had ever bothered to defy him. He was the Earl of Asbury, one of the richest men in England. When she challenged him, it made him bloody hard and wanting to be inside her silken warmth to prove his dominance at least over her body, if not in their marriage.

“For God’s sake, Emma. Let me make something in our marriage right.” He shouldn’t have revealed that much to her. He hastened to correct what he meant. “You are the Countess of Asbury.”

He shoved his hands in his jacket’s pockets so he wasn’t tempted to shake her, and then kiss her senseless and forget the whole nonsense of her paintings.

“As the Countess of Asbury,” he continued, “you cannot risk your reputation or that of our future children by painting such scenes.”

It angered him that some other man was experiencing the untamed beauty in those pictures. Probably getting a good rub off with the erotic images he could only imagine since he’d seen just the one.

“Perhaps you can enlighten me as to how anyone is supposed to find out.” One of her brows quirked up.

“Your buyer could let it slip.” Someone would want to know who was painting such images. They might already know that she was the artist.

“He won’t.” Her steadfast determination that her secrets were safe bothered him to no end.

“You don’t know that.”

“Richard,” she said softly. “I do know that. I don’t know what to do to make you believe me.”

“Emma,” he said with a calm he did not feel, but felt he owed after his irrational behavior. “I’m through arguing. Whether you like it or not, I will purchase them back by any means necessary. Continue to paint them if you must.” He meant that. He’d not take away the one secret he’d flushed out of her. “I know you won’t stop. I don’t expect you to stop. But I will not allow other men to enjoy your art.”

She scrunched up her brow and stared back at him distrustfully. “You’ve always been a man of your own mind.” Was that disappointment he heard in her voice?

“Am I forgiven, then?” It was imperative for some reason that she didn’t dislike him. Not after all the inroads he’d made this past week. Not with all the feelings he was developing for his wife.